Saturday, July 23, 2005

Of Petty Thieves and Death by Conviction

Don't you hate it when someone comes when you're not around and takes something from your table without asking beforehand, and then returns it to a position that's just slightly different from what you remembered? That's annoying. Imagine me going: "Oh I'm sorry, I seem to have deposited some semen in your vagina. Hope you don't mind" I am also desperately trying to figure out why kamikaze pilots wore helmets? I mean, wtf? That's also like getting a swab of alcohol prior to getting a lethal injection. Excuse me, he's getting a lethal injection, by which I assume is intended to kill the person, and he's getting swabbed? For what, any last minute infections? Also, for all the multi-tasking abilities women proclaim that they possess, how is it that they are so phenomenally rubbish at driving? I was at Kim Gary last night, and I saw this lady in a sort of van or another reverse right into the car behind her. For no apparent reason. She wasn't backing up for a parking space, so I guess in the midst of mentally juggling what to prepare for dinner and figuring out how the flux capacitor in a time travelling DeLorean works, she decided it would be cool to reverse her MPV towards the wrong direction of traffic. Wait, I'm not done ranting. Some lady read my magazine, and sure enough, she picked up a few grammatical errors I have made. In doing so, I have apparently derailed her from understanding what the article is all about. Lady, is a mother-fucking mis-placed S going to confuse you in any way? Do you audit for Simon Cowell? How is an extra S going to make your reading experience so unbearable to the point where your brain ceases to function? Oh, I'm sorry, guessing from your feedback, I suppose it never worked in the first place. I guess you just rolled off the production line without turning your engine on. The day you command a magazine, let me know, because as of this point, your opinions are as hollow as the space in your head.
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Friday, July 22, 2005

Of Horses and Divine Intervention

I'd like to think that I'm not a shallow fucktwat, and that how a person looks like on his/her blog is hardly a representation of that blogger's character. Seriously, who the fuck am I kidding, really? Let me ask you this then, if you were to be in the midst of plowing through this rather good read, and you eventually scroll down to a picture of a face which can only be described as an act of God on a cosmically bad day, you'd still think this person is anywhere as interesting as you first imagined him/her to be? I wouldn't. Okay, fine, that's not entirely true, but to those of you who's crying foul right now and sticking your middle finger up to your monitor this very moment, I apologize, for you are just another horseface. If you have the face of a horse, you have to realize that it's pre-destined, and you just have to deal with it. It's like a story, really. One day, God/Shiva/Buddha/whichever omnipotent being you subscribe to, whilst sitting on His magestic throne, was overseeing the production of all of His kind. "Ah, this child shall bear the gift of art" "Ah, this one shall be gifted with athletism" And then He reaches you. "Wah lao, this one ar? Skip you la, I'll just make the next one a genius or something" So you see, you don't fuck around with divine intervention. If you're a horse face, suck it up. I know the feeling, because I have the face of a horse too, which would explain the pathetic hit counts I'm getting on my blog. Thankfully, I have friends who are not horsefaces (or horsefeces, if you'd like), foremost of all, Joyce. Coincidentally, my friend also reads Joyce's blog, and now firmly believes that all Joyces are drunkard hippies who have a questionable fetish for small plastic ponies. So you see, even though you may not have the face of a horse, there's really no getting away from horses in the first place. Or in this case, ponies. Neeeeiiiigh.
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Sunday, July 17, 2005

Of DalNet and Cybersex

I was so smitten by this dude's article on distortedprism, I had to do it myself. When you're bored, you cybersex. Case in point: KinkyKel: Baby, I been havin a tough night so treat me nice aight? BritneySpears14: Aight. KinkyKel: Slip out of those pants baby, yeah. BritneySpears14: I slip out of my pants, just for you, KinkyKel. KinkyKel: Oh yeah, aight. Aight, I put on my robe and wizard hat. BritneySpears14: Oh, I like to play dress up. KinkyKel: Me too baby. BritneySpears14: I kiss you softly on your chest. KinkyKel: I cast Lvl 3 Eroticism. You turn into a real beautiful woman. BritneySpears14: Hey... KinkyKel: I meditate to regain my mana, before casting Lvl 8 Penis of the Infinite. BritneySpears14: Funny I still don't see it. KinkyKel: I spend my mana reserves to cast Mighty of the Beyondness. BritneySpears14: You are the worst cyber partner ever. This is ridiculous. KinkyKel: Don't f**k with me biznitch, I'm the mightiest sorcerer of the lands. KinkyKel: I steal yo soul and cast Lightning Lvl 1,000,000 Your body explodes into a fine bloody mist, because you are only a Lvl 2 Druid. BritneySpears14: Don't ever message me again you piece. KinkyKel: Robots are trying to drill my brain but my lightning shield inflicts DOA attack, leaving the robots as flaming piles of metal. KinkyKel: King Arthur congratulates me for destroying Dr. Robotnik's evil army of Robot Socialist Republics. The cold war ends. Reagan steals my accomplishments and makes like it was cause of him. KinkyKel: You still there baby? I think it's getting hard now. KinkyKel: Baby? I then tried it on a dude named Krish, but he didn't find it nearly as entertaining, and all I got were LOL after LOL. Frigid loser.
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Saturday, July 16, 2005

