This SMS woke me up yesterday morning:
Pls check email for invite to 2nd interview – [cuntpany]
I checked my email, and as promised:
Whoreson at 8.59am.
Hi Cxxxxx,
You are invited to 2nd interview on Monday (9th March), 1.15pm
This is my only slot avail on Monday. Pls make time for it.
Pls confirm your attendance.
Regards, [whoreson]
[designation]
[cuntpany]
Whoreson can go to Hell before I turn up for his interview.
Whoreson is either being disrespectful or lacking in business writing skills. Probably both. In business correspondence, please do not use SMS lingo like ‘pls’, and short-forms like ‘avail.’ It makes you look bad. I wonder if Whoreson writes like this when addressing his CEO and his clients.
And why in the Hells am I being ‘invited’ to the second interview when I was dismissed within ONE MINUTE during the first? Obviously Whoreson has never heard of the saying ‘once bitten twice shy.’
I am still fuming over what happened during the first interview. I was told to report at 5.45pm but I was fifteen minutes earlier. Whoreson told me to wait until the stated time. Seeing there were two other candidates waiting and that I was too early, I agreed.
While waiting at the nearby bus-stop, I saw the two candidates leave the building at around 5.40pm. Five minutes later I arrived back at the cuntpany. The door to the interview room opened and seeing it was my time to go, I walked towards it, only to be barred by the cold and unsmiling Whoreson.
He told me to sit down at the sofa, which I compiled. A pretty lady took my slot and went in. Two other people shared the sofa with me, another attractive lady and a man. They were talking to each other and to pass the time I timed the length of the interview. The lady who was inside talked to Whoreson for fifteen minutes. After she left, the guy next to me went in and got five minutes, maybe less.
Miss Attractive took her turn and she spent quite a time with Whoreson. I heard them laughing over something and I saw Miss Attractive gave him her name card. When he opened the door – not before shaking her dainty hand of course – they were smiling at each other like lovers.
After Miss Attractive left I went in. I offered my hand but Whoreson didn’t bother to take it. Impatience evident on his face, he waved me to sit.
He asked me which position I was applying for. I said that I was applying for a marketing position. He looked a bit confused and asked me to specify. I replied that the job advertisement he put up didn’t specify the exact position. (Judging from the two lines that made up the job description it would not be erroneous to say the position involved marketing.) Whoreson wasn’t impressed with me. I could see that his expression remained as black, as if I just raped his mother and asked him to compensate me for the abuse I took. You could argue that it was my mistake (it wasn’t my fault in the first place) which displeased him. However, it doesn’t take perfect eyesight to see that Whoreson showed me the same expression even before the interview.
‘So you are going for corporate sales?’, Whoreson asked.
Left with no alternative, I nodded.
He scanned through my resume. ‘You have been working in supporting positions all this while. What makes you think you can do a front-line job?’
His question threw me off momentarily. I recovered and said being in a supporting role doesn’t mean I can’t do a front-line position. I went on to say that as a business graduate, I would be able to apply what I have learned.
In all fairness, I admit that my delivery wasn’t as articulate as I would have liked. Some professional interviewers and Toastmasters instructors may even frown at my answer. But my eyes were on the bastard’s face all the while and all I saw was derision, condescension, contempt, impatience and he nodded at every line of my speech as if I was born to amuse him.
‘You can go now. If you are shortlisted for the second interview we will call you.’ He hurriedly got up, opened the door and waved me out. I looked at him, asked him, ‘that fast?’ but Whoreson obviously felt I was too inferior to merit his replying. I offered him my hand and again he didn’t shake it.
I was so disgusted that I couldn’t stop cursing on my way back to the train station. One would expect a manager to at least show some basic courtesy. I don’t know what happened to him when he was young. I assume that his father was marketing his wife while his mother was too busy turning tricks. This sordid childhood he endured must have a detrimental impact on his character, which would explain why such an anal-retentive bastard like himself could climb the corporate ladder so readily. He must have learned from his harlot of a mother the best way to give head.
It didn’t escape my notice that Whoreson spent a lot of time with his female interviewees. The ladies got fifteen and twenty minutes; the other guys got five minutes each and I one minute. I don’t think gender preference is stipulated in the job description. I think Whoreson is the kind of cheap bastard who doesn’t even want to pay $50 for a cheap whore in Geylang. If the bastard wanted a cheaper whore I could show him around the lorongs where $10 whores are available. Desker Road is also a good place for a cheapskate. After he has had his ten dollars’ worth of pleasure we can even go for some curry in the nearby Little India. Or maybe he doesn’t patronize such places because he doesn’t want to meet his mother and sister (if he had one) hawking their silicon-enhanced wares and peddling their abused flesh for a dollar to foreign laborers.
There are men who fantasize about having sex in the office, with nurses, secretaries and air hostesses, who relish being in a superior or subordinate role in role-playing, and it would come as no surprise if Whoreson belonged in this category. Maybe he hasn’t had a date in his entire life, having been snubbed by every female of every species which he tried so adamantly to accost and seduce. It must masturbate his ego to have a pretty woman talk and smile with him, even though she has an ulterior motive. Humans rely on fantasies and delusions to keep ourselves sane, and even a sub-species like Whoreson is no exception to the rule.
Still, one does not shit where one eats. Whoreson has never understood this principle and while his brain resides in his ‘little head’ as a result of his deprived childhood and evolutionary misfiring, he would never recognize it.
So why am I called to go for the second interview? The answers are obvious and none too flattering. One, the majority of the interviewees were still employed, meaning that they would see his job as a part-time assignment and therefore unable to commit much time and energy. Two, after eliminating the people who are deemed non-committed, he is still left with a pool of candidates. The second round is yet another elimination process and the third will be the confirmation. Third, he probably sees me as unsophisticated and therefore moldable and exploitable.
Another reason is that his other candidates have all REJECTED him. He needs people desperately and I’m one of the few who is left. It doesn’t matter to Whoreson how many people he calls to his interview. He doesn’t even bother to read the resumes. He gets paid handsomely for amusing himself with squirming and ingratiating candidates. He doesn’t need to break a sweat for doing a cushy job but the interviewees would have to spend time and energy getting to his obscure office. In other words, Whoreson doesn’t care.
Having dismissed me with such finality, it is inexplicable that he would give me a second chance. The way he conducted his interview is shameful. It makes me wonder what kind of company he works for, a marketing company or a social escort agency. Judging from the fact that the ladies were very well ‘interviewed’, it would not be amiss to claim the latter.
One can argue that I should just go for his fucking interview because I need a job. What differentiates us from dogs is pride and self-respect. Dogs have neither; they eat shit and shit where they like. There are certain jobs like social escorts and high class whores - the two are often used synonymously – that pay very well, but would you want your wife and daughters to go into the profession?
I have grave doubts about Whoreson’s sincerity. I dare say it would yet being another wasted trip, a trip which yields the same insufferable process and inevitable conclusion. Why should I waste my time going there to be insulted, especially when the motherfucker is just fucking around like what his prostitute mother does every night, even when she has her monthly courses? I don’t mind taking the trouble of going for interviews, tiring and despairing these may turn out to be, but the other party MUST at least be SINCERE.
I remember an interview I had with a jewellery technician. The job involved repairing minor damages to expensive jewellery. The guy who interviewed me described himself as uneducated. He got into the line because he had no other alternative. He spoke to me in a very matter-of-fact fashion and said there was no need for me to follow his footsteps because I have a bright future. The guy said he would employ me – I had passed his eyesight tests – but I should think it over. We talked for a while and he narrated to me that how he had fifty-year olds who went for the interview and he had to turn them away because they couldn’t see as well. But he at least bothered to ‘entertain’ (this is my language) them.
Now, the difference between this uneducated technician and the well-educated Whoreson is apparent. Both are managers, but unlike Whoreson, the technician understands what is decency and basic respect. For all his education, Whoreson doesn’t know the difference between the corporate pricks he sucks and his own when addressing people. Is it so damn demeaning for one of his station to practise basic courtesy, even to people he rejects?
After I narrated my ordeal to my classmate who is in finance, she shrugged knowingly. She told me that anal-retentive interviewers are a dime a dozen. Even if the bastard employs me, there is no point in working under him, she said. A person who cannot treat people right the first time cannot be expected to treat people right the second. It’s no big loss. She seemed to identify with the view that women, especially the pretty ones enjoy a huge advantage in the corporate world. (I don’t know how true this is. If anyone reading this works in the business industry, please enlighten me.)
