Model me

My modeling career has really taken off. Two shoots in a month and now I walk with a sashay in my step. No matter that thus far they’ve steadfastly avoided shots of my face and only agreed to use the right side of my body. Soon, they will recognise the folly of their ways. Before, I used to be an insignificant copywriter. Now I am copywriter/model. Do not belittle this minor adjustment. I have had over 600 women since.

Application for the Position of President

To the Presidential Elections Committee:

I hereby put my name forth for consideration as President. I am aware that I do not meet certain criteria for eligibility but perhaps this letter will change your minds.

I am only 25. The minimum age stated for qualification is 45. This, I feel, is ridiculous. Nobody wants an old President. As the figurehead of the country, the President must be in his prime - a symbol of strength and virility! We cannot have a fat, balding man or woman who can barely get up from his/her seat as our leader. Just the thought of this outrage makes me quiver. But there are other more practical reasons for considering a younger candidate. How can an older body deal with all those dinner and cocktail parties? What would our neighbours think should our President keel over suddenly in mid-kebab or be rushed to hospital with a hernia after popping a bottle of champagne? The shame would be too much to bear for our great nation.

It has also come to my attention that a qualified candidate must have at least three years’ experience as chairman of a statutory board or a company with a paid-up capital of at least $100 million. $100 million is a mere pinch in the thighs, my friends. If the threshold is set at that paltry figure, why set a threshold at all? I can proudly say that I have never had to deal with money. It is beneath true leaders to go around ruffling the coffers for spare change while clutching a calculator. However, to bolster my chances, let it be known that I achieved an A1 in Elementary Mathematics in my ‘O’ levels.

These criteria you have laid down, however, are just technicalities. They do not matter one bit. What does matter, however, is that the candidate has the aptitude for the job. And this is where I excel. I am, without question, unquestioningly unquestioning. That is my forte. I will agree with whatever that has to be agreed with. I agree, for example, that every square inch of our neighbours up North should be firebombed except the capital which serves rather good bak kut teh. I concur also that the huge piece of burning rainforest down South is nothing but a cesspit of racial, economic and political upheaval. I could not be more open to the fact that the red, white and blue is our nation’s big brother and must be sucked up to ad nauseam. This, I am sure you will agree with me, is how a President should think.

To add even more to what must be my already considerable chances, I could become, if given the opportunity, the epitome of the people’s President. Why anyone of such considerable stature would want to spend his days with louts who spend half their time in coffeshops and the other half raving drunk in void decks is beyond me at this moment but with every new job comes a new challenge. I am sure that I will be up to the task.

With me as President, the future of this country will be one big fat cupcake. There will be countless meet-the-people sessions because I will spend my days walking briskly from the Istana through Orchard Road and back smiling reverently and waving with Mao-esque benevolence. Every Sunday will be play-football-with-the-President day. Slumber parties will become a weekly highlight. Though, I regret to say that this will be a strictly female-only affair. Except for the President, of course.

When I become President, the economy will grow. People will not waste precious man-hours protesting in vain for clemency for anyone on death row. Such inefficiencies must be stamped out along with those lice who grumble incessantly and effusively about human rights. The only human right I am concerned with is our people’s right to vote for me when you qualify me as a candidate.

There are no two ways about it. The role of President is tailor-made for such a person as me. Once you recognise this, even those dissidents in the streets, mostly seen driving taxis, will come around in time. With that, I will leave you to your excogitation.

My best regards,

A burp for Nessa

Coming as an effervescent black liquid, Coca-cola will taunt your senses as it slides soothingly down your throat, reminding you about the time your turtle bit your toe. Be enchanted as it reminds you how fortunate you are that turtles prefer water to coke because it you had to rescue your beloved pet from this acidic liquid, it will dissolve the effects of your pedicure. But there's more, get a coke today and you'll get a FREE burp. Watch in smug amusement as everyone around you move away from the furniture, taking with them their nephew or their cat. It's all up to you! Get your refreshment today!

Okay, don't groan so loudly, there's a reason why I'm not the copywriter around here. Anyway, Venessa, buy me a coke and I'll produce the burp. Joel can attest to that.

