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. 

People in Boxes: Someone said I wasn't Malay-Malay and Esquire called Jay-Z "Black Black". So what race-race are we?

“Hi there, my friends and I, over at that table, you see that table over there? Yes, we have a bet going on...........We were wondering whether you could help us out. Actually, I think you certainly can......”

Oh great. No. Whatever it is you have to say. No. It was a little after lunchtime on a Saturday and I was in Mont Kiara, having pasta and coffee with an old friend. We were talking about the very interesting subject of my bladder. Yes. Something about it being either the size of Texas or made out of double reinforced steel or both. And how my friend’s bladder is the size of a pea and made out of tissue paper. Yes, zexxxy. My friend needed to run off to the ladies and pee again. The woman needs to wear a diaper, I tell you.

And the moment my friend left, Mr. Bet #1 came over. His face was flushed red and greasy from the afternoon’s heat. His belly wobbled like 100 pounds of pure gelatine placed on top of an old washing machine. He was old too. “So, we’ve been looking at you, right... and one friend of mine bet a 100 ringgit that you’re Japanese, I’m pretty sure that you’re Chinese and another friend claims that you’re of uncertain mixed parentage. Help us out, here. What are you?”

What am I? What I am is annoyed. If you want to place bets and gamble, ask someone to point you to the nearest authorized 4D counter. Or what about Genting Highlands? Do I look like a Vegas crap table to you? A deck of cards? Woohoo black jack!

My friend returned with a relieved bladder and a dude-who-the-fuck-is-this-guy look on her face.

“And what about you?” Mr Bet #1 asked my friend, “Are you Chinese? Pilipino?”

“Malaysian,” my friend answered with one raised eyebrow.

“Do you girls want to join us for a drink?” he asked.

“No thanks,” I said, “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

“Are you sure? Let us buy you a drink.....”

This is a decent restaurant. It ain’t no sleazy pick-up joint, asshole. Wrong place. Turn left at the exit straight down to fuck off.

“We’re sure.”

Mr Bet #1 left with his giant belly wobbling meters ahead of him. “Geez, I can’t leave you alone for two seconds.....” my friend said to me, laughing. Ugh. I always get the gross ones. I feel like those garbage filters they stick in rivers. My friend and I tried to resume with regular programming but 5 minutes had not passed before friend of Mr Bet #1 approached us. Let’s call him Mr. Bet #2.

“Hi, so my friend established that you’re Malaysian but what kind of Malaysian?” he asked me.

What kind of Malaysian?! What kind of Malaysian?! “Malay.” There. Are you happy? Can you buzz off now?

“Are you sure?”

Am I sure?! Am I sure?! What is this? Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Oh, this is a tough one. Hold on, let me ask the audience. Maybe they’ll give me the right answer. Wait, wait, let me use my “talian hayat”. What? Mom? I’m Malay? Oh, ok, “Yes.”

“Well, maybe you two can join us for a drink?”

“No, thanks. We really don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Oh, okay then,” said Mr. Bet #2 scampered off. Another 5 minutes went by and a third friend of Mr. Bet #1 came along. Please welcome Mr. Bet #3.

“Hi, I’m really sorry for bothering you......My name’s Ian. How are you two doing? So you’re... Chinese,” Mr. Bet #3 said to my friend and to me he said, “You’re probably Malay but you’re not fully Malay, are you?”

Ugh. Not fully Malay? Oh yes, my right arm and my left big toe isn’t Malay. I got it off some white guy called Ian whom I chopped up because he was getting on my nerves. “I am.”

“Really? That’s funny.....” ‘Ian’ said.

Yes, so funny that I apparently laugh on the inside everyday over the fact. There’s a drum roll and a ba-da-bing sound everytime I look at my I/C and fill up the “race” section of inane forms. Do you hear it? Do you hear it? What if I slap you across your ear, real hard? Would you hear it then?

And then Ian said, “You don’t look Malay Malay. You don’t seem Malay Malay.”