I am having serious thoughts about pursuing my business degree. Perhaps my taking up a business course is reactionary and retaliatory in nature. I remember acutely my disgust during my poly days when I saw the easy lives business students led compared to the shit engineering students found ourselves in. While we were struggling in vain to get the damn machine to work, all the BA people had to do was to set up stalls selling Valentine and Chinese New Year’s gift items and that was their final-year project.
Moreover, my hatred for engineering stems partly from dissatisfaction and jealousy. I was so ridiculously bad at engineering that even my lab assistant advised me to quit. Despite my best efforts I was barely passing my subjects (If I got an E, it was a massive cause for celebration.) I looked at my friends in Business and how they complained about their assignments and it enraged me. (I looked through one – Business Law – and I was stuck by how easy the questions were, even through I wasn’t a business student.) It was a case of the moon being brighter on the other side, albeit with some justification. Why endure three and a half years of incomprehensible maths and science when I could easily write my way out of Management, Human Resources, Organizational Behavior and Business Law – these are very simple at polytechnic level.
My juvenile petty hatreds aside, working life was unfortunately no different from school. Every day I sweat for slave wages, my existence revolved around a lousy machine which should have been scraped long ago but somehow by the most tragic turn of fate I had to maintain. I have had hydraulics and industrial grease splashed into my eyes, nearly lost one when I lightly brushed my cornea against a vent – a fraction of an inch the wrong way and I would have been blinded. The grime I got on my person could not easily be washed off. Even after half an hour of showering the smell still persisted. I constantly wondered why I was doing this, whom I was doing it for. I looked at people in Shenton Way, the people in smart suits and who got all the opportunities to travel and all I got was an enforced stay in this cuntry that I hate and having no opportunities to improve myself. It ate at me like a cancer. Every day I dwelled on it and every day I suffered. I was determined to get into Business, which I perceived would afford me the opportunities I crave.
I am increasingly critical of the business course I am enduring. The workload is inhumane and students have little chance of exploring the subject and the way the course is structured forces students to sacrifice intellectual curiosity for tips and ready answers. (40% is a good result ladies and gentlemen, 40% to pass the course, 40% to get that piece of paper.) To compound the situation, some of the assignments are so poorly written that it would be a travesty to say that they are university papers.
I know I have been whining ad nauseam and it would not be unreasonable to dismiss my claims as indicative of a ‘loser’ mentality. However, when my fellow course mates, some of whom are in their first season – echo the same sentiments, something is obviously wrong. Like the engineering course I miraculously passed in poly, the degree I would get would be one that I secured without knowing anything about the requisite material.
Quite a few of my course mates have expressed their disillusionment by voting with their feet. I am inclined to do the same. After my encounter with Whoreson, I am beginning to wonder if I should be in business. After all, I don’t backstab people. I don’t like to exploit people. I don’t like to put on a mask and give head to get ahead. There are many aspects of business that I hate. I hate people. I hate ‘relations management.’ I hate the sanctimonious and hypocritical corporate values and overuse of the word integrity and paying lip service to ethics. I hate them all. The only enticing thing I could possibly find in the corporate world is the possibility of making use of people whom I hate. Use them like I was used. It gives me great motivation. I am still desperate for the fat paycheck and foreign assignments of course, but I now start to wonder which is truly my primary incentive. Payback or monetary.
As for Whoreson I hope he dies a slow and painful death. If I saw him helpless and bleeding to death on the road – the corpse I saw on Valentine’s Day comes to mind – I would go over and gloat. I will spit in his face. My ridicule would be the last thing he sees before he expires. I will give his carcass a good kick before I leave. I don’t know why I hate Whoreson so much. Maybe it’s because he exemplifies what is truly wrong with this world, what is anathema to me, an assault on my sensibilities and a desecration of the few values I still possess.
When that day comes, I will regret there is no Hell for Whoreson to go to.
Showing posts with label Rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rant. Show all posts
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Integrity? No Such Thing!
Manicure II
I need a fresh manicure. Some of my nails are out of shape, and one has chipped. All that scratching during my sleep has caused some damage. My nails grow very fast. Cats scratch their claws to keep them short and sharp. Likewise, to maintain my nails, I should file them regularly.
Financial Planning
I received my marks for my Financial Planning module. 81 marks is pretty good for the nonsense I wrote and submitted. I can’t wait to finish the second assignment and be done with the course. This course is useless. Can you truly plan for the future? All that financial projections, so-called benefits and ‘wealth management’ schemes that will mature in thirty years’ time will avail you not should you die in a road accident the next day. Why deprive yourself of the things you could have done if you had not invested all that money? To the Hells with tomorrow and what happens after we die. We only live once. Make the best use of it.
A common sales script used by a ‘financial planner’ and its ilk goes something like this: By not doing financial planning (meaning buying insurance and other schemes), we would be doing our loved ones a disservice when we die and they are left bereft. This is one of the stupidest things I have ever heard. It does not take a rocket scientist to see the fallacy of this argument. First, as aforementioned, we are depriving ourselves of a life should we set aside that amount of money. Second, if we apply this to every generation, then it follows that each generation will be living under self-imposed debt and restrictions. Third, even you live long enough to get that massive payback, will you be able to truly enjoy it when you are weakened with age, suffering from poor, eyesight, hearing problems, muscle aches, world-weary to the bone and waiting to die? Fourth, there are many things that could have happened in the meantime. You could get married. The contraceptives could fail and suddenly you are a parent when you haven’t even planned for it. If you are in business, you can get sued for breach of contract law. A million and one things and that damn piece of financial report your insurance agent gets you to sign will never cover them all. Fifth, the insurance company can collapse. Look what happened to big corporations during this economic crisis! Lehmann Brothers wiped out, AIG had to survive on handouts – taxpayers’ money – and who knows if AIA or Prudential can go under tomorrow.
Nothing is permanent and lasting anymore. No more job security, marriages are now mere contracts, and in this new world, to claim you can plan for anything is downright ridiculous.
Job Seeking
If you are looking for employment and do not want to be an insurance agent, I recommend you take these job ads with a pinch of salt:
Management Trainee/Consultant
Relationship Manager/Executive/Consultant
Relations Manager/Executive/Advisor/Consultant
Telemarketer
Financial Manager/Executive/Planner/Advisor/Consultant
Telesales (with/without the word executive after telesales)
Sales and Marketing Trainee/Advisor/Executive/Manager/Consultant
Associate Manager/Executive
Wealth Management Trainee/Associate/Manager/Executive/Consultant
Wealth Care Manager/Executive/Consultant/Advisor/Associate
Business Trainee/Associate/Manager/Executive/Consultant
Sales Trainee/Associate/Manager/Executive/Consultant
Marketing Trainee/Associate/Manager/Executive/Consultant
Also beware of:
Earn [insert astronomical sum] in [insert ridiculous timeframe].
21 years old at least, 4 ‘O’ level passes (These are the entry requirements for an insurance agent.)
No experience needed.
ORD personnel welcome.
Fantastic projections. Examples include: Achieve Financial Freedom!, Manage Your Own Time/People/Money.
The list is not exhaustive. When in doubt, please contact the representor for further details.
An insurance agent may justify their prevarication with the argument that they are doing ‘creative advertising’ or ‘marketing’. After all, an insurance agent is also ‘managing relations’ and ‘wealth management’, so there is nothing wrong with their advertisement. They are not out to con anybody.
That may be true. In that case, why don’t hookers call themselves ‘ relations manager’? Are they not managing relations? Sexual relations is still relations...
People in the business world (I include insurance, banking, finance and sales) always talk about integrity like their lives depend on it. The word integrity is so overused it has lost its meaning. There is no room for integrity in business. If integrity existed then there wouldn’t be any need for lawyers. Calls for corporate governance would not have arisen in the current economic crisis. The “integrity” in the business world is essentially this: if you can get away with it, it is integrity. Bear in mind that businesses are only concerned with making money. All that social responsibility and holistic approaches are merely rhetoric and nothing more, designed to convey a false sense of morals so that they can use this perceived morals to generate more income.
The next time an insurance agent tries to…ahem, manage relations with you, ask him what does he really want, to enrich your life or to sell you that piece of insurance so that he can meet his sales quotas and look forward to higher pay for that month and that lucrative cashback he gets annually from the policies he sold. There is no need to be nice. If you can ignore the pleas of an old bag selling tissue papers I don’t see why you can’t tell a bloody salesman to put his scams where the sun does not shine. Is there any difference between the uncouth tissue paper peddler and the smartly dressed peddlers?
Of course not. They are both peddlers. They care nothing for you. They just want your money. You are just meat to them, no better than a used condom and a semen-stained piece of tissue paper when the sex is done.
