chaka chaka

we were having a discussion of sorts about my french and a question (read: challenge) was posed: if you don’t swear for a whole day, will you die? which offshot to another debate about what constitutes as swearing; 4-letter words: fuck, dick (richard?), damn (i disagree, it’s a friendly admonition), shit (is a beautiful, natural human byproduct, not an obscenity); tone of voice (hello!) and psychical gestures (which we didn’t cover). and i thought, hey, why not, as i got into my car, headed home.

20 minutes later…

as i pull into subang, a car 15 meters in front brakes, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it ever-so-slightly. then as i’m passing him on the right at not-so-safe-on-a-bend 80kmh, he veers abruptly into my lane, forcing me to stop and honk (meeeeeep). the bastard (8-letter triple score), then flops an arm out of his window in apology. or what i assumed was an apology. it better have been sorry you fucktard (8-letter win!).  i stay well and good behind this chromosomally-challenged mofo who, drooling down his popped-collared polo tee,  proceeds to veer right, flicking his right signal on 30-seconds later (WTF) before cutting across 3 lanes to the left at a 60° angle. swerving back to the right, he stops at a traffic light, and just as i was about to count my lucky stars, fucker (6-letter score) guns it into my lane, hogs two traffic lanes and signals left ONCE before cutting in front of me again (foiling my desperate attempt to get home with my temper in tact) before crashing into USJ6.

yeah, so maybe i can’t go a full 24-hours without swearing. but i can launch into a 30-minute swear fest, starting. now.

usually i leave my msn status blank. sometimes it has an office joke or BFF inside scoop. last week, for reasons i can’t remember, it was “TAKSEDARDIRI”. probably just channeling my thoughts out into the big blue world. quite a few people asked me about it. “like, yo, dawg, who is it?” and as i tried to form an answer, i realised, that there are just too many people who are unaware of what big gaping turds for brains they are aka what super inflated bloated ideas of their soggy selves they have aka geez louise please, wake the fuck up, you douche.

i mean i do believe it your perogative to be insane and whiny about things. but oh, to be such a towering hypocrite. oh, the agony it causes me, marring my perfect existence. but to survive the mundane passing of the minutes (oh the grind) i’ve taken it upon myself to indulge in a 20-minute rant.

1. kids (ref: age)
   what are kids smoking these days? it’s like someone secretly bumped up the legal age of thinking because they’re just such deluded, arrogant sons-of-bitches history has ever seen. if you haven’t yet had to lift a finger and earn you own goddamned money, what right then, little princess piehole, do you have swaggering around in your branded goods, feeling like you are 10 times better than a regular human being? brag brag brag oh my tokidoki, my laura mercier, my daddy’s citibank platinum card, my mercedes benz, i’m such a giant human bloodsucker, me!
2. kids (ref: attitude)
   oh con-fucking-gratulations, you’ve managed to sweat/breeze your way into advertising – the fucking cutting-edge industry where office walkways are paved in gold bricks shat by the messiah love child (of mr. french and mr. droga no less) – and suddenly you’re a god. o ye runty accountants and programmers, bow down before me, the great telco copywriter. hey douchebag, feigning exhaustion from “all the parties we creatives get invited to” and giving writing tips (like blogging) and acting “blasé” about beer in the office fridge just means you are not. nonchalance is something you fail at. so why not squirt your pants everytime the CD gives you a smile. burn some incense to that golden pencil totem you keep under your desk. but please, stop that my-balls-are-as-big-as-edwin leong’s head swagger. you bragged about working on DiGi to a fucking multiple cannes winner. why not just shoot yourself and spare the world another alcoholic has-been  in the making.
3. being underground
   yes, darlings, we know. if you listen to a band that no one else in Klang Valley has heard of, you not only get dibs, but you also win hippest elite indie hipster award which entitles you to your own tropical island, 20 tonnes of hash, and the respect and admiration of all around you. continue believing that. and have fun listening to music that sucks, movies that induce vomitting and nausea and literature that you cannot fathom without the 18-book Oxford dictionary set.  have fun making snide comments about the general population and their plebian tastes. asswipe.
4. being non-conformist
   i hope one day you cultivate the intelligence to appreciate the irony. i’m very sure you actually created a wholly original thought/ideology/theory which is so out of the box, you win at life. just like how i’m sure you liked tattoos before they were cool. or maybe your tattoos actually have real intrinsic meaning (read: fugly as a million deformed hipsters) unlike those other posers. and oh, you refuse to discuss their meaning lest it completely disfigures the beauty of the faceless kurt halsey monstrosity you have on your back (btw, your mom was too nice. i would have disowned any retard who’d pay legal tender for something that hideous). you might as well throw out all your lesportsac bags too, seeing as how it’s suddenly gotten all commercial, y’know after you read about it on the fucking internet and in fucking fashion magazines.
5. unhappy family
   daddy substituting his attention with bribes? cry me a fucking river. went to a local college, deprived of that once-in-a-lifetime overseas experience? there’s still something called mail-order bride service, go on, sign up for it. parents “hate” you? ha! my mom is crazy and she still loves me, you loser! your family not well-off enough to your highness’ liking? why not exchange your cushy terrace house for a low-rent flat, we’ll throw in a free handful of perspective. ungrateful whiny bitches.
6. c00l g33ks
   now that thousands of socially awkward, bespectacled dorks have paved the way by 1) making shitloads of money 2) making shitloads of money and 3) making shitloads of money. and now everyone wants in. and no no no. tweaking html or php or MySQL databases does not make you a 1337 programmer. posting photo how-to guides does not make you an uber blogger, you’re probably just a ninny-pated 14-year old girl. reading QC does not make you a 1337 indie freak. knowing every single release date of every single from every big band screaming “MUSIC IS MAI LAIF!” does not make you a music g33k. playing quake does not make you a g4m3 g0d (unless your name is whir or guitarman or otakon). you, are just a trendy, band-waggon-hopping douche with a twitter account.
7. has-beens without ever being
   “i’ve been working for 20 years. i have bla bla bla in my portfolio. i rubbed shoulders with so and so and so.” of course, a quick fact check brings up no such thing. delivering papers for 19 and a half years and art directing for 6 months does not equate to 20 years of industry experience. half the work in your book sucks; the other half, you merely tagged your name on while the real brains behind it was too busy doing actual work. and by the way, nearly all the aforementioned people have any idea who in frozen hell you are, the rest hate you. so stop name-dropping. the only way you’re every going to reach the top is by boot-licking, rim-jobbing, dog-walking, and other household activities too vague and unmentionable. go, you, new creative group head.

