.: A little taste of obscurity :.

:: Saturday, June 26, 2004 ::

talk cock

Today, I shall talk about the (usually) male organ, the penis. This is because I have run out of shit to write about, plus I got cursed by the demon celibate carrot and I’ve turned decent and haven’t gotten laid for a while, so maybe I miss the sausage buffet.

A funny little creature, it doesn’t have a brain yet it seems to move and respond on its own, kinda like Avril Lavigne or Gareth Gates. It can be a pleasure and/or a nuisance, rather like power-kickass-super-keng-chau-killer-32-hit-combo-i-was-blind-now-i-see fiery Tom Yam that is a mouthful of orgasms and/or a rotting cactus up the ass the next day.

Anyway, unless you’re an annoying chick who acts all saintly by going to church and condemning prostitutes and squeals like a rat exposed to sunlight by the mere mention of the word "meat gun" (but we all know you’re lusting for that tall, lanky, spectacled Priest who sends shivers down your spine every time he mentions the words “lust”, “pre-marital sex” , “child” and “sheep”) you’ll probably already know what a penis is, so I won’t go into details of what we also know as the dick, rod, shaft, cock, one-eyed-monster, little brother, kukuciao, lanciao, kote, manhood, love muscle, willy, anaconda, pecker, baby’s arm or the infamous Nael.

Instead, I will entertain you (two) wonderful readers about the types of dicks (and its owners) I’ve met. Ready? Let’s go!

(Disclaimer: The following report is based on MY experience and MY theories/conclusions. If you feel I have misjudged you or your lover, go tell someone who gives a damn. If you think I am wrong, tell it to my fist. Or go watch Euro 2004 and leave me alone)

Smaller Louder 2-Incher Pecker
These types of penises usually belong to arrogant, obnoxious bastards who talk too much of themselves. They drive flashy cars with loud exhausts and a spoiler the size of an aeroplane wing, wear clothes that use the manpower of an entire village of prepubescent Chinese children just to sew in the brand name the size of India and they will proudly announce that they slept with Anna Kournikova’s trainer’s sister’s gardener’s son’s pet raccoon’s cage manufacturer’s girlfriend’s drug dealer’s Mee Rebus seller’s noodle supplier’s high school friend, so technically, they slept with Anna Kournikova . They will tell you that all the chicks they slept with were classy, cultured chicks who turned into slutty, horny nymphomaniacs with a fetish for Maggi Goreng pedas after a look at their dicks.

Of course, they do all this to divert everyone’s attention from their plankton dicks. When everyone is busy trying to keep track of the supposed chicks he slept with, he’s standing in front of a mirror at home with a strap-on dildo, imagining what it would be like to have a big dick.

These dicks are so small, you have to immediately pop it into your mouth to stifle your laughter. Unless you’re like me and actually burst out laughing like a 47 year old Auntie who just won money from her Mahjong kakis, after my first encounter with one such dick. Don’t need to feel bad, girls (or boys … *ahem*), these arrogant bastards deserve it. Also, whilst you are busy hurting your spine from buckling over with laughter, let them know that only pansies with small dicks drive an automatic Integra/Supra/FTO/Prelude/RX8. Take a picture too, you never know when you need a good laugh to dispel the gloomy days.

Long Schlong
For me, long would be 7 inches and more. Contrary to popular belief, longer does not equal better. Really, I don’t particularly enjoy having my intestines harassed. Guys owning such dick types however, believe that women enjoy gut assault, and therefore do the Hump and Come in less than 2 minutes. They think that women orgasm by the mere insertion of their dick, which explains the contorted look of pleasure on their faces. Look, numbnuts, that look is a look of pain, as in “Oh my God I think this moron just punctured my lung” type pain. At least you finished off quick, or else I would’ve had to be sent to the hospital to unlock my jaw and have my guts arranged back to its original positions. Seriously, having a brain and knowing how to use it is my definition of “well endowed”, not having a dick that can double up as a belt.

Slim Beam
Or more affectionately known by jocks as pencil dicks, they usually belong to thin, evil guys with a penchant for precioussss rings. They are sly and conniving, using their malnourished bodies as a reason for your sympathy. They will tell you (sometimes with tears) about how they were bullied in high school by the muscled, sweaty jocks. And they will try to bed you with a pitiful line like “Is it so wrong that I’d rather build my brain muscles and sweat doing Math calculations? At least I can solve 200 Algebra-related questions faster than those jocks can spell Hawking!”. It’s sad that they have to manipulate you into thinking you should charity-fuck them because they’ve been bullied all their life for being thin. I don’t know about the other girls, but I personally don’t fancy feeling more air than dick in my pussy. And I really don’t need you to recite the multiplication table whilst my legs are up in the air. So save the sob story and go fuck a lemur’s nostril, Dhalsim.