I need a fresh manicure. Some of my nails are out of shape, and one has chipped. All that scratching during my sleep has caused some damage. My nails grow very fast. Cats scratch their claws to keep them short and sharp. Likewise, to maintain my nails, I should file them regularly.
Financial Planning
I received my marks for my Financial Planning module. 81 marks is pretty good for the nonsense I wrote and submitted. I can’t wait to finish the second assignment and be done with the course. This course is useless. Can you truly plan for the future? All that financial projections, so-called benefits and ‘wealth management’ schemes that will mature in thirty years’ time will avail you not should you die in a road accident the next day. Why deprive yourself of the things you could have done if you had not invested all that money? To the Hells with tomorrow and what happens after we die. We only live once. Make the best use of it.
A common sales script used by a ‘financial planner’ and its ilk goes something like this: By not doing financial planning (meaning buying insurance and other schemes), we would be doing our loved ones a disservice when we die and they are left bereft. This is one of the stupidest things I have ever heard. It does not take a rocket scientist to see the fallacy of this argument. First, as aforementioned, we are depriving ourselves of a life should we set aside that amount of money. Second, if we apply this to every generation, then it follows that each generation will be living under self-imposed debt and restrictions. Third, even you live long enough to get that massive payback, will you be able to truly enjoy it when you are weakened with age, suffering from poor, eyesight, hearing problems, muscle aches, world-weary to the bone and waiting to die? Fourth, there are many things that could have happened in the meantime. You could get married. The contraceptives could fail and suddenly you are a parent when you haven’t even planned for it. If you are in business, you can get sued for breach of contract law. A million and one things and that damn piece of financial report your insurance agent gets you to sign will never cover them all. Fifth, the insurance company can collapse. Look what happened to big corporations during this economic crisis! Lehmann Brothers wiped out, AIG had to survive on handouts – taxpayers’ money – and who knows if AIA or Prudential can go under tomorrow.
Nothing is permanent and lasting anymore. No more job security, marriages are now mere contracts, and in this new world, to claim you can plan for anything is downright ridiculous.
Job Seeking
If you are looking for employment and do not want to be an insurance agent, I recommend you take these job ads with a pinch of salt:
Management Trainee/Consultant
Relationship Manager/Executive/Consultant
Relations Manager/Executive/Advisor/Consultant
Telemarketer
Financial Manager/Executive/Planner/Advisor/Consultant
Telesales (with/without the word executive after telesales)
Sales and Marketing Trainee/Advisor/Executive/Manager/Consultant
Associate Manager/Executive
Wealth Management Trainee/Associate/Manager/Executive/Consultant
Wealth Care Manager/Executive/Consultant/Advisor/Associate
Business Trainee/Associate/Manager/Executive/Consultant
Sales Trainee/Associate/Manager/Executive/Consultant
Marketing Trainee/Associate/Manager/Executive/Consultant
Also beware of:
Earn [insert astronomical sum] in [insert ridiculous timeframe].
21 years old at least, 4 ‘O’ level passes (These are the entry requirements for an insurance agent.)
No experience needed.
ORD personnel welcome.
Fantastic projections. Examples include: Achieve Financial Freedom!, Manage Your Own Time/People/Money.
The list is not exhaustive. When in doubt, please contact the representor for further details.
An insurance agent may justify their prevarication with the argument that they are doing ‘creative advertising’ or ‘marketing’. After all, an insurance agent is also ‘managing relations’ and ‘wealth management’, so there is nothing wrong with their advertisement. They are not out to con anybody.
That may be true. In that case, why don’t hookers call themselves ‘ relations manager’? Are they not managing relations? Sexual relations is still relations...
People in the business world (I include insurance, banking, finance and sales) always talk about integrity like their lives depend on it. The word integrity is so overused it has lost its meaning. There is no room for integrity in business. If integrity existed then there wouldn’t be any need for lawyers. Calls for corporate governance would not have arisen in the current economic crisis. The “integrity” in the business world is essentially this: if you can get away with it, it is integrity. Bear in mind that businesses are only concerned with making money. All that social responsibility and holistic approaches are merely rhetoric and nothing more, designed to convey a false sense of morals so that they can use this perceived morals to generate more income.
The next time an insurance agent tries to…ahem, manage relations with you, ask him what does he really want, to enrich your life or to sell you that piece of insurance so that he can meet his sales quotas and look forward to higher pay for that month and that lucrative cashback he gets annually from the policies he sold. There is no need to be nice. If you can ignore the pleas of an old bag selling tissue papers I don’t see why you can’t tell a bloody salesman to put his scams where the sun does not shine. Is there any difference between the uncouth tissue paper peddler and the smartly dressed peddlers?
Of course not. They are both peddlers. They care nothing for you. They just want your money. You are just meat to them, no better than a used condom and a semen-stained piece of tissue paper when the sex is done.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Sleepless in Singapore
Valentine’s Day
A friend (let’s call him Mr. W) messaged me to say that he is going to Vietnam to end his affair. I advised him to end his relationship with his Chinese wife as well. Mr. W once told me he have had enough of women from China. In that case why prolong the agony? He never loved her anyway. He may not realize it, but my advice to him is the best Valentine’s gift he will ever receive.
Cursed, possibly damned
When my project mate came to class, she sat and left two empty seats between us. I don’t know why. Do I have two horns on my head, a fanged smile and a long forked tail? Last time I checked, I looked rather normal, albeit not handsome by any standard. Maybe it was night time and she feared I would shapechange into some beast, howl at the moon and then proceed to ravish her. Again, if I had lycanthropy I didn’t know anything about it. She only deigned to speak to me when she wanted to know how our project was coming along. She also enquired about my job-hunting. Her concern touched me, touches me still and it makes me want to be a better man so that I can be good enough for her. To the Eighteen Hells with the fucking Law assignment!
Missed it!
I let loose a string of profanities when I logged on my university website and found I missed my end-of-chapter quizzes. The “ – “ on my grades for the two missed quizzes stared me in the face and mocked me. Still cursing, I cleared the next two, just in case I forgot again. I am sick of online studying. I am sick and tired of wasting my time with stupid online quizzes when I’d rather be having a face-to-face discussion with my professors. The next NTU, NUS or SMU full-time student who complains to me about how sickening school life is gets it big time.
Valentine Day II
There didn’t appear to be many happy couples walking around on V-Day. The deepening recession must have dampened the romantic spirit. The whoreson who said that two can live as cheaply as one was either a fairy or a virgin. Love is all about money. Women always sprout bullshit like how they prefer guys who are humorous, kind and witty but in the end they always go for the moneybags. When was the last time you saw a rubbish collector walking around with a hot chick? Look around every restaurant and shop on V-Day – it makes you feel inflation has risen 1,000% in a single day. Money may not buy you love (bullshit), but it can pay for the Viagra, condom and hotel room. Just go to Geylang, they know lots of loving all right. To Hell with romantic love, Hallmark cards, Tiffany’s, roses and candlelight dinners. And Valentine’s Day? I’ve seen road kills more appealing.
Nuisance calls
The lady from the Whitelight job agency called me and asked me if I am looking for a job. It was the fifth time she had called me and she still sounded clueless. How the Hell did she expect me to tell her my expected salary when she didn’t even specify what kind of job it was? She didn’t even know what in Tartarus the company was looking for. If she had bothered to even glance at my resume she would not have wasted our time. I should apply to be a recruiter or headhunter. If this is the standard these days I think I’d make management in no time.
Restless
I saw quite a few students practicing martial arts when I was in SP today. How I envy my juniors. During my time, the martial arts clubs in the polytechnic were so poorly run that organized training was hard to come by. Now, there is practice every day. Seeing them kick and punch brought a thrill down my spine. I have a lot of nervous energy. Physical pursuits like football have become too mild for me. I need a partner to spar with. I suppose I could sign up for a martial arts class in one of those fancy gyms. I could also take up white-collared boxing. But no. They won’t have weapon training. I love the spear, the staff, the sword and my favourite, the sabre. Too bad my master is not taking in disciples. After I attain a certain proficiency I’ll go pick some fights. If I ever get to migrate to the US or Canada, the first thing I would get is a real blade. I hate the bloody sword/sabre foils these bloody “contemporary” martial artists use. Let’s see how these jokers handle the weight of a real sword.