Oh, if I had a dollar for everytime someone said this to me..........I would shoot them in the face and use the money to bribe my way out of a murder charge. Or maybe I should just quit my job and make a living out of making people bet over my racial heritage. I feel like a carnival game sometimes – you know how they have the Guess the Weight of the Cake and Win a Prize or Guess How Many Sweets in a Jar and Win a Prize? Yes, I feel like one of those. Woo hoo! Ever since I was little, whether I’m at home in Malaysia or abroad, the “hey,what are you?” question follows me around like toilet paper stuck at the bottom of my shoe. Actually, it’s even worse at home because an answer of “I’m Malay” is usually followed by “I don’t believe you,” or “Are you sure?” or “But you’re not Malay Malay.”

I remembered when I was really little, before I even went to school, my brother said that I was adopted from an Indian family because I was apparently, “dark-skinned”. But that’s only because the rest of my family are of a rather vampiric shade. The colour of white ceiling plaster. Albinos. Pigmentally-challenged. Clorox-bleached. Sorry, but you lot really do need a touch of Mystic Tan. Anyway, the fool said I was Indian as if it was supposed to be insulting. But really, I’m just insulted that you would actually think I would be insulted. What’s so wrong about being Indian, if you are Indian? But I’m not adopted. And not all Indians are dark skinned. Anyway, dark, light, who cares? I still got the better looking genes! Ok, no. The better looking bit as compared to my sisters is highly debatable. But you get what I’m trying to say.

And then I went to school. And I remembered my first day in school, I got in line to go for Pendidikan Islam class and the other Malay kids screamed for me to get out of the line, “Cikgu! Dia Cina!” Uhm, I could be Chinese and Muslim, you know. There are tons of Chinese Muslims. But I’m not. I’m Malay. “Mata dia sepet, kulit dia putih.” Oh, so now, I’m fair skinned. I never knew. I had a music teacher in Std. 4 who said, “You Malay, ah? Cannot be. Too fair to be Malay” and do I really have to mention the tools who say, “You cannot be Malay, you speak too good English to be Malay....” Repeat all of this. Repeat everyday and fast forward my first week of work. I introduce myself to my colleagues and they ask me why I have a Malay name. A very Malay-malay name. Ingatkan you Mat Saleh. You speaking dalam English tadi.... Oh, you don’t wear the tudung-thing so I thought you’re Chinese leh, I think better you don’t wear if not look very typical Malay, not pretty, look Chinese better........ Oh ingatkan you Serani....Oh...... you ni macam tak begitu Melayu. Oh, you tahu kuih Melayu ni nama apa? Tak sangka, ingatkan you Mat Saleh....Oh, you makan ulam dengan budu? Surprising, ingatkan you Mat Saleh... You ni kasar sangat lah, bukan macam Perempuan Melayu..... Eh, you eh, eh, eh, diam kau. Bak kata pepatah Mat Saleh............shut the fuck up.  Who are you to grade me on my Malay-ness from the way I look, talk, walk, from what I watch, read, listen to, eat? Is there a Chartered Malay exam I forgot to sit for?

   

What do I have to do to qualify as this kata-ganda Malay-Malay person? I didn’t know there was such a category as Malay-Malay. (Ya, berganda kali kemelayuannya! Bukan kemaluan tetapi kemelayuan!). I’m suddenly reminded of Esquire’s ridiculous recent article on Jay Z, where the writer referred to Jay-Z as “black-black” Here’s an excerpt:

“Jay-Z is black black. He is old-school double-dark-chocolate-chunk black. He is black the way Labatt is blue. He is not white black, Barack black, like our president. Or the kind of black that doesn’t curse and deplores the n-word, the genteel black, like Oprah.”

