.: A little taste of obscurity :.

:: Wednesday, September 29, 2004 ::

an ode to adrian

Walking around aimlessly in mid '99
Minding my business, biding my time
Sun beating down on my sweaty skin
My jiggling fats causing quite a scene

I remember stopping mid-track
But it wasn’t because of a lamb rack
It was him I remember clearly
Wearing the same Korn t-shirt I loved so dearly

Of course on him it looked wow!
But on me I looked like a cow
That's how I first noticed him and his mane
So embarrassed I never wore it again

Fast forward and we're in Canberra
Chugging down bottles everything's a blur
Whisky and bourbon, turpentine and bleach
Anything intoxicating was never out of reach

Oh yea he was the one who started me on bloggin'
Because my rambling was too much for his noggin
Especially on cold wintry nights
Listening to me was just not right

Stalker Magnet, Stupid Bitch and Chubby Hoe
The names he calls me affectionately so
Useless Drunkard Sampah Keling Bastard
With a mouthful of alcohol happily I blurt

On days we’re not busy hurling insults and getting drunk
We’re buying toys and figures because we gots da funk
All for watching anime and Spongebob Squarepants
I swear now everyone is following the trend

Hardcore and macho, funky and cool
Never abiding to no goddamn rule
Ladies I assure you, he's quite a pick
Cos he’s got a pink-tipped porn star dick

Thanks heaps for the new layout mate
I reckon you design best in a 'Moo-deprived' state
I know you expect me to ramble about my "date" last night
Too bad dude, this blog entry serves you right!

:: Another pointless rambling at 4:26pm ::

:: Wednesday, September 22, 2004 ::

the truth on a damp Tuesday morning

Note: Listen to 'Gabriel' by Lamb for the ambience.

As with every morning, she brushed her hair in front of the mirror. Her long wavy hair refused to stay in place, quite like most of the things in her room. One quick glance around her room and you would’ve spotted CDs without its covers, pieces of paper with scribbles on them and plush toys with a smile so forced one immediately knew its owner had forgotten about them.

She wasn’t a very pretty girl. In fact, she had no attractive features at all, but somehow, the face that framed all her features made her attractive. As singular features, they expressed nothing. But when held together, there was just something that made her attractive.

Something.

But she never believed me. She deemed her reflection in the mirror to possess an overall plainness, sometimes ugliness even. "At least I have a great personality", she would always say.

I suppose she was never really happy.

As usual, I found myself waiting for her to get ready to leave the house. Her usual routine consists of trying on five different outfits before settling for her first choice, and just before she stepped out of her room, she would take it all off and put on a totally different outfit altogether. This happened every morning.

She was changing into her sixth outfit when suddenly, a soft chirp of a bird broke her course of action. She looked over her shoulder and saw a purple sparrow perched on her windowsill. She watched as it stared back at her.

This staring competition went on for a good five minutes.

As if it wanted to break the awkwardness of the situation, it suddenly began to sing a tune.

It started off quite softly at first, but slowly it led to a crescendo so moving, her mind refused to think anymore. A tune so beautiful, you would be convinced it was the thread that held the seams of a thousand dreams together.

Her soft breaths clung onto the air as she stood there motionless with her eyes closed, the sound of her heartbeats accompanying the purple sparrow’s song. Her soul and the sparrow’s tune were juxtaposed in a time and place that didn’t matter. All that did matter was that they were there.

Then suddenly the sparrow stopped singing and immediately her eyes opened wide, as if they had practiced the synchronized act earlier. And then she began laughing.

A loud, hearty, bellowing laughter escaped from the depths of her stomach, like a demon was being released from her. Her laughter bounced off the walls and echoed endlessly throughout the room, creating a masterpiece of never ending harmonious splendor.

Still caught between a cross fire of laughs, she smiled to herself as she started to leave the house. I watched as she happily slung her bag over her shoulder and waved goodbye to the sparrow. The sparrow chirped twice before it flew away into the morning.