Nothing more than feelings

Many thanks to Joel's review of the amazing Champions League match. I shall not bore all five (my estimate of this blog's readership) of Joel's friends by doing another one. Make no mistake, it will still be about Liverpool winning the Champions League. If you couldn't care less about football or Liverpool, take it as a break from Joel's self-deprecating humour wit (which I love by the way). This is a trip through the emotions felt on that Turkish night - a rollercoaster ride no Best Director movie can take one through in three hours.

Anticipation - the plan was to get to YK's place at about midnight for the game. Should have been a perfect outing thanks to the 32" LCD TV at his place, the pool table and most importantly, the fact that I would have been able to scream and shout with another Liverpool fan without waking my family. It was not to be, my cough stopped me. But the sheer electric feeling that Liverpool may win the biggest prize in European club football kept me awake - oh, the fragging of my colleague in CS:S between 12 and 2:30 helped too.

Hope - Nobody expected Liverpool to come this far, but beating Juve and Chelski, the last two European contenders, gave Liverpool fans all over hope. Our anthem says it best, and even though it wasn't Anfield, the song came through loud and clear

Walk on, through the wind,
Walk on, through the rain,
Though your dreams be tossed and blown.
Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone,
You'll never walk alone.

Shock/Anger - The first minute, and Milan scored. How could that have happened? The reason why Liverpool was even at this final is thanks to their tight defence. I actually became angry with Traore for conceding the free kick and anger at Kewell for being lousy. The first Australian to reach the Champions League final - bah, no prizes for guessing why.

Despair - In the words of the immortal (now deceased) Yoda: Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. And boy did I suffer. The consolation/mockery SMSes started coming in, I ignored them all. All I did was to start playing Bejeweled on my PDA, refusing to look up even when half-time ended, resulting in a new high score. The greatest fear was that we will be thrashed, and set a new record for the biggest loss in a European final match. I felt like a young boy who dared only to look through the partings of his own fingers when faced with a Pontianak movie.

Excitement - I looked up to see Liverpool attacking, and the Gerrard header! Then it happened again as Milan Baros made the best move of his appearance in the match - getting out of the way to allow Smicer's low shot in. Then the move that saw Gerrard clear on goal, the penalty missed then Alonso redeeming himself. Those six minutes were electrifying.. I was trembling at the end of it, my face was barely half a metre from the TV and I couldn't sit down from the excitement.

Anticipation - A different kind from the start of the match. As Milan pushed ahead to regain the lead, I was constantly waiting for the referee's whistle. BLOW THE WHISTLE ALREADY! I felt Milan's Dida was the better of the two goalkeepers but at least there was hope if Milan didn't score during open play.

Relief - At one point, I was contented. It was already 3-3, and I knew that even if Milan did score another, or go on to win through penalties, there was no shame. Liverpool had shown what they were made of and the criticism at work the next day should have already been lessened.

Elation - This needs no description. I'll let this picture speak. Forgive Riise, if he isn't wearing weird hair, then it's a funny hat, must be a Norwegian thing.

A blurb for Gavo (heh)

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. But now, General Electric presents Gavin the Gap, the premier male food disposal unit who's ALL stomach. That's right. Fed up with all those dinner scraps? Simply leave them where they are, point Gavin the Gap in the right direction and you'll find your plates and table clean in seconds! To cheer you up even more, we'll throw in a plastic potty FREE! Unloading Gavin the Gap will be a piece of cake with this revolutionary device. Simply sit Gavin the Gap on said potty, chant “mm mm mm” three times and it's done! To clear the potty, simply point Gavin the Gap in the right direction and voila! It's that simple! There's only one decision to be made. Order Gavin the Gap now!

A blurb for Nessa

Coming in an elegant black dress, Vanessa will taunt your senses as she coos soothingly in your ear about the time the turtle bit her toe. Be enchanted as she recounts each and every detail from how she engaged the reptile in discourse, to how she rubbed its head with her toe, to the heart-stopping chomp that severely mangled her pedicure. But there's more, get a Vanessa today and you'll get a FREE feather duster. Watch in smug amusement as Vanessa dusts your furniture or the nephew or the cat. It's all up to you! Get your Vanessa today!

