No Un-thin Chicks

Sorry, I had to censor that sensitive word out and replace it with the more politically-correct "Un-thin". I've been so-called pressured to banish that certain sign from my car for fear of having people think me as being an inconsiderate, selfish person, not to mention probably getting labelled as a chauvinist.

The truth is, I don't really care anymore. In fact, last Sunday I was too tired and exhausted to care. Normally I'd give my opinions or two but I had just covered a wedding (that went on til the wee hours of 2am) the night before, and was really in no lively shape to debate my points of view. Which might have been a good thing anyway, since it could degenerate into a situation where both sides keep arguing until one party backs down.

But on another side of the planet, I still go around the place I go each Sunday and see people wear provocative t-shirts, or say things which would make a lot of people uncomfortable. And some of the slogans on the said t-shirts would dirently lump me together since it targets either the gender, the physical nature of that person, or even the girlfriend (or the lack of none). :D

But in just all scenarios, I just have a good laugh and shake it all off. I could've gotten angry if I wanted to, but I see no point in that. After all, doesn't it consciously mean that the person who got offended by my cute little sign sticking on my rear windscreen is directly acknowledging herself as un-thin? Go figure. :P

It's funny, really. And the positive side to this is that at the end of the day, I can laugh at it and just chalk it up as another of life's insanities. Doesn't have to make sense, y'know. I sound arrogant, yes I know. That judgment I leave it up to the world. And even as of now, I still see that t-shirt which labels guys as being very dim being worn around. I hardly see the malicious content of it, if any. For now, the best solution I can offer is to take the sign down every Sunday. But on the rest of the week, the sign stays. My car. My freedom.

Why so serious? :P

No Un-thin Chicks

Sorry, I had to censor that sensitive word out and replace it with the more politically-correct "Un-thin". I've been so-called pressured to banish that certain sign from my car for fear of having people think me as being an inconsiderate, selfish person, not to mention probably getting labelled as a chauvinist.

The truth is, I don't really care anymore. In fact, last Sunday I was too tired and exhausted to care. Normally I'd give my opinions or two but I had just covered a wedding (that went on til the wee hours of 2am) the night before, and was really in no lively shape to debate my points of view. Which might have been a good thing anyway, since it could degenerate into a situation where both sides keep arguing until one party backs down.

But on another side of the planet, I still go around the place I go each Sunday and see people wear provocative t-shirts, or say things which would make a lot of people uncomfortable. And some of the slogans on the said t-shirts would dirently lump me together since it targets either the gender, the physical nature of that person, or even the girlfriend (or the lack of none). :D

But in just all scenarios, I just have a good laugh and shake it all off. I could've gotten angry if I wanted to, but I see no point in that. After all, doesn't it consciously mean that the person who got offended by my cute little sign sticking on my rear windscreen is directly acknowledging herself as un-thin? Go figure. :P

It's funny, really. And the positive side to this is that at the end of the day, I can laugh at it and just chalk it up as another of life's insanities. Doesn't have to make sense, y'know. I sound arrogant, yes I know. That judgment I leave it up to the world. And even as of now, I still see that t-shirt which labels guys as being very dim being worn around. I hardly see the malicious content of it, if any. For now, the best solution I can offer is to take the sign down every Sunday. But on the rest of the week, the sign stays. My car. My freedom.

Why so serious? :P

The Spirit Of Unsportsmanship

I was watching the Olympics the other day when they showed those 4 x 100m events of the past years, and suddenly I was reminded of my own sad, terrible tragedy which took place more than a decade ago. I was a bright-eyed, naive and innocent boy then (and still am now), and it was the annual School Sports Day. We'd specially rented the Bukit Jalil Staduim for this special event. Apart from the mundane long jumps, high jumps, and goodness-knows-what-else-would-jump, there was the 4 x 100m relay, with four gold medals to be awarded to the winning team. Tensions ran high, naturally. I was one of those asked to represent the Red Team, for whatever the reason was known only to God. I wasn't particularly a person you would call a fast sprinter. I mean, I even had enough difficulty running after the ice-cream truck, and they're just placing me in there? They'd probably have more luck predicting the 4 winning lottery digits. Granted, all I had was height, and I might have excelled better in NBA, but that's another story for another fine, sunny day. On that particular day, the four of us were asked to get ready, and the coach handed us our team uniforms - nothing more than simple cotton t-shirts tinged with a healthy dose of Communist Red. I loathe that shirt. Don't even get me started on the sporting event logo. Fast forward 2 hours, and there we were, all set on the sprint track. With four teams comprising four runners each plus the respective coaches made around twenty-plus individuals on the grounds. As each team huddled together to receive their last words of wisdom, our coach broke the news to us: there was going to be a reshuffling of each runner's position. I was scheduled to run third, but was now placed last, due to an unwise decision made by our bumbling coach. She reckoned that the guy originally schedule to run after my turn would give our team the upper hand should he run first in front of me. Big mistake. No sooner than that, all of us got ready to sweat it out and burn rubber on the grids, and perhaps tear a hamstring or two for those unfortunate enough to get it. As I was in fourth position, there was nothing much that I could do except sit down, and prayed that my first runner had taken enough steroids not to fall behind the rest. With the shot fired, it boiled down to a test of strength versus will, muscle against muscle, and the doped versus the undoped while the crowd went wild. Our guy made the mark and he passed the baton to the second dude. The latter chalked up a pretty good record too and the baton made its way into the third fella's hand. He was off like a speeding bullet. That was when all the innocence of my childhood began fading away, and the ugly realities of life started to beat the snot out of me. At first, things looked good, but then later somehow Mr. Third Runner seemed to slow down, and the remaining two sprinters from opposing teams quickly caught up with him, eventually passing him by. By the time I received the baton, all three runners from the other teams were already almost halfway around the bloody track. I tried my best to keep pace with them, but it was no use. I even tried to visualize that ice-cream truck in front of me to allow myself some encouragement to run faster, but even the phantom ice-cream man, with his neatly-pressed white unifom complemented with a black bow tie, poked his head out of the imaginary ice-cream truck and laughed at me. By now, the three earlier sprinters had already completed the race, and were sitting around the track resting their worn-out muscles, eyes on me. I was only at the halfway mark, no thanks to the third guy's inept running skills. What could've turned out to be my finest hour now lay in shambles, as the crowd, now impatient, started booing me in unison. They were obviously tired of waiting for the race to end, and the sight of one lone runner going for broke amused them, or probably angered them, or both. I don't know. To be booed is one thing, and to be faulted for other people's ineptness and idiocy is another. I finally reached the finishing line, and for a moment there I swore I caught a glimpse of my coach giving me her disapproving stare. Hey, what'd I do damnit? But there was no time for that as my tired muscles, poorly-trained for this event, eventually gave way and I tumbled down onto the track. No one came to my aid nor help me up to the locker room. Those pretty young female nurses which were abundant all around the stadium one moment were gone the next. I was left to simmer and bake under the afternoon sun. So much for taking one for the team. The next year, requests for me to make an appearance for the sprinting team once more were met with replies of "Get lost!" and "You'll never take me alive!", echoed by me.

The Dork Knight

Disclaimer: Don't read this unless you've watched "The Dork", I mean, err, "Dark Knight". Either that or if you have a history of amnesia, then go ahead. You've been warned...

[During lunch hour one fine sunny day]
Me: Hey, you've watched The Dark Knight already right?
Friend: Yeah, what's up with it?
Me: Nothing. Just want to know if it's a great movie like what the newspapers scribbled.
Friend: Totally. But I don't know what they were talking about.
Me: No way. I mean, you're kidding me right?
Friend: No. Really. I have no idea what was going on. I mean, where did the Joker come from?
Me: Nevermind that. Is it great or not?
Friend: Like I said, yeah.
Me: I heard they changed the gal. Used to be Katie Holmes, but they got Maggie Gyllenhall to play Rachel this time around.
Friend: Who?
Me: You know, Maggie. The sister of Jake. She had a role as the female love interest of Will Ferrell in "Stranger Than Fiction", while Jake starred in "Jarhead", "Brokeback Mountain" etc...
Friend: No idea who (My friend's a bit blur-rish when it comes to Western actors).
Me: Okay, nevermind then.
Friend: Huh, what does it matter anyway? The girl dies in the end.
Me: ... Did you really have to spoil it for me?
Friend: What? Why?
Me: I've not watched The Dark Knight yet, damnit! @#$%^&
Friend: Oh really ah? Sorry ya, but seriously, at the ending, the Joker was...
Me: (cuts him short) Shuttup damnit! I'm not listening to this! Not listening to this! Lalalalalala (clasps hands over ears trying to drown out his spoilers).

I swore I could've brought my bowl of hot soup on his head. But food is expensive nowadays, and that soup cost me RM4 abomb. Strangulation would've been a much cheaper option.

Wise Sayings

This post is a collaboration of sorts with covers classical moments that have happened to various people including but not restricted to Kiffer, Shearn, Jon, William (and a few more mysterious contributors) written in our best command of Chinglish. Enjoy.

1. "Time is best way to see if chick dig you".
2. "Ascertain marshmallow is first cool before touching with tip of tongue".
3. "When throwing people in pool, making sure self not be casualty too".
4. "Being able to count not meaning you not drunk".
5. "A girl after much alcohol consuming turns scary".
6. "If wish to lift girl on shoulders, make hasty sure face not turn red like lobster".
7. "No sound from toilet long time not mean friend pass out".
8. "Never pull person underwear before seeing face".
9. "Please not underestimate power of simple funny Indian song with man call Benny".
10. "Car of same color not mean of same driver".
11. "Make hasty sure of aircond existence before invite others to enjoy said aircond".
12. "Take precaution of no crazy jokes at the lunch else you getting good face-spray".
13. "Miss important turning while drive on highway guarantees much laughing joy".
14. "When laughing at friend just thrown in pool, make hasty sure who behind you first".
15. "Alarm sound from corner not mean it come from person handphone".
16. "Six guy in room is sure means and ways of disaster recipe".
17. "Make hasty sure phone not recording before complain about weight of person".
18. "Red stuff on leg is mean either you bleeding bad or just sauce of tomato".
19. "Please, when sleep in room with others guy, beware of guy sleeping only in briefs".
20. "When joking of girls and their ability of helping fire grow, make hasty sure none is around".

That's all (for now). Til then, for great justice!

The Mystery Of The Vanishing Socks

I've always pondered over this inexplicable mystery of where my washed socks always end up to. I would dutifully wash and rinse my socks each night after I'm home, hang them up to dry temporarily on the steel bar affixed on the bathroom wall, and call it a good day. Evil-smelling varieties would pop up from time to time, but they're usually conquered with the help of Dynamo (in the barrel loads), scrubbed into submission and spread out lifelessly across the fore mentioned steel bar. And that's when big trouble would begin in my little home.

The next day, mum or dad would transfer the collection of socks to the balcony to be dried out completely, and by late afternoon they would've been toasty and just right to be brought in, sorted out and finally, rolled up like so many cinnamon buns awaiting their respective owners. Fine, except that I don't always get what I washed the previous day before.

I would arrive home to pack my clothes into the cupboard and realize that the black twosomes I wore and washed yesterday had already gone missing. Just like that. Into thin air. Vanished without a trace. You get my drift.

The only two most probable places they could've end up into (apart from Sock Hell) is either my dad's or big brother's wardrobe. In case you are wondering, this is not a finger-pointing session accompanied by the throwing of plates against the wall. Rather, it all boils down to the simple case of misunderstandings over which article of clothing belongs to whom. Granted, there have been cases where I've dug up my Polo tee in my big brother's stockpile of clothes just 'cause my dad thought it belonged to him. All the men in our household are of the same build, so it's easy to see (no pun intended) why cases like these happen.

To date, I've lost the following - 3 pairs of black working socks, 2 pairs of purple working socks, a pair of green socks (don't ask me how I came to be in possession of purple or green socks. Just don't. Some things are better left unknown :P), at least one gray Nike workout socks, and one white Adidas sports socks. Heck, I've even lost just one side of this purplish-black pair, and now the remaining survivor has resigned to its role as the annual Christmas stocking.

To my credit, I've conducted low-profile infiltration missions into my big brother's said giant wardrobe in the hopes of unearthing my long-lost socks but nothing ever turns up. The same goes for my infils in Dad's wardrobe. I sort of pictured my big brother's wardrobe as this mini Bermuda Triangle where everything goes it and nothing goes out. In my efforts to curb unnecessary sock deaths (mine), I have sewn cute little "J" initials on them, placed barcodes, and even contemplated implanting microchips along their seams to have their strange migratory patterns tracked via GPS (Global Positioning for Socks). But nothing works, and the mystery only deepens. I can't help but chuckle over the irony of life sometimes. To counter this effect while I investigate further, I get all of my supplies from Giant currently at 99 cents a pair, which has the comfort level akin to wearing sandpaper on your feet.

I figured that this would probably make a very engrossing horror story if written out, published as a book and sold to the public to raise funds to buy myself more socks. I'll probably entitle it as "The Night Of The Vanishing Socks". Not quite original, but it'll do for now.

So if you've ever wondered what to give me for Christmas, look no further than the stuff you wear on your feet. Just skip the purple, green, red and other weird colored varieties, though.

Memoirs Of Mount. Kinabalu

CHAPTER 01: GOOD MORNING SABAH!
I awoke from my deep slumber. The mattress was somewhat hard but nonetheless comfortable, and for a while I stared up the ceiling, asking myself why it looked so unfamiliar to my eyes. It should be, for I was not within the confines of my own bedroom, but rather at the majestic Sutera Kinabalu Lodge. Crawling out of bed, the first thing I did was to head towards the frost-filled window, tip-toeing across the cold wooden planks that made up the floor. The early rays of the sun had just broken through across North Borneo, bathing a nearby mountain with its golden, magnificent rays.

That mountain was Kinabalu upon closer inspection. I recognized one of the peaks to be Donkey Ears. Excitedly I called upon Shearn and Jarod, who happened to be there at that time. Together, we enjoyed the view from our humble room while basking in the warmth of our brotherhood. Breakfast was sort of a "cook-it-yourself-or-go-hungry" kind of event, mainly comprised of instant cup noodles. No one complained although the forementioned noodles tasted somewhat rubbery that day. Could've been the water, I told myself.


CHAPTER 02: D-DAY
We sat there suited up on the kerbs, backpacks firmly secured in place and looking very much like a bunch of paratroopers sans rifles, waiting for our ride. Some were still busy chowing down on their breakfast (myself included). Soon the van came, and after placing our rucksacks into the vehicle and taking only the necessary survival items, we were off.

Arriving at Headquarters a little after five minutes, each individual lined up for their general-issued dogtags which was to be worn throughout the whole stay atop the mountain. It was also at HQ that we assigned two mountain guides to our 13-man squad. Endless photoshots were taken of the mountain, or of a person posing with the mountain in the background. After a quick round of prayers, we were off to war. A war of attrition against potential muscle fatigue, mental anguish, altitude sickness, and the effects due to the lack of oxygen.

The bus gradually picked up speed, roaring down the narrow tarred road. Instead of singing and merrymaking, as most people would have expected us to be doing, each person was silently deep in his or her own thought. A few took the opportunity to catch a few winks or so. But for me, the adrenaline generated from my body was having a field day rushing through my veins. During those defining moments of my life, I could not help but think of cliched phrases such as how this was the moment we were all waiting for, the moment of truth that would put each individual to the test. Such philosophy indeed.


CHAPTER 03: THE POINT OF NO RETURN
The bus suddenly came to a grinding halt; we'd arrived at the last place that officially separated Mount. Kinabalu from the rest of the world - Timpohon Gate. Once the gates swung open and we passed through, there would be no major civilization landmarks until we reached Laban Rata. Prior to that, our friendly guide - the more senior dude of the two - gave us a small pep talk on survival techniques and what-not-to-do along the way. Each of us received an A4-sized paper advising those with chronic diseases ala heart attacks, asthma, diabetes et al not to proceed with the ascent. Pardon my thoughts, but shouldn't this whole inane disclaimer thing be brought to the attention of all potential climbers at least a day before the big climb? I imagined some poor unlucky chap burning RM200+ to stay there for the night, secure a guide and hitch the bus all the way to the Gate, only to be stopped for asthma!

Yep. Some smart system we have here. But then again, having made it this far plus spending almost close to RM300 for the air tickets, I sure as hell wasn't going to let anything as trivial as those mentioned in the paper stop me (if I had them in the first place, that is). Heck no. They can roll my dead body off the mountain later once I'm finished conquering Low's Peak.

CHAPTER 04: AND WE HAVE LIFTOFF!
I stopped by at the loo to drain my lizard for one last time before attempting the ascent, having heard nasty stories of horrifically-nauseous toilet shacks along the way up. Coming out, I saw my first much-famed porter of that day. She had this great straw rucksack upon her shoulders where all sorts of imaginable things were stacked in - bags of rice, water bottles, Armalite M4A1 carbines, the Death Star - that rose to almost twice her height. And here I was carrying only my first aid-kit, winter apparel, food and beverages, and already on the verge of throwing myself off the cliff.


CHAPTER 05: THE LONG ROAD UP
I've never been so alone before in my life. Trudging up Mount. Kinabalu proved to be a lonely experience for me, partly caused by the numerous times I stopped to capture some particular scene in my DSLR camera's viewfinder. Occasionally I'd bump into Pearly, Jeremy or Dizzy, but due to the fore mentioned camera-clicking frenzy high I had at that time, naturally I found myself all alone once more. Can't blame anyone. Once past the gates into the unknown, it automatically turns into one of those do-or-die, "every man for himself" kind of situation, where the average fit individual find it tough while the severely unfit calls it an impossible task, and your mind is being overwhelmed by rhetorical questions about life, the future, and what kind of madness could have possible driven you to accomplish such a suicidal adventure.

I continued walking, with the sounds of life growing fainter and fainter behind as I gradually crossed into colder zones. Tall, upright trees were slowly but surely being replaced by their gnarled and stumpy cousins. The soil turned stark orange and was said to contain some element which would kill off all plants except for a few. Once above a certain elevation, all signs of life, save for those firmly rooted into the ground, is gone. Gone are the birds which accompanied you as you made your way up during the first leg of the journey. Gone are the delightful chatter of squirrels and their mischevious antics. For some, it is an eerily unnerving thought. For me, it is deeply therauphetic. Think Genting Highlands without the Ah Bengs and Ah Liens.

Occasionally at certain interval points, there is a simple hut/shelter in which you may stop to rest your tired feet, slap on huge dollops of questionable muscle fatigue relieving cream, and of course, eat your measly rations (either half-melted chocolate or something equivalent to it) and drink whatever water you have left. If you're out of drinking water, or if you desperately need some, the authorities have been kind enough to establish green rust-proof water tanks right next to the said huts, with the contents being collected rainwater. It just sits there quietly, tempting you to take a swig or two out of it, and you can't even lift the damn cover to tell what's died inside it, if there's any. At this point, having Halizone tablets in your inventory is a blessing indeed. Nailed neatly onto on of the supporting wooden beam posts is a sign indicating your current elevation. Once you've had enough rest and confirm that your feet might not conspire to walk you off some cliff, you continue upwards. It's repetitious and in some ways an expensive way to suffer, but strangely enough I got quite a kick out of this whole sadistic operation.


CHAPTER 06: HALFWAY POINT WITH HALF-LIFE GONE
The hike was now around five-sixths of the total journey up before reaching the halfway mark, given the calculation I made in my mind. I could be wrong, but such optimism keeps one from either impaling himself on the nearest sharp tree trunk, or doing the swan ballet off a cliff. Besides, I wanted something to tell my grandchildren about. Earlier on, at the third shelter where I stumbled upon Dizzy, Jeremy and Pearly once again, the sign nailed at the beam indicated an elevation surpassing that of Genting and Tahan. Given me, I'd pop open some champagne and arouse the men to celebrate, but at the risk of getting impaled, or forced to do the swan ballet, or both.

The landscape suddenly changed as abruptly as how money changes hands in a casino; there wasn't even enough of those gnarled trees and shrubs to start a plant army of my own now. The entire surrounding was mainly granite slabs now, with slight hints of loose rocks. The steps grew larger apart, straining the kneecaps. Retreating poisonous orange soil was being replaced by light tan ground.


CHAPTER 07: HELL FREEZES OVER
During the Battle of the Bulge, isolated 101st Airborne paratroopers, cut-off and surrounded by thousands of well-prepared German soldiers


CHAPTER 08: MIDNIGHT RUN



CHAPTER 09: THE DAWN OF A NEW BEGINNING



CHAPTER 10: A PEAK TOO FAR
My parents and also some of my friends who are in a saner state of mind that I am in (that's what I think, more or less) constantly question my strange preference to pay money for some trip which either leaves me half-destroyed or fully incapable of functioning well by the time I reach home, in this case mountain-climbing (or scrambling, whichever applies). I tell them honestly that I do not understand my semi-suicidal urges as well, save for the comforting thought that I am actually probably taking the path less taken (pardon the pun). I don't really see much joy or excitement to be visiting some exotic beach miles away from my house, with the sun-baked sands searing my soles, and the salty sea waters leaving me feeling like some salty sea dog. Granted, they make nice picture postcards, but then again, nothing beats big, shiny mountains with their rugged peaks and danger at every turn.

That train of thought ran through my mind as I braved the strong winds, struggling to get a foothold on the slippery granite ground. Each step demanded an average of five gasps of thin mountain air, and five steps taken brought the body to a standstill while you recalibrated yourself. My backpack, though lightened and temporarily freed from all the burdensome weight of food and extra squirrel fodder, still felt like deadweight upon my shoulders. Pain and suffering were the standard order for the day, and still I got a kick of out it.


CHAPTER 11: THE HEROES AT 13,000 FEET

CHAPTER 12: MISSION: HALF ACCOMPLISHED

CHAPTER 13:

CHAPTER 14:

CHAPTER 15:

Turkish Star Wars - A Terrible Hope

In life, one will occasionally stumble upon a few bad movies that either has a lousy stinking storyline, campy special-effects, or extremely wooden acting. They are a pain in the ass to watch, and simply a waste of my life just to endure that 2 hours. Despite knowing all this, nothing can seriously prepare you for the sheer insanity that is Dunyayi Kurtaran Adam (The Man Who Saves The World), more popularly referred to as "Turkish Star Wars" due to the excessive bootlegging of space dogfight scenes from Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, particularly those of the Death Star trench run. Watching the movie was akin to smoking yourself silly with shisha while high on alcohol. It's that bad, but hilarious, nonetheless.

Curiously, the Turks seem to have a penchant for recycling Hollywood blockbuster films to their own version, usually on a shoestring budget most of the time. Other notable "copycat" movies include Turkish Star Trek, Turkish E.T., Turkish Wizard Of Oz and of course, Turkish Superman. But Dunyayi still holds the number one spot for the masterpiece crass that is pirated Star Wars.

Produced in 1982 during the politically-upheaving times in Turkey meant that access to American-made movies were simply next to impossible. Thus almost no one then back in the country had heard of Jaws, Star Wars, Superman and Indiana Jones, to name a few. So director Cetin Inanc decided to make his legendary movie based on, well, Star Wars, for the Turkish cinema. Normally I would steer clear of bad, B-Grade movies, but not this one, which has been officially named as one of the worst movies ever made. It's so bad that it's surprisingly good to watch, and is essentially THE ultimate flick for lonely Saturday nights. Need to unwind? Watch Dunyayi. Had a bad day at work today? Pop Dunyayi into the DVD player.

Therefore, without further ado, let's buckle ourselves into the seat of the Kurtaran, I mean err, Millennium Falcon and grab your popcorn as you sit back and let the plot unravel slowly below (not that there's much spoilers to give away anyway - it's just basically a hack and slash plot) :-

CHAPTER 01: IT IS A TIME OF CIVIL WAR
A long time ago in a Turkish-speaking galaxy far, far away, there lived this badass megalomaniac in a colorful Mardi Gras-like costume (let's call him Turkish Vader) who had this evil intention of invading and conquering Earth (what else if not that?). Helping him in his nefarious scheme is a slutty princess, an evil blue robot with a trashcan for a head and an ambulance light on top of it (I swear), his personal gay-looking sidekick with a generous helping of afro hair, and a few more generic-looking henchmen. The opening credits of the film is, thankfully, devoid of the infamous Star Wars text crawl and theme song, so I guess credit must be given here for the creativity of the Dunyayi crew for using their own theme music. Then a few clips of planets are mashed together, including shots of the Death Star, broken in between by occasional shots of NASA rockets blasting off into space, and images of planets being blown to smithereens by the Death Star itself. Random segments of TIE fighters and X-Wings also make their debut in this scene.

CHAPTER 02: THE MEN WHO WILL SAVE THE WORLD
The scene then cuts to both of our heroes whose mission is to oppose Turkish Vader and his band of merry villains and save the world from their clutches of evil. Unlike other heroes, both the protagonists in this film are essentially potbellied, middle-aged men - Murat (the one with his head full of grey hair) and Ali (a horny womanizer) - wearing the typical kapcai motorcycle helmet with the visor removed. A pair of old-style walkman headphones are attached to the helmet, either because they think it looks cool or just simply a case of not wanting to let it go to waste. Director Cetin Inanc wanted the first 8 minutes of the movie to feature the heroes engaging the enemy starfighters, but no budget was present. The solution? Rip off scenes from the space dogfight sequences in Star Wars. In what appears to be a bizarre twist of the heroic duo piloting TIE fighters (minus the TIE pilot costume) battling waves of evil X-Wing fighters apparently sent by Turkish Vader himself, the close-up shots of the heroes have them to be pretending to fly while grainy footage of the fore mentioned dogfight plays on a rear projection screen just behind them. But this is only a quarter of the madness so far, as you will see.

CHAPTER 03: ONLY SILVER STORMTROOPERS CAN BE SO IMPRECISE
A bright bolt of lightning soon brings both of our heroes crash-landing onto an alien desert planet. Unfortunately there was also no planned budget for this scene so what you get is short segment of auroras while the heroes dig out of the rubble and dust themselves. At first, the surrounding area is reminiscent to the planet Tatooine of the 1977 classic. The next shot reveals pyramids and the Sphinx, so it doesn't take a smart individual to realize it's Egypt after all. No sooner than that, a horde of Skeleton Knights on horses in red flowing capes appear to terminate the duo, but are easily dispatched off with a flurry of karate chops and throws, even though Murat and Ali's punches constantly miss the bad guys by as much as five good inches. In what you will witness to be probably one of the worst ever display of fighting skills and combat choreography, the evil horsemen just seem to be standing around or waiting patiently for the heroes to throw and judo them off the horses. And all this while the soundtrack from "Raiders Of The Lost Ark" plays in the background over and over again. One can't help but wonder if director Cetin Inanc is either out of ideas or out of his mind, or both. Nevertheless, this movie follows the "Cliched Rules Of Close-Quarter Combat" very closely in the sense that ten well-trained and heavily-armed villains in full armor and riding atop horses can be so easily defeated by two unarmed and dazed heroes. It's amazing.

