Bye bye baby

Have you ever had something that you loved so much, and yet it causes you much more problem than it’s worth? Blow most of your money just to keep it happy and in return, gives you heartache and misery? I’m not talking about girlfriends - I’m talking about cars. (Although I would agree there’s not much difference between the two)

I bought myself a used car a few years after I joined the work force. Tightened my belt, drank cheap beer and ate only when deemed absolutely necessary just to save up for it. It was a proud moment, when I surprised my family by going out with a bike and coming home with a car. Of course, my brother knew it because he was my guarantor. But everyone else was in the dark.
Ahh… I still remembered the smell of my car as I drove it home. Suffocating yet tantalizing. Kinda like cow dung – it stinks, but it gets you high. My car was a Proton Wira aeroback with an ugly metallic dark green paint and a few cigarette burn marks on the seats. There were also some holes on the dashboard as the previous owner installed an LCD display, but the car was mine now and I loved it. Finally, I had my own car, and I could just imagine the chicks I could pick up with it. Hey I was in my early twenties and all I had on my mind then were the opposite sex.

My skill behind the wheel then was fairly poor as I had just gotten my driver’s license a mere few days before. I drove slowly due to that, also because I do not want to accidentally scratch my new old car. But that didn’t last long – both the slow and the scratch part. In about less than a week, I managed to back into a parked motorcycle. Also, my cruising speed doubled as I found that my patience level on the road was significantly reduced. Maybe it’s due to the more comfortable and quiet atmosphere inside the car, as opposed to riding a bike out in the open… or maybe just because I’m a Malaysian driver.
When I was on a bike, I used to curse car drivers. How they ignore us motorcyclists and always expect us to give way to them. Now that I am driving a car, I curse the motorcyclists. They make turns as and when they wish. Cutting in and out of traffic as if weaving through an obstacle course. AND especially for going slow and blocking my way. Yes, MY way. But I do realize something I still do the same now as when I did then on a bike – I curse bus, truck and lorry drivers. Those dumb asses.

Back to my car. It was running just fine through the years, until suddenly one fine day it over heated. It costs me six hundred bucks to get it fixed. After that incident, somehow a chain reaction of boo-boos happened. Every month, like clock work, just as soon as I get my pay check, something would require fixing. First it was my absorbers. Then my air conditioning unit. Then the brakes. It was never ending. On the months where nothing broke, it was due time to change something else like my timing belt or my batteries. Overall, my car was costing me a small fortune. A fortune I could have spent boozing.

On top of that, there were some loose connections in my car’s wiring. How did that happened? I went to one of those accessories shop and installed a new alarm system. After that from time to time my car would lose its connection to the batteries. The power window would not work. My indicators would not work. My air conditioning unit would not work. Imagine sitting in a metal box on a hot day in a traffic jam with no air-conditioning and you can’t roll down your windows. Isn’t that what they used to do to torture POWs? I had to open my door whenever possible just to let the hot air out and fresh traffic fumes in. I really looked like a schmuck.

I took my car to my usual work shop but after an hour’s check, the mechanic told me it was some wiring issues due to the new alarm system and advised me to go back to the accessories shop that installed it. So I brought my car to the accessories shop and there they told me, I should go to a work shop to check on my wiring. WTF? As I drove home swearing, I gave a few angry kicks at the fuse box area (driver’s side, to the top right) and suddenly, everything works. From that day, each time my “power problems” occurred, I would be kicking my car to rectify it. Kinda looks like a kid throwing a tantrum actually. This is not an easy feat, as I need to use my right leg to do the kicking, and that’s the same leg that is supposed to be stepping on the fuel paddle.

Finally, one day I decided to do some calculations to see the feasibility of getting a new car. The sudden soberness was due to my lack of funds for alcohol as all my money was going to my car. I checked and found that a Toyota Vios is right within my budget range. The exterior was nice. A subcompact with a cute front, and a short ass. But when I saw the interior, I was shocked. It has a stupid center console. Why the hell do I want other people to see my instruments? Driving a Vios would make me feel like a chauffer. My other option was the Honda City. Its interior was fabulous, but unfortunately, I didn’t like the exterior nor the price. Well, mostly the price.


Center console. I bet the reason for it is so that it would be easier for the manufacturer to swap between left and right hand drive. Those lazy mofos.

Anyway, I am now faced with a question. Vios or City. When in doubt, ask the chicks. It might sound crazy to you, but I always felt that if most chicks I know like a particular thing, then most chicks which I do not know yet will like it too. So, I got myself a Vios. Now for the color. I’m not so much into shopping. It doesn’t take me hours to decide if it looks nice or does it match my hair color. In less than five minutes I can buy a pair of jeans. In ten minutes I can buy a shirt and a shoe and a pair of jeans. And in thirty seconds, I managed to choose the color of the car which I will be driving for at least five to ten years. Why did I choose this color? Simple. It was the first color I saw in the showroom.