That was the first of many mornings she waited patiently for the purple sparrow to arrive at her windowsill and sing the source of her happiness before she left the house.

Finally, on a damp Tuesday morning, the purple sparrow failed to perform its unofficial duty. The mid-day sun was rising to position and she began to worry. Where was the purple sparrow? Did it forget to set its tiny alarm and overslept? Did it fall sick? Or worse still, did it get killed by a cat?

She refused to entertain those awful thoughts but the tears meandered across her cheeks anyway. Why didn’t it come to sing its song like it had been doing for the past 18 mornings?

That day she walked out of her house looking like a million shattered dreams. I tried to comfort her, giving her a dozen different possible reasons for the sparrow’s absence. But she refused to listen and started accusing me of scaring it away. This of course, irked me beyond belief, because not only was she upset over a bird, but she was blaming me for its disappearance! She should be upset at herself for waiting for a bird to sing a song before she could leave the house every damned morning.

"It’s just a bird. It came to sing for you a couple of weeks, and now it’s gone. Big fucking deal. You don’t need a weird purple bird to make you happy!" I yelled.

She stared at the floor and slowly began to sing softly.

"I can fly,
But I want his wings.
I can shine even in the darkness,
But I crave the light that he brings.
Revel in the songs that he sings,
My angel Gabriel ..."

Her voice trailed off and drowned in the noise on the streets, as I walked silently beside her. The sounds of her footsteps seemed uncertain yet forced. She looked up at me, tears at the edge of spilling, and mustered enough energy to whisper in a broken voice, "I’ve lost my happiness".

I had to break the awful truth to her.

"You cannot lose something, that you’ve never had".

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 2:47am ::

:: Monday, September 20, 2004 ::

third time unlucky

Another fucking birthday bash/drunken orgy/stupidity fest.

I’d like to write about Sue-Ann’s birthday bash last Saturday, but I can’t remember half of it. Some people claim that alcohol fucks with your brains and distorts your rationality and memory, but I think its all codswallop m’dear, because I’m a dodgy Chinese hoe who thinks she’s a swanky British lady who enjoys sipping on a fine glass of Cabernet Sauvignon to complement the breathtaking beauty of the Kew Gardens on a fine summer’s afternoon.

See? I talk cock even when I’m sober, so the alcohol has nothing to do with my rubbish behaviour.

This is what I DO remember of Saturday though:

1. Taking Sue-Ann to a surprise spa treat at Sri Hartamas in the afternoon where she traumatized the masseuse by stripping down to NOTHING. Yes, completely in the nude. Poor masseuse bitch shrieked when Sue-Ann opened her legs. I know I paid quite a bit for that spa treatment, but that doesn’t mean you can traumatize the poor employees there, stupid blur hoe. Paper panties are provided for a reason, not for you to gawk at its amazing ingenuity and usage.

2. Throwing her a surprise barbeque high-tea/dinner/beer frenzy with some close friends. As usual, the food was fucking good, because Queen Iron Chef Su-Yin was responsible for it. Of course, loyal minions Lishia, Romz and Nael also helped with the grocery shopping, preparations and staying the fuck away from me when I got stressed trying to get things done on time. Best bit was when Tubs, Romz, Nael and Derras threw the struggling Sue-Ann face down into the pool. And the same gang throwing me into the pool next, whilst apologizing profusely because for some inane reason, they were scared of me. In fact, Nael was so terrified of the probability of me getting pissed off for being thrown into the pool that he pulled out of the plan and let the rest do it whilst he stood furthest away from the action. Aw c’mon, I’m not THAT scary. But if you guys try that shit again when I don’t happen to have a spare change of clothes, I’ll de-skin you fuckers and make clothes out of your skin.

3. Kit’s god-awful obscene pair of torn jeans that looked as if he bumped into a gang of wild dogs feasting on a mangled body of a writhing homeless bum who suffers from delusion and thought he was a dog and decided to chill with his dawgs (haha I’m so funny) but ended up getting attacked by them because his jiggly ass from the over consumption of card board boxes was too tempting for the animals.

