Month: October 2008

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Being Whacked On The Bed By Gong Li

I went out for ikan bakar with Wifey for lunch, before going for a haircut…or, more like cutting what’s left of my hair. I have been having this bad backache for weeks now, enduring the torture for as long as I could. Since I could no longer sit for more than 10 minutes without having to readjust the comfort level, I decided it was best for me to seek help at the usual traditional chinese sinsei outlet.

The last time I was there was more than 3 months ago. Wifey had to sit and wait while I got my back massaged. It was only for an hour then, but due to the gravity of my ache, the sinsei decided to poke me with acupuncture needles, and before I even knew it, I had more steely needles poked into me than a Hindu man would have during a kavadi-carrying session on Thaipusam day.

I arrived there shortly before 4.30pm, the time of my appointment. I quickly went up, and met the manager, who asked me the nature of my ache. In a mixture of very-halting Mandarin and English, I tried as best to explain what I was suffering from. So, a masseur sinsei was appointed to handle my case. She was this blonde chinese woman, in hot pants and white blouse, all smiles when she saw me. Well, if she was Gong Li, I would smile back, except that she’s not – she’s more like a Gong than anything else, and a huge one at that.

I hopped onto the massage bed. She scanned my back to find out the source of the backache – and it was actually the neck, and by the spine. She quickly went to work. All 100-kilos of mainland lard was transferred onto the small of the elbow while she tortured every acupressure points on my neck, shoulders, back, butt and the back of my legs. I found myself struggling to: (1) overcome the pain of the massage, and (2) keeping the ikan bakar that was threatening to jump right out of my tummy, permanently inside. Not long after, I also had (3) to keep my fart within my bowels. At some points, she would slap the part that I would stiffen up when fighting the pain and would say to me, “Lee-lacks!” If I had relaxed, rice and fish would have been on the floor, and I would have farted straight into her face.

I think she had fun putting me through the torture. Every single milimeter, including what the malays would call the urat halus where even Wifey’s elbows and knees could not reach, got scrutinised by the 100-kilo elbows.

I would usually fall asleep in the middle of a massage session. This time it was difficult. It was pure torturous pain. For more than an hour I had to endure the pain. Towards the end, I fell asleep. Either that or I had passed out because of the pain. Anyhow, exactly two hours after the session was commenced, it was completed. Half-asleep, I got up, feeling like I was recovering from a dose of general anaesthesia, got dressed and paid. She showed me where it went wrong and said the word “Bad” every time she pointed to the figure in the drawing. I felt relieved when she didn’t point to that part in between my thighs.

I walked to the car, feeling a thousand times better, and smiled to myself knowing I’d be able to whack Wifey again tonight, hopefully, without the discomfort of a backache. And if I do have one again a few months down the line, I hope it’s not Ah Gong that they will assign to me again.

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A Writer’s Block

Writers Block

I am suffering from it. Not because I do not know what to write about, but I have so many things that I would like to write about. And everytime my mind starts drafting a post, another event overtakes the previous ones.

One of it is about the usual same circus that we all call the Parliament. We are all guilty of choosing the monkeys that are now performing in there. And things are now getting worse when the MPs, be they from the ruling or opposing coalitions, showed disrespect the Deputy Speaker of the House. That is an insult to the institution, and such acts should not be condoned. The relevant MPs should be suspended from sitting.

The reason people want to rule, to become chosen by the people, is not to serve, but to enjoy the privileges that come with the office. We, the people. would expect MPs and state councillors have some form of decorum. No, in Malaysia that is not the case at all. Everyone’s fighting for the top-most post, and everyone is selling their ideology so that the party they represent can be in power, or continue to stay in power. And for most, it is about being able to make a few pennies here and there. A century ago, people of such stature would behave themselves, be accountable for; and even if they do make riches, it would be communal, not individual. There was no need for “contracts” to sign to represent a promise. It was always the case of “word of honour.”

Nowadays, the rich and the members of such circles of “nobilities” are not necessarily ennobled.

More than 50 years after the British left this country, its people have regressed in terms of race-relations, and it has come to a very disturbing level. 30 years ago I never heard this term called “malay supremacy (Ketuanan Melayu).” Even as it is, this race I shamely call mine, is nowhere near being supreme simply because they have been spoonfed all along, and have lost the motor functions of their hands. They will simply die if not fed by the government. They refuse to accept other languages, citing the need to preserve the Malay language in every single transaction. In the end, the malays lose out because they are only comfortable speaking in their own language. yeah, yeah, maybe the Malay language was an international language 600 yers ago, but nobody wants to buy spices from us anymore. There is nothing that the malays produce that the international community wants badly.

