Two former gulag mates of mine divorced recently. The news came like a bolt of lightning, for there was no indication of their marriage being on the rocks. Nobody knows the reason for their spilt. SK tried to speculate, saying that the both of them are as stubborn as mules. Chicken lamented their failed marriage and felt their pain – and that of their kid’s – keenly, for he had been down a similar path. I don’t know how they intend to divide the house and other assets. There is a good chance that the female will be awarded custody rights to the child. While their spilt may be amicable – at least it appears to be! – there is no doubt that the man will be the worse off of the two. He has to pay maintenance to his ex-wife and he will suffer the inconvenience the burden brings.
Our alimony law is ridiculous to say the least. Originally set up to protect the interest of women who had little means to support themselves and their children, it has become a heinous punishment meted upon the man for his inability to maintain the monstrous institution that is marriage. The blame cannot be totally apportioned to the man, for it takes the collective effort of man and wife to maintain their relationship, and by penalizing only the men, it is a tacit condoning of the women who have been derelict in their wifely duties and rewarding them with passive income for their mistakes. When a marriage fails, the woman has to share the blame.
Women are always the first to condemn men for their extramarital affairs, but rarely have I heard women castigating their own sisters for having a bit of fun on the side. It is a crime against humanity that a man who divorces his unfaithful spouse is legally obliged to provide his ex-wife monthly payments which she can use to splurge on whatever and whomever she likes.
These days, it is not uncommon for a woman to command earning power that is at least the equal of her husband. Why are women who are successful in their careers not ordered by the law to pay alimonies to their ex-husbands, especially those who are worse off financially? Women like to think they are assertive. They go incessantly about ‘girl power’ and complain about non-existent glass ceilings in their careers, and in generally rave and rant about their rights and demand privileges befitting their esteemed sex. They want to be treated equally as the men, but when it comes to fulfilling the responsibilities which such equality demands, they shirk and make excuses. In this stupid shithole of a country, men have to waste two years of their youth serving in the armed or civil forces. Our women don’t appreciate the sacrifices we make. They think just because we are born with something dangling between our legs, it is our goddamn duty to protect them and this Gehennian shithole. They never consider the fact Israeli women have been in combat roles since the independence of their country and if they can pick up weapons and fight, why can’t they? Perhaps our women are lousy?
I was told that in China, a law which denies women the right to demand their share of their ex-husbands’ assets in the case of a divorce will come into effect soon. Say what you want about the Communist regime and their scant regard for human rights and their corrupted and draconian socio-economic practices, but they haven’t done anything wrong when it comes to marriage. Mao once said, “Women are capable of holding up half of the heavens.” True, he may be a mass murderer, but what he said about women (at least in this regard) is definitely spot on. I see China’s move to give equal rights to women a step ahead. I would even call this initiative The Great Leap Ahead. Equal rights for women should not come at the expense of unequal rights against men. Since our insignificant shithole is becoming increasingly a provincial city of China, I say we follow the Motherland’s example. In fact, I would even argue that women who are financially better off than their men should be legally obliged to give their poor ex-husbands alimony! The hyenas in AWARE should for once, support good sense and equal treatment between the sexes, instead of being shrieking terrorist thugs whose sole purpose in their miserable existence is to deny men their inalienable rights.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Mission Failed
On the last night of the fasting month, I met the Liang brothers for slop in GL. The Teacher was held up at his gulag and while waiting for him to get his ass down to the train station where we were meeting, the Scholar and I shot the shit. We hadn’t seen each other for months. From his rounded belly, it was obvious he’s put on a bit of weight. He said I got thinner, which was spot on. I soon narrated my horrible experience at my gulag and the harm it had inflicted upon my body and state of mind. He looked only slightly stunned at my vehemence and description of the inhumane environment I found myself in. He should work there; it would be an eye-opener for him.
The Teacher arrived and I led us out of the station. The air, dampened by humidity from the earlier showers and the coming of night, was heavy and cold. There were several cockroaches of the two-legged variety sitting or squatting on the muddy grass patches next to the station. I can never understand these blackamoors. It is bad enough as it is that they are dumb enough to worship cows. They have to go further and imitate their deities’ bovine behavior. Why stop at just resting their unwashed asses on the grass? Why not eat the grass, shit on the grass, and then die on the grass as well? India: seven thousand years of history, seven thousand years of bullshit.
As I led my companions to the Holy Land, I delivered an introduction of the night’s activities and expounded on the magnificence of the Holy Land. As we neared the Holy Land, my spirit soared and my body, wrecked by a nasty bout of flu, felt invigorated. We soon made our way to the bridge which served as an informal divider between this sacred piece of land and the mundane lands beyond, and onwards we went, to the first coffeeshop. They did not appear to sell frog leg porridge so the three of us moved on along the stretch. The Teacher looked half-starved. I assured him that we would surely find a good slop house. He should put his trust in me.
We finally found a slop house after crossing and recrossing the road. The hawker told us we had to wait 40 minutes for the frog leg porridge to be prepared. In the meantime, the Teacher and I ordered side dishes and drinks from other stalls. Over our appetizers and refreshments, we talked about stuff related to Sinkieland.
Inevitably, politics came up. As expected, the Scholar voted for Traitor Tan. The Teacher already told me he cast his vote for the ‘high five’ guy and it was really amusing to see three people who voted for different candidates at the Presidential Erections sit at the same table. I started to explain to the Scholar how despicable Traitor Tan was and how the regime is turning its back on the people by its ridiculous immigration policies. The Teacher expressed his unhappiness at our new immigrants and how they, especially the PRCs, bring their entire families here and take up our resources. The Scholar’s response was idiotic to say the least and would have infuriated Buddha and Gandhi to the point of raving and spluttering lunacy. This is a bloke who does not believe that (i) Sinkies, who have to waste two years serving this stupid cuntry and return for reslavery every year, are disadvantaged compared to FTrash, who have no such obligations; (ii) our regime are spending our taxpayers’ money to sponsor PRCs for their studies and accommodation here (he thinks that the foreign students who are here on scholarships are here on their own academic merit). Iii) citizens should have greater privileges than permanent residents, who in turn should enjoy greater privileges than foreigners. He had (and still has) absolutely no idea why common Sinkies are having so much difficulty owning a home and why wages are depressed. He did not see anything wrong with a regime that does not take care of its people. He clearly believed that if Sinkies lose out to foreigners, who have an unfair advantage, it is their own fault.
I could just about murder him and if he wasn’t my friend and a genuine nice guy, I would have given this particular Cantonese a lecture in our prestige dialect. If we ever go to war, I wouldn’t mind sharing a ditch with him, knowing he’d guard my back with the loyalty of a well-trained dog. But seriously, what is the point of studying to Masters degree level and having shit for common sense and a zero grasp of reality? The Teacher added that things are so bad now he knew university graduates who earn less than $2,500 despite already working for a few years. I got a bit fed up and asked the Scholar this: if one fine day, his wife and kids are in need of money and an ah tiong asks him for money, whom will he give the money to? He did say that citizens and foreigners are to be treated equally and no preferential treatment should be given to citizens. He just shrugged his shoulders and I pressed on, telling him how important it is for you to take care of your own people first. I used a football analogy: if I see my teammate get targeted by the opposing team, I would definitely stand up for him and return the opponent some ‘colour’, Again, from the half-blank look, he didn’t quite get what I was trying to say. This is the problem when you pursue individual sports like martial arts and never take up team sports. In a tournament, a match, a conflict, I don’t care what. I may have issues with the people next to me, I may think that they are scum, but come Saturday night when we square up against the other bastards out on the other side, the scum on my side are my best friends and as far as I am concerned, my side always wins. Fucking simple principle. Perfectly elegant. Elementary my dear Watson, elementary.
Thankfully, for my sanity and our groaning bellies, the eagerly awaited frog leg porridge finally arrived and we dug in with relish. By this time, my throat had gone coarse from arguing and I could barely muster a squeal. The slop was quite good, by the way. The best thing about frog leg porridge is the sauce, which has the extraordinary effort of turning what is otherwise plain congee into something sweet and appetizing. We discussed the Presidential Erections briefly. The Teacher and I were quite surprised that his brother did not know about the hullabaloo involving Traitor Tan and his ‘defence scientist’ son. We also briefed him on the five roles of the President.
In time we finished our slop and there commenced my tour of the Holy Land. Now, I was in my element and I was keen to demonstrate my familiarity with the area. On the way to Darlene Hotel (Central Business District), I pointed out to them shops they could not easily find elsewhere. It is late at night and you decide you need a haircut. Where do you go? The barbers in the Holy Land open for business until very late. You can also get a tattoo, find sex toys and cheap clothes and handphones. The Holy Land is a MBA graduate’s wet dream. It exemplifies the best of entrepreneurship and the unyielding spirit and character that are the drivers for this marvelous attribute.
We reached the CBD in no time and my heart soared at the sight of the $100 cnspecs standing in front of Darlene Hotel. A line of half a dozen beauties - pretty faces, slim figures, snowy white legs and proud breasts – stood in varying poses of defiance and wantonness. They regarded us with amusement as we walked past them. On the railings nearby, men sat, smoked, shot the shit, and stared, each wanting to sate his wicked needs with his favourite of the bevy of lovelies decked out for sale.
I decided not to accost any of them. Gut instinct told me to go behind the hotel and there we saw two brazen hussies, one with boobs the size of big papays and a slutty look, and the other with smaller but no less magnificent melons, with a seductive demeanor. Their conversation ceased as I walked up to them. I regarded them and inquired the former of her price. $100 for a shot, 40 minutes, she said. I was really tempted. I turned to my friends. They were standing six whole metres away from me, which did not improve my assessment of their manly courage. I asked them if they were interested. No. I thanked the ladies and moved off with my mates. I did not know what the Hell the Teacher was doing. He was supposed to help me push his brother forward, as close to the ladies as possible, so better to elicit his interest and boost his confidence of talking to beautiful specs. The poor sod needs to let go of his chivalrous mindset of putting women on a pedestal and falling so much forward at their delicate feet he falls on his own sword.
We walked one round back to the front of the hotel, where the cnspecs were now talking to their OKT (relations manager). We went up the ramp. A few lovelies smiled at us. I grinned in response. My two friends, one married but inexperienced man, the other a totally inexperienced man followed, probably in rapt fascination at the wonders before their eyes.
This intrepid trio soon crossed the small street to the other side, where more beauties awaited. I stopped at one cnspec, who flickered her long artificial eye lashes at me, smiled and let my gaze fall upon her white creamy and generous cleavage. I asked her for her rates, at the same time hoping the two jokers behind me would close up and openly ogle her. I was disappointed in more ways than one. She said she could only offer me 30 minutes. I tried to joke with her, arguing that ‘behind they were offering 40 minutes’. She said it made no difference. I said it did. A bit of argy bargy, done in good spirit. In our brief flirting, the Teacher still had not moved his ass and his brother’s forward. Diu! What in the Hells were they afraid of? Getting raped by the cnspecs? I thanked her and like obedient puppies my friends followed. I sighed and explained to them the areas and their boundaries. We passed from the CBD ($100 street) to the Indonesian street. The Teacher made some comment about whoring being against their religion. I was not so much concerned about their religious hypocrisy than I was at my inability to get my friend to muster their tiny bollocks and go up to a spec to ask about the price. He is way too Inhibited. He needs to get used to talking with specs before he even thinks of hitting on them. And whores are the best to boost your courage. You go to a disco, tries to get lucky, gets rejected, and your confidence shatters to smithereens. A bloke, even an unimpressive one, as a thumb of rule, does not get dismissed by a FL (freelancer) so he can build up his balls from there. Here I was, bringing the horse to the water. The Teacher, who is the stable boy, commits a dereliction of duty by not dragging the horse to the water, and the horse does not even dare go near the water, let alone drink from it. Frustrating!