Testicle Spectacle
Now these types are just plain weird. It’s when the dick is smaller in proportion to their humungous balls. It’s not your usual walnut sack, it’s a goddamn coconut sack. Guys with this uniqueness, okay freakishness, I assume, haven’t had sex or a good wank ever since the extinction of the mammoths. They’ve got balls the colour of toilet bowl cleaning detergents (That’s BLUE for people who live in jungles and use the rivers for bowel disposal) and they can’t wait to bang you, but they will unskillfully deny that they aren’t virgins. When they do manage to get you bed after tricking you into thinking that the bulge in their pants is from their mega-sized dick and not their hefty balls, you will have to prepare yourself for bruises from their balls smashing against your ass. It’s a wonder how the balls don’t spontaneously combust from so much friction.

Anal Invader
Guys with dicks such as these will hump you vigourously for 2 minutes and “accidentally” slip it out. As he thrusts forward to slip it back in, he “pretends” to get the wrong hole and sits the dick by the entrance of the asshole. He will slap on a nonchalant look and try to penetrate. Unless you enjoy the anal invasion, give that slapped on nonchalant look a slap and exclaim, “Ew! You ass-banger! Oh my God, you shit-pusher, if you wanted chocolate pudding for desert you should’ve told me! Hohoho, you dirty, stinking little perverted anal invader!”. But if you’re the type who likes anal sex, then smile and ask if he’d like lemonade to go with his chocolate pudding. He might get excited and sheepishly whip out his gimp costume from the closet. In my experience with Anal Invaders, they’re usually the quiet in a freaky kinda way, and they enjoy watching extreme hardcore porn and death pics. They might be fun to experiment with, but once they ask you to participate in a session of midget amputees gang bang whilst wearing a bear costume … don’t forget to send me the video.

Hot Rod
The perfect dick: About 6 inches in length, about 1 ½ inches in width, slightly bent upwards and turbo charged with passion. These dicks usually belong to the shy guys, the types who look cute just standing by the corner of a club and look at their shoes when you look at them. Girls like me usually go up to them for a chat because its fun watching them stutter and willingly buy you any drink you want. Once they finally stop shivering and master the art of unhooking your bra, you will slap yourself repeatedly for wasting so many years of your life sleeping with the wrong dicks. They treat you like a queen and use the powers infested in them to bestow you with mind-blowing orgasms. I’m not talking about the bullshit-type orgasmic pleasure that women claim they get from a “sinfully delicious slice of fat-free chocolate fudge cake with whipped cream” or a “delectable scoop of nipple-erecting Haagen Dazs macademia nut ice cream topped with a sprinkle of lusty-moans-inducing roasted almonds”, I’m talking about REAL time-stopping, peace-giving, volcano-erupting, Marilyn Monroe-resurrecting, oh-by-the-damp-loin-cloths-of-hercules-i-think-i-just-died-and-went-to-heaven-to-have-a-discourse-with-Lennon-about-beard-maintenance type ORGASM! Look out for these type of guys, women. They are usually intelligent, witty, and are not flashy at all. They dress in subtle yet funky type outfits and they drive average sedans or hatchbacks. Watch out for puzzled looking guys stopped by the side of the road in their stalled Sunny/Corolla/626/323/Charade/Interplay/Swift and offer them a ride, because they will return the favour by giving you a ride of your life. I’ve been lucky to have tried such guys, and believe me, the entire dorm had trouble sleeping at night due to the noise.

Maybe I should stop acting decent and just agree to have sex with the next guy who stalks me, instead of writing a report on dicks. Sooner or later, Adrian and Pimpest are going to kick me in the shins, elbow me in the mouth, tie me to the bed and pay a lean, sexy, rugged beggar to rape me. Yay.

:: Another pointless rambling at 2:28am ::

:: Monday, June 07, 2004 ::

the never ending relationship between yesterday and tomorrow

She lay her weary head on the pillow, laced with the familiar scent of her shampoo and a distant blend of alcohol and cigarette smoke. The haunting voice of Beth Gibbons seduced her almost too forcefully, like a bug-eyed man buying countless servings of Vodka and lime for a pretty young girl, in exchange for a serving of her moistness.

Enveloped in solitude, her memories are free to roam around the room. They manifest into tiny blobs of shadowless creatures, sniffing and poking into every corner. They communicate to each other in soft whispers, yet echoes reverberate against the walls.

“She’s quite a quirky queen!”
“Her noir nightmares neglect normality!”
“Pale people of past pester her pitilessly!”

I hear them jeer. She hears them comfort. In her world, her only friends are her memories.

I’m sorry I left to become a worker bee and abandoned you. I’m sorry I chose the noise of steaming machinery and dollar bills rustling between my fingers over your wailing songs. I’m sorry I enjoy the bittersweet allure of whisky and muffling my orgasmic moans with a pillow better than holding your trembling hands.

