I'm QUITE convinced that Lucifer himself rode on a motorcycle recklessly when he was roaming through the earth and going back and forth in it. And my best guess would be a red and black Modenas Jaguh with a Mat Rock sticker on the tailpipe, that apparently was inspired by Milo tins.

The advertisements you hear on the radio don't make it any easier for you to love the people riding on these motorised bicycles. Especially when you know for sure that they hold as much water as Britney Spears' twelve hundredth implant. The community service reminder tells us that more than 70% of accidents involving motorcycles are not caused by the motorcyclists themselves. Don't be stupid. I respectfully disagree.

And neither do the sea of motorcycles roaming around in the opposite direction near uptown every midnight. For Christmas this year, I want a nuclear powered steamroller. I'd even trade my two front teeth.

I would order it with the optional extra large side view mirrors. Nothing brings me greater joy than the crushing sound of a head-enclosed helmet smashing into the side view mirror. As Ming would say "See. Weave in and out of traffic some more lah!"

I have nothing against motorcyclists who ride in a civilised manner. No, this entry is specially dedicated to the many who ride as if their lives cost less than a bumper. Or a new paintjob. Which I think most of the time, is the case anyway. If I had 10 cents for every time a bloody motorcyclist cuts me off and swears at me thereafter, I would be richer than half the countries in the world. George Bush would be leaving a voicemail on my handphone. Probably to request for a loan to fund his war. Or to borrow my steamroller.

What's worse than weaving in and out of traffic is that just because they take up very little space on the road, they take the liberty to ride in the opposite direction. Or jump red lights. Now this wouldn't bother me at all if I had that steamroller. Because I wouldn't know if a helmet-wearing idiot crashes into me. Every motorcycle should come with complimentary "Hit me - I make a *SPLAT* sound when you do!" T-shirts. Or a yellow sign that says "My erupted spleen - 500 meters ahead".

Or a box of lightbulbs. It's already so difficult to notice them since they take up roughly the same space as Jessica Simpson's brain, let alone when they ride around with headlights and/or tail lights that don't work. How hard is it to realise that your lights don't work anymore?! It's not as if you need a map to get from the front of your motorcycle to the back or vice versa.

In view of the ever increasing petrol prices (which by the way, has gone up to 162 cents/litre effective today), we should all place orders for nuclear-powered steamrollers. You don't need to worry about petrol, tyre replacements, paintjobs, airbags, seatbelts, ABS, or central locking. Or the mosquito equivalents - reckless motorcyclists. It even comes with this complimentary roadsign. Oh, plus the ultra-cool farmer's hat.

I was just trying to get some sleep and then my laptop tells me that I have a new email. Ok so I realise that I have a problem. The moment I know that I have a new email, I absolutely HAVE to get up and read it. Time and time again (or like Jasmine would say: times and times again), I would be really disappointed. Strangers offering me half of their inheritance in exchange for a small favour on my part. Or an interest free loan. Or medication that would normally need prescription. Or a few extra inches of masculinity.

So I got up and sat on my chair, and looked at my screen. Ooh, email from Sarah. What's this? The subject says: Desmond Chuah. Now for some weird unexplainable reason, I started laughing and laughing the moment I read that. I have NO IDEA why it was so funny. But it just was. So I opened the mail to read that Desmond is now in hospital because they suspected that he has dengue.

I burst out harder.

At this point, I feel the dire need to clarify that I do not hold any secret grudges against Desmond or anything of that sort. I happen to like the guy. But some people are just not meant to be in hospitals. Like Caleb. Or Wete. Or Desmond.

Seriously, I have no idea why I think its funny that he is in hospital. Maybe it's the thought that funny guys (as in, guys with a sense of humour) get sick too. I don't know.

Anyhow, if you know Desmond and if you're reading this, do visit him. Contact me for details.
Speaking of funny, this is for you, Desmond. And for the rest of us, for everytime we laugh at this, please pray for him.

I was out with Kow, Ai Li, and Crazy G yesterday afternoon at 1U and I bought a shirt. When I came home, I was cutting the tags and this was what I saw: (Yes I know my photography skills leave very little to be desired)

HAHAHAHAHAHAH!They should put that on every product.

Hell, the doctor should stamp it on your ass with a metal plate after he cuts your umbilicle cord.

I need therapy.