After passing through the Indonesian street, we arrived at the $80 street. There were surprisingly no specs so we proceeded to the $60 street, which was perpendicular to it. Again, we saw no specs. I decided to lead my friends to the fish tanks. The fish tanks along the main stretch seemed to be doing a roaring business. I saw small hordes of potential customers roam around or enter the establishments. Continuing my tour, I explained to the Teacher and Scholar the price ranges set by the various establishments. Pointing to the fish tanks across the street, I told them that the services could cost $80, while most of the ones on our side were in the $50 bracket.
Of course, a tour of the Holy Land would not be complete without going into a fish tank for a look and I brought my two clueless friends to a relatively quiet establishment. There were only two Thai specs behind the glass enclosure and they looked like fuck. The Teacher was a bit hesitant in following me and the Scholar remained outside, not even daring to sneak peeks until the OKT helped me usher him in. We looked at the specs a bit, thanked the OKT, and departed.
We continued to walk and I showed them the stretches in which the fish tanks could be found. The Teacher wasn’t sure which nationality the specs we saw moments earlier belonged to, which was a surprise, considering he had been to Thailand. The Scholar was totally lost. I said that most of the specs in the fish tanks were from Thailand, although Chinese ones could be found. (The Chinese ones are naturally more expensive, due to their superior exterior.) I also ran through with them the procedure about whoring: step 1 – pick the spec, step 2 – go to the room with her (room charges may apply), step 3 – both go naked, step 4 – she will do an inspection of you and check for mushrooms, aliens, and foreign objects growing on your person, step 5 – she slips on protection for you, step 6 – conclude the business transaction.
I also showed her where the Grand Mistress could be found. This extraordinary, plump middle-age woman, who never goes without her shades, sat at her customary spot in the Indian district. I told the brothers she is a mainstay of the place, a living icon. They could not fully appreciate the significance of such a figurehead and the emotional appeal of familiarity she adds to the Holy Land. Sigh! Substandard philistines!
The Teacher kept messaging on his phone, which was frustrating to see because I wanted him as a ‘teaching assistant to help facilitate his brother’s education. I had to go and thankfully we came to a coffeeshop, where the Teacher took a dump. I talked to the Scholar while his brother was conducting ‘bombing’. He said he found the cnspecs lovely but he did not want to have them, Neither did he see the point of getting close up for a better view.
The Teacher soon emerged victorious from his ‘air raid’ and I said that I would show them the $60 street across the main road. Along the way, the three of us had a discussion. To cover up his fear of talking to the whores, the Scholar muttered something about catching diseases and other cock reason. I said I saw no point why he didn’t dare to ogle them openly. The Teacher argued that these days, there is no guarantee your girlfriend or the chick you pick up at some club is ‘clean’. Many people do sleep already and very few are virgins. I don’t know what dumb reason the Scholar gave next, although it was certainly enough for me to ‘jio’ him for a session with the $100 specs after I have found a job. He declined politely. I felt he needed to break his duck.
We reached the other side, and upon espying a busty spec standing by the roadside, proceeded to ask her about her price. For the third time and the lust of Asmodeus, the two fellows beside me stood a good distance away! I sighed inwardly and led them farther down the street and to the carpark, where more of the $60 merchandise could be found. As the hour was late, I decided to call it a night, but not before showing them where the cheap ‘open until very late’ salon and the famous soy bean shop were.
The mission could not be accorded a success. Despite the great conditions and my efforts, the horse could not be made to drink from the river because (i) the stable boy failed to drag the horse to the water, and (ii) in spite of his thirst, the horse could not overcome its fear to take even a sip or water. The Teacher later told me subsequent attempts are needed. I believe that if I had a competent teaching assistant at my side – Chicken, Wonderboy, and my xtian friend come to mind – the horse could at least be led close to the water to make it want to sip.
The Teacher arrived and I led us out of the station. The air, dampened by humidity from the earlier showers and the coming of night, was heavy and cold. There were several cockroaches of the two-legged variety sitting or squatting on the muddy grass patches next to the station. I can never understand these blackamoors. It is bad enough as it is that they are dumb enough to worship cows. They have to go further and imitate their deities’ bovine behavior. Why stop at just resting their unwashed asses on the grass? Why not eat the grass, shit on the grass, and then die on the grass as well? India: seven thousand years of history, seven thousand years of bullshit.
As I led my companions to the Holy Land, I delivered an introduction of the night’s activities and expounded on the magnificence of the Holy Land. As we neared the Holy Land, my spirit soared and my body, wrecked by a nasty bout of flu, felt invigorated. We soon made our way to the bridge which served as an informal divider between this sacred piece of land and the mundane lands beyond, and onwards we went, to the first coffeeshop. They did not appear to sell frog leg porridge so the three of us moved on along the stretch. The Teacher looked half-starved. I assured him that we would surely find a good slop house. He should put his trust in me.
We finally found a slop house after crossing and recrossing the road. The hawker told us we had to wait 40 minutes for the frog leg porridge to be prepared. In the meantime, the Teacher and I ordered side dishes and drinks from other stalls. Over our appetizers and refreshments, we talked about stuff related to Sinkieland.
Inevitably, politics came up. As expected, the Scholar voted for Traitor Tan. The Teacher already told me he cast his vote for the ‘high five’ guy and it was really amusing to see three people who voted for different candidates at the Presidential Erections sit at the same table. I started to explain to the Scholar how despicable Traitor Tan was and how the regime is turning its back on the people by its ridiculous immigration policies. The Teacher expressed his unhappiness at our new immigrants and how they, especially the PRCs, bring their entire families here and take up our resources. The Scholar’s response was idiotic to say the least and would have infuriated Buddha and Gandhi to the point of raving and spluttering lunacy. This is a bloke who does not believe that (i) Sinkies, who have to waste two years serving this stupid cuntry and return for reslavery every year, are disadvantaged compared to FTrash, who have no such obligations; (ii) our regime are spending our taxpayers’ money to sponsor PRCs for their studies and accommodation here (he thinks that the foreign students who are here on scholarships are here on their own academic merit). Iii) citizens should have greater privileges than permanent residents, who in turn should enjoy greater privileges than foreigners. He had (and still has) absolutely no idea why common Sinkies are having so much difficulty owning a home and why wages are depressed. He did not see anything wrong with a regime that does not take care of its people. He clearly believed that if Sinkies lose out to foreigners, who have an unfair advantage, it is their own fault.
I could just about murder him and if he wasn’t my friend and a genuine nice guy, I would have given this particular Cantonese a lecture in our prestige dialect. If we ever go to war, I wouldn’t mind sharing a ditch with him, knowing he’d guard my back with the loyalty of a well-trained dog. But seriously, what is the point of studying to Masters degree level and having shit for common sense and a zero grasp of reality? The Teacher added that things are so bad now he knew university graduates who earn less than $2,500 despite already working for a few years. I got a bit fed up and asked the Scholar this: if one fine day, his wife and kids are in need of money and an ah tiong asks him for money, whom will he give the money to? He did say that citizens and foreigners are to be treated equally and no preferential treatment should be given to citizens. He just shrugged his shoulders and I pressed on, telling him how important it is for you to take care of your own people first. I used a football analogy: if I see my teammate get targeted by the opposing team, I would definitely stand up for him and return the opponent some ‘colour’, Again, from the half-blank look, he didn’t quite get what I was trying to say. This is the problem when you pursue individual sports like martial arts and never take up team sports. In a tournament, a match, a conflict, I don’t care what. I may have issues with the people next to me, I may think that they are scum, but come Saturday night when we square up against the other bastards out on the other side, the scum on my side are my best friends and as far as I am concerned, my side always wins. Fucking simple principle. Perfectly elegant. Elementary my dear Watson, elementary.
Thankfully, for my sanity and our groaning bellies, the eagerly awaited frog leg porridge finally arrived and we dug in with relish. By this time, my throat had gone coarse from arguing and I could barely muster a squeal. The slop was quite good, by the way. The best thing about frog leg porridge is the sauce, which has the extraordinary effort of turning what is otherwise plain congee into something sweet and appetizing. We discussed the Presidential Erections briefly. The Teacher and I were quite surprised that his brother did not know about the hullabaloo involving Traitor Tan and his ‘defence scientist’ son. We also briefed him on the five roles of the President.
In time we finished our slop and there commenced my tour of the Holy Land. Now, I was in my element and I was keen to demonstrate my familiarity with the area. On the way to Darlene Hotel (Central Business District), I pointed out to them shops they could not easily find elsewhere. It is late at night and you decide you need a haircut. Where do you go? The barbers in the Holy Land open for business until very late. You can also get a tattoo, find sex toys and cheap clothes and handphones. The Holy Land is a MBA graduate’s wet dream. It exemplifies the best of entrepreneurship and the unyielding spirit and character that are the drivers for this marvelous attribute.
We reached the CBD in no time and my heart soared at the sight of the $100 cnspecs standing in front of Darlene Hotel. A line of half a dozen beauties - pretty faces, slim figures, snowy white legs and proud breasts – stood in varying poses of defiance and wantonness. They regarded us with amusement as we walked past them. On the railings nearby, men sat, smoked, shot the shit, and stared, each wanting to sate his wicked needs with his favourite of the bevy of lovelies decked out for sale.
I decided not to accost any of them. Gut instinct told me to go behind the hotel and there we saw two brazen hussies, one with boobs the size of big papays and a slutty look, and the other with smaller but no less magnificent melons, with a seductive demeanor. Their conversation ceased as I walked up to them. I regarded them and inquired the former of her price. $100 for a shot, 40 minutes, she said. I was really tempted. I turned to my friends. They were standing six whole metres away from me, which did not improve my assessment of their manly courage. I asked them if they were interested. No. I thanked the ladies and moved off with my mates. I did not know what the Hell the Teacher was doing. He was supposed to help me push his brother forward, as close to the ladies as possible, so better to elicit his interest and boost his confidence of talking to beautiful specs. The poor sod needs to let go of his chivalrous mindset of putting women on a pedestal and falling so much forward at their delicate feet he falls on his own sword.
We walked one round back to the front of the hotel, where the cnspecs were now talking to their OKT (relations manager). We went up the ramp. A few lovelies smiled at us. I grinned in response. My two friends, one married but inexperienced man, the other a totally inexperienced man followed, probably in rapt fascination at the wonders before their eyes.