CHAPTER 04: WOT, NO LIGHTSABERS?
Fleeing by horse, the two then arrive at a small village, where they are subsequently taken captive by Turkish Vader's army, comprised of skinny gladiators, red furry monsters and silver Stormtroopers. The same skinny muscle-free gladiators in modified pots as helmets soon begin hacking and killing skinny muscle-free slaves. In the chaos, Murat devises a plan to escape with Ali, albeit a ridiculous one that involves spinning their captors around and round. The plan works, and soon the duo retreat into the caves with a sexy, Cleopetra-like lady with a scruffy-looking boy in need of a good bath. All's good until one of the protagonists accidentally stumble upon a room containing... mummies in fake toilet paper wrapping! As if on cue, the zombies come alive and break into the rooms, killing all the children (except for one) with their dirty fingernails. More walls come crashing down, but this time red and black variants of furry red monsters emerge. They too, assist in the massacre. Escaping into another room filled with a handful of survivors, both Murat and Ali block the doorway by means of a rolling stone, and without warning a six-foot tall brown Chewbacca-esque walking carpet emerges from nowhere and starts beating the remaining refugees to a bloody pulp with its shoestring whips! To add confusion to this whole movie, nothing is mentioned about the two heroes along with the nameless blonde and her bastard son; they seem to have vanished into thin air. To further emphasize the horror of the killings, Cutin Inanc decided to display the children's blood-splattered corpses on screen, whereby they subsequently turn into mummies after Turkish Vader is finished with drinking their blood. The heroic duo, along with the foxy lady and the remaining child are next seen retreating further into the mountains to prepare for the big battle, which means that a total workout and kungfu training will be needed. This is where the fun starts.

CHAPTER 05: USE THE KEBAB, LUKE
To begin, both the heroes level up their kungfu skills by chopping endlessly at cardboard rocks, scratch their fingers on the ground, and attain the ability to jump great distances by securing cardboard boulders onto their ankles and leap around like an astronaut on marijuana. Both of them do these incredible feats shirtless. I don't mind it if they have the body sculpture of Bruce Lee, Schwarzenegger or even Stallone, but sadly both Murat and Ali are blessed with the body shapes that somewhat resemble Jabba The Hutt. Next, Murat shows us that the same boulders are amazingly explosive if you kick them towards a cliff. The finale of the training dawns with Murat trying his best to look pissed-off towards the camera as he chops yet another cardboard boulder, but this time in half, leaving his hands bloodied.

CHAPTER 06: LUKE, I AM YOUR TURKISH FATHER
The duo then bid their farewell to the girl (did I mention that she's mute too?) and head towards a small-time town and invariably end up inside a bar, also roughly fleshed out as the Lucas original. The patrons in the bar comprise of men in ugly rubber masks, skinny muscle-free gladiators, and a few unintelligible ones (it doesn't matter since it's a mindless flick anyway). Murat and Ali order drinks but a fight suddenly breaks out, leaving them no choice but to beat everyone silly. Enter Kung Fu Joe, a Shaolin warrior wannabe donning a stereotype Asian rubber mask complete with a Fu Manchu moustache. A few more bad guys join the fight, but they are no match for our heroes' fighting prowess. Suddenly, with the help of bad video editing effects and cheesy camera trickery, Turkish Vader appears and stands on top of a table, of all the places to stand! With cheapskate transition effects that involve moving a red filter across the lens (presumably to simulate, erm, a red transition effect), Turkish Vader tells Murat that he has both the blonde and her bastard son with him and threatens to harm them should he disobey him right there and then. Our heroes have no choice but to submit, and they have God to thank that Turkish Vader isn't a gay asshole who decides to sexually probe them before whisking them both back to his lair (or did he?).

CHAPTER 07:
Back at their terrifying headquarters, our heroes are forced to change into painfully stupid glossy clothes - Murat's shirt comes with two red circles in position where his nipples should be. Must be a fetish or something, but soon we learn that Turkish Vader is actually merciful and kind. He proposes to them that should they join him (because it's their destiny and crap like that), the three will rule the Turkish galaxy together as good friends. Naturally, buffed-up Murat declines, and this angers Vader a lot. And I mean a hell lot. So angry is he for wasting his saliva with Murat that he orders the Skeleton Knights and furry monsters (which seem to be abundant in this movie) to destroy them. Thus and so begins yet another round of senseless beatings, karate-chops and dismemberments of bodily parts. At this point, it's tempting to just fast-forward and get to the next part, but I must insist that you stay for the cheesy actions. About halfway into the fight, and in what would probably be Murat's most defining moment of the whole film, he blocks a sword thrust with his palms, puts the cutting edge of the weapon into his mouth and freaking karate chops it into pieces! Now I would seriously pay ten bucks to see these kind of insane movies at the cinema, I kid you not.

CHAPTER 08:


CHAPTER 09:


CHAPTER 10:


To be continued

Operation Mount. Kinabalu

"Boys and girls, fellow climbers of the Kinabalu Expeditionary Forces: You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of adventure-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave guides and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts you will bring about the ultimate conquer of the Kinabalu mountain, the victory over tired muscles and thin mountain air of North Borneo, and satisfaction for ourselves in a free world.

Your task will not be an easy one. The mountain is tough, rugged and battle-hardened. It will resist savagely.

But this is the year 2007! Much has happened since the trainings of 2006-07. The trainings have helped harden muscles and build staminas, in open jungles, man-with-man. Our mental alertness has seriously reduced the mountain's strength and the capacity to thin us out on the high ground. Our Home Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in moral support and munitions of adventure, and placed at our disposal great reserves of mountain-climbing equipment. The tide has turned! The free men of the world are marching together to Victory!

I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in climbing. We will accept nothing less than full victory!

Good Luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking."

Backtrack Date: Posted on 28th March 2007
After this little inspiring speech, I'll be off to classes and then back to pack the rest of the stuff and re-check all my equipments. Won't be back til the 4th April 2007. I'll be shipping out to conquer the mountain that I've been training for the past 9 months or so.

Pre-Kinabalu Nightmares

You know you're having pre-Kinabalu nightmares when :-

01: YOU DREAM ABOUT FORGETTING TO PACK CRUCIAL ITEMS
The typical nightmare for many to-be travelers. This is basically one of those that involves you arriving at your faraway destination, only to discover that you did not either pack your toothbrush along or forgot to include clean underwear in your overall luggage. You swear you remembered stashing those things inside your haversack and personally re-checked everything before you boarded the plane. And by now you're right smack in the middle of nowhere with not enough time to find a replacement, which means you'll have to endure the rest of the trip missing that crucial item, in this case my warm clothing. What a nightmare, you tell yourself.

02: YOU FIND YOUR TEAM MATES UTTERING EERIE GIBBERISH
You are promised that in order to lighten your load, climbing equipment and gears will only be bought once you reach the town. But soon after arriving you get that nagging feeling it isn't so. Everything that they tell you is total rubbish which makes no sense whatsoever, and it seems to you that they're constantly contradicting themselves with each passing word. The promised hiking boots that is to be bought here turns out to be the opposite, and soon you realize that it's gonna be a climb without the necessary items. Attempts to question your friend regarding the logic of it all only draws devillish laughter from his lips while he smokes a pipe. No supplies. You start to think it's a bloody nightmare.

03: YOUR LEGS ARE ALWAYS HEAVY AND TIRED
Despite the gruelling training you've put yourself through over the months, it seems that your physical body is still badly lagging compared to the rest of your climbing team. One by one they overtake you in the climb to the summit, and it won't be long before there is a gap of more than 100 meters between you and them. Despite trying to catch up, it only worsens things as the gap increases. You call out to them to wait for you, yet no replies come from them. It is as though you were never there in the first place. This is some badass nightmare.

04: YOU NOTICE THAT CLOTHES CHANGE VERY SO OFTEN
First you see good ol' Jack in his red thermal windbreaker. After a few steps slogging up the mountain, you look up to discover that Jack has somehow changed into a yellow and purple sweater. You shrug and continue up the slope. Probably a minute or two has passed since then and you look up once more. This time around, Jack is donning a black puffed-up snowsuit. It IS strange but yet you just can't seem to question the logic behind it. The changing of clothes go on as the ascent continues. It is a nightmare by itself.

05: YOU NEVER REACH THE SUMMIT NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU CLIMB
The mother of all ultimate mountain-climbing nightmares. You stop to catch your breath and estimate the peak to be another half hour away, judging from the distance. After that said half our has passed, you see that you are still nowhere near it, and strangely the distance to the summit still looks roughly the same to you now as it was half an hour before. You throw in another thirty minutes' worth of climbing and the summit is still a good distance away, if not further. By now you start to question if this whole damn thing is a nightmare.

I think I'm starting to go crazy.

Crisis Of The Exposed Valleys

This actually happened to me at work some time back. In case you are wondering, it has got nothing to do with my present office, but occured within the range of the five jobs that I had, so those reading this can kiss their chances of interviewing any of my current colleagues goodbye.


WHAT WILL YOU ACTUALLY DO?
You are at the office sitting snugly inside your cubicle, happily doing your work when suddenly from the corner of your eye you glimpse something - it's the shy but somewhat cute and innocent-looking female colleague of yours, and you tell yourself that you won't mind dating her for once. Innocent girls can be wild vixens. You never know.

You see her standing at the file cupboard, browsing through the said files stacked inside. She chooses one from the list, and starts to pore over the accumulated bills and whatnots. Suddenly without warning, she bends over to place the file onto the table nearby, and being almost 5" 8', it's obvious that she has to bend very, very low.

Did I also mention that of all the days she has to pick that peasant dress to wear today? Those that are somewhat loose near the shoulders so that the gathered sleeves can be pulled down and be worn off-shoulders (my favorite choice of clothes on a gal). And boy you start to see things that you are not supposed to. Let me add that she's quite oblivious to the fact that the shape of her majestic twin peaks are on display for all to see, but technically only me for the moment due to the viewing angle involved.

So now I'm gonna give you a few options to choose from. Pick wisely and not according to the level of how horny you are :-

OPTION 01
You stop staring immediately because you know it's wrong and you're a good boy. After debating to yourself whether or not you should casually stroll over to her and tell her of the free show she's putting on (for you at this point), you do that. But instead of appreciating it, you get slapped in return and she digs her fingernails into your face, all the while screaming "Pervert!". The facial reconstructive surgery sets you back 8000 bucks.

OPTION 02
You stare for awhile, then you debate if you should tell her of the disaster that's about to happen. You fear getting slapped by her, so you decide to leave it be and get back to work. But before that you steal one last look. After all, things like this don't happen everyday.

OPTION 03
You stare for quite a long time, wondering if anything's gonna happen next. You return briefly to work, typing in a few sentences and then you proceed to take out your camera phone, setting it to video mode, zooming it to the desired level and start shooting away. Something great for sleepless nights.


HOW YOU RATE IF YOU PICKED:-
OPTION 01: You meant well, but it just so happens that she thought that you were a pervert, that's all. Better luck next time. And as one of my friend would put it - don't bother. Chances are you'll land in the hospital with deep scratches all over your face than land a date with her.

OPTION 02: It's pretty hard to justify if what you've done is right or wrong. On one hand, you prefer not to stick your nose into her cleavage, I mean err, affairs. But on the other hand you wonder if by not telling her you have brought about an unbalance to the Force by letting those things swing free (no pun intended).

OPTION 03: You are the evillest son of a bitch that has ever lived. You bring disgrace to the menfolk with your horrendous ways. I can think of nothing less than the loveliest of swear words to describe your act. Got any nice shots BTW? I'll give you my e-mail address.

2006: A Boleh-land Odyssey

grav·i·ty [grav-i-tee] - Noun, Plural -
1. the force of attraction by which terrestrial bodies tend to fall toward the center of the earth.
2. heaviness or weight.
3. a required force, which, in the absence of, renders activities such as spinning tops, painting batiks, playing batu seremban and making teh tarik impossible.

My country's done it again! According to one Datuk Rohani Abdul Karim, our country's astronauts will fly up to space to do what no one has done before - play children's games.

Somebody please tell me it isn't true and that she's just been watching too much space opera movies like Star Wars, Star Trek and the likes of it where all the spaceships have built-in gravitational hyperdrives.

I don't know, but the last time I checked, gravity didn't yet make its presence felt in outer space. While you're on the subject, why not ask our two "astronuts" (I intended that) to look for E.T?

Someone with the mental capability of a 3-year old can ACTUALLY get a post in our national space agency department? It's disturbing to know that she might not even have passed her UPSR in the first place. I'm not a rocket scientist (no pun intended) and I know what to anticipate already when the top starts a-spinning in that space station. The Russians must be laughing at us right now. In case you didn't realise it yet, dear Datuk Rohani, should you attempt to play that forementioned batu seremban in a zero-gravity environment, that piece of crappy batu won't come down again once you fling it up. That's because there's NO FRICKING GRAVITY UP THERE!!!

But on a gentler note, I do understand the difficulties of you grasping the theory of zero-gravity, and therefore since Christmas is coming, perhaps I could suggest a few books for you to read while spinning that gasing in space :-

01: How The Apple Discovered Gravity by Sir Isaac Newton
Includes detailed explanation of how gravity was discovered way back during the 17th Century. To capture the reader's attention, lots of colorful illustrations and doodles of Sir Isaac Newton are also to be found within. For ages 10+ and above.

02: Gravity For Idiots
By omitting complicated and hard to understand sentences such as "logically", this book is every gravity learner's beginner dream come true. With over 200 colorful pages printed on glossy paper, it takes the reader back to the time when gravity was not understood. A must for any space agency wannabe. For children aged 5+ and above.

03: Let's Learn About Gravity!
An even more easy-to-understand book stripped down to its bare facts about gravity. Words such as "therefore" and "in conclusion" are taken out, instead focusing solely on the apple and Mr. Newton. As an added plus for slow learners, the reader can also pull a paper lever to activate the mock-up scenario of the apple falling onto the latter's head. Facts and FAQs regarding whether or not teh-tariks can be made while suspending oneself in outer space is also answered. Hint: the answer is no. Sorry to disappoint those who thought the answer was yes. For ages 3+ and up.

04: Alphabet Science Adventures: G Is For Gravity
The simplest book to understand what gravity is so far. There are only ten important recurring words in the fifteen glossy pages - "gravity", "apple", "you", "are", "an", "idiot" being the only main sentences stated more than twice. For toddlers aged 1+ and beyond.

No wonder my country is the butt of jokes all the time. Happy New Year! Thanks for wasting my hard-earned money via taxes.

Trivia:
01: The title is a play on the movie "2001: A Space Odyssey.
02: None of the books listed in above exists... yet.
03: It costs RM95 million per astronaut just to send him to space.
04: The government is already planning for space adventures and a Moon landing by the year 2020 when back on Earth in their own country the roads are still in very bad conditions. Talk about irony.

Only When They Need Me

Just a few days ago while I was at some weekly organization just minding my own business, a woman I know of came up to me to say hi. In any ordinary circumstance I would just be at ease and smile back politely.

Trouble was, although I sort of knew who she was, it had been years since we last greeted one another. Believe me when I tell you that even though I tried to say hi to her each time I bumped into her at the weekly meet, all I got was a dumbfounded stare in return. I doubt she even knew who I was, let alone my name.

But what transpired that day was somewhat different, almost surreal. She came up, mentioned my name and proceeded to inquire regarding my well-being and how work was. She made a big, glaring mistake :-

People who claim to know me well DO NOT ask me questions about the nature of my work, the location of my current office and most certainly what college I graduated from. Not especially since I've been with my present company for the past half a year and college graduation is old story to my ears.

So I grew curious and pondered silently, wondering what the hell she was actually after. People you are not closely associated with don't just suddenly come up to you for no apparent reason. Hell no. Life has taught me that there is no such thing as a free lunch. Everything has an agenda lurking behind it. Sensing something amiss, I decided to play along, feigning interest and giving her the most convincing smile I could offer while keeping my guard on DEFCON 1. I kept a straight face throughout the whole ordeal without my thoughts ever betraying my facial expressions.

After answering that I now specialized as a web designer for the umpteenth time, the real talks got underway. According to her, she was very "happy" to see me again (sure, everyone's "happy" when they want me for something) and that a particular branch in our organization badly needed volunteers, and how she would appreciate it if I could make good use of myself there, probably handing me an Interceptor body armor vest and expecting me to entertain their offsprings by being live ballistic target practice.

That coming from a lady who just walks past me week after week without even acknowledging me as her son's friend. One who can stand a few inches away from me yet never saying hi, and is now talking to me as though we've just had our last memorable conversation as good friends last Wednesday over at her house for family dinner. But the truth is sorely lacking and far from it. And now here she is, cooking up some unconvincing sob story just to enlist me in. But the Force is only persuasive to weak minds. The burning question was just how she could instantaneously remember my name like cheesecake that quickly. There had to be a mole somewhere.

I glanced over to my friend standing nearby, conducting paper material business from the makeshift booth. He was quite acquainted with this lady, I was sure about that, and the mysterious pieces to this whole fracas fell in their respective places straight away. He must've mentioned my name while talking to her a little while ago, and when I walked down that dusty tarred road, she hurriedly made her way towards me, and with my name temporarily imprinted in her brain, tried to chat me up, with "insincerity" written all over her face.

Come on, you can do better than that. What a douchebag, seriously.

I told her as honestly as I could that I would really look into her proposal, but made it clear that I strictly do not negotiate with terrorists. That is my policy. Just kidding. Rather, I told her as-a-matter-of-fact that there would be no promises whether or not I would be available, since now I'm pretty much tied down with college and the assignments that come with it plus projects from work.

Which kinda brings me into the next scenario that I would like to emphasize on: Please do not ask me to do your website. Or any graphical/multimedia art for that matter.

It's not that I'm trying to be cold here or something. No, I'm fine really if you want to be friends with me and ask me out for tea. But sometimes you just have to know when and where to draw the line between work and play. It's a bit tiring to see history forever repeating itself once more - someone suggests a gung-ho, bombastic idea for "some project", and they insist on throwing in a hell lot of irrelevant stuff like videos, mp3 songlists and eye-candy Flash animations in it. The reason? Just to impress the crowd. But they never kind of figure out the fact that someone, not them, is going to have to suffer for all those cheap talks and ideas.

That person is yours truly. And judging by how things go, the formula and storyline is alway going to be the same - In the beginning, things are fine. Promises are made and smiles are aplenty. To top it all off, they immediately promise you a rag-tag team of artists and web gurus to assist you in the project. Soon, the figure drops from ten individuals to only two, with those quitting citing tiredness, busyness and having to take care of the occasional sick cat at home.

Unsurprisingly, not long after you'll be the only one left and will be forced to put on a trick-and-pony show all by yourself. Fine. So you arrange for an emergency meeting to gather ideas in order to spearhead this project. At the end of the day, no one turns up.

So you curse and scream but you still need to rush the deadline by the end of the month or there's gonna be hell to pay and tons of lecturing sessions to attend. One side of your brain struggles to finish the promotional website while the other side tries to complete the animation job at hand.

I'm pretty much sure even the process of dying wasn't this complicated and stressful.

There are a few lessons to be learned here from the above fictional and mock scenario :-

01: ALWAYS DO THE DIRTY JOB YOURSELF
I just can't seem to stress this enough. When you have an idea, first consider if it is feasible and practical. No one wants to haul his or her ass doing something they didn't vote for in the first place. You suggest it, you do it.

02: KISS - KEEP IT SIMPLE, STUPID!
I honestly don't have all the time in the world to listen and act according to everyone's whims and fancies. That includes what you feel and think has got to be in the presentation. I don't get paid big bucks for your information to do this. Nor do I relish doing this because "I love to do it". No I don't. It's a waste of my time off from work. At least someone pays me at work, no matter how tough the scenario is.

03: SWEET WORDS DO NOT WORK ANYMORE
No amount of persuasion is gonna sway me from this. No. Too many times I've been fooled into doing something for free, and in the end all I get is more work to do because they somehow develop this mentality that I'm the only remaining designer guy alive on earth and thus have grown too attached to it. I still don't understand why the rest can just decline so easily and get off scot-free.

04: "BROTHERHOOD" EXISTS FOR A REASON
One of the meanest thing that a person can do to another is to drop all sense of brotherhood and leave the other to drown in the muck. It sucks, and just shows how selfish the former can be. My advice: go grab yourself a copy of a pirated war movie DVD (any war will do) and learn the lessons of teamwork and the brotherhood of war.

05: KNOW WHEN TO DRAW THE LINE
My lecturer taught me a phrase that still sticks in my mind til this day - do not volunteer for someone else. Somewhat related to Lesson #01, but on a much more general term. This also includes knowing when to stop offering ideas for animation sequences that are not feasible and just highly impossible to create on a standard desktop PC, running semi-professional software. Please do not volunteer, force and layout the groundwork requirements for something that you won't probably even lend a hand to complete.

EPILOGUE
I politely declined for the moment, yet I was careful to arrange my words. To put it simply; I won't really have time to indulge in this kind of mumbo-jumbo anymore. I said my goodbye and promptly left, wondering if my name would disappear from her mind as quickly as she'd memorized it, and have things going back to the point where she'll not "know" who I am anymore. Life can be so strange.

The Mystery Of Vertical-Scrolling Games

I'm sure many of you born during the 80s have fond memories of playing the Micro Genius home entertainment system - one of the earliest home-based console systems. The games are usually in catridge format and some boast of games up to 1001 in a single package.

One of the games I've spent quite a lot of time in are the vertical-scrolling ones. And over the years of playing them, I noticed something strange and repetitive about these kind of games, like as though they have a strange conspiring connection amongst them :-


01: There's always some badass megalomaniac bent on ruling the world.
Yep, and he has an almost endless supply of fighter jet pilots, tank battalions and turret gunners to do his evil bidding. His headquarters is nothing short of impressive and laden full of powerful guns. But no matter how great there's bound to be a hero who will manage to crack the code and destroy his lair.

02: There are a lot of suicidal evil pilots and tank crew who don't mind shooting at people they don't know.
Indeed. They make up the bulk of the cannon fodder that the hero (in this case it's you) will encounter along the journey. These nameless, mindless henchmen who spend years training to fly planes and do not hesitate to shoot at heroes that are destined to win over them. They usually comprise of useless individuals who can't even shoot straight. All these poor sods get in appreciation for their service with the villain boss is a lousy, cheapskate plane that explodes instantly by a single shot to it, guaranteeing no chance of survival.

03: You never run out of missiles or ammunition
Good news heroes and enemy pilots alike - you are all blessed with a never-ending supply of rockets and tracer magazines to shoot the heck out of one another. Your guns will never overheat from the constant firing, and missiles just magically appear on your wingtips after a few seconds, ready to lock on the next target.

04: There's always an enemy plane full of power-ups to aid you
Nothing can be dumber than a evil megalomaniac who approves of power-up plane blueprints. No bad guy in his right mind would ever so generously provide assistance to the hero in the form of fighter jet arsenal add-ons so that he can pit the big boss' downfall. Surely even the enemy pilot of the power-up plane would see the rationalé of this whole dumbass operation as illustrated below :-

Enemy Pilot: But boss, why are you even sending me out in a plane full of powerful weaponry meant to be picked up by the hero after he destroys my jet and kills me?

Evil Boss: I don't care, just go! Go I tell you!

Enemy Pilot: You idiot! No wonder we'll never win this game for eternity! It's because of idiots like you who keep on supplying heroes with powerful guns that we keep on losing the war!

05: Every pilot flies at the same altitude
Isn't it amazing that planes, meant to fight third-dimension wars by harnessing the advantages of altitude, can all just fly on a fixed agreed height, both hero and enemy jets. This is the dumbest thing since having the bad boss approving of planes carrying power-ups to assist the hero in his quest. Adding to the insult is just how even tanks on the ground can manage to shoot planes in the air.

06: The government does not care for you
Curiously enough you never seem to start missions with fully powerful planes, but instead have to slowly gather power-ups via the suicidal enemy pilots. This would seem to make me think that the government does not actually care enough for my welfare to provide me with enough firepower and ensure my own survival as I take on the boss' henchmen.

07: Everyone's shots looks exactly the same
The ubiquitous, round-shaped orange pellet that travels with fairly fast speed across the screen is both amusing and deadly. Amusing because it defines the defacto trademark of all vertical-scrolling games, and deadly because somehow or the other the enemy seems to always have a better and faster firing rate compared to you.

08: You are reincarnated twice per token
Strange, yes. Getting killed is often a tidy process in vertical-scrolling games with little or no debris from destroyed vehicles. Everybody just kind of vaporises into thin air, and no one mourns for dead buddies. If you get killed, an exact clone of you will arrive at the scene in less than three seconds after your original self has just died, and you are given five seconds' worth of indestructability period. Nevermind that the whole journey from the plane carrier situated somewhere in the vast Pacific ocean to Alaska takes some time. Your replacement duplicate will always be on time.

09: You never have to go for toilet breaks
Fighting this war must be taking a strain on every pilot, yet you do not have to stop to piss, shit, rest, sleep, or even eat. You just fly, and fly, and knock enemy planes out of the sky, and fly some more while awaiting the boss for that particular scenario. It's a sick routine that would make even the sanest pilot mad.

10: The background music never goes away
While you're busy fighting, there is always an irritating soundtrack playing in the background in the sky, presumably to boost your yamato damaishii. Someone, or a few musicians high up in the clouds somewhere actually have the decency to follow you around for every stage, complete with bass guitars, drums and electronic keyboards and mash up electronica music that repeats over and over til it reaches a sickening crescendo.

11: The boss blinks when hit
It must be me, or it's a cool new kind of technology. But I seriously cannot comprehend just why level bosses are all equipped with vehicles that actually blink when your shots find its mark. What exactly is the secret behind this? And to make things even stranger you (as the hero) can get time off after the destruction of the level boss while someone meticulously calculates your medals and kill ratio and finally gives you a bonus. During that process, no enemy is cruel enough to take precise aims at your jet to destroy you.

12: There is always a sub-mini boss
A prevalent disease amongst some vertical-scrolling games. You finally destroy the level's boss, only to find out that a smaller plane is hidden within the big plane that you've just obliterated. It will subsequently transform into a robot and spray even more orange pellets at you. You, on the other hand, can never get the luxury of having a cool transforming plane, and your vehicle seems inferior compared to what the level bosses are using to kill you.

