Monthly Archive
Browsing entries posted on February 2006
Handbag Hall of Shame
The latest induction into the Handbag Hall of Shame: Guy seen in LT32 carrying girl’s PINK shoulder bag!
Welcome to the Hall of Shame, you pussy-whipped loser. Did your balls never descend, or did she cut them off for you?
The details: Girl wearing tank top and shorts walks into LT in front of a guy who, in addition to carrying his own backpack, is also carrying a pink shoulder bag on his right arm. So now we know that it’s not his bag, since there is no reason a guy needs to carry 2 bags. We also know he’s a henpecked homey cos he’s actually wearing the bag, not holding it at arm’s length as though desperate to dissociate it from himself.
The girl is not physically impaired in any way, so there is no reason she can’t carry her own bag. Look, even double amputees would be able to carry their own stuff, and she has all her limbs. (Though she’s apparently missing a brain.)
She prances happily into her seat, while her pack animal follows behind. She even has the audacity to sit beside friends, as though eager to show off how well-trained he is!
Oh the shame! It wasn’t enough that he had to carry her girly pink bag, he even had to walk 3 steps behind her! What madness is this? Why, oh why would anyone do that to a guy, much less a guy whom one is supposed to like, if not love? Did he lose a bet? Are they engaging in a certain form of paraphilia? Is he being punished for some transgression?
Because there is no reason otherwise, for a guy to carry, nay, wear his girl’s bag.
Don’t even give me that lame “it’s heavy” excuse. Tell her to dump all that rubbish out of her bag. Unless the guy’s stuff is inside, making it heavy, there’s no reason for you to carry the burden of her poor handbag organisation skills.
Yes, maybe some guys are gentlemen and will help their girls with their bags. No, I’m not jealous. I’m surrounded by gentlemen. However, I also believe in acting like a lady. Ladies don’t play damsel-in-distress. That’s not ladylike. It’s infantile.
And ladies know when to give their man the respect he deserves, instead of treating him like a combination slave/pack animal/maid/cash machine/driver. You don’t get respect unless you give respect, yo.
Lord Moldy Wart Makes Lunch
Lord Moldy Wart decided to have tofu for lunch. Smooth, silken egg tofu. He was very fond of egg tofu. The problem was, he had never cooked egg tofu before.
“Do I boil it?” he asked his chief minion. “Perhaps,” replied the underling. “I suppose that’s as good a method as any.”
Lord Moldy Wart put the egg tofu in a microwave-safe dish, and popped the dish into the microwave oven. He set the timer for 2-and-a-half minutes. After 2 minutes, there was a muffled, but ominous “pop” from within the oven. Alarmed, Lord Moldy Wart immediately switched off the oven and removed the dish. A slice of the egg tofu had exploded.
“Oh my,” thought Lord Moldy Wart. “Um, maybe bombarding my food with tiny rays of death isn’t the way to go.” The forlorn exploded slice of tofu bobbed around in the hot water, as though agreeing with him.
Lord Moldy Wart decided that frying was the most suitable method. That was how it was done, wasn’t it? That’s how the restaurants got that lovely wrinkly brown skin onto their egg tofu. I mean, it’s not as though they could glue it on or anything, right?
The chief minion walked past to check on the culinary endeavours. Tiny bits of tofu littered the pan, as the food got broken up slowly by the turning action of Lord Moldy Wart’s wok turner. It was like erosion, only involving food, and happening extremely fast. Meanwhile, the evil lord was muttering to himself. “Why won’t it cook? It’s not browning!” The surface of the tofu remained smooth and yellow. “Maybe I need to suntan it. Suntanning makes skin browner and wrinkly.”
Eventually the tofu achieved some semblance of being cooked. It was maybe 2 shades browner than it had been in the beginning. Lord Moldy Wart poked it with a corner of the wok turner.
“Looks raw, doesn’t it?” commented the chief minion, peering into the dish.
“Tsk,” tsked Lord Moldy Wart. It seemed that Operation Naked Chef would have to be carried out after all. “Soon, I shall be as natural a cook as Jamie Oliver!” announced Lord Moldy Wart, and he cackled in a vaguely evil manner, but really it just sounded like he was choking. On his own badly cooked tofu.
and for mr.udders, who asked: it is a fictionalized dramatization. although some bits are more fictionalized than others.
Good girls go to heaven…
but the best ones go to MoS.
No idea how true that is, perhaps it’s just that all the pretty girls go to where the action is, and MoS is pretty damn hot right now. 2-hour queues? Huge dancefloor? And for those who prefer white meat, smack in the middle of the expatriate area? Mmm-hmm.
