.: A little taste of obscurity :.

:: Friday, November 26, 2004 ::

kutabare got naeled

And so the drama continues. We've all been voyeurs for more than two years; we laughed at their miseries, scowled at their mistakes, rolled our eyes at the pictures of them holding hands, shook our heads at their immorality, basked in joy at their quarrels. When the drama spits out a twist, we're the first to sit upright, concentrate and spew a slur of comments.

But when it's all perfect and happy we don't even bother drooling over the succulent char-grilled lamb rack served with a tantalizing mint sauce they had for lunch.

Brilliant script, rivetting story line and talented actors. No wonder the audience couldn't get enough of it. You will either love or hate the characters, but you'll be a fan of the series nevertheless. Every person had their own opinions and nobody wasted any time to share them. New comers to the series had to judge the characters based on other people's judgments.

"Now, THIS is Reality TV" you say.

Fuck all of you. This is the best damn drama you''ve seen in years. This was the same stuff that propelled the sales of television sets, along the likes of M*A*S*H, Dallas, Dynasty, The Love Boat, Cheers and even the A-Team.

Everything is staged and performed to stir emotions in the hearts of the audience. And after two years of acting, its no surprise they're tired. So stop prodding them with your bony fingers, hoping to irk them so that they will perform a dramatized fight scene for you. Stop selling made up stories about them to a tabloid magazine to urge them to insert a twist to their plot.

If only all of you will stop dipping your thumbs into various anuses, maybe you would have some time to realize that what you see on television is NOT real. Maybe then you dimwits will know that the characters you see on television behave the way they do because you want them to. You mould and control them the way to your satisfaction, then snide at what they've become. You fuckers need to grow up and stop playing with dolls.

I don't care what they do behind the scenes or behind the wheels. I don't care who they slept with or which position they like best. I don't care what they did two years ago or two blog addresses ago. I don't give a flying fuck which girl he hurt and which girl she wanted to hurt.

However, I do care that they ate all the food I cooked and the stories I served. I care that they enjoyed funny jokes and traumatizing me by spanking each other's asses in front of me. I care that they reassured me of the painlessness in tongue piercings and I in turn reassured them of the painlessness in alcohol overdose. I will fucking care to remember the fact that they sat by me for a whole 90 minutes, talking to me whilst I was getting my butterfly tattoo touched up.

To me, he isn't a "Horny Serial Cyber Rapist" and she isn't an "Immature Bitter Wannabe Punk". To me, they're friends, who can do whatever they fucking want with their lives as long as they don't hurt/annoy me or steal from my alcohol stash. To me, they're Daniel and Justine.

Leave the actors to rest already.Go watch Ashlee Simpson make a fool of herself on her stupid MTV series or vote off some motherfucker on the latest Reality TV series "The Best Toll Money Collector To Love".

:: Another pointless rambling at 10:51am ::

:: Wednesday, November 17, 2004 ::

to slack and sever

When I was younger, I used to think that the police were in charge of protecting and serving the country. Now that I’m older, I’ve transformed into a sexually active, fully busted woman with an exquisite taste for fine tobacco and matured whisky and my opinions on the police have changed.

You’re still stuck at ‘fully busted woman’ right?

Anyway, back to the topic.

Yes my breasts are quite full these days.

So I was at the police station a couple of days back. A friend of mine was assaulted by her ex who attempted to rape her, and after the initial ‘come let’s go smash the fucker’s face in’ talks, the 9-pound chain in a hand bag and the brutal knockings (on the fucker’s door), we decided to just make a police report. I suppose the ‘artistic egg pelting on the door’ idea was just too juvenile.

It’s no fun when the fucker ain’t home.

We were at the police station about a half hour later, when we woke the police up from their slumber. It’s quite understandable for the police to take a breather during the Muslim festive season, y’know, since it gets quite slow during this time of the year. I mean, people are out of their houses for days, vacationing in some far off village wolfing down chunks of freshly steamed ketupat served with a dollop of fiery beef rendang. I don’t think robbers would even think of robbing the houses of people suffering from diarrhea hundreds of miles away.

Women are out on the streets, with heaps of cash to spend on thick red curtains with gold trimmings to complement their gaudy Persian carpets which render them incapable of thinking about the safety of their handbags. I don’t think snatch thieves would want to snatch fat women’s cash-laden handbags, snatch thieves being the good-natured, religious people that they are.