This intrepid trio soon crossed the small street to the other side, where more beauties awaited. I stopped at one cnspec, who flickered her long artificial eye lashes at me, smiled and let my gaze fall upon her white creamy and generous cleavage. I asked her for her rates, at the same time hoping the two jokers behind me would close up and openly ogle her. I was disappointed in more ways than one. She said she could only offer me 30 minutes. I tried to joke with her, arguing that ‘behind they were offering 40 minutes’. She said it made no difference. I said it did. A bit of argy bargy, done in good spirit. In our brief flirting, the Teacher still had not moved his ass and his brother’s forward. Diu! What in the Hells were they afraid of? Getting raped by the cnspecs? I thanked her and like obedient puppies my friends followed. I sighed and explained to them the areas and their boundaries. We passed from the CBD ($100 street) to the Indonesian street. The Teacher made some comment about whoring being against their religion. I was not so much concerned about their religious hypocrisy than I was at my inability to get my friend to muster their tiny bollocks and go up to a spec to ask about the price. He is way too Inhibited. He needs to get used to talking with specs before he even thinks of hitting on them. And whores are the best to boost your courage. You go to a disco, tries to get lucky, gets rejected, and your confidence shatters to smithereens. A bloke, even an unimpressive one, as a thumb of rule, does not get dismissed by a FL (freelancer) so he can build up his balls from there. Here I was, bringing the horse to the water. The Teacher, who is the stable boy, commits a dereliction of duty by not dragging the horse to the water, and the horse does not even dare go near the water, let alone drink from it. Frustrating!
After passing through the Indonesian street, we arrived at the $80 street. There were surprisingly no specs so we proceeded to the $60 street, which was perpendicular to it. Again, we saw no specs. I decided to lead my friends to the fish tanks. The fish tanks along the main stretch seemed to be doing a roaring business. I saw small hordes of potential customers roam around or enter the establishments. Continuing my tour, I explained to the Teacher and Scholar the price ranges set by the various establishments. Pointing to the fish tanks across the street, I told them that the services could cost $80, while most of the ones on our side were in the $50 bracket.
Of course, a tour of the Holy Land would not be complete without going into a fish tank for a look and I brought my two clueless friends to a relatively quiet establishment. There were only two Thai specs behind the glass enclosure and they looked like fuck. The Teacher was a bit hesitant in following me and the Scholar remained outside, not even daring to sneak peeks until the OKT helped me usher him in. We looked at the specs a bit, thanked the OKT, and departed.
We continued to walk and I showed them the stretches in which the fish tanks could be found. The Teacher wasn’t sure which nationality the specs we saw moments earlier belonged to, which was a surprise, considering he had been to Thailand. The Scholar was totally lost. I said that most of the specs in the fish tanks were from Thailand, although Chinese ones could be found. (The Chinese ones are naturally more expensive, due to their superior exterior.) I also ran through with them the procedure about whoring: step 1 – pick the spec, step 2 – go to the room with her (room charges may apply), step 3 – both go naked, step 4 – she will do an inspection of you and check for mushrooms, aliens, and foreign objects growing on your person, step 5 – she slips on protection for you, step 6 – conclude the business transaction.
I also showed her where the Grand Mistress could be found. This extraordinary, plump middle-age woman, who never goes without her shades, sat at her customary spot in the Indian district. I told the brothers she is a mainstay of the place, a living icon. They could not fully appreciate the significance of such a figurehead and the emotional appeal of familiarity she adds to the Holy Land. Sigh! Substandard philistines!
The Teacher kept messaging on his phone, which was frustrating to see because I wanted him as a ‘teaching assistant to help facilitate his brother’s education. I had to go and thankfully we came to a coffeeshop, where the Teacher took a dump. I talked to the Scholar while his brother was conducting ‘bombing’. He said he found the cnspecs lovely but he did not want to have them, Neither did he see the point of getting close up for a better view.
The Teacher soon emerged victorious from his ‘air raid’ and I said that I would show them the $60 street across the main road. Along the way, the three of us had a discussion. To cover up his fear of talking to the whores, the Scholar muttered something about catching diseases and other cock reason. I said I saw no point why he didn’t dare to ogle them openly. The Teacher argued that these days, there is no guarantee your girlfriend or the chick you pick up at some club is ‘clean’. Many people do sleep already and very few are virgins. I don’t know what dumb reason the Scholar gave next, although it was certainly enough for me to ‘jio’ him for a session with the $100 specs after I have found a job. He declined politely. I felt he needed to break his duck.
We reached the other side, and upon espying a busty spec standing by the roadside, proceeded to ask her about her price. For the third time and the lust of Asmodeus, the two fellows beside me stood a good distance away! I sighed inwardly and led them farther down the street and to the carpark, where more of the $60 merchandise could be found. As the hour was late, I decided to call it a night, but not before showing them where the cheap ‘open until very late’ salon and the famous soy bean shop were.
The mission could not be accorded a success. Despite the great conditions and my efforts, the horse could not be made to drink from the river because (i) the stable boy failed to drag the horse to the water, and (ii) in spite of his thirst, the horse could not overcome its fear to take even a sip or water. The Teacher later told me subsequent attempts are needed. I believe that if I had a competent teaching assistant at my side – Chicken, Wonderboy, and my xtian friend come to mind – the horse could at least be led close to the water to make it want to sip.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Just Talk
My friend and I shot the shot over kopi yesterday evening and the topic of housing came up.
It is common practice for couples in Shanghai to purchase two units when they marry. They will stay in one and the other is for their child. With housing prices skyrocketing in most cities in China, it makes financial sense (from an individual, selfish, and narrow-minded point of view) to buy houses before their prices become so inflated in the future to the point of unaffordability. They will even take up long term loans to finance their purchases. However, this practice, when done en masse, inevitably jacks up the already steep property prices and possibly lead to the burst of the property bubble in the not so distant future.
Females in China appreciate two things in their potential mates: a house and a car in that order. If a guy there does not have either of these, especially the former, he can basically forget about getting a wife. Such are the depressing circumstances that compel many mainland Chinese to leave their country to work for better wages abroad. For them it is a win-win situation, more so if they come to our cuntry, which like a whore spreading her legs to anyone who can pay.
Let me illustrate my point.
A civil servant in China earns 3,000 RMB and a three room flat there costs 300,000 SGD (roughly equivalent to 1,500,000 RMB. Assuming our friend the civil servant does not need to pay any bills save the mortgage on this pricey pigeon-hole and interest rates and other factors are negligible it would take him 500 months, or 41 years and 8 months to pay off the mortgage (1,500,000 / 300,000).
Now, suppose he comes to this cesspit and receives the same amount of wages in SGD - yes, our cuntpanies based in this cesspit are now paying good wages to foreigners – and buys the same three-room flat here (the price is the same as its equivalent in China), it would now take this ah tiong 100 months, or 8 years and 4 months to finish paying the mortgage (300,000 / 3,000). If he decides that he’s had enough of our shithole, he can easily sell the 300,0000 SGD flat he has, collect his CPF money (if he takes up permanent resident status) at a jacked-up price, makes a profit of maybe 50,000 to 100,000 SGD, and then fuck off back home loaded. True, he may not easily afford a house in China, but short of being a banker/crook, where in the Hells can an ah tiong, or for that matter anyone, make such a hefty profit in such a relatively short span of time?
It is common practice for couples in Shanghai to purchase two units when they marry. They will stay in one and the other is for their child. With housing prices skyrocketing in most cities in China, it makes financial sense (from an individual, selfish, and narrow-minded point of view) to buy houses before their prices become so inflated in the future to the point of unaffordability. They will even take up long term loans to finance their purchases. However, this practice, when done en masse, inevitably jacks up the already steep property prices and possibly lead to the burst of the property bubble in the not so distant future.
Females in China appreciate two things in their potential mates: a house and a car in that order. If a guy there does not have either of these, especially the former, he can basically forget about getting a wife. Such are the depressing circumstances that compel many mainland Chinese to leave their country to work for better wages abroad. For them it is a win-win situation, more so if they come to our cuntry, which like a whore spreading her legs to anyone who can pay.
Let me illustrate my point.
A civil servant in China earns 3,000 RMB and a three room flat there costs 300,000 SGD (roughly equivalent to 1,500,000 RMB. Assuming our friend the civil servant does not need to pay any bills save the mortgage on this pricey pigeon-hole and interest rates and other factors are negligible it would take him 500 months, or 41 years and 8 months to pay off the mortgage (1,500,000 / 300,000).
Now, suppose he comes to this cesspit and receives the same amount of wages in SGD - yes, our cuntpanies based in this cesspit are now paying good wages to foreigners – and buys the same three-room flat here (the price is the same as its equivalent in China), it would now take this ah tiong 100 months, or 8 years and 4 months to finish paying the mortgage (300,000 / 3,000). If he decides that he’s had enough of our shithole, he can easily sell the 300,0000 SGD flat he has, collect his CPF money (if he takes up permanent resident status) at a jacked-up price, makes a profit of maybe 50,000 to 100,000 SGD, and then fuck off back home loaded. True, he may not easily afford a house in China, but short of being a banker/crook, where in the Hells can an ah tiong, or for that matter anyone, make such a hefty profit in such a relatively short span of time?
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Why I Left My Gulag
Below is an account of my precious stint at a gulag in some godforsaken industrial area in an obscure corner of this cesspit and the circumstances that compelled me to liberate myself from this Hellhole.
What is a highly intelligent individual like me doing in such a crap place? This is a question I asked myself every day. I have a bloody degree in business and I am doing something unrelated to what I studied. It does not take even a bloody diploma/’A’ levels holder to do the shit I was doing. I should be doing accounting, sales, human resource, or any other thing that is business-related. It infuriated me to no end to see less educated people doing these jobs and it was even more galling to see how much more competent I could have been if I were in their positions.
I was hired to help with the documentation and I was not even given a bloody computer to work with. I even had to share a desk with my pathetic *superior*. Any employee would reasonably expect to be given a proper place to wok and proper tools to do his job. I had to voice out my demands at a meeting a month later before they even gave me my own desk (by kicking out the guy who was using it) and a computer. Sadly, the computer was not working and the IT guy came, saw, did nothing and left, never to be seen in my room again. It was highly insulting. The computer gathered dust at my desk and was still gathering dust on the day I left. I bid good riddance to the damn piece of junk and I hope it catches fire and explodes in the face of the sod who tries to get it to work.
Obviously my talent was not being properly appreciated. I was just wasting my precious time, stuck in a lousy job with lousy wages, working with lousy people, using lousy things, and doing lousy things. There was only one way and that was out.
Low pay and non-existent perks
I am a degree holder and in my job (if you can call it that), I have to work five and a half days a week and the rates they were paying me simply did not justify my hard work and worth. In addition, for the abuse I suffer, they should be paying me more.
In most companies, the thirteenth month bonus is guaranteed. Not so for this one. You are allowed to take medical leave after you are ‘confirmed’ at the end of your probation period, but the amount you can claim is only $25. If you fall sick during your probation period, it’s unpaid leave and you have to fork out the medical bills from your own pocket.
Also, there are no short courses or people development programmes in the gulag. The bloody management only believe in working their employees to death, so better to profit themselves.
Sheer exhaustion
From the moment I started work to knock-off time I had had no respite. Tons and tons of documentation required my attention and I had to help out clearing other people’s rubbish. I don’t know whether they really didn’t know or just acting stupid, but I found myself having to help the older staff navigate their way through the documentation. I could never finish my work because shit kept piling up. I was once asked to stretch a diagram of a big engineering item. One part of it was partially obstructed and to get the dimensions, I had to remove the fucking cotter pin that fastened the bolt to the structure so that I could take the measurement. Can you imagine a fucking office worker being made to do an engineering task and one that requires him to stand in slippery ground and contort his body?! Bloody Hells! This is just one of the pieces of nonsense I had to put up with and I lost at least five pounds in my ten weeks at this accused gulag!