19-02-2009, 12.29am
I should be working on my Business Law project but instead I am writing all these. I don’t know why. Maybe writing relaxes me, gives my existence some resemblance of meaning. I curse the day I took up engineering and I still rue the day I put pen to paper and joined the military. Seven years gone to Gehenna, if you count the fucking two and a half years of slavery we true blue Singaporean males have to endure. (It’s called National Service and a male foreigner who decides to say the national pledge DOES NOT need to serve.) Instead of being a third-class citizen in this dungpile of a cuntry, why not be a second or third class citizen elsewhere? I’d gladly exchange my pink IC for a Canadian citizenship. Some people told me that I don’t know better, that I would appreciate this cuntry once I have been around the world. That is not being fair. First, they are making assumptions about me, that I know absolutely nothing about this world, therefore I am not qualified to judge for myself. (What am I now, Sarah Palin?) Second, they are imposing their personal feelings on me and demanding that I think like them. It is not my fault that I have never worked in a foreign country. I signed on the military because I thought I would be given the chance to travel. Join the army they say, see the world they say – four years in service and I was still grounded. A grounded personnel in the “Sky’s the Limit air force. I don’t know whether to cry or laugh. It’s not that I don’t want to go, unlike some idiots who turned down lucrative work attachments in the US. It’s just that I don’t have the chance and were I not an atheist I would have smashed the damn ancestral tablet in my house and thrown out my useless ancestors and their sorry ghosts for not looking out for me. Sometimes being an atheist really sucks. When shit happens, you can’t blame the gods.
19-02-2009, 1am
I am thirsty. I feel like a drink. Funnily enough I don’t feel like sleeping. I hate mornings. There is something wretched about the dawn of a new day. I love the night. The darkness and quiet comfort me, shroud me with peace and fill me with insights I could never have in the bright of day.
Manicure
The Lass says I am obsessed with my manicured nails. She is right. My nails grow quite fast. Already my nails are losing the curve the Lass filed for me. I can restore my nails back to their original shape, but I choose not to. May they grow, and grow fast. When they are long enough I shall file them each into a square shape. Then I shall apply some light polish to their tips. It’s time to consult the Lass again. She is now my beauty consultant.
Guess I have nothing more to write. – 1.25am.
A friend (let’s call him Mr. W) messaged me to say that he is going to Vietnam to end his affair. I advised him to end his relationship with his Chinese wife as well. Mr. W once told me he have had enough of women from China. In that case why prolong the agony? He never loved her anyway. He may not realize it, but my advice to him is the best Valentine’s gift he will ever receive.
Cursed, possibly damned
When my project mate came to class, she sat and left two empty seats between us. I don’t know why. Do I have two horns on my head, a fanged smile and a long forked tail? Last time I checked, I looked rather normal, albeit not handsome by any standard. Maybe it was night time and she feared I would shapechange into some beast, howl at the moon and then proceed to ravish her. Again, if I had lycanthropy I didn’t know anything about it. She only deigned to speak to me when she wanted to know how our project was coming along. She also enquired about my job-hunting. Her concern touched me, touches me still and it makes me want to be a better man so that I can be good enough for her. To the Eighteen Hells with the fucking Law assignment!
Missed it!
I let loose a string of profanities when I logged on my university website and found I missed my end-of-chapter quizzes. The “ – “ on my grades for the two missed quizzes stared me in the face and mocked me. Still cursing, I cleared the next two, just in case I forgot again. I am sick of online studying. I am sick and tired of wasting my time with stupid online quizzes when I’d rather be having a face-to-face discussion with my professors. The next NTU, NUS or SMU full-time student who complains to me about how sickening school life is gets it big time.
Valentine Day II
There didn’t appear to be many happy couples walking around on V-Day. The deepening recession must have dampened the romantic spirit. The whoreson who said that two can live as cheaply as one was either a fairy or a virgin. Love is all about money. Women always sprout bullshit like how they prefer guys who are humorous, kind and witty but in the end they always go for the moneybags. When was the last time you saw a rubbish collector walking around with a hot chick? Look around every restaurant and shop on V-Day – it makes you feel inflation has risen 1,000% in a single day. Money may not buy you love (bullshit), but it can pay for the Viagra, condom and hotel room. Just go to Geylang, they know lots of loving all right. To Hell with romantic love, Hallmark cards, Tiffany’s, roses and candlelight dinners. And Valentine’s Day? I’ve seen road kills more appealing.
Nuisance calls
The lady from the Whitelight job agency called me and asked me if I am looking for a job. It was the fifth time she had called me and she still sounded clueless. How the Hell did she expect me to tell her my expected salary when she didn’t even specify what kind of job it was? She didn’t even know what in Tartarus the company was looking for. If she had bothered to even glance at my resume she would not have wasted our time. I should apply to be a recruiter or headhunter. If this is the standard these days I think I’d make management in no time.
Restless
I saw quite a few students practicing martial arts when I was in SP today. How I envy my juniors. During my time, the martial arts clubs in the polytechnic were so poorly run that organized training was hard to come by. Now, there is practice every day. Seeing them kick and punch brought a thrill down my spine. I have a lot of nervous energy. Physical pursuits like football have become too mild for me. I need a partner to spar with. I suppose I could sign up for a martial arts class in one of those fancy gyms. I could also take up white-collared boxing. But no. They won’t have weapon training. I love the spear, the staff, the sword and my favourite, the sabre. Too bad my master is not taking in disciples. After I attain a certain proficiency I’ll go pick some fights. If I ever get to migrate to the US or Canada, the first thing I would get is a real blade. I hate the bloody sword/sabre foils these bloody “contemporary” martial artists use. Let’s see how these jokers handle the weight of a real sword.
19-02-2009, 12.29am
I should be working on my Business Law project but instead I am writing all these. I don’t know why. Maybe writing relaxes me, gives my existence some resemblance of meaning. I curse the day I took up engineering and I still rue the day I put pen to paper and joined the military. Seven years gone to Gehenna, if you count the fucking two and a half years of slavery we true blue Singaporean males have to endure. (It’s called National Service and a male foreigner who decides to say the national pledge DOES NOT need to serve.) Instead of being a third-class citizen in this dungpile of a cuntry, why not be a second or third class citizen elsewhere? I’d gladly exchange my pink IC for a Canadian citizenship. Some people told me that I don’t know better, that I would appreciate this cuntry once I have been around the world. That is not being fair. First, they are making assumptions about me, that I know absolutely nothing about this world, therefore I am not qualified to judge for myself. (What am I now, Sarah Palin?) Second, they are imposing their personal feelings on me and demanding that I think like them. It is not my fault that I have never worked in a foreign country. I signed on the military because I thought I would be given the chance to travel. Join the army they say, see the world they say – four years in service and I was still grounded. A grounded personnel in the “Sky’s the Limit air force. I don’t know whether to cry or laugh. It’s not that I don’t want to go, unlike some idiots who turned down lucrative work attachments in the US. It’s just that I don’t have the chance and were I not an atheist I would have smashed the damn ancestral tablet in my house and thrown out my useless ancestors and their sorry ghosts for not looking out for me. Sometimes being an atheist really sucks. When shit happens, you can’t blame the gods.
19-02-2009, 1am
I am thirsty. I feel like a drink. Funnily enough I don’t feel like sleeping. I hate mornings. There is something wretched about the dawn of a new day. I love the night. The darkness and quiet comfort me, shroud me with peace and fill me with insights I could never have in the bright of day.
Manicure
The Lass says I am obsessed with my manicured nails. She is right. My nails grow quite fast. Already my nails are losing the curve the Lass filed for me. I can restore my nails back to their original shape, but I choose not to. May they grow, and grow fast. When they are long enough I shall file them each into a square shape. Then I shall apply some light polish to their tips. It’s time to consult the Lass again. She is now my beauty consultant.
Guess I have nothing more to write. – 1.25am.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Another Rant
Police Car messaged me using a new phone number. He asked me to lend him $500 because his employers have not updated the change in his bank account and therefore could not pay him until the next payday. He also promised to pay me back once he received his overseas allowance for his Thailand detachment. This is ridiculous. An overpaid air force staff sergeant wants to borrow money from an unemployed part-time student. After working for nearly a decade, his expenses mainly going to his studies (which he dropped out), his church, family allowance and daily expenses, and having no car, housing loans and girlfriend to pay off, the guy has to live on a month to month basis. And now he borrows money from me, and yet had the money to get a new line.
I think Police Car should quit his gambling. He knows little about football anyway, and making his investment decisions based on the league tables is never the smartest thing to do. The ball is not just round, it is spherical. In football shit can happen and it always does. There may be other leagues besides the EPL, but that doesn’t mean you have to throw money at any team Barcelona plays or worse, two obscure teams you have never even heard of. If you must bet, make sure the money you wager is affordable, meaning should you lose you would not be reduced to begging for handouts. Once money is thrown like this, consider it lost until further notice.
