Geeks Love Audio Stuff

Me: Hey man, thanks for rinsing the Gold Digger remix. Love that track.

Irman: Ah, no worries. I'm looking for the High Contrast remix of that White Stripes song and...

Me: I've got it.

Mac: What bitrate?

Me: Er, dunno lah. 192?

Mac: 192 ape cerita? Tak rude bwoy langsung. I got the 320. Ha! Vinyl quality, man.

Irman: Haha. Ape la korang ni.

Fuck off and die

I love all my Singaporean mates, 'nuff respect to the massive, but I ain't ever going to work for a Singaporean company again. I guess I've learnt my lesson.

Never again!

The Heart of Darkness

I've completely sussed out all of this 'creativity' bollocks.

My brain works like a tube amp. The longer it's switched on, the better the sound.

Long hours?

Say my name, bitch.

WTF

An aunt just finalized her divorce, because her husband wanted to marry another woman.

How can a man find it in his heart to say and mean the words "Will You Marry Me?" more than once in his life?

How can you go up to some other chick and tell her that you'll love and cherish her for the rest of your life without feeling that, aw shucks, this feels kinda weird?

What the fuck is up with that?

Repeat after me, all of you horny, inconsiderate motherfuckers: "One is enough"

Think before you act.

Selamat Tinggal Dunia

I'm sure Butters knows what I'm feeling now.

It's been a little over a year now since I took up the mantle of FHM Writer and was given, quite literally, the poetic license to make fun of everything from Jedis to Sharifah Aini.

But now it's time to move on. I know I can.

But it's going to be a bit tough.

The freebies, as mot people expect, will be the easiest to walk away from. (After all, how many events can you go to, how much free alcohol can you consume and how often would you like to go to a press screening at ten in the morning?)

Letting go of the test cars, well, that's a bit rough, too. When's the next time I'll get to trash a Merc? (Don't fucking sue me; I didn't. But wasn't that was a cool sentence, anyway?)

The celebs? Well, most of them are fun to interview. (Most of them are good mates)

The models? Well, sadly, they're all di-cut from the same piece of cardboard. (And most of them are just as thin).

Writing captions? Bungee-jumping? Free raves? Island-hopping? Instant credibility? International exposure?

I just can't pinpoint it. Not right now.

To be honest, I'm also going to miss the reaction I get when I tell people I'm from FHM.

"You fucker!"

Hopes and Dreams

When I become Transport Minister, here's what I'm gonna do:

- I will outlaw school buses. They are big, yellow and fucking slow.

- MPV owners will be required to be under 35 years of age, must sit for IQ tests and must be vetted by me, personally, before they are allowed to even fucking sniff that pink slip. They must also be able to parallel park without destroying other vehicles.

- People who are caught driving in the right lane below 80km/h will be subjected to Chinese Water Torture (using only the finest premium vodka, though). They will then be made to wear their foreskins over their heads.

- I will allow private ownership of hovercrafts, because Jalan Ampang is full of potholes. As long as you do not fix surface-to-air missiles, miniguns or use it to transport terrorists.

- I will build overhead crossings at the right places, instead of some stupid location which is always about 200 metres too far off. I will allow drug addicts to shoot up and co-habit these overhead crossings, so that school kids know what it's like to get fucked up on crack.

- I will discourage ugly billboards along highways, like those lame ass ones with Rosyam Nor on them. Biscuit ambassadors my ass.

- I will let chimpanzees direct the flow of traffic during rush hour. They know sign language. It'll be funny, trust me.

- I will allow motorcyclists to SMS their buddies/girlfriends/Hotlink while riding, because at the end of the day, it's all about reaching out to that special person on the other end of the line. Remember, human communication is important.

Um. I can't think of anything else right now, but I promise to make it worth your while. Oh yeah, and I'll fucking block Toyota from selling Camrys, Naza from selling Kia Karnivals and I will ban souped-up Sagas from the Ampang Elevated Highway.

Respect

Amir Muhammad remembers me as the kid from malaysiakini.

How cool is that?

What's been on my mind lately

If Sir Isaac Newton developed his theory of gravity from falling apples, didn't the motherfucker ever play ball?

If dykes, of the spiky hair, strapped-tits and moccasins variety, have to take a leak and the Ladies is full, do they hop over to the Men's?

What are the mechanics behind finding your jodoh? How can you ever tell who you're destined to have babies with?

A hundred years from now, will anyone remember Hiroshima?

What did they call the clitoris before they called it the clitoris?

Am I going to make it?

Will prime time television ever be the same again?

Is Media Prima the next Big Brother?

What goes around really comes around? Or do people all fuck up sooner or later?

Is Grooverider going to ever stop? (Not that he should)

When black culture implodes from overt desensitization, what will happen to Ghetto Heaven?

When are we going to have a non-Malay prime minister?

If Predators stole alien technology to power their weapons and intergalactic forages into foreign worlds, why the fuck do they still braid their hair?