Forza Liverpool

I am sure that John, wherever he was having his heart broken, would've heard me cackling. That's the way this post was supposed to start. Alas, my dreams have been shattered. With Liverpool 1-0 down within 52 seconds, I raised my Heineken in salute to Milan goalscorer and captain Paolo Maldini who, at 37, still looked up there with the best. Looks like the damned Reds have gotten this far only to go into the record books as the team that let in the quickest goal in Champions League history, I thought to myself. This was followed by 45 minutes of glee and much more toasting as Milan surged forward at will with Cafu, in particular, making barnstorming run after barnstorming run down the right - the type of run that I, had I been a Milan midfielder, would have been cursing the scoundrel for cos it would've forced me to run up and down as well in support. It's been said that maybe he's got two hearts. One for each leg, I suspect.

Anyway, Liverpool had no answer to Milan's guile. They looked like a bunch of floundering frogs with the exception of Milan Baros who, as usual, scampered around like a headless chicken. While that may work against Crystal Palace or (argh) Newcastle, Baros was up against a turkey who was still very much in contact with his head. Jaap Stam trampled, manhandled and otherwise plucked Baros clean. The poor fowl only had one shot on goal and that went into the stands. It was most satisfying to watch.

Milan's pressure paid off in the 39th and 44th minutes after numerous close calls and a goal which was denied by the linesman's flag. Hernan Crespo first squeezed in Shevchenko's cross under Carragher's despairing body and then dinked a great finish over Jerzy Dudek after he'd been put through by an inch-perfect pass from Kaka.

The first half finished 3-0 to the favourites and I was contemplating sending John a consolatory SMS along the lines of “don't fret, you'll get your chance again in 20 years.” Just as well that I didn't. Liverpool started the second half a different team. The introduction of Didi (former Newcastle, I might add) Hamann gave the likes of Gerrard and Alonso the platform from which they needed to attack. And it showed. John Arne Riise, dodgy hair colour and all, found space on the left and floated in a cross that Steven Gerrard met with a pinpoint header into the corner of the net. This got me thinking “hang on a minute”. And so I hung on a minute and suddenly it was 3-2. Smicer, what? who?, scoring through Dida's hands from 30 metres out. I was irritated. “Shit,” I thought to myself “there will be much bragging if Liverpool wins this.” Thus jinxed, I found myself cursing again soon after as I watched Gerrard win a penalty and then saw the rebound eventually blasted in by a much-relieved Alonso. I would've raised my Heineken to this most spirited of fightbacks but I'd thrown the bottle at the TV and, like I said, I was pissed.

And so to extra-time. Nothing memorable really except that stupendous double-save from Dudek. As the prophetic Andy Gray said, “When Shevchenko misses from there (roughly 3 yards) with 3 minutes left in extra-time, you might as well carve Liverpool's name on the cup.” The fox couldn't have put it better.

Penalty shootouts are a horrible way to decide matches. It's basically a game of luck. They might as well have gotten Gerrard and Maldini to throw a dice five times each. Still, I suppose there's some skill involved. Dudek, for one, showed terrific dancing ability on the line. For Serginho, Dudek merely warmed up with jumping jacks but that was enough to lead the little Brazilian, the shortest player on the pitch, to fire his kick into the stands probably cos he couldn't see through his tears. For Pirlo, Dudek entertained him with some light skipping and a charming flap of the arms before pushing his penalty away. A true maestro. Apparently, Jon Dahl Tomasson isn't the arty-farty sort for despite Dudek producing his most technically challenging performance of the night, a mish mash of twisting and knee bending and unbending coupled with flailing arms that made me think of retreating sea anemones, the Dane unfeelingly lashed the ball past the passionate Pole, thus shattering any artistic pretensions he might have had. Which explains why he kept himself still for Shevchenko's kick, saving it comfortably before running off in wild celebration.