He should stop being generous to the whores he patronizes. You play the whores, not the other way round. There are reasons why any whore would want you to be her boyfriend and your pock-marked face is never one of them. If you must womanize, please do not complain ad nauseam about the lack of girlfriend experience, and the whore’s refusal to let you French kiss her. If you want a girlfriend, go get one. Stop making some limp excuses about how that girl in your church prefers some Indian guy and then make racist remarks in front of me but never to his face. He should stop bastardizing the Cantonese I taught him. What is the point of learning Cantonese to go after the said girl (who is Cantonese) and then NOT use it because he is so fucking afraid and then use all the profanities contained in the language when he speaks to me? I don’t understand why he cannot get a girlfriend. If I were a xtian, I might even be married by now. There is something simple about xtian girls that an enterprising guy can exploit. Most or all xtian girls will never take a non-xtian guy for a boyfriend – all that crap in the stupid book demanding believers not ‘yoke’ themselves to non-believers. A xtian guy has all the advantages in the world when it comes to courtship. Competition (non-xtian guys) is effectively eliminated, and at the same time you can go after both xtian and non-xtian girls! What is so damn hard? Why be so frightened of rejection if you have the power of your deity behind you? For all your postulations about trusting in god and being part of its divine plans, you are nothing when you can’t even defeat your sense of inferiority, cowardice and fear of rejection. Your god avails you not, You avail yourself not. Pathetic whoreson.
And stop taking bank loans to pay off the credit card debts. In the end you still have to pay the banks back, and at huge interest. Banks, bankers, financial planners, financial schemes and in general the entire banking and financial industry cannot be trusted. They are so rich because they are licensed to cheat you of your hard-earned money and all that credit cards that you sign and the stuff you pay for it – you have to pay them back with interest one day. They don’t care about you. You die it’s your problem, just don’t make it theirs.
Quit the church. The pastor is overfed and overpaid and if there is any justice at all charlatans like that swine should be prosecuted. These legalized ‘magic-stone men’ cannot be trusted. A sincere one is loyal only to his non-existent god (one will find many of these in the mental asylums). A bad one is basically a con-man. Either way they don’t care about you. They just want your soul and money and you are nothing to them once you run out of money or your life, whichever occurs first. Besides, how can anyone honest still call himself a god-fearing xtian when he pays for sex? Granted, Police Car may not be the most honest or intellectually capable person, but surely he would acknowledge the lie he lives? Either this is beyond his understanding, he does not want to ponder too deeply, or both. Some people just can’t handle the truth. Anyway, instead of pretending to be what he’s not, why not step out of the circle of light and embrace the darkness? He is slipping, slowly and inexorably, and he must learn to live with it. From false light to true embracing darkness. He may yet find liberation.
I think Police Car should quit his gambling. He knows little about football anyway, and making his investment decisions based on the league tables is never the smartest thing to do. The ball is not just round, it is spherical. In football shit can happen and it always does. There may be other leagues besides the EPL, but that doesn’t mean you have to throw money at any team Barcelona plays or worse, two obscure teams you have never even heard of. If you must bet, make sure the money you wager is affordable, meaning should you lose you would not be reduced to begging for handouts. Once money is thrown like this, consider it lost until further notice.
He should stop being generous to the whores he patronizes. You play the whores, not the other way round. There are reasons why any whore would want you to be her boyfriend and your pock-marked face is never one of them. If you must womanize, please do not complain ad nauseam about the lack of girlfriend experience, and the whore’s refusal to let you French kiss her. If you want a girlfriend, go get one. Stop making some limp excuses about how that girl in your church prefers some Indian guy and then make racist remarks in front of me but never to his face. He should stop bastardizing the Cantonese I taught him. What is the point of learning Cantonese to go after the said girl (who is Cantonese) and then NOT use it because he is so fucking afraid and then use all the profanities contained in the language when he speaks to me? I don’t understand why he cannot get a girlfriend. If I were a xtian, I might even be married by now. There is something simple about xtian girls that an enterprising guy can exploit. Most or all xtian girls will never take a non-xtian guy for a boyfriend – all that crap in the stupid book demanding believers not ‘yoke’ themselves to non-believers. A xtian guy has all the advantages in the world when it comes to courtship. Competition (non-xtian guys) is effectively eliminated, and at the same time you can go after both xtian and non-xtian girls! What is so damn hard? Why be so frightened of rejection if you have the power of your deity behind you? For all your postulations about trusting in god and being part of its divine plans, you are nothing when you can’t even defeat your sense of inferiority, cowardice and fear of rejection. Your god avails you not, You avail yourself not. Pathetic whoreson.
And stop taking bank loans to pay off the credit card debts. In the end you still have to pay the banks back, and at huge interest. Banks, bankers, financial planners, financial schemes and in general the entire banking and financial industry cannot be trusted. They are so rich because they are licensed to cheat you of your hard-earned money and all that credit cards that you sign and the stuff you pay for it – you have to pay them back with interest one day. They don’t care about you. You die it’s your problem, just don’t make it theirs.
Quit the church. The pastor is overfed and overpaid and if there is any justice at all charlatans like that swine should be prosecuted. These legalized ‘magic-stone men’ cannot be trusted. A sincere one is loyal only to his non-existent god (one will find many of these in the mental asylums). A bad one is basically a con-man. Either way they don’t care about you. They just want your soul and money and you are nothing to them once you run out of money or your life, whichever occurs first. Besides, how can anyone honest still call himself a god-fearing xtian when he pays for sex? Granted, Police Car may not be the most honest or intellectually capable person, but surely he would acknowledge the lie he lives? Either this is beyond his understanding, he does not want to ponder too deeply, or both. Some people just can’t handle the truth. Anyway, instead of pretending to be what he’s not, why not step out of the circle of light and embrace the darkness? He is slipping, slowly and inexorably, and he must learn to live with it. From false light to true embracing darkness. He may yet find liberation.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Ranting
Yesterday was a day for ranting.
My exercise started in the morning, when I talked to the Lass about the girl she wrote about on her blog. Infuriated at the cunt’s elitist and condescending attitude, I lambasted her. Surely, being the daughter of an overpaid politician does not give her the right to shoot her cunt off like her father’s prick depends on it. The Lass had to tell me to stop, such was my vehemence.
The Shite Times reported that a man was arrested for scribbling ‘Harry, I love you.’ on the wall outside the Parliament House. Somebody should have told him that Valentine’s Day is on the 14th of February; there was no need to be so desperate. It was a man who professed his love for Harry. Will we see a repeal of Section 377A?
The year 2009 is going to be a catastrophic but interesting year, if we judge by the early signs. The Gaza war and the economic crisis have spilled over to the new year. A local politician landed in hospital after a 70 year-old man mistook him for a candle. Then some hero openly stated his love for our despot. More jobs are expected to be lost after the Chinese New Year. Analysts say the worst of the recession will hit us during June. The Singapore Flyer, lauded by the authorities as the biggest in the world, is still inoperative after it stopped and left its passengers steaming in their cabins for six hours. In fact, there is an air of quiet desperation in the streets. The gulf between rich and poor is as wide as the footballing standards between Iran and Singapore (the ‘Lions’ were trashed 6:0 in Tehran). Laws are more draconian. Foreigners will overtake locals soon and one day, over 90% of our newborn babies will be born to couples whom one or both are foreigners. The aging population will balloon, medical expenses will skyrocket and our basic wages, stagnant and their numbers cast in stone will drive more people to remain single, or at least, to refrain from procreating. Transportation, education and living costs will make life unbearable. The rich will become richer faster; the poor will be poorer faster. Soon, the merchandise in GL, on the streets and fish tanks will comprise locals, many of whom are pursuing their studies.
I think I’m too far ahead. Damn.
Chicken and I had our dinner in GL after my job interview. He told me that they are tightening laws on littering. A piece of tissue carelessly flung to the ground can land you an appearance in court. Previously, people who are over 50 – 60 were let off with a warning if they were caught littering. Now it’s straight away $200 in the regime’s pocket. I ranted that the law should have compassion. With times as bad as they are now, tightening the noose around the citizenry’s necks with tougher laws and increasing ERP and other transportation costs will inflict more misery on the people. Chicken just shrugged. Two middle-aged women tried to sell us tissue papers while we were eating. This is what a FIRST CLASS COUNTRY is all about. Instead of comparing ourselves with fucked-up countries like Sudan, Somalia and Ethiopia, why don’t we compare ourselves to truly first world countries like Canada and Sweden? You heard of any Canadian reduced to peddling overpriced tissue papers just to survive in their old age?!
Here, I am ranting again.
