Thursday, September 8, 2011

No Rights for Men

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 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.