Totally tired out from 2 hours of dancing non-stop to RnB and hip-hop. Chalked up a total of, er, 4 dance partners. Mostly because I shamelessly went up to them, and shamelessly left them for other people. I am so evil.
I left #1 to dance with #2, because I owed him a dance. But he pissed me off by sms-ing throughout the song, so I went off to join the girls. #3 got the closest of all, but I wasn’t feeling the chemistry so I didn’t grind him. #4’s dancing style didn’t suit me, so off I went again. There might have been a #5 if he hadn’t been surrounded by others, which makes the approach ever so tricky.
Also I am pathologically afraid of being accused of leading people on, so I didn’t want to get too close in case they all got the wrong idea. I mean, hey, one dance for one song is fine, but there ain’t gonna be anything beyond that, ok? Like a one-night stand, only that it relates to dancing in a club and not sex (ew).
At least I didn’t have to fend off any unwanted advances. I saw a couple of girls dancing on the podium, and then they were approached by this man in shirt and tie who seemed to be getting too close for comfort. From the girls’ body language, I could tell they were creeped out. They hotfooted it off the podium and disappeared into the crowd. Brrr. Thank goodness that never happened to me, nor will it ever.
Not the best bash ever, but it was most definitely an improvement on MW Bar and Phuture, both of which I left early because it wasn’t happening enough. I stayed much longer than I should have, considering I have a test in, oh, 7 hours. That’s testament enough to the happening-ness of the bash, I suppose.
Lord Moldy Wart’s Bad Day
Lord Moldy Wart was not happy.
He was suffering mental and physical pain.
The skin off his Achilles tendon had been rubbed raw, and was now oozing pus. He hadn’t realized it had reached such a yucky state until he tried to peel off his socks and realized they were stuck. He tried not to whine in pain as he tried to separate sock from skin.
He had to do performance evaluations for all his minions, and it was a real pain in his bony butt.
Some of his minions were good, but not in a good way. And some of his minions were bad, but not in a bad way. Some were just middlin’, and Lord Moldy Wart’s middle was growling with hunger. But he didn’t want to eat his minions, mostly because he believed in treating his employees well, and anyway, if he started eating them, his staff turnover would be at insane levels.
Lord Moldy Wart also had to come up with a plan for causing pain and suffering, and so far all he had come up with was “nails on blackboards” and even then he wasn’t sure it would work, because it seemed that people everywhere were wearing tiny white things in their ears and he doubted that the screeching of nails on blackboards would bother them very much, since these tiny white things were already transmitting a lot of screeching.
Lord Moldy Wart laid his head down on his desk, and heaved a great sigh. “If only I had studied harder,” he thought. “I could have joined the civil service and become a bureaucrat instead. Just as evil, only legal.”
I am Lord Moldy Wart
I just saw the commercial for the Harry Potter DVD on YouTube, and wandered around the site looking at fan videos, when this thought occurred to me.
“I am Lord Moldy Wart.”
All right, so it’s a poor pun, but I think it’s hilarious. I shall make that my new name. I’m pretty sure someone out there has already thought of it, but I thought it up on my own, so there!
Meanwhile, it is happy days all around as my watch has been fixed (the winder knob was stuck), I have 2 new CDs - Joshua Payne and Hanson; and I am nearly done with my reading, which I must do in order to proceed with the term paper (not-so-happy news). And I cleaned my room.
If I continue with this frenetic level of activity, I will no doubt lose a lot of weight during this midterm break. I have been going out every day since Saturday, and not the shopping kind either. All those bus rides and long walks in the hot sun are tiring.
Ph. D (Paid Handler of Dirty Dishes)
In Singapore, there is a curious phenomenon to be found in food courts. It is called the Dish Collector. Okay I actually have no idea what they’re actually called, but they’re the people who clear the tables of the dirty dishes after the patron(s) have left.
I always feel a bit strange about just getting up and walking away after enjoying my meal. Maybe it’s because I was raised to take my plate to the sink, even though we had someone else to wash the dishes after that. Or perhaps it’s the implicit assumption that “someone will clean up after me”.
In KL we have something similar as well, but usually it’s the stallholders themselves who clean up only their own dishes, rather than someone who’s paid explicitly to collect dishes, no matter which stall they came from.
Personally, I think this practice of not clearing up after ourselves breeds a sense of entitlement. Or rather, inflates it. I remember that I used to be fond of clearing the tray when I ate at McDonald’s. That was when I was 5. I’d take the tray, laden with fry boxes and burger wrappers, and tilt the rubbish into the bin, then put the tray on top. I don’t know why or when I stopped. I tried it again recently, but it didn’t work very well because the bin was full. Bah.
A rather humourous justification given for all the Dish Collectors at food courts is that it provides them with some form of employment. I do suppose this is true, to some extent, and far be it from me to rob someone of a living wage, but it’s not exactly something one aspires to be, is it?