4. The pre-clubbing-drinking-session at Romz’s house where we watched a programme on animals attacking humans, where I understood how Kit’s jeans came to be how it was. Justine winced every 2 seconds but she’s a sadist so she didn’t even budge from her seat and had her eyes glued to the TV. I caught her giggling a few times too.

5. Driving the 1.8 Turbo A4 to Zouk like a cheap whore who’s willing to sell her mind, body and soul for a killer car and alcohol. I swear I smelt urine in the car when I started weaving in and out of lanes like a sweet-natured village girl who weaves baskets for a living and sweeping corners like a highly paid cleaner in a posh 5-star hotel. Oh how I love multiple orgasms.

6. 10 shots of Sex on the Beach in a row, countless glasses of Black Label and coke, random glasses of Chivas and coke, a few more shots of Sex on the Beach, a couple of beers and a glass of wine. Apparently I had a shot of tequila but that’s what people tell me, I just don’t remember and therefore cannot prove such claims.

7. Sue-Ann calling Ming asking him to haul his ass over to Velvet. She told him repeatedly that she’s drunk and blamed me for getting her drunk then passed the phone to me. I tried so goddamn hard to act sober and crack a few jokes. I knew he was laughing a lot, but I don’t know if my jokes were funny or I was talking cock in that state. Ohgoddammitmahaicibaikaniniabulanciao I hope I didn’t make a fool of myself. But then again, a drunken Su-Yin is an unintelligent Su-Yin … so he must’ve thought I had an extra chromosome or something. It’s stupid alcohol-induced things (according to Adrian, it’s also the spilling tits) like these that render me hot and desirable in Weird Stalker Land. So slap me repeatedly the next time I ask why I only attract weird stalkers instead of hot guys.

That’s about what I remember. Most of what happened at Velvet Underground I cannot remember, different people tell me different stories and I vaguely remember bits of the later part of the night. If the stories were true, I snogged a mate, clung onto a furry man beast, talked cock with a stranger, pulled my colleague’s hoe (whom I met for the first time that night) onto the podium with me, attracted the fancy of a couple of Zouk staff, talked in my trademark drunk baby Doraemon voice, hobbled whilst rushing Sue-Ann to the toilet to puke, had an ice spit ball battle with Adrian (and drenched Lishia instead) and tore Nael’s P sticker off the windscreen.

It’s as if it were MY birthday.

Happy Birthday Blurbabe you old cow. Hope you were truly surprised and enjoyed indulging in your lesbian tendencies at the spa, along with the wet barbeque and obscene clubbing.

That’s it, fucking hell. No more fucking birthday bashes. My liver, purse and dignity have shrivelled up and died. So fuck alla yous, no more parties. Anymore September babies, delay your celebrations.

Or just tempt me with free alcohol and hot guys.

:: Another pointless rambling at 4:48pm ::

:: Monday, September 13, 2004 ::

kit’s new shirt

Last Saturday, like most of my Saturdays recently, was a night my friends and I ceremoniously worshipped Debauchery, the greek god of alcohol and parties. Only this time, it was a surprise bash in celebration of my birthday (or just a fucking lame excuse to drink), that wasn’t quite a surprise, because there actually are valid reasons my minions make me Head Planner of Meetings/Parties/Dinners/Midget Orgies/Circumcision Sessions/Anti-Avril Lavigne Rallies.

They stutter and look stupid when they lie. And they don’t make the other guests keep the surprise a secret by continuously threatening to beat them up into a bleeding, spasming lump mass of sorry ass, like I usually do whilst wielding a steel pipe and drooling like a rabid dog.

Nevertheless, I shall stop trying to act macho and admit that I was indeed touched. Touched like a cheap whore shipwrecked on an island of sex deprived male accountants who have grown tired of fucking carefully carved holes in random fruits and have already started to resort to fucking each other’s asses.

Actually, it still was a surprise. I’m surprised people still love me and voluntarily want to celebrate my birthday. Hell, people like me should thank God for everyday I’m alive and not stoned to death or mauled until I’m paraplegic by a 10-tonne lorry carrying Jessica Simpson and her sister Ashit Simpson.

