Concord fucking Dawn. Boh!
Big up to the SG Massive for yet another corker! Have fun, guys.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Concord Dawn Returnz
Yes, Concord Dawn is back in Singapore to murder the dancefloor yet again. If you can afford only one drum n bass holiday this year, this is it.
Concord fucking Dawn. Boh!
Big up to the SG Massive for yet another corker! Have fun, guys.
Concord fucking Dawn. Boh!
Big up to the SG Massive for yet another corker! Have fun, guys.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Eyesore
"To the left, Ali, to the left!"
"No, no, my left, Ali, MY LEFT!"
If those crazy motherfuckers from Al-Qaeda ever want some easy target practice for their pilots, could they please take out the two unfinished condos that stick out like Gi-Normous sore thumbs at the end of Jalan Dato Sulaiman, in Taman Tun?
Please?
It seems that the contractors had left the site in a bit of a hurry, as they'd left even the cranes behind, to adorn the top of the ghastly twin spires like spines of twisted metal.
"I bet if we had a secret dnb rave there, no one would know," said Led, pointing out a commercial use for the ruins.
"Yeah, and imagine if we robbed a bank, we could stash all the money there and the cops would never find it!" I added, rather excitedly.
"Some construction workers must've died there, probably in a freak accident, " blurted out Essam.
"I want to get up there and see if the cranes still work," said Led, and unanimously, we agreed.
"No, no, my left, Ali, MY LEFT!"
If those crazy motherfuckers from Al-Qaeda ever want some easy target practice for their pilots, could they please take out the two unfinished condos that stick out like Gi-Normous sore thumbs at the end of Jalan Dato Sulaiman, in Taman Tun?
Please?
It seems that the contractors had left the site in a bit of a hurry, as they'd left even the cranes behind, to adorn the top of the ghastly twin spires like spines of twisted metal.
"I bet if we had a secret dnb rave there, no one would know," said Led, pointing out a commercial use for the ruins.
"Yeah, and imagine if we robbed a bank, we could stash all the money there and the cops would never find it!" I added, rather excitedly.
"Some construction workers must've died there, probably in a freak accident, " blurted out Essam.
"I want to get up there and see if the cranes still work," said Led, and unanimously, we agreed.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Choices
I just thought I'd post this, since it would be un-gentlemanly if I did otherwise, but I had this really interesting idea for a post, something really deep and provocative, not about tiger penises or how I hate Toyota Camrys or anything like that, but something on a subject that would, undoubtedly, elicit much feedback from readers, and perhaps even contribute to being a spark for lively conversation.
(Now wasn't that the longest fucking sentence you ever read?)
However, after thinking about it, I decided that it would make an interesting article, so I'm not going to post it here, but hopefully turn it into a story that will appear within the pages of some men's magazine, instead.
That way, I can actually make some money outta this! Instead of merely rambling to you guys.
It's fun being a published writer, isn't it?
(Now wasn't that the longest fucking sentence you ever read?)
However, after thinking about it, I decided that it would make an interesting article, so I'm not going to post it here, but hopefully turn it into a story that will appear within the pages of some men's magazine, instead.
That way, I can actually make some money outta this! Instead of merely rambling to you guys.
It's fun being a published writer, isn't it?
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Stupid Human Tricks
"Tiger parts won't improve your sex life," said the headlines.
No shit, Sherlock!
Seriously, do people actually think eating Tiger Dick Soup is going to help them satisfy their women?
Fools.
No shit, Sherlock!
Seriously, do people actually think eating Tiger Dick Soup is going to help them satisfy their women?
Fools.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Deductive Reasoning
Premise #1
Toyota Camrys are shit
Premise #2
Big cars encourage bad driving
Conclusion:
Toyota Camrys are shit
There you have it. Beyond doubt, Toyota Camrys are shit.
---------------
With the help of Chip, I've finally figured out who actor Rosyam Nor looks like on this huge Julie's billboard that I pass by every day, on the way home from work.
He looks Ming from Flash Gordon, sans the naff moustache and skullcap.
Fucking hilarious.
Toyota Camrys are shit
Premise #2
Big cars encourage bad driving
Conclusion:
Toyota Camrys are shit
There you have it. Beyond doubt, Toyota Camrys are shit.
