Stuff I Hate Other than Work #1

“What happened to you? You used to hate a lot of things but now it’s just your job, your job, your job.......” 

I take offense at this! Sure, I’ve been giving work plenty of negative attention lately but there’s still enough hate in my black, shrivelled heart to single-handedly fuel the Middle-East conflict for another thousand years. (Not that I have anything to do with that, mind you).Aww, is someone feeling neglected? Does someone need a fist in the eye? Come here and let mommy punch it better. Mommy hates all her children the same! Fret not, vile things; my hateful interests are still as wide and varied as ever!

A recent night out certainly reminded me that I’m still capable of hating things other than work – things like R&B/Hip-Hop Themed Club Nights in KL. You might be wondering, if I hold such nights with contempt, why turn up in the first place? Alas, alas, in life, you will face a million temptations to obscure, dilute and confuse yourself. These temptations fall under two general headings: boredom and desire for ‘something different’.  

Now, I don’t actually mind some songs that can be loosely categorized in the genre of Hip Hop (uh, I like Jay-Z, does that count? No?) but the crowd usually found at such nights make me want to lose all faith in Humankind, until I remind myself that the crowd doesn’t actually represent Humankind, but rather, a bunch of escaped zoo animals trying to engage in some mating ritual in the wild for the first time, but getting the concept all wrong; having spent the formative years of its life being bottle-fed by a khaki-shorts wearing zookeeper. And then I lose all faith in animals, which I have always held in higher regard to Humankind.

A friend once said that the problem with these nights in KL is that it lacks authenticity. Of course, I don’t think I’m one to judge how authentic such nights are, but there’s certainly something off-base about a bunch of Asian boys calling eachother the “N” word. And also dudes, the RM40 cover charge comes with one free drink, not a Douchebag permit. And why are you walking like you’re packing a gun in your pants? Why are you trying to grind every girl from behind? If you really had a gun in your pants, then what if you accidentally shoot her in the ass? And then there’s the fact that 95% of females found “enjoying” such nights share more or less the same facial expression – something that can be generally categorised as “the bitch face”. Studies have shown that it takes more facial muscles and effort to give good “bitch face” than it does to smile. I don’t like effort. I gots da F in effort, yo. Now, “bitch face” is different than a plain “oh-this world-doesn’t-understand me-frown”. Bitch Face is the art of looking threatening to fellow females, for no reason, while appearing alluring to men, also for no good reason. To understand Bitch Face, please listen to songs such as Brandy & Monica’s “The Boy is Mine” or Lucy Pearl’s “Don’t Mess With My Man” (I can’t give you more current examples, mate) – it is the strong suspicion that every attractive girl is out to stab you in the ovaries and steal your man’s sperm.

Sometimes, good Bitch Face is also given to a person whose Bitch Face is not as good as yours or, to a female who makes for too weak competition for your man’s attention. You see, Bitch Face is often accompanied by outfits designed to intentionally highlight one’s secondary sexual characteristics while perhaps, creating opportunity to inadvertently flash one’s primary ones. If one fails to look this way, one can also be at the receiving end of Bitch Face, even from dudes, as they arrive at such nights expecting their loins to be tickled through their eyes, despite the fact that they themselves look about as attractive as an expired slab of Turkey Ham rolled over by a garbage truck. Twice.  Still, no one likes a Tofu for sale at a Meat Market.  Your failure to match your outfit to your Bitch Face makes you Tofu.

At such nights, you will be frequently played songs that tell you to “get low and get down”. Down where? Downstairs? Oh, I see, you want us to simulate oral sex on the dance floor?  The fact that I’m a bit of a prude aside, I find “gettin’ down” rather taxing on my body as I’ve torn the meniscus in my right knee twice, had it operated on in 2008 and skipped my post-surgery physiotherapy sessions because I was too lazy. My knee cannot take the pressure of my fat ass “gettin’ down”.  My recently-hired personal trainer has advised me against engaging, for the time being, in high-impact exercise, including Running, Jumping Rope, Martial Arts and Gettin’ Down. Of course, when you are not being told to “get down”, there’s always some guest “MC” saying, in a fake accent, “Ay yo, put yo’ hands up, yo’ put yo hands up in da air, yo!” I will oblige your request the first time, but after the 50^th time, it’s only natural that I would start to question the purpose behind this. Have I accidentally walked into a shoot for a deodorant commercial, hmm? Seriously, the guest “MC” at Roots on Saturday night would say every 10 minutes, “Ay yo, ROOOTS, put yo hands up in da air y’all! Put yo hands up!” (And just look at the way the fool is holding his mic, with the bottom facing up) After awhile, I just sort of left my hands up in the air because, heck, he was only going to tell us to put it back up in a few minutes time anyway. Save myself the trouble, I figured.

Next time, I’ll save myself even more trouble by crawling back to the electro-hole which I came from.