The Dinner and Dance

My company had its annual D&D last Friday. It was a pyjamas (or pee-ya-ma as my boss likes to say it) party and so we were all dressed to the nines in our most exquisite sleepwear. Karen ensured that we would all remember her as Krazy Karen. Older women were spotted hugging Hello Kitty toys. I smashed a plate with a spoon. In short, it was fun - in an asinine kind of way.

Some pictures then.


Ain’t we cool? Ain’t we hip? Actually, I think Eunice’s pants are marginally cooler than mine. Darn.



How interesting. Two yawns but only one set of teeth.



Told you there was some Hello Kitty hugging going on.



Val is clutching a what-the-hell-is-that and a mugful of something. Krazy Karen has (yes, you aren't hallucinating) curlers on her head, black stockings and a pair of Doraemon I-don’t-know-what-those-are. No wonder she won the Best-Dressed Award.



After much rummaging through Krazy Karen’s make-up basket, assorted items were added to my head. As far as I know, there was a shower cap, two clothes pegs and a hairbrush. The snarl really completes the look.



With her eyes and ears covered, Nasal Girl relied on her acute sense of smell to snare evil villains.



Such as Come-And-Get-Me-Girl.



The creative team.



Edmund, the satay man, complete with straw fan.



Had this been a conventional bottoms-up contest, I would undoubtedly have won using the age old pour-half-of-it-down-your-shirt technique. As it turned out, I lost to the lady on the far left by mere milliliters.



I was immensely pissed at not winning and threatened the cameraman with a comb in the gut. Meanwhile, what the hell is Krazy Karen so happy about?



This… this really takes the cake, doesn’t it? My elation at being transformed into such a magnificent work of art is written all over my face. Scrungies on my ears, an eyelash curler on my collar, a freshly penciled moustache and a freaking slice of capsicum on my nose; all applied with utmost dedication by a bunch of excited women. What more can a man ask for?



Enough was enough for Sally who felt ashamed for her part in my humiliation and attempted to asphyxiate herself with a helium balloon and a piece of ribbon.



String? What string?



Dave being gay. He’s a real natural. But before you girls start wailing and sobbing, don’t worry. I believe he’s straight.



A lot of hot air with my name written on it. A dream come true. Notice how Eunice appears very supportive in the background until…



well… this.


And finally,


Babes. The females of the species.

Je ne veux pas travailler

Pardon my French but it’s a Monday, it’s after lunch, it’s hot and I wanna whine. How I wish I had a concept to come up with or perhaps some long copy to write. I find that the best ideas often come when one is in a daze. As it is though, I’m waiting to go through (and hopefully make sense of) a direct mailer format which has perplexed me for weeks.

“Tell them to put the sticker there.”
“Eh?”
“HEE-YER!”
“Oh.”

“Insert the card here.”
“Eh?”
“HEE-YER!”
“Oh.”

“We need a flap for this.”
“Flap?”
“Yes. They have to pay you know.”
“Ah…”

That’s the way things work around here. Each and every mailer is a jumble of cards, stickers, letters, brochures and other crazy stuff that I haven’t yet seen or wish to see.

Since our target audience is supposed to be OLD PEOPLE, shouldn’t we be making things as simple as possible? Instructions like “Send this back in this envelope if you want this product, you silly old git” should suffice.

But no. We have to force these poor geriatrics to stick multiple stickers onto multiple boxes and insert multiple objects into multiple slits. You try doing that if you’ve got Parkinson’s or rheumatism.

“Maximise customer involvement” is the mantra this company works by. All I’ve got to say to that is “horseshit”. In other words, I believe the pull-rate is only 5% because the other 95% couldn’t be arsed to figure out what goes where. Neither does this copywriter in all honesty. I’ve never been one to put things together. Give me a jigsaw puzzle and I’ll ask you for the manual.

On a totally unrelated note, dictionary.com’s online translator translates “Would you like a sausage, Madam?” as “Vous aiment une saucisse, Madame?” I wonder if it’s accurate and if it sounds less dodgy in French.

Joe will jog

“Exercise” I told myself and launched into a session of pushups and crunches. After the first set, I was pink. By the second, blue. After the third, I was green. Carine was urging me on in her own distinct way, namely by chanting “useless!!!” and drawing tortoises labeled Joel on MSN. This despite the fact that she couldn’t walk for days after one jogging session. How quickly the frog forgets.

