Is your neighbourhood turning into a ghetto? Mine is. Here are 10 signs that your 'hood is on the way down:
1. There are more drug dealers per square foot now in my 'hood than there were, say, ten years ago. What's your vice? Marijuana, codeine, crack, heroine, morphine, glue, speed, ecstasy, it's all there, baby.
2. The playgrounds are empty: Little kids don't come out and play any more, and it's not because the merry-go-round needs fixing.
3. Frenzied property development in the midst of festering urban decay: It's cool when new buildings come up, but not cool when there are a whole shitload of old ones still around that look like background scenery for films like Resident Evil 2.
4. A marked increase in police presence: It's OK when you see a cop car cruising down the street at four o'clock in the morning, on your way to a pre-hangover burger pick-up. It's shit when you see the fucker circling the block four times just to make sure he saw what he saw.
5. High school kids chugging beers in brown paper bags in front of the 7-11.
6. Roads that are forever in a state of ill-repair, then get magically re-paved just before the elections. Abra-Cadabra! Who's Your Daddy!
7. Sound-proofed neighbours: Intermittent screams? Check. Marital spats on mega-phone? Check. Cheesy pop songs broadcasted 24-hours a day at 150 decibels into the threshold of pain? Check.
8. Gestapo-sponsored kindergartens? Check. (see previous post)
9. Irregular garbage disposal. Need I elaborate?
AND DRUM-ROLL PLEASE, HERE'S THE BEST ONE SO FAR:
10. Nobody looks like they give a shit.
There you go.
I could go on, but this shit isn't funny anymore.
Haha.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Friday, April 01, 2005
I Don't Care Where, Just Far...
If I ever have kids, I'm not going to raise them in this country.
At least, not during their formative years. No Sir-ee.
There's a kindergarten a few doors down from where I live. It's a bright, colourful little house at the neck of our cul-de-sac, a spasmodic proliferation of purple, yellow, green and blue, an approximation of diarrhoea in full Nickalodean glory.
The kids sit out front, in neat little rows, in their beige shirts and little red shorts, unwittingly joining the ranks of collectivistic consciousness. A pudgy Drill Sergeant (Oh and she looks pretty butch to me) barks out orders at her cowering co-dependents:
"Why y'all never put all your bags properly?"
"No talking! You never pay 'tention, ah?"
"Stop crying, your mother gone already!"
(HEY TURKEY, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TEACHING AT A KINDERGARTEN IF YOU CAN'T FUCKING TALK RIGHT?)
Those poor little kids.
The yelling goes on all morning. Stray out of your invisible Dilbert cubicle and the bitch starts honking. Take too long to respond and the bitch starts honking. Stupid bitch.
Being kids, they don't seem to mind. They get used to it. Of course, it won't stop little Jennifer from growing up into a child-beating crackwhore later on in her life, but they get used to it.
The bell rings with military precision. Out into the yard, back inside after 10 minutes. Don't eat the crayons, don't smudge your shorts. Oh there's Mommy, let's all put on a big smile and wave.
"Now, all sing Negaraku!"
It's quite depressing, really.
Those poor parents.
They send their kids to pre-school Auschwitz everyday and pick them up in time for lunch.
At least, not during their formative years. No Sir-ee.
There's a kindergarten a few doors down from where I live. It's a bright, colourful little house at the neck of our cul-de-sac, a spasmodic proliferation of purple, yellow, green and blue, an approximation of diarrhoea in full Nickalodean glory.
The kids sit out front, in neat little rows, in their beige shirts and little red shorts, unwittingly joining the ranks of collectivistic consciousness. A pudgy Drill Sergeant (Oh and she looks pretty butch to me) barks out orders at her cowering co-dependents:
"Why y'all never put all your bags properly?"
"No talking! You never pay 'tention, ah?"
"Stop crying, your mother gone already!"
(HEY TURKEY, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TEACHING AT A KINDERGARTEN IF YOU CAN'T FUCKING TALK RIGHT?)
Those poor little kids.
The yelling goes on all morning. Stray out of your invisible Dilbert cubicle and the bitch starts honking. Take too long to respond and the bitch starts honking. Stupid bitch.
Being kids, they don't seem to mind. They get used to it. Of course, it won't stop little Jennifer from growing up into a child-beating crackwhore later on in her life, but they get used to it.
The bell rings with military precision. Out into the yard, back inside after 10 minutes. Don't eat the crayons, don't smudge your shorts. Oh there's Mommy, let's all put on a big smile and wave.
"Now, all sing Negaraku!"
It's quite depressing, really.
Those poor parents.
They send their kids to pre-school Auschwitz everyday and pick them up in time for lunch.
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