---------------
With the help of Chip, I've finally figured out who actor Rosyam Nor looks like on this huge Julie's billboard that I pass by every day, on the way home from work.
He looks Ming from Flash Gordon, sans the naff moustache and skullcap.
Fucking hilarious.
Monday, October 10, 2005
The Funniest Days of My Life - Part 2
Nuclear Threat
October 1998: I was eighteen, and off on my Raleigh expedition to Borneo. I'd packed my 80-litre Low Alpine, Comrade Lenin, to the brim with enough outdoor gear to mount a solo expedition to the North Pole and back, and I was all psyched up because I'd be away from home for the next 3 months.
The world awaited...
Lenard, Christine and the rest had cleared the baggage check at KLIA, and I was the last one in line, right behind Alan, who was a little anxious that he had to part with his parang, which he'd only be able to see when we landed at Labuan International Airport.
I reached the X-ray machine and plonked my monstrous backpack on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector, my head full of worst-case scenarios, what with the ridiculous amount of kit that I had crammed into my green behemoth: Army-issue Jungle boots, a fully-stocked medical field kit, piles of clothes, climbing gear, rolls of film, wet weather gear, an Army-issue fold-away spade, mess tins and sachets of Milo, the works.
I could've lived amongst the Orang Asli and still have had a few 'presents' left to give away for Christmas.
As I cleared the metal detector, Security stopped me and quietly asked me to step over to the X-ray monitor and tell them just what the hell that long strip wedged in the middle of my backpack was.
"Apa tu, adik?" asked the grumpy fat lady sat behind the black and white monitor.
"Itu battery, Kak," I answered, rather confidently. I had bought a long strip of AA batteries at Carrefour, for my Maglite.
"Ye ke? Itu macam parang, saya rasa. Bukan parang ke tu, 'dik?" inquired Grumpy again, not entirely convinced.
"Bukan, Kak. Itu battery. Banyak battery," I answered again, a little nervous.
"Tapi kenapa dia panjang macam tu? Battery bukan macam tu. Saya ingat awak bawak parang tu, ye ke?" said the lady, more of a statement than a question, this time.
"Tak, Kak. Itu battery. Saya tak ade parang," I said, my patience wearing thin. I began to feel like a twat for making the guys wait for me.
"Awak baik cakap sekarang, itu parang, bukan?" Her Grumpiness retorted. Security raised an eyebrow, hand on revolver.
And so it went, back and forth as we tried to convince each other that we were seeing something that wasn't there. I sneered to myself; this woman was getting all hot and bothered by my budget battery pack.
Frustrated and teary-eyed, I decided to change my angle.
"Itu sebenarnya bomb nuclear, Kak. Bukan parang!" I suddenly yelled, adamant to end the rather pointless bickering.
"Apa? Apa awak cakap tadi?"
The lady motioned to the guards and they closed in on me, each grabbing a shoulder and steering me towards the detention room.
"Bomb Nuclear! Bukan parang! Faham!" I shouted. Then I closed my eyes and sort of wished I was dead.
The next half-hour flies by like a series of flashbacks, like at the end of Fight Club, only it's happening to me there and then.
I get shoved into the detention room, complete with a two-way mirror, and they force me to tip all of the contents out of Comrade Lenin. I get body searched twice, by two different guards, while they looked at my clothes and my underwear and decided whether or not I had a tactical nuclear weapon shoved up my ass.
I had to convince them that I was just kidding. I tried to do this as I went through all of my equipment; they wanted to see that my camera's flash worked, that it wasn't a micro bomb, they liked my Maglite, how powerful the beam was and how sturdy it felt in their grasp. I even emptied a random Milo sachet and scoffed it down to appease them.
Jabbering excitedly, they picked through my things with all of the grace of coccained chimps at a yard sale.
I was on the verge of crying.
Suddenly, they were happy. One of the guards pulled me aside and asked me not to ever try and kid about nuclear bombs again. I told him yes, I won't joke about this sort of thing ever again. And I'll not buy anymore budget battery packs shaped like machettes, sorry.