13: The most you can get is a partner
Not more than that, although the world can offer more than just two pilots fighting for freedom. I mean, if you send all the good guys at once ala Independence Day, the war can be over soon am I not correct? But nooo, the government has to send just two against two million. I really suspect by now the government does not care whether I return back alive or die fighting.

14: You still have time for souvenirs and medals
The nice part of this war is that you can destroy houses, buildings, and other public amenities to reveal medals and cash items to pick up for points. Some of the medals are even as big as the plane that you are piloting. Trouble is, how is it even possible to acquire them by just "flying over" the items? Next tell me how in the world can a small plane actually carry thousands of medals in its cargo bay without the slightest hint of getting bogged down?

15: You win in the end as usual
It will be conveniently revealed to you in the form of a message outside your cockpit - Final Level. This is to tell you that you've struggled hard through the entire journey, and that you're coming close to the end. You are brainwashed to believe that you will emerge victorious, even though the fact is that you're now Clone No.10, with the previous ones having died in fiery plane dogfights. And in the end, you do win the war, but at a price of a few more tokens if you are a lousy pilot. The boss will be destroyed along with the remmants of his army, and the world will be a safe place once again. Until the next token slides in, that is...


I admit that I still do occasionally play re-runs of these games. Just for old times' sake, and to get a kick out of laughing at the illogical things I've just presented out. The 80s were indeed a golden age for video games.

Thirty Minutes Over KL

It was a hot day indeed. Taking shelter beneath the LRT station's roof might have shielded me from the sun's death rays, but not quite completely immune from the hot air that swirled around the enclosure; choking, suffocating all of us into a slow and painful death.

It was five-thirty, and rush hour was just beginning. As usual the train arrived after a few minutes' worth of waiting. To pass the time, one must either stare blankly at the snarling traffic down below or attempt to read something simply because the boredom will drive any sane person off the edge.

The doors of the train opened, and I stepped in along with thousands of other mindless drones, the million-mile stare the only common trait we shared. Finding an empty seat was a matter of pure luck and just how much you were willing to spill the other fellow's guts in order to attain that precious place to rest your ass. I was lucky enough to find one without having to resort to kiling anyone this time around.

Suddenly, my nose picked up a strange smell. It wasn't dog poo nor having a dead rat stuck to the soles of your shoes, but something more alarming. It was a cross between rotten eggs and Jay Chou (yes the smell was that bad).

Frantically my eyes started scanning the immediate perimeter of the train, expecting a mass stampede soon ala Resident Evil when the scientists discover the deadly T-Virus present in the air and merrily turning humans into zombies. It could only be me you know, detecting this foul odor in the air. The fact that the train's air-conditioner disperses the terrific stench evenly only makes things worse.

Sure enough, the two Malay ladies sitted across me started to shield their noses with their fingers. Somehow the way one of them momentarily cupped her whole palm over her nose reminded me of a fighter pilot jet caught 50,000 feet above sea level with no ammunition and fuel left. Maybe it's only me.

The source was eventually traced back to a tall, lanky fellow just right beside me! I kinda solved the foul (no pun intended) mystery and it terrified me to know he was only probably five inches to my right. He wasn't exactly a sloppy individual; in fact he was dressed so sartly in his work attire that if you put a clothes peg over your nose he would just be any other normal man. Tall, dark, handsome, and stinks to high hell. And to think that I forgot to lug along my Desert Storm-era gas mask. Of all the days, I tell myself.

He continued to be the source of our torment and misery as the train went past KL city and he continued to waft out poison fumes. A number of them originally standing a few feet away from him started to move to the adjacent carriage, all the while staring daggers at him. I stayed put, shocked and paralysed from the odor enveloping me. Pudu station. Great, maybe he'll leave by the next one or two stops, I tell myself. More people moved away from ground zero. It's amazing that everyone held on to their lunches so well.

Cheras station. Still he did not budge even a bit. Those nearest to him have already turned green from severe lack of fresh oxygen. Slowly and painfully I turned to see if he was actually decomposing. Perhaps that might explain that smell. One girl threw up. I think she had scrambled eggs for lunch, or maybe that's part of her digestive system heaved up along with the puke. I don't know.

Bandar Tun Razak. Mr. Smell-O was still firmly in his seat, probably smirking to himself at the sight of the body count rising. I managed not to pass out by regulating my breathing pattern and making full use of my nostril hair, acting as a filter in those desperate moments. I thought of writing a final letter to tell my mum and dad how much I love them.

A guy about three feet away from me developed boils all over his face due to the long exposure to the acrid chemically-charged air. It was undeniably horrible as those pus-filled abscesses blew up in clusters, spilling onto the floor. I think he died shortly later. Poor bastard.

And at the Sg. Besi terminal, when nearly 90% of the whole train's population was near-dead, he finally got up and left, leaving a trail of death and destruction along the way down the escalator as more innocent civillians just dropped dead like flies. I passed out shortly after.

That was the second time I was so close to cashing in my chips, the first time being at Pangkor. I hope not to meet that evil-smelling guy again as long as I live. God knows how many of my brain cells have died in that traumatic incident. Note to self: remember to carry gas mask always, come rain or shine. Add body deodorant to first-aid kit for spraying all future smelly suckers til they reek of something unlike Jay Chou anymore.

Failing which, as a last desperate measure, please insert claymore into offending individual's available orifice and detonate it. Death should be instantaneous.

TRIVIA
01: The title is a play on the movie (and book of the same name) Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo.

Happy Birthday JDream!

Indeed, happy birthday. I've made the 24th milestone today, very proud of myself and extremely blessed to have an armada of caring friends by my side. These are the only sentimental sentences I'd like to say in case someone comes up to me and punches me for being too overly-melodramatic.

So how was it this time around?

Marvellous, lovely. Just some of the words used to describe the BBQ event held at Shearn's house.

It was pretty much a private and invitations-only affair. Not demanded by me, of course but by the organizer of this whole merry memorable fracas. So, well you can't totally blame me for this moolah of not being invited. Seriously.

Halfway through the event, after we all decided to give the BBQ-roasting affair a rest and wolf down the few tonnes of food we'd just burnt, a tragic accident happened. One of our friends, a girl, had her left toe almost severed when one of the guys got so piss drunk he (culprit will not be named to keep you guys in suspense) took the bread knife and started to hack at her feet. For what reasons we will never be sure. Blood sprayed like the Niagara Falls as we tried to shove in Curlex to stop the bleeding.

See picture below for a grisly detail look at her bloody feet :-

Saturday, Bloody Saturday indeed. We washed her feet and patched her up as best as we could while waiting for the Medivac chopper to arrive. Yep, those Vietnam war-era ones with a crew chief manning the miniguns on the right side opening.

The last thing we did before going off was to go for a dip in the pool to wash the blood off ourselves. Midnight dips are pretty nice especially if you've just been through hellish BBQ infernos.

Thus and so was what exactly happened yesterday. Word for word. Blood for blood.

So what else is in conjunction with my birthday? Well for starters back in 1942 this marks the beginning of the Battle of Guadalcanal. Highly important campaign, this. Makes me proud. Go get 'em Marines!

Who shares the same birthday as I do? Let's see - it's both David Duchovny of the X-Files fame and also Charlize Theron, famous for her role in Monster. Makes me proud as well.

It's been a great fiesta that night. Indeed.

Malaysians In Truth Are A Courteous Lot

Yeah sure, and I'm the next President of the United States of America. Now that you've stopped laughing, perhaps we can look into this courtesy matter seriously. For your information Kuala Lumpur was rated the third rudest city in the world based on a survey conducted by Reader's Digest. Surprising? Hardly. The burning question whether Malaysians really are that rude can be assessed via the following simple Rude Score© list :-

1. When someone accidentally elbows you or steps on your shoes (no matter where), they'll always pretend not to have the slightest inkling of what just transpired, instead preferring to either looking away or just be plain nonchalant. Not even a damn word of apology. Worse offenders in this category are those that look back at you with a smirk on their faces, as though they've throughly enjoyed that little shoe-stepping process. I would be glad to jam their shoes up their anus and give them back a kindly, friendly smirk. (Rude Score = 1)

2. You're in a Government-run department and you've been there since 6am, yet no one shows any signs of concern to finish processing your documents so that you can attend to more urgent matters. No. What they do is to come in late, bitch for one hour before attempting to start work, furbish you with wrong information and send you on a wild goose chase. Reprimand them and you'll have just bought yourself a ticket to No-Serviceland. That's Hell in other words. (Rude Score = 2)

3. Upon checking out from a store or shop, you pay for your goods and you expect at least a simple "Thank You", which, judging from all logic should not cost the other person more than 3 calories to mutter. You don't even expect a smile, just a simple thanks. As you've already guessed it, you receive none. You thank the cashier in return because deep down in your heart you know that she has a tough job. However, the rule of thanking someone has to be implemented. Malaysians fail again. (Rude Score = 3)

4. You're on the road driving casually when suddenly a loud-blaring car with ridiculous modifications and fugly stickers comes from nowhere and tailgates you. This is the standard Malaysian way of telling you to move over because he's in a hurry to die. You oblige with his death wish and let him in front of you. No sooner than that when he's in full view of you his right hand pops out of the window and up comes his middle finger, an unpleasant universal sign language that applies to all walks of life. It really pisses you off. The worse thing is you never got the chance to see his car flip over and explode into flames, trapping him inside. I want to roast marshmellows over his piss-ugly charring corpse. (Rude Score = 4)

5. On the other hand, you can also be driving on the same stretch of road but this time you encounter slow drivers. By slow I mean by the time you travel a hundred meters you've already turned 80 and have five grandchildren sitting in the back seat of your car. Your skin is exposed to the sun for so long that you wonder if you've acquired dermal cancer in the process. These breed of motorists just sit in their cars, drive at Negative 20 mph and have this smile on their faces that makes you want to punch them square in the kisser. Things are not looking well for our courtesy chart. (Rude Score = 5)

6. At the Light Rail Transit station, you're patiently waiting for the train to arrive. All around you, like-minded individuals are bunched together, with only a single thing in their mind - get on the train quick and to hell with the others. Such a thinking is not uncommon amongst Malaysians, given the humid climate and the Malayasis Homogenus evolution through this 50 years of independence. Just as the train comes to a halt and the doors slide open, it's a mad rush for survival as every orang-utan and babi hutan in the crowd makes a concerted dash in an attempt to secure a place inside before the door closes and they have to wait for the next train. You are hapless against this human tsunami, and those from inside the train getting out have it the worst; the exit is practically sealed by hordes of orang-utans and wild boars. Sympathetic cries of "Please, don't push!" goes unheeded. The number of shoes crushed in this stampede is known otherwise only to God. Malaysia Boleh !!! (Rude Score = 6)

7. At the bookstore, you're in the midst of selecting a few favourite titles when you suddenly see a young mother with her three dipshit offsprings going through a mountainpile of magazines, tearing them out of their protective plastic covers and handling them like how a gorilla would handle paper in the zoo, despite the clear sign hanging above that no one should take the magazines out of their covers without the assistance of a bookstore personnel. The three Hell-incarnate brats are not much better; they scream and run all over the place, disturbing people in general and pissing off individuals like me. Once the young mum has finished reading them, she just leaves without any intention of buying them in the first place. Worse, the pile of magazines are just left on the nearest accessible table. Her children has also gotten their hands on some, resulting in numerous torn pages etc. This is the general mentality of respect most Malaysians have towards books, just something cheap, worthless and is often seen as knowledge replaceable with a sum of money. No wonder many in this country grow up to be ignorant, straight-As-only academic achiever yet knows crap about common sense. (Rude Score = 7)

8. The number of things in your hand is sheer amazing - you've just finished your shopping and is now on the way to the carpark. To get there one needs to go through a few doors and at least a lift. You reach the first door, and in front of you there is a young teenager in skanky cheapslut clothings going through the door. On any normal day when your hands are unoccupied doors prove no challenge to you. But today trying to push through a glass door proves to be MI:4. So you hope that the teen would at least have some decent manners to keep the door open for a few seconds. The whole act does not even require ten calories to perform. However, the same teen (whether it's a he or she I'll leave it to you) just lets go of the door even as it's obvious you're just behind. Without even a hint of remorse, that skanky teen goes back to SMS-ing and any other thing that defines these kind of shallow individuals with no life. Another point bites the dust. (Rude Score = 8)

9. If you have children, chances are you might have waited at the school compound outside occasionally to wait for your child. Sensible types would not have parked their vehicles directly in front of the gates or at the side of the road which would inconvenienced everyone. But no, somehow or the other something has gone wrong along our line of human evolution and there is this specific breed of parent which would insist on placing their cars jutting out so terribly that half the road is blocked, but in most cases the whole road is blocked. Just due to one malfunctioning brain, cars on both sides are unable to pass by, and the same individual with that prized golden retarded brain would see to it that no one gets to leave or go until his or her own offspring is safely in their car (usually some SUV or Beemer. They just have to show off). These, I believe, are the same kind of people who would gladly tear out magazines from their covers and teach their children to embrace kiasuism. What is just so wrong about parking your car in a designated spot, wait at the gates and then walk with your child to the car? No wonder small kids of this age are piddly-asses. All of them. (Rude Score = 9)

10. Talking on the cellphone loudly and interrupting people around you is certainly not something anyone would like to go through, yet some do that. Perhaps they find it amusing. I think it'll be funnier if somehow by some strange chance you find your same cellphone mysteriously lodged up the crack of your ass. Then there are those which light up in public places, despite the sign prohibiting smoking. Stupid? No. Screwed-up? Nay. Dipshit? Yes. Many do not find it pleasant to suddenly get a whiff of white fag smoke swirling around them and increasing their chances of getting cancer. The worst offenders in this category are those who smoke their fags in air-conditioned areas such as shopping malls and the likes of it. I would really much like to wish you all into the cornfield for this. Sad score tally-up. (Rude Score = 10)

There you have the few given examples above. In truth there are many more points to be debated about Malaysian people's sense of rudeness, but that might take up the whole of Blogger's server space. I kid you not.

Maybe the Government should start printing out posters instead with the words "Kurang Asam Adalah Budaya Kita" and show a few of our own people dressed in traditional culture wear with their middle fingers raised towards the reader.

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold

It was just another misty morning when I headed towards the stadium's car park. The overnight rain swelled the river's waters to the point of threatening to burst out of its confined course path and annihilating humankind.

I paid for my ticket and piloted my Kancil deftly into a designated parking lot, noticing along the way many did not bother to place their car correctly into their own space - many had their vehicles overlapping into others' yellow dividing lines. As usual. I tell myself that there is already no more hope for humankind.

While I was busy attaching the 20th security lock to my car's steering wheel, I felt a slight nudge coming from the rear left side of my car. I turned and surely enough there was this car which just happened to have scratched my Kancil slightly when negotiating into the parking lot on my left. Another case of asshole driver syndrome.

The driver was a young man my age, only not as good-looking :P. Clearly he was mortified. I was pissed, and so I stopped attaching the lock, got out of my car and went to inspect the damage. Truthfully it wasn't anything bad - maybe just a scratch like one of those any pissed-off cat would've given you when you tried to poke its anus with a stick.

He quickly got out too, not to apologise but rather to lock the door and pull up the windshield wipers into a standing position. All this while I was staring at him. I'm truly a compassionate fellow. I mean, I don't immediately scream or curse but I give people a chance. Ask any of my friends.

Obviously either he was too blur or too rude to respond. I stared at him. He stared back with a blank expression. This whole affair probably lasted about fifteen seconds yet there was still no sign of him wanting to make his peace with me. He gave me another blank look on his face and just left for work. I got even more pissed. Fine, no apology, no face giving stance from me ("giving face" is a Chinese phrase for your information).

I went back to finish securing up my car, gathered my belongings and went over to the front passenger side of my Kancil. His car was a Honda Civic from the 80s era. Classic but modified. Beautifully maintained with a nice coat of color. It would be too bad if somehow a scratch marred it.

With deadly precision and blind fury, my car keys registered a deep, beautiful scratch into the Honda's bodypaint, done lovingly with my hands. During this period, it is advisable to consult the Force to guide your hands in order to create breathtaking deep scratch artwork. If you know me, I tell you that I am supposedly incapable of violent actions. If you really, really know me, I can perform violent things if the situation calls and allows for me to do it. After feeling satisfied, I went back into my car, reparked it far, far away, and left for work. Morale at work clocked in an amazing increase of 50% today.

Of course I did have bouts of regret moments later wondering why didn't I register that deep gash into the passenger side of his car. At least that would give him a surprise a few days later when he finally realizes it. Nevertheless, by late noon it started to rain as usual, and I took it as a good sign, knowing that the damp rain will temporarily cover up my contributed art. Eventually the gash will be visible to him, and he will be visibly upset, but that will only materialize when the weather turns drier.

Til then, cheers mate! Good luck on finding that scratch on your stupid car.

What Does June 6th 2006 Mean To You?

For Engaged Couples

Time to say "I do" and get hitched. Lots of people, especially the Chinese are looking forward to hold their holy union on this special day of good aligned numbering. Is it also a coincidence that six sounds almost like "luck" in Hokkien as well? I don't speak Hokkien, don't ask therefore.

For Armageddon Believers

Today shall be our last day on Earth. Come tomorrow everything that we hold dear shall perish and all life will end. The Earth will be destroyed, as the sign of the Beast is nigh. Repent of your sins, therefore and be prepared for the impending destiny that awaits all of humanity.

For Christians Worldwide

06.06.06 is translated loosely into "666", also known amongst Christians the world over as the mark of the Beast ala The Devil. According to the Bible, the mark will be clearly visible on the right hand or on the forehead. "Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of Man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six". In a simpler way, it means that all of Satan's followers will have this dreaded number branded on the aforementioned places during the Antichrist's rise to power.

For WWII Military Historians

June the 6th marks the anniversary of D-Day (real name Operation Overlord) every year. Considered to be the most important day and battle of World War II, D-Day commemorates the participation of 150,000 men of the Allied Expeditionary Force, landing on the beaches and parachuting into Normandy. Hitler's Atlantic Wall is subsequently breached. The tide of war has turned, and victory is imminent.

For Movie Maniacs

The Omen opens in cinemas tomorrow, courtesy of clever marketing gimmicks that takes the coinciding numbers "06.06.06" to the maximum advantage. This movie is a remake however, if you have yet to know it. The original Omen movie was piss-frightfully scary, and let's hope this one makes us wet our pants in fright too.

Flags Of Our Fathers

Come December (or early August if things are right) Clint Eastwood is set to release the first of two films based on the Battle of Iwo Jima during World War II. Titled "Flags Of Our Fathers" by author James Bradley's book of the same name, the film revolves around the six U.S. Marines infantrymen captured in the infamous "Rising of the flag on Iwo Jima" photograph (see accompanying picture on the left).

Interestingly enough, Bradley's own father John Bradley was one of the flag-raisers, seen here in the picture as the Marine second from the right. The remaining five in the picture are, from left, Ira Hayes, Franklin Sousley, Michael Strank & Rene Gagnon (both in the background and thus mostly concealed), John Bradley and Harlon Block.

On checking Wikipedia's article, it clearly states that it is not six Marines but rather instead comprised of five Marines and one Navy Corpsman, equivalent to a medic in the European battlefields.

Translated loosely for a World War II-mad young man like me, this movie spells every letter of the word "anticipation" with much drooling and hawing. A few months after, Eastwood is set to release his second film in this series, named "Black Sand, Red Sun", told from the Imperial Japanese army's point of view in order to bring about a balanced, yin-yang storytelling starring Ken Watanabe. Although the Japs were noted for their ruthlessness, this one in particular shows that they were human like their enemy too.

Descriptions about both films are still vague, except that since this is war and war is ugly, expect it not to be a pretty show about good-looking Marines looking forward to going home and getting married to their loved ones. Rather, expect lots of death & dismemberment, cries for their moms, the mourning over the loss of good buddies and the anguished cry of dying men from both sides. War is always hell.

In the meantime, however, perhaps a re-run of Medal of Honor: Pacific Assault will keep me entertained until the movie comes out.

References :-
Flags of Our Fathers by James Bradley

Flyboys by James Bradley

Goodbye Darkness: A Memoir of the Pacific War by William Manchester

The Sands of Iwo Jima starring John Wayne

The Windtalkers starring Adam Beach & Nicholas Cage

The Battle of Blood Island starring Richard Devon & Ron Kennedy

Near Death By Drowning

More than half a year has passed since I went to Pangkor. Memories of how Death nearly claimed me for his own is still fresh on my mind, and now here in this post perhaps I will share the details of how it happened.

Of course it would be extremely helpful to note that I did not seek the services of any shrink after that incident, nor did I suffer from any post-trauma stress and throw plates against the wall whenever I get into a fit of anger, something which I thank God for. The photo that you see above on your upper left is taken from the road shoulder leading towards the beach. It overlooks the mini-jungle, and beyond it lies the colony of treacherous rocks, hidden from view.

It was a nice sunny August afternoon of the 20th. Three of my friends and I were on our way to Teluk Ketapang, purportedly a place at Pangkor island where fishes were abundant. This place itself was nestled in between Pasir Bogak and Teluk Nipah, with the latter being place which we were staying. The monotonous hum of two Vespa scooters were the only sounds that could be heard along the whole stretch of the road. I did not intend to catch marine life for food, and so did my friends as well. All purely for the sake of sport fishing "catch-and-release" attitude. The mellow afternoon waned on.

Upon reaching the beach, with its golden-brown sand welcoming us, we immediately set base camp and assembled our devices of death (for the fish folk, that is). It was exceptionally windy that day; nothing too murderous, just a wee bit stronger than usual. Nicely-combed hairdos instantly became a bundle of spaghetti-like mess in seconds. I wasn't particularly impressed. I stole my gaze at the beach.

The beaches and waves of Pangkor are stranger than the norm. On a typical beach, the contours of the terrain slopes downwards slowly and lazily as you wade deeper into the abyss. Almost the same can be said for the waves at a standard beach; the waves only get rougher the more you descend. In most cases it would take you about 8-10 metres away from the shoreline for the water to reach your neck (semi-high tide).

Not Pangkor. Here on this idyllic sleepy island, what you see of the beach isn't always what you get. A standard 5-metre plunge into the water will occasionally leave your head a few inches below sea level and drown you. Such is the deceptive allure of the beaches of Pangkor. You might walk out for a metre or so into the sea, thinking perhaps the most you'd get are your knees wet but in fact, the water already reaches your groin. In any case, I suspect that the unlevel seafloor plus the extremely dust-like fine sand around the area is what contributes to this strange (to me, that is) phenomenon.

It didn't take us long to realise that it was next to impossible to cast our lines from the beach; the angry waves pounding at the shoreline would not only keep the bait consistently thrown back towards shore, there would also be no clear indication when a fish (assuming there is to be one) had taken the bait. The only solution left was the boulders to our right. It looked pretty easy; just climb up the first rock nearest to us and keep on hopping from one to the next. Reaching the marble-white rocks after a brief bout of walking, we started the perilous ascent.

Clambering from rock to rock, I took every precaution not to lose my footing, slip into one of the treacherous gaps that littered the area, get wedged firmly between two rocks, and watch helplessly as the already-high water slowly but surely reaches up for my nostrils, and eventually drown me while I writhe in agony; the inky blackness and the taste of saline water being my only companions to the afterworld. I thought of claustrophobia and hypothermia, and how terrifying it will be to get stuck in a place barely big enough for you to even move one of your fingers, yet water flows all around you freely, seemingly laughing at you before it takes you to your watery grave. Below me, the sea water rolling into the small confined space made huge crashing sounds, amplified by the hard slate walls.

Soon it was clear that there was no direct path across from the rock we were currently standing on to the one that was just a mere 5 metres away. No. Another boulder was positioned in such a way between us (if I remembered correctly) that it made a natural wall of pure solid slate. To get to where we wanted to be we'd need to jump to another rock (with half a metre gap of death awaiting those who wouldn't make it), trek 6 metres or so up a dense mini jungle, go left round the first rock, and slowly creep down the other way. Slowly. Anything faster than that and you risk falling headfirst straight onto the boulder below, giving it a refreshing color splatter of red paint. Believe me when I tell you we all finally learnt the true meaning of 'slowly' that day.

Yes Death indeed surrounded us that day everywhere. At this point perhaps many of you would call me foolhardy. I don't blame you. Bravado comes easily to boys in their early 20s. A sense of indestructability reigns over them most of the time. Besides, we were so full of adventurous spirit that day. Just as a fighting infantryman of any war reasons with himself, there is always that feeling of "It won't happen to me. Some other guy'll get it, not me. I'm too lucky/well-trained/good-looking/tightly-laced/cautious" etc (ref. Paul Fussell, Wartime).

After much bitching and hawing we finally came to the so-said boulder. Atop it, the view out towards the horizon was nothing less descriptive other than being magnificent. Such a wondrous sight was rare. The water level was about 4-5 feet from where we were standing, as the boulder slopes downwards in an easy curve. Who knew then that a devious scheme to attempt to drown one of us was in the works? To us, as long as we kept clear of the water line, we reckoned everything would be alright. The ocean continued its slow rise as time went by.

After casting our baits into the sea, apart from scanning the area for any signs of marine life, there was little much to do than to sit back and enjoy the combination of waves crashing onto hard slate and wind in your hair. Prospects were seriously starting to look rather dim by the time an hour had passed when suddenly my friend felt something pulling at his line. With his powerful and expensive Abu Garcia reel, he retracted the line in. It was a fish all right, a greenish hue with black and blue stripes streaking its body. Immediately I felt sorry for the poor sod, but that's the way how fishing goes. Wishing no further harm to the little fish, I began unhooking the sharp prong from its mouth. I squatted down in order to lower my gravitational body point. Seemed to be the rational thing to do.

And then it happened. Something suddenly made my feet give way and down I plunged into the ocean, taking with me my friend's rod... and his precious Abu Garcia reel! That expensive piece of equipment was barely a week old. The waters easily reached to my shoulders, and the first thing my instincts told me to do were to try and get a foothold. The almost-smooth boulder offered none. In times like these, panic and fear guarantees certain death. I tried to stay as calm as I could, but the rough waves seemed to want to break my spirit by beaching on my back and pulling me out to the sea (my feet were well nowhere touching the sea floor or boulder; as a direct result of the currents going in and out, both my feet were in fact almost horizontal). In short, it was like me trying to hang on for dear life grabbing on a piece of paper embedded on the ground while a gigantic vacuum cleaner has just been turned on. It sure hurt like hell when the waves slammed into my body. I reasoned trying to swim to shore, which was just about 10 feet away, but with such strong undercurrents, I might just be pushed towards some underwater rock and get knocked dead. So swimming was out.