Young boys and girls are running all over the neighbourhood, far from their parent’s watchful eyes, playing with fireworks that I hope will blast off their limbs for causing so much useless noise pollution and playing stupid games like Let’s Dart In Front Of Unsuspecting Vehicles Causing Them To Swerve Into A Ditch Or Tree. No way in hell would a pedophile kidnap these kids and force them into sexual slavery during this holy month.

The police truly deserve to rest during this month, after all, they work like fucking slaves during the rest of the year. It’s a fucking tough job being a cop, what would people sitting in their air-conditioned offices all day long know? All we know is we have to pay taxes for these hard working individuals, but do we know of their hardship? It’s not easy going out everyday, getting free meals and drinks from restaurants, collecting bribes from drivers going 5 km/ph over the speed limit and taunting transsexuals and prostitutes.

So the next time you are coerced into giving a bribe to a cop for parking at an illegal zone, say “Thank you, Mr. Policeman, for a job well done!”

Anyways, after the police blearily came to the front desk, we told them our predicament. My friend got assaulted by her dude after she refused to have sex with him, these are the bruises, yeah he hit her repeatedly, yeah he’s insane, yeah and so we think its best if she made a police report to settle everything and get his ass deported back to his home country. And the copper in charge told us that we have to go to the main headquarters to make the report.

(This conversation was fully in Malay, as one of the conditions to be a policeman in Malaysia is to fail English)

Sue: Okay, uh, so we’ll go to the headquarters now and make the report there?
Policeman NoSpeeka TheEngleesh: Um, no you can’t. It’s closed now, so you have to go in the morning … let’s see … about 10 or 11am when they open.
Sue: Huh? So we’ll have to wait till then?
Policeman NT: Yeah.
Sue: B-but …
Gangsta Friend: Nevermind, Sue, don’t argue, wait till morning.
Assaulted Friend: (Puts on dramatic Oscar-winning performance for Best Actress in a Spontaneous Melancholic Performance) Yeah…
Sue: No, no, wait. Sir, if I get raped at about 2am, are you telling me that I’m supposed to sit at home until 11am, which would have distorted the evidence, so that I can make a police report?
Policeman NT: Hmm … you've got a point!

And then the copper proceeds to make a few phone calls to find out what he’s supposed to do. Too bad they don’t have Police Manuals for them to refer to. Meanwhile, another copper comes up to me to talk about my tattoo. (I’ve recently added some celtic waves on the right and left sides of my butterfly, making my tattoo about 12 inches across my lower back)

Policeman Ifear Sue: Wah … did that hurt?
Sue: Yeah, it did.
Policeman IS: Wow, it’s really big. How long did it take to make?
Sue: Altogether, nearly three hours.
Policeman IS: Three hours of pain?! How can you stand that? You’re brave.
Sue: Ah well … you should be used to pain anyways, you’re a policeman!
Policeman IS: Yeah, but, for policemen, the only pain we get is when we fall off our motorbikes.

Fuck you naïve people if you think policemen have to go through strenuous training or gun shots through the arm or steel pipes against their ribs that would make them comfortable in the World of Pain.

And these are the people hired to protect our asses.

From now on, I’m only calling gangstas in times of trouble. And I’m going to implant a stun gun in my shoe.

:: Another pointless rambling at 10:58am ::

:: Monday, November 08, 2004 ::

hetero metro is bullshitro

These days, every movie you watch, every advertisement you see, every MTV you gaze at, every club you drown yourself in alcohol in, every Toyota Altis/Honda Accord/Proton Waja you overtake, every café you engage in pretentious conversation over a Tall 1 ½ shot Caramel Low-Fat Latte, you’ll have the unfortunate chance to encounter the new-type species known as ‘Metrosexuals’.

Metrosexuals. What an extremely fucking fancy name for a pansy. Fancy Pansy. They scare the ovaries in my womb to oblivion and threaten the possibility of a generation of Tits of Furies by wearing crisp ironed shirts that cost more than the price of a private island in the enchanted seas of Europe, leather shoes made with the hide of cows fed with organic grains and made to enjoy classical music in their days before the slaughterhouse, pre-faded and tattered jeans that cling onto their ass tighter than a crack-dependant whore on the arms of a rich old Columbian drug lord, and a 300 dollar tie that, according to the catalogue, ‘adds a touch of class to your status and finesse to your attire with this strikingly attractive tie, available in 3 distinctive colours: Sunset Splash, Cyber Confusion and Languid Lily’.

What the fuck tiu nei ah ma ge chow ma lao ge far hai cibai ham kar chan hor lang kan pukimak berkudis yatt meh pu nia bor bastard son of a hairy goat who fucked your uncle with a splintered broom of a horny virgin witch.