Since my trip to Hong Kong, I’ve been overwhelmed by this unbearable feeling of flabbiness. My recent brush with the heavyweight champion of coughs hasn’t helped either. The constant hacking forced me to miss one football session and I was thus obliged to lessen my misery by munching on chicken wings. I shudder to think what will happen now should I, or anyone else, poke my middle. Fingers may be lost, along with a large chunk of my self-esteem.

That explains the torture session and chameleon practice.

What I really need to do, though, is jog. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to do so for more than six months because either the weather’s been too hot or too cold or it’s been raining or the moonlight was too glaring or I didn’t like the particular constellation that displayed itself on any given night. Bummer. To think I used to be a decent runner in NS. Being stuck in an infantry unit meant that when you weren’t walking ridiculous distances, you were running ridiculous distances. And so I was reasonably fit in those days. 2.4km runs were walks in the park. Timings of below 8m 45s were commonplace though I was only third fastest in my section. I don’t know what the other horses were on.

How things have changed. Now, I am a slob. My last 2.4KM run was 3 years ago and it was a whopping 11 minutes. I suspect it is in the high thirteens now which isn’t exactly like the wind. More like a fart. But no point discouraging myself. I have Carine for that.

It is time I started jogging again and I might as well publish my resolution to do so here so all of you, my loyal six readers, can push me to unfatten myself. Let it be known that next week I will be heard puffing around Yishun Park at least twice. Yes. Joe will jog. And the next morning, he will cuss vehemently. But that’s only fair now, isn’t it?

Eunice (she made me do it)

Eunice is a nice and pleasant and sweet girl who tells me she’s a nice and pleasant and sweet girl. This is only fair because, like I said, she is a nice and pleasant and sweet girl. You may be wondering what makes me say this. Well, she did. Though that’s not the only reason.

Of all my colleagues, she’s the one I talk with the most. I’d say we’re more friends than colleagues (I still have only the faintest idea of what she does here). Kudos must go to her for being able to endure the inanity I throw at her on a daily basis. Very few have the ability to ignore, filter and tolerate me while remaining sane and actually getting some work done. But then again, she throws just as much crap back at me so we’re even. You could say our conversations are largely exercises in excrement tennis. Very enriching, I assure you. She has a killer backhand.

As someone who has the word ‘nice’ (granted, it’s pronounced ‘nees’) in her name, it’s not surprising that she’s been awfully helpful in the last few months. For example, she’s lent me a pair of extremely funky PJ bottoms for the D&D. True red carpet stuff this. Pictures when I can bear the shame. She’s put a banana on my table, as everyone else seems wont to do that these days. She’s also been the only one game to walk out far for lunch which has allowed me to escape the muck they serve at the foodcourt downstairs.

And being the wonderful girl that she is, I’m sure there are a few other things which she means to offer me soon such as the identities of Messrs. Fowlplay and Ballocks and a treat to a sumptuous crab feast. My thanks go out in advance. The end.

I now await the “why you write about her never write about me?” cries from my five other readers.

I am back.

Unfortunately for all previously seven now six of you, I am still very much alive, if not kicking quite as vigorously as before. Spent a few days in Hong Kong running unsuccessfully for the job of Chief Executive where I managed to catch the mother of all coughs. I suspect someone has taken offence to my continual mockery of their version of English which, in my humble opinion, is really a mockery of OUR version of English.

But why the animosity? Let us all be friends. We can’t have people coughing in each other’s faces just for revenge. Certainly not. Suicide bombings and kidnappings aside, spreading viruses to unsuspecting foreigners in such a manner is really rather rude - like spitting in public or dumping body parts in rivers.

In other news, I am distraught because I have found, much to my dismay, that this blog comes up as hit number 33 in a Yahoo search for “sex mass orgy”. This is in addition to “horny housewives” but I have forgotten the ranking. The only comfort remaining is that no one has yet stumbled upon this literary enclave looking for “F10N4 X13”. For now, I can breathe easy, amid the hacking and sniffling of course.

Some of my (previously three, now five) readers who have read this post have asked me why I have eschewed my non-clubbing policy. The reason is simple. I club because I can. I can now afford to get stupid once a week without having to subsist on grass or the sneakers of unsuspecting joggers for the next three. Perhaps there are better ways to spend my time and money. I don’t know. Suggestions are welcome.

