.: A little taste of obscurity :.

:: Monday, July 26, 2004 ::

corn rolls and egg rolls

Ah, Ghetto Hood Barbeque Saturday Night. Me and muh peeps, we wuz cruisin’ on the streets o’ Shah Alam yo. See, it wuz Shereen’s big day. Watcha mean who’s Shereen? Oh, right, right, muh bad muh bad, I meant tuh say Sheezy. So we wuz there, all three of us, Romz, A.D. and me, Phat-S. And ya know, everywhere we go, the booze flows.

Romz and me, we wenta pick A.D.’s ass from Zouk and man, and when he got his ass in da Pimp Mobile, the mofo had a fuckin’ glass o’ whiskey in his hand, yo. Mofo said he flicked some chink’s drink. And ya know, Romz and me, we ain’t be givin’ no shit bout stolen shit, so we downed the whizzle, and cruised over tuh Sheezy’s hood.

Sheezy’s dig was da shiznit! Fuckin’ chikin and lamb on da grillz, and J.D. and coke in dem plastic cups, man. Dem hoes were phat AND fat yo. Juz da way black hoes should be – wid dem thick thighs and full asses and short skirts … Too bad I ain’t had much tuh eat, wuz too busy counting dem flabs on dis bitch. Man, dat bitch had so many folds, I swear she was a walkin’ piece o’ origami elephant. Shiiiiet, nigga, dat bitch coulda had A.D. wid a glass o’ milk and Froot Loops for breakfast, man.

And so we wuz rockin’ and chillin’ thru da night, man. Then da booze ran out, and we ain’t about tuh let the buzz die man, so we cruised down tuh my hood fo’ mo’ shit. But before dat, we wuz in Bangsar, cuz we wuz like, gettin’ Moo-Nay’s tight ass tuh get wasted with us, right, and I wuz like “Yo yo yo Moo-Nay, watchu be doin’ girlfriend?” and she wuz like “Nuttin’ bitch, I wuz juz chillin’ wid da Ustaz dude, whassup witchu?” and I wuz like “You be feelin’ like gettin’ wasted and shit?” and she wuz like “Fo’ shizzle muh nizzle!” and I wuz like “Then getcho ass down now, girlfriend!”

And along da way to muh hood, I buzzed muh man, Geeky-D, but his shorty Junky-J said he wuz goin’ for some fuckin’ geeky ass LAN party. Wat da fuck’s up wid dat, yo? He be passin’ up a nite tuh be boozin’ and smokin dat la la la, for a fuckin’ geek fest? Ah fuck dat shiet, mo’ shit fo’ us, then!

Man, muh hood is a fuckin’ Chinatown gangsta hood. And then suddenly ah, I feel damn Chinese lor. When reach my house, I took out my alcohol. Got one bottle of Green label Johnnie Walker, and then got Hennessy also, and Jim Beam and Vor-ka. Wah, like damn a lot like that.

Adrian drink like a fish liddat. Maybe cos he Indian la, Indians vely keng wan. Drink a lot a lot also like nothing like dat, just beat wife later and set her on fire or something. Then Romie hor, fucking high lor, smoke my brudder’s weed, and then want to steal my Indomie somemore. And then Murni like, high high also la, go and say Adrian got white hair. Actually, the white hair on Adrian’s head is my dog’s hair. He went and roll roll on the carpet with my dog so his head got a lot of dog fur lor. Stupid minah.

But me ah, as usual ah, whenever people come my house to drink and smoke, I cannot get high wan. Because I have to cook la, refill ice la, wipe up drinks that spill la, pour drinks la, clean la, make sure no one throw my Daddy’s whisky glasses or my Mummy’s duck ornaments at each other la … vely mafan wan. So I sit there, scold scold them, watch Spongebob and Cops, then laugh with them also la.

Wah, I tell you ah, we all like cock only. Always do shit wan. We damn cool mah. Like Louis Khoo. YEEEEAH! So the night was very fun lor. Still got somemore alcohol leh … there, that Daniel and Justine lor, dowan to come wor, want to play computer wor. So damn tiu.

But nemind la, still damn fun also. Coz we be gangstas fo’ life yo!

:: I wuz juz ramblin’ at 10:30 am yo ::

:: Friday, July 23, 2004 ::

fake plastic trees

So I was at the MC² Recharge seminar yesterday. Usually, I’d rather slowly consume a big bowl of disgusting-looking cow intestines swimming in steaming durian soup served to me by a hairy, greasy, forgetful Mamak dude who makes bad jokes and stares at my cleavage than attend useless Advertising shindigs.