Ok. So Jay-Z is a hip hop super mogul who used to deal dope on the streets and according to the writer, once shot his brother for stealing his ring. I see. So according to the writer, this makes him black-black. So that’s how you people, play it these days, eh? I see. I can just imagine kids in the future. Pretty soon, they won't just have to identify what race they are - Malay/Chinese/Indian/Dan lain lain bangsa - on all sorts of shitty irrelevant forms, they will have to go on to define and prove how Malay-Malay/Chinese-Chinese/Indian-Indian/Dan lain-lain bangsa-dan lain-lain bangsa they are. Well, I better get to work on this machine then:

Complaint Box: Asia Travel Guide for Pop Stars

Asia is a continent rich in culture, history, natural wonders, shopping malls and bad drivers.  You can spend your entire lifetime here and not run out of things to do – sleep, eat, breathe, mostly. Maybe procreate if you’re lucky.  The casual visitor may also participate in sleeping, eating and breathing in Asia. Some of them even procreate while they’re here – intentionally, accidentally but probably not immaculately even if many visitors have described their time in Asia as a “spiritual experience” Their offspring may even grow up to become minor Asian celebrities – MTV Asia hosts, pop stars, actors, “models”.  Of course, out of the many interesting things a visitor can do in Asia, the one that tops our list is this: Cancel a Concert. Now, not every visitor has the privilege to engage in this activity - Cancelling a Concert is strictly for American/ British/Australian Pop Stars or rock Bands. Furthermore, you must have had at least one platinum record in the last 10 years or at least, had your songs regularly included on snooty “Hipster”  playlists in the last 7 years (right before you sold out and allowed it to be used on some fecking Teen drama TV series). Additionally, you cannot belong in the same category as Cliff Richards or Uriah Heep or trying to stage a sad comeback, after snorting your career up your nose and spending the last decade married to Bobbi Brown.

 If you meet all of the above requirements, then no doubt, the most fun thing you can do in Asia is to say you’ll be here and then to not be here at all. Perhaps, there’s nothing as interesting as hearing, from a distance, the sound of thousands of little Asian music fans being let down by YOU. Very spiritual. Of course, your very distant ancestors, way back in history when Britain was Great, would’ve sailed for months and fired cannonballs to set foot on Asian soil. But alas, times are different now.  You think you’re probably not going to make much money out of our little Asian currencies and heck, it’s not like we ever buy the original copy of anything since music/movie piracy makes up like, 50% of the economy.

It’s okay, we won’t hate you.  We’ll get a refund for the concert ticket, right? Yeah, guess, that makes it all okay then. Even if say, some of us Malaysians took RM 200 out of our meagre salary to pay for a plane ticket so we could make it for your concert in Singapore. And the money was all burnt when you cancelled at the last minute. Even if we took annual leave to travel down to Singapore, and was already halfway through the journey when news of cancellation reached our ears. No problem.

Really, it’s okay, you’re only human. Maybe, two weeks before your scheduled concert, your douche of a boyfriend beat your face to a pulp. Or maybe, the local authorities here made so much fuss about your sparkly bodysuits “corrupting our youth”, that you decided you were going to help preserve our modest ways by staying at home. Or maybe, you or a loved one back in the US of A has a serious illness that will only allow you to play your Australian tour dates. Or maybe, you do it just because it’s fun – the best thing you can do in Asia without being here.  Whatever it is, you don’t even have to explain the reasons behind your cancellation to us. I’m sure you find that Asians, due to years of living under Feudalism, Communism and comedic, satirical versions of democracy, don’t tend to question things. If Chairman Mao says so, then it must be. If the Sultan says “kill your best friend, then so it is done”. Yes, we’re sure you can just say you cancelled your concert due to:

“unforeseen circumstances”

·         “exhaustion”

·         “a hiatus”. Because all of a sudden, you know, you would rather take a hiatus than play in Asia.

Don’t worry about it. When you’re as old as Cliff Richards, you can come back here for real and perform in the Genting Arena of Stars. Because that’s another fun thing you can do in Asia: pretend like you still have some semblance of a music career.  Soon.....I’m going to see the love look in her eyes, I’m a hoot and holler away from paradise.....travellin’ light...hmmm...well I just can’t wait to be with my baby tonight....hmmmm....(fade out)

Uhm... Sure, you can hide your face in a box – but not when it’s made out of clear plastic. HI DAD – I KNOW YOU’RE READING THIS JUST AS I KNOW ABOUT THAT 25 YEAR OLD CHICK ‘THROWING A PILLOW AT YOU’ ON FACEBOOK!