Another reply to another comment.

Dear Suzanne,

A Presidential candidate knows he has really touched the hearts of the people when, instead of seeking his position on trivial matters such as foreign policy or dual citizenship, they come to him baying for cat blood. For that, I thank you.

The problem you face is a legitimate one. There are many people who deplore cute fuzzy things killing other cute fuzzy things. I, myself, tend to shun Animal Planet for this very reason.

Indeed, mice are wonderful creatures. I remember sitting on the edge of my seat as Stuart Little overcame feline adversity after feline adversity. His Bond-like dexterity was awe-inspiring and I would dearly love to have the mouse actor autograph my mousetrap.

However, in my endless pursuit of self-improvement, I have since watched countless episodes of Tom & Jerry as well as Tom & Jerry Kids (one must be thorough in such things) and have come to the conclusion that it is the mice who have pulled the wool over our eyes all this while. You might know that in no episode of these opuses of rollercoaster emotions does Jerry get killed. Otherwise, it would be just Tom or Tom Kids which would not be half as interesting. In fact, it is most often Tom, the cat, who gets his head flattened or dynamite stuck in his ears. I personally much prefer the anvil on the head move. The “clank” is so much more satisfying than a KABOOOM!!! But my point is this. Jerry, the mouse, is admirably cunning. I do not think for one instant that any cat could outwit a mouse so their rodent lives are hardly as endangered as you may think.

However, to put your mind at ease, I have come up with a most innovative solution. It might sound odious to one of your sensibilities but I am certain you will come around in time. My suggestion, dear cat-hater, is feed the cats. The simplicity of this plan just sends tears rolling down my cheeks. For your benefit, I will break it down into point form.

1. Cat gets fed.
2. Cat gets fat.
3. Mice run around.
4. Cat lies down.

Therefore, when I am President, I will decree that each and every stray cat gets four tins of canned fish everyday paid for, of course, by the ever-generous taxpayer. This should ensure that the above scenario becomes reality.

With regard to the loud mating calls, each constituency already has a cat-neutering program in place. Volunteers trap stray cats and then send them to have their bollocks removed (no offense, John Bollocks) before they (the cats, not the balls) are returned to the neighbourhood. Cats without balls do not mate. Hence, you will be able to sleep in sweet silence.

I am confident that these two preventive measures will work in synergy to stave off the menace of which you speak. I look forward to your vote.

Best regards,

My reply to yet another comment on my application

Dear John Bollocks,

With all due respect, this is the first time I have had to justify myself to a pair of gonads. But let me begin.

First, I will address your doubts as to the relevancy of my outstanding achievement in Elementary Mathematics. As I hope you know, Elementary Mathematics is the foundation of ALL mathematics. My firm grounding in the basics is the perfect platform for me to pursue higher learning, be it thermodynamics or accounting, when I become President, should the need arise. This potential for growth, I am sure you will recognise, is essential for any supreme leader to possess.

Over and above that, however, my distinction in Elementary Mathematics proves that I can focus on the simple things i.e. you and your fellow heartlanders. This is why I am certain that, contrary to your concerns, I will be able to deal with your prosaic day-to-day problems with ease.

Having said that, let me impress upon you that it is not the President’s job to deal with the people’s “problems”. He has been elected to attend dinner parties, appear on NKF charity shows every week and say “yes” to the parade commander at National Day Parades. A most grueling schedule awaits whoever has the capacity for the job which is why he must be unencumbered by such petty problems as a public transport fare hike.

Which leads me to your “grumble”. At the end of your letter, you beseech me to help you help yourselves. That, my testicular friend, is exactly what the government is already doing. Your concern is the fare hike but that is only one side of the story. Our esteemed government is more cunning than you imagine. It has coupled the fare hike with the introduction of additional ERP gantries in a pincer movement that will squeeze you louts out of the hedonistic rut you find yourselves in now and keep you at home to watch more TCS 8 drama serials or Channel News Later. This is a masterstroke of governance that I can only applaud and which also gives me the added pleasure of sitting on even more money in the national coffers.