"But Su-Yin, you’re a copywriter! You’re in advertising yourself, how dare you criticize your own industry? Fucking hypocritical bitch, you. Go back to serving coffee at Starbucks to overly rich Arabian men who propose to you when you serve them their Coffee-of-the-Days, you dumb hoe."

I said it once, I said it a million times. When I’m talking, shut the fuck up.

No la, I was just joking. I love it when people interrupt me. It gives me a chance to practice my back hand swing.

As usual Yasmin Ahmad has to grace every damn advertising shindig, from seminars to award shows to dinners to baby showers to Bris Milahs to kinky midget sex orgies to annual leprechaun anal-raping days. If you don’t know who Yasmin is, go to Leo Burnett dressed in drag and tell the receptionist you’re her dad. (S)he is a good at what she does (with the exception of growing nice, plump tits), I must say, but the ass lickers who follow her around obviously haven’t had a GREAT! 32 hit combo Tiger uppercut for quite a while.

Behind me was this scrawny piece of dilapidating flesh dangling on bones disguised as an ugly fuck of a writer.

Ugly fuck: Oh, Yasmin, I thought your speech was excellent!
Flat chest: Oh thank you, it was my speech at Cannes.
Ugly fuck: It was great! In fact, YOU’RE great!
Flat chest: Hahah, so what do you do?
Ugly fuck: I’m a writer …
Flat chest: Oh good, do you like doing what you do?
Ugly fuck: Oh I LOVE it!
Flat chest: Good for you.
Ugly fuck: I LOVE IT!
Flat chest: I think I’ll have some tea.
Ugly fuck: I LOVE IT!
Flat chest: Do you think I should spend Leo Burnett’s profit for this year on breast implants?
Ugly fuck: I LOVE IT!

Or at least I thought that’s how it ended. I tuned out after I turned to my colleague and said “Wow, as usual, there are so many obnoxious annoying little suck-up pricks today!”.

Yet another mass gathering of obnoxious, fake and arrogant people for a mass masturbatory feel-good session. Shindigs which I find myself attending all too often, just to act undignified and crass to annoy the shit out of these fuckers.

The only thing good about yesterday was the public dissing of Account Execs. Hur hur hur. Never underestimate the joy in belittling stupid in-bred whores ready to get on their knees to pull a Plunger Manoeuvre .

"Wait, you just indicated your dislike for obnoxious, fake and arrogant people yet you're acting like one you stumpy whore! How can you be so hypocr--"

How's that for a super keng chau shadowless 45 hit combo drunken pregnant emu with a crowbar back hand swing?

:: Another pointless rambling at 12:02pm ::

:: Tuesday, July 20, 2004 ::

bittersweet

You said to meet at 7:00pm at the café. As usual, she arrived late, but she always had a “reasonable” excuse. Today, she said she was late because of her hair-dryer. Apparently, she took a shower and when she wanted to dry her hair, her hair-dryer refused to work. And you know she has to dry her hair before going out.

She wore a black top, which showed way too much of her cleavage, and a pair of torn blue jeans. An ensemble you hated to see her in, but today you didn’t say a word of it. She pulled a chair and sat directly across you at the coffee table. She ordered a Tall 1 ½ shot skim milk caramel latte with a little caramel drizzle on top; an order you could never remember even if your life depended on it.

I watched as you went on talking about your new job, your new car, your new addictions, your new smiles, your new dance moves, your new jeans, your new loves, your new life. She smiled and nodded every once in a while and performed a perfected laugh of theatrical proportions whenever it was called for. Her eyes stared at you so intently it looked as if she wanted to make a photocopy of your image in her mind.

She tapped her cigarette and watched as its ash fell onto the ashtray on the table. A cold waft of winter breeze brushed against her cheeks as she started talking about her pressuring profession as a writer. I heard her talk about deadlines and seeking inspiration for new material, because I knew you weren’t listening.

You stared at the ashtray and without uttering a single word, you reached into your pocket and fished out a dead puppy. She moved back a little in shock, her eyes fixated on the puppy’s dry, pink skin.

“She was meant to be ours. In our big, bright, white home; with the white walls, floorboards, furniture, curtains, sheets … she was meant to have a little white kennel in the backyard. But I killed it. Suffocated it with my tear-stained pillow,” he said without a single whither of emotion.