The camera at this time panned over the enraptured red hordes, many of whom had parted with their shirts. They're all either obese or emaciated. Something must be wrong somewhere with the Scouser diet. Too much fish and chips, methinks. The sight of the fat ones jumping was enough to make me switch to MTV for awhile. When I switched back, a Frenchman (Traore) and two Czechs (Baros and Smicer) were on screen screaming something barely intelligible. It sounded like “hum kam ra ra”. No idea what it meant but happiness can be a very powerful drug.

So Liverpool have done it. The lucky bastards. Now they've gotta fight for a chance to defend their title in next year's competition. Oddly enough, I hope they do. It was good to see players who never looked like making it to the big stage get their share of glory. Carragher deserved it more than most. Perhaps even more than Stevie Gerrard. Djimi Traore didn't play brilliantly in the final but contributed immensely to the overall campaign. And of course, it was great to see Djibril Cisse getting his Champions League medal despite that horrific break in October. So there, much as I hate to admit it, Liverpool deserved it. More of the same next season, please.

...

I wanna get tunnelvision! says: Sleep early, you must.

Joel says: Haha. I read somewhere that if Yoda had an email address it’d be com.starwars@yoda.

I wanna get tunnelvision! says: No! It should be starwars.com@yoda.

Joel says: Ah. The force is strong with this one.

That somewhere is here by the way.

Tea's on me

I promised my colleagues that I will buy them tea if Liverpool wins the Champions League. Reminds me of that time a Man U had separate bets on Man U to win or lose the CL and would win more money if Man U lost.

I am looking forward to paying for teabreak, so Gerrard, please don't kick your penalty shot over the crossbar.

Manchester United played like champions and lost. Arsenal played like shite and won. It was all very good for the football neutral. To the dejected Man U fan, you could cackle like a hen on amphetamines. To the jubilant Arse supporter, you could tell him that his team deserved it as much as Bush deserves to be President. What's more, get them both together and you could quite easily instigate a fistfight.

But otherwise, it all really sucked cos Newcastle, the only team worthy of the FA cup, was sitting on its ass on Tyneside with nary a thing to do but brood over its double-digit place finish and place side bets on when the next Dyer-Bowyer bust-up would be.

Babbling fields and green brooks.

Eyes red. Teeth chattering. Thirteen blurbs down. Seven to go. Brain filled with babbling fields and green brooks. No. Wait. Babbling brooks and green fields. Have irresistible urge to yodel.

Snacks that take me back to the days of yore.

TORA

This is the ultimate in retro-snacks. It is literally more toy than snack.


DING DANG

More snack than toy but we loved choc coated biscuits, didn't we?


KAKA

Before the footballer, there was the snack. It says "chicken flavour"
but it might as well have been MSG flavour. We didn't care back then.


All the pictures are here.

Out with the old

As my readers (yes, all three of you) will no doubt have noticed, the appearance of this blog has changed more than somewhat. My thanks go out to the ultra-talented Carine who designed everything and helped me get the HTML sorted out. Of course, her blog looks even more fantastic but I can't link to it cos it contains top military secrets as well as answers to the questions “what is the meaning of life?”, “does God exist?” and “is there a mole on Gavin's right butt cheek?” Hmmm… maybe not the last one.

Anyway, I owe her dinner now. This will be paid out wherever and whenever. Oei! Decide leh!

We know you're wonderful, you bitch.

Living in Singapore is like having a relationship with a crazy girl. Sure, she's hot. She's well-groomed, polite and CLEAN as well. So clean that you wonder if she may be made of plastic. But you know you're not into that sorta thing so you banish the thought. Plus, she's filthy rich and she doesn't even chew gum. Imagine that! So, eyes glazed and heart thumping, you move in with her.