This is, of course, beneficial to everyone. More money in the reserves means more money for the people. Our wise leadership is squeezing you dry now so that they can reward you fools with such delights as a huge ferris wheel not unlike the one you might have come across in London but which is still Uniquely Singapore. I never fail to marvel at the compassion and empathy that is flowing infinitely from the ministries of our government. That is why I so dearly desire to join its ranks at the very top.

You claim that this country needs a superhero to guide us. Would you, perchance, be thinking of that demi-god Kim Jong Il? Or perhaps the inspiring Hugo Chavez? I certainly hope not. We need a leader who has his head on his shoulders. Not one prone to carving statues of himself or *gasp* hosting his own TV show.

Sincerely yours,

Always google your medicine

When you cough for 2 weeks running, you know you have to see a doctor, which I did. So I was told I had this yucky problem of mucus flowing back from the nose into the throat, causing the cough. It seems the germs jammed up my nose so their couldn't exit from there, kinda like when they close the Benjamin Sheares bridge for a marathon and you have to find another way into the city. So I get these four packets of medicine - 1 antibiotics, 2 for cough, 1 for phelgm. Was told that they won't cause drowsiness, so I go to work after seeing doc. Ended up falling asleep at desk. Googled the names of the medicine, and found out that they are quite potent in putting ppl to sleep. One of them even has Codeine, which some ppl take purposely to get high. So I figured I will get a good night's rest that night, and went promptly to bed after taking all four pills. Couldn't sleep. Googled that phelgm pill the next day, and realised it causes insomnia in some people. Now that's a lethal combination - drowsiness and insomnia. Felt sleepy the whole of the next day from that night's dosage.. non-drowsy my foot.

I realise that those who like Codeine for the hallucinogenic effect might figure that having insomnia is great for prolonging the high - so i shall refrain from posting the names of the meds here. Honestly, it isn't worth it. To a small extent, I felt the effects of being a drug addict without the drugs for a day. Looking and feeling stoned really isn't all that fun.

Always google your medicine.

A blurb for me. Dammit.

I am mighty forgetful. This is the blurb that Vanessa wrote for me. I beseech you to ignore the free gift.

Another Presidential contender

Had the misfortune of boarding a terribly crowded train the other day. I'd have been late otherwise. 5000 human beings, squashed in a metal tube like faeces in a constipated rectum, hurtling through the darkness. It was most unpleasant. I got caught between a fat dude and a skinny lady. Very delicate situation. I didn't want to touch the fat dude and while I might have wanted to touch the skinny lady, it could've been damaging to my Presidential application. Did I mention the train doors? I was caught between a fat dude, a skinny lady and the train doors. I could barely turn my head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spied those hated pigs with seats. My head filled with obscenities as I too wanted to be a hated pig. But then I noticed that they were leaning back strenuously to avoid the crotches of those standing in front of them. My head returned to its normal empty state. It would almost have been hilarious had my face not been compressed to the size of a tennis ball. I tried to say “that's what you deserve, buggers!” But what came out was “ack woot oo ee errre uh-ershhhh”. Sounded like a damned fool. And so I shut up.

Till the fat dude let out a sibilant fart which brought a tirade of groans and shuffling of feet all over the place as people reeled and took up even more space because they were holding their necks. I feared for my life as well as that the fumes would stain my white shirt yellow. Meanwhile, the thin lady beside me had taken drastic evasive action. Her head was in her bag. How ingenious! My head, despite being the size of a tennis ball, still couldn't fit in my bag. No wisecracks, John. And so I pressed it even more snugly against the door hoping to snuff out the smell. The fat dude, after purveying the death and destruction his misdemeanour had caused, got off gleefully at the next stop while the rest of us asphyxiated. It is people like him who will make it to the top. A true Presidential contender.

Sleepy as a hog

Breakfasted unwisely on a Chinese sausage and some guo tie (or potstickers). Now sleepy as a hog. Head almost touched me keyboard twice. At least I still have my wits about me though. Unlike Siang Bye, who, in a semi-drunken narcoleptic stupor, picked up his phone receiver and proceeded to dial his keyboard. He got to the fourth digit before wondering why the hell the number in his brain was showing up on his monitor. I would chuckle now if I were you.

Public Service Announcement

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy movie opens today. Watch it! But read the Trilogy of 5 books first if you can otherwise it may get confusing, you understand. What with Vogons and paranoid androids and mattresses follopping all over the place.

Finally, the product shot has arrived. Presenting Vanessa, the cooing featherduster!