She cast her eyes toward the skies and pointed at the moon.

“A friend once told me, that if you stare at the moon too long, you’d go crazy,” she said. Holding back the tears that threatened to moisten her cheeks, she quivered as she sipped her coffee.

“Thanks for being my moon”.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 10:57am ::

:: Monday, July 12, 2004 ::

bumper to bumper

If you live in humid, filthy and polluted Kuala Lumpur that reeks of putrid cabbages in a heap of sweaty socks, you would be quite accustomed to daily traffic jams. This can be quite a bitch, like rabid squirrels gnawing at your privates whilst you’re itching from a rash that never went away after that drunken game of “Connect the Warts on my Pee-pee” with that cross-eyed, cross-dressed, cross-looking midget with a penchant for cross-bred mammals.

Well, if you’re anything like me, you’d have a really short temper and a really cute button nose. Anything from bad weather to Fiat Multiplas to smelly armpits to Hello Kitty to bimboes who listen to Norah Jones and Diana Krall in a feeble attempt to look dignified could easily send you into a fit of uncontrollable rage, causing you to scream obscenities at the young child peering at you through the window of his father’s butt ugly new Honda City and making him cry like his pansy father. Only morons lacking aesthetic discernment and a love for potpourri teddy bears would fucking want to drive the new Honda City. Might as well slap on a tutu and a training bra on him and call him Lulu.

Then again, this post is not about pansy fathers.

It’s about demon motherfucker traffic jams from the steaming ass passage of a fat policeman; and how to deal with them without losing your temper and clubbing the Kancil next to you, on the claims that the “decorative” Pink Panther hanging on its window was “fucking staring at you”.

So, here I present to you, some ways to amuse yourself in a traffic jam (rather than having fun with a lubed up gear stick):

The Beatles – White Album

If any of you have killer music taste, you would have a copy of The White Album. Be it in CD, cassette, MP3, VCD or record (if you do, like my mother, you should pat yourself on your hairy back, puff your chest out and piss on a Creed album, because you fucking rock, you fucking rocker, you, fucker you rocker, rocking fucker you). Just play the first CD and you’re set for a mad groove. Forget a typical car soundtrack by Ludacris or ATB or Linkin Park, this album is tops. It has everything you need for a good time – happiness, melancholy, anger, trippy stuff and pure nonsense. I like to sing along with a full display of emotions and hand gestures. Usually, a shirt-and-tie dork in the next car would cock stare me. This is the best opportunity for me: Still singing, bouncing, and dancing, I wind down my window and sing even louder. They would usually get a shock and quickly turn away. Just this reaction alone is enough to amuse me and make me momentarily forget about that fudge-packer in a taxi who tries to squeeze his vehicle with a squeaky fan belt into every 2 square feet of empty space in alternate lanes on the road. Really, this is the best album, because not only do people get caught off guard that you’re listening to an old skool album, but you also know that they’re secretly dying to dance and sing as gorgeously as you do.

Call Radio Stations

When I decide to listen to Malaysian radio, I’m always reminded of teen romance comedies – they’re tasteless, crap, not funny, disgusting, obscene, retarded, vomit and suicide inducing and makes you want to dress up the all the characters in Barbara Streisand costumes and release them to a mob of old hairy Jewish ladies. “Today’s hit music” is Hitz.fm’s tagline when really, it should be “Today’s elephant’s hurl of last night’s expired fettuccine carbonara made by a disgruntled spinster whose taste buds have been destroyed after giving a blow job to a syphilis-stricken Malaysian minister music”. Anyway, just call them up when they ask for your dedications or votes. Request for something from Squirrel Nut Zippers or Godspeed! You Black Emperor or Meanwhile Back In Communist Russia or Pedro The Lion. After they ask you to repeat the band/song name for about 3 or 4 times and pretend they know what you’re talking about and conclude that they don’t have what you’re asking for, scream obscenities. Tell them they’re useless DJs and threaten to expose their lack of music knowledge. Do it till they hang up so you can call again. In the next call, request for London Bridge (Is Falling Down) or your high school band Kyky Lala’s hit track, “Today’s Biology Lesson’s Dissected Frog’s Ghost Is Eating My Lunch”. After that, call another a Malay or Chinese radio station and do the same.