Everyday I would cringe whenever a senior government official makes a statement in English on national TV. I would cringe when seeing the crawlers at the bottom of the TV screen where youngsters and wanna-be-youngsters SMS something in English to the respective TV station. Worse still, having to endure such torture while listening to an English-medium radio station while being stuck in a traffic jam somewhere. Some caller with a strange accent would speak in something similar to English, and your mind works overtime correcting their grammar and sentence structure.

Okay, I’m starving right now, and the longer I stay in front of this screen, the more depressed Wifey’s going to get.

What a writer’s block!

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Malaysians During The Vietnam War

Royal Malaysian Police's Senoi Praaq

Malaysia was involved in the Vietnam War. I met a veteran soldier, the late Col Syed (passed away in October 2003) of the Malaysian Army, who was an attache in Saigon before it fell.

The Senoi Praaqs (above) were roped in by the CIA to assist them as ‘translators’ when the former wanted to win the ‘hearts and minds’ of the highlands people. They speak a common lingo apparently.

Anyway, here’s an old music video by Paul Hardcastle. 60’s babies should be able to remember this song:

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An Advice To The Vegetables

How often do you find yourself having to wonder what’s written on a road sign because it’s behind a tree or some overgrown bush that used to be a flowerbed which was supposed to be maintained by the local council?

It really is annoying, isn’t it?

Well, with an economic crisis looming, a town in Yorkshire, England, called Todmorden, has grown vegetables and fruit trees all over the town. Best still, they are all free for anyone to pick and take home to cook! This edible landscape is a million times better than the flowers and trees that are being planted by the various local councils – they don’t cost much to grow, and you help the taxxpayers. The only thing, being in Malaysia, they’ll have to find a way to stop thieves from stealing and reselling them in some market somewhere.

Whatever it is, this is the most sound thing to do now, and I certainly hope the vegetables in the local council can and will do something similar.

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Hang Nak Main Apa?

A jukebox

I’m sure you know how some people have the uncanny ability to converse in different dialects. Normally, they would be dialects other than their own. Some people would just try to mimic sounds, or guess how certain words would be spoken in certain dialects, and then get themselves in an imbroglio.

For example, Kelantanese (people from the state of Kelantan) have this linguistic rule that words ending in a _ang, or, _am, or _an, that ending syllable is to be pronounced as _ae (rhymes with the English ‘care‘). So an imbroglio one would get one’s self into would be going to a market buying a mango (which is Mempelam, or Pelam, in official Malay, but in Kelantan is refered to as Buah Pauh). Example:

Foreign Man: “Mek, demo jua buoh pelae dok?” (Miss, do you sell any testicles?)

Fruitseller: “Buoh pelae? Buoh pelae ado celoh kakae demo!” (Testicles? You can find testicles in between your legs!)

One can only imagine the kind of predicament one could get into.

Back in the late 1980’s when I was stationed on the island of Penang, I used to frequent the trunk road to get to and from Kuala Lumpur. Those were the days when the North-South highway was only between Seremban and Sungai Besi on the southern side, and Jelapang to Changkat Jering on the northern side. There were various roadside restaurants along the way where express buses would stop for coffee breaks and what-nots. And the ones found in Perak would have a jukebox in them.

On one of the trips, a colleague, who was a senior in the Air Force than I was, was travelling with me. We were on our way back to Penang and had stopped just after the junction to Taiping, having exited earlier at the Changkat Jering toll plaza. In that area of Perak, people spoke in the northern dialect, similar to the ones spoken in Penang, Kedah and Perlis; where the syllable that ends with an ‘r’, sounds like it ends with a deep ‘q’. And this friend of mine would have a nimiety of weird northern words peculiar only to him. He saw this fair (and cute) maiden who was the cashier – and next to her was the jukebox. Trying to impress her, he spoke loudly to me:

“Mat, bak mai dua kupang! Aku nak main juboq!” (Mat, can you give me 20 sen? I want to play the anus!)

And I am sure he could feel the malevolent gaze that came from the girl as he walked away from the jukebox, finally realising what it actually meant.

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The Silent Killer Strikes Again

Last night was great.  Gemgem held his closed open-house do (co-sponsored by Da Ma Cai) at Lobsterman in SS2 for us.

Event backdrop

Anyway, one of the things we had was the Shelter’s Garlic Lobster that had so much fried cili padi (Capsicum frutescens…what is its name in English?) and garlic laced on it. By the time we headed back for home, Wifey and I were trading burps and farts inside the car itself. We would trade salvos against each other and I could imagine how those soldiers on the Somme during World War One must have felt being exposed to the mustard gas released by the German army.

Well, true to my character, I never hold crap for long. The moment we arrived home, I just rushed for the porcelain throne and dumped all that potent stuff – clean!

