Monday, May 24, 2010

A Blasted Mind

I just suffered through my only paper of the season. I remember picking up my pen, frantically scribbling away, and getting interrupted THRICE by the invigilator announcing that we ought to take note of certain questions in the paper. I was very frustrated by these needless interruptions to my already desperate and jumbled thought process. Surely they could have checked the papers for mistakes BEFORE the examinations?

I wrote what I could remember and there was a bit of the mental collapse in which you suddenly cannot remember key facts. No choice but to trudge on and write. It was a load of bollocks I produced but may it be sufficient to save me from relegation. One part was in Gehenna - two essay questions that required you to conjure things outside the textbook. I looked to my left and right. It seemed that people were equally stunned or were struggling to put words to paper. (The Rack was not around. Truly a tragedy.)



I met an ex-colleague (gulag inmate) outside the school library. He is struggling with some horrendous finance module. He told me that the capstone course we will be taking next season is going to be a bitch. They changed the class schedule and examination format this season. Now we have to attend classes on both weekdays and weekends. According to him, they split the examination questions into small chunks and nobody actually managed to finish the paper, and we are talking about a three hour torture. Furthermore, we have to do plenty of research, prepare our own notes and cart them into the examination hall. This is truly suicide-inducing news indeed. Next season, I will have five assignments, two quizzes, three examinations, loads of research, and very little time. Seriously, when XH hears about this, he will surely be compelled to kneel before me, worship me, and offer sacrifices. For the 1,000,000,000 time I regret not taking up Arts. The trials and tribulations of a philistine indeed.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Old Mates

This week I met my old mates from the military for late night slop. While in the car we naturally shot the shit and Fatty was grumbling about how crap the military is, and Heehee, as usual, was a bit slow on the uptake but contributed some wisdom to our conversation.

I launched into a tirade about how overrated Shitholer women are, punctuating my arguments with observations from personal experience and that of others. In particular, I highlighted the sad fact that in the boudoir, our women generally behave like dead fish. This struck a chord with Fatty, and he was moved to say, “At first I thought it was the fisherman’s fault, but after trying several kinds of fish, I realized that it was not the fisherman, but the fish.”

It was nice to know that Fatty and Heehee had grown in stature since the last time I saw them. Fatty is leaving the military in two months’ time and has adopted a heck-care attitude in his hairstyle. I also saw in his eyes a growing frustration that could only have come from understanding what life is truly all about. As for Heehee, he is slowly shedding his squeaking clean image and embarking on a path of libertinage.

We soon reached our destination, a restaurant situated at the back streets of Bugis which sell bean curd and other soy products. We have patronized this slop house before and we saw the usual groups of foreigners. While eating our bean curd, we ogled the scenery and talked about our existence. We may be around thirty but we sounded much older, considering the nature of our topics necessitated the shredding of any residual idealistic notions. We talked about Heehee’s whoring, how existence is getting impossible in this shithole and in general the grumbling and cussing that are requisite to such conversations.

There were a bunch of young foreigners of indeterminate nationality seated at a nearby table. Wherever they hailed from they were on average physically superior to Shitholers, although half of them were hardly more aesthetically pleasing. I sneaked peeks at one of them from time to time. She had a fine rack and as they finished their slop and walked away, I was interrupted briefly from our interlocution by her well-endowed midfield. My mates laughed and I knew at that moment, that I was in fine company.