Saturdays burnt
Having to work on Saturdays when most of my peers are on five day work weeks is depressing as it is. Imagine having to stay past the working hours stipulated in your contract. Contractual terms stated that the end timing is 12.30 pm but I found myself working until around 1.30 pm due to last minute jobs. I didn’t get overtime pay for this extra hour and I was quite appalled at this exploitation.
Dysfunctional conflicts
Every day things screw up and when things screw up, people screw one another. There is little, if any, respect among gulag mates. Verbal violence is the norm. People use colourful language on one another without thought. They do not understand how what ‘I’ll get back to you' means. Every damn thing is urgent. When people rush jobs, things inevitably screw up, tempers flare, and conflicts arise. It is like a war zone in my gulag. It is every bit as volatile as the Gaza Strip. Once a gulag mate from China got so sick of one of my sales staff that he physically attacked the whoreson. I nearly attacked the same bastard after he got on my nerves one too many times and if I hadn’t left the premises for a ‘count to 10, breathe slow and easy’, I would have walloped him and found myself in the dock. Things are so horrific that even on my last day, two drivers almost came to blows. One guy told the other guy what he thought in no uncertain terms and the twit retaliated by asking after the guy’s mother. This is ridiculous. Even school kids learn not to insult their opponents’ families and to hear fifty year olds commit mistakes not even school children make is disturbing.
Mediocre people
Most of my former gulag mates (including the management) are just incompetent. My gulag mates in the technical department did not know how to convert pounds to kilos, tons to kilos and other elementary conversions until I taught them. I was shocked they didn't know. One would reasonably expect a technical person, especially one who has been educated in a vocational institute to be able to do the things required of their trade.
The joker whom I was hired to assist with the documentation was the most hopeless excuse of a leader I had had the misfortune to work with, and I certainly encountered more than my fair share of cretins during my years of working! He was the leader of his department only by virtue of his long years at the gulag. None of his men give a fuck about him. They can lecture him, use sarcastic remarks on him and all his does is to sit and bear the abuse. If I didn’t know, I would have thought he practically basked in the abuse! Already despised by his subordinates, he also suffers lectures from the sales people on a regular basis. What a hopeless specimen! If I were him, I would have committed suicide long ago.
My administrative cum sales cum human resource cum what-have-you staff is made up largely of functional retards. Every time I received a document from them, chances were that it was riddled with grammatical and spelling mistakes and poor formatting. The ones who appeared to be more competent in this regard were the girls who graduated from poly not so long ago, which spoke volumes of the inability of the older staff to learn and improve. There was an incident when shit hit the fan and the customer was pissed off at us. My lousy *superior* did not dare to call the customer to explain for something which was basically our department’s fault and the sales personnel, after listening to my explanation of what the Hells went wrong, asked us to explain. I had to draft an apology letter on paper - my computer was unserviceable – and then explain to her the gist of the situation and how my letter was crafted. Bloody Hells. You are in sales and you don’t know how to write something as simple as an apology letter. Pathetic.
The management is just as hopeless. In most companies, the management will be sitting in corner offices or upper floors. Not so for my former gulag’s. Being typical traditional Chinese bosses, they are very paranoid and mistrustful of their staff. They think that if they do not keep tabs on their employees, they will slack away. Their solutions to their lack of confidence in people are simple: install cameras and sit among their employees so that they are always within sight.
While their paranoia can be tolerated, their sheer incompetence is not excusable. They want to upgrade the gulag’s accreditations and to achieve this, they need to attain a certain level of conformity and quality in their engineering standards. However, the engineering standards are non-existent and slipshod work is often produced. This is equivalent to getting a toddler to sprint before it has even learnt to walk. The depressing part is that they knew of this deficiency and showed no sign of getting their house in order. They told us to do this and then, to write up work processes when they don’t even know what kind of standards to meet for the accreditation agency’s approval! I had to resort to referring to previous records - by some miracle they met ISO standards a decade ago - and tried to conjure some write-up which was more stringent but not necessarily correct. Being educated and one of the rare few who are competent in writing in English, I was the only one who was capable of writing such documentation. My clueless *superior* has terrible English, like the rest of his fellows in the department. I had no managerial support at all and I decided that it would help preserve my sanity if I just packed it in and left them to their own stew, which I did.
Low pay and non-existent perks
I am a degree holder and in my job (if you can call it that), I have to work five and a half days a week and the rates they were paying me simply did not justify my hard work and worth. In addition, for the abuse I suffer, they should be paying me more.
In most companies, the thirteenth month bonus is guaranteed. Not so for this one. You are allowed to take medical leave after you are ‘confirmed’ at the end of your probation period, but the amount you can claim is only $25. If you fall sick during your probation period, it’s unpaid leave and you have to fork out the medical bills from your own pocket.
Also, there are no short courses or people development programmes in the gulag. The bloody management only believe in working their employees to death, so better to profit themselves.
Sheer exhaustion
From the moment I started work to knock-off time I had had no respite. Tons and tons of documentation required my attention and I had to help out clearing other people’s rubbish. I don’t know whether they really didn’t know or just acting stupid, but I found myself having to help the older staff navigate their way through the documentation. I could never finish my work because shit kept piling up. I was once asked to stretch a diagram of a big engineering item. One part of it was partially obstructed and to get the dimensions, I had to remove the fucking cotter pin that fastened the bolt to the structure so that I could take the measurement. Can you imagine a fucking office worker being made to do an engineering task and one that requires him to stand in slippery ground and contort his body?! Bloody Hells! This is just one of the pieces of nonsense I had to put up with and I lost at least five pounds in my ten weeks at this accused gulag!
Saturdays burnt
Having to work on Saturdays when most of my peers are on five day work weeks is depressing as it is. Imagine having to stay past the working hours stipulated in your contract. Contractual terms stated that the end timing is 12.30 pm but I found myself working until around 1.30 pm due to last minute jobs. I didn’t get overtime pay for this extra hour and I was quite appalled at this exploitation.
Dysfunctional conflicts
Every day things screw up and when things screw up, people screw one another. There is little, if any, respect among gulag mates. Verbal violence is the norm. People use colourful language on one another without thought. They do not understand how what ‘I’ll get back to you' means. Every damn thing is urgent. When people rush jobs, things inevitably screw up, tempers flare, and conflicts arise. It is like a war zone in my gulag. It is every bit as volatile as the Gaza Strip. Once a gulag mate from China got so sick of one of my sales staff that he physically attacked the whoreson. I nearly attacked the same bastard after he got on my nerves one too many times and if I hadn’t left the premises for a ‘count to 10, breathe slow and easy’, I would have walloped him and found myself in the dock. Things are so horrific that even on my last day, two drivers almost came to blows. One guy told the other guy what he thought in no uncertain terms and the twit retaliated by asking after the guy’s mother. This is ridiculous. Even school kids learn not to insult their opponents’ families and to hear fifty year olds commit mistakes not even school children make is disturbing.
Mediocre people
Most of my former gulag mates (including the management) are just incompetent. My gulag mates in the technical department did not know how to convert pounds to kilos, tons to kilos and other elementary conversions until I taught them. I was shocked they didn't know. One would reasonably expect a technical person, especially one who has been educated in a vocational institute to be able to do the things required of their trade.
The joker whom I was hired to assist with the documentation was the most hopeless excuse of a leader I had had the misfortune to work with, and I certainly encountered more than my fair share of cretins during my years of working! He was the leader of his department only by virtue of his long years at the gulag. None of his men give a fuck about him. They can lecture him, use sarcastic remarks on him and all his does is to sit and bear the abuse. If I didn’t know, I would have thought he practically basked in the abuse! Already despised by his subordinates, he also suffers lectures from the sales people on a regular basis. What a hopeless specimen! If I were him, I would have committed suicide long ago.
My administrative cum sales cum human resource cum what-have-you staff is made up largely of functional retards. Every time I received a document from them, chances were that it was riddled with grammatical and spelling mistakes and poor formatting. The ones who appeared to be more competent in this regard were the girls who graduated from poly not so long ago, which spoke volumes of the inability of the older staff to learn and improve. There was an incident when shit hit the fan and the customer was pissed off at us. My lousy *superior* did not dare to call the customer to explain for something which was basically our department’s fault and the sales personnel, after listening to my explanation of what the Hells went wrong, asked us to explain. I had to draft an apology letter on paper - my computer was unserviceable – and then explain to her the gist of the situation and how my letter was crafted. Bloody Hells. You are in sales and you don’t know how to write something as simple as an apology letter. Pathetic.
The management is just as hopeless. In most companies, the management will be sitting in corner offices or upper floors. Not so for my former gulag’s. Being typical traditional Chinese bosses, they are very paranoid and mistrustful of their staff. They think that if they do not keep tabs on their employees, they will slack away. Their solutions to their lack of confidence in people are simple: install cameras and sit among their employees so that they are always within sight.
While their paranoia can be tolerated, their sheer incompetence is not excusable. They want to upgrade the gulag’s accreditations and to achieve this, they need to attain a certain level of conformity and quality in their engineering standards. However, the engineering standards are non-existent and slipshod work is often produced. This is equivalent to getting a toddler to sprint before it has even learnt to walk. The depressing part is that they knew of this deficiency and showed no sign of getting their house in order. They told us to do this and then, to write up work processes when they don’t even know what kind of standards to meet for the accreditation agency’s approval! I had to resort to referring to previous records - by some miracle they met ISO standards a decade ago - and tried to conjure some write-up which was more stringent but not necessarily correct. Being educated and one of the rare few who are competent in writing in English, I was the only one who was capable of writing such documentation. My clueless *superior* has terrible English, like the rest of his fellows in the department. I had no managerial support at all and I decided that it would help preserve my sanity if I just packed it in and left them to their own stew, which I did.
Monday, August 1, 2011
BOOM!
News reports have it that a grenade exploded during a live firing exercise. The poor conscript who was caught in the explosion had shrapnel in his right cheek, arms, and shoulders – he got off very lightly. He is now warded in the hospital and should leave (hopefully with a generous medical leave) in a few days time. The army is launching an investigation into this incident. They shouldn’t bother because any inquiry is pointless.
First, the ammunitions used in training schools are nearing their expiry dates. You cannot expect all of the ammo to be in top condition, even though they are still certified serviceable. The gun from which the grenade was fired was probably poorly maintained. When I was in the army, I had a rifle that was quite unreliable, jamming roughly once for every 6 to 10 rounds fired. I took it to the armourer for repair, but to no avail. The armourer was not very good either – I know this because he was my friend. Furthermore, when you subject a weapon to over a decade of rough use, it is bound to be a bit cranky. In addition, American designed weapons, while precise in their engineering, aren’t very durable.