Act Retarded

If you’re a girl, you’ll be quite used to being greeted by various bad shaped dudes in trucks, lorries, motorbikes or beat up cars. They smile and usually start their greeting with “Ah moi …” or “Leng lui” or “Woo woo woo” followed by a laughter that can only escape the mouths of bad shaped dudes who haggle with the bad shaped transvestite prostitutes at Subang SS15 whose Adam’s apples are bigger than my right tit for a cheap night of role-playing sex. Instead of ignoring them or blasting your music, the next time this cheap display of taunting happens, just raise your arm and start scratching your armpit or picking your nose. Lick your lips sloppily and do a retarded laugh. Wave your arms in the air and sing the national anthem. Do all this unless you actually like the attention from the lower scraps of the male species and you want a quick shag whilst you’re on your way to work/college/mall/dying grandmother’s house.

Annoy a Traffic Weaver

Traffic weavers are those little assholes from the Village of Insufficient Knowledge and Ugly Hunchbacked Gerbils Who Try To Pass Off As Humans; who find an unexplainable joy in pissing off other motorists by weaving in and out of traffic. One moment they’re trying to cut into your lane, the next they’re forcing their vehicles into the gutter in an attempt to skip the line. Fuckers like these usually drive either a Kancil, a Wira in denial which thinks its an Evolution, a beat up scrap of metal, a taxi or a 4-wheel drive. When one of these fuckers tries to push their way in just in front of me, I rev up and accelerate quickly so they can’t get in. Brian my Creative Head usually screams like a little girl, claims I want to kill him and tearfully tells the office later that I’m a road bully whenever he’s in the car and I perform this stunt. But no matter, it feels good to show these fuckers the virtue of sticking to your own lane and lining up like the rest of us good-natured, loving, pleasant drivers. Sometimes, after I accelerate ahead and prevent them from coming in ahead of me, they manage in to get right BEHIND me, just ahead of the poor driver who was busy lighting his cigarette to notice a traffic weaver coming into his lane. Being an Upholder of Justice, I will refuse to budge when the traffic ahead starts to move. Traffic Weaver behind me will naturally honk because they’re impatient and impotent, and this will force me to turn off my engine and turn on my hazard lights, pretending as if my car stalled on me. They will then honk even more, obviously because they’re stupid and think you stopped your vehicle to make a piping hot cup of Latte. Just alight your car and let the fucker know that your car broke down. Say “Sorry ah … my car broke down liao … I think no more petrol” and giggle like a demented bimbo. Once the fucker screams obscenities and forces his way into the next lane, get back in your car, start the engine and start moving. Act oblivious. Trust me, it’s always fun to annoy fuckers.

Read a Fucking Newspaper

I don’t do this, but obviously SOME people do, and apparently, they find it amusing. Sometimes when you’re crawling in a traffic jam and you wonder why the car ahead of you takes forever to shift into the first gear and move 2 inches, only to find that another car has cut into the lane and overtaken him … you’ll find that the idiot is actually reading the papers. Reading the papers. Whilst driving. Now tell me what the fuck is wrong with this picture? Do you really need to be a university graduate to understand the absurdity in this picture? Call me a prude, but when you’re driving, you’re not supposed to be flattening out a gigantic issue of the News Straits Times and reading about the adventures of a murdered prostitute who enjoyed anal sex, you fucking dimwits. It’s fine if you want to sing, dance, call radio stations and act retarded but reading a newspaper whilst driving is hardly amusing for me. Since there are some people who actually enjoy this, just watch out for a flying golf ball headed your way from a psychotic hollering chick in a silver Wira. She may or may not be singing along to Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da.

Fake A Heart Attack

A dramatization of a heart attack is fun and easy to perform. Just clutch onto your chest, heave your chest repeatedly, shake violently and leave your mouth agape. This is very much like a Backstreet Boys or N Sync dance, really. Do this whenever a god-forsaken, leprechaun and ape bred vehicle passes you by. When a concerned driver alights his vehicle and comes up to your car to see if you need help, just pretend to muster enough energy to stutter “Fi … Fi … Fiat … M-m-m-mul … tipla …” or “Pr … Pr … Pro … Proton … J-j-j-juara …” and then fall back into your seat. For maximum effect, roll your eyes and dangle your tongue.

Clubbing A Kancil

On the claims that the “decorative” Pink Panther was “fucking staring at you”. Needs no further explanation.