Occasionally the waters would engulf my mouth and nose. Not so much to effectively drown me, but still adequately made me taste salt and sputter. I thought that perhaps my time was up. I did not have flashbacks on certain milestones of my life (unlike what they show on TV), just that slight feeling of regret knowing I would die before getting married and figuring out the girl I am to marry. I thought of my family, and wondered if they could accept my death from drowning. God must have intended it not to be so, for suddenly I found something pulling me from the water. It was my friends.

Together, two pairs of hands pulled me up to safety while the third acted as an anchor by grabbing on to something while securing my friends' feet. I only prayed my arms wouldn't pop out of their sockets. In the process of hauling me upwards, while my feet instinctively looked for a something to act as a temporary foothold, I scraped them pretty nasty against the boulder surface. But compared to a certain death four feet below, this wasn't so bad. Nothing much, just probably like what a hundred cats would give to you with their incessant scratchings. Sure enough it started to bleed, yet the adrenaline rush kept the pain at bay. For now, perhaps. I wasn't going to sit down now and reflect on what that little blot of blood would do to my nerves. But the fact remained now that while I was already on dry land, the rod and reel wasn't. I could already see the anguish on my friend's face, and why wouldn't he be agitated? That reel set him back more than a hundred bucks. The pain on my foot started.

Was I in a state of shock? Apart from the stinging pain in my left feet due to the salt water, I was still sane and conscious. Seeing that I needed no emergency administration or morphine shots, we then decided to execute a maneouver that would involve the four of us locking hands together and try to brave the waves in a daring act to recover the rod by feeling around with our feet. Around the boulders we went, in a sort of semi-circle slow wade. Despite holding on to each other for dear life and trying to balance ourselves by placing our backs flat against the rock, the oncoming waves seemed to be playing a game of cat-and-mouse with us, mocking our feeble attempts. Being pushed hard against the rocks and getting sucked back out towards the ocean quickly tired us. Man can never stand a chance against Nature.

When in moving water, particularly those running deep in saline content, an average human needs to exert more muscle power to move compared to, say, a swimming pool. Even the tiniest article of clothing, in this case our shorts, feels like deadweight when the water is being sucked back into the main sea. It pulls you along with it, and herculean strength is required just to cover even 5 feet away from the beachfront.

The water was already chest-high even before we reached the boulder where we just stood. Venturing out more would be foolish, and we would need to come back when the waters had receded for good. It would have to be after the sun had set. Syed nearly lost the left side of his slippers when it came loose from his feet and bobbed on the surface, threatening to go further away to join the ocean. It was saved by a last-minute action by my hand. I needed to. After all, my life was saved no thanks to his participation in it by being the anchor guy.

Later in the night, my compatriots and I decided to return to the same area to look for the lost rod once more before we give up the hunt. Learning from afternoon's experience, we straddled around cautiously. I was tasked to provide light from the bike's headlamp, twisting the accelerator so as to pump more juice into the engine and thus making the headlamp shine brighter. However, no matter how much I twisted the accelerator, it just wasn't still bright enough. Suffice to say directing such a weak source of light towards an area easily 20 metres away is akin to trying to light up a whole room using a puny match.

Imagine my horror when they returned minutes later and told me that I was extremely lucky to have made it and not be claimed by the sea; the same boulder upon which we stood on earlier was in fact incredibly huge. The ocean, now having retreated back for the night, revealed that the water level that covered the boulder during high tide was easily more than 3 metres high! Many more areas, concealed by water by day but visible now during the night could be seen; seabeds with strange rock formations and pieces of rocks resting so close together they practically form a gap to trap some unlucky soul's foot. Somehow thinking of it made me uneasy. The rod was never found.

Back at home my friends told me just how lucky I was to be still alive and kicking. I couldn't agree more with them. Therefore from that fateful day onward, that little incident has prompted me to live out life in a more fulfilling way as much as I could. How? By doing the things I want to do. Life is already short. It could be shorter still. Ironically, most of the things scribbled on my list are extreme outdoor sports, which any of them could spell the end for me. But thinking on, if that happens (touch a darn big piece of wood) at least I'm going out in style doing the things I love doing the most. Perhaps I should search for true love too while I'm at it. Cheating partners and lying spouses need not apply.

Life is bliss indeed.

The Dark Truth About Catsup

CATSUP

Do you all know how catsup came to be called catsup and not tomato sauce or extract of tomato or even tomato puree?

That's because it isn't tomatoes that they're using for catsup! To quote, you think that's catsup you're taking with your fries? Instead of tomatoes, the main ingredient used in this world-famous sauce can be found in the first three letters of the word "catsup".

Originally called "catsup", it was later changed to "ketchup" to avoid people being suspicious from where then origins of this nice-tasting sauce came from. Observe that even the word "ketchup" and "catsup" sound oddly the same. But the dark truth is, specially bred felines were raised to give that sauce that "kick" before being shipped to be processed. When they are about 3-4 months old, they are taken away from their mother and kept in solitary confinement and given 3 meals a day, fed only with the best quality feline food and livestock feed.

When they reach about 9-10 months old, they are shipped to the "catsup processing plant" in the thousands to be processed into, well, what else? Great tasting catsup. With no added preservatives. And they don't put in any coloring too.

Not even a drop of coloring.

In there, the "ingredients" are passed through a giant crusher-extractor to extract their great-tasting sauce. Special custom-made crushers are used to fit their body contours to finish them off quickly, efficiently and painlessly yet getting the most juice out of them in one crushing. Pronto. The extracted juice then flows freely and is collected in a giant vat below the crushing machine. There the sauce is heated to 320 Farenheit (about 265 Degrees Celcius) to kill off any potential germs. Next, a mixer stirs the extract and at the same time a bit of vinegar is added to give that soury taste. This catsup puree is stirred well until it becomes thick and saucy. If you wonder why all "tomato catsup" is blood red in color, well I'm sure most of you can guess why.

Wild felines taste slightly different from their domestically-bred cousins. In the open, wild felines, when caught and torturously processed into catsup, taste slightly more sour, since they have higher acidic body content. However, they are processed in the same way as their domesticated counter-parts but in some varieties, a slight dash of vinegar and tabasco sauce is added to make another variety of catsup; the Thai Version.

With its great taste, and its availability all around the world, it's no wonder why catsup is here to stay... as long as the ingredients still remain for the secret to its great finger-licking taste. So if next time you see someone who has lost his/her feline friend under mysterious circumstances, fret not; chances are that feline fren has already gone thru the "catsup-sitation" process, bottled up into a bottle and he/she is already having it with his/her favourite fries or steak. Unknowingly of course.

So go ahead, open up a bottle of catsup today and enjoy it!!! And if you're wondering what the people do with real tomatoes that are cultivated worldwide, well basically they're shipped to factories the world over that produce commercial/industrial/home-based paint and even the common watercolors that you and I use to paint pictures with.

Situation Vacant: GIRLFRIEND

We are an established company dealing in outdoor adventure gears and other extreme sport equipment. We would like to invite a suitable candidate to apply for the following position below :-

GIRLFRIEND

Requirements :

Must be strong, independent, and one that doesn't cost a bomb to maintain. Must possess a Degree in Good Soulmateship. Gets excited when picking up a new language. Individuals with a sharp sense of dressing are encouraged to apply. Takes to reading like a secondary nature in life. Preferably one with own transport, but if none, it's still okay; BF Managing Director is willing to give a lift/pick her up on occasions. No experience in dating is necessary.

Interests :

Proficient in outdoor and extreme activities. Must also be interested in WWII history, philosophy, war movies, reading, fishing, movie soundtracks, electronic gadgets and talking crap. Slight knowledge in fast cars and The Matrix will be an added advantage. Constant upgrade of film and music pop-culture is recommended.

Responsibilities :

Dates, outings and all meals will be paid for and adhered to before marriage confirmation [minimum 3 years probation]. After marriage confirmation, your responsibilities will include wipe, wash, clean, cook, mop, scrub et al. Extra tasks will involve looking after children, if any.

Facial Requirements :

None, really. Our company goes by the motto, "Beauty Is Skin Deep". What we're looking for is natural beauty and inner beauty. But of course, the following can be an added advantage to candidates; sharp noses that can almost cut open letters, high cheekbones, bee-stung pouty lips, big radiant eyes, a contagious smile, a warm and kind heart, a spunky spirit, long eyelashes, and soft radiant skin, along with a great hourglass body figure and 5" 7' in height just to name a few.

Working Benefits :

Hugs and kisses from BF Managing Director, annual flowers and Valentine's Day chocolates, 365-day annual leave, unending love and attention, joy and happiness that no money in the world can offer, and much more. Free company trips to the outdoors for spending quality time. Also includes love and comfort during sick leave. No Medical Certificate is required.

Interested candidates are to contact the person below :-

The Managing Director
JDream Anderson-Smith

X-Treme Altitude Sport Gears Inc.
7th Floor, Claymore Tower,
JDream Avenue,
54321 Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

Tel : +603-77885050
Fax : +603-77885151
E-Mail : JDream_MX@dreamteam.com

An Interview With The Datuk

Koala Lumpy: It is official; the price of petrol and diesel has gone up once more, and for the first time ever in Malaysian history it is raised a shocking staggering 30 cents per litre. This means that for owners whose cars run on RON 97 (which is almost 99.9% of the automobiles on Malaysian roads) they will have to pay MYR1.92 per litre starting from today onwards. Madness, indeed.

We at the Moon Newspaper had the chance to interview Datuk at his residence yesterday itself. During the 2-hour long interview, many questions were posed to him as we believe that most of the rakyat are still in the dark even as of press time.

"Now Datuk, perhaps we can start with the explanation on why a 30-cents increase this time? It will most certainly burden the average wage-earner, taking into consideration assuming that he has a 1.5-litre car, a double-storey terrace house and old parents to support, not yet accounting for the food and definitely the petrol. Of course it is clear that if he is married with children the amount of money that has to be spent will be even more significant."

"Oh that. Well you see, But do remember, I have always used this excuse everytime we see a price hike in petrol, and I will say it again - the price of petrol here is cheaper compared to other countries like Singapore, Thailand, etc. We should be grateful for that. Since the government has subsidised so much for the past half a year, it is only understandable that sooner or later the rise in petrol prices is inevitable. But I promise, no more petrol price hikes for this year... but come 2007 I dare not comment-lah."

"Yes we agree Datuk. Petrol here IS cheaper than other countries, but salary-wise in comparison with the rest of the countries stated perhaps we could suggest that almost all of us are trapped in a situation whereby our wages do not increase in proportion with the rising cost of day-to-day living? People in Singapore easily out-earn us; getting a salary equivalent to MYR1,200 per month for a normal private sector executive is a laughing bar joke."

"Ah yes that, but you see, the money from all this will be channeled into upgrading the public transportation system. In the long run, this will be a benefit for all of the rakyat. Isn't this a very good win-win situation? How can you compare salaries with our neighbour? We should never make any comparisons, else we would never be happy. No no."

"Upgrades? What upgrades Datuk, if we may inquire? Most of the citizens still take smelly, dirty buses, and you can hardly feel the air-conditioning in them, which leaves passengers sweating and gasping for air. According to a poll, the situation offered by KTM isn't much of a good bargain as well, with trains running late periodically. What are your views on that, Datuk?"

"I knew sooner or later this question would pop up. Well, as you can see we are conducting a hi-tech project to come out with a new top-secret addition to our already-existing public transportation system. We are working with top local scientists to produce something that looks like a cross between a public bus and a common LRT train. We call it "The Hover-LBT" or "Hover-Light Bus Transporter". As you can see from this artist's concept impression, it has the front look of an LRT, the wings of an F-14 Tomcat, and the inside design of a normal bus for maximum capacity seating. The tyres have been done away with and in place are six powerful Pegasus hover-turbine engines; the same ones used in the Hawker-Siddely Harrier fighter jet."

"We see. But Datuk, we are an oil-producing nation, so why are we still paying more? What about Petronas? According to one local blog, many common people wished that the government ministers would come and take the public transport with them, Datuk, just so they can experience for themselves how it's like. Also, why the hush-hush cover ups and not informing the rakyat 2-3 days ahead so that they can brace themselves for this day of reckoning?"

"I thought Malaysians love surprises? That was the reason why we planned such a great and complex surprise for the rakyat jelata in the first place. We thought that announcing it the same old boring way would get pretty dull soon. Ever since we gave you guys that big surprise, this issue's all over the newspapers everyday, and it's rampant in public especially at mamaks and coffeeshops, and even on the streets! Don't they like this lovely surprise? Hmm, oh well I suppose not. In response to your earlier two questions, well, we don't really want to bother Petronas for their money you see; it's quite a hassle. So we've decided it's best to leave things as it is. And erm, we ministers would rather not jostle with the crowd. Not because we don't want to, you see, but it's that we'd rather let you beloved people of the public gain access to them. It's a sacrifice, and we're proud to do it."

"Ah, such noble gestures indeed. What about the plans that was supposedly to drape the pyramid of Giza in Egypt last year and that the whole thing allegedly cost RM200,000 to execute? Would it not be better if the money were to be used for further subsidies for oil?"

"Hmm that would be best explained as a way to show off, I mean err, build better relationships with the Egyptians. The price of friendship is worth the RM200,000. In fact, I can safely say that the fostered ties will run deeper than any RM200,000. So let's leave this issue here as it is. It is also considered to be money well spent if it were accomplished."

"Oh by the way Datuk, before we go, is there any chance of us getting a raise in our salaries? It's awfully hard to live on such meagre wages nowadays. A small five to six percent increase would be appreciated."

"Err, that you have to ask your respective boss and employers, why ask me-lah? I'm not the boss of you also. Well anyway, thank you for your time, goodbye." And thus ended our interview.

We also interviewed three average citizens on the street for their opinions regarding this latest price hike. Below are their comments :-

Ah Kow, 23, Student - Wah lau eh, so fast come up again ah the petrol hike? Now 30 cents some more. Getting by on a student's monthly budget is hard enough, now have to sideline an additional amount just for this. They say that death and taxes are the only sure things in life, but in Malaysia, this goes two steps further - petrol hikes and non-increase in salaries are also a sure thing for us. Malaysia Boleh!

Ali, 27, Manager - Alamak, baru naik gaji RM20 dah naik lagi harga minyak? This is not fair, I believe, for all of us. How to watch movies in cinema anymore? I don't think we can even support the DVD pirates in these hard times; instead we'll have to rely on Bittorrent. We earn a pittance, and furthermore this theory really defies Newton's Law of Gravity, in which things that go up never come down. Newton must be really spinning, not turning, in his grave right now.

Muthu, 38, Restaurant Owner - Dei macha, this time around the price hike really hit us hard-la. We cannot afford to absorb those overhead costs anymore; the price of supplies, electricity and water bills, protection money to keep the thugs away, then I heard TNB is going to raise costs as well. It's a really bad time to raise tariffs. I think I might invest in a few night-vision goggles and give one each to my employees. This way, we can save costs as well as looking like those dashing Bollywood hunks! Want a plate of mee goreng by the way? It's quite cheap, only three ringgit.

It is obviously clear that a lot of Malaysians are against this sudden unexpected raise. What confused and angered them more was the fact that the government did not give an early notice to the common folk regarding this issue. The assurance that this was the only hike for the whole year brought little consolation to many.

Therefore, it is advisable that in harsh times like this, it is only wise to spend cautiously. We at the Moon Newspaper would like to advise those who are thinking of getting new cars to hold on for the moment until further news about raises in salaries are announced. Hopefully, but not likely. You stand a higher chance at having a cuppa tea session with the Malaysian Bigfoot.-SNN

You Still Believe In 3 Cents Per Email Forwarded?

"Dear suckers. I am just some anonymous fellow suffering from yet another generic mysterious disease and I am now writing this from the hospital bed. The doctors have said that I might grow a third breast on my forehead if I can't raise enough cash for treatment soon. Anyway, all you have to do is simple; just pass this message on to the others. AOL and Uncle Gates have suddenly become somewhat generous and have agreed to pay me 3 cents for every person who receives this email. Also, Microsoft Corp. is going to reward anyone who performs the fore mentioned act of duty. It's real, no shit. My best friend's friend's friend's uncle at first dismissed this off, but later he sent a few copies out "just in case". Two weeks later a representative from Microsoft called and presented him with a cheque totalling $24,800.25. He has since quit his job and is now fishing for sperm whales off the coast of Antartica."

If you do believe the above, and still circulate these kind of emails when you receive them, I have some rather nice stuffs to sell to you at a very "affordable" price of USD25,000 apiece. No really. I'm not gonna take advantage of your naiveness. Well if you believe that too, you've proven yourself numero uno in gullibility. It's been highlighted multiple times over and over that these things are not REAL.

Oh but some are highly ignorant (I forgive the first-timers and those who have just learnt what these things are and make a point not to repeat them) and I still cannot understand why until today they forward them. Don't they know that there is absolutely no way and no such technology to track emails? Or how about failing to understand the logic why in the first place would Bill Gates and AOL give away so much money for free?

Really, it's quite appalling (and disturbing) to see that this has even spread to other sites like Friendster. I'm sure all of you remember the "so-called" message of Friendster shutting down and to counter it a user has to send it to 10/20 (the number varies) other Friendster individuals in order to ensure the server will recognize your account as active. What a bunch of baloney. An official message from the moderators of the site even appeared on every individual's Friendster start-up main menu reassuring them that the message was a hoax and that the site will never in any way shut down or delete any accounts, provided they do not breach the rules and regulations set (that means like you setting up a porno account, you dickhead). What is wrong with people nowadays? Has evolution touched upon some people and produced freaks of nature lacking a few "smart" chromosomes or perhaps it's the age-old adage of "being born without a brain"?

People, please. Do yourselves a favor - there is this site called snopes that you can actually go and verify the truth of something - and also do me a favor; stop sending me all these inane things.

7 Surplus Things I Need Urgently From Uncle Sam

Dear Santa,

I somehow think that the snail mail I sent to you via my local courier did not reach you, which explains why my Christmas stocking was devoid of a few physical items. This is what you get when you hand over your trust to a company that claims to be operating in a first-world country but with third-class mentality. However I am most thankful for the blessings that the people of this world received, which includes items like world peace (albeit temporary), food for the hungry, and the fostering of better ties amongst nations.

It's a tough world we live in - virus epidemics worldwide, darn daily traffic jams, idiotic employers, powercuts and that occasional stupid cat who loves coming into your house driveway compound and leave poo all over - and to protect my own interests, this is the wishlist I would like to forward to your attention in advance for this coming year's Christmas.

Rest assured I have been abstaining from being naughty all year round; I did not buy any pirated stuffs (only downloaded them), I managed to avoid stepping on that ant that day, and also helped a couple of old grannies to cross the street.

Item 01: Remploy Mk-IV NBC Hazard Suit

I just came back from ferrying my grandpa to the nearby clinic a few days ago and I caught hell myself - an infection of sore throat and a runny nose ten times more powerful than the Niagara. Got sick, skipped a day of work and felt pissed with the illness. I suspect it could be the deadly cocktail mix of different types of viruses and bacteria present in most clinics, floating and mingling with each other, passing on generations-old tips and tricks on how to survive even the toughest of them penicilin shots. Therefore, a NBC (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical) hazard suit complete with the M40 gas mask just like those worn during Operation Desert Storm would be nice if ever I need to fetch someone to the clinics or hospitals again. I understand that the nuclear feature would not come into use much but it would be a great addition if ever one of my neighbourhood's retarded kids somehow suddenly decided to mix plutonium and uranium together resulting in a mass nuclear meltdown.

Item 02: AN/PVS-7D Generation-III NVGs

With more and more frequent powerouts in my neighbourhood and local electric provider Tenaga Nasional being unable to give us a satisfactory explanation more and more each day, I would like to receive a pair of the night-vision goggles on the left. Groping around in the darkness just to find the Maglite© torch or the halogen headlight consumes much time and caution, not to mention sometimes the pain of bumping your toe against the coffee table leg. Candles are not much better off as well, since they also require almost the same time to hunt around for one including the lighter/matches. They use up oxygen, give out unnecessary heat, burn down eventually and plus like the conventional torchlight their range of focus is rather limited. Night-vision optics are way much more convenient, cooler than your usual candle/torchlight and gives me the upper advantage over my neighbour's retarded offsprings knowing that I can see them perfectly well in the total darkness while they can't even get a glimpse of me at all. If Gen-III isn't possible then a normal Gen-I goggle would suffice as I heard they're legal here.

Item 03: Raytheon AIM-9X Sidewinder air-to-air missiles

Let's face it - the majority of Malaysian drivers are assholes, and traffic jam here is a culture. People who are soft and gentle in real-life develop signs of "Sudden Asshole Syndrome" whenever they get behind the wheel. Driving everyday on the roads make me encounter all sorts of bullshit behaviour - Ah Bengs who cut into your lane rudely, inane tai-tais who drive big MPVs but lack the same size of brains to go along with it, road-hoggers, road bullies, insane "P" drivers, crackpot Mat Motors... you get the drift. To combat this menace, it'd be great to see my Kancil fitted with a couple of these heat-seeking missiles with replenishing stock kept in the rear boot. Like they say, just fire and forget, sit back and watch the fireworks as another useless piece of genetic waste is blown off the face of the Earth. Since we're here, could you also throw in an extra pair of launchers for my future Myvi as well?

Item 04: M18A1 Claymore anti-personnel mines

I really need to do something about those returning felines which treat housing compounds as their own personal litter box. Waking up and finding your driveway reeking of cat piss is enough to er, piss anyone off. Damn cats! For this I'll require a lifetime's worth of supplies of Claymore anti-personnel mines from you, to be planted at various points of my house area with the "front facing the enemy". I hope to be able to discourage any would-be cat-pooper from dumping their waste onto my lawn. I don't really mind scraping off blown-up cat innards off the pavement (Hey, free ball-bearings!). At least they don't smell as terrible as cat piss and feline poo. I'll turn a blind eye if it's my neighbours' yards. Not my problem anyway. These mines could also double-up as determent to any robbers or unwanted spastic neighbourhood kids turning up at my doorstep and they make nice lawn ornaments as well. Play more Claymore.

Item 05: Accuracy International Arctic Warfare Magnum sniper rifle

While cats are a nuisance in the driveway area, crows and other types of birds pose a problem in the balcony - they like to mess up the clothes hung out to dry by leaving their droppings all over them. Then we have to clean those soiled clothes once more and hang them to dry and waste precious time and resources. The following day another bunch of crows might do the same thing again (they do this to everyone in the neighbourhood). Needless to say, someone has to step up and teach them crows some toilet-training lessons via a high-caliber sniper rifle. Also good for those rapist bastards since aiming at their balls with a scope is much easier (and fun). Who needs PC FPS games when you have the real-deal, state-of-the-art rifle in your hand, scope aimed at the culprit crow? The Springfield 1903 .03 caliber would also be a replacement rifle of choice in case you've already run out of AWMs back at the North Pole.

Item 06: UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter

Okay so maybe I won't direct any Sidewinder missiles towards anyone, but still the idea of seeing someone fry in his or her car should they piss me off is kinda cool, if not exciting. In that case getting me a Black Hawk helo complete with a side-mounted Gatling minigun will do for my morning transition to the workplace (and any offices in the near future). Also, do equip the helo with an anti-RPG mechanism; I watched Black Hawk Down and I really do not wish to end up like how they did, and I'd appreciate it if the unit comes with a complimentary CD player so I can listen to Rachid Taha's "Barra Barra" during the daily flight and laugh my ass off at those still stuck in the jam. Oh yeah.

Item 07: M1A1 US Abrams tank

I am a simple man - I only go to shopping complexes when I need to buy something that I need, or perhaps to occasionally relax my mind. Of course, I dislike crowds and this can be quite bad when I find that they happen to be jamming the shop I want to go in to. With the Abrams tank, I can finally solve all my woes; just drive over the massive crowd, intimidate them, pay for what I want and ride off. The method's passed the quality check at garment stores and most of the local hypermarkets. Now it only requires to be fully operational in all sorts of shopping mall terrain to be able to withstand the waves of inane tai-tais, Ah Lians and Ah Bengs.

So, there you have it - just seven simple items to make life simpler for most of us. But of course the above won't likely materialise so I'll probably just ask for more efficiency in our public transportation system, safer neighbourhoods and streets, better salaries for all employees, cleaner drinking waters, a healthy environment and a decent cost of living. With that, everyone's happy and no one gets hurt.

Ah Lien VS Sex Predator

Ah Lien walked hurriedly down the lonely lane; the wind was really howling that night and the chill permeated right down to the bones. She had overlooked her sweater, assuming that it'd be a hot and suffocating night. How wrong she was.

Clad only in a fashionable off-shoulder ruffled gathered top and micro-mini skirt, she quickened her pace as though the devil was hot on her heels. The lane was silent, eerie, with steam rising inexplicably from the manholes; a perfect setting for a melodramatic horror movie.

Suddenly, about three-quarters into her journey crossing the dark, dreary lane, a lone figure appeared from nowhere. Instinctively, Ah Lien stopped walking and looked at the silhoutte, measuring probably six-foot three. The body's built indicated it to be of a male. The lack of visible light, a common occurence in lonely lanes, obscured his facial features yet it was clear that this mysterious stranger had definitely set his eyes on her.

Sensing danger, Ah Lien slowly backed off, intending to turn back the way she first came. The man started for her, as if sensing her fear. Bad decision for not bringing along the handy pepper spray in an effort to lighten the handbag load, Ah Lien thought for a split second. Now she's probably gonna regret it for the rest of her life.

Teach Yourself 1st-Person Shooter Games in 10 Tips

I play First-Person Shooter (FPS) video games a lot. Well, I used to. Age has somewhat slowed me down a little these days, coupled with the occasional times when I discover tragically that my current PC's hardware does not support a particular game since those games eat graphics cards and memory sticks for breakfast.

From humble beginnings of Quake II to the evergreen Counter-Strike, FPS games have changed little in terms of game play, storyline and tactics. With this, I bring you my experiences of what a standard run-of-the-mill FPS game has to offer. (Note: Those born after the 80s probably won't even have played the first Wolfenstein 3D).

Tip 01: Shoot anything that moves

The first rule of thumb in any FPS game. (Almost) everything that exists in the game running all over the place isn't going to come up to you and give you flowers. No, heck, all they want to do is pump you full of lead. Except for the occasional games like Quake IV or Half Life II where you have team mates to accompany you or some mysterious stranger giving you vital information, the rest are, to put it simply, cannon fodder, existing for the sole purpose of giving your gun something to do.