Second, Sinkieland’s quality in the engineering fields has never been world-class like the Germans’. While the maintenance is passable, the design aspect of engineering is substandard. Sinkieland’s military has always mistakenly believed that it can take an existing prototype from say, America or Israel, and improve on it. Never once have they succeeded in proving themselves right. There is a ground-to-air missile system they purchased from the Israelis and they proceeded to augment it with French, British, American, and the Hells know where technologies. Not only did they fail to enhance its combat effectively, they ended up lowering its combat efficiency, with an increased downtime. I wouldn’t be surprised if they modified the grenade launcher. No saboteur would have done better than our idiotic paper generals and incompetent engineers.
Third, it is a known fact that the military outsourced a great part of its operations to regime-linked firms. With the’ I spread legs come fuck my loose cunt’ immigration policies, these firms are hiring more and more foreigners. While some are skilled at what they do, many others are just functional retards. Would you trust a pinoy, ah-neh, or ah tiong (most of the whole lot having dodgy degrees and almost none having any kind of military experience) to design and maintain weapon systems? I have another accolade. A friend of mine, who is currently in a state-owned military contractor, described to me the sheer incompetence of its engineering processes. Imagine manufacturing a combat vehicle and before documenting its technical procedures, compiling its engineering manuals, testing its efficiency and finally commissioning it, you send it straight to the army units for use. Over the course of a few months, the damn thing was sent back with over hundreds of faults, some from misuse, and others caused by lousy design. Given that Sinkieland manufactures its small arms, I am pretty certain that along the lines, someone must have screwed up the inspection.
This is a sorry episode but until our regime and those in top management face up to the fact that things are truly fucked on the floor and make serious efforts to stop the rot, another incident like this will occur again and very soon, by my reckoning. They will, of course, abdicate their responsibility and perhaps their arrogance will be a cloud in silver lining, for it will undoubtedly hasten the dissolution of this wretched cesspit.
First, the ammunitions used in training schools are nearing their expiry dates. You cannot expect all of the ammo to be in top condition, even though they are still certified serviceable. The gun from which the grenade was fired was probably poorly maintained. When I was in the army, I had a rifle that was quite unreliable, jamming roughly once for every 6 to 10 rounds fired. I took it to the armourer for repair, but to no avail. The armourer was not very good either – I know this because he was my friend. Furthermore, when you subject a weapon to over a decade of rough use, it is bound to be a bit cranky. In addition, American designed weapons, while precise in their engineering, aren’t very durable.
Second, Sinkieland’s quality in the engineering fields has never been world-class like the Germans’. While the maintenance is passable, the design aspect of engineering is substandard. Sinkieland’s military has always mistakenly believed that it can take an existing prototype from say, America or Israel, and improve on it. Never once have they succeeded in proving themselves right. There is a ground-to-air missile system they purchased from the Israelis and they proceeded to augment it with French, British, American, and the Hells know where technologies. Not only did they fail to enhance its combat effectively, they ended up lowering its combat efficiency, with an increased downtime. I wouldn’t be surprised if they modified the grenade launcher. No saboteur would have done better than our idiotic paper generals and incompetent engineers.
Third, it is a known fact that the military outsourced a great part of its operations to regime-linked firms. With the’ I spread legs come fuck my loose cunt’ immigration policies, these firms are hiring more and more foreigners. While some are skilled at what they do, many others are just functional retards. Would you trust a pinoy, ah-neh, or ah tiong (most of the whole lot having dodgy degrees and almost none having any kind of military experience) to design and maintain weapon systems? I have another accolade. A friend of mine, who is currently in a state-owned military contractor, described to me the sheer incompetence of its engineering processes. Imagine manufacturing a combat vehicle and before documenting its technical procedures, compiling its engineering manuals, testing its efficiency and finally commissioning it, you send it straight to the army units for use. Over the course of a few months, the damn thing was sent back with over hundreds of faults, some from misuse, and others caused by lousy design. Given that Sinkieland manufactures its small arms, I am pretty certain that along the lines, someone must have screwed up the inspection.
This is a sorry episode but until our regime and those in top management face up to the fact that things are truly fucked on the floor and make serious efforts to stop the rot, another incident like this will occur again and very soon, by my reckoning. They will, of course, abdicate their responsibility and perhaps their arrogance will be a cloud in silver lining, for it will undoubtedly hasten the dissolution of this wretched cesspit.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Good Work!
I should receive the Nobel Prize for Literature for this!
The Philistine 17 July at 22:55
Dear Pretentious Twat,
From the utter drivel you have painstakingly written, I am incited to inflict on you extreme violence, having inferred that you are begging to have your gob smashed in. I have consulted my friends and I am certain they are right to offer this piece of exceedingly necessary and righteous advice. Before I depart for
This very real knowledge, coupled with the compelling desire of wanting to meet you for the express and delightful purpose of rearranging your face, has put me in a state of anticipatory elation. The 'paradoxical predicament' of 'To Meet or Not To Meet' goaded the creation of this dreadfully long and perhaps unnecessary proclamation of violence.
I must admit that I have also taken the interpretation of your friend request quite seriously - and warily - and so have entertained for some time of deciding whether to hire a hit on you or do it myself and dirty my hands. But it so happens that our legislation does not tolerate violence in any form and until the moment comes when I see your unimpressive face I cannot be certain if I would do the deed myself.
This indecisiveness I suppose we can see enacted in the local attitude towards sex I find in you and I believe you have plenty of experience in this regard in that your manhood, insignificant as it is, cannot be trusted to deploy its head on when to stand, or indeed, if it can made to stand. Surely, you realize the wretchedness of your condition is of no cataclysmic proportion and the world will revolve, life will still go on, and pigs will continue to roll in the mud regardless of your ability to effect an erection and to sustain it.
Hearing that you have known of my plans to go to
And I suppose part of the reason as to the severe trauma I suffer at this moment by just thinking of meeting with you is the horrific tension of degradation that I fear may be imprinted on my consciousness and which will resurface every time I visit the toilet. Your orifice of a skull, and a numbskull at that, would remind anyone of a glory hole in the seediest swill hole.
Of course, to understand your nonsense requires the patience of Gandhi, the insanity of Kim Jong Il, and the perverse imagination of Albert Fish. I am sure that you have a lot to contribute to abnormal psychology and I urge you to check in as a permanent resident at
I end this letter by asking after your mother.
Sincerely,
The Brain.
Important Questions I
There are some important questions one must answer before he is deemed to have achieved intellectual maturity. Due to time constraints, I will only post two of such questions. Over the course of my existence and this blog’s, I will be posting more.
Why are Sinkies physically unimpressive? Sinkies, especially the males, are really quite short. Most of the Chinese in my gulag are at least 1.7m tall but I estimate that only around half of Sinkies are as tall as their Chinese counterparts. Why? We have no shortage of slop in this country and hardly anyone ever goes hungry. In fact, our national pastime is eating and surely, our lack of stature is not caused by some cultural fad to be as thin as a goal post.
What about genes? Are our genes poor? It is certainly a possibility until you look at the mainland Chinese, HongKies, and Taiwanese, with whom our forebears shared the same ancestral home. They are not certainly short as we are or particularly physically unappealing. Surely it is not genetic.
Having eliminated genetics and nutrition from our consideration, we now turn our attention to geography. One cannot help but notice that the population in the SEA region are rather physically poor. Although I have no official data to aid in verification, I daresay that people in this region are the shortest and physically undeveloped in the whole of the world (excluding special cases like North Koreans and Ethiopians, as well as those unfortunate enough to exist in regions devastated by war and famine). There must be something in the water here. I firmly believe that if you want to produce children, you should get out of this country, leave this region, and bring up your children in a civilized country like Canada or Germany.
Why are some specs trying to be weather stations? I am sure you have encountered the breed. On Monday, they are nearly or as busty as Denise Milani, and then on Tuesday they are as flat as Joanne Peh. They are like the weather in Sinkieland. One moment sunny, the next rainy, pretty much like the mood swings of a woman on PMS.
I understand that some of the specs who are no as well-endowed as they would have liked, but surely they are taking the aided support a bit too far. The key is consistency. If you are an A cup and want some ‘enhancement’, at least have the common sense to push it only a size up and not change sizes like it is nobody’s business. Don’t push it up two sizes or more and then deflate it. It is like cheating and blokes notice it very quickly and we don’t like it. Instead of using wonder bras and padding bras that are about as thick as a breastplate, please go for bust enhancement. The thousands of doilars you spend on the procedure would be cheaper, in the long run, than the exorbitant amount you accrue from buying artificial paddings. And best of all, your guy will appreciate it when you have your private moments and everything is off.
Why are Sinkies physically unimpressive? Sinkies, especially the males, are really quite short. Most of the Chinese in my gulag are at least 1.7m tall but I estimate that only around half of Sinkies are as tall as their Chinese counterparts. Why? We have no shortage of slop in this country and hardly anyone ever goes hungry. In fact, our national pastime is eating and surely, our lack of stature is not caused by some cultural fad to be as thin as a goal post.
What about genes? Are our genes poor? It is certainly a possibility until you look at the mainland Chinese, HongKies, and Taiwanese, with whom our forebears shared the same ancestral home. They are not certainly short as we are or particularly physically unappealing. Surely it is not genetic.
Having eliminated genetics and nutrition from our consideration, we now turn our attention to geography. One cannot help but notice that the population in the SEA region are rather physically poor. Although I have no official data to aid in verification, I daresay that people in this region are the shortest and physically undeveloped in the whole of the world (excluding special cases like North Koreans and Ethiopians, as well as those unfortunate enough to exist in regions devastated by war and famine). There must be something in the water here. I firmly believe that if you want to produce children, you should get out of this country, leave this region, and bring up your children in a civilized country like Canada or Germany.
Why are some specs trying to be weather stations? I am sure you have encountered the breed. On Monday, they are nearly or as busty as Denise Milani, and then on Tuesday they are as flat as Joanne Peh. They are like the weather in Sinkieland. One moment sunny, the next rainy, pretty much like the mood swings of a woman on PMS.
I understand that some of the specs who are no as well-endowed as they would have liked, but surely they are taking the aided support a bit too far. The key is consistency. If you are an A cup and want some ‘enhancement’, at least have the common sense to push it only a size up and not change sizes like it is nobody’s business. Don’t push it up two sizes or more and then deflate it. It is like cheating and blokes notice it very quickly and we don’t like it. Instead of using wonder bras and padding bras that are about as thick as a breastplate, please go for bust enhancement. The thousands of doilars you spend on the procedure would be cheaper, in the long run, than the exorbitant amount you accrue from buying artificial paddings. And best of all, your guy will appreciate it when you have your private moments and everything is off.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Hush....Harsh....
