Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
Reality Check #695703
Malaysian are as kiasu as Singaporeans.
Sure, you can make fun of Singaporeans for drinking their own recycled piss, but the next time you're on the highway, think about why that fucker in the little white Kancil is chugging along at 50 km/h in the right lane. Think about why he won't give way, or shift into the middle lane. Think about why he stubbornly refuses to move, even though you're flashing your headlights like it's Christmas and honking on the horn like a chimp on charlie.
It's not that he doesn't care, it's not about manners; it's all about control.
It's about hogging what you can, when you can. It's about being there and staying there.
It doesn't matter if it's the Kancil or the twat in the Camry, who uses his rear-view mirror to check for dandruff.
It's all about control.
And isn't that what being kiasu is all about?
Sure, you can make fun of Singaporeans for drinking their own recycled piss, but the next time you're on the highway, think about why that fucker in the little white Kancil is chugging along at 50 km/h in the right lane. Think about why he won't give way, or shift into the middle lane. Think about why he stubbornly refuses to move, even though you're flashing your headlights like it's Christmas and honking on the horn like a chimp on charlie.
It's not that he doesn't care, it's not about manners; it's all about control.
It's about hogging what you can, when you can. It's about being there and staying there.
It doesn't matter if it's the Kancil or the twat in the Camry, who uses his rear-view mirror to check for dandruff.
It's all about control.
And isn't that what being kiasu is all about?
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Corporate Whore
I think it was Shaggy who summed up, rather succintly, the pain of growing old: "One morning you wake up, and find out that the party's over."
Shaggy, mate, now that's where you're wrong.
This party's about to get started.
I've spent the past two weekends at offices doing work to get more money. And I'm digging every minute of it, bitches.
You see, there comes a time when you wake up, and realize that most of your mates are busy living the lives they want to, not worrying about the future or what car they'll be driving around in next year. When that happens, you can either get up and try to catch up with them (and hopefully, overtake them at some point) or you can go back to sleep.
Fuck it. I'm 26. Enough of this shit. I wanna be like Fiddy.
Time to turn this boat around and head out for that glorious, open sea.
Shaggy, mate, now that's where you're wrong.
This party's about to get started.
I've spent the past two weekends at offices doing work to get more money. And I'm digging every minute of it, bitches.
You see, there comes a time when you wake up, and realize that most of your mates are busy living the lives they want to, not worrying about the future or what car they'll be driving around in next year. When that happens, you can either get up and try to catch up with them (and hopefully, overtake them at some point) or you can go back to sleep.
Fuck it. I'm 26. Enough of this shit. I wanna be like Fiddy.
Time to turn this boat around and head out for that glorious, open sea.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Second Guess Me
"Melayu ke?"
There I was, about to formally introduce myself and present this person with my business card, a set of protocol-friendly greetings and pleasantries in mind, when she asked me that question. And it stops me, for a moment.
Here we are, at an event, trying to build bridges and all of that, and here she is wondering what race I am? Why? Does it even matter?
Wow.
Does that mean she was kinda checkin' me out?
How flattering.
While I would have loved to regal her with tales of how, a few hundred years ago, my Northern Indian ancestors couldn't keep it in their pants and had to, just had to end up shacking up with various ladies of various ethnicities (apparently, I even have Turkish ancestry, dating back from the 1700s), before migrating to Penang or whatever and ending up settling down in Malaya, in the late 19th Century A.D.
However, it seemed frivolous and entirely pointless to say anything like that, and given the circumstances, wholly unwarranted.
Imagine, I could be on some hill in Pakistan minding sheep or in Bollywood acting in some low-budget drama, but no. No, here I am working in publishing.
Lovely, ain't it, how one hop in the sack can influence the future of the human race.
"Ye, saya Melayu. By the way, my name is Suffian and I write for FHM. Nice meeting you, but I have to go now. Bye."
There I was, about to formally introduce myself and present this person with my business card, a set of protocol-friendly greetings and pleasantries in mind, when she asked me that question. And it stops me, for a moment.
Here we are, at an event, trying to build bridges and all of that, and here she is wondering what race I am? Why? Does it even matter?
Wow.
Does that mean she was kinda checkin' me out?
How flattering.
While I would have loved to regal her with tales of how, a few hundred years ago, my Northern Indian ancestors couldn't keep it in their pants and had to, just had to end up shacking up with various ladies of various ethnicities (apparently, I even have Turkish ancestry, dating back from the 1700s), before migrating to Penang or whatever and ending up settling down in Malaya, in the late 19th Century A.D.
However, it seemed frivolous and entirely pointless to say anything like that, and given the circumstances, wholly unwarranted.
Imagine, I could be on some hill in Pakistan minding sheep or in Bollywood acting in some low-budget drama, but no. No, here I am working in publishing.
Lovely, ain't it, how one hop in the sack can influence the future of the human race.
"Ye, saya Melayu. By the way, my name is Suffian and I write for FHM. Nice meeting you, but I have to go now. Bye."
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Hallelujah
I'm convinced, beyond all reasonable doubt, that a certain colleague of mine is trying to turn me gay.
For example, she likes to make snide comments about my overt preference for a nice, shapely ass over big, doughy titties. I mean, come on; does my fascination with nice asses equal some latent homo-erotic tendency?
Hardly.
Most guys will go for a girl with a nice ass over one with mammaries that can double as flotation aids. Ask us. There's something primal about a fine piece; maybe it's reproductive instinct, maybe it's built into our pathetic, sex-addled brains:
"Wow, look at that ass!" = "Hmmm. Big hips. Good for babies. Ugga ugga."
Get it? How about that? Does that totally blow your theory out of the water, Angie?
Why, of course it does! Who's the man? Come on, w-h-o-i-s-t-h-e-m-a-n-?
But hey, small breasts are okay so as long as the person they're attached to comes with intelligence, a great personality and, oh, now that you mention it, a pleasant posterior. And she's gotta be able to bear with all of my stupid, immature jokes.
That's it. That's all I'm asking for, ladies.
So, sorry Angie.
The only cock I like looking at is my own; balls-deep in mutually-consenting adult females (or more accurately, female).
So yeah, for the record, I'm straight.
For example, she likes to make snide comments about my overt preference for a nice, shapely ass over big, doughy titties. I mean, come on; does my fascination with nice asses equal some latent homo-erotic tendency?
Hardly.
Most guys will go for a girl with a nice ass over one with mammaries that can double as flotation aids. Ask us. There's something primal about a fine piece; maybe it's reproductive instinct, maybe it's built into our pathetic, sex-addled brains:
"Wow, look at that ass!" = "Hmmm. Big hips. Good for babies. Ugga ugga."
Get it? How about that? Does that totally blow your theory out of the water, Angie?
Why, of course it does! Who's the man? Come on, w-h-o-i-s-t-h-e-m-a-n-?
But hey, small breasts are okay so as long as the person they're attached to comes with intelligence, a great personality and, oh, now that you mention it, a pleasant posterior. And she's gotta be able to bear with all of my stupid, immature jokes.
That's it. That's all I'm asking for, ladies.
So, sorry Angie.
The only cock I like looking at is my own; balls-deep in mutually-consenting adult females (or more accurately, female).
So yeah, for the record, I'm straight.
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