The One Where I Have No Idea What Title It Is I Should Use

Yesterday, my rear wiper went up again. Happy to have you back as a friend :) Oh, in case you didn't realize what happened, yes, I was contemplating on assigning you to my list of bitchy people I'll never speak to ever again. But that's ancient history. Anyhoo, busy week, so I'll blog whenever I can. Or not. Okay la, probably in a few days, when I actually do something and have something to blog about other than the fact that I work on weekends and I am secretly obsessing about becoming a porn star.
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Thursday, July 07, 2005

Protong Sama Dia

The recent debacle revolving around Proton is somewhat of a joke. The fledging 20-year-old company has been spoon-fed under the protective bosom of the goverment for so long, it's gone two decades without a spine. Harping on continual technology progression and innovation is meaningless when it is coupled with repeated usage of old vehicle molds and stiffling import taxes on all other cars, and don't even get me started on APs. To highlight a few few releases, reflect upon the R3, will ya? The RM70K you're imparting is basically going towards a Satria GTI with little more than insignificant facelifts and better seats. An even more chuckle-inducing reply would be that of Proton's response as to why the Savvy does not come shipped with ABS and air bags as standard eq. Loosely quoted, they remarked "We've increased the body strength of the Savvy so much so that air bags and ABS isn't as important. We work from ground up, so body strength takes precedence." Great, so in the event of a crash, the car will survive, not you. I would really like to get into the spirit of things and show a little patriotism for a change, but if I were to just reflect upon things as a simpleton, it all boils down to import taxes to me. When you take out hundred thousand Ringgit cars for review each month like I do, it becomes apparent how much we're all taken for a ride. A Volkswagen Golf GTI would normally cost as much as a Civic Type-R, but a visit to the local distri would have you forking out RM221K. Sure, there's trillions of other factors I've conveniently failed to mention which account for the price differential, but when it boils down to the consumer, I couldn't care less. I guess it all boils down to dissapointment. I'm dissapointed at the fact that my paycheck only allows me to get a Proton car. I'm dissapointed that Proton still produces rubbish cars after two decades of government protection. Most of all, I'm dissapointed that I am hopelessly unable to afford a Golf GTI, a smashingly spectacular car. I'd even settle for an Impreza TS at this point, to be honest.
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Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Thundercats, HO!

This morning, I saw what is possibly the most disturbing single event I've seen this year alone. This dude who's probably in his teens was playing around with this pariah ass cat near my car. While I was in my car waiting for my engine to warm up, that kid started to get amorous with the cat. Hang on, lemme say that properly. He fondled that pussy. He started by rubbing the cat's legs all over, and just as the cat is about to make a run for it, he grabs the poor feline and proceeds to molest it near its private parts. By that time I had already taken out my ciggarette for a little puff, if only just to enjoy the show. He continued dispensing pussy love, until about 4 minutes later, where he did something that almost had me swallow my Dunhill. He lifted the cat up and smelled its balls/pussy. I almost died in my seat. How that kid could pull off shit like that in clear view of people is beyond me. I was so surprised I accidentally nudged my accelerator, but even that didn't deter Boy Wonder there from sniffing the poor feline's unmentionables. I was so mind-fucked, I now don't remember which floor I parked my car on, and I am amazed I made it out of my house at all after that. Goddammit la, I love cats, but I now have to live with this mental scare of a deranged kid in Subang who gets his kicks from sniffing cat privates.
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Friday, July 01, 2005

Spar with your boss if you're insane

What's sadder than playing games all day? Being beaten by your boss in office, that's what. Perhaps I should make the significance of this event clear. It wasn't a game of backgammon and we simply shook hands and walked off. All civility is thrown out the window when we are challenged to a game of Warcraft. It's not even about pride, it's symbolic, the pinnacle of what men strive in order to achieve their goals. OK, in other words, I was not about to get my ass beaten down by my boss. When it comes to games like Warcraft, my boss displays a level of grace that can only be described as horrific. Don't get me wrong, he's certainly brilliant, and he's one of the few people I can actually call a friend, but when he asks for a versus game, it's all war. Rape and pillage doesn't even begin to describe the intense desire I have to win. Least of all, I simply cannot let him win, because if he does, he'll gloat all about it all day long until I jump off a building. So. Ugh, thinking about it is enough to give anyone itchy crotch for a year, and even that is better than loosing. Not only does he want to have a versus match, he strung up the help of an equally *censored* colleague to play as his partner. Fine, I got Dave to play with me in a 2 vs 2 match. Oh, not enough you know, they insisted on having two Computer AIs to join their team in evening out the teams. Great, tie me up to a bedpost and tilt lit candles over my bare ass, why don't you. Oh farker, we put on a smashingly good fight, I tell you. It was legendary. Epic, even. We did so well, we lost. Well, what did you expect, it was 4 vs 2. Not even Michael Jordan could've pulled this off. Yes, I know he doesn't play Warcraft, but I like tall black men who can jump, alright? As I attempt to end this rant, I am already loosing much of the steam I had when I started writing it. In the end, the hollow victory enjoyed by my boss is nothing more than a reminder that perseverence is the path to eventual victory, and that it was a pretty stupid game to begin with. Oh, and lest I forget, my boss writes my paycheck too. So in conclusion, I am a worthless piece of turd and I will devote my entire life to serving you, O masterful boss-of-mine. You may have cheated in this trivial game, but I am a sack of shit anyway. Really, boss, if you're reading this, this is a joke. You know, funny? As in, do not sign that dismissal letter? ...
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