Tip 02: Inflammable explosive oil barrels equals enemies

In any given map, be it the urban cityscapes or some dark creepy mine of another planet, inflammable explosive oil barrels are always present. And welcome too. For you see, the presence of these barrels denote the presence of enemy soldiers/monsters nearby. Another use to these barrels, being their primary reason of existence, is that whenever a badass enemy is lunging towards you, just take a few steps back, fire a few rounds from your gun and watch the fireworks engulf the fiend. Of course, it pays to be both fast and accurate when executing these nimble acts else your character will be pushing up daisies in no time. We have a Malay version of this wise saying, which is, "Jikalau ada tong berapi, makalah ada musuh". Go figure.

Tip 03: Know your gun

With the exception of a few "extra-realistic" titles, most FPS games allow you to lug more than 5 guns around (excluding your puny pistol) and hold a few hundred thousand of rounds and grenades without even showing the least signs of fatigue. This is so since each gun "generously" bestowed upon you has its own set of strengths and shortcomings; some may be better at long-range sniping while others clear large masses of enemies without too much of a problem. Just remember though not to use those rocket-launchers at VERY close range. Not only it is suicidal, but you feel pretty wasted later. This applies to all games.

Tip 04: Ammo, ammo everywhere

Shortage of ammo in any FPS-genre title is like dying of thirst in a rainforest - it almost never happens. Unless you're an extremely poor shot, of course. Like those Viet Congs in Rambo II who can't even skin Rambo's hide using their AK-47s shot from a distance of 5 meters. Those poor Charlies. Anyway, back to the topic. As you progress and shoot up more dastardly foes and piss more metal from your gun, you will invariably always find ammo scattered conveniently everywhere to make up the ones you used; magazines on the floor, in open crates lying around, on table tops, grenades stacked next to coffee-makers, and some odd ones even hover above the ground while spinning around in a 360-Degree fashion. That is not the only surprising thing. In fact, all the bullets you pick up matches the current configuration of the guns you have in hand from the caliber to the diameter. Wow, what a coincidence! My enemies could've been smarter and got rid of all the crucial ammunition and slowly try to overrun me as I face a critical shortage of ammo.

Tip 05: First-Aid Kits do wonders to bullet wounds

No matter how many times you've been wounded, no matter how badly-shot up you are, all it takes to get you back in full fighting kick-ass mode are a few first-aid kits, also as conveniently scattered everywhere as the ammo magazines. It doesn't matter if you've been burned by napalm or gored physically until your mother would have a hard time recognizing your face, these miracle life-savers are the sole means of getting out of the particular map intact. Having over a few thousand bullets embedded in your torso accumulated by the tons of enemies you've fought through the progress of your journey doesn't seem to pose any long-term health risks either. All you do is grunt a little bit in a manly macho way, use one or two Band-Aids and cotton gauzes, and voila! your bleeding has stopped, your exposed wounds have healed and all possible germ infections have been exterminated. The best thing is, you can still use the kits even while both your hands are holding a gun akimbo.

Tip 06: Your team mates' AI is incredibly stupid

They may carry bigger guns that the ones you tote, but they're stupid. They may wear cool commando-esque outfits complete with NVGs and Kevlar helmets, but they're stupid. They claim to be sent from above to help you accomplish your mission task but most of the time all they do is block your way, stand there while a gunfight erupts, successfully trigger the alarm and get you killed in the process. Worse still are some games that actually REQUIRE you to keep a close watch on your team mates as getting a number of them killed in action puts you into Game Over mode, and your mates don't actually help lighten the situation but instead run like chickens all over the battlefield, and you have to give chase to cover them. Thankfully (some) games have fixed the problem of giving you useless team members, and some do actually prove to be useful. But the majority of games out in the market at this moment still feature dumbass commando colleagues. Therefore, never ever rely on a computer-controlled AI mate to get you out of a sticky situation.

Tip 07: The enemy's AI is incredibly perfect

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse raising the alarm due to your team mates' ineptness, the AI level for the enemy is unfortunately saddled on the other end of the scale. These guys can literally qualify for the Olympic Games' clay pigeon shooting tournament and get perfect scores. The ultimate hell ride can be seen from Medal Of Honor: Allied Assault (MOH:AA) which has a mission for you to flush out German snipers in camouflaged fatigues while the sky is raining heavily. Every nook and cranny hides a Kraut sniper and before you can see them through your own scope, their bullet is already in your head. Particularly frustrating is when you don't have the slightest notion where they are shooting from as well and yet you keep getting hit even when you're supposedly hiding behind a wall. SchaiB! Das ist nacht ein fair game spiel!

Tip 08: Your Health, Total Ammo Left and Map is conveniently laid out for you
You will always know how much ammunition you have left in your gun, and when is the most likely time you might die, and even (in some titles) know where to go although it's your first time stepping onto that alien planet. This is the unsolved mystery of HUDs (Heads-Up Displays) in every FPS game. In fact, you are even notified of how much bullets left you have in the current mag. I understand if some space Marine has his helmet feeding these electronic data display on his screen, but explain those gung-ho ones who just strut around half-naked carrying only a gun and lots of mean attitude.

Tip 09: Always aim for the head

To add more realism to the gameplay, recent FPS games have begun to feature kills by gunshot wounds to the head (ala headshot). Headshots are always the quickest way to dispose of any enemy, and this in turn saves your ammo and time, ensuring you get back just in time for tea and medals (old British phrase). Of course, just like how you aim for the flammable oil barrels, precision and dead-on-sight shots are very much required else you're gonna be spending the rest of eternity buried 6 feet under after those guys have picked your bones clean. It's a tough job being a heroic Marine "gibbing" generic repetitive monsters in alien planets, but someone's gotta do it.

Tip 10: The boss only appears at the end of the map

First of all you fight the weaklings, easily brought under control with no difficulty. Then you fight tougher enemy grunts, then even more badass types. This process repeats itself until you've used up more ammo than the entire WWII itself. Then comes the big boss, thumping mad like a pitbull looking for a chihuahua to eat since you've defeated his earlier worthless minions. The standard way of defeating a boss doesn't really vary much between titles; just shoot him a few thousand times, avoid whatever projectiles he hurls at you, and toast yourself to a glass of champagne once the campaign is over. Simple. The End.

Letter of Resignation: Naughty Version

I'm preparing my letter of resignation from the office since I am somewhat unhappy with the management. This is how it would hopefully look like. I'm writing two versions; one naughty, one nice.

For the nice version please look below


Dear Madam,

A very good day to you. It is with my happiest of thoughts that I have to inform you regarding my resignation from the post of Graphic Designer as of the 31st December 2005. In case you are still scratching your head wondering why, I have taken the trouble to list down the reasons below :-

1. You, my dear lady boss and CEO, are one of the most perfect couples I've ever met, complimenting each other on your combined stupidity and support my theory of the Evolution of Idiocy plus the fact that the both of you are truly one of the biggest genetic wastes in the history of Mankind. You rank in the hallways among the most evil individuals in history, alongside people such as Adolf Hitler, Al Capone, Britney Spears (and the few odd Taiwanese gay boybands) and you have an honorable place in the Museum of the Most Stupid Idiots Ever Lived. I for one cannot imagine how you two (especially you, my lady boss) can beat 25 million of your father's other sperms 30-plus years ago.

2. I still cannot understand until this very day how you can actually favor some idiot who claims to have completed his first year at some reputable art & design college majoring in industrial and graphic design and yet knows shit about Adobe PhotoShop or Adobe Illustrator. Regretfully speaking, he brings shame to the term "Graphic Designer" with his child-like mentality of artwork, laziness in figuring out how to solve his own problems at work, atrocious English, his incompetency to use simple things like Google and his inefficiency to grasp the simple theory that resizing small pictures into larger versions will result in messy, jagged edges.

3. I should enlighten and inform you that his other blatant displays of ineptness includes not knowing how to do layouts despite being an art student, not knowing how a PC functions, acts all high and mighty, and complains loudly that his PC is extremely slow, when in fact it is due to him running over a billion Yahoo Messenger chat windows simultaneously. I can safely say by now I have a higher chance of success at training a common ground squirrel to operate Adobe PhotoShop than teaching the above mentioned "Graphic Designer" who happens to be some Datuk's son that you hired who is sitting next to my cubicle how to perform his share of the workload.

4. And before I should forget, I feel it is my duty as a worker to inform my immediate superiors, no matter how high the level of idiocy they display (in this case it's referring to the both of you), that I found the Datuk's son gleefully reading erotic stories online. Personally, I do not think such acts will be viewed upon favorably by any self-respecting employers of any distinguished company.

5. Please do kindly update yourself in matters relating to computers - I really do hate it trying to save you from embarassment every time you attempt to show off how much you "know" regarding technology but end up either misunderstanding the terminologies involved or the various jargons present. For your kind information, to study the General Field of IT does not mean one is 100% well-versed in everything and anything pertaining to computers - this is why we have many branches in the IT sector. I doubt you will ever understand the difference between a spyware and a virus. You are forever doomed to be looked down upon by the others, save for your money which is the only redeeming factor which will buy you the face-saving respect of others.

For this, I must take my leave, and I thank you for the unmeasurable amount of verbal and psychological abuse you've given to me so generously that I feel I need to return the compliments gratefully. Therefore, from this day onwards, you shall exist in my dictionary as "Queen Asshole"; a very special title reserved only for the cream of the crop.

Wishing you and your company the best in all your future endeavorments. I also do hope to see you and your company bankrupt soon (which is inevitable).

Thank you and have a pleasant and productive day ahead.


Yours Sincerely,

JDream Anderson-Smith
GRAPHIC DESIGNER

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Letter of Resignation: Nice Version

I am a very fair person. I give credit when due and condemn when appropriate. This is the nice version of my proposed letter of resignation. For the naughty version, please see above

Dear Madam,

Top of the morning to you. Referring to the title above, I would like to tender in my resignation for the post of Graphic Designer as of the 31st of December 2005.

It has certainly been a great opportunity to work in your company. I have learnt Adobe Illustrator through the great colleagues that I have, and the countless assignments and projects given under my attention gave me enough chances to brush up and sharpen both my Adobe PhotoShop and Illustrator skills and also to give me an exposure to this industry.

I have enjoyed the times when you spoke to me in a nice manner and gave me clear instructions when handing over an assignment to me. It has certainly brightened up my working day to know my immediate superior is so well-spoken for the day, and thus resulting in a more productive and motivated spirit. I believe those kind of rare magical moments saved you a lot from the hefty sums paid to see a doctor or by consuming tons of throat lozenges. Quality motivation equals quality work turned in. For now, I will not use the average ground squirrel's intelligence example to compare with you.

I would also like to voice out my profound appreciation when we had that office birthday bash and you generously sponsored so much, from the food to the wine. Especially the red wine. In case you did not notice it, the mood that particular day was a refreshing change from the usual screamings and shoutings and the breaking of chinaware. It is indeed really great to see everyone talking and laughing like old friends without choking each other for once.

With this, I shall take my leave, and before I should go, I would like to thank you once more for the times when you did not scream and curse at me when asking me to accomplish a particular task. Yeah, I know it sounds a bit repetitive but what the heck.

Wishing you a great and wonderfully productive working day.


Yours Sincerely,

JDream Anderson-Smith
GRAPHIC DESIGNER

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U2: Mysterious Murder In BonoVille

Something from my secondary-school blogging days.

My name is Detective Anderson, attached to the homicide department. And when I mean homicide, I mean weird things. All kinds of weird things. Murders and suicides. Some too gross to describe, others too disturbing for me until this very day. But above all, nothing compares to the weirdest case I happened to investigate some months back...

It all started when a mysterious murder took place in BonoVille. A singer by the name of Jimmy was apparently murdered by an iron thrown from an apartment which struck his head. Local police suspected foul play and immediately called for me to investigate the culprit behind the murder. I was paired off with another F.B.I. agent whose behaviour could change from serious to childish.

Our first stop was in MIAMI, but obviously there was no one suspected of homicide. After walking aimlessly for a while, we came to a place WHERE THE STREETS HAVE NO NAME. It was hard to ask for directions for the people there simply had no idea what we were asking. We walked further and saw a girl on the street. She was obviously attracted to my looks and flung herself at me. "HOLD ME, THRILL ME, KISS ME, KILL ME!" was all she said.

Convinced that she was insane, I released myself from her bonds. "DO YOU FEEL LOVED?" was the next thing she asked. "No" was my answer and she quickly asked me what she wear would make her more attractive. So truthfully, I answered, "IF YOU WEAR THAT VELVET DRESS" and pointed at that specific dress in the shop nearby. She went wild with delight and told us two to wait outside the shop while she went in and bought the dress. Taking advantage while she was inside, we hurriedly left and when she came out, we were both GONE.

The second stop was at the PLAYBOY MANSION owned by a millionaire named MOFO. We suspected he killed Jimmy out of rivalry but he denied everything. However, I continued to rain him with questions and I could see that he was getting genuinely afraid. At that time, my partner started singing sappy love songs. "PLEASE stop it!" I snarled.

It was then that MOFO decided to make a clean break for it. "Let's get DISCOTHEQUE!" I said to my partner and we chased after MOFO. While we were running, I noticed strangely that my partner kept on STARING AT THE SUN. After a brief chase, we caught up with him. It was then that MOFO and I got mistakenly handcuffed by my partner. I was furious but this time I spoke to him in a nice manner. "Ed, I know I can't solve this case WITH OR WITHOUT YOU, but PLEASE stop being so childish!" MOFO kept insisting he was innocent but we handcuffed and shoved him into the back of the car anyway. It has never occured to me that I STILL HAVEN'T FOUND WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR - a wife, no thanks to my bad temper. Earlier, I told my partner to shut his mouth again when he told me to BULLET THE BLUE SKY.

It was nearly TWILIGHT when we reached BonoVille to hand over the suspect to the law. A mass gathering was held in honor of the dead singer. The police decided to let MOFO take a last look at Jimmy's face before he was led to the execution ground. Still shouting, MOFO was dragged to Jimmy's coffin and without warning, MOFO cried out "WAKE UP DEAD MAN!". An officer there said, "IN THE NAME OF LOVE for God, shut up!!" before hitting his bald head. From the looks of it, it was certainly MOFO's LAST NIGHT ON EARTH. "IF GOD WILL SEND HIS ANGELS", I murmured softly to myself.

But what happened next took everyone by complete surprise; Jimmy stood up in his coffin and began singing one of his love songs. This scene was too much for most of them to stomach and many died of heart attack. It seems that the doctors made a mistake while checking for his pulses.

So the case was closed and MOFO declared innocent of homicide. As for me, I was lucky MOFO did not file a lawsuit against me and all in all, these weren't THE SWEETEST THINGS...

*In case you haven't figured out yet, words that are in UPPERCASE RED denote the title of U2's songs. Go figure.

Trivia

• Paragraph 1 didn't exist in the book; it was written specifically for this post to give the narrating character a more subtle introduction.

• When the stupid printers got my story published in the magazine, they somehow decided to change "U2" into "US" probably because they never heard of Bono & gang or the printer guys were just plain stupid.

• Bono is the lead singer for U2, hence the term "BonoVille"

• The first three lines of Paragraph 6 (until Line 3) was originally left out by the stupid printer guys. It made its way into this 6th anniversary blog commemoration here.

• This story was inspired by an earlier article whereby the author used all the names of cigarette brands to create a wonderfully, humorous story. The rest is history.

• The names Jimmy and Ed do not refer to anyone in real-life when I wrote this.

• No one so far has been smart enough to approach me and exclaim to me that they realised all this while the uppercase red words are actually famous U2 songs.

• MOFO means "Motherf--" in short term, only realised lately. However, the author had no evil intentions when he composed this brilliant story.

• This story was given a humble honor at the 1999 annual prize awards ceremony amongst other achievements.
  

Excuse Me, Are You A Graphic Designer?

Some new guy just joined our company. Says he's from some reputable college of arts but his description leaves a lot to be desired, especially when he tells us that he doesn't know how to use even basic Adobe Illustrator and Adobe Photoshop, two softwares that are demanded by the market in today's standards of every Graphic Designer.

He even asked me today how to do layouts for the Swiss Military watch catalogue that I passed to him. I was originally in charge of the whole operation but due to increasing workload from unsympathetic idiotic colleagues, and with him being the new guy with nothing to work with at, I was handed down orders to pass a copy so that he could assist me in completing a partial work of the catalogue.

And he's supposed to be a graphic designer.

Now it's bothering me when he calls me every five minutes or so, asks me the crash-course ways to do layouts. I mean, layouts aren't something that can be taught - you need that creative spark and that independant thinking to get the job done.

And he's supposed to be a graphic designer.

He asks me questions regarding PhotoShop and Illustrator even though they are of the most basic understanding to any ordinary human (cut-and-paste for example) and he's kinda getting on my nerves. Ask him to transfer some hand drawings to Illustrator's vector format and he shakes his head indicating he does not have the slightest idea what to do or how to do it.

And he's supposed to be a... oh to hell with it! You get the drift.

I'm not saying that I'm far better than he is (my Illustrator skills are still somewhat lukewarm) but when you meet someone who claims to be a student of some famous art college studying industrial and graphic design, you should at least know what "a Photoshop" is. Not to mention the fact that he doesn't know PC as well.

Disclaimer : I am NOT an art student, and here I am teaching an ART student design, Photoshop, layouts and Illustrator.

Something is VERY wrong here, no shit.

Chronicles Of An Office Monster

It's been the second week since I've started working in my new working office environment so let me give you a full honest account of the major happenings around there - I love my job but the lady boss is a real slavedriver. I've scribbled a list depicting all the weird distasteful things that has been somehow managed to be inflict upon my working life so far by The Dragon Lady.

PERSONAL ACHIEVEMENT AWARDS OF THE DRAGON LADY

She set the new record for Foul Mouth-lympics

I have this nagging feeling that she somehow contracted a kind of weird disease during young that provokes her to spew profanities 24/7. How else can you explain the fact that those four-letter words that accompanies most of her speeches makes up her main daily language? Picture this: she spews profanities during the morning meetings, she repeats them over the phone (for no good reason), she threatens us with them during compulsory Saturday meetings, and whenever she feels like it. I mean, fine if you want to say them to yourself. It's none of my business what you tell yourself during your own free time. But it concerns me very much when you utter "shit" to me over the phone when you want to ask me to do some graphic art. Not professional. And what's with the constant act of trying to look super-cool during meetings by peppering your sentences with those f-words constantly?

She won the Gold Medal for being Uber Suspicious

Believe me when I tell you every square inch of the office space is littered full of CCTVs (go hang yourself if you don't know what the acronym stands for). Security is one thing, but I feel she's taking that Better To Be Safe Than Sorry act a tad bit too far. There's practically not a safe place for you anywhere in the office to get a breather. The very presence of the evil-looking tinted dome ceiling cameras itself strikes terror into the hearts of each employee. For those who love to pick at their noses often, this will mean very bad news to them as the camera is forever observing silently. I don't know about you but being distrustful of your employees and fixing those surveillance cameras all over the place will only result in churning out fearful workers paranoid of every move they make and giving them undeserved stress of knowing they are being watched everyday everywhere.

She graduated from the school of Pissing People Off

The longest-running employee record goes to a poor sod of 3 years slugging her life in the office. She basically acts as Dragon Lady's personal secretary, which is a bad thing since she's in the utmost front line of getting the brunt of her profanity attacks. Daily. Without fail. I found out, unsurprisingly, that 90% of the staff there were quite recent, on an average of 3-4 months. It doesn't make me bat an eyelid. The poor sales sods (two young executive girls, and quite pretty ones too) were only in this whole mess for about less than two months, but already on the verge of suffering from a nervous breakdown. I'm being honest here. No employee should ever be subjected to such mental torture by such incredulous individuals who think they're right and the world is wrong. I'm only in for such a short span of time but I'm already thinking up a million ways to strangle her whenever she pisses me off.

She received a Nobel Prize for discovering a New Level of Rudeness

A typical office meeting with her in it can cause even the toughest army commando guy to break down and go soft. She'd just boss her way around and act all high and mighty with a no-holds-barred attitude towards anyone who is not related to her (she has another two younger brothers working in the same office, one who is a sales person. That being so, everyone is smart enough to keep their mouths shut whenever both of them is present). The rudeness can be best explained through a series of examples - you're explaining to her regarding a particular job when she just cuts you off, stops listening to whatever you're trying to say and instead throws the paper at you and tells you to do it her way. I hate people throwing stuffs to me because it denotes disrecpectfulness. The second thing is just how she cuts into people's explanation halfway without thinking twice how mighty damn rude it was.

She won an Emmy Award for acting in "Super Bossy Nobody"

Once, she told me straight in the eye that I need to intercom her before I went up to see her. Sure, she's always so bossy and busy to the point that she does not have any time for us "office scums". I just smiled at her while telling myself over and over, "Yes, your Royal Ultimate Highness". What a bitch! Can somebody please tell me if any of our Chinese Medical halls or local bomohs stock those traditional powder-like form of concoctions that will make a human being lose their voice, grow slightly retarded and probably put on a few pounds. If you know any of these things, do give me a ring. I'll be more than happy to silence her once and for all eternity.

She raised the bar in standards for Ugly Body Tan

And Good Lord, what an ugly tan she has! She looks literally like a cross between a burnt sandwich and an over-roasted chicken. Such disturbing sights should be by right kept hidden away from the public eye, wrapped under countless layers of clothes. But instead she's basically flaunting it for everyone to see in the skimpiest blouses with the skinniest of straps. Don't even get me started on her choice of clothes and the color-matching disasters. Maybe that would explain the countless puddles of puke I see flooding the toilet bowls each time I pay a visit to the loo. (I take special anti-horrible ugly hag pills to combat the daily nausea, so I'm much or less immune).

She made the Mafia proud with her excellent Exploitation Tactics

To my understanding, the above fore mentioned personal secretary of the Dragon Lady has been undergoing 1001 Torture Lessons for three years. Period. Now as we all know it, in life and particularly when it comes to office life, the simple rule of thumb is that when your employer (in this case, Godzilla) starts giving you hell, you do the next best thing - throw in your resignation letter and tell him or her to kiss your ass goodbye. To cut a long explanation short, I did wonder why despite the countless verbal abuses shoved down her throat, never did she (Ms. Personal Secretary) once threatened to quit. Apparently, she borrowed this huge lump sum of money to finance her car, and in doing so, she was bound by some sort of unholy contract between her and her immediate Godzilla lady boss, that is, probably by slaving her ass until all the debts have been repaid. So in the time being, Ms. Gojira-san has her days full as she toys around with her secretary in any way she wishes, sometimes to the brink of suicide and manic depression. I won't rule the possibility of the two out. Al Capone would have been definitely pleased to have her as his daughter.

She has a black belt in Bad Social Etiquette

She just can't seem to have a simple "How is your work progress" conversation diplomatically. Every waking hour of her life (save except when she's meeting some high-standing Datuk or Tan Sri) is used to scream, yell and threaten of rolling heads with most of her employees. I still cannot fully comprehend until today why she just cannot be nice, smile and treat us to ice-cream once in a while. She's another of the type of employers who think that scolding the heck out of people equals good motivation in work. She should marry my fore-blogged Company Boss from Hell, since they're both such sweet darlings when it comes to screaming at their workers. And did I even mention about her horrible degrading tactics? The idiocy she spills out everytime about how smart people like her keep on asking questions to widen their knowledge base while the rest of us (so-called) stupid idiots keep our mouths shut. 2 arguments to this - Argument #1: When I or someone else keeps on asking her questions just to be more specific in our work and eliminate the chances of making mistakes, she blows her top instantly. Argument #2: When she asks people questions, most of them enlighten her in a spirit of goodwill, never screaming at her. Therefore, the root of this whole thing is why should we ask you when we know you'll get irritated somehow or the other? Idiotic irony isn't it?

She received her Honors in Sarcasm Studies

Sarcasm is to her what petrol is to a car - they're crucial and one party cannnot function without the other in it. All of her remarks are full of it, and there isn't a single conversation with her that does not contain any. It's depressing after awhile, listening to Gojira blaring her monotonous voice over and over every single day (except Sunday). It grows unbearable after the first few weeks, in which probably many who couldn't stomach the cruelty of her words have probably committed suicide by repeatedly trying to drown themselves in their coffee mugs. Maybe she's made some poor sod drink Paraquet and I won't even know it yet. Man this sucks.

She discovered the secret formula to Quickness In Every Crap Thing

It's always the same old thing - I want this fast, I want that now - without realising that a normal human can just do so much within a given specific amount of time. Late a few seconds to put the JPEG file into her network shared folder after she's put down the phone and you're looking at your own funeral being arranged in advance, mi amigo. Unfortunately, the reason and logic part is somewhat missing from her brain structure as I see her screaming over the Intercom towards any employee unfortunate enough not to accomplish the above task within a hundreth of a milisecond after she hangs up the phone.

She was awarded Most Insane Office Rules 2005 & Beyond

Every single rule and management style in the office is splashed with Communist Red. Just within the first week of employment I have been hearing about the most inane and ridiculous rules ever been uttered by any "so-called" self-respecting, all-knowing, 100%-right employer. It's not so much so rules that make sense like "No MSN chatting during office hours", but rather like "I demand every single one of you low-life organisms to reach me via the Intercom before you come knocking on my glass door". She just hates that. I have no idea why. Part of my brain reasons that she's doing this on purpose to elevate herself into some sort of "high and mighty" level caste. The other part tells me she's an idiot. And as the meetings droned on, I sensed some rules were just made up along the way to protect herself while alienating the rest. A good example would be an incident just days ago when one of the female sales personnel, unhappy with a certain supplier for not keeping to his critical promise, phoned him and taught him the meaning of Hell. Fine. Problem was, the same supplier was a good friend of Ms. Mafioso. Although in the right, the saleslady got an earful of four-lettered words with the excuse being all sales personnel had no right whatsoever to come into direct contact with any supplier. Thus, a new inane rule was made whenever she saw fit. As simple as that. But here's the real kicker - Even though all sales personnel are forbidden to come into any direct contact with the supplier, the only person exempted is... surprise surprise, Ms. Mafioso's own brother, who is also a sales person. Lovely rule, ain't it?

She was voted Number One in Making The Most Adversaries

Trust me; it's only because she has such power in her own family-run business that everyone is constantly pretending NOT to be pissed off with her (and her sleeping partner who happens to be the CEO. Literally sleeping partner since they're both living together unmarried and sharing the same bed at night. An unholy union if you ask me). But in reality, I can safely assure you all that once (and if) her empire were to crumble suddenly without anything left, a lot of them will be reaching for the nearest chainsaws and pitchforks and proceed to bestow upon the two a million times of death, with Dragon Lady's personal assistant leading the pack in jungle fatigues and army boots, toting a big-ass machinegun.