I had a good chunk of sirloin at Outback Steakhouse in Bangsar. Oh the wonderful zing of mustard slathered on a chunk of steak is so ecstatic I swear Nael must’ve felt turned on sitting next to me. Oh wait, I think it was my cleavage. Or that fat bitch with an ass so huge I swear I heard a kid yelling for help in between her butt cheeks, since he’s an ass man.

Good food and good company, too bad the service sucked big black hairy dick. If you’re anything like me, and usually have her food served with a dollop of warm, bubbly, slimy, frothy translucent liquid after some verbal samurai with the waiters, you wouldn’t want to eat there.

Then we rushed off to Velvet Underground at Zouk to assault our liver and intelligence with 4 bottles of Black Label and 40 shots of Sex On The Beach. Highlights of the night:

1. Sue-Ann, Adrian and Lishia taking turns to aim and throw ice into my cleavage.
2. Shaun, Nicholas, Darren and Andrew being introduced to obscene amounts of alcohol for the first time and dancing like that flat faced kid with the extra chromosome on the ‘heart-warming’ series Life Goes On.
3. Pakistani Men Whore Lishia suddenly morphing into Skinny Man Whore Lishia by clinging on to 23-inch waist Nael the whole night.
4. Kit’s new shirt, the first item of clothing he’s purchased since reaching puberty.
5. Ninie’s boobs which defied gravity and touched her chin when she sucked in her chest.
6. Murni not having the urge to eat.
7. Sue-Ann telling us that Kit has a nice cock. These are times we wish we were deaf and have to resort to selling mutated stuffed toys at obscene prices to patrons at the mamak.
8. Ming and Romz doing some freakish metro-homosexual pseudo shuffle.
9. Daryl impersonating Sausage Lips Boy’s visually assaulting dance moves.
10. Tubby allowing drunkard Sue-Ann drive his car and flattening out the curbs.
11. Ming, just because he’s funny, witty, funky AND hot. I swear Sue-Ann must’ve paid an hourly rate to haul his ass over.

I had a fucking good time, you fucking drunkards, and if I fucking died that night, I would’ve fucking died happy and fulfilled, like a mangled carcass of a possum, which died of ecstasy after a raunchy steamy 6-way sex orgy with hot chick possums, and later having its rigor mortis bits pecked on by gorgeous female vultures with heavy bosoms. (That’s how I churn emo statements whilst still trying to act hardcore and cool, the great copywriter that I am with a vast knowledge of words)

Thanks everyone for all the alcohol and random stupidity and obscene scenes and mad fun. I doubt most of you will read this, but hey, if you ever get struck by a bout of vanity and google your name up, (like one such fame whore designer *ahem* *ahem*) you’ll see that I actually like all of you and might actually considering exchanging a pack of ciggies for your life, should you ever have your neck in the hands of a psychotic fork wielding, obsessive compulsive stabber suffering from nicotine withdrawals.

Mad mates, steak, heaps of alcohol, music, dance, stupidity, obscene scenes, Xena-style hollering, crappy jokes, Kit’s new shirt, juvenile stunts, young boys dancing like midgets suffering from constipation, successfully avoiding furry man meat stalker, the absence of disgusting mouth vacuuming manouevres, siew yoke noodles and an attractive guy to send me home … the amount of good shit that happened, I’m expecting some bad ass karmic balancing ill luck to befall on me soon.

If you don’t hear from me, take a stroll down to Kotaraya and look for a disfigured paraplegic belting out a synthesizer version of Avril Lavigne’s ‘hit’ tune and laugh at her misfortune. Try not to remind her of her age, as she might get emo and run (or wheel in paraplegic style) amok and throw her faeces at you. You might also want to spare her 20cents so she can visit the public toilet every once in a while.

Till I hit rock bottom, thank you and I love all you fuckers to bits.