And besides, is it REALLY necessary to have people clearing the tables? The NUS Arts canteen doesn’t think so. The practice there is that patrons must take their trays and dishes to a centralised collection point for washing. In fact, we are reminded to do so by small plastic signs on each tabletop. (The Nanny state strikes again.) It’s actually more efficient this way, because at peak hour, you don’t want to spend time waiting for someone to clear the table before you can sit down. Also, it’s not going to hurt intelligent, able-bodied undergraduates and academics to clear their tables, now is it? It’s good to remind them that having brains doesn’t mean that the world has to serve your every whim.
In the end, I think it boils down to the fact that this practice of having someone clear your dishes is a manifestation of a sense of entitlement carried too far. And it’s not good for civic consciousness, because it breeds a mindset of “someone else will clean that up”. The Someone Else Syndrome permeates through enough of society as it is. Do we need it to extend to such a basic activity as eating as well?
And in the interest of full disclosure, I was eating at Lau Pa Sat. Unfortunately, there were no bins around for me to put my dirty dish in, hence protecting the livelihood of Dish Collectors. There were, however, tissue peddlers, one of whom was a little boy asking me, “Jie Jie, ni yao tissue ma?” (Big Sis, do you want tissue?)
Lau Pa Sat never used to be like this.
p/s: I am aware that there are people working as busboys and busgirls in restaurants. That I can understand. You pay lots of money to dine at a proper restaurant, of course you shouldn’t have to clear your own table. But a food court is a very everyday thing for most of us, so the practice is more likely to lead to Someone Else Syndrome.
Animal farm
My stats lecturer, to make up for the fact that he teaches a very dry subject, is very quick to dispense wit to lighten up the class.
Today in tutorial:
“So, what should be on the X-axis? Group? Word Valence? (looks around class) Group? Group? Okay now I sound like a fish.”
And still doing the same question: “Now, do we do a line graph or a bar graph? Line? Bar? Bar? Aiyo now I sound like a dog. It’s getting to be an animal farm in here.”
The lovey-dovey special
All right, so I’m a sellout. Thousands of other things I can talk about, but I choose to give centrestage to that most commercialized and smaltzy of celebrations, Valentine’s Day. Hey, I don’t celebrate it myself (why profit the cutthroat merchants, eh) but I really must honour those who make an effort to mark the day.
Take, for example, this most geeky and romantic of comic strips.
Top Score from Ctrl-Alt-Del. It’s so damn sweet. Only the geeks will get it, not just get the joke but also why it’s so amazingly touching, from a geek point of view.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a high score? Not to mention several high scores? It’s like his way of saying, “I love gaming, and I love you, but I think I love you more, but I still love gaming.” Schweet. *sniffle* I can’t believe he’s come this far!
And I took this picture ages ago, meant to blog it but never got around to it. So I guess this is as good a time as any. The couple are friends of mine. I highly doubt they’re recognisable, but if anyone has any issues, I’ll take it off. And by “anyone”, I mean the people themselves. Too bad for you if you don’t like gaudily-tinted pseudo-artistic snapshots.
Ker-snap!
The lecturer began to wrap up the lesson, by reviewing the answers for the previous week’s mini-quiz. A wave of rustling, ripping and snapping moved through the lecture theatre as a few impatient folks began clearing their things and preparing to leave.
As the lecturer continued to explain the answers, a few earlybirds started walking out, in order to beat the peak-hour after-lecture rush. The lecturer carried on while they exited through the doors.
Suddenly there was a loud clap of thunder, and a sudden illumination of the LT, followed by a few anguished screams. The lecturer looked up, a sinister smile upon his face.
“That,” he said with a touch of glee in his voice, “is what happens to those who lack the courtesy to wait 2 minutes for me to dismiss the class. You may go now, and mind you don’t touch the bodies. They might still have a charge.”
*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*
If James Frey can write a fictionalised memoir, so can I. Only I shan’t be silly enough to pass it off as the truth, since my imagination is a runaway beast. Lecturers who zap you with lightning. Brrr.
You’re so punny!
One of the perks of having been together for a long time is that you can act foogy, I mean goofy, and not have to worry about being thought a fool. You can say all sorts of silly things and get a laugh instead of a “what the hell” expression.
My comic book, Lucifer, slipped through the gap between the bed and the wall.
“Oh no!” I said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Look what else is under the bed!”
“What is?”
“It’s Lucifer! He’s fallen!”
Hahaha indeed. And yes, I do tend to anthropomorphize my objects. I call my Harry Potter books by their first name, and append their birth order to differentiate them.
It doesn’t matter if no one else gets us, we get each other.
Recent Comments