EPILOGUE
Yeah the environment's as depressing as those post-apocalyptic worlds of Mad Max or the Matrix, but perhaps getting hooked up to a machine or fighting in any battlefields crawling with Krauts isn't so bad.

Oktoberfest Was A Bust

Achtung! Just went to Oktoberfest last Saturday at 1-Utama with a few of my friends, after much of my constant persuasion and bitching since I've never had the chance to experience this beer fest. I'm a sucker for soaking up new cultures. The repeated advertisement in the papers promised German Weissbier for a gold RM1 coin (yep, the soon-to-be defunct national currency come December 7th), mouth-watering wieners, frankfurthers, and sauerkraut.

But looks can be deceiving indeed.

Instead of Weissbier, I got Foster's. Instead of a nice dinner of wieners and German beer, I had to settle for a meal of ramen noodles and cola. Instead of nice local barmaids in sexy Bavarian off-shoulder dresses, I got equally nice waitresses in that ramen shop (albeit not kimonos though). Instead of a rowdy bar fight involving lots of drunken, pissed-off Germans and locals alike, I had to draw out the nearest katana from beneath the counter to fend myself and slice my way through the thick crowds of rampaging Nihon-jins and locals while shouting "Banzai!!!".

Nah the last part was a joke. But should those kind of scenarios ever happen to me in real-life, I would seriously contemplate taking the nearest knife to defend myself. It's my life we're talking about here!

Anyway, back to the topic. Oktoberfest 1-Utama wasn't exactly what I had in mind. Not only were there insufficient tables and seats, the food was also in short supply. My friends and I were actually quite interested to savor the Deutsch cuisine spread out in front of us, but later changed our minds after seeing hordes of people suffocating that little area and knowing those who got to the tables would be occupying them longer than the Japanese in Malaya during World War II (even those who had already finished eating at the tables). We turned and left. The people in line for the wieners stretched miles anyway, so we guessed they'd be over long before we even reached the front line. Therefore, we missed the chance to listen to the live Bavarian band. Man that sucks.

About 30 meters from the event, we found ourselves a few sofas, sat down and, beer in hand, we all drank to the disastrous Oktoberfest. All but one girl gave away their redeemed Foster's and shunned even a drop of it. Okay so maybe I shouldn't be complaining so much since at least I got myself a bottle of beer for dirt-cheap RM1. But still I felt that the organizers should've stuck to their promise. Nevermind.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur - we went to the afore mentioned dinner, then a few split up, another guy took off, two more broke off from the remaining group until at long last, only two guys were the last ones standing. So with nothing to do, apart from looking at pretty gals passing by us, the both of us watched Jackie Chan's "The Myth". Somehow or the other it made me feel a bit weird inside to see a gracefully-aged Jackie hooking up with a hot Korean chick, probably young enough to be his daughter and has the hots for him.

Moral of the story : Avoid future Oktoberfests at shopping malls with insufficient amount of tables open to the public and be suspicious of Weissbiers going for RM1. Chicks dig guys who can fight mean and carry a badass sword, nevermind if they're slightly aged.

Nostalgia : Bidor

My car cruises at a comfortable travelling pace, passing by a row of pre-war shophouses in a sleepy semi-town area. Those shops entice me, with each of them having their own great history to tell. I love old shophouses. I'd give just about anything to spend a quiet night in one of them, looking out at the moonless sky, while the dim glow of the yellowish light bulb is the only source of light in the room. Barely moderate, but just enough to my own perfection. I like it that way. Someone slides in a cassette of the greatest romantic songs from the 60s, interrupting my train of thought, and immediately the unmistakable voice of Paul Anka comes out, belting out the love piece, Venus. And as his dreamy voice croons on, so does my car, with each passing second nearer to our destination.

The sun, peeking slyly from behind the clouds ever so occasionally, plays tricks on my eyes, conjuring up the greatest mix of landscapes by producing shadows of great mountains to eclipse my car or to cast the cotton-white clouds' shadows upon the flatlands. Paul Anka's song, still playing at this point, seems to be the perfect soundtrack for all this majestic beauty. I see the peaks of the hills and mountains alike in the distance, surrounded by lush invitating flora. I was only ten at that time, but I promised to scale them once I'm much older and having the chance to do so.

Soon, after another half an hour or so of travel time, we stop by the next town for a short break. At a glance, to me it looks just like any other quiet small town filled with pure nostalgia, but to my father it's different; he knows every town in Perak well. I reach for the door's handles, and upon opening it, a whole new world beckons me. The smell of the country air, the sound of the running river nearby. These are some of the things in life you realise that money won't be able to buy once it goes away forever.

Gently, my father takes me by the hand and tells me of the wonderful history of how the town started as a small Chinese settlement community during the early turn of the twentieth century. And I watched, with all the amazement a ten year-old could ever offer, my eyes following the antics of the shopkeepers and roadside traders while they milled with their daily routines. We then head for the same Chinese coffee shop housed in those ubiquitous pre-war shoplots that is the trademark of small, sleepy towns of Malaysia, with my mum and brother in tow. Each year as we make our journey up North, we never fail to stop by the shop and savour the char-siew paus, reputed to be quite famous, or so to me it seems.

One thing about these typical coffee shop houses which have such a special place in my heart is due to the surrounding environment and all that there is that I have grown to love from an early age. The off-white marble table tops, the sturdy wooden chairs, and the good old way of serving hot coffee in those millet-brown china cups complete with a plasticky orange stirring spoon.

And then, after a hearty meal of traditionally-brewed teh tarik and nescafe peng, it was time to hit the road once more and complete the last leg of the journey. This time however, the scenery takes an abrupt change from wide open spaces to heavily-wooded road paths, mostly rubber trees which would sometimes grow so tall they practically block out some of the sunlight at certain areas. Randomly, there would be a wooden Malay house situated in the middle of the rubber plantation. During this time I still remember I always kept myself busy looking out for Chinese and Malay women selling guavas, for it would mean that we were on the brink of reaching the outskirts of my beloved Bidor hometown itself.

But of course, along all old Malaysian roads, there are roadside plaques planted a click apart from each other that would ultimately indicate precisely how much further more one was from his or her intended destination. Numero uno would always be the much sought-after digit. Just try to picture it - a lonely road with some wild grass growing at the side, while in the background looms the distant green hill and beyond it, a blue sky dotted with clouds. Finally numero uno does come, and upon passing the Goodyear service building, we are officially in the borders of Bidor. The sight of the town famous for its chicken biscuits and egg-yolk crackers is a welcome sight indeed.

My father carefully negotiates the car along the familiar bend of the road, descends up the slight of a hill and steers right upon reaching the first junction. It is but a small junction, but yet deep in my heart I know this very same road leading right up to the housegates of my grandmother (now long passed on) holds much delightful precious memories. Her dog, a brown mongrel barks enthusiastically, knowing we were back for the Chinese New Year reunion dinner just like we did every year. And as always, my grandmother is ready to welcome her son back and to coo over her young little grandchildren.

I miss my grandmother.

After nearly a year or so of not seeing each other, no doubt there is a lot of catching up to do with my three cousins. We do exactly that, but the part whereby we all rush to the outside and soak up all the fun comes later - we still have another two more cousins awaiting. In time, it is their turn to arrive at the gates, and thus so the circle of cousinhood is complete. We waste no time to explore the vast fields, no-man's-lands, and every nook and cranny of Bidor, running off into the direction of the evening sun.

At this point, the camera will pan in a steady motion upwards. Above me, the same cotton-white clouds drift lazily along their charted courses in the blue sky, with the stillness of the quiet nostalgic town of Bidor occasionally punctuated with the laughter and giggles of six young children heading off for another adventure, possibly the nearby river creek or hiking across the grassy plains, glad for the day's blessings and wishing the best for tomorrow.

It's been ages since I last made a trip back, but everytime I look back upon this, a smile is etched on my face as I recall back the memories of Bidor.

Memoirs of a G.I. in Normandy

My name is Corporal Anderson, attached to Baker Company of the United States Army. Today is the 6th of June 1944, the day in which many had already anticipated with mixed feelings. Some had dreaded it, while others were looking forward to this invasion. As the coxswain steered the Higgins boat, a square cigar box-shaped personnel carrier towards its final destination, my last thoughts were with my family. My father had already been posted to North Africa to stop Rommel's Afrika Korps stationed there, while my brother was sent to the Pacific to fight the Japanese. It would be tragic if all three of us were to be killed in action.

My train of thought was interrupted by the coxswain telling us of the impending arrival to the beach, and possibly our doom. Someone near my side quipped that one day our great-grandchildren will read of our heroic feats. I returned a faint smile to him. The smell of burning wood was in the air. Each of us carried backpacks stuffed full of equipments crucial to our survival, and in addition to that, all of us wore combat vests, slung ammo harnesses and had a steel helmet on our heads, each adding to the weight. I had still a bit of time to say a last prayer, wishing for God's guiding hand to be upon my brother and father and to bring all three of us home safely. I gave my thanks to the Lord.

And the ramp finally fell, and for the first time ever, I saw the beach we were all trained to invade and secure away from the Germans, codenamed Omaha. For two gruelling years, my comrades and I trained for this moment, and now it was here. The beach, with marble-white sands, would have made quite a wonderful holiday paradise. But the tranquility was short-lived as a sudden burst of machinegun fire erupted from the cliffs and concrete bunkers littering Omaha, killing the first man in front. His head just popped open like a watermelon, splattering blood onto the men behind him. But they never had a chance to recover from the horror, for they too were cut down by the deadly hail of bullets where they stood. Others, including myself, discarded all proper troop disembarking procedures and went over the side.

With nearly eighty pounds of ammo and equipment strapped to my back, I sank down to the seafloor like a rock. The seawater hurt my eyes and in the temporary confusion, it was easy to get disoriented. Objects were all around me, and I recognised them by touch to be helmets, rifles, discarded equipment and occasionally, a drowned G.I. infantryman. I finally made it to the surface, struggling to catch my breath and I saw, to my horror, the landing craft on my left lowering the ramp, and immediately a storm of machinegun bullets rained in. No man was given time to jump.

My hands started to shake slightly. Not out of any inflicted disease known to Man, but rather by the thunderous sounds of the never-ending falling shells, raining death onto the men on the beach, and spreading pain and misery to those not killed by the enemy artillery but wounding them gravely in the process. I had just witnessed Death doing its job, and no one who has ever seen what a bullet or a mortar round could do to a human body can fully understand the horrors of war.

I was neither wounded nor injured, but the mortars had a different impact on my nerves. Even the M1-Garand which I'd been accustomised to carrying over these two years of training suddenly felt like deadweight in my hands. The waterlogged clothes wet from the channel water didn't help me in my struggle across the deadly beach either. Men on both sides of me seem to go down screaming or in some cases, just fall like a potato sack without nary a sound uttered. The latter must've been killed by bullets that have found their vital points. Some were, by chance, blown to pieces when a well-aimed shell struck them. They would be there one moment, and in a blinding flash of light, they were gone and all that remains is a sickening stew of steaming bones, flesh and lots of blood.

I found temporary refuge by a small rock, barely enough to provide full protection to my torso, but in that kind of scenario, I would have even welcomed a small bush as a ballistic deflector. There was already another G.I. cowering behind the same rock, but in that few moments of chaos I only thought of my own safety. When a mortar round exploded nearby, I pushed my face into the sand, and even then the ground shook so violently I accidentally swallowed some sand. Choking and coughing my eyes caught sight of the same fellow soldier beside me at the rock. He was as dead as could be, eyes wide open, and I immediately saw what caused his death - two small holes neatly puncturing his steel helmet. Blood was already flowing down his face, and whether he died from mortar shrapnel or otherwise is known only to God.

Moments after the shock had set in and the grim reality of questioning one's mortality had passed, the whole place seemed to come alive and angry once more when another round of artilleries started raining on the beach. I felt sorry for the poor chap. But there was no time to indulge in self-pity. Remembering that mortars hitting on rocks made a deadly combination, I regained my composure to my knees and started for the shingles once more, determined to make it through this hellish nightmare alive. But not before jettisoning some of the cargo stowed in my backpack. I told myself I would rather travel light and fight with limited ammo than be bogged down by it and make myself an easy target for the Germans high above the ground.

I did not want to die, but the chain of events that presented itself to me made me believe every bullet fired from the enemy's gun had my name inscribed on it. Or nearly, at least. By now the channel tide was catching up with my struggle, running red from all the blood spilled on this day. Severed limbs were floating freely amongst numerous dead bodies of men killed in the first wave. To say that nausea did not try to take over me at that point would have been a lie. It is made worse when you recognise some of the faces as your friends whom you've already known since the first day of boot camp, but now they all share a same thing in common - Death.

I shed a silent tear for them. There is this nagging feeling that you are the only one left in this struggle, and when you go down, no one will hear your cries of help; the musky, coppery smell of blood being your only companion to the grave. With each step, more men fell, and I had anticipated every breath I took to be my last. God must have intended it not to be that way, for I made it across to the seawall safely, albeit slightly shaken. I huddled there with the rest of those lucky enough not to have meet their end. Maybe not yet. Just a few feet from where I stood moments earlier, another young soldier had his left arm severed and left thigh reduced to a bloody pulp by a shell. He was still alive, but was in great pain. A medic who tried to brave the bullets and drag the young boy's body to safety took a round to his head and was killed instantly.

God have mercy for us sinners in this hour of our death, I thought to myself, keeping my head clear of any would-be enemy snipers.

A man, presumably the captain, began shouting orders for a few sticks of bangalore torpedos. Several helmeted heads automatically turned to look at me. I found out why - by chance, back at the rock when I'd jettisonned most of my cargo, I had inadvertently kept the last stick of three issued bangalores, poking from my backpack like an awkward radio antennae as I ran across the killing beach. But we still needed at least two more to effectively blast an opening through the barb wires. Everyone fell silent and no one volunteered until the captain grew impatient and picked a few from us. Since I provided the first, I was exempted. All eyes were fixed on the two as they scurried across the sands to retrieve a stick each.

After what seemed like an eternity, both men came back unscathed. We grabbed the bangalores greedily like a hungry man snatching at a morsel of bread. I helped pass it to the rest and assumed back my proning position. While awaiting the men to fix and fuse up the charge, I had nothing to do but wait for the explosion to happen. There was a dead G.I. slumped a few feet from me, and I could see that his combat boots were dry and untouched by the channel's water. It was pretty easy to come to that conclusion since his feet were facing me. I took his boots and changed my socks to dry, warm ones, delighted that the size of the footwear was a comfortable fit.

Having no tanks and armour of any type on land made things worse. We were like sitting ducks in this dreadful scenario and the heavy armours, which could have been a welcome sight to any shell-shocked infantryman, was instead mostly floundering in the channel. Those pitiful few which made it up the beach front was immediately put out of action by the shells, with the crew trapped inside the burning tanks. The smell of acrid burnt flesh permeated the nostrils.

"Take cover, fire in the hole!" a voice rang out, followed by several others echoing that statement. It meant one thing - get your ass real low unless you want to be blown away by the bangalore shrapnels. God it was terrifying. It lasted nearly a whole minute, those explosions. But once the smoke cleared we saw a perfect path paved in front of us. With cries and rallying shouts, each man gathered his weapon and set across once more. I did the same. Some of them died immediately from random bullets shot from hidden sources just as they traversed over the shingle. These are the ones who would never live to see another sunset nor go home to their loved ones again. Those poor bastards.

END OF PART 01

An original fictional war memoir by JDream Anderson-Smith. Copyright 2005.

Guyver : The Bio-Boosted Armor

Guyver: The Bio-Boosted Armour is probably my biggest anime affection since Macross. With a great storyline, interesting characters and tons of violence (and gore), this makes for a great viewing on lazy Saturday afternoons. I used to have almost the whole collection of the manga series, but was unfortunately ripped off by some evil skinny bunny-toothed bastard and his rotund accomplice during my high school years when I lent it to them in a goodwill spirit. And now ever since then, I've been looking all over for reprints of this excellent manga.

The sad thing is, no comic publishing house seems to want to get them reissued once more. The even sadder thing is, the anime series only ran for a total of twelve episodes before being cancelled. The saddest thing is, the animation quality from episode six onwards took a spiralling turn to the bowels of sucky-crap hell due to the sudden change of animators and illustrators. The feeling was likened to eating great-tasting potato chips for all this while, and then suddenly some gruffy old fart takes over the chip-processing plant, abolishes the present workers, eliminates the recipe and sets about making his own taste of bland chips. Shit.

Come 2005, sources in Japan announced that they've decided to revive this old series. The better thing is, it won't continue from where it left but instead the whole series will be given a new fresh start. Finally, the best thing is it will stick more to the manga than the original 80s counterpart. Well, sort of. Of course, I hoped that with the release of this new revamped version, maybe some comic house would take notice of it and start to reprint the entire forgotten manga books to cash in at the moment. MPH 1-Utama stocks some pretty good eigo versions of Guyver (with glossy covers), but being graphic novels, the price that comes with it is pretty astronomical as well. Plus, the volumes are kinda incomplete.

One of the things which I've often pondered in the series is how nonchalantly those bad guys in nondescript black suits and their jumpsuited goon counterparts just shred apart their expensive clothings. I mean, come on, those are good business suits and uniforms we're talking about here. Chronos Corporation must be spending a bomb just to dress up their minions alone, as each time those guys transform into Zoanoids, they practically tear their clothes apart in order to do battle with the Guyver. Most die in the process but some survive to retreat back to the base in their original human form, buck naked. Wouldn't it be better if Chronos dressed them all in Spandex? That way, they can just be Zoanoids, and then when they assume humanly forms again, their clothes are still there, not to mention their decency. But the winning ratio of any standard Zoanoid over the Guyver is a mere 0.001%, so I guess that's probably one of the reasons why Chronos just gives them a one-time good Armani suit to rip.

Talking about Guyver reminds me of an incident. The other day while I was in a certain shopping megaplex with my friend, I came across the hobby shop displaying newly-issued Guyver action collectible figures. There was a Guyver 1, Guyver 3, ZX-Tole and Aptom Final Stage figure displayed alongside each other, enough to make any anime fan drool. Out of curiosity, I decided to go in and inquire about the price. If it was right, then I know what to get myself for Christmas this year. The pimply fat shop assistant was behind the counter, and when I inquired if the figures were based on the new anime, he just looked at me and wondered what the heck I was asking about. Not about the Guyver figures, mind you, but the WHOLE anime itself. "New Guyver series?", he said, his eyebrows narrowing. "No-lah, where got new one coming out? Only one series what", he continued and gave me this look as though I had green slime oozing out of my nose.

Shoot, and he's supposed to be working in a hobby shop whereby he needs to know all stuff relating to animes and action figures, I told myself, sighing at the same time.

Continuing on my journey, I decided to stop by the anime shop at the top floor before calling it a day. I wanted to inquire if the fore mentioned new series had already hit our shores, and if it had, how much it would cost. The guy there (slightly nerdy) gave me the same puzzled look. "Eh, new series? No-lah, where got. Those two Guyver DVDs over there were all they made, no more new one coming out-lah", he said while pointing to the above said DVDs. And his English was atrocious.

Crap, and he's working with an industry that IS supposed to keep abreast with the latest developments in anime pop-culture, I told myself in my heart, while giving him my best smile and nodding my head. I walked out of the shop, disappointed and shaking my head, and made a mental note NOT to get the series from that shop because the people in there are so totally ignorant!

Now I'm wondering if I should get that Guyver 1 action figure for Christmas, ignorant hobby shopkeeper be damned.

Leave No Man Behind: The Story of Black Hawk Down

Today marks the 12th anniversary of the failed attempt by US Army Rangers and Delta Operators to catch two top lieutenants of warlord Mohamed Farah Aidid in an attempt to quell the famine that was ravaging Somalia at that time and restore order to the stricken country.

About a hundred fifty Rangers and Delta Operators took part in the assault, which went horribly wrong, leading to the downing of two US Blackhawk helicopters and eighteen US soldier casualties, with about seventy-three wounded. The tally for the Somali dead scored past a thousand. The next morning after the ill-fated firefight, mobs of enraged Somalis dragged the corpses of dead American soldiers through the streets of Mogadishu, causing revulsion on the US homefront and prompting President Bill Clinton to call off the mission and withdraw all American servicemen from Somalia. Blackhawk pilot Mike Durant was, however, captured by the SNA militiamen and is the only survivor from the second Blackhawk crash site.

I've read the book, but not before watching the movie of the same name. And believe me when I tell you that not everything you see in the movie is based upon the book. Listed down are a few of the discrepancies that I find slightly not to my liking (might be yours too, I dunno. Just read the book for goodness' sake!)

Discrepancy 01: Sgt. Hoot and Sgt. Sanderson never existed
It's true. Read the book. The above two Delta operators are purely fictional, created for the movie. From what information I could gather, "Hoot" (Eric Bana) was based upon Sgt. Norm Hooten with the cool attitude from Sgt. Macejunas while "Sgt. Sanderson" (William Fitchner) is a mixture of Sgt. Rierson's leadership and Sgt. Paul Howe's anger mismanagement.

Discrepancy 02: Neither did Specialist John Grimes
Another fictional character created to fill in what was actually Specialist John Stebbins the Ranger company clerk, the avid coffee drinker seen offering a cup of Joe to Sgt. Sanderson in the movie. It seems that Stebbins had a problem with the law after the Battle of Mogadishu and I guess the producers didn't want to use his name due to legal reasons I know why of but I won't state here.

Discrepancy 03: Gary Gordon is NOT a blonde
He was a brunette, as was Randy Shughart. Actual pictures from the Net and books show this fact. In the movie however, only Randy was shown to be a brunette while Gary was, well, blonde-haired. However, Randy's character description in the movie still had a vital flaw - the REAL Randy had grey hair around the sides of his head.

Discrepancy 04: Where's Earl Fillmore?
The short, stocky Delta operator who died from a single random bullet to his head, was nowhere to be seen in the movie. In the book, the Americans had to carry his body on a stretcher after he was killed in action, and was moved from place to place until finally they all found temporary refuge in a vacant compound. I often wonder what prompted the producers to leave this part out of the movie itself.

Discrepancy 05: The recoil-rifle technical scene
The scene where the Skinnies are firing their truck-mounted cannon into the Americans' hiding enclavement and subsequently a few of the Rangers led by Delta operator Hooten are seen sneaking behind the Somalis with the aid of NVGs is pure fictional. It never happened. The Rangers and D-boys were so pinned down at the compound they had to take preventive measures from being overrun, let alone venturing out in a short but extremely daring mission. In fact, none of them even brought their NVGs along in the first place.

Discrepancy 06: The crew of Super Six-Four
Although most of the dragged bodies in real-life television shown on CNN were from the second Blackhawk crash site, there was no potrayal of any of the crew members of Super Six-Four in the movie. Given the lives lost around the second Blackhawk crash site, I feel it would only be appropriate to show and acknowledge the men.

Discrepancy 07: Randy and Gordy's ground insert
When Master Sgt. Gary Gordon and Sgt. Randy Shughart's call for the ground insert to protect Super Six-Four was finally approved, we see the both of them hopping out of the hovering helo over a clearing that was probably as big as a football field. In truth, they had to manage a narrow insert as the streets of Mogadishu were kinda crampy. They then had to fight their way across a few blocks of tin shacks and grimy shanties to get to Durant's crash site.

Discrepancy 08: Randy Shughart's last phone call
In the scene where Randy makes a final phone call to his wife back at the States, it shows his call being transferred to the voice recorder and he hangs up just as his wife Stephanie was to answer the call. The time looked around some 1500 to 1700 hours US Time (note the grocery bags carried in Stephanie's arms). Trouble is, Somalia is way East of the US, and logically at that time (15:32 hrs Somalia time) it would have still been night time in the United States.

Discrepancy 09: Leave no man behind
In the movie, we see a beaten-up and exhausted Mike Durant being held captive by the Skinnies and interrogated. Moments later, an AH-60 Little Bird roars overhead the city and broadcasts this message "Mike Durant, we will not leave without you". This did happen in real life, but not on the day of the battle itself, which was Sunday. The people back at the JOC only found out he was still alive much later and the broadcast was only made the following day.

Discrepancy 10: The missing Little Bird helos
When night finally fell and the men of Task Force Ranger were trapped in the above mentioned compound, we hear nothing. Quietness. The silence of the night. In actual fact on that same night, those Little Bird helicopters were continuously doing runs and giving much-needed support for the ground elements, raining brass shells onto the tin roofs each time they did (as taken from the book) while waiting for the Malaysian and Pakistani APCs to arrive.

SOURCES
Black Hawk Down: A Story Of Modern War by Mark Bowden

In The Company Of Heroes by Michael J. Durant & Steven Hartov. Foreword by Mark Bowden

The Battle Of Mogadishu edited by Matt Eversmann and Dan Schilling

Losing Mogadishu: Testing US Policy In Somalia by Jonathan Stevenson

Happy Independence Day !

(Originally posted at September 14th 2003)

It's almost a month after Independence Day but what the heck, I'm still gonna post this up:-

I seriously wonder what is with all this "Hari Merdeka" (Independence Day) thing; each year's the same old stuff. Practically boring. To be frank, if you've seen one 31st August Independence celebration, you've seen it all.

Now I'm thinking what if Hari Merdeka were like the Independence Day (ID4) movie. You know, the one with Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum, about Earth being terrorised by evil aliens in giant flying saucers. Now if that sort of thing were to happen in Malaysia, it'll be really cool. Imagine this scenario :-

Today's the 31st of August, and it is Malaysia's day of independence from British monarchy. Every citizen is preparing to celebrate yet another day of dancing, speeches, floats et al. The time is 8.30 am, and all is going well. The crowd at the Dataran Merdeka is no less than ten thousand, with young and old alike of all races. It is a picture of harmony...

Suddenly, the first rays of the morning sun is blocked by something gigantic, which is so big that practically the whole of central Kuala Lumpur is cast in its shadow in less than a standard minute. No, it's no unnatural eclipse of the sun; it's something more sinister. The aliens have arrived, not in peace, but to make sure we go home in pieces.

Instictively, the people looked on with interest, wondering what would the visitors do next. Some were naturally excited, while others had this uneasy feeling that somehow the visitors don't exactly come in peace. Well, to be honest, they were half right; those enemy aliens didn't come in peace, and those puny humans would certainly go home in pieces, wrapped in body bags.

The biggest of them all, the mothership, began to hover above the KLCC Twin Towers, and from the ship's belly, a streak of light began to appear, and grew bigger as time passed.