Dear Blog Readers,

So I just found out that one of you told my Dad about my blog. Nice one! For now, I will refrain from hurling an expletive towards you because it’s not nice to swear in front of Dad. [ HI DAD!]. You’re probably not some random blog reader. You are probably well acquainted with my dad and I long before I took to the blogosphere. And chances are, I probably already thought you were a [censored expletive] [HI DAD!], for various other reasons. But you can say, what’s the problem? It’s a PUBLIC BLOG! It’s not like you gave him my personal diary [HI DAD!]. If other people, random strangers are allowed to read it, why not my own father?


Yes. Okay. I get that. But hold on and let me continue. I do not use my last name, which is of course, my Dad’s name on my blogs. I don’t do jack squat to publicise my blog, and I don’t intend to. I don’t list my blog address on my Facebook or in the signature line of my e-mails. So the chances of my blog being found by my dad on his own, is really miniscule unless he searched for, I don’t know, “DEAN FROM SUPERNATURAL, HOT BUNS” [Hi Dad!]

The reason why this blog is public is because, there is comfort to be found in sharing your thoughts with strangers, who are not in the position to judge you or make your life all that difficult. That’s why plenty of people talk to therapists. Alas, I’m too cheap to pay for a therapist. Hence, the free blog [thanks, Blogger!]. But anyway, you’ve just cost me that freedom.

You know, I also have phone conversations with my friends in plain, audible English (or Malay) instead of fancy secret code written in invisible ink. That doesn’t mean I would welcome it if my parents picked up the other line and listen in [HI DAD!]. Look, it’s not that I have much to hide these days [HI DAD! I REALLY DON’T] - in fact 75% of all my thoughts are very clearly and loudly aired out to them over dinner. 75% is ALOT. No parent needs to know EVERYTHING that goes on in their child’s head. If they did, human beings would stop procreating. Seriously. And we would be less able to grow as our own person. And also, does my DAD really need to hear me wax poetic about the butt of [insert name of hot, unattainable male celebrity] l and how I would like to spank it twice and have him scream my name [uh...HI DAD!]? And I’ve been known to say that stuff on my blog. Now, do YOU really need to have my Dad reading about it? Hey, say, once a long, long time ago, hypothetically– I found a photocopied issue of some dirty magazine just lying in your room, which also happens to be the common computer room (photocopied, really? Couldn’t even get yourself a real one?). Did I run straight to YOUR DAD? No. It’s natural to be curious about these things as you grow up, just as it’s natural for me, to form my own political opinion on current issues as I get older - no need to press the panic button for the folks.

And that is exactly what YOU did. You know, it’s not so much the fact that you send a plain link to my Dad. This makes things uncomfortable but then heck, I’ve learnt to deal with the fact that my dad is on Facebook and that my mom will occasionally go into my room, whether I like it or not. No, the fact that my Dad knows about my blog is not what angers me. It’s the fact that YOU took my words, twisted it, sensationalised it, before actually presenting it to my parents. My mom doesn’t know how to use the computer so I doubt she actually read my blog entry. And my dad has admitted it himself that as far as his reading habits are concerned, he prefers to “skim” through books and articles just to get the “gist” of it – this works if an opinion is presented in point form, less so if it’s in my rambling, round-a-bout style. But as far as reading comprehension goes, YOU are probably the worst. And you know what angers me even more? Is that you do not have the courtesy to identify yourself and properly discuss it with ME – regarding my opinion the Allah issue or otherwise – before running off to report to DADDY about it in a way that only a tabloid like KOSMO could be proud of. It’s not religion or God that I’m questioning – read my blog post properly as well as the comments that followed (I added practically a 2nd blog entry in the comments section)– it’s people, politicians, bombers, and people who would probably fail reading comprehension tests. You’ve probably been reading my blog for a while now and I doubt you’ve ever commented as yourself even once. Or, if commenting on the internet is not your style, CALL ME UP or SPEAK TO ME FACE TO FACE and we can clarify what needs to be clarified before you cause unnecessary tension between my parents and I. If you know who I am and who my dad is then chances are you have my number and you know where I live. So go on, tell me what your problem is. Are you concerned about my spiritual well-being? But not concerned enough to want to talk to ME about it? That’s probably because we don’t have a real relationship, isn’t it, despite the fact that you know my personal details, despite the fact that we’ve probably known eachother for a very long time, despite the possibility that we’re probably related? You know, my sisters read this blog too and whenever I write something that they feel they disagree with, they have the courtesy to talk to me about it, as themselves, first. That’s because we have a real relationship and they have enough respect for me as a human being that is by international standards, a legal adult. And I respect them as such too. You however, have been lurking on my blog like a creep. Stop playing whatever game it is you think you’re playing. And whatever virtuous, fair or righteous reason you’ve come up with in that head of yours, I have this to say: GO FUCK YOURSELF.