When I logged on my university website to access my course materials, I was aghast to find that I couldn’t print my seminar notes. I got some fancy interactive program in place of notes for one of my Law modules, and I could find only e-copies of the guidebooks used in my three main modules. I cursed and swore at my computer, viciously lambasting my bloody university. Goddamn it! Just give me some notes to fucking study! I CAN PAY!
My timetable consoled me somewhat. Most of my lectures will be held in SP. I’d rather they don’t use the university compound for my next two years of study. It will make life so much easier for me. I can get off at the Dover station instead of taking the train to Clementi and then take another bus to UniShit. Moreover, I shall have no difficulty navigating our way around my alma mater. I will be back in SP after graduating a decade ago. I never expected it.
My university is taking in so many students that it has to expand its operations. The management must be rolling in dough. I regret not pursuing a career in education. The money is free and easy, and most importantly, from an egoistic point of view, people are paying to hear me speak.
I talked to Pearl afterwards. My ranting continued. I started off by saying how engineering sucks, followed by a discourse (I’m putting it a bit too nicely) about my troubled teen years and my suffering in my *career*. I also said I was wrong in not living my life when I was younger, instead falling into the fallacy of long term planning and responsibility. The Israelis can teach us a good lesson about what life should be, and what it’s all about. They face the threat of death and war every day but the sword hanging over their heads has not stopped them from daring to live, to express, to love, to seek, to dream and to fight. Indeed, why should I buy some fucking insurance/investment policies so that I can retire comfortably thirty years down the road and deprive myself from spending the money on doing what I like in the meantime? For all I know I may die in a car crash tomorrow. Why not enjoy life as much as you can when you are young and able, instead of hoping you will be able to ravish life just as keenly in your dotage? I remember a section of the ‘Good Book’ making a similar point, about the need to enjoy your youth, for death may come unannounced. I should have studied the book a bit closer when I was younger.
Pearl said that I belong to the ‘Strawberry’ generation. I’m not sure exactly what she meant but I agreed with her on her views that I am somewhere between Xers and Nexters. The Generations X and Y believe in striking a balance between work and play. They value material things and careers but also cherish relationships. Maybe I had been thinking like a baby-boomer for much of my existence and paid the price for it. Chicken told me after watching Jim Carrey’s Yes Man that we should live like we have only a fortnight left. I think he is right. Why wait until you are balding, unable to see without reading glasses, weak of hearing, slowed of reflexes and struggling to maintain healthy? You can give me a Ferrari but the thrill will not be the same. You can offer me the most gorgeous hussies, but will I be up to the task?
I read Miao’s blog after I talked to Pearl. She posted a rather touching story about a man who talked about education in a very hopeful and optimistic way. The feel-good spirit in the article stirred my cynicism and I left some comments. I couldn’t help myself. It was all I could do not to rant, rave and berate the writer of the article for being a moralistic, hypocritical and sanctimonious bastard who is now WTM-ing in some ministry and earning tons of money for his perceived efforts in promoting education and learning.
Jianyue talked to me online about his faculty and asked me some questions about football and sports in ASEAN. He said over half of his newsroom(?) members are Xtians and I told him that it is inexplicable that Art students can be so dumb. They should replace the idiots in his faculty with engineering students who are suffering in theirs. It should raise the general intelligence and standards in his faculty. Or maybe there’s not a good idea. The stronger competition will mean that it is harder for my friend to get at least an Upper in his Honours degree.
Moving on, I narrated to him about the conversation I had with a cab driver who once worked as an engineer and used it as a platform to rant at the way we treat engineers in this crap cuntry. About sports, I ranted about the state of the footballing standards in the ASEAN region, and the lack of quality of any sporting tournament run by the morons heading ASEAN sporting federations. What else did I rant about? I think that’s about it.
I’m going to stop my drivel now. Break.
My exercise started in the morning, when I talked to the Lass about the girl she wrote about on her blog. Infuriated at the cunt’s elitist and condescending attitude, I lambasted her. Surely, being the daughter of an overpaid politician does not give her the right to shoot her cunt off like her father’s prick depends on it. The Lass had to tell me to stop, such was my vehemence.
The Shite Times reported that a man was arrested for scribbling ‘Harry, I love you.’ on the wall outside the Parliament House. Somebody should have told him that Valentine’s Day is on the 14th of February; there was no need to be so desperate. It was a man who professed his love for Harry. Will we see a repeal of Section 377A?
The year 2009 is going to be a catastrophic but interesting year, if we judge by the early signs. The Gaza war and the economic crisis have spilled over to the new year. A local politician landed in hospital after a 70 year-old man mistook him for a candle. Then some hero openly stated his love for our despot. More jobs are expected to be lost after the Chinese New Year. Analysts say the worst of the recession will hit us during June. The Singapore Flyer, lauded by the authorities as the biggest in the world, is still inoperative after it stopped and left its passengers steaming in their cabins for six hours. In fact, there is an air of quiet desperation in the streets. The gulf between rich and poor is as wide as the footballing standards between Iran and Singapore (the ‘Lions’ were trashed 6:0 in Tehran). Laws are more draconian. Foreigners will overtake locals soon and one day, over 90% of our newborn babies will be born to couples whom one or both are foreigners. The aging population will balloon, medical expenses will skyrocket and our basic wages, stagnant and their numbers cast in stone will drive more people to remain single, or at least, to refrain from procreating. Transportation, education and living costs will make life unbearable. The rich will become richer faster; the poor will be poorer faster. Soon, the merchandise in GL, on the streets and fish tanks will comprise locals, many of whom are pursuing their studies.
I think I’m too far ahead. Damn.
Chicken and I had our dinner in GL after my job interview. He told me that they are tightening laws on littering. A piece of tissue carelessly flung to the ground can land you an appearance in court. Previously, people who are over 50 – 60 were let off with a warning if they were caught littering. Now it’s straight away $200 in the regime’s pocket. I ranted that the law should have compassion. With times as bad as they are now, tightening the noose around the citizenry’s necks with tougher laws and increasing ERP and other transportation costs will inflict more misery on the people. Chicken just shrugged. Two middle-aged women tried to sell us tissue papers while we were eating. This is what a FIRST CLASS COUNTRY is all about. Instead of comparing ourselves with fucked-up countries like Sudan, Somalia and Ethiopia, why don’t we compare ourselves to truly first world countries like Canada and Sweden? You heard of any Canadian reduced to peddling overpriced tissue papers just to survive in their old age?!
Here, I am ranting again.
When I logged on my university website to access my course materials, I was aghast to find that I couldn’t print my seminar notes. I got some fancy interactive program in place of notes for one of my Law modules, and I could find only e-copies of the guidebooks used in my three main modules. I cursed and swore at my computer, viciously lambasting my bloody university. Goddamn it! Just give me some notes to fucking study! I CAN PAY!
My timetable consoled me somewhat. Most of my lectures will be held in SP. I’d rather they don’t use the university compound for my next two years of study. It will make life so much easier for me. I can get off at the Dover station instead of taking the train to Clementi and then take another bus to UniShit. Moreover, I shall have no difficulty navigating our way around my alma mater. I will be back in SP after graduating a decade ago. I never expected it.
My university is taking in so many students that it has to expand its operations. The management must be rolling in dough. I regret not pursuing a career in education. The money is free and easy, and most importantly, from an egoistic point of view, people are paying to hear me speak.
I talked to Pearl afterwards. My ranting continued. I started off by saying how engineering sucks, followed by a discourse (I’m putting it a bit too nicely) about my troubled teen years and my suffering in my *career*. I also said I was wrong in not living my life when I was younger, instead falling into the fallacy of long term planning and responsibility. The Israelis can teach us a good lesson about what life should be, and what it’s all about. They face the threat of death and war every day but the sword hanging over their heads has not stopped them from daring to live, to express, to love, to seek, to dream and to fight. Indeed, why should I buy some fucking insurance/investment policies so that I can retire comfortably thirty years down the road and deprive myself from spending the money on doing what I like in the meantime? For all I know I may die in a car crash tomorrow. Why not enjoy life as much as you can when you are young and able, instead of hoping you will be able to ravish life just as keenly in your dotage? I remember a section of the ‘Good Book’ making a similar point, about the need to enjoy your youth, for death may come unannounced. I should have studied the book a bit closer when I was younger.
Pearl said that I belong to the ‘Strawberry’ generation. I’m not sure exactly what she meant but I agreed with her on her views that I am somewhere between Xers and Nexters. The Generations X and Y believe in striking a balance between work and play. They value material things and careers but also cherish relationships. Maybe I had been thinking like a baby-boomer for much of my existence and paid the price for it. Chicken told me after watching Jim Carrey’s Yes Man that we should live like we have only a fortnight left. I think he is right. Why wait until you are balding, unable to see without reading glasses, weak of hearing, slowed of reflexes and struggling to maintain healthy? You can give me a Ferrari but the thrill will not be the same. You can offer me the most gorgeous hussies, but will I be up to the task?