Then suddenly, the ray of light grows by tenfold, and instantly, the North tower is blown to bits from floor to floor, starting from the highest deck. Kapow! People begin to panic and run aimlessly everywhere, screaming, while the smaller ships proceed with their task of destroying other buildings, and killing as many humans as they can afford to.

The Royal Malaysian Air Force is immediately called for an emergency scramble & hundreds of pilots strap into their fighter jets and start to taxi their planes into the air to engage enemy aircrafts.

Unfortunately, half of the planes, some as old as the Wright brothers themselves, didn't make it (Aww, too bad). The remaining ones were either shot down 10 kilometres from action or just dropped down due to lack of fuel. So, the score now is: Aliens-2 Malaysians-0

With nearly 99% of Kuala Lumpur destroyed, the aliens decide not to waste precious laser thasers and disappear into the clouds from where they first came from, followed by the mothership, ready to attack again next year on the same date. The people shake their fists in anger at those attackers.

The scene is a mess; floats destroyed, buildings blasted to rubble, and KLCC practically doesn't exist anymore. A sad day for Malaysia. But the people persevere, and within almost a year, most parts of KL is restored to their original glory.

And best of all, on the night of August 30th, the new KLCC Twin Tower is unveiled, and there is celebration all around, but when the clock struck 12 midnight, a familiar dull, flying saucer engine noise was heard once more again, after a year's gap. And like the year before, the mothership once again hovered directly over the newly-unveiled KLCC. (You can guess what happened next) :0)

EPILOGUE
I woke up with a sudden jolt, and looked out of my window. The buildings and houses all around me were still intact, must have been a dream, but when I reached for my alarm clock, it read; 0600 hrs 2nd Sept. 2003, Tuesday. Groan. It's another "exciting" day for work as usual.

Was praying for the mothership to hover above my company and blow it to bits when I brushed my teeth...

Increment Of Salary - August 2005

25th July 2005

YADDA YADDA FORWARDERS (M) SDN BHD
A SUBSIDIARY COMPANY OF SUPER STINGY FORWARDERS (M) SDN BHD

Dear Mr. / Mrs. / Ms. JDream Anderson-Smith,

We at YADDA YADDA FORWARDERS (M) SDN BHD are pleased to inform you of your increment in your monthly salary in view of rising petrol prices currently.

Therefore, as of the 1st of August 2005, your new salary will be RM3000.10 (Ringgit Malaysia Three Thousand and Ten Cents). As the Government has increased the price of petrol by ten cents per litre once more, we have decided to subject you to this 10-cents increment as a mark of gratitude for your service with us for this past year.

Should your performance appraisal be of satisfactory level upon review at the end of this year, you might be entitled for another 10-cents bonus increment. However, bear in mind that your performance will be monitored closely in these 5 remaining months to come and should the managers catch you not working your ass off like a dog, your eligibility for the 10-cent increase entitlement will be brought forward to June 2006.

We certainly do hope that with this 10 cents increase in your salary, you have been satisfied and we genuinely want to see it to be a good means of motivation to you in time to come.

Thank you.

Yours sincerely,

XXXX XXXXX XXX

(Managing Director)

YADDA YADDA FORWARDERS (M) SDN BHD

JALAN KEDEKUT 5, MENARA TANGKAI JERING
54321 KUALA LUMPUR, MALAYSIA

Kindergarten Blues

I remember when I was studying in elementary school (otherwise known as "kindergarten" here), I used to dread major events in which all the parents would attend and watch their offsprings put on embarassing performances against their will (all of the time).

God I hate those things, I tell ya.

Even from an early age, whereby most (not all) young tykes would still have monotonous & robotic thinkings, I was already light-years ahead of them in terms of maturity, sensing what was going around the kindergarten.

Needless to say, I was always the rebellious one, thwarting nearly all of their attempts to program my mind with communism and mindless obedience; I would not be brainwashed.

But none compares to the annual concerts and what-shits we were forced to put on for the sake of entertainment. Then the parents would all go "Aww" over their children's cutesy acts and blind them with repeated camera flashes. Sorry to say this but I don't believe in all your Communist-like ideology crap.

I recalled a year (could be 1987, I forgot) when our kindergarten suddenly decided to get cute and drafted out a plan for the kids to sing a few hootenanny songs while carrying a single cardboard with a letter affixed on it to form a single, complete word when joined with the rest. No doubt I hated the sick idea right from the start, but being young and powerless, I had to succumb to their vile wishes. As if being paraded on stage like an animal wasn't insulting enough, our teachers made it compulsory for everyone of us to wear heavy make-up, including those with two meatballs and a sausage.

Imagine my horror when the teacher came over, bound me to the chair and proceeded to apply lipstick. It was extra-red in color - all the more to make me stand out like an idiot onstage. What are they trying to teach us? That it's perfectly acceptable for boys to wear makeup and look gay? Trying to fight back and resist was futile as the leather straps were too thick and strong for a boy my age and size.

After almost an hour of thrashing and finicking, the evil deed was done, and the whole group of us paraded to the stage and like mindless drones (except me), they sang and danced in the most revoltingly cute way possible, and I suspect they did this to solicit as many "Awws" from the audience as possible. Oh shit.

If I had a gun at that time, I'd have been so proud to hunt down the teacher who slapped lipstick, blusher and eye mascara on me and chamber a few rounds into her wrinkled body to serve as a warning to the other teachers of the fate awaiting them should they ever try to get cute with me.

Finally, after 3 dreadful hours tasting lipstick and sweating a storm onstage, it was finally over. But the damage was done, and nothing I do would ever reverse the shame put upon me (the others were still too childish and dimwitted to even feel molested and brutalized). Later on, when my parents were both taking my hands in tow, they stopped short to speak to the same teacher who slopped paint on me. My hands weren't free at that moment, or else I'd unleashed a series of kung-fu moves that would've made Bruce Lee's chop-socks look like something out of a Teletubby show.

Then we went for late supper, I got to drink Coke, and subsequently back at home I remembered getting sick in the middle of the night, vomitted a Niagara-ful of puke and missed class the day after. Must've been something in the lipstick that the wicked teacher applied in an effort to try and kill me, but luckily I survived to tell this traumatizing tale.

Asshole Auntie & Co. : The Gripping Story

I was driving along the usual Old Klang Road stretch today when the most inane thing happened - I got tailgated and stalked by 3 wrinkled aunties in a puny white Kancil. The whole fracas unfolded after I had passed by the infamous dastardly Intec College traffic light. The stupid driver in front of me was going slow, so I overtook him, taking to my right after a truck. And behind me was none other than Asshole Auntie, piloting her Kancil at Negative 10 KM/PH, so much so that it resulted in a gap of more than 5 meters for me to safely overtake without causing any accidents.

But out of the blue, Asshole Auntie somehow decided that what I just did was dangerous, utterly unjustified, and sort of degraded the whole wide world's assload of similar auntie drivers with super-asshole driving skills. She blew the car horn. Not that it mattered to me though, as I knew I overtook in the most courteous way possible instead of trying to wedge my way in between 2 centimeters' worth of gap.

Glancing back through my rear mirror, I saw Passenger Auntie helping herself to the Kancil's horn, with Backseat Auntie cheering her on, as though that would automatically make me stop my car, get out and kiss her feet while repeatedly begging for forgiveness. That small act of defiance made her smile, so I assumed she got a kick out of it or something like that.

Bitch.

I decided to let matters go, as I wasn't too bothered by those three middle-aged women's childish antics. I thought they'd give it a rest too. I decided to play the good gentleman. But nooo, Asshole Auntie & Co. weren't done pissing me off yet - she deliberately accelerated and catched up alongside me on the right, whereby Passenger Auntie and Backseat Auntie both made jeering signs at me. Not really that obscene but still enough to get on any nice young man's nerves.

That was when I totally lost it. Screw the good manners. Screw the road etiquettes. I returned the "Get-lost-you-asshole" sign, using my fingers creatively before swerving my Kancil to the right lane in the most dangerous manner you could think of. At that point, I had really hoped it'd give Asshole Auntie the fright of her life. And probably if I could add in a dollar or two, I would have loved to see her brake frantically, jamming her feet all the way to the bottom, and then by some luck have her car to flip over and burst into flames instaneously. Even if the flaming ball moment didn't happen, I had a lighter stashed in my car dashboard and I would have been so proud to assist.

Super bitch.

As expected, the desired chain of events didn't materialise, and Asshole Auntie promptly steered her car into Mid-Valley, probably still reeling from the unexpected shock that a nice young gentleman actually had the balls to fight back. Still driving, I mentally hoped she'd get a seizure and keel over soon, preferably in front of a big crowd and no one knows enough CPR to save her ass.

Damn those wrinkled Ah Soh drivers. They should all be herded up and shot.

The Insane Octopus Love Story

Originally posted on September 27th 2003

Real, heartbreaking love stories are hard to come by, and harder to resist from not reading it :-

I had the chance of bumping into my love interest (I'm sure you people know what I'm referring to, right?) the other day at Bandar Sunway. I saw her in front of a car workshop, looking ever so beautiful. I'd fallen in love with her at first sight some years back. I approached her slowly, my heart starting to beat furiously and my palms were getting sweaty. She was a work of art, and I admired at how GOD had infused the "intelligent design" into her. What a masterpiece!

She was there, and I went up to her and began to whisper sweet nothings to her, but as expected, she did not respond to me. Aah, how painful it is not to be able to hear her sweet, soothing voice. Yet, I stood there, admiring her slender body. How I wished she was mine, but I knew that if I had her, (and since I came from a not so well-to-do background) I wouldn't be able to afford her meals much each time we went out for a drive. And I knew that even if I did have her in my life, each time we were to go out together, she'd be turning other guys' heads and they too would have wished that they had her. The chance of her getting lost, stolen by another guy was too great, and I promised myself that if I got her, I'd protect her with all my life.

The simple truth was that I knew right from the start I set my eyes upon her, she was THE ONE I was looking for all this while; there would be no other of her kind that would be as beautiful and as graceful like her. The rest of them buggers back at church already knew the big secret that I liked her; the beans were spilled some months back, ever since I knew how to drive. And they'd constantly tease me over the issue, but I want to tell you people one thing, and I'm not afraid to admit it; I REALLY LIKE HER A LOT.

Yet the financial barrier remains the main culprit; I just simply did not have enough hard cold cash to support her, let alone get her into my life. The only decent thing left to do was to stand far away and admire her from a distance, and dream of her presence every day; how I'd love to feel her in my hands and to show her off as a trophy to my church friends, who'd be green with envy. :0)

The happy moment I was enjoying with her came to a sudden halt when a man came out of nowhere, and began to stare at me with the eyes that seem to say, "Hey! She's mine. Don't even try and think of stealing her, you hear me?" She belonged to him, as I could evidently see now. With that little-boy lost look in my eyes, I turned and took a few steps away from her, while the man got into my love interest - A Toyota Supra 3.0 Twin Turbo Engine DOHC - and slowly backed her from the parking lot into the road, and sped away immediately, kicking up some dirt towards me...

Aah, I loved that car very much (IT WAS A CAR, WHAT WERE YOU PEOPLE THINKING OF ?!!!); I'd fallen in love with her since the day I learned how to drive, and sad to say, I just can't afford to own her (which BTW, she's worth a clean RM138,000) and afford her petrol "mealtimes" (This car can take in a hell lot of petrol). And also that insecurity part when I'm driving her around town, they'd be people plotting to steal her away from me.

And most of my church friends know the big secret that I like a Toyota Supra anyway. That's cos I keep ranting and raving about that car each Sunday without fail. And driving her to church will seriously get my friends into my list of envious people, and well, that Supra 3.0 was in the workshop's parking lot that day when I saw it...

So, to all my friends out there who are reading this, never ever be afraid to love the car of your dreams. Never, ever let that dream die. Steal, kill, lie, cheat or do whatever that's necessary in order for you to own that car... ;0)

End.

Kill Your Sim: A Day-To-Day Guide To Being Your Own Grim Reaper

This is an old post

Recently replayed "The Sims" again, just for the sake of that nostalgic feeling and also to rebuild my dream house. But after awhile, when the construction was finished, it became a routine, where each day was just not having enuff to eat, not enuff sleep & stuff like that. To make matters worse, the Sims practically don't listen to what I command them to do.

So in the end, there wasn't enuff time for each of them (I'm running 4 individual's lives) like asking them to go swimming, build relationships etc.

But then a small voice began to say something inside my head...

"Kill them... kill them all." the voice seemed to say.

"What? Kill them all? But they're my Sims and I love them." I protested.

"Kill them... kill them all." the voice said again...

"Oh well okay, you're the boss..." And so I did. Kill them all, those useless Sims.

I killed the first Sim man by luring him to the BBQ machine outside the patio. Once there, I paused the game, surrounded him with extra flammable objects; i.e. kitchen cabinets et al, unpaused the game and let him rip. Needless to say, it's not easy to re-construct what you see on Extended Play, but after a few million tries, I finally got my Sim burning bright well into the nite.

Aah, burnt Sim just the way I like it...

Then I got the Sim woman to swim in the pool, along with a few other friends of hers, and as usual, I paused the game, but this time, I got rid of the ladders & after a few hours well into the night, the first irritating guest was ready to meet his Maker. Goodbye, don't forget to write from above...

After an agonising 5-6 Sim hours of swimming non-stop (it seems that Sims do not have upper body strength whatsoever to push themselves out of the water) they all started to drop like flies. There, 4 tombstones neatly arranged side-by-side along the edge of the swimming pool.

Now to get the kids...

I trapped the Sim boy in a wall partition and made him walk endlessly all over to his doom. When he tried to sleep, I woke him up, refusing him the luxury. My, what a sadist I am... (Evil laugh). Eventually, suffering from lack of sleep, hunger seeping in, and having soiled the place all over, he finally went to the great Sim Heaven somewhere in the sky... not wearing clean underwear. (Evil laugh)

Lastly, that Sim girl. I made a point not to let her suffer as much as the boy or the others before, so I decided to try out this trick that my friend supposedly said will work; wait 'til the school bus comes, deny her access to the bus, instead ask her to stand in front of the school bus, and when it moves... well, at least she won't suffer much.

But try as I might, the school bus just did not mow her down. (Why won't you die???), and after many unsuccessful tries, I decided not to let her die without suffering much. By now every nite, she'd go to each and every tombstone to mourn, so I decided to save her the trouble of having to mourn by simply selling each tombstone for a mere $5. I doubt they're worth that much by the way...

Finally I made the final choice of sealing her off in a partition just like the boy, but with a refrigerator for prolonged misery. I set the time to fastest and watched with glee how she'd chow each day into an ever-decreasing supply of food level...

She lasted 7 Sim days straight before deciding to quit the earth.

So that was that, "Kill Your Sim: A day-to-day guide to being your own Grim Reaper" excerpt from Extended Play (May 2003: 26/3/2003)

The "Support Original Pornographic CDs" Campaign

KOALA LUMPY: In view of the recent raids and police crackdowns on pirated CDs, DVDs, and pornographic discs, the National Censorship Board, after much discussion and brainstorming with the relevant authorities, has passed a new rule :-

Pornographic VCDs and DVDs are now made legal. This was the announcement made last Monday night during the 4am TV15 Nationwide news broadcast. According to the spokesperson in charge of "cutting out irrelevant material out of all movies", this move was proposed and legalised since the menace of pirated pornographic VCDs and DVDs continue to flourish, usually controlled by taiko barons and kingpins.

Therefore, in order to combat this grave situation, the government has decided that from this day onwards, all pornographic discs are to carry the Perakuan B certificate and also the infamously-pirated Original holographic sticker. With this in mind, the authorities concerned targets the pirated pornographic VCD and DVD scourge to be fully eliminated by the year 2080.

"Of course, the public has to play their part in not purchasing these pirated versions as well", the official spokesperson added. "This campaign to eradicate pirated pornographic discs will not succeed if everyone does not fully support it".

Also present at the launching of the "Support Original Porno Discs" campaign was the police Chief Inspector who wished to remain anonymous. He then proceeded to explain in detail the different kinds of "stars" for the original pornographic VCDs and DVDs that were currently in the market. Each "star" rated would subsequently affect the final cost of the CD's pricing and also the amount of content consumers get for their money's worth.

"1-Star means that the video will play until the part where they start kissing and grope each other. Once the undressing begins, at the point where the actress is about to reveal her goodies, the movie will be edited and the next scene that follows will be the part where the two (or more of them) have put their clothes back on and are now having a normal discussion while sitting on the sofa. Fixed pricing for each VCD is about RM9.90 while the DVD version goes for RM14.90"

"A 3-Star CD would not have the exciting and fun parts edited as compared to the earlier one. The difference here is that once the sensitive parts of the human body are exposed, they are immediately clothed digitally using the latest technology with the likes of Adobe PhotoShop and also Adobe After-Effects, a tool usually used to edit and manipulate videos. The audio would also be replaced with songs from the Disney collection, thus making this a wholesome show to be enjoyed by family members together. The VCD starts from as low as RM14.90 while the price of the DVD goes for RM19.90."

"Meanwhile, for the 5-Star product, the viewer is ensured maximum satisfaction as the censorship is not so harsh. The private parts of the actors and actresses would have Smiley faces painted digitally on them or in some cases, have advertisements blocking the offending parts of the anatomy. CDs in this category show the most skin of all. We see this as a great way of making money via advertising as well. For the audio, we've decided to incorporate the Dolby Sound System 5.1 with massive explosions, car crashes etc. Prices start at RM19.90 for a VCD and RM29.90 for a DVD."

In addition to that, we at the Moon Newspaper also interviewed a few people to gauge their reactions. Some ranged from excessively happy while others, (especially housewives) were infuriated at this "legal" movement. A few showed stoned expressions. We assumed they were aliens from outer space. Here's what the few interviewed had to say to this :-

Ah Kow, 22, Student - Aisey man. Last time we all used to buy straight direct from pasar malam one la. That one 10 Ringgit for the VCD, summore see all one, no censored! Wah lau, now they make it legal, cut all the nice parts, and summore charge us so much ah? Hui sei lah!

Ali, 26, Manager - Ehh, what is this? This kind of things shouldn't be allowed! No no. We don't need it, especially now in the age of Bittorrent, where you can get uncensored porn for free. Alamak, nak censor lagi nak caj mahal. Ni tak bermoral ni..."

Muthu, 37, Restaurant Owner - Dei, apalah ni? I don't want this 'original' things to be in my household. Waste of money only. Why buy original when you can borrow and burn a copy from your friends? It doesn't make good sense to buy at all.

It seems that most of the public were against the movement, claiming that they were paying money for censored products, while some were asking if there were any higher than 5-Stars being offered with the promise of complete exposure. It seems that they would not mind paying more to see the actors and actresses bare all, rather than paying less and be stuck with a worthless item.

The original pornographic CDs will be made available in all major music and video stores. As of press time, there are already more than 100 titles out in the market, with American, Japanese and other titles to choose from. However, to protect the anonymousness of the actors and actresses, we will not reveal any of the title names.

"We do think this niche will catch on later" the spokesperson was also quoted as saying while digging his nose.-SNN

The Ultraman Clichés : A Look Into Why His Zipper Is Visible & Other Mysteries

I have been watching Ultraman (as far as I can remember) since I was some small fry. Over the years of watching this overgrown superhero from space who battles mean rubbery monsters, a few illogics struck me. Therefore, I have compiled a list of the things I find strange about all Ultraman TV shows, hoping one day I will discover the truth behind these mysteries...

For an in-depth look at how my cousin Silent Assassin gives the answers to my conspiracy questions listed below, click here

Conspiracy #1 : You Can See His Bodysuit Zipper

The thing that breaks many the heart of a die-hard Ultraman fan upon learning the awful truth. The fact that the suspicious line running all the way down his back is clearly visible to all is the ultimate mother-of-all insults which turns off a lot of Ultraman fans. Add the hard-to-miss gloves and boots and well, there you have it; a perfect man-in-rubber-tights-and-plastic-helmet scenario, probably sweating his @$$ out filming every episode.

Conspiracy #2 : Tokyo Always Gets Targeted

It's a well-known and often-asked question; Why the heck is it always Tokyo that gets stomped to the ground, and why isn't it any other city in another foreign country? These questions have baffled many Ultraman fan for generations, as week after week another different species of monster emerges from its dark domain and starts stomping everything in sight. If it isn't Tokyo for the week then it's some other Nippon city like Kyoto, Yokohama or Osaka. Why not New York, Paris, or Berlin for a change? Is it because the monsters are racist and thus they hate destroying foreign cities?

Conspiracy #3 : Tokyo Is Rebuilt In A Week

Yet another conspiracy that continues to evade logic; The Japs must be some super-fast race with super-friggin' fast hands, 'cos here I see Tokyo being stomped to dust now, with every high-rise building and every skyscraper leveled, yet on the next Saturday at precisely 10.30 am I see the same Tokyo city in perfectly fine condition again, with nary a building out of place and not even a crack on a wall.

Conspiracy #4 : Why Rebuild When You Know It'll Be Back On Saturday?

It amazes me that the Japanese are even going to take the initiative to rebuild the whole city (not just a building) from scratch, when come Saturday morning all will be gone again in less than a standard minute. Given me, I'd just leave the city as it is after a massive monster stomp-fest for the next monster to stomp its heart out in another 6 days to come. You want to flatten our city? Go ahead, make it your own personal playground.

Conspiracy #5 : Hello, Anybody Home?

Usually in the first few minutes the monster has its field day tearing apart the apartments, the skyscrapers, people's bungalows and such. But notice carefully and you'll see that NOBODY is always in at the moment. Seriously speaking, the houses are always devoid of any human existence. The only rationale explanation that I can give is that the population has fled once again upon seeing the monster who is always punctual for its work at 10.30 am.

Conspiracy #6 : Talk About Low Cost Houses

While the monster smashes a house, notice that the walls do not break apart like as though it were made out of bricks and mortar; rather they splinter and occasionally blow up with traces of syrofoam and plywood. So what the hell is going on? Is it my eyes deceiving me or are those houses carved suspiciously out of cardboard and syrofoam and Ultraman plus the monster are actually two grown men in stinking rubber suits fighting on a stage set?

Conspiracy #7 : The Japanese Government Has Too Much Cash To Burn

Believe me when I tell you the Japanese government has too much cash to burn. When you see how the millions are poured into Tokyo city or [Insert Any Other Japanese City here], you'll be shaking your head in disbelief. To rebuild a monster-prone city is akin to throwing the money into a monsoon drain. The officials would have more entertainment by starting a bonfire and shoveling the money in.

Conspiracy #8 : The Monster Attack Team (MAT) Is Composed Of Morons

Ah yes, Japan's only last line of defence, and the nation's last hope... and it is comprised of morons who can't even tell their left hand from their right. These are the same bunch of morons who will be responsible to stop the monster's advances further inland. No wonder the monsters chose to attack Japan week after week. If I were a monster, Tokyo would be on top of my list too! Think of it; free human sushi, free Toyotas to flatten and those excellent Japanese girls to abduct en masse, and there's nothing the MAT can do with their puny weapons should Ultraman decide to do a no-show for the week, speaking of which...

Conspiracy #9 : The Weapons Used By The MAT Are Designed By Morons

No offence to the engineers who worked hard to design impressive-looking weapons for the MAT team, but personally, I think that those big guns, the dashing pistols and the futuristic planes that the team members have at their disposal are wasted. Big time. They may look big, shiny and impressive, but getting them to break a monster's fingernail is another problem. The same applies to their overly-modified cars; those junks with an occasional big laser turret affixed on top of them is practically useless. What happens every time is that one of the MAT members zap the monster with the turret (or gun, plane, whatever) and the resulting smoke and explosions that follow merely irritates the monster. No real harm done to the monster. In fact you could throw a brick at it and stand a better chance of killing it compared to the heavy weaponry featured. Is this what the government is spending the taxpayers' money on?

Conspiracy #10 : The Monsters Are Equally Dumb Morons

It has never occurred to the monsters en masse that if they appeared all 10 at once to battle Ultraman, they can be assured that Ultraman's @$$ would be kicked more times than a football would in its life span. Probably their brains aren't very developed (hence the mad flailing of hands and growls instead of proper monster language) or perhaps it's the fact that they have pig fat for muscles and a carrot stick for a brain. (Glances at monster fighting Ultraman). Nah, make that two carrot sticks.

Conspiracy #11 : Nobody Suspects Who Ultraman Really Is

Yet another piece of evidence suggesting the people that make up the MAT team aren't very bright individuals; whenever a monster appears from thin air and starts trashing Tokyo all over, they are all summoned to the battlefront. Then, when the team is busy firing their useless thaser guns at the monster, our hero quietly slips away to do the macarena dance in order to change into Ultraman. And while our hero engages the alien monster, the team looks on with awe but yet they never seem to notice that the main hero (now as Ultraman) is the only one missing, and when all is over and he appears before them, they ask him where he's gone to and he answers he had to answer the call of nature, upon which everybody believes and takes it without much questions asked. Once or twice might be forgivable, but EVERY episode?

Conspiracy #12 : The Voice-Over Dubbings Are Horrendous

If there were anything far stinkier than the lousy script, the lame acting and the clichéd fighting moves, it has got to be the voice-dubbings. Bloody hell irritating. This is noise pollution at its worst. The lines are corny, the pitch is squeaky-high like a rodent having sex, and the voice usually belongs to some bratty-looking boy who is light years away from hitting puberty, and oh, the voice sounds suspiciously girly-like. Before leaving, Ultraman should do us a favor and zap that boy (who usually only appears at the last few scenes) along with his over-the-top sexy mum with his Specium Ray. Only then will the safety of our ears be guaranteed. Erm... actually you can spare the sexy mum. We only want to see the little boy decimated.

Conspiracy #13 : The Population Doesn't Get Pissed-Off With The Destruction

Likewise, as Ultraman struggles to send the "Monster of the Week" to kingdom come, I'm sure in the process he (Ultraman) will knock over a few buildings, flatten a few houses and wreck some expensive sports cars. The pair do the tango for a few more jigs before Ultraman unleashes his "Super-T-light-that-decimates-everything-in-sight" combo. All's well after that and the big guy goes back to space. Fine with me, except that now Tokyo city is nothing more than a solid mass of smouldering bricks and twisted metal parts. Yet the people still smile and wave to Ultraman. No one is traumatised by the incident (I presume the people there are used to weekly monster incidents) nor are there anyone pissed with Ultraman for having something to do with destroying their houses and Mitsubishis as well. Nope, life is good. :p

Conspiracy #14 : Ultraman Only Fights At The Last Minute

Ultraman appears from the dust. First few minutes he gets trashed like mad. Both Ultraman and big scary rubber monster do the tango. Crush buildings. Flatten houses. No one complains. More tango. More houses and buildings vanish to dust. Beeper on Ultraman's chest starts to blink and emit weird sound. That's the signal to fight back. Left hook. Right hook. Monster spurts blood. Ultraman emits Specium Ray. Monster blows up into a million pieces. Ultraman flies away. End of story.