Continuing where we left off, we discussed further about the merits of women from various nationality. We came to the conclusion that it would be logically feasible, sexually necessary, and morally responsible to take the “international” route when it comes to women. We also talked about how shitty existence in this shithole is and again, I could not restrain myself from blasting our regime and arguing for the moral necessity of being a responsible parent by not becoming one. Fatty told me that I am still as negative as ever but it takes an ostrich to bury its head in the sand and pretend that all is well and unlike my cuntrymen and women I definitely am no ostrich. The infuriating thing is that when you tell the truth, people don’t want to hear it and say you are ‘negative’ or ‘cynical’. When you pretend nothing is wrong and the whole damn world is rosy, you are the worst liar because not only do you lie to everybody you also lie to yourself. If you cherry-pick and filter out the bad things and focus only on the good things, you are no bigger than a man who is addicted to the bottle. What is wrong with saying that something bad is really bad? It’s intellectually upright and a breath of fresh air. When you tell the ugly truth and complains about it, people can’t take it. They dread confronting their deepest fears and resentments. They do not want their hopes to be extinguished. How sad.

A cultured man myself, I inquired as to where he found his contact. Heehee advised me to check out the forums in www.laksaboy.com. He told me that a potential client may peruse the pictures at his leisure, and if he is satisfied with the specification and pricing of the products, he can make arrangements to complete the transaction, usually in a hotel room. These escorts are mostly Tom Yam ($100), although if you are willing to pay more ($160 upwards), you can take your pick from the Kim Chis and Natashas. Should you be one of those crazy buggers who are willing to pay for Shitholers, the prices range from 70 to 260 bucks. I am appalled that these brazen hussies would dare to overprice themselves. Surely, most of them are not even worth $40.

By the time we finished our slop, it was midnight and we decided it was time to retire. We decided to meet up again another day. On the way back we saw two damaged cars. Apparently the driver of the car at the back had thought he was Lewis Hamilton and banged his conveyance into the back of the car in front. . Nobody died however. I took down the car plate numbers for my investment. I am not sure if I won, but maybe if I won and in sufficient amount, I’ll allocate a fair portion of it to my ‘relieve stress’ fund.



A day after we had slop, I talked to Heehee on MSN. I asked him about his new-found hobby and the topic inevitably diverted to his girlfriend. Hearing him speak of FLs with such enthusiasm, I asked him about his girlfriend if he is happy with her. He said that he has to be careful with all the late nights because being one ‘smart lady’, she is suspicious of his late-night outings with his friends. I was appalled and told my friend in no uncertain terms what I thought of her controlling ways. Surely she goes out with her girlfriends?! Heehee replied that she very rarely goes out at night, except when she is with him. He added that when I see him come online I should be discrete. She shares his MSN account and I should exercise caution. Even more disgusted, I tried my damn best to persuade him to break off this relationship but he failed to see the errors of his ways. And it emerged that they have been together and still haven’t even been intimate with each other.

I had never heard of such a dysfunctional relationship. Although he believes that she has all the qualities he looks for in a wife, I am not convinced of the wisdom of continuing this relationship. For one thing, they aren’t getting it on in the bedroom, and she insists on remaining “untouched” before marriage. This kind of ridiculous and prudish attitude, while common among xtians, is quite unusual in a non-xtian, particularly in today’s wanton culture. Also, the fact that his ex-girlfriend broke off with him for no apparent reason demonstrates how unreliable Shitholer women are in love. You will get more loyalty and commitment from a lap dog than you would an average Shitholer woman. Stupid as they are, dogs usually don’t go AWOL on you when you need them and you never have any doubt regarding their commitment, slobbering and smelly their drool may be. Shitholer women, on the other hand, are fickle, liable to go emo on you without the slightest provocation and are perpetually undecided on everything.

Heehee told me that he has invested thousands of dollars and a great deal of time and effort on her over the past three years, and he will get back nothing if he gives her up now. I explained to him the concept of escalation of commitment and how it is an impediment to good decision-making. He replied he would take the risk. In reality, there is hardly a risk when you know either outcome cannot be considered beneficial. Even if they get married, I am sure he will continue to employ the excellent services of FLs, since by his own admission, he is ‘addicted’. Why not admit that he is a libertine by nature and follow his inclinations? Besides, the amount she has spent on him is less than one-eighth of what he has splashed on her. I am not implying anything, but my friend has a car and is willing to allocate resources on her. Rich ‘carrot head’ he may not be, but a carrot head nonetheless. I have no idea what how ‘wifey’ she can be, but if being wifey means to make comments when he goes out with his mates at night, then maybe she is wifey indeed. And despite what he says about making a dead fish a live one, I do not put much store in his ability to resurrect the dead, especially considering after three years together they still haven’t seen much of each other’s inner beauty.