I then boarded the plane, and for the rest of the flight got ribbed for being such an idiot. Lenard smacked me round the head and told me that it nearly costed us our flight. Then he winked and told me that he could've done a lot worse himself.
Airport security. Such cunts.
No sense of humour whatsoever. =)
October 1998: I was eighteen, and off on my Raleigh expedition to Borneo. I'd packed my 80-litre Low Alpine, Comrade Lenin, to the brim with enough outdoor gear to mount a solo expedition to the North Pole and back, and I was all psyched up because I'd be away from home for the next 3 months.
The world awaited...
Lenard, Christine and the rest had cleared the baggage check at KLIA, and I was the last one in line, right behind Alan, who was a little anxious that he had to part with his parang, which he'd only be able to see when we landed at Labuan International Airport.
I reached the X-ray machine and plonked my monstrous backpack on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector, my head full of worst-case scenarios, what with the ridiculous amount of kit that I had crammed into my green behemoth: Army-issue Jungle boots, a fully-stocked medical field kit, piles of clothes, climbing gear, rolls of film, wet weather gear, an Army-issue fold-away spade, mess tins and sachets of Milo, the works.
I could've lived amongst the Orang Asli and still have had a few 'presents' left to give away for Christmas.
As I cleared the metal detector, Security stopped me and quietly asked me to step over to the X-ray monitor and tell them just what the hell that long strip wedged in the middle of my backpack was.
"Apa tu, adik?" asked the grumpy fat lady sat behind the black and white monitor.
"Itu battery, Kak," I answered, rather confidently. I had bought a long strip of AA batteries at Carrefour, for my Maglite.
"Ye ke? Itu macam parang, saya rasa. Bukan parang ke tu, 'dik?" inquired Grumpy again, not entirely convinced.
"Bukan, Kak. Itu battery. Banyak battery," I answered again, a little nervous.
"Tapi kenapa dia panjang macam tu? Battery bukan macam tu. Saya ingat awak bawak parang tu, ye ke?" said the lady, more of a statement than a question, this time.
"Tak, Kak. Itu battery. Saya tak ade parang," I said, my patience wearing thin. I began to feel like a twat for making the guys wait for me.
"Awak baik cakap sekarang, itu parang, bukan?" Her Grumpiness retorted. Security raised an eyebrow, hand on revolver.
And so it went, back and forth as we tried to convince each other that we were seeing something that wasn't there. I sneered to myself; this woman was getting all hot and bothered by my budget battery pack.
Frustrated and teary-eyed, I decided to change my angle.
"Itu sebenarnya bomb nuclear, Kak. Bukan parang!" I suddenly yelled, adamant to end the rather pointless bickering.
"Apa? Apa awak cakap tadi?"
The lady motioned to the guards and they closed in on me, each grabbing a shoulder and steering me towards the detention room.
"Bomb Nuclear! Bukan parang! Faham!" I shouted. Then I closed my eyes and sort of wished I was dead.
The next half-hour flies by like a series of flashbacks, like at the end of Fight Club, only it's happening to me there and then.
I get shoved into the detention room, complete with a two-way mirror, and they force me to tip all of the contents out of Comrade Lenin. I get body searched twice, by two different guards, while they looked at my clothes and my underwear and decided whether or not I had a tactical nuclear weapon shoved up my ass.
I had to convince them that I was just kidding. I tried to do this as I went through all of my equipment; they wanted to see that my camera's flash worked, that it wasn't a micro bomb, they liked my Maglite, how powerful the beam was and how sturdy it felt in their grasp. I even emptied a random Milo sachet and scoffed it down to appease them.
Jabbering excitedly, they picked through my things with all of the grace of coccained chimps at a yard sale.
I was on the verge of crying.
Suddenly, they were happy. One of the guards pulled me aside and asked me not to ever try and kid about nuclear bombs again. I told him yes, I won't joke about this sort of thing ever again. And I'll not buy anymore budget battery packs shaped like machettes, sorry.
I then boarded the plane, and for the rest of the flight got ribbed for being such an idiot. Lenard smacked me round the head and told me that it nearly costed us our flight. Then he winked and told me that he could've done a lot worse himself.
Airport security. Such cunts.