Conspiracy #15 : The Whole Thing Is A Big, Fake Set-Up Conspiracy

It doesn't take a genius to see that the whole damn thing is a big, fake set-up meant to trick pre-pubescent kids into believing that there is ACTUALLY a 130-foot superhero with salted duck eggs for eyes duking it out with a rubberized monster just a few countries away from his own. I mean come on, if Ultraman were to fight with some alien monster hell-bent on taking over Tokyo (for whatever reasons it has, I dunno) on a regular basis, shouldn't there we at least feel some earthquakes hitting our country generated by the dancing pair every Saturday morning?

Epilogue

So there you have it, the red-and-silver superhero who comes from space, battling different variety of monsters Saturdays after Saturdays, the staple diet of healthy television for those born in the 80s. Of course, much of Ultraman has remained unchanged, but personally I think it would be better if the producers start replacing those fake laser blow-ups and clean monster exploding deaths with severed limbs, bloody guts, vomit, and yes, lots of foul-language cursing between our Ultra hero and the monster. After all, with today's redundant violence from those wrestling and reality TV shows, Ultraman has to adapt in order to win back a larger fanbase too. :P Don't blame me, blame television :P

Episode III & The 1/2 : Revenge Of The Sikh

Ubi Wan Keloobi Singh clutched his lightsaber tightly; there was an unseen disturbance in the Force, and it was very near to where he was standing. Yet all around him, nothing alive was to be seen, and the only things "alive" were the orange lava, moving lazily along their pre-charted course. Stillness, it was almost like a tranquil dream...

Suddenly, out from nowhere, echoing off the hard slabs of slates that made up the cavern, a voice shouted out, "Ubi Wan, pyaar ho hooci hoot dhaat !!! Paji poo !!!" (don't ask me what that was).

It was Anandkin Singhwalker, hair long and disheveled. The Dork side of the Force had changed him completely from a Joodi to a Sikh. With a lightsaber that glowed an eerie blood red, he jumped down from a stone platform ten stories high above the ground, cape flailing in the wind like a Raggedy Ann doll.

"DUSSSSSHH !!!"

That was the sound of his feet landing onto the hard, cold slate floor of the cavern, miraculously surviving the jump without any signs of pain or fatigue. A typical BollyWood favourite.

"Dei Anandkin macha!!! Choobi hoot pyaar yala!!!" so said Ubi Wan (something about Anandkin my "friend" or "brother." The rest I dunno. Don't ask). To which Anandkin replied, "Hahahahaha... Macha?!! Kanni kootti bhai!!! Poodeh!!!" (I seriously dunno what this is also, save for the last word, which means "Get lost" :P).

"Dei!!! Pyaar choot bhota hai!!! Pooja kudi kucha poot!!!" was the reply (I think it means let’s talk back in normal talk that people can understand since there are no subtitles and besides, I’m running out of ideas of Punjabi-sounding words to write :P)

"OK tambi, you got it!!!" so said Anandkin Singhwalker. And the situation got even tenser now as the name-callings began :-

"Dei Anandkin lu pandi!!!" (pig)
"Dei Keloobi nik peiee!!!" (ghost)
"Naiee!!!" (dog)
"Sutte" (ass/butt)
"Kunji" (Erm... Male "thingy" :P)
"Pundek" (I think it’s the "female thing"... I think. Nevermind)
"[ Deleted Profanity ]"
"[ Deleted Profanity ]"
"[ Deleted Profanity ]"

Thus and so this shouting match went on for about ten minutes… until finally Ubi Keloobi said, "Dei, kita sudak habis itu kata-kata busuk mau panggil sama kita. Mau start itu lawan ka macha?". Anandkin agreed, "Wokeh, tambi, start!"

Anandkin Singhwalker was the first to activate his saber. "Pwisssh!!!" and a red beam of laser extending to about 1 meter in length appeared from the hilt of his torchlight. Ubi Keloobi did the same "Pwooosh!!!". His was equally as long, but it was blue instead of red. A stark contrast. A deadly duel. A clichéd BollyWood movie.

The two then lunged for each other’s hairy throats, sabers locked in target, with the deadly purpose of ending each other’s life, and BollyWood superstar career. This would be a fight many Sikhs and Punjabs would be talking about for generations to come while munching on kacang putih (white nuts).

"Skrittt!!! Snorrkk!!!! Pzeeee!!!! Zooop!!!" These sounds were heard when the two sabers met each other. Sparks flew occasionally, but due to the limited budget, only a few were allowed by the director as the pyrotechnics cost quite a bomb.

All of a sudden, due to misjudgment in Anandkin’s attack or Ubi Keloobi getting closer to becoming an old fart, the former Joodi Master’s red saber raked across Ubi Wan’s right arm, creating a cut two inches in length. Ubi Wan was furious; that was a brand new dhoti from Amma and Appa, and now they’ll be angry at him for ruining it before a week was up.

He shouted, "Dei Anandkin. Lu jangan main-main sama gua tau? Gua ni manyak marah nanti lu tau dei!!!"

Anandkin did not reply, but instead unleashed another barrage of saber attacks towards Ubi Keloobi Singh’s direction. Another cut was registered on the same arm, only a few inches higher than the first cut rendered. This time, he was real pissed, and pissed-off BollyWood men should not be messed with as they have big hairy chests, beer bellies and huge armpits.

"Dei Anandkin, last warning juga gua kasi lu… Lu jangan main-main sama gua tau??!!! Gua kasi pukul lu sama lu punya [censored]", Ubi Wan cried. "Gua tarak kisah. Lu mati itu lu munya pasal!!!" and swung his saber at Ubi’s throat, hoping to get a lucky strike.

It missed, and Ubi Wan managed to parry his blow with a "Super Bhai Punch". "DUUUSSSHHH!!!" The force of the punch sent Anandkin’s lightsaber flying away from the grip of his hand. He was now unarmed... and now possibly awaiting BollyWood-style death at the hands of his adversary.

"Dei macha. Nik choot pyaar kootti poo. Pooja hei kuch sadh waahe hoot!!!". That was Anandkin telling Ubi Wan to throw his saber down and fight the finishing battle like a man. Ubi Singh agreed. Now the both of them were fighting equal once more. Knuckle-to-knucle. Mano a mano. It began...

"DUSSSSHHH!!!" A blow landed onto Ubi Wan’s hairy chest.
"BISSSSHHH!!!" Anandkin's handsome face was given a right hook.
"BRRRUUKKK!!!" Ubi was generously offered a smack in the rib-cage.
"DORRRRKKK!!!" Ubi’s left leg smacked itself hard against Anandkin’s head.

The blow to the head was too much, and Anandkin fell down "PRRAAPPP!!!", concussed. "Macha… Gua skalang kasi lu satu lagi chance balik sama itu Joodi (Jedi for those who are still clueless). Lu mau ka tarak mau, hah?" Ubi’s message came loud and clear.

Almost immediately a bunch of Joodis dressed in the same outfits came running out of nowhere and started dancing behind Ubi Wan, while a group of Clonetroopers appeared out of nowhere and did the "Super Bhai Hoot Dance" behind Anandkin. Both Ubi and Anandkin started singing also simultaneously :-

"Dei pyaar. Mucha mucha pooji hei aaa..."
"Habba habba sandh dok heiiiiiii..."
"Hoota hoota kooji hai ee..."
"Habba habba pyaar dok heiii..."

And it went on, the singing, for 3 minutes or so. After the song ended, the Jedis and the Clonetroopers vanished as mysteriously as they had appeared. Ubi Wan then repeated the same question again as before (asking Anandkin to come back to the Joodis).

"IIIIILLLLEEEEEK!!!! POOODEHHH NIK PANDIIII!!!!" Anandkin resounded and threw a handful of sand into Ubi’s eyes, and blinded him partially. "PUUUNNNDEK!!!" cried Ubi Singh as he desperately rubbed his eyes to get rid of the offending sand (like the Clonetroopers and Joodis, the sand had mysteriously appeared out of nowhere too in this rocky, sandless area).

Taking advantage of his temporary blindness, Anandkin grabbed his former Joodi master by the waist, "BUUUUUKKK!!!" (the sound when he grabbed Ubi’s waist), and proceeded to pummel him with punches.

"DUUUSSSHHH!!! BIIISSSHHH!!!! DOOORRRKKK!!! BOOOSSSHHH!!! DOOSSSHHH!!!" The punches rained down repeatedly without mercy or even a reliever for a 5-minute commercial break.

Ubi was bleeding profusely from his head, and half sober (Why Anandkin didn’t retrieve his lightsaber to finish Ubi off is still a BollyWood mystery). With impending victory, Anandkin Singhwalker dragged his ex-master near to the edge of the boiling lava pit to throw him in, a favorite way to finish off the good guys made famous by generations of bad guys.

As Ubi’s body neared the pit of no return, suddenly his hand shot up and grabbed Anandkin’s throat. A simple move. A clichéd act. Yet useless. Weakened from the repeated blows to his head, lack of ghee in today's morning breakfast and too much blood loss, Ubi’s efforts were proving futile. With much ease, Anandkin released Ubi’s grip from his throat.

"Dei Anandkin macha. Kasi gua satu chance la..." No response. Pushes Ubi’s body even nearer to the edge of the pit. Ubi grew desperate, "Dei macha. Satu kali chance la dei!!!"

Still no response. By now, his life was literally hanging by a thread… from his dhoti that got entangled in some rock nearby, thus sparing him a few more moments of life.

"Dei macha… DEI!!! DEIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The thread broke...

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(To be continued in May 2005)

My Grudge Against "Ju-On : The Grudge"

It must be me or something, but what in the world is Sam Raimi getting himself involved in a movie like "Ju-On : The Grudge"?

Don't get me wrong. On a scale of 10, this movie still fares quite good. (Let's just say I'll give it a 6.5). But the sad bits about this movie were such as having to resort to using cheap shocks to scare the socks (hey that rhymes!) off the audience (I'm totally against these things), rehashed "haunted-houses" storyline, and the ever cliched' scary ghosts.

As usual just as I did with "Return Of The Jedi King", this Blog entry will be one heck of a darn long read, with a chance to ask questions, cinema idiots listed once again plus a bonus section thrown in this time - "JDream's Rules Of How To Survive In Horror Movies."

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CINEMA IDIOT SPOTTING
The whole affair started out innocently enough. Most of the seats in Sunway Pyramid were empty, thus reducing the chances of some inane, loud-mouthed auntie sitting next to me while she makes my life miserable with all her rantings and ravings concerning the movie.

However, things took a different turn yesterday; instead of inane, loud-mouthed aunties who tried to steal the limelight, it was a bunch of fully immature, half-mad, zero-brained college kids who took the centre stage. How, you ask? Answer : By screaming their sissy asses off with every little thing in Ju-On.

Oh my God I tell you. You would've found more peace in Iraq than last 5 minutes with those darn kids around you. [ Spoilers here : Viewer discretion is damn advised ] They screamed when the professor jumps down from his apartment floor, they screamed when the dark shadow of the woman-ghost appears, they screamed when the black cat jumps around like mad, they screamed when a pale, grey hand appears on screen, heck, they even screamed when the ghastly fingers suddenly appeared on Michelle-Gellar's blond hairs.

So you can imagine what a screaming competition inside Cinema 4 was. How I wished at that time the REAL Ju-On would just suddenly appear and take them all to her dark domain. Now that'll really be scary. Probably the whole audience'll give that Ju-On fella a standing ovation.

The girls were poor sissy sods, who can't even take in a bit of scaring without even wetting their pants. The guys were also quite the same; what's the use of having a body bigger than the Hulk when a simple little "scary face appears on screen" can make you all scream and start begging for your mummies?

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JDREAM'S SURVIVAL GUIDE TO HORROR MOVIES

• Never Be Alone : This has been shown over and over again in all horror movies, yet the (potential) victims never take a cue from them and they never learn. Whenever a strange sound is heard, they all love to open the doors or whatever that the noise is coming from behind and investigate, only to meet a bloody end.


• Do Not Investigate Alone : Related to the above, but is only necessary if the victim (also known otherwise as "fool") decides to play smarty-pants and go investigate alone. If the victim is smart, he or she will decide to run away from that place as fast as his or her ass, I mean legs can carry him / her. If you want to investigate, make sure you have the entire army following close behind you ready with assault rifles, night-vision goggles and Apache helicopters circling outside the house. This not only gives you human support and assurance, but at least if you DO die, someone's there to drag your half-chewed body out of that place.


• Don't Stay In Your Office Too Late : A very good reason to give to your boss why everyone shouldn't stay too late whenever he brings up the issue of you leaving for home early most of the time from office. Tell him that Ju-On loves to have overtime workers for its supper and that your boss' big fat ass is just the perfect meal on its menu for tonight.


• Be Well-Armed : Nothing is more important in all horror movies than being adequately armed to the toenail (apart from having enough brains). Since you are going to investigate anyway, please do make sure that at least you arm yourself with your dad's chainsaw or your great-granddaddy's prehistoric shotgun or even a nuclear warhead strapped to your body. Do whatever it takes to ensure that if Ju-On decides to taste your armpits, you have a powerful weapon at your disposal. Of course, it helps to actually HAVE ammo at hand. Having only the gun but no ammo is akin to having a Ferrari but no petrol inside the tank. However...


• Do Not Pick A Puny Weapon : Having a weapon is fine, but NOT if the weapon you have in hand is a measly plastic knife easily available from fast-food joints and expect to slice Ju-On in one clean cut. You might as well venture into the house with only a piece of A4 paper and hope Ju-On dies from all those papercuts you're gonna inflict on it.


• Always Stick Near The Lead Actors : If you've noticed, in the movies, the people who tend to stick close to the hero / heroine has a smaller chance of ending up on Ju-On's dinner plate, and increasing the likeliness of more glamourhood and lines to say. Of course, if you're one of the most important people in the film, you can just go anywhere at anytime without worrying about the ghost. You can even be unarmed 99% of the time and yet Ju-On will never get her chance to break even one of your fingernails. Ditto.


• Do Not Run Into Confined Spaces : I've seen many a times the impending victims trapped in claustrophobic areas run away unscathed on their first encounter with Ju-On, but then after that, instead of getting their asses to the main road, they run back to the deep, confined spaces of their house and lock themselves in with no weapon whatsoever. Real smart. This kind of behaviour warrants the "Stupidest Ass Of The Year" medal award. Hello? These are ghosts we're talking about here. How on Earth did u think that by plugging your house's toilet hole you are assured that they can't get in at any cost?



• If You See Dead People, Run! : Gee whiz, more people should prescribe glasses or something like that, but if you see a person walking exactly like how a reanimated dead body should be, isn't that a sign that tells you to get the hell out of that place immediately? Kindly refrain from calling the dead person's name. Sorry to say this but they're not interested on going out on dates with you anymore. Rather, they'll be more interested in finding out how your armpits taste like. For those already with glasses, get thicker ones...



• Before Peeking Inside, Throw In A Grenade : Make this a habit everytime before you open a door and peek in and before long, Ju-On will be considering changing her name to "Ju-On : The Grudge Against Everyone Except For Mr. Grenadier". It doesn't matter if a black cat or an old lady is on the other receiving end of the sliding door, just toss in a HE grenade, run for cover and grit your teeth as the grenade explodes in a sickening cacophony of fragmenting metal, crunching bones and bursting flesh. Of course, if you discover that it was an innocent little sod on the other side, you can always console yourself by telling yourself that it's always better to be them than you getting killed. And lastly...



• If All Else Fails, Call In An Airstrike : To save production costs and audience viewing time, upon learning that you are in a horror movie and you discover that you are not one of the main characters, reach out immediately for the phone and call the army to deliver its biggest, meanest air-to-surface bomb parcel for Ju-On. Nevermind that the neighbours are going to get killed by the cluster bombs exploding all over. In horror movies, there is no such thing as "Love Thy Neighbour"; instead, you better eliminate them lest they turn out to be Ju-Ons 2, 3 and 4.

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And now to everybody's favourite part (mine included since I can hurl the insults like nobody's business) :P

WHY DIDN'T IT HAPPEN THIS WAY? Q'S AND A'S ABOUT JU-ON

Q: Why didn't they all just assembled themselves together in a group and proceeded to the house, armed with sticks and beat the tobacco juice out of Ju-On and that irritating boy Toshio?

A: Well, consider this fact: if in the early 5 minutes of the show Ju-On is already half-dead, and by the next 5 minutes experienced her second death (talk about irony), the whole cinema'll be set ablaze by angry viewers who will go on a rampage and demand for a refund. All the rage concentrated inside the cinema will remain there and thus will turn Cinema 4 into a cursed place just like the house in Ju-On.

Q: Why didn't anyone summoned Ultraman or Godzilla to destroy the house by stomping on it? Nobody would have needed to die then.

A: Well, you have a point there. Japan has a wealth of superheroes like Super Kamen Masked Rider, Ultraman, Godzilla and the likes, and it's strange to see that during times of crisis not even a decent superhero comes to save them. If Ultraman were to just cross his arms and direct his death rays towards the offending house, you can bet that the movie will be over in 10 minutes and another rampage will take place outside Cinema 4.

Q: Why do people in horror movies all tend to be alone rather than stick together? Isn't being alone the primary formula for so many unfortunate sod's downfall?

A: Try explaining that to the scriptwriter and producer and see if you can talk enough sense into their thick skulls. Well, the best explanation I can give to you is that in all horror movies, being alone is a must, so that the ghost can have a field day picking off the poor souls one by one without much effort. Pronto.

Q: Say, isn't Sarah Michelle-Gellar "Buffy, The Vampire Slayer"? How come she looks so helpless all of a sudden? Where's her kick-ass actions?

A: Sarah isn't Buffy here; she plays Karen, a normal welfare officer. She does not have any of her magical "vampire-busting" powers here as opposed to the TV series. How did you even manage to buy tickets to this movie without realising it is "Ju-On : The Grudge"? Why? Do you have sexual fantasies with her? You sick bastard.

Q: I'm terrified of Ju-On until I dare not go home or even venture to the second floor upstairs to my bedroom. Images of her appearing from below the bedsheets or next to the closet door keep flashing in my head until now. What can I do?

A: You've been watching too many scary movies. There are no such things as ghosts or whatsoever supernatural undead. Take these pills, go home and take a rest. And oh, remember not to investigate some strange noise emitting from the attic above, bumping along with an eerie creep until it comes to a stop behind the closet door just right next to your bed. Don't worry, nothing fearful, rotting and murderous is hiding behind there, waiting to taste your armpits as you sleep at night...

* * * * * * * * * *

Epilogue

After the movie ended, I was dumbstruck for the second time (I was already struck dumb that Sunday by Ju-On at KLCC). Half of my brain was still assessing the damage done by Ju-On, while the remaining half was still wondering what the heck just happened in the last one and the half hours.

Still, it was quite OK for a ghostly supernatural movie, and as I pissed in the men's room, an eerie creep suddenly emitted, starting first from the ceiling above me, subsequently making its way to the cubicle just next to me, where it halted to a stop, and for a moment there, I thought I saw long, female hair and pale, rotting hands extending towards me...

The Kelisa Konspiracy

(Originally Posted On September 14th 2003)

This is a true incident which happened to one of my friends. It so happened one of my friends had one of those cute little Kelisas, sunburst yellow in color and had a black rooftop. This Kelisa car belonged to Jocelyn, a cute 20-year old gal with jet black hair. (Okay, let's not get too carried away...) :0)

Anyway, trouble (or rather, slight teasing) began when another of my friends (code-named Tau Foo Fa or Chinese Beancurd since he had such white skin) mistook a yellow Kelisa that passed by our car for Jo's car (She's the only gal in church with the car) but of course, by combining both logic and sense together, one would know obviously that there're a million of those cars on our Malaysian road, and you can't say for each car that looks like her car, you think that it was her car (Confusing statement here).

But matters aside, I began composing a list of the possible scenarios that I might encounter each time a yellow Kelisa zoomed by. Here are the scenarios (along with the level of insanity) :-

CASE 01

We're happily driving along a stretch of road when we see a yellow Kelisa pass by us on the opposite side of the trafic. "Hey, that's Jocelyn!" says my friend, when obviously it was not. Then almost immediately, another yellow Kelisa zooms from behind, overtaking my "Toyota Supra". "Hey, that's Jo again, but how did she manage to get to the other side of road so fast?" exclaims my friend. That second Kelisa wasn't piloted by my friend Jo either for your info.

Insanity Level : 1/5 (1 out of 5)

Final Verdict : Okay, can be forgiven for thinking that the yellow Kelisa was Jo, but the second Kelisa ???

CASE 02

We are happily driving along a stretch of road when a yellow Kelisa zooms past us. "Hey, that's Jo! (1st assumption when a yellow Kelisa is spotted) C'mon, let's speed up a little and catch up with 'her'". So we do, and when we overtake the car, he finds not Jocelyn but a big, hairy man inside the Kelisa (obviously too small for him, as his head is cramped against the roof.) "Omigosh! That's not Jo! That guy must have stolen Jo's car!" My friend panics and suffers from slight migraine.

Insanity Level : 2/5

Final Verdict : Thank God he didn't stop the guy's car & beat him up for "stealing" Jo's car.

CASE 03

This time, when we are "happily" driving along the same old stretch of road again, all Kelisas (regardless of color whether they're yellow or not) are "Jo" and my friend has his day shouting, "Hey, there's Jo, and there she is again, and 3 Jos all in a row behind us! Waaaaagh!" Starts tearing at hair, confused over which "Jo" is the real "Jo".

Insanity Level : 4/5

Final verdict : Starting to get scary, and hey, stop dirtying my Supra with your hair!

CASE 04

Totally freaked out over countless "Jocelyns", now every gal that looks like Jo is regarded as, well, Jo, by my friend. So you can imagine how many times he has to scream, confused over so many "Jos" in so many Kelisas. Strain is too much for him, finally goes kaput.

Insanity Level : 100/5

Final Verdict : I had to scribble in Level 100 since this is really scaring me out...

EPILOGUE

The above story was true to a certain extent, but mostly exaggerated (Like duh). So I would like to thank Jocelyn for letting me use her name as the test subject here (no hard feelings ya) and making a story out of nothing at all. Thanx Jo. :0)

Abbott & Costello In the 21st Century

[Originally Posted On June 16th 2004]


If you've enjoyed James Sherman's "Hu's On First", then read this - it's a cyber age spin on the forementioned "Hu's On First" sketch which (Abbott & Costello) has been found all over making its rounds via e-mail, chatrooms, fora, newsgroups, blogs and sites. However, since it deals with quite a lot of techie stuff (therefore with the technologically-challenged in mind), I will be including explanations in brackets whenever necessary to avoid confusion (for those so-mentioned technologically-challenged).

It was featured on the Star newspaper's In.Tech section on the 1st of April 2004, but tried as they might to identify the author, they failed. So if any of you readers out there have an idea, do drop them a line here.

Abbott and Costello In The 21st Century

[We take you now to the Super Duper Computer Store]

Abbott : Super Duper Computer Store. Can I help you?

Costello: Thanks. I'm setting up an office in my den, and I'm thinking about buying a computer.

Abbott : Mac? (Referring to a Macintosh PC).

Costello: No, the name's Lou.

Abbott : Your computer?

Costello: I don't own a computer. I want to buy one.

Abbott : Mac?

Costello: I told you, my name's Lou !

Abbott : What about Windows? (Referring to, of course, Microsoft Windows).

Costello: Why? Will it get stuffy in here?

Abbott : Do you want a computer with Windows?

Costello: I don't know. What will I see when I look in the windows?

Abbott : Wallpaper. (Referring to decorative picture a user can set on the computer screen).

Costello: Never mind the windows. I need a computer and software.

Abbott : Software for Windows?

Costello: No. On the computer! I need something I can use to write proposals, track expenses and run my business.What have you got?

Abbott : Office. (Microsoft Office).

Costello: Yeah, for my office. Can you recommend anything?

Abbott : I just did.

Costello: You just did what?

Abbott : Recommend something.

Costello: You recommended something?

Abbott : Yes.

Costello: For my office?

Abbott : Yes.

Costello: Okay, what did you recommend for my office?

Abbott : Office.

Costello: Yes, for my office!

Abbott : I recommended Office with Windows.

Costello: I already have an office and it has windows! Okay, let's just say I'm sitting at my computer and I want to type a proposal. What do I need?

Abbott : Word. (Microsoft Word, part of Microsoft Office).

Costello: What word?

Abbott : Word in Office.

Costello: The only word in "office" is "office".

Abbott : The Word in Office for Windows.

Costello: Which word in office for windows?

Abbott : The Word you get when you click the blue "W".

Costello: I'm going to click your blue W if you don't start with some straight answers. Okay forget that. Can I watch movies on the Internet?

Abbott : Yes, you want Real One. (A type of movie player software).

Costello: Maybe a real one, maybe a cartoon.What I watch is none of your business. Just tell me what I need!

Abbott : Real One.

Costello: If it's a long movie I also want to see reel 2, 3 & 4. Can I watch them?

Abbott : Of course.

Costello: Great. With what?

Abbott : Real One.

Costello: Okay, I'm at my computer and I want to watch a movie. What do I do?

Abbott : You click the blue "1".

Costello: I click the blue one what?

Abbott : The blue "1".

Costello: Is that different from the blue "W"?

Abbott : The blue "1" is Real One and the blue "W" is Word.

Costello: What word?

Abbott : The Word in Office for Windows.

Costello: But there are three words in "office for windows"!

Abbott : No, just one, but it's the most popular word in the world.

Costello: It is?

Abbott : Yes, but to be fair, there aren't many other words left. It pretty much wiped out all the other words out there.

Costello: And that word is the real one?

Abbott : Real One has nothing to do with Word. Real One isn't even part of Office.

Costello: Stop! Don't start that again. What about financial bookkeeping? Do you have anything I can track my money with?

Abbott : Money. (An obvious reference to Microsoft Money).

Costello: That's right. What do you have?

Abbott : Money.

Costello: I need money to track my money?

Abbott : It comes bundled with your computer.

Costello: What's bundled to my computer?

Abbott : Money.

Costello: Money comes with my computer?

Abbott : Yes. No extra charge.

Costello: I get a bundle of money with my computer? How much?

Abbott : One copy.

Costello: Isn't it illegal to copy money?

Abbott : Microsoft gave us a licence to copy Money.

Costello: They can give you a licence to copy money?

* * * * * * * * * *

Joke courtesy of In.Tech