:: Another pointless yet ‘heart-warming’ rambling at 10:39am ::

:: Monday, September 06, 2004 ::

so. fucking. hot.

Updates have been scarce; I apologize to the racist homosexual hairy hideously deformed midgets who use Spicy Curried Onion variant of deodorant still reading this s(h)ite. Other than stunning clients and consumers alike with mind-altering, shape-shifting, gender-changing copy that also introduces heterosexuality and modesty in the advertising industry … nothing much has changed. Of course, for the Tits of Fury this just means I’ve been getting drunk, talking cock, acting stupid, playing pool, watching cartoons, driving recklessly, losing my temper for unjustified reasons and losing random objects in my ravenous cleavage daily.

Okay, I was just joking … about the “driving recklessly” bit. I swear that curb wasn’t there before. Fucking nocturnal leprechauns playing hide and seek with the curbs whilst I’m drunk. Goddamn mahais.

Romz's ahem* twenty *choke* *sputter* fif--- *cough* birthday was over the weekend, and naturally drinking like fucking alcohol sluts was the only way to celebrate it. Friday night was a house party at Romz’s place and I’m still traumatized from the making out/suction/moaning/soft porn/fucking disgusting horny high school kids staying back for extra biology lessons-type sounds coming from under the covers. At least this time it didn’t involve a tubby bastard vacuuming Sue-Ann. Oh by the hairy pits of Zeus slathered with musky male cologne that makes it smell oh so fresh I still remember that incident.

Saturday saw me cooking like it was my son’s wedding at Romz’s place. Just complained that my Nasi Lemak wasn’t “authentic” because it didn’t have ikan bilis, but pigged out on it anyways, because daym, beetch, you fucking better recognize that my cooking is the fuckin’ shiznit yo’. Romz wants me to clarify that she won the Bermuda Triangle Gut Championship Title from Murni, but I say Kit is more deserving of it. The fucker lapped up two huge plates that could feed a medium-sized Ethiopian village. And the domestic animals that stray around there as well.

And then we rushed off to Zouk’s Velvet Underground because a birthday party is not a birthday party without alcohol, dancing, molesting and random stupidity. When the drinks started flowing, so did our sanity into the porcelain toilet bowls floating amidst bits of ayam masak merah and kangkung sedap belaka resipi istimewa Su-Yin, lagi sedap kalau dicicah dengan kari ayam tanpa serbuk kari ala Ali Pakistani.

Rockin’ Grandfather Nael was perfecting his kung-fu moves on the dance floor, whilst Handbag Locker Justine sat quietly, deep down inside she was ecstatic that the front office didn’t ask for her I.D. Giggly Bob and Bouncy Looch a.k.a. Sweetest Gay Couple of the Month were just being um, well, gay. Evil Eye Kit and Pakistani Men Whore Lishia challenged each other to a Dance to the Death battle. Meanwhile, Drunkard Keling Adrian played good host of the night and rewarded his own good work with heaps of whisky guzzling and Spinning Murni ass groping, as Tipsy Fluttering Romz played ‘Let’s Flirt Like They Do On TV’ with Men Magnet Wei Yein. And where were Alcohol Whore Su-Yin and Turbo Slut Sue-Ann during all this debauchery? Well she was entertaining Jungle Boy Dylan whilst I was forcing drinks down Conceptual Architect Ming.

I swear I had to physically stop myself from tying up and sending him to a Genetics Lab to have him cloned multiple times over to build an army of cute men that will propagate and eventually stop the breeding of aesthetically challenged humans so we never have to suffer from visual assault again.

And no, I did not get any post-clubbing action. He’s decent, funny and likeable (oh did I forget to mention that he’s cute?), therefore way out of my league as I’m an alcoholic loud mouthed hoe whose idea of a good time is watching 5 hours worth of new Spongebob Squarepants episodes whilst caressing my Gloomy Bear plush. Back to attracting weird ass stalkers from around the globe I suppose. Yay.

Happy Birthday again Romz you old bag. Thanks for all the fun!

:: Another pointless rambling at 2:29am ::