It just took me an hour to muster the courage to walk out of my room to greet my relos. It's so daunting having to recall their titles. If only it were simpler ie "Helllo". But noooooooo, in Chinese culture, you have to address them individually. It would be easier if there was just one of each kind, because you could just address them by their titles. But what if there's more than one of each? Then you've got to put in their names too.

Dammit.

What's with culture? What's with the Tua Pek, Ah Kim, Ah Ku, etc? What's with the Yam Seng's and Yee Sang's? It's bloody annoying. In fact, if you look closely at the Yee Sang we toss every year, there's more crap than fish. Why call it Yee Sang then? Why not call it "Yat Pek Si" (lump of crap)?

What's with the stupid tea ceremony? Don't they appreciate any form of hygene? If you're in a small family, that's fine. What if you have 10 uncles and aunties? Then they'll all be drinking from the same bloody tea cup. It wouldn't be so bad if the cups were big macho German mugs with more surface area. But the cups are so stupidly tiny. Do our roots trace back to midgets or something?! You would most definitely be sharing spit (and uber red lipstick) with the person who drank the cup before you. To make things worse, the older relos get to drink first. And the older you are, the redder your lipstick. (Also, the older you are, the more prone you are to bad breath and gum disease) My symphaties go out to the youngest in the family.

Seriously, what's with all these cultures? The soon-to-get-lucky couple would probably not know 3/4 of the guests present. And they are the ones paying for the dinner. I'd be freaking upset. The only thing that would keep me going is the fact that I'll be getting laid after the nasty dinner is over. The way things are going, the dinner is for their parents to show off to people whom they hate. It's another way of announcing to the world that the restaurant at which they're having the dinner has the loudest karaoke system in the whole of PJ and KL. And some say Seremban.

I'm sorry about the earlier statement. I don't need therapy. I just need to migrate.

On the way to uni, and there was a massive traffic jam on KESAS. I was waiting behind the wheel, and driving as closely as I can to the car in front of me so that no one could cut me off.

Then there it was, a traffic police in front of me, waving his arms hysterically. What the hell was he doing?! He wasn't stopping cars. He wasn't directing traffic. He wasn't pulling over cars which were cutting queue. He was just waving his damned arms!

Most traffic police officers are like that. They just stand at the side of the road and wave their bloody hands. Security guards do the same thing. Drive along 1U and you'll know what I mean.

Then it struck me. Could it be, that traffic police officers are actually rejects from clown schools?

Uncanny, isn't it?

I am proud to announce that I have lost my virginity. Clubbing virginity, that is.

Since high school (or secondary school, as preferred by wete), all my friends have been going clubbing but I never understood the hype. I don't like the music, I don't like the smoke, I don't like the atmosphere, I don't like crowded places, and I sure as hell don't like the dancing.

But, you should try everything once if possible, so why the hell shouldn't I give it a shot? So I called me ever trusty full-time clubber friend, Harin to ask for some pointers.

"Can Ann wear flip flops?"

"What's the legal age?"

"Is it safe to order a drink?"

"What's the cover charge like?"

So Ann, Krys, Ai Li, Grace and I headed off to Zouk on a Thursday night (because Thursday night is Ladies' Night, so they got in for free). It was also R&B night, so we saw a lot of a certain breed of people.

Didn't turn out to be as bad as I expected. Quite interestingly, the first thing I said when I got in was "Hey!! It's just like in the movies!!". Actually, I think Ann and I had quite a good time, being first timers. But I don't think it's something I'd do very often. To me, paying for an experience is not worth the money. I'd rather buy a pair of clean socks for 30 bucks. Which is also why I don't really like watching movies or going on a holiday. I would rather spend the money on something I can bring back. Something tangible, that is.

BUT, the experience on the way home was well worth the 30 bucks. There was a road block and the police officer actually stopped me. I couldn't believe it. He let the ultra-jeng guy in the Wiralution pumping the latest song by the Venga Boys in front of me go and he suspected that a guy driving a mundane unmodified Peugeot would be guilty of substance abuse?

Anyway, he tapped on my window and asked me "Dari mana?" Ok, at this point, I should point out to you that I only got a 7D for BM in SPM. And that was when my BM was actually good. So I didn't understand what he was trying to ask me! Dari mana?!?! What the hell did he mean? Where was I born? Where do I live? Was I local or not?! Who knows?!? I feel bloody stupid for replying in these dreaded words.

Wait for it.








"Huh? Apa dari mana?"

Shit.