Existence gets worse at my gulag and the rot shows no sign of stopping. Today my sales staff went crazy and issued work orders to my severely undermanned department. By knockoff time, the sole
The Presidential Erection is set to occur somewhere in August. A three-corner fight is expected, with all three candidates having some kind of ties to the regime. To someone like me, who absolutely hates the regime, it is like choosing one of the following: Gawd, the deep blue sea, and the
The Brain, the Lass and I went out last Saturday. Over slop the subject of Sinkies being marginalized by our regime came up. The Lass made some comments including the exorbitant prices of flats and other forms of suffering we endure under the scum in white’s ‘mandate’. One remark she made is particularly interesting. She said that maybe only a war can change things, and after the war we can start all over again. I am not sure if she was thinking of the courageous Libyans when she said that, but she has a very good point. Many others, if they heard her say such a thing then, might have dismissed it as immature nonsense that stems from the remnants of a rebellious adolescence. They would be wrong. Our country is stuck in a state of limbo, in which a caged individual believes he is free to act as he pleases. In one of her recent lecture, Aung San Suu Kyi said that a delusional sense of freedom is worse than blatant tyranny. An oppressed people, long frustrated at being persecuted, can be trusted to take up arms against their overlords. When you fight, you have a chance, no matter how small. But when an oppressed people believe that they are free and despite the hardships and injustices they endure under their oppressors’ rule, refuse to exercise their right to freedom because ‘the alternative is worse’, what chance have they? What chance have we? The recent Erections have only served as a reminder of our stagnancy, of our crushed spirits, of our willingness to take things as they are and suffer things as they come. There is no hope for gradual change in this cuntry. Only sudden, brutal upheavals will serve as a catalyst for change, to shock people into realizing that they are alive, and that they are capable of having feelings and aspirations, of finding things long stashed away in some forgotten corners in our hearts, of elevating our soul, and to feel energized and be humans and cease being some cog in a machine, some mindless automation in a factory. I, for once, would welcome an invasion. In war there is love. In love there is freedom.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Holy Creatures
It is always good to end the half year with pictures of holy creatures.
Waiting for slop.
Enough of waiting! Damn human is never punctual. Yawn.
Surveying his turf.
Stand down.
Wait and see. Any interesting stuff? Boring.
Human can play with his iPhone. I can't be bothered.
These Days
Except for Sundays, this is the my daily routine.
Woke up at 7.00 a.m. Feel like I am about to die. Drag myself out of my slumbers while my fogged brain struggles with articulating my curses about my cuntry and my wretched existence.
Finish slop at around 7.30 a.m.
Take a crap. I won't be taking another for the next 9 hours or so because the shithole in my shithole of a gulag has no crap paper and I won't deign to bring any to that Hell.
Leave my house and on the way to my gulag, I check the SBF for news. I may decide to contribute to the discussion.
Reach my gulag at a bit over 8.30 a.m. From then until maybe 5.40 p.m, the shit begins. People yelling and rushing one another like overeager souls on the road to reincarnation. Check the SBF during slop. The rest of the day follows the same pattern. I get rubbish from people. My *superior* is bo chup, my PE is a blur and emo old fart who should seriously think of retirement, my admin can't type out a job sheet without making any grammatical mistakes or typos, an old fritter talks to me to educate me so better to demonstrate how experienced her, my gulag mates in the workshop ask me questions etc. I get all kinds of shit and when shit happens people come to me. I am like fucking Jebus.
Check the SBF on the way home and reach my residential area around 6.20. If I have driving lessons, I'll have slop before my attempt not to kill anyone on the road. If not. I'll get a drink or some cold snack and walk back.
Reach home and have slop. Check the SBF. Some hot topic may inspire me to add my wisdom to the discussion.
Listen to the BBC or music on the radio. May walk around the neighbourhood and say hello with the cats down my block.
In short, my existence is meaningless and the sheer monotony of it drives me crazy and reminds me of the dreary and routine regime of an existence behind bars.
I am degenerating. If I don't suffer a mental collapse, my physical frame will disintegrate and my bones will be dust before long.
I am becoming very slovenly in appearance. My hair has gotten long and I don't even comb it.
I am losing my English. Articulating myself in English is an issue now. My Mandarin, however, has improved as I use it to talk to my Chinese gulag mates nearly every day. My language has become more colourful, thanks to the Sammyboy forum and the influence of the people I toil with.
I give less of a damn these days. Since my education has not succeeded in getting me anywhere, I might as well act like some boor with a primary four certificate.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Randomness and Ranting
Agnostics believe that it is impossible to deny or affirm the existence of Gawd. They are wrong. All they have to do is die.
One cunt in Guangdong is offering her virgin cunt for an iPhone 4. She is really a so hai. iPhone 5 is coming out in September and she wants to allow her cunt to be invaded for a product that is going to be phased out. However, the real so hai will be the bloke who takes her up on her offer. Why pay so much $ to bonk her when prettier whores can be had for much cheaper rates?
According to Forrest Gump, life is like a bunch of chocolates: you never know what you are going to get.
So is whoring.
My libertine xtian friend has had some sextisfying experiences with whores but also more unsextisfying ones.
- Being mercilessly teased by the whore for having a big belly (no, he's not fat).
- Finding out that the air-con was not on only after concluding his exhausting - and sweating - business with the whore.
- Having his hand slapped away when he tried to feel the whore's butt.
- Being told to mind his own business when he asked the whore for her name.
- Unable to shoot after thrusting furiously for 20 minutes and having to pay an additional $50 to extend the service duration.
Conclusion: His useless god is not with him. The divine bugger is probably impotent as well.
The Thai spec who lost both her legs to the oncoming train when she fell onto the MRT track may well become a millionaire if Sinkies continue to send in donations. Last time we checked, donations reached S$400,000 and her family wanted to sue the railway operator for more than S$3 million.
Ordinarily not a supporter of asSMRT, I have found cause on this occasion to defend the bastards.
First, as aSSMRT was not at fault in the first place, why should they be obliged to pay the Thai? The railway has been running without safety barriers for decades and the issue of safety never came up. In fact, most of the railways in other parts of the world do not have any safety barriers erected. Insofar as the railway industry is concerned, having no barriers is clearly not a breach of safety standards. The only thing they did wrong in this debacle was to pay the victim a measly S$5,000, which is not only extremely insulting, but also tacit admission that it was their fault the accident happened.
Second, the Thai spec's parents had to share part of the blame. What kind of parents lets their 14-year old child stay in a foreign country alone? Sinkieland may be a safe country, but that does not mean parental vigilance should not be exercised.
Third, the Thai spec should have taken more responsibility for her own safety. Why did she stray so near to the track when she was giddy from the medicine she had been taking?
It is absolutely ridiculous that the Thai spec's parents are suing the asSMRT for more than S$3 million. If I go to your house, lean out of your kitchen window to ogle some busty chiobu who happens to be walking by the block, overreach, fall out of the window and break my legs in the fall, do I have the right to sue you?
A friend said that in the US, if a burglar injures himself while bungling his victim's house, he may sue the victim for causing harm if it is proven that the 'dangerous objects or objects placed dangerously' in the house caused the accident. I replied that in the US, it is also possible to sue a non-existent entity like Gawd and the legislation in some states decrees that creationism must be taught alongside evolution as valid theories in public schools, but does that mean we have to follow their stupidity? If I see a person jump down from a tall building, it does not mean that I have to do follow suit, yea?
Lastly, I don't know why in the Hells Sinkies are so gracious to foreigners just because of the media promotes a sob story. Every year our military personnel die or get seriously injured in military exercises and IPPTs, but how come no Sinkies step forward and give them and/or their families money? Every day many Sinkies lose their jobs to foreign trash and find it hard to make ends meet how come some fucking Sinkie rich man or jibye Rotary Club give them $?
We keep KPKB-ing about foreign trash flooding our cuntry, depressing our wages and jacking up the fucking property prices until a fucking pigeon-hole of a flat becomes unaffordable to Sinkies, but when it comes to action, we bend over like some two penny whore in Desker Road for some fucking ah-neh. What rubbish is this? Think about it. If a Sinkie takes a train in BangCock and gets his legs amputated in an accident, do you think the Thai public or some Thai millionaire will solicit donations on his behalf or the railway company there give him $ as a sign of 'goodwill'? Sinkies need to fucking wake up their idea. I am not belittling the Thai spec's agony. We are talking about a young girl who has had her future ripped away from her and who will be spending the next 50 years or so without her legs. It is certainly not a joking matter. But Sinkies should care about ourselves first because if we don't look after our own interests, nobody else will. Foreigners won't give a shit and the scum in white who let in so many trash certainly won't give a shit about Sinkies like you and me!
Sinkies! Let us not be gong jibyes! LOOK AFTER OUR OWN INTERESTS FIRST!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Our Pilgrimage to the Holy Land
Last night I met Fuzz Car for slop. We went to the
Seated at a table near ours was a couple. The spec had generous funbags and a hard look on her otherwise pretty face, but in terms of aesthetics her companion could not approach her. He looked like an Asian version of Wayne Rooney, a brutish specimen that should have seen the back of a Nazi gas chamber had he existed in more civilized times.
A charlatan of Chinese nationality came to our table and requested to see our fortunes. We waved him away. He went to the fake Rooney’s table and after receiving a similar reception, crossed the road, no doubt looking for easier marks. An old woman then came and tried to sell us tissue papers. She got the same treatment. Our immigration policies are abject failures. The regime allows in all kinds of dregs from regional shitholes and in doing so, deprived us of livelihoods and forced old folks to suffer the indignity of peddling tissue papers. Our country is the dump of the world, a cheap whore who spread her legs and invites invasion into her loose cunt for the price of a beer. This cuntry is a blight on the face of the earth, and as I said earlier, if we were in earlier and civilized times, this cesspit would have met the same end as the ogre at the next table.
We finished our slop and proceeded to the central business district (CBD), where the priciest merchandise are. At first we lost our way but we reoriented ourselves and soon found ourselves at the road junction leading to the CBD. A line of Indonesians or Pinoy specs - I can never really tell the two species apart, since generally speaking, they are short and unimpressive - stood at the side of the road. Few shoppers deigned to walk to look at them. The presence of these undesirable and obviously inferior products is degrading the value of the area in which they stand. It is like setting up a This Fashion shop in Orchard ion, right next to the shops offering Prada and Gucci bags. The eyesore stands ut like a sore thumb.
After Fuzz Car deposited his pail at the side of nearby building – he was carrying his carwash equipment – and we went to the
My friend decided he wanted to try the spec who was worth the $100 price tag. However, he was short of funds and we had to go to the nearby automatic teller machines to retrieve some cash. Unfortunately, in the twenty minutes it took us to do this, the alert was sounded and the streets vacated. We sat at the railings in front of the
Having gone impatient of waiting, we decided to move to the fish tanks. We went to a few houses. The majority of these establishments were peddling Thai flesh at $50 a shot/25 minutes but one in the middle offered a different product: Chinese flesh, massage and ‘full package’ at $100 for the duration of 50 minutes. We saw half a dozen cnspecs in the fish tanks. I thought 1 and 6, with their whorish looks and high (and big) breasts looked good enough, but Fuzz Car felt that the ‘teacher’ (the spec in question was wearing specs) was compelling. He decided to get on with it. I felt that he made the wrong choice but I had no chance to tell him as he just went ahead and paid the proprietor.
I have to digress for a while. The proprietors of these fish tanks know more about marketing techniques like product placement than many of our business or marketing graduates and professionals. Take this case as a case study. Six specs sitting in a fish tank. The prettiest ones will almost always be placed to the end of the line. Why is this so? Simple. When a potential mark walks in, the tendency is for him to look right at the middle (where the average or least attractive specs are placed) of the bevy of beauties. As his eyes will fall on these least marketable products first, there is a higher chance of him purchasing one of the comparatively inferiorproducts, even though superior packaged products are placed just next to them. If he buys the products, good for the proprietor because he has managed to sell a harder to sell product. If the mark dismisses the products in the middle, he will naturally look at the products at the sides (if a little cajoling from the proprietor to look more carefully if he makes a move to leave) and it is likelier that he will buy the better-looking merchandise. In either case, the proprietor will have made a sale. Show the lousy goods first (20% chance of being purchased + 1 to 10% for the ‘first impression’ factor), and then the superior goods next 30% chance + 1 to 5% for ‘contrast’ factor.) Note that if two products of different perceived quality are placed next to each other, the superior-looking product will always appear to be ‘more’ superior. By presenting his merchandise in this manner, the proprietor is essentially giving his products a second chance. If he does it the opposite way, he has only one chance, i.e., the mark, after rejecting the superior goods, will not deign to look at the inferior goods.