See? Now you no longer have to lose your temper in another traffic jam. You may arrive work/school/college/the prostitute den a little later than expected, but at least you arrived looking like a Prozac-dependant, and not some decaying matter that escaped the digestive system of a constipated cow.

Have fun driving!

:: Another pointless rambling at 11:48am ::

:: Monday, July 05, 2004 ::

liqour with butterfly wings

Since I’m such a punk and disregard people’s advice on NOT getting an intricately designed tattoo of blue and purple shades, my tattoo has slowly morphed into the free “tattoo” that you get from the flip side of the 10 cent bubblegum you used to buy as a kid. You know, the ones where you splash a little water on the print and stick it onto your forearm for an instant gangsta look to intimidate big fat bullies who hog the swing in kindergarten?

When you’re 23, those tattoos don’t intimidate the swing hoggers anymore.

Feeling dejected and bullied, I decided it was high time I touched up my tattoo. Adrian suggested I go to Zoo BodyArt in Berjaya Times Square, and although Tiger (my gangsta tattooist with a gangsta name and gangsta hoe and gangsta beard and gangsta Filipino slang) quoted a whopping RM400 for my touch up, I agreed, since I decided it was about time I trusted Adrian’s STYLE™ discernment.

I really forgot how much it hurt the last time.

The ever macho Pimpest ran off to do toy-shopping after seeing Tiger put on his surgical gloves. No, she wasn’t scared. Really. Nael and Justine talked cock (Literally. Kindly refer to the post below) with me to drown the buzzing sound of the needles. Tiger even decided to throw in his own cock joke, which Justine and I laughed unappreciated at, much like reading a stupid email “joke” - the type where you have to scroll down for the punch line that comes with an annoying ASCII art of a fat man wolfing down a basket of buffalo wings with BBQ sauce dripping onto his t-shirt whilst a kitten is dying between his thighs. Normally, I would turn around and slap him in the face for wasting my time with a stupid joke, but since my skin was under his tattoo machine, I thought it wise to laugh as hard as the old ladies at church. I withheld from saying “Hallelujah, Praise the Lord, you really should be a comedian, you’re blessed with a funny tongue!” though.

To make things clear, I DIDN’T wince because of the pain. It was because of the crappy pop music that was playing. It was just a coincidence that an Aguilera song came on when Tiger dragged the needles across my spine.

An hour and a half later I was undoing my belt on the way to Starbucks (because it hurt when it grazed my fresh tattoo), much to the dismay of the conservative aunties in the mall. Their eyes seem to say, “What the fuck is this (obviously not virgin) girl with a patch of gauze on her back undoing her belt in public for? How typical of a slutty Malaysian girl! An Arabian man walks past and she undoes her belt. And she’s walking next to a girl with a labret piercing, obviously to heighten oral pleasure. Such sluts … Oh my God, is that NAEL, the QUAKE GOD of Malaysia??!”

Anyways, to quell the pain, I went with Pimpest, Adrian and Murni for some Alcohol Therapy at Bangsar. I think I finally understand why friends invite me out for clubbing sessions. They enjoy watching me get picked up by random desperate men. If ever any of you are out clubbing in KL, and you hear loud laughs and jeers from a group of people, it’s definitely my friends laughing at me getting picked up by God’s mistakes.

Heard Melvin was back in town and I slipped out of BarFlam for about 10 minutes to meet him at La Bodega. Apparently there was a blogger’s meet, or something or rather, and I was finally introduced to the guy who stuck his tongue out in a class photo when he was 16. I think I should’ve mentioned to the rest of them that I, the great Su-Yin, am actually admired by QUAKE GOD NAEL, so PH33R M3 G33K5 1 0WNZ J00!, because they didn’t seem to give a flying cow’s testicle about ‘the chick who writes crap on her blog’. Is it because I’m BLACK, you racist motherfuckers? May the ghost of a quiet inner Mongolian chap with dry lips and a foot that looks like Jay Leno haunt you whilst you’re masturbating!

Yes, the damn tattoo still hurts, as much as a 5 year old watching his pre-school teacher getting fucked by the Purple Teletubby whilst she’s rubbing her nipples with said teletubby’s red handbag. Okay, maybe it hurts much less than that.

Damn, a post admitting that my touch-up hurts and stumbling into a blogger's meet. How fucking geeky. I won't be surprised if I wake up one day with a Microsoft Windows logo tattoo on my forehead. UB3R 1337!

:: Another pointless rambling at 10:30am ::