She strains to comprehend my words, and forgives me with a blank stare. Another tear meanders down her cheek as she lullabies herself to sleep.

Give me a reason to love you,
Give me a reason to be a woman,
I just want to be a woman.

I’m sorry to know that you will return to me. Again.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 11:34am::

:: Wednesday, June 02, 2004 ::

when toys bring more pleasure than men

Mondays and Tuesdays must have originated from Lucifer’s ass: they’re stinky, shitty, full of rotting maggots and they sound like an Avril Lavigne and Evanescence duet. Especially when you didn’t have enough of Sunday, which I spent recovering from an obscene night of clubbing, alcohol, police raids, bar-hopping, police raids, fucking chronic motherfucker Adrian-esque driving skills and Nasi Lemak sprayed across the highway.

And I have the custody of two half-drunk bottles of hard liqour. Anyone planning to have a sober, relaxing, chick-flick-marathon, emo-melancholic-suicidal-lamenting weekend with me, you may as well start charging the batteries for your vibrating dildo and/or replenishing your supply of lube as other sources of entertainment.

Anyway, after a Lucifer’s ass spawn Tuesday at work, I decided to make a detour to the general direction of Sungai Wang/Low Yat Plaza. Now, there are only two reasons I go to Sungai Wang and/or Low Yat Plaza:

1) To ogle, drool and hold back the urge to buy vinyl toys (by smashing my head against the glass doors of an Ah Lian boutique).
2) To ogle, drool and hold back the urge to jump at rich Caucasian tourist men (by engaging in a mind-altering, suicidal conversation with Ah Lian salesgirl in said boutique).

Yesterday, the reason was the former. (Though there were a few times when I got confused, thus I hurriedly ran to talk to a chick in Ma Cherry or AppleGirl or Voir or someshit)

My heart stopped and my nether regions ached as I arrived at the 6th floor of Sungai Wang Plaza. There she was, standing atop a plastic pedestal, flanked by her two friends. It was a 6-inch Ghostie, along with Crowie and Duckie. As shopowner Alex launched into his typical salesman pitch, I was doing calculations in my head. Calculations so advanced it could rival Patrick Ma, 6 year old fat bully at Tadika Sri Pelangi, Batu 8, Segambut. So the set was going to cost me a quarter of my pay check (I just got my half month’s check).

Pukitiang cibai kaniniabu horlangkan machowhai cipetmasam donkey-fucking squashed cockroaches and dirty elven underwear.

Lord, why must Thou tempt me with such worldly and pleasurable treasures?

Since my paycheck hasn’t cleared, I put down a deposit. Today I went back to give up the remaining quarter of my hard earned wages. Yes, they were HARD EARNED. Look, it’s not fucking easy to sleep, eat, smoke, disturb your designers and the other copywriter, surf the net, talk on the phone, participate in kinky ICQ chats, avoid scuttling cockroaches, laugh at the office Leprechaun WHILST producing mind-blowing, orgasm-inducing, evil-destroying, lightning-causing, volcano-erupting, super keng chau 32 hit combo turbo shadowless kick copy, okay?

My dear friends, please understand that for the rest of the month, I shall no longer:

1) Participate in lunches or dinners, unless the dining area is by the side of the road amongst the mutated rats, where the cook usually hacks and coughs whilst cooking and the aroma of the drains complement your food.
2) Drive to God-forsaken ghetto hoods populated by bohsias, Indons/Pakis and VCD sellers; namely Sri Hartamas, Kepong, Pandan Indah or Damansara. In fact, to save on petrol, I shall travel no further than 15kms from my house. So please have yumcha sessions in Sri Petaling.
3) Order 5 teh aises (if you’re so smart, you tell me the plural of teh ais), 8 ais kosongs and a pack of ciggies at any yumcha session. It’s just going to be 8 ais kosongs and I’m paoing your ciggies.
4) Delay my quest for a sugar daddy. (Speaking of which, Mr Sugar Daddy told his friends that I was stunning. JACK-FUCKING-POT, MOMMY! If only he’d fucking get his wrinkled ass back from America sooner)

And so if I decline any of your annoying whiny 12 year old girl invitations to activities that cost money, don’t start that annoying whiny 12 year old girl speech about yee hei and friendship and bonding. If I can hold back my laughter every time a friend launches into their teary eyed, emotional love story with the pork butcher, they should be able to accept my love and sacrifice for toys. Understanding is the key, my friend.

Adrian predicts that by the last week of the month, I will be eating sand and begging for spare change from Daryl.

Oh, I also purchased a couple more toys online today. Though it's going to cost me, I finally decided that I needed a Junko Mizuno figure more desperately than sex. Looks like the only one able to attend both the Peter Kruder and Crystal Method gigs will be you, Adrian. Damn all temptation and lack of self-control to the slums of Kajang.

:: Another pointless rambling at 10:50am ::