I wandered around in the vicinity and there was much to see. I crossed to another district where the dilapidated shophouses had long become a congregation point for all manner of cheap whores (mostly of the Indian variety). Groups of blackamoors, smelly and ugly, inspected the cheap merchandise on display. A few chatted with the specs – for all we know they could have been from the same village next to the equally smelly and dirty
The plump middle – age lady, whom Chicken and I dubbed ‘九阳神功’ was sitting in her chair. Wearing her customary shades, she cut a commanding figure as she watched the cheap whores in her area. She has been in the
I soon reached the crossing which would lead me in the horrible district known as 乱世 but decided not to go. I had no intention of walking into a district thronged by mobs of stinking blackamoors and the cheapest and worst whores the
I soon backtracked to the $80 street. The alert had evidently been cleared, for the merchandise were back on display. I was walking back to the fish tanks when Fuzz Car called me to tell me he had had a most horrible time. I met up with him in front of the stretch of fish tanks and he was cursing and swearing away. Apparently the ‘teacher’ gave him more than he could chew. She looked quite unappealing after she removed her spectacles, and she was hostile to him. When they were in the room, she would not let him have fun and threatened him. Only after he had finished the transaction – I was surprised that he could still function – that he realized that she did not switch on the aircon. Fuzz Car said that it was the worst $100 he had spent and instead of feeling happy, he now felt frustrated. I let him rant and advised him to write a field report (FR) on Sammyboy to warn the brothers. He said he would do it and he regretted coughing up the money to be abused. I told him that I would have gone for 1 or 6 but it is purely academic now, isn’t it?
Our exertions had made us hungry and we went to a famous bean curd shop across the street. There we ordered fritters and bean curds, ate, and watched the moving scenery. We met an ex-gulag mate and exchanged pleasantries with him. He was out for supper with his wife and kid. Among those of us who are married, he appears to be the most settled. Married life agrees with him. As for the rest of our married peers, it is sometimes necessary to seek entertainment that the wife does not need to know about.
And so concluded our night. It was a pity that Chicken could not join us. Once you get married and have kids, you lose your freedom. Marriage is a contract that enriches only the female and emasculates the male. These days a married man has to be a wife: wash, iron, fuck, and etc. No more pilgrimages to the
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Another Part of Hell
My first day in another part of this Hell. I feel like quitting already. In fact, I feel like quitting the moment I got the job. Never had anyone in this world been so negative and I am sorry to say that once again I have achieved the impossible. I have been feeling a bit unhinged these few days. At times my anger, black and pulsing with malignance threatens to pour forth from me. Sometimes fits of melancholy engulf me. They are always tinged with anger and regret – anger at the people who have a cushy job in Shenton with a good salary to boot, and regret that I was born a Sinkie and to make it worse, I took the wrong career and chose the wrong course twice. They say that writing is therapeutic but for me it often has the opposite effect. My words maim even me. I apologize for the haphazard description of my first day in Hell. I am too tired to really bother and fuck me if I really care about structure. It is random and I like it this way. It is my blog and I do whatever I like.
Getting to my gulag is very difficult without gulag transport or your own. The queue at the bus interchange can easily stretch to nearly a hundred metres in the early morning. If I rely on the bloody bus, I’ll have to wake up at 6 am, which is damn ridiculous. If the gulag minibus ever breaks down, I'll blaspheme so hard even the dead will rise.
My office is a rickety, dusty and sorry affair. I have no access to a computer, nor do I have a table of my own. Three of my gulag mates occupy the tables in the main room – my superior also calls the room a ‘storeroom’ – and my superior and I do our paperwork in an enjoined room. For now I sit across him at his desk. Folders and files stack the shelves next to us. It is a bit messy and the paperwork, while not hopelessly untidy, would give any self-respecting office girl in Shenton Way a fit.
The work area is quite big, maybe fifty yards by fifty yards. Shelves holding slings, riggings, wireropes, blocks and other engineering stock fill much of the area. An overhead conveyor lift or crane, used for carrying heavy objects around, is fixed at near the opposite end where my ‘office’ is. Pallets stacked in a small area, while machines are placed and lifting vehicles are parked randomly. A flight of stairs led to the second floor, which balcony overlooks the entire floor space. For a factory in the heavy industrial area of Sinkieland, its toilet is surprisingly clean. Unfortunately, it has no toilet paper, and the portions of the sink are caked with age-old soot.
Lunch is only 45 minutes. With the nearest canteen hundreds of metres away, we have to rely on the gulag’s transport to ferry us for slop. It is a far cry from the leisurely lunch hours my colleagues and I enjoyed when I was still in my former gulag. The scenery was much better, and so was the air quality.
After my superior was called on site, I was left alone for nearly three hours. There was little to do save to read the horrible catalogue book and attempt to memorize the names of the different types of blocks, slings, hooks and whatnots. I came close to falling asleep on a few occasions. Try as I did, I could not get much into my non-technical brains. Occasionally my gulag mates would walk in to run some errand.
My interviewer told me they hadn’t prepared my employment letter as they were still undecided of what title to give me. I thought it was ‘sales coordinator’ but obviously they thought that since I wasn’t doing sales, it would not be appropriate for me to have the word ‘sales’ in my job title. Okay, I said. After lunch they finally got my employment letter ready. It says that I am an ‘admin and technical support’ – whatever that is – and the woman (my interviewer) explained the contents of the letter to me. (As if I do not know how to read. By the way, there are a couple of grammatical mistakes – pathetic.) After satisfying the general terms of contract (10 days leave and three months probation and so on and so forth) I signed the damn thing. I have a haunch that the woman knows I am probably going to leave in a few months. She kept saying things like, ‘If you stay long enough’, and ‘….may find the job not to their liking.’ Smart woman.
My gulag mates consists of Sinkies, Indians, and Chinese, with the latter comprising most of the technical workforce. From my first impression, my gulag mates in the administrative/sales/accounting/operations departments are typical Sinkies, not intellectually inclined and mostly unappealing, especially physically. The Chinese are your typical factory worker: hardworking and impatient at times. I don’t think I will make any good friends. Although I am a philistine by the standards of my atheistic friends, I do have to dumb down a lot when I talk to people. Sigh. I am neither intellectual nor boorish. Stuck in between. Neither here nor there. I expect to go to Limbo after I die.
I think my gulag is quite shambolic with its business processes and job delegation. While I was trying to digest the damn book I was tasked to read, my interviewer came to me and asked if I could furnish a transcript of my polytechnic results. I told her that I lost the damn thing long ago and few employers, if any, will ask for a transcript of the results in poly as they are contend with the diploma. She said it would be quite helpful, as it may be good for the gulag to know more things about me to afford me opportunities Besides, the Accounts girl asked for it. I was quite befuddled. Why in the Hells is a accounting staff doing the work of the HR?
My superior shot the shit a bit with me and told me they were actually looking for a person with a degree in Mechanical Engineering. My interviewer said that he needed someone to help him do the paperwork and now he tells me differently. I don’t think good interdepartmental communications is the norm in this gulag.
On the operation side, there seems to be a heavy reliance on paperwork and ‘scribbling’. If some joker cleans the whiteboard or my superior loses his notebook, we are going to suffer in our documentation. Why not computerize it? The gulag has been around for 30 years already. Surely it should have had a decent business platform by now?! Lastly, the gulag website sucks. It looks like something a child would come up with!
60,000 foreign trash from India coming in. Whether I quit tomorrow or six months later won’t matter. I don’t think I’ll ever manage to get a business-related job in the city area even on contractual basis. Why in the Hells did I get a business degree and why in Gehenna did I suffer so much for this piece of academic trash?! I should have spent the money on whores. Either way I get fucked, but at least I would have gotten a fucking good time!
Getting to my gulag is very difficult without gulag transport or your own. The queue at the bus interchange can easily stretch to nearly a hundred metres in the early morning. If I rely on the bloody bus, I’ll have to wake up at 6 am, which is damn ridiculous. If the gulag minibus ever breaks down, I'll blaspheme so hard even the dead will rise.
My office is a rickety, dusty and sorry affair. I have no access to a computer, nor do I have a table of my own. Three of my gulag mates occupy the tables in the main room – my superior also calls the room a ‘storeroom’ – and my superior and I do our paperwork in an enjoined room. For now I sit across him at his desk. Folders and files stack the shelves next to us. It is a bit messy and the paperwork, while not hopelessly untidy, would give any self-respecting office girl in Shenton Way a fit.
The work area is quite big, maybe fifty yards by fifty yards. Shelves holding slings, riggings, wireropes, blocks and other engineering stock fill much of the area. An overhead conveyor lift or crane, used for carrying heavy objects around, is fixed at near the opposite end where my ‘office’ is. Pallets stacked in a small area, while machines are placed and lifting vehicles are parked randomly. A flight of stairs led to the second floor, which balcony overlooks the entire floor space. For a factory in the heavy industrial area of Sinkieland, its toilet is surprisingly clean. Unfortunately, it has no toilet paper, and the portions of the sink are caked with age-old soot.
Lunch is only 45 minutes. With the nearest canteen hundreds of metres away, we have to rely on the gulag’s transport to ferry us for slop. It is a far cry from the leisurely lunch hours my colleagues and I enjoyed when I was still in my former gulag. The scenery was much better, and so was the air quality.
After my superior was called on site, I was left alone for nearly three hours. There was little to do save to read the horrible catalogue book and attempt to memorize the names of the different types of blocks, slings, hooks and whatnots. I came close to falling asleep on a few occasions. Try as I did, I could not get much into my non-technical brains. Occasionally my gulag mates would walk in to run some errand.
My interviewer told me they hadn’t prepared my employment letter as they were still undecided of what title to give me. I thought it was ‘sales coordinator’ but obviously they thought that since I wasn’t doing sales, it would not be appropriate for me to have the word ‘sales’ in my job title. Okay, I said. After lunch they finally got my employment letter ready. It says that I am an ‘admin and technical support’ – whatever that is – and the woman (my interviewer) explained the contents of the letter to me. (As if I do not know how to read. By the way, there are a couple of grammatical mistakes – pathetic.) After satisfying the general terms of contract (10 days leave and three months probation and so on and so forth) I signed the damn thing. I have a haunch that the woman knows I am probably going to leave in a few months. She kept saying things like, ‘If you stay long enough’, and ‘….may find the job not to their liking.’ Smart woman.