Here’s the blurb if you’re clueless, you assholes.

Don't read this.

Two months and a week since I started this new job and things aren’t any clearer. Did I make the right choice? Am I in the right place at all or have I shot myself in the foot once again? I wish I knew but I don’t and it’s gnawing away at me. Everyday, I go to work in a daze. My colleagues must think I’m perennially uninterested which isn’t the case (well, maybe it is now but it certainly wasn’t the case when I started out). I used to have a passion for work. I used to think that work wasn’t work cos I enjoyed most of it. This place, however, is starting to get to me. I’m feeling even more disillusioned than I was in my previous agency. Make no mistake, I would still have left that place because I hate to feel exploited. I hate to have to deal with hypocrisy on a daily basis and I simply cannot stomach being told that creatives don’t matter in integrated marketing. That’s not the way it works. So what if you can come up with a brilliant marketing plan? So what if you can sell Einstein an A-bomb? You need good creative work to substantiate whatever plans you may have, to bring them to fruition. But what does it matter? I’m somewhere else now and dealing with a whole new set of problems.

I was told before I agreed to the job that this company was in the process of changing its advertising which is why they needed a new creative team. That encouraged me a lot. I wanted to be part of the process from the start. To be a pioneer, if you will. I thought that I’d get to come up with totally new DM packages. To think up campaigns that would bridge the gap between ATL and BTL. Turns out that they have a whole library of package formats just waiting to be used. We, in the local office, don’t need (or should I say, aren’t allowed) to come up with anything new because everything in that library has been tried and tested and the belief here is that if it ain’t broke, don’t fix the fucking thing.

Over here, the copywriter’s job is to localise, proofread and assign a material key to each and every item. Of course, we write product promo copy every once in awhile but even then it’s for some disgusting premium that they’re giving away. Sure, it’s a low-stress job. “In here, it’s peace of mind,” another copywriter told me on my first day, “no stress, no crazy deadlines, but you’re not gonna win awards.” I tried my best to convince myself he was joking. He wasn’t.

Being unhappy with your job puts a totally different kind of pressure on you. Whether you’re free or furiously busy, it eats away at you. It starts chiseling away at your temples. You know you’re wasting every second you spend in that office but there’s nothing you can do about it. “Yes, there is.” That’s what some people have said to me. Perhaps. And I do try occasionally. But I’ve lost it. Can’t you see? There’s no more motivation left in me to keep working on my portfolio. I saw an old lady trying to chase a bus. Her arms moved like that of a sprinter. Her legs extended such that she appeared to be trotting. But there was no discernible increase in pace. That’s how I feel. I may go through the motions every now and then (product, sketch book, mulling) but it just isn’t happening for me anymore. And then what? Once again, I wish I knew.

Every time my mom asks how my job is, I tell her that I don’t like it. I say that I’m too free. I say that it’s not what I want to do. But she doesn’t understand. To her, a job is simply that, a job. It’s something you do to earn a living. All the better if you don’t need to do anything. I wish I could think like her. Then I’d stop having to use my salary to justify my situation so often. “The job sucks but the money’s good” is something I’ve said a thousand times in the last 2 months. It’s starting to leave a bitter taste on my tongue.

Perhaps what would make life more bearable here is a buddy. Someone with whom I could talk about anything I wanted to without fear of betrayal or misunderstanding. That’s why I miss working with Suyi and Carine, two wonderful ladies I got to know in my previous agency. They were more than colleagues (now, ex-colleagues), they were (and still are) friends – always supportive, always ready to share a joke or a story or a confession or a Kit Kat. There’s Gavin and Adrian as well who provided as much banter as they did support when I was mulling over my job opportunities.

It may seem that I’m complaining about my co-workers here but I’m not. They’re mostly wonderful people to work with. So much so that sometimes, I feel like I’m working in a church. Everyone’s so friendly and helpful. It’s incredible. But there’s something lacking somewhere. Maybe I just haven’t gotten to know them well enough yet. I still can’t call them friends though I’d dearly like to.

There’s no suitable way to end this whine so I’ll just end it in the conventional manner (with a period).

Light reading

On Economist.com

Evidence that psychopaths are born, not made.

Evidence that psychopaths like big fish.

On Ananova

How late is late? (Pat, take note)

Some things can only happen in Malaysia.