Shelter's Garlic Lobster

Now, Wifey at that time had been constipated for two days. She’s so famous for that, that at times, enema had to be administered. And who will always have to go to the pharmacy to get her supply of enema and KY? ME! M-E, ME! I get funny looks everytime I buy enema and KY. I don’t mind so much if I were to put on my MCOBA t-shirt (MCOBA stands for Malay Champions of Buggering Asses), but in plain t-shirts, they look at me as though I am a pervert.

Not that I am not, though.

Now back to Wifey, she’s blogged once about her ability to dispense killer farts. And I shit you not. Excuse my pun, if you must. You can read all about it HERE. But this time around, her previous killer fart would have been whipped up by Christian Dior or something for being the sweetest discovery of the year. She kept running into the bathroom everytime she had the urge to fart. And somehow, the smell would seep out through the bottom of the bathroom door, into this bedroom. I cannot imagine how the tiles on the wall of the bathroom could stand all that torture without sliding down onto the floor!

To cut a long story short, in the end, we fell asleep at around 3am after she had taken some laxatives. I was slipping into Lalaland, and occassionally gave that involuntary muscle spasm jerks, when I heard that familiar, silently-loving sound that went ~PUuuuUUussSSSssSSssss~. Klaxons shrilled, the tannoys blared ‘Battle Stations‘! This was the real thing. This was no drill!

I hurriedly got up to try to make airtight the comforter that was covering her sleeping body. The gaps in the fibres couldn’t have been more than 0.1 microns in size, but somehow this killer gas managed to seep out. I cannot imagine the discolouration that was taking place on my sarong nearest to her rear orifice. OH, THE SMELL!!!

THIS WAS WHAT KILLED THE DINOSAURS!!!

And lingered in the room it did. Wifey never reacted to the smell except that little “UUhhhHH!” that escaped her mouth – almost silent. I can imagine the sudden increase in booger production just to help plug the nostrils.

Anyway, as they say, as Snake Kings will die because of snake-bites, Wifey almost had her end when she finally managed to dump three days of toxic waste collection. Even she had trouble breathing.

After that episode, I don’t mind being called a backdoor person. I WILL buy her enema and KY without a single whimper so as to help her ease her mind…and bowel movement.

And what of this whole episode? Her killer farts are one of the things that makes her unique – things I would miss about her whenever we have to be away from each other.

And her unique traits are one of the reasons I love this woman very much – gross or not.

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The Imbecile

Damnant quodnon intelligunt. And that is so true.

I don’t know which is worse: when I was younger or as I am now. I would say when I was younger, although some may have some reservations on that. Gone are the days when files would fly, or subordinates wouldn’t go for lunch because they would have to pass in front of my office door that was always open. One thing that is somewhat constant is my being dogmatic. Not my plus-point earner, but sometimes it is good that I have such a trait.

Whether I am more irascible than I used to be is a very subjective matter. Many think I have mellowed and can smile more than what I used to be like some 15 years ago – my bouts of anger ephemeral. But nevertheless, there will be times when some people want a test of that.

Just last Friday, an odious bastard whom Wifey once trusted as a good friend, castigated me on my past marriages. The problem is, it wasn’t done to me in my face, but was related to one of Wifey’s uncles. Now, there are times when I am not known for my coruscating wit; and being judged by a person whom I have only met twice certainly didn’t arouse any witty reaction from me. I would call his a craven act by someone who is only able to sleep better knowing he can step on others; and there are millions of such scum.

It is fallacious that a man who’s gone through more than one marriage is just someone who cannot seriously be in a marriage for long – or marriage, to such a man, is just another ephemera. It can work both ways too. This idiot, who is also known for his garrulous streak, was implicated by Wifey’s ex as one of the people responsible for the failure of their marriage. Well, Wifey’s ex (whom I nicknamed the Glaucoma Monkey) is a very insecure person. Although most of his allegations were baseless, this idiot I call an odious person, is known for being a casanova-wannabe: he is old (definitely older than I am, judging by the creases of skin beneath his collarline), but makes himself up as a younger person, always wanting to be seen in the company of good-looking and almost always younger women. Ball-less as he is, he fears his wife. On my first meeting with him, then without Wifey, he told me how the Glaucoma Monkey had accused him of having a crush for Wifey, and scoffed at the allegation. Thinking back, I am inclined to believe the Glaucoma Monkey.

Despite having seen him walking with younger women after office, I have never had bad thoughts of him. That is his personality and that is his character. I hardly know him, and stories I gathered of him from people who work in the same organisation as he, had never influence my thinking of him.

Until Friday, that is, when he decided to blurt something damaging without knowing what he was talking about. I sometimes find myself stare into the yon in disbelief – he talks about me as if he knows me already, but how can he not know, based on my past, that I can easily extirpate him?

And today is Monday. When he enters office, he is going to find an E-mail waiting for him. In it, are some less-than-civilised words that I have reserved for him, the imbecile.

Caveat actor!