Being the good friend that I am, I shall continue my efforts in getting him to regain his bachelorhood. I trust my care and concern for his welfare will enable him to see the light.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Two More Down

Word is that two of my friends are getting married at the end of the year. This is a double tragedy. After coughing out tens of thousands of dollars for a banquet of slop their next task will be to spend the next twenty to thirty years paying for a pigeon hole.

I trust that they will be responsible parents by choosing not to procreate. Why bring children into a world where they will be serfs to a cartel of uncaring rich and elitist scum? Why should a young man waste two years playing soldier for shite wages while his foreign counterparts go to university and gain experience by starting work two years earlier? I have a mind to miss at least one of the weddings. I am skint and not sufficiently masochistic to pay good money to bear witness to the commencement of these moral disasters.

No Balls to Grab

The final day of the Premiership was an insipid affair. With the championship still officially undecided, Wigan decided to roll over and let Chelski in for eight. This effectively ended ManUre’s title hopes, allowed Chelski to set a new record for the most number of goals scored in a season since the inception of the Premiership, and gifted Didier ‘It’s a fucking disgrace!’ Drogba the Golden Boot award. Stoke City did their darnest best to surrender at Old Trafford, but an modicum of professional spirit seeped though their holiday mood and they only conceded four. A measure of sympathy ought to be given to Wayne Rooney. To miss out on a deserved Golden Boot and the championship after a personally superlative season in which he virtually carried his team on his Neanderthal-like shoulders must have been heartrending.

Elsewhere, the RedShite epitomized their dismal season with an inept goalless draw against the already relegated Tigers. It was what they deserved, although had Hull taken their gilt-edged chance in the first half, the floating circus that is the RedShite would have appeared even more rudderless. Bankrupted by their Americans owners (who else but the Americans>), the Shite are now deep in the red and may have to sell their star striker and their ugly bastard of a captain to wealthier scavengers. Their fat Spanish waiter of a manager may leave for the Old Lady, and as an Evertonian, I would be gutted to see that incompetent, clueless, unsightly and idiotic popinjay go. (Who else can be trusted to screw up the Shite like this fathead?) However, if the fat Spanish waiter decides to dish out the sort of fare in Italy – no pun intended – the Americans should do the right thing and replace him with proven managers. Graeme Sourness, Paul Ince, and Iain Dowie readily come to mind.

Over at Goodison, Everton stretched their unbeaten run to a dozen games with an uninspiring 1:0 win over Pompey courtesy of a Bily belter in the dying seconds. The visitors had a perfectly good goal chalked off and better luck to them when they take on the crass and vulgar mob of Chelski in the FA Cup next Saturday. For the Blues (the REAL Blues), the pre-season is nothing to look forward to. A trip down Down Under for ‘commercial’ purposes, and then nothing to spend on new players. The Chairman should do the right thing and sell the club to any non-American who has tonnes of money. At the very least, sack the club’s marketing and corporate finance team. Something is seriously wrong when a club with so much history and plays decent football cannot find a single investor while small fry clubs like the Black Cats, the Barcode Army and even the Bummies have their own suger daddy. I hardly hear anything from Everton on the sales and marketing front. It may be the ‘People’s Club’, but the people in charge of sales and marketing certainly aren’t people as far as intelligence is concerned. They should employ me instead.

Nothing worthwhile to report in the other matches. Just a bunch of overpaid players running around for ninety odd minutes and then packing off to the World Cup or some luxurious holidays. The season is over. Existence grows even more meaningless, at least until August.

Saturday, May 1, 2010