Oh, it's alright at first. She treats you well. You come home to a warm dinner every evening, have sex every night, experience unbelievable GDP growth etc. It's just freaking bliss. But then one day over dinner, she asks you to comment on her cooking and how she is in the sack. She says, “feel free to speak your mind. I believe in an open relationship. After all, discussion is an exchange of knowledge.” You're impressed by how reasonable she is and by her use of half a quote (the other half is 'argument is an exchange of ignorance') and so you begin. “I suppose the vegetables tend to be overcooked,” holding up a dollop of green sludge that used to be kang kong, “and perhaps you could scream more in bed?” (Ed: this is strictly fictional)

Being the wonderful girl that she is, she reacts to this mild criticism by calmly trying to force your head through a shredder and then, failing that (thankfully), threatens to throw you out of the house. “What did I say wrong?” you ask as she tries to squeeze you through the gate grills. “I don't have to explain myself to you!” she hurls.

But of course, after becoming dependent on her for everything, you'd be a total retard to let it all go. And so you apologise unreservedly (not once but twice!) for any comments that may have hurt her fragile sensibilities.

She relents. You never had any doubt that she would, though you wonder why she had to broadcast it to every other human being. After all, everyone already knows she's the most wonderful girl in the world even if she is a total bitch.

You bring the guns, I'll bring the elephants.

Some commuters ought to be shot and then stamped on by a horde of elephants. Ever see those people who rush for seats in the MRT? The swine. When the train arrives, you see them all squashed at the doors, eyes darting left and right, looking for that golden empty seat. The moment the doors open, they charge in like they're being chased by rabid dogs. They'll take the shortest possible route to that seat even if it means stepping on your feet or jumping over your shopping bags (I have witnessed with my very own eyes, 40-ish aunties jumping over baby prams with the grace of Olympic hurdlers).

The best part is that when these oafs sit down, they smile! The asses wiggle their butts and smile to themselves! To make things worse, it's that self-satisfied-I-have-made-it-in-life type of smirk that makes me wanna smash their faces in with a ladle. These are the type of people whose life ambition it is to be a McDonald's manager.

Lacking a ladle, the least I can do is make things slightly harder for them. A sudden step forward or backward is usually enough to cut them off. Their reaction is always the same. They'll stop abruptly and mutter “tsk” under their breath. If you still don't get the message, they'll reinforce the first “tsk” with “tsk tsk” while glaring at some indeterminate part of your anatomy. They will NEVER EVER look you in the eyes and they will never say “Excuse me” or, heaven forbid, “I'm sorry”. They just “tsk tsk tsk” and then tread all over your toes.

The best thing that can happen is two or more of these toads arriving at the same seat at the same time. Inevitably, it'll be the most massive of the lot that gets to snuggle its butt in the plastic chair but at least someone gets disappointed no matter what. This gives me immense gratification. I'll call my psychiatrist later.

And then there're those who like to stand but who do so while holding the horizontal bits of the grab poles. That means their arms go directly above their heads. They look like bodybuilders trying to kiss their own biceps. In humid tropical Singapore, standing downwind of one of these armpit-baring specimens is like standing downwind of a shitting cow. The stench is so all-engulfing that you start to wonder if YOU are the one that's stinking. This is severely unfair because you start sniffing yourself which makes you look like a total fool and the people around then start suspecting that YOU are the source of the stench.

So you try to move cars. But guess what? You trip cos some ass is stretching out his daddylonglegs 6 feet in front of him and he gives you the eye cos it's your fault that you tripped over his limbs, thus dirtying his pants and causing him untold amounts of grief. Most likely, he will “tsk” you as well to which you should react in the most honourable manner imaginable - by cursing his mother.

Whatever it is, it has come down to this. You bring the guns, I'll bring the elephants.

I am hungover at work YET AGAIN. Why I continually torture myself like this is still a mystery but I am convinced that it will all come together in the larger scheme of things. So here I am at my desk trying to look like I'm deep in thought when in fact my brain has recently been wiped out by lighter fluid mixed with 7-Up. And, of course, to cheer me up, I have just been informed that I have a briefing to attend later. The nuts!

Look. At present, this copywriter is woefully incapable of thought. He cannot distinguish between a chicken and a Sunkist orange. If you were to present him with a juicer and the two aforementioned items, there is a 50% chance that you'll be having REALLY FRESH chicken juice with your cereal.