In about a week, I drove my new car home, and bid farewell to my old Proton as I silently wished good freaking luck to the future owner. On the first drive I took my parents out in my new car, the inevitable happened as I have predicted. “Boy, why are you driving so fast”. The damn speedometer is right in front of their faces. Man, its annoying and I will have to bear with this for a long long time. To top it all up, and make me feel more like a Ahmad or a taxi driver, maybe I should add this sticker for the benefit of my passengers.

Maybe then I can start charging when I drive people around (Please don’t ask me how I got the sticker…. It was a gift. Sigh.)

Anyway, now that I’m a proud owner of a Vios, I only have one question. Where do all the pretty single ladies that like guys driving cheap Toyotas hang out at?

My new baby. Sorry guys, no 4D numbers.

Ni Hao Ma?

Don’t you just love it when you enter a store in your neighborhood shopping mall and this lovely sexy salesgirl comes over and says “Qing wen wo yao zhen me bang ni ne?“ Wait! Did she just insulted me or just trying to tell me my fly’s open? Should I just walk away disgruntled or do I need to check my bird cage?

It’s difficult being a Chinese but not being able to speak Mandarin. I’m a Hokkien, and in Penang that’s all that is needed. Or so I thought.

Many people have asked me why. And now with this blog, I can just tell them the web address and they can read it up themselves. I’m not so much into repeating myself. It gets tiring saying the same thing over and over again. Again, like I said, I’m not so much into repeating myself. Seems like every guy I meet, at some point or another, would ask me about this handicap of mine. I hate that cause I’m not so much into repeating myself.

Wait a minute; I would have to be repeating the web address like a million times. Hell, there’s just no winning. Bah!

It all started when I was young. My family doesn’t speak Mandarin, so the only place for me to learn was in school. I can still remember. There’s a Mandarin class after school on Fridays. On one fine day, sometime in standard four, I decided to join. I knew the other kids have a huge head start over me as I can barely write my name in Mandarin, let alone say a complete sentence. So I took up the courage and had a go at it.

I walked into the class, and I saw my friends there as well. I took a seat, giddy at what I would learn there. How I would go home and proudly converse with my siblings and see their faces when they don’t understand a single word I say. I would just stand there and laugh, finally even though being the youngest; I have some knowledge/skill that they don’t. Imagine the power. Imagine the prestige.

So, class started and the teacher walked in. Suddenly, everybody said “Lao Shi Wu An”. WTF was that? Anyway, I remembered that it was done in a very chaotic manner. If this was a synchronized greeting event, they’d get an even zero. The teacher said something, as if in displeasure and wanted a livelier greeting. So they said it again. I had no real idea what was being said, but I assumed it was “Good afternoon, teacher”. So instead of just standing and keeping my mouth shut and looking like a snob, I Milli Vanilli-ed the words.

Then the teacher greeted them back and started yapping. I was lost. All I could do was to look at my friends and see what they were doing, and mimic their actions. They stood up, so did I. They sat down, so did I. They took their exercise books out, so did I. In other words, monkey see, monkey do. After about 10 minutes, I finally decided enough is enough. I gathered all my courage, packed my things into my bag, and told the teacher that my school bus was here and I had to leave. The teacher excused me, not even wondering how the hell I could have known my bus was there when the class was at least a hundred meters away from the parking lot and has no view whatsoever of it.

I ran out into the school field, feeling the kind of freedom only a caged bird let loose could describe. Frolicking in the sun and playing with my other friends who were not in the Mandarin class. I’ve got time; the school bus won’t be there until at least an hour!

Fat Chance on Getting Fat

Hmm… now where do I start? Ever since I can remember, I had always been horizontally challenged. In other words, slim. Slim not thin, ok? Slim slim slim. Sigh. Well, ok… thin. You might even say skinny.

In primary school, I would be teased for my lack of mass. Bamboo boy, Cicak Kubing, Bones, Lidi… I’ve heard them all. Kids can be cruel – and so can your siblings too. I though it was only going to be like this for the moment. Like my superhero or David Copperfield phase. I couldn’t be more wrong.

In secondary school, I had my growth spurt. I got taller – yeah baby. But Mother Nature played a cruel joke and decided not to put more meat into these skinny bones of mine. So as you may expect, my lack of weight became more apparent. It’s like a piece of plaster sin. The more you stretch it, the thinner it becomes. Throughout my secondary school (five years of it, plus a week in from six) I managed to get stuck at 45kg with a height of 177cm. If only I was a girl, I could become one of those anorexic super models. I could have made millions, but no, I had to be a guy.