Yes, dad, you heard me right, I just told this person, whoever he is to GO FUCK HIMSELF. And I’m not sorry. So you, PERSON, run along now and complain to my mom and dad about it. Whatever you have to say for yourself from this point onwards – I don’t want to hear it; too late; don’t give a shit and you can go fuck yourself with it.

Complaint Box: Office Parties and the Bears in Your Garden

The small-fry manager said, “As you might be aware, we have been by our Executive Director to organise an ‘employee appreciation luncheon’ on the 16th of December......"

We work like dogs all year long and all we get is a free lunch?! Lady, I can ask MY MOM for a free lunch. Heck lady, even a homeless, jobless drunk can score a free lunch at the soup kitchen. Screw the appreciation lunch; where’s our appreciation bonus?

And the small-fry manager said, “Of course, we’re on a tight budget, due to the global economic crisis. We might need to subsidise the cost of this appreciation lunch with money from our pockets......“

Wait. Stop. Who is appreciating who here? Because if it’s about digging into my own wallet to appreciate myself, why don’t you tell me to go out shopping and buy myself something pretty? I wouldn’t give you people the skin of a grape. Thankyoucomeagain.

“We want our luncheon to have a ......different feel to it; something sophisticated, something impressive, something that has never been done before. Therefore... we have decided that the theme shall be..........are you all ready to find out.......... ‘Garden Party’!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Congratulations. You have achieved the exact opposite of your goals.

“Now, as for the deco. Any suggestions?”

“Oooh, FLOWERS!” said Captain Obvious #1.

“TREEES and GREEN PLANTS!” said Captain Obvious #2

“Scented candles!”

“Pretty birdcages!”

“Lanterns and Fairy Lights!”

“Baskets!”

MANGKUK! I said in my head.

“Butterflies! Real BUTTERFLIES!”

Animals, giraffes, tigers and lions! I continued in my head. And idiots.

“Plastic butterflies!”

“Waterfall!”

Eh?

“You know those mini waterfall things that you can buy from Lillian Too’s World of Feng Shui?”

Ohhh. And also, ugh.

“Oh, oh,oh AND TEDDY BEARS!”

Teddy bears? Teddy bears?!!!!!

“TEDDY BEARS TEDDY BEARS TEDDY BEARS,” the masses chanted.

“Wait, there are bears in your garden?!!!!!!!” I said.

“And.... teddy bears, noted,” said the Small Fry Manager.

“Seriously, why are there bears in your garden?!!!” I said.

“Any objections so far?” asked the Small Fry Manager.

“YES,” I said.

“So no objections, then?”

“I have an objection!” I yelled out.

“Good, no objections,” said the Small Fry Manager, “Let’s get to work then. Box, (that’s me) can you come up with the wording and suggest a few designs for our invitation card?”

“But I have an objection......” I whimpered.

“Can I see something by this afternoon? Try to come up with a nice poem.”

Poem??! I have real, save-the-world-and-milk-it-into-a-press-release-for-good-profit-enhancing-publicity sort of work to do, lady. You want ME to write a POEM for this office party shit? Do you tell Michelangelo to paint a mural for your laundry room? Do you tell Vidal Sassoon to help groom your cat?! Do you ask Annie Leibovitz to snap your passport photo? How dare you! You want a poem? Here’s a poem:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I’d rather be dead,
Than work on this do’.
 
And since you failed to notice my earlier objections, I've incorporated it into the design of our invitation card:
 

I hope you're happy now.