And still the bastards persevere. I'm gonna have to assign material keys again. A material key looks something like this - EO/S020501/6WP1. Makes no sense to you? Makes no sense to me. Time to bring out the dice! Hohoho. Good grief I'm a goner.

Sooner or later, my boss is gonna get on my back for this. “Have you been drinking, Joel?” she'll ask and I'll light a cigarette with my breath. She'll probably run off screaming and I'll just sign up for the circus. I heard they pay well.

It's always worth noting when the who's who of the local blogosphere meet up, even if they HAD to do it in that most poseurly of places, Holland Village. Still, I'd have been frantically getting autographs had I been there. Just as well that His Majesty, Agagooga, wasn't in attendance or I'd have stuck my head in an oven.

On Power Trips, Stewing and A BAO

1.15am.
Four people sat stewing in the darkness. One was stewing considerably more violently than the other three. Just fifteen minutes ago, she'd been sleeping peacefully in her air-conditioned room, most probably on the verge of R.E.M. whereupon a phonecall from her son had distracted both eyes from their frenzy and cruelly forced them to open.

Following the titanic struggle to leave her bed, she had been informed by her two torchlight-toting children that there'd been a power trip and that they needed a number to call. (The fourth person, the daughter's boyfriend, wisely decided to keep his peace in the darkness.) After a sustained frown, the newly awakened made her first utterance. A sagely “Wah lau!”

Much muttering and shuffling around then followed. A name card album was whipped out and scoured where the card of an electrician dubiously named A BAO presented itself to the sweating four. “24 hours electrician” it read. “That's it!” four brains simultaneously thought. Within 30 seconds, however, the eyes connected to those brains were once again frantically searching for an electrician in the classifieds, this time preferably for one that didn't charge $80 for the service, $80 for transport and who wouldn't “only come in the morning”. One of those brains, moreover, was also filled with images of A BAO being hung alive with a meat hook. Fortunately for the quartet and for A BAO, they did eventually manage to locate a proper 24-hour electrician. “10-15 minutes,” he'd said.

And so the four now stewed in the darkness. “Fan me, fan me!” the mother said. The daughter giggled and started fanning. “This is the time for family bonding,” she cheerfully said. “Bond what bond! So late still bond.” was the reply from the mother, who by now was sweating like an onion in a pan. And so the conversation died. This is what this family is like in a nutshell. The daughter takes after the long-absconded dad. She likes to talk. She likes company. The son takes after the sweating mom. He keeps his crap to himself. He does not sweat as much though.

When the doorbell eventually rings, the 2x2 are already overcooked. The son oozes to the door and lets in the electrician who is surprisingly spritely considering the hour. Torchlight in mouth and screwdriver in hand, he flutters up and down the ladder tweaking this and testing that before declaring a price to the mimi-eyed mother. “$320! Very cheap already. One year guarantee!” he chirps. The son notes with mild interest that for the second time in a night, his mother's eyes have been jolted open.

“$320?!” she hisses. The son watches the electrician cower slightly and smiles to himself in the dark. However, to his disappointment, the mother, having counted to ten and perhaps remembering her Christian principles, loses steam, “Ahhh! Quickly do. Late already.” And so the electrician, grateful for his life, does some more fluttering up and down before triumphantly flicking on the switches. The whole house is suddenly bathed in light. Mother and son start squinting at everything. They are ecstatic. (The sister and boyfriend are by now hopelessly overdone and slumped in some other corner of the house but one assumes that they'd have been ecstatic as well.)

The electrician, still delirious with life, suggests that the remaining two check all of their appliances. The son tries to turn on the microwave. It doesn't work. But he does find a piece of chicken in it. It looks a few hours old. The son puts it in the fridge for tomorrow. The mother has less luck. The washing machine isn't working and she finds no chicken in it. She mutters.

Meanwhile, the electrician zips around the house turning everything on and off, on and off, on and off before flitting off to the circuit box and making some adjustments. A few rounds of zipping and flitting later, he declares that everything is perfect. To make him disappear, the mother reluctantly parts with her money. It's time to sleep.

Shamelessly stolen off this excellent blog which I read almost every day.

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