No sense of humour whatsoever. =)
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Dreaming
I want to write the Great Malaysian Novel.
It's not going to be about silk factories or harmony, but it's going to sell, somehow.
Then I'm going to buy me a big boat and fucking sail around the world.
It's not going to be about silk factories or harmony, but it's going to sell, somehow.
Then I'm going to buy me a big boat and fucking sail around the world.
Applause
At the behest of Ayu, and in the name of good sport, I give you my first ever internet survey*:
THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
*Disclaimer: Whoever takes the piss after reading this is a fat cunt and I will pretend to forget your birthday, too.
THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
Pian, Kamo, "Fucker!"
THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
Sgt. Pepper, Rainbow Six, Comrade K
THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
My eyes, my broad shoulders, my industrial-strength liver!
THREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU DON’T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
I could be taller, I could be less hairy, I could have a six-pack (again)
THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
Super geeks, uptight corporate motherfuckers and ladyboys
THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
Coffee, humour and er, sunlight
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS:
Damn it, why just three? Goldie, Marcus Intalex, Klute
THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
Boxers, shorts, tee
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS:
Klute - Saviour, Calibre & High Contrast - Mr Majestic, Logistics - Together
THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
Unconditional love, trust and a girl who can openly tolerate me, but let's me know when she can't
2 TRUTHS 1 LIE (in no particular order - happy weeding that lie out):
I love working for Mediacorporation Publishing (M), I am dyslexic and I know CPR
THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
Ass, tits, pretty face
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:
Reading, gaming & taking the piss out of everything. No, wait, the last one is my job
THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
LJ. While I'm at it, let's also have me win the lottery and an Aston Martin from the Dubai lucky draw, too
THREE CAREERS YOU’RE CONSIDERING/YOU’VE CONSIDERED:
Copywriting, music production and when I was 17 I wanted to be an oceanographer so that I could swim with sharks
THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
Greece, Maldives (Kani) & Bora Bora
THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
I want to skate a proper half-pipe, surf a 30-foot wave and have a dogfight against Russell Peters in a pair of Spitfires ("Someone gonna get a-hurt reaaalll baaad")
THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A BOY:
Limited attention span, inability to ask for directions when lost, prone to recklessness
THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A GIRL:
A girl? As in pseudo-feminine traits? Well, I take ages in the shower, I get weepy during sad movies and I want to have kids one day
THREE FEMALE CELEB CRUSHES:
Scarlett Johansson, DJ Heavygrinder & Emma Griffiths
THREE PEOPLE THAT YOU WOULD LIKE TO SEE TAKE THIS QUIZ NOW:
Keith, naz & my sister
*Disclaimer: Whoever takes the piss after reading this is a fat cunt and I will pretend to forget your birthday, too.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Eulogy
"Abang Suffian, why are they going to give Pakcik Mat a bath? Can't he take a bath himself? I can!"
"Na'eem, I know you can. But Pakcik Mat is dead, so we have to give him a bath instead. Then we'll wrap him in cloth and bury him"
"But that means we're not going to see him again, are we?"
"No, Na'eem, we're not"
Pakcik Mat passed away last week, at the ripe age of 64 and despite being this expressive, creative person that everyone tells me that I am, I can't bring myself to write anything witty or poetic or whatever the fuck the emotion is that you're supposed to feel when you're trying to paint the dead beautifully, because it's still too new and I still feel just too fucking sad about it.
So, nothing.
I'm not going to say anything.
Except that I hope he reaps all the good that he's sown. Bless.
"Na'eem, I know you can. But Pakcik Mat is dead, so we have to give him a bath instead. Then we'll wrap him in cloth and bury him"
"But that means we're not going to see him again, are we?"
"No, Na'eem, we're not"
Pakcik Mat passed away last week, at the ripe age of 64 and despite being this expressive, creative person that everyone tells me that I am, I can't bring myself to write anything witty or poetic or whatever the fuck the emotion is that you're supposed to feel when you're trying to paint the dead beautifully, because it's still too new and I still feel just too fucking sad about it.
So, nothing.
I'm not going to say anything.
Except that I hope he reaps all the good that he's sown. Bless.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)