Why agonize over how the dinosaurs died? Shouldn't we be more worried about Aids?

How intelligent are cats?

Is Paris Hilton going to end up like Sophia Loren, or Kate Moss?

Does Kate Moss give a fuck?

Do I?

Words of Wisdom

I sort of discovered a Malay "saying" once. I was fooling around with a kitten, probably Tiddles when he was younger, and I think it was my Grannie who came up to me, shook her head and said "Jangan manjakan sangat. Nanti mabuk tangan."

Now, I'm convinced that this applies to all interpretations of the term 'pussy'.

So I think it's safe to say that you should avoid spoiling your woman. You never know when your relationship will unknowingly trangress into taken-for-granted territory.

Nanti mabuk tangan.

Oi tosser!

Hey, fuck you whoever's spamming my blog.

It's completely unnecessary.

I mean, can't I have my own little bit of the Internet without someone pissing all over it? Please?

Seriously, that's fucked up. Get a day job. Maybe you need to spend more time away from computers. I suggest having regular sex with something more than your left hand.

Works wonders, y'know?

Quittin's fer Quitters

I want to sober up.

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?

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.

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."

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.

We like cheese, Gromit

No, we didn't get to meet Fergie, unfortunately, but I did make up for sixteen years worth of missing England by feasting merrily on a variety of artery-clogging food.

Including Walker's.

Especially Walker's.

I used to sit in front of the telly every evening tuning in to the Beeb, happily munching away; crisps in one hand, tea in the other.

Ah, how poignant.

Wasn't the world a much better place when you were a kid?

(Maybe)

Questions

Should his Lordship be referred to as merely 'Sir Alex', or the more protocol-friendly 'Sir Alex Ferguson?'

Fuck it, I'm going to Old Trafford! Fuckit! Fuckit!

On a lighter note (what?), I'm still thinking of bringing a Liverpool jersey along.

Phwoar!

Almost Famous

TONEDEF, July 2001: I remember almost getting whipped in the face by those dreads as I earnestly zoomed in for my Rolling Stone picture.

The guy was seriously loaded, headbanging away, completely oblivious to the crowd, and people with cameras. You try coaxing metal heads if you want...

Later, I ran into Emmet backstage right after Butters had brought the house down with a particularly inspiring closing performance (you ain't heard Viopipe unless you've heard it live, aite?)

Soaked to the skin, flushed and still buzzing, I remember feeling like a right twat because I really needed to get a good quote for my story, but I also didn't want to cramp his style after such a great show. Let rock stars be rock stars already, I thought to myself. Don't pester him just yet! Let the poor man bask in the afterglow.

"So, Emmet, how are you feeling?"

"Tired, man. But shit, that was good."

Sometimes, you just hope for the best.

Fuck You, Clark Kent!

As writers, we're all allowed to be at least a little bit pretentious, if not for the sake of art, then for the fact that most creative people are naturally cranky and have egos the size of football fields (football as in soccer, not the padded-up, let's-fuck-some-cheerleaders-after-this-beer-hoo-ya! kind of football).

So, here goes nuthin'.

I'd like to clear the air on why I'm not going to ever join a newspaper. daily or otherwise, so long as my heart keeps on beating.*

It's not because of the fact that newspapers here like to dumb down their content (egalitarian my ass; people should learn big words not because they should be smarter but because all of those big words are there for a reason), not because newspapers encourage lifers (who the hell would want to write for one section of a newspaper for a good ten years of their lives? Does it take that long to get noticed?) and not because newspapers suffer from an increased proclivity (there, a big fucking word!) for office politics.

No.

It's because newspapers are not cool. They're not cool.

That's the only reason. They're not cool.

So, forget about the Daily Planet. Forget about Clark Kent and Lois Lane. Forget about saving the world.

They're not cool.

And you should know something else, too: Peter Parker gets peantus for his photos in the Daily Bugle. Brenda Starr wouldn't be able to get the story if she didn't fuck all of her leads. And Nancy Drew, fucking hell, don't get me started on that shit.

So, yeah, that's a negative, Sarge.

No go, amigo.

Freelancing for newspapers is still okay, once in a while, but signing a legal and binding contract with them to do with me as they please is definitely not going to happen.

Never happen.

(fingers crossed)

*I mean no disrespect to my fellow writers. But fuck me, I'm happy I don't have to do your job!

What Women Want

"So, if you interview models all of the time, you must know a lot about women?"

"Er, what do you mean by that?"

Okay, so I do interview models. It's part of my job. I get them into a comfort zone, and ask them all sorts of weird questions about their lives. They get defensive about their intelligence and try to appear knowledgeable and up-to-speed on everything (don't get me started about my theory on models and their obsession with horoscopes). They tell me things they think I want to hear, things they think people actually want to read about. In turn, I reassure them and tell them, of course, people want to!

But if you think that helps me to understand women any better, you're wrong. I fuck up just as much as the next guy.

I'm only human.