My gulag mates consists of Sinkies, Indians, and Chinese, with the latter comprising most of the technical workforce. From my first impression, my gulag mates in the administrative/sales/accounting/operations departments are typical Sinkies, not intellectually inclined and mostly unappealing, especially physically. The Chinese are your typical factory worker: hardworking and impatient at times. I don’t think I will make any good friends. Although I am a philistine by the standards of my atheistic friends, I do have to dumb down a lot when I talk to people. Sigh. I am neither intellectual nor boorish. Stuck in between. Neither here nor there. I expect to go to Limbo after I die.
I think my gulag is quite shambolic with its business processes and job delegation. While I was trying to digest the damn book I was tasked to read, my interviewer came to me and asked if I could furnish a transcript of my polytechnic results. I told her that I lost the damn thing long ago and few employers, if any, will ask for a transcript of the results in poly as they are contend with the diploma. She said it would be quite helpful, as it may be good for the gulag to know more things about me to afford me opportunities Besides, the Accounts girl asked for it. I was quite befuddled. Why in the Hells is a accounting staff doing the work of the HR?
My superior shot the shit a bit with me and told me they were actually looking for a person with a degree in Mechanical Engineering. My interviewer said that he needed someone to help him do the paperwork and now he tells me differently. I don’t think good interdepartmental communications is the norm in this gulag.
On the operation side, there seems to be a heavy reliance on paperwork and ‘scribbling’. If some joker cleans the whiteboard or my superior loses his notebook, we are going to suffer in our documentation. Why not computerize it? The gulag has been around for 30 years already. Surely it should have had a decent business platform by now?! Lastly, the gulag website sucks. It looks like something a child would come up with!
60,000 foreign trash from India coming in. Whether I quit tomorrow or six months later won’t matter. I don’t think I’ll ever manage to get a business-related job in the city area even on contractual basis. Why in the Hells did I get a business degree and why in Gehenna did I suffer so much for this piece of academic trash?! I should have spent the money on whores. Either way I get fucked, but at least I would have gotten a fucking good time!
Sunday, May 15, 2011
What a Dreadful Existence!
The BBC reports that a passerby pushed a suicidal man off the bridge.
If a man wants to off himself, he should go to somewhere remote where his final contemplations regarding the worthiness of continuing his dreary existence will not be interrupted by curious onlookers and social/security services workers. If non-human animals can slink off to some obscure corner to wait for their demise, humans can do the same too.
A passerby who comes across a suicidal person should let him be. He is neither friend nor family. Attempts to convince him may only serve to delay the inevitable. Even if he does not off himself this time round, he may succeed at a later time. His existence is dreadful enough as it; he does not need to listen to platitudes from any do-gooders.
A petrol bomb was thrown into a bank in
Every day we get all kinds of news. A few reports are irrelevant or even uplifting, but the majority of them are bad, most often than not horrible. It amazes me that people are still procreating and producing babies into this wretched world. Have they seriously thought about the implications of having children, the moral responsibility they happily forget for the price of an orgasm? How can anyone who claims that he loves children possibly want to bring them into existence in this acrimonious world, where these animals will grow up to be nothing but animals competing against one another and exploiting themselves and their fellow animals?
There are those who will argue that the news agencies prefer to report bad news as these cater to their readers’ tastes. Bad news and scandals mean more copies sold. While I do not disagree with this view, even the most cheery optimists must admit that our world is seriously fucked-up. We live in a world where children and women are abused, wars and genocides occur with alarming regularity, 40% of the world population earn less than a dollar a day, millions of innocents are prosecuted and persecuted, and their basic rights violated with impunity, nature is being raped to the point of death and her resources are depleted at a shocking rate, politicians and bankers are allowed to reward themselves with million dollar salaries, bonuses and pensions for fucking the rest of the world up, wealth and power are held by a few elites, and costs of living go up and the wages of the masses become depressed. I can go on and on but it does not change a damn thing. To simply say that news agencies report bad news to sell copies is the sign of a blinkered outlook. The media reports on wars and other armed conflicts, crimes, scandals, human rights violations, disasters and other depressing news because they are there to be reported in the first place!
To reiterate my point, to bring a child into this inhumane world is irresponsible. The extremely rich, powerful, and wealthy, who can shelter their children from the ravages of the ‘real world’, probably has a case for propagating their genes, but by cloistering their whelps they will inadvertently deprive them of the experience of living a real life. It would be better if these plants in a greenhouse have never been born. Resources are already scarce as they are; do not deplete them further by producing more consumers. Either you guarantee your child a great life, one that is complete, or you do not reproduce. It’s all or nothing. No other way.
I have finally found a job. My new gulag is in some obscure and stinking corner in a heavy industrial area. The environment sucks, my pay sucks, and the benefits (if you can call them that) sucks as well. I would kill to work in the city area but with the market flooding with foreign ‘talent’, it is really incredibly difficult for a Sinkie to find decent work. I was turned off by the horrible environment but I have to eat. The bills do not stop when you stop working and they certainly are not going to pay themselves.
The Times of India reported that as part of a free trade agreement with
To those who voted for the regime, you have no fucking right to fucking complain about conditions in Sinkieland for the next five years. If you lose your job to a foreign ‘talent’, find your wages depressed, have to work longer hours to show your slavemasters that you are cheaper, better and faster, find yourself unable to afford housing and have to deal with rising costs, are bullied by foreigners and treated like a second-class or third-class citizen in your own fucking country, or suffer whatever grievances that arise from the regime’s traitorous policies, I have four words for you:
SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Friday, May 6, 2011
I Despair
I have been attending political rallies for the past 8 to 10 days. This Election has been described as the 'watershed elections' by the media and while I cannot agree or disagree with that right now, I think regardless of the label, it has certainly been the most exciting event in this insipid island in a long while.
With 82 out of 87 seats in Parliament up for grabs, it is certainly a very contested elections. As expected, we have the usual gerrymandering, name-calling and mud-slinging from the regime. But this time, things are different. Most of the Opposition are well-prepared. They have credible candidates who are highly educated and have good credentials. Their speeches are fiery and stir the emotions of the oppressed masses. They give the audience what they want: bread-and-butter issues that have been ignored too long by the overpaid and bloated regime. And the people have dared to express themselves a little more.; there is strength in numbers, and courage and fortitude in shared misery. The state-controlled media, even with their gutter journalism, no longer dominates the airwaves like they used to. Facebook, Twitter, blogs and other social media are now the people's media, and one whose potency the regime, just like their counterparts in Tunisia, Libya, and Egypt, have been slow to recognize.
The regime loves to criticize the Opposition by saying they have no proven track record and experience of running a country. Their sole and limited idea of improving the people's lives is to dangle a carrot (which has being bought using the people's money) and going on ad nauseam about upgrading. Thinly veiled threats about what would happen if the regime lose seats only serve to inflame the population and spur the Opposition and their supporters to greater vehemence.
Caught off guard by this development, the regime decided that an apology is necessary to stem the tide. Four days before polling day, the leader of the regime issued a half-baked apology for the inadequacies in his administration. One minister dropped a few tears and another mumbled something approximating an apology. The contrition shown by a few of the regime high-ups for their incompetence are as false as they are forced. If the huge turnout for the Opposition rallies hasn't worried them and shocked them out of their smug complacency, would they have admitted to their shortcomings and the cock-ups for the past five years of their rule? According to the mainstream media, some voters may decide to 'forgive' them for their mistakes and vote for them.
Sinkies are a strange people. We live in an unforgiving culture in which people are marked as failures when they make 'unpardonable' mistakes like being sent to prison or failing an important examination. The stigma of failure is stronger than a lack of morals. While we do not forgive one another for our shortcomings and mistakes, it is a given that we forgive authority for even the most heinous offences. Lifetimes of indoctrination, of existing in a culture of blind obedience to authority, and in one that authoritarian figures in white are deified and an old man has his own personality cult has destroyed much of our innate sense of liberty. We pride ourselves on being mindless drones; step out of line and prepare to be marked for termination, regardless of intentions. Under such stifling conditions, is it any wonder that Sinkies are little more than educated dogs?
I have no high hopes for the Opposition, and by extension, for democracy and making the regime accountable to people this Election. Five years ago, we witnessed spectacular turnouts for the Opposition, only to see the regime secure the 'mandate of the people' with a 66.6% vote. Although the regime has screwed up considerably subsequent to their victory - and these cock-ups have been discussed, debated, and argued to death - I suspect that fear, inertia, and simple antipathy may combine to kick ourselves in our faces, making the next five years more Hellish than the previous five.
My mates are going to have a bachelor's night tomorrow. One says he wants to spoil his vote, another supports the regime because of perceived business interest, and as for the other fews, I don't think they will know what the Hell is going on. It has been claimed by many that the young are independently-minded and not afraid to vote for change, but I suspect that for these people, they are living on faith and faith is a belief, a hope, which is not substantiated by evidence.
I will not be joining them in their bachelor night bullshit. They can go to the Hells with our regime for all I care and I bid god-speed to them!When the dust has settled and the Opposition has found themselves betrayed by the people whom they martyr themselves for, I may choose to end it. And whenI do, I prefer to be alone. I deserve a little dignity.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Why Marry?!
A friend chatted with us on WhatsApp. He complained that people are not turning up at his wedding ‘at the last minute’, which resulted in his losing revenue from the hongbao money. It has been very difficult for him. As if the preparations aren’t bad enough, he has to fork out most of the banquet costs. His wife-to-be is pretty skint; she is short of more than 20 grand and my friend is expected to shoulder the burden resulting from her non-contribution. He still has to pay over 30 grand on his renovation and a further 3 grand on their honeymoon, plus other charges that amount to over 10 grand.
There is a moral lesson to be learnt here. I have always believed that we should seek to learn from people’s mistakes because we will never live long enough to make enough of them to learn from. So here is why my friend’s trials and tribulations can serve as a warning to all would-be-bridegrooms.
First of all, marriage is a monstrous institution that deprives a man of his rights and burdens him with all kinds of responsibility. By getting hitched, a man loses much of his freedom. He no longer can go out with his mates for a drink or a whoring session as much as he wants. Instead, he has to tend to his wife and keep her entertained and happy. If the couple has children, the man is expected to be the major contributor to the household income. If he divorces her, he has to fork out alimony every month.
Second, in this time and age, setting up a Chinese banquet to commemorate the awarding of legal rights to two individuals of the same specie to screw each other for the purposes of pleasure and procreation is irrational. A Chinese wedding can easily cost over 10 grand. The ballroom and the overpriced slop already amount to close to 10 grand, and each table (assuming 10 seats) can cost $1,000 to $1,500. We have not even covered the cost of the photographer and his studio, the wedding costumes, car rental, and other hidden costs. Instead of coughing up 30, 40 grand for an undignified slop feast that lasts only a few hours, why not ditch this ridiculous spectacle and save the money for more useful things like renovation and the purchasing of furniture and fittings?
Third, marriage is between two consenting individuals. I understand that they may want to share their joy with their close friends and families, but is there absolutely a need to invite associates, colleagues, and some relatives whom you have never seen in 1,000 years, only to have some of these buggers ‘not turning up at the last minute’ and costing you expensive seats? Why not just have a simple wedding reception and be done with it?! It is just a mating ritual damn it, and in most cases, the mating would have had been done before the actual official event!
For the abovementioned reasons, I would not willingly enter into such an unfair contract. The best thing for any society is to demolish this stupid legislation and its horrible contractual obligations. Humans are animals and are happiest when unconstrained by such artificial and suffocating constructs.
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