so down me a warm, steaming cup of shut the frackin’ hell up.

maxis called me today about the horrendous connection at home. and meh, i’m psychic.

months and months back, the usj5 residents (WHOOPS, NOW YOU KNOW WHERE I LIVE) were protesting against a telecommunications tower somewhere next to a frackin’ playground. and what do you know? majlis perbandaran subang jaya actually took their complaints/petioning/whining seriously and disabled the tower.

so currently maxis is searching for a nice shiny place for their new tower. ’scuse me? no lockdown on location, permit etc. i’ll be living in a black hole until then.

who the fuck complained about it being a health hazard? are they all fucking technophobes (or techno-ginists)? phone waves screwing up your astro wah lai toi service isit? STFU. go do some sewing and cooking like a real grandma. health hazard? how long do you think you’re gonna live anyway? your crappy canto-serials all have sucky endings anyway: the main guy dies, the heroine is a slut, and everyone else are losers, so fuck you!

ARGH

i’m going to hold everyone at arm’s length now.

how do you explain disappointment or genuinely hurt feelings without coming off whiny?

WELL, SORRY, BITCHES BUT YOU CAN’T.

i’ll preserve this macho façade (which protects my warm chocolate centre) with this non-confrontational, passive/aggressive stance.  think i’m getting more and more comfortable with it.

oh, but if you are someone who has voluntarily distanced yourself from me or who has irreparably hurt me, you still have no right to wonder how i am or miss me.

*W*

Emerg. calls only

maxis is really fucking with us. what happened? did someone lop down a telecommunications tower in usj? fucking hell.

zouk management have to find someone with more tech smarts. i get denied entry because i’m not in the group.

and mr adam mathews did promise free entry plus a jug of something. well, fuck that. i don’t want your damn drink. wtf.

if i’m posting on the damn wall, it’s obvious that i am a member, duh.

if i wasn’t a member, could i do this? truth be told, i’m way more cheesed off at the lack of IT savvy than i am at the perpetual screw ups. if karma wants to make it so hard for me to go to lapsap at barsonic, so be it. there’s always palate (walaupun twice a year).

fuck. i’m not going to zouk any more.

to the fucker WPV 9363 in his nissan x-trail who tailed/flashed/honked me while i was doing fucking 95mph kmh on the highway with another vehicle less than a car’s length in front of me, i hope you enjoyed the finger because that’s going to be the closest thing your syphilis, herpes, hepatitis, scabies, gonorrhea, MONO-ridden self will ever get to another sexual encounter.

may your jeans always be too tight at the ankles but loose at the waist.

may you one day miraculously awake with the most acute sense of smell known to humankind and in turn be afflicted by a million body odour-wafting pits.

may your mother always be regaling the most embarrassing childhood moments to your colleagues and superiors (and potential mates, as if, you loser!) like that time she found a used, well-lubricated carrot in your underwear drawer.

may you grow a luxuriant coat of back-hair that reaches all the way up, indistinguishable from your hairline and sideburns, turning you into walking human beard.

well, what i’m trying to say is:

FUCK YOU

from hennessy zouk flyer:

TERMS & CONDITIONS:
This event is BY INVITATION ONLY. Entry with the E-Invite is restricted between 7.30pm – 10.30pm only. Entry is restricted to patrons 23 years and above only and club rules apply. Zouk Club KL reserves the rights to refuse entry.

so, no patrons under 23 and no sunnies, hats, beanies, jerseys. no exception.

unless you’re an attractive female blogger/party-goer.

then you can be 19.

come on la. if you want to be douchebags, still have to play fair.

no round-collar tees

no football jerseys

no hats

no beanies

no sunnies

why don’t you call my mom and ask her what else i like, then you can add it to your list of don’ts. cibai.

daily mail is just a bunch of tosh (to borrow one of their stiff-upper lip phrases.

short hair means women uninterested in sex?

Is short hair a conscious – or unconscious – signal that a woman is not interested in sex? The question was raised this week by sex therapist and former comedienne Pamela Stephenson, who believes ‘deliberately reducing one’s attractiveness’ can sometimes be a way of repelling men’s interest.

i’m so sorry i’m so damn unnatractive and repulsive with my short cuts. i never imagined it was linked to some deep-seated misandry and a general frigid cow-ness. o woe is me, bereft of any charm or beauty and deprived of sexual advances and in dire need of male attention to survive.

commedienne and sex therapist indeed . wtf!