I read Miao’s blog after I talked to Pearl. She posted a rather touching story about a man who talked about education in a very hopeful and optimistic way. The feel-good spirit in the article stirred my cynicism and I left some comments. I couldn’t help myself. It was all I could do not to rant, rave and berate the writer of the article for being a moralistic, hypocritical and sanctimonious bastard who is now WTM-ing in some ministry and earning tons of money for his perceived efforts in promoting education and learning.
Jianyue talked to me online about his faculty and asked me some questions about football and sports in ASEAN. He said over half of his newsroom(?) members are Xtians and I told him that it is inexplicable that Art students can be so dumb. They should replace the idiots in his faculty with engineering students who are suffering in theirs. It should raise the general intelligence and standards in his faculty. Or maybe there’s not a good idea. The stronger competition will mean that it is harder for my friend to get at least an Upper in his Honours degree.
Moving on, I narrated to him about the conversation I had with a cab driver who once worked as an engineer and used it as a platform to rant at the way we treat engineers in this crap cuntry. About sports, I ranted about the state of the footballing standards in the ASEAN region, and the lack of quality of any sporting tournament run by the morons heading ASEAN sporting federations. What else did I rant about? I think that’s about it.
I’m going to stop my drivel now. Break.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Stupid Media
I have been down with the flu for the past few days. While my fever had subsided, I continue to be wracked by coughing and runny nose. This is the fourth time I have been sick during the last three months. My allergy to this country grows stronger with time. At the rate I’m going I should be dead soon.
The terrorist attack in Mumbai and the Singaporean who died in the massacre make the news still. I cannot see what the fuss is all about. A group of terrorists charged into a building, had a stand-off with the authorities and in the process, contrived to get themselves and 200 people killed. And in the aftermath, opposition parties and the public in India blame the government, who in turn points the finger at the Pakistan regime, who denies all involvement in the terrorist attacks. The blame game is like a musical chair that goes on and on –
And so has been the reporting about the Singaporean who got put in the dead book. For days now, our overpaid and unimaginative media has been going ad nauseam about her. A Singaporean got killed in a terrorist attack. So? Plenty of people had died in terrorist attacks. She was a lawyer as well, you say. Big deal! There are plenty of lawyers to go around; one less makes little difference. However, make that a well-connected lawyer who was related to so-and-so, whom in turn holds some position in the regime, then suddenly the whole equation changes.
I present to you our first martyr since Lim Bo Seng.
Why does the media have to turn this into a bloody circus? She’s dead people! She was connected directly/indirectly to people in high places when she was alive. Now that she’s dead, it avails her not. Just let her rest in peace. Leave the bereaved family alone and if anyone wants to mourn her passing, go to her funeral and be done with it! Why are so many people feeling sad for her when they didn’t even know her? Miliions of people die everyday. You don’t see these sensitive people feeling depressed over their demise. 200 people got wasted in the same terrorist attacks and are they feeling sorry for them? People die in Singapore every hour and they don’t see fit to go into a moaning session. A Singaporean woman died in a terrorist attack and they suddenly go all ‘emo’ about it. Why don’t these hypocritical whoresons drown themselves in the damn Singapore river?!
Did Opposition leader JBJ, who died earlier this year, get the due respect he deserved for sacrificing himself for this soulless country and its equally soulless people? Hell no! His passing was succinctly reported by the lackeys in our media but here we have, a dead lawyer, who was obscure prior to her demise, and elevated to celebrity status after her death. They might as well give her a state funeral, and have our flag lowered to half mast. Better still, declare her death anniversary a public holiday. That ought to make everybody happy.
Maybe it’s the nature of her death that fascinates people. It’s rare enough for a Singaporean to die in a terrorist attack. And it’s rarer still that in this case, a well-connected one bought the farm. If she were just an ordinary Singaporean, would her death have merited that much attention? In principle, probably not. In practicality, yes. From brazen hussies from China spreading their legs to a Singaporean citizenship to the recent financial meltdown, there are only so much a journalist (read: lackey) can write about. Singapore is so boring that a tree that falls and blocks traffic on PIE warrants a page or two in the papers. To these vultures, the Mumbai attack that came with a dead Singaporean – albeit an “important” one – must have been a godsend. Perhaps these bastards wouldn’t mind a few more. Even if the deceased had been an ordinary Singaporean, they would still make him or her a martyr. It’s all about filling the newspaper pages with rubbish. Rubbish equals overpaid salaries and fat bonuses.
Do I care about my dead countrywoman? Honestly, I don’t give a shit. She was nobody to me when she was alive and she is nobody to me now. I rate lawyers as I would a priest, which is just barely above parasites and green slime. I am not going to cry, moan, weep, shed tears, gloat or ejaculate over her misfortunes. I just don’t care.
The terrorist attack in Mumbai and the Singaporean who died in the massacre make the news still. I cannot see what the fuss is all about. A group of terrorists charged into a building, had a stand-off with the authorities and in the process, contrived to get themselves and 200 people killed. And in the aftermath, opposition parties and the public in India blame the government, who in turn points the finger at the Pakistan regime, who denies all involvement in the terrorist attacks. The blame game is like a musical chair that goes on and on –
And so has been the reporting about the Singaporean who got put in the dead book. For days now, our overpaid and unimaginative media has been going ad nauseam about her. A Singaporean got killed in a terrorist attack. So? Plenty of people had died in terrorist attacks. She was a lawyer as well, you say. Big deal! There are plenty of lawyers to go around; one less makes little difference. However, make that a well-connected lawyer who was related to so-and-so, whom in turn holds some position in the regime, then suddenly the whole equation changes.
I present to you our first martyr since Lim Bo Seng.
Why does the media have to turn this into a bloody circus? She’s dead people! She was connected directly/indirectly to people in high places when she was alive. Now that she’s dead, it avails her not. Just let her rest in peace. Leave the bereaved family alone and if anyone wants to mourn her passing, go to her funeral and be done with it! Why are so many people feeling sad for her when they didn’t even know her? Miliions of people die everyday. You don’t see these sensitive people feeling depressed over their demise. 200 people got wasted in the same terrorist attacks and are they feeling sorry for them? People die in Singapore every hour and they don’t see fit to go into a moaning session. A Singaporean woman died in a terrorist attack and they suddenly go all ‘emo’ about it. Why don’t these hypocritical whoresons drown themselves in the damn Singapore river?!
Did Opposition leader JBJ, who died earlier this year, get the due respect he deserved for sacrificing himself for this soulless country and its equally soulless people? Hell no! His passing was succinctly reported by the lackeys in our media but here we have, a dead lawyer, who was obscure prior to her demise, and elevated to celebrity status after her death. They might as well give her a state funeral, and have our flag lowered to half mast. Better still, declare her death anniversary a public holiday. That ought to make everybody happy.
Maybe it’s the nature of her death that fascinates people. It’s rare enough for a Singaporean to die in a terrorist attack. And it’s rarer still that in this case, a well-connected one bought the farm. If she were just an ordinary Singaporean, would her death have merited that much attention? In principle, probably not. In practicality, yes. From brazen hussies from China spreading their legs to a Singaporean citizenship to the recent financial meltdown, there are only so much a journalist (read: lackey) can write about. Singapore is so boring that a tree that falls and blocks traffic on PIE warrants a page or two in the papers. To these vultures, the Mumbai attack that came with a dead Singaporean – albeit an “important” one – must have been a godsend. Perhaps these bastards wouldn’t mind a few more. Even if the deceased had been an ordinary Singaporean, they would still make him or her a martyr. It’s all about filling the newspaper pages with rubbish. Rubbish equals overpaid salaries and fat bonuses.
Do I care about my dead countrywoman? Honestly, I don’t give a shit. She was nobody to me when she was alive and she is nobody to me now. I rate lawyers as I would a priest, which is just barely above parasites and green slime. I am not going to cry, moan, weep, shed tears, gloat or ejaculate over her misfortunes. I just don’t care.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Spring Time with ME.
I am staring relegation down the throat and honestly, I don’t really give that much of a shit.
My attitude towards the Managerial Economics examination I endured this morning was nothing short of cavalier. “I went, I saw, and I wrote rubbish” just about sums it up. In truth there was little else I could do but to “take pot shots and hope one of these ends up at the back of the net.”