WHY???

Why are men becoming such pansies these days? What ever happened to the days when men were, well, MEN? You know, in case all you pansies forgot, the days when men

1. Played football instead of just watching the game in some stupid café decked in your favourite team’s jersey smelling of Fresh Lilac washing detergent

2. Buffed themselves up because they wanted to be strong and not allow anyone to bully them, not to get a tighter ass. All this without a gym membership.

3. Understood the meaning of the phrase ‘yee hei’, which means they wouldn’t go around touching their friend’s girlfriends, and come to a friend’s rescue even though you’re ‘already in your pajamas and reading a book’.

4. Protected a woman’s dignity. If some bastard calls your girlfriend a slut, you rearrange his face and turn him into a cripple, not say “Oh yeah, well your sister’s got a pizza face!” and later tell your girlfriend “Don’t let it get to you, honey, he’s just immature.”

5. Knew how to change a flat tire or at least jump start a dead car battery, not ask me “Eh, the positive point joins with the positive or the negative ah?”.

6. Could build a cabinet with a few planks of unfinished wood and nails, not spend hours in Ikea during the weekends deciding which cabinet best describes their personality.

7. Spent hours talking about cars, sports and laughing at random people, not talking about fashion, photography and the latest compact sized gadget with funky blue lights and the capability of buffing your nails whilst you surf the internet.

8. Took less than 10 minutes to get ready to go out, including a shower. They don’t have to cleanse, tone, moisturize, triple shave, scrub, sculpt every strand of hair with hair-clay, try on 6 different outfits before deciding on which best describes the mood their in that moment, pick appropriate accessories to complement their outfit, decide on which pair of shoes matches their outfit and douse themselves in the latest cologne with an advertising campaign that centers around a buffed up topless male model. All this with some chillout/jazz/dance music playing in the background.

9. Had 3 categories for their footwear: Casual, Sports and Special Occasions. Metrosexuals instead, have these categories: Clubbing, Cafe, Driving, Work, Shopping, Beach, Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, Home, Barbeque, House Party, Presentation, Movie, Fashion Shows, Award Shows, Walking, Gym, Reading, Bad Mood, Happy Day, Angry Angry Me and You-know-what-they-say-about-men-with-big-feet.

10. Respected and loved women for everything that they were. Not desire to BE everything that women are.

Look, men should be men and women be women. Enough of the feminist bullshit, I’m tired of that drivel. Sure, a man should learn to understand, respect and love women but it gets a lot too far when they yearn to be one. Why can’t we just appreciate our gender differences? It’s the differences that make us special and draws us together, numbnuts. I wouldn’t fall in love with you because you adore aromatherapy.

I don’t need a man who showers me with chocolates and puts on a Sarah McLachlan CD when I’m suffering from PMS. I want him to fear me and quietly watch TV while I’m flinging things around the house.

I don’t need a man who remembers every damn birthday and anniversary. The only dates he should remember is when to change the engine oil or when is Manchester United playing against Arsenal or when the latest Velvet Revolver album is coming out. He should conveniently forget my birthday so that I can remind him on the day itself and guilt-ridden, he shall purchase an expensive gift to make up for his forgetfulness.

I don’t need a man who spends half a day getting ready. I need a man who will take 10 minutes to get ready and warm up the engine whilst I’m taking my time putting on make-up.

I don’t need a man who spends 15 minutes reading a fucking menu, and then taking another 15 to decide what to have for as an appetizer, main meal, dessert and what to drink. He should just order a bloody (literally) steak and a beer. If he wants appetizers, it should either be Buffalo wings, onion rings, nachos or anything with bacon. Dessert is more alcohol. And I’ll fucking stab his thighs with my salad fork if he knows how to pronounce the word ‘Niçoise”.

I don’t need a man who cannot defend me. This is not to say that I’m weak, but hey, it’s actually quite a task for me to push some bastard around and maintain my balance in my 4 inch stiletto heels, okay? Especially when I’m tipsy.

And really, I don’t need a man who shares my beauty products, because fuck, it’s not CHEAP, okay?

I’m all for gender equality but not gender similarity. So please, quit wishing for some ovaries and embrace your goddamn testicles. Unless you are a femme homosexual man, stop talking to me about Mac’s latest Lipglass range, or I will puncture your sexual organs so technically, you can’t label yourself ‘Metrosexual’ anymore.

You’ll just be ‘Metro’.

:: Another pointless rambling at 12:20am ::