In college… ah…. My favorite time. Hanging out with the guys. Meeting girls, cutting classes and started a beautiful relationship called smoking. Anyway, I figured now I could at least use fashion to my advantage. So I decided with
t-shirts which are 2 sizes larger
t-shirt and jeans, and sporting an unbuttoned shirt ala jacket
As you know, not many people in Penang actually wear an extra unbuttoned shirt over their existing t-shirt. So if you were in Penang in the mid 90s and saw a guy wearing just that, chances are it was me. Don’t get me wrong, I thought it was cool – and I still do, but in a cool skinny way.

Now that I am working, my inner self told me “Macho guy, now’s the time to pump up on food and supplements with what little extra cash you have”. And being as easily influenced as I am, I did what I was told…. by err… me. Protein milk, loads of eggs, powdered milk, weight gain drinks, supplements, steaks, cheese cakes, pizzas, burgers, ice cream, chocolates. The list goes on, but my waist line stayed. All those things just made me visit the family throne more often than I would like to admit.

Again, I though my dressing could help. Unlike my previous unbuttoned shirt, now it’s buttoned and tucked it in. The t-shirt inside kinda acts like a bra’s padding. If girls can trick guys into thinking they have a larger cup size, tricking them back about my body mass is just down right genius. Any extra millimeters of cloth that can give me the appearance of being fatter is most welcomed. You might be asking “Does that actually work?” Well, even if it doesn’t, at least I dun have my nipples visibly pointing out like most schmucks do.

A while back, I read about someone’s experience on getting tummy worms. So yes, I decided to de-worm myself. That must be it. With all the food I consume, why aren’t I any fatter yet? Worms? It can’t be this simple, or can it? The next day, I went to the doctor, asked for the anti-worm medicine and he gave me six jumbo sized tablets (I went to get an MC as well… kill two birds with a single stone. heh). I was supposed to gobble them up all at once but was a little bit agitated as I’m not accustomed to putting large objects into my mouth and then swallow. I’m not a girl.

On the way home, I couldn’t help but think that my thirty year agony of being the skinny guy would finally be history. As soon as I reached home, I popped all six tablets into my mouth and swallowed it with a glass of water. It was easier than I thought. Now… DIE, WORMS! DIE! HAHAHA! So WTF do I do now? Just sit and wait? Minutes passed. Hours passed. Days passed. Every time I go to the potty, I would check before I flush. Hoping to see something that shouldn’t be there, but would be inspiring if it were. By the way, I just look. I didn’t rummage through my own byproduct. Two weeks passed and still nothing. Man, what a disappointment. This just goes to show that when you want a parasite in your body, you won’t get any.

I kinda lost hope on gaining weight for the moment, until perhaps some miracle weight gain drug advertisement on the television catches my attention.

I guess there’s just no way of getting rid of this curse which so many people do not understand. Guess it’s genetics, since my father’s skinny as well. But if I am going to be just like my dad, then I have much bigger problems ahead – literally. He’s kinda like balding now. Sigh.

The Beginning

While chatting with a friend on MSN during working hours, I was introduced to the wonderful world of blogging. No, I have not been hiding underneath a rock for the last millennium. I know blogging has existed for a long time. I would say those prehistoric cave drawings could be said to be the earliest of them all.

I Googled some cave drawings, and made my own interpretations of what the author was trying to tell.

I got my sister’s horse pregnant!

Last night I had a wet dream about a bird and a bison, and got a mega hard on.

Animal karma sutra position number four, the Porking from Behind.

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As I was looking through my friend’s blog, it hit me. “Hey, I can do that too”. I can get my views and opinions across to people everywhere. I can be whoever I want to be, and I can stop whenever I get bored with it. Plus its way cheaper than hanging out at the local pub.

So the first thing I thought of was what to write. Do I create a blog, talking about politics and blame the government for everything? Do I try to spread my insane ideologies and tear down those which I do not agree nor understand? Or do I curse my enemies and upload superimpose pictures of their faces onto nudies? The latter would be nice, but laws on internet is rather vague, so best to just blog about my crappy life. Else I might end up blogging about a six by four cell.

Also, I want to write something entertaining. Something that would not put people to sleep. From all the numerous blogs that I have read so far, I have come up with three types of bloggers which I do not want myself to fall into.

1. People who write about nothing which no one wants to read except themselves.

2. People who write with such bad English that no one except themselves can read.

3. People who write lame ass stories that go nowhere and are just plain boring.

The next step is to register myself an account for some blogging space. This step was rather easy as I only had one requirement. Free. A quick Google and voila, I found blogger.com.
So for the next few days, I was typing typing typing. Writing grandmother stories. Trying to get a few articles up before putting it on the web for people to view and scrutinize. Hopefully I would get some fans and be able to start my own religion.

Blogging lets you create your own new persona. It’s like leading a double life. For me, by day, I’m the mild mannered Analyst Programmer which is a slave to everyone. By night, I’m a macho egoistic power hungry male chauvinist keyboard typing prick who dares to say anything and everything. Er… except when there’s a chance of a lawsuit being filed against me, of course.