My heart stopped beating. Yet my face was filling up with blood. I was blushing so badly my face probably looked redder than Kylie Minogue's ultra-short shorts. "Think before you speak! Think before you speak!!!!!" I could hear giggles coming from the back of the car. Ann smacked her forehead. She was probably rolling her eyes as well.

Lucky for me, he didn't react to my stupid question. He just looked inside the car and let me go.

Dammit.

So now that I have been clubbing once, I know what it's like. But I really don't understand what the fuss is all about. Also don't understand how people can ask "Zouk" to be their friend on Friendster.

Yang Dihormati, Puan (insert random female malay name here), Yang Berbahagia (directly translated to "Your Happiness") Puan (insert another random female malay name here), Ibubapa, dan para para pelajar sekalian.

I was slouching at my seat and thinking "Damn nothing could be worse than listening to a woman in her fifties trying to figure out why there is so much feedback from the speakers and then tapping the mic unendlessly when that is the very thing causing it in the first place." Then came the part of the "assembly" when we all had to listen to some nonsensical murmuring which ended with everyone sneezing into their hands (apparently) and then wiping their goo all over their faces.

Then came the dreaded song.

Then a middle-aged man comes onto the stage and gladly announces that now is the time for the "persembahan pelajar". Someone kill me now!! About 10 students were on the stage, dancing to a song which I think P Ramlee's great great grandfather wrote. And recorded. I was squirming in my seat and yelling silently "GIMME THE DAMNED SPEECH AGAIN!". First it was a Malay song, then it was a super super super Cina song accompanied by girls prancing around in kung fu clothes and pink paper fans. I began to excrete cold sweat when I entertained the thought of an Indian dance with the fake trees. If it wasn't for Ann's brother, I wouldn't be at the stupid "Anugerah Pelajar Cermelang" in SMKDU. Oh by the way, congrats, Jeremy.

Schools have this aura of rebellion. The moment I entered the school, I felt the need to rebel. Actually it started when I tried to park in the school and a bloody prefect on probation refused to let me in. I had this urge to just ram him down but I didn't because that would involve washing my bumper to rid of his remains and quite possibly, even getting it replaced altogether. I remember the prefects in my school. Damn, they were a pain. Well most of them at least. The very purpose of existence was to prove to you that they could make your student life just a little bit shittier. They would confiscate your liquid papers during recess. Like as if I couldn't write on tables and walls with pencils. They tried to confiscate my socks but I made such a big deal that the discipline teacher called my father to school. I hate you, Puan Vimala. May the rest of your life continue to be a sad sad one. Yes, it was me who climbed over the wall with Caleb that day.
Yes, it was me who told my co-op juniors not to sell lencana sesi pagi's to your herd of sad prefects. Yes, it was me who tipped off your lousy spot check plan. What are you going to do about it? Send a letter to my house?

HAH!

The old lady who lived in the school? Vimala, it's you.

So since coming back from Melbourne, I have been craving for Boost Juice. Chuen has been raving and raving about a Malaysian equivalent. At this point, I am wondering if I should reveal the name of the outlet that I went to but considering the fact that the person working there was someone I knew, I think I should just call it "Jenama X".

So anyway, I had my first Jenama X this afternoon and I was pretty psyched up because of all the anticipation. So I took my first sip. Hmmm, quite nice. Watermelon-ny, mango-ey, quite tangy because of the lemon sorbet, and then suddenly WHOAAAAA WHAT THE BLOODY HELL - IS THAT GINGER OR AVOCADO?!?! I took another sip, and this time it tasted like mothballs. Can't be - took yet another sip and this time I could nearly swear that it tasted like blended kittens. So after a while, I realised that it was a total waste of time deciphering what it was because I couldn't decide what it tasted like. You see, the problem with Jenama X is that everytime you drink it, the aftertaste is different. It's like Harry Potter's Every Flavour Beans, just that this time, all the flavours are blended into a smoothie which they so proudly call Jenama X. When the smoothie hits your tongue, its actually quite nice but it only takes 2 seconds for you to realise that the aftertaste is not worth it. I sometimes wonder if the people smiling and laughing on the ad are actually high on the weird concoction of watermelon and smurfs.

Having said all that, I'll give it another shot next time because it's a good effort and the service is really good. There are some people who are still nuts (speaking of which, it kinda tasted like nuts at one point) about it so it can't be all bad. Maybe it was the wrong flavour. Or maybe something fell into my smoothie. Or maybe he accidently blended a spoon. Or a plastic glove. Or the Queen of England.