It’s funny, how you can use football parlance to describe academic pursuits:
I was there early and met Kenny, who was my project mate for that thrice-damned BUS 353 Project Management module. Both of us were taking the same examination and we weren’t exactly too optimistic of surviving it. It was his sup-paper (he failed managerial economics last season) while I contemplated the fate of following in his footsteps. We shot the shit more than we did our revision. Kenny said he struggled with his past year paper until five this morning but still failed to complete it. I looked at his paper and agreed with his less than favorable assessment of it. Somebody should throw this piece of trash to those fat pricks at Wall Street and make sure they answer it. What is not meant for normal human beings should be fit for those de-evoluted creatures.
After 30 minutes of non-productivity, we went up and waited outside the examination hall. This must be what pigs must feel when they are dragged to the abattoir. I saw many faces looking lost. Maybe lots of people will fail and they have to modulate the marks. Hope springs eternal.
They called us in and I went to my seat. It was somewhere at the back and I was appalled at the lack of good looking broads in my vicinity. I had planned to write my name; wait for the mandatory 30 minutes before leaving. Some lovely scenery would alleviate my boredom during the tedious 1800 seconds. However, it was not to be. It turned out quite the opposite as I had envisioned.
The questions didn’t seem too difficult. Problem was, I was hardly on friendly terms with them. It was compos mentis for me right from the start. I was calm and collected, in full possession of my facilities. I went nice and easy, taking nearly 20 minutes to answer four 2-4 marks questions. I then decided to skip the second part of the first question and tackled the other three questions instead. I ended up doing these by bits and parts. What I could remember, I wrote. What I couldn’t understand, I wrote. What I completely didn’t understand, I also wrote. In football, we call this the percentage game. The more crosses you swing into the box, the higher the chance of someone getting on the end of it. I scribbled as much rubbish as I could compose, or imagine. A half-mark for bad trash and some marks for good trash – hopefully they all add up to 40 points (the minimum to escape relegation).
Towards the end the strain got to me and I lapsed into non compos mentis. I thought of the broad I saw earlier. She was also in my Organizational Behavior class ‘last season’ and she stood out from the rest with her 1.8m height, and more importantly, her impressive rack. I fantasized about making out with her and I nearly paid for my lapse of concentration by substituting in the wrong value. Tsk! I should have kept my eyes on the ball. But which ones? I looked around and I saw no balls. I returned to my papers and I caught no balls. Balls! Balls! One could go BALListic!
Anyway, I returned to the first question and tried to conjure up some magic with it. The question required that I find the values from points A to H. No formula materialized in my mind, and with the minutes ticking away, I decided that desperate situations demand desperate measures. Using my ruler, I measured the points on the graph and co-referenced their positions to the values given on the x and y axis. The results? Values that come from nowhere! Not very academic I know, but they didn’t explicitly tell us to explain how we arrived at our answers. So what’s wrong with good old Gawd told me so?
I didn’t even proofread my answers. Why bother checking when you don’t even know what to check for? This is the most relaxing examination I have taken since I enrolled in my university. According to Buddhism, “without attachment, there is no fear.” Spot on! I wouldn’t call it “without attachment” – “don’t give a flying shit” sounds about right.
Most people stayed until the final whistle. The lumbering fashion in which the invigilators collected the scripts reminded me of extra time. I needed to go to the washroom badly. I tried to distract myself from my pressing need by ogling at the broad sitting at table F30 (I think). From my diagonal view she had a nice rack but her elephantine waist and nondescript face turned me off. I shook my legs, closed my eyes, thought of the broad (the one with my height and good rack – hers, not mine). They finally satisfied themselves with our agony and everybody shot straight off from the ground.
I have Marketing on Friday morning and I don’t feel like revising it now. That’s why I’m writing this. My head hurts and I think a nice siesta is in order. (A good workout with the broad is also a pleasant alternative, but I have to make do with sleep, at least for now.)
Two games in the space of 48 hours. Damn. These over-paid Premiership footballers think playing three games in a week is bad? Try swapping places with me and see how these over-rated and over-hyped twats fare. It’s sickening.
By the way, Paddy Powers and William Hills are offering good odds on me being relegated this season. SingaporePoo are also taking in bets, but at a “statistically significant” 1.00000001 payout, punters should keep away.
That’s it. SHUT DOWN!
My attitude towards the Managerial Economics examination I endured this morning was nothing short of cavalier. “I went, I saw, and I wrote rubbish” just about sums it up. In truth there was little else I could do but to “take pot shots and hope one of these ends up at the back of the net.”
It’s funny, how you can use football parlance to describe academic pursuits:
I was there early and met Kenny, who was my project mate for that thrice-damned BUS 353 Project Management module. Both of us were taking the same examination and we weren’t exactly too optimistic of surviving it. It was his sup-paper (he failed managerial economics last season) while I contemplated the fate of following in his footsteps. We shot the shit more than we did our revision. Kenny said he struggled with his past year paper until five this morning but still failed to complete it. I looked at his paper and agreed with his less than favorable assessment of it. Somebody should throw this piece of trash to those fat pricks at Wall Street and make sure they answer it. What is not meant for normal human beings should be fit for those de-evoluted creatures.
After 30 minutes of non-productivity, we went up and waited outside the examination hall. This must be what pigs must feel when they are dragged to the abattoir. I saw many faces looking lost. Maybe lots of people will fail and they have to modulate the marks. Hope springs eternal.
They called us in and I went to my seat. It was somewhere at the back and I was appalled at the lack of good looking broads in my vicinity. I had planned to write my name; wait for the mandatory 30 minutes before leaving. Some lovely scenery would alleviate my boredom during the tedious 1800 seconds. However, it was not to be. It turned out quite the opposite as I had envisioned.
The questions didn’t seem too difficult. Problem was, I was hardly on friendly terms with them. It was compos mentis for me right from the start. I was calm and collected, in full possession of my facilities. I went nice and easy, taking nearly 20 minutes to answer four 2-4 marks questions. I then decided to skip the second part of the first question and tackled the other three questions instead. I ended up doing these by bits and parts. What I could remember, I wrote. What I couldn’t understand, I wrote. What I completely didn’t understand, I also wrote. In football, we call this the percentage game. The more crosses you swing into the box, the higher the chance of someone getting on the end of it. I scribbled as much rubbish as I could compose, or imagine. A half-mark for bad trash and some marks for good trash – hopefully they all add up to 40 points (the minimum to escape relegation).
Towards the end the strain got to me and I lapsed into non compos mentis. I thought of the broad I saw earlier. She was also in my Organizational Behavior class ‘last season’ and she stood out from the rest with her 1.8m height, and more importantly, her impressive rack. I fantasized about making out with her and I nearly paid for my lapse of concentration by substituting in the wrong value. Tsk! I should have kept my eyes on the ball. But which ones? I looked around and I saw no balls. I returned to my papers and I caught no balls. Balls! Balls! One could go BALListic!
Anyway, I returned to the first question and tried to conjure up some magic with it. The question required that I find the values from points A to H. No formula materialized in my mind, and with the minutes ticking away, I decided that desperate situations demand desperate measures. Using my ruler, I measured the points on the graph and co-referenced their positions to the values given on the x and y axis. The results? Values that come from nowhere! Not very academic I know, but they didn’t explicitly tell us to explain how we arrived at our answers. So what’s wrong with good old Gawd told me so?
I didn’t even proofread my answers. Why bother checking when you don’t even know what to check for? This is the most relaxing examination I have taken since I enrolled in my university. According to Buddhism, “without attachment, there is no fear.” Spot on! I wouldn’t call it “without attachment” – “don’t give a flying shit” sounds about right.
Most people stayed until the final whistle. The lumbering fashion in which the invigilators collected the scripts reminded me of extra time. I needed to go to the washroom badly. I tried to distract myself from my pressing need by ogling at the broad sitting at table F30 (I think). From my diagonal view she had a nice rack but her elephantine waist and nondescript face turned me off. I shook my legs, closed my eyes, thought of the broad (the one with my height and good rack – hers, not mine). They finally satisfied themselves with our agony and everybody shot straight off from the ground.
I have Marketing on Friday morning and I don’t feel like revising it now. That’s why I’m writing this. My head hurts and I think a nice siesta is in order. (A good workout with the broad is also a pleasant alternative, but I have to make do with sleep, at least for now.)
Two games in the space of 48 hours. Damn. These over-paid Premiership footballers think playing three games in a week is bad? Try swapping places with me and see how these over-rated and over-hyped twats fare. It’s sickening.
By the way, Paddy Powers and William Hills are offering good odds on me being relegated this season. SingaporePoo are also taking in bets, but at a “statistically significant” 1.00000001 payout, punters should keep away.
That’s it. SHUT DOWN!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
