I need a happy dog.

I suppose it’s quite obvious that I’m not a big fan of the family dog. Over the years, I’ve described her as stupid, noisy, smelly and a bit of an evolutionary mistake. I’ve complained about her constant bowel movement and the way she barks like a lunatic every time I enter the house.

Things were a little bit different, though, when I got home last night. Instead of the usual helter-skelter, edge of your seat rumpus welcome that I usually get, there was, well, nothing. My ears weren’t bleeding as I made my way into the living room and my ankles hadn’t been chewed off. This left me feeling pretty good. That is until I found her in a corner with her tail between her legs.

I’m sorry to report that, despite my extreme manliness, my heart turned immediately to goo. She looked so utterly miserable that, for no reason at all, I was beside myself with guilt. For the first time in years, I desperately wanted to cheer her up and proceeded to do so by carrying her around and rubbing her behind the ears. But still, her tiny tail refused to budge. I gave her a bone which elicited a mild response but after gnawing at it for a while, she crawled miserably under the bed. I was despondent.

What could have happened? Why wasn’t she her usual yappy self? I can’t possibly loathe a dog that looks this miserable. It’s no fun. No fun at all. In desperation, I tried to lift her spirits again with a bout of playful wrestling but it was hopeless.

So I gave up and trudged back to my room broken-hearted.

Thankfully though, she’s fine now. It might’ve been a mild fever or a stomach upset that got her down. But whatever it is, I just hope that she stays happy. If only just so that I can abhor her more.

They don't deserve a raise unless they fight.

Today, I was listless at work. Nothing held any meaning. I got briefed on something, struggled with it for a bit then rolled over, a beaten man. I proofread an ad and didn’t notice that the “h” in StarHub should be in the upper case. This was later brought to my attention by a suit which should have been highly irritating but wasn’t because it simply didn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.

What, you might be wondering, is the cause of my despair, my utter dismissal of everything I hold dear? Well, this morning, I found out that the president earns more than I do which isn’t depressing in itself. But when you find out that he’s making about three million dollars a year which, incidentally, is about three million more than I get, that’s when you start chugging down the vodka and screaming “Oh God, why?!” Really now, for someone whose job scope consists entirely of shaking hands, sitting down at parties and nodding at a parade commander once every year, I think this a somewhat extravagant price to pay. Indeed, that pain gets even worse when I recall that I myself could have been in this very position if only I’d had the wherewithal to submit my application for the position of president. Yes, I know that I have mentioned this before, but I can’t help but look back fondly on the days when I actually had some ambition.

And then there’re the ministers, all of whom take home in excess of a million dollars a year. Yet, no matter how many parliamentary debates you watch, why they deserve this much remuneration never once becomes apparent. Where’s the disagreement? Where’s the passionate argument? Where’s the good old chair throwing? When I watch a debate, I want to see someone call someone else a no-good-pussy-licker. I want to witness a junior minister walk up to the prime minister and knock his teeth out. I want the womenfolk to make their stand by flashing us their breasts. No wait, I’ll pass on that one. The point is that we, the proletariat, wouldn’t mind paying our leaders exorbitant sums if only they’d give us a little indication that they cared instead of just muttering some unintelligible party-friendly drivel and then sitting back down again, satisfied that no one had understood anything.

Therefore, to ameliorate this problem, I have come up with a brilliant idea. I shall volunteer my services as a speechwriter to the highest bidding minister (or ministers – we’re all one big happy party after all) right now. With my vigorous, riling style making up for your somewhat dim delivery, there is no doubt that you will enhance your image as a man or woman with a passion for the people or, if nothing else, at least the enthusiasm for a good round of unarmed combat. It’ll be like the WWE but for intellectuals. And that’s all-important because, really, we’d be much more willing to pay for that.