Shrine in the Ether

As you may have noticed, I pulled down the last two posts that I recently made for seriously, what was I thinking? O_o

Mr. Ripper hadn’t been quite as proud of me as it’s so unlike me to take anything so earnestly and it well, ruined the snarky, darkly humorous mood that this blog has always had. So, here’s to make up for my momentary insanity lapse in judgment.

A while back, a blogger troll, let’s call him “Mr. Troll”, and his pathetic crony, let’s call her, uh, “Crhony,” posted some really delicious nasty comments on his blog involving moi as according to him, “this is my blog. i can write whatever i want here.” Right…however moronic presumptive his accusations have been. Somebody call the World Police, someone is abusing his freedom of speech.

Anyway, I won’t go into details as I now realize it had been a mistake to have even given this non-issue my time of day but suffice it to say that I posed an innocent question (about Mr. Troll's descent) with which I swear I didn’t mean to denigrate but which Mr. Troll (and the Chrony) took personally accusing me of supposedly ‘labeling’ him, like as if I mistook him for an old VHS tape or something. How weird is that? Although it’s true that I loved labeling everything I owned using a Dymo label maker as a kid and had I still had that cool machine, I would have gladly made one for him: P-R-I-C-K. Just perfect.

So then, Mr. Prick even went so far as to say that I have no business to "decide that [I] know what he is, better than [he does]." Eh? I actually made that decision? Jesus in a car seat! I must have been under the Imperius Curse! Someone call Dumbledore to reverse the hex, quick!

At no point did I claim to know what he is, no? I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. I would have worded it as a statement if I were 'labeling' as he claims. And can I just say that I typed in that query in a whim? I’m not interested in Mr. Troll’s heritage. At. All. He doesn't seem to be very interesting to begin with. He could be half-ass, half-cow, which clearly he is, (I told him that) for all I care!

Then Mr. Troll felt it his place to talk down on people and made some really derogatory remarks saying he doesn’t care what I am, like as if he were referring to a paperclip or a piece of chewed gum. Oh, and this is supposed to be a person who wrote that particular entry because he felt I was being discriminatory? Que horreur! How much more contradictory can you get?

Lastly, he flaunted his education to my face (a degree in Asian American Studies, WTF? Am I supposed to be impressed?! Hail to you, oh Mr. Troll!), never mind that it obviously didn’t have the desired effect that an education is supposed to have on people. It's supposed to make you civilized, you know? Enough to NOT be irrationally incensed by a remark the circumstances with which asked, you're not sure of.

And yep, in case you have been zoning out all this time, Mr. Troll turned out to be a MAN. Wow. That is like the most surprising revelation ever, at least since the Charmed ones blew Cole’s cover as “The Source” or that Tom Cruise is stark raving mad. I mean we all suspected as much, but still.

Mr. Troll sure is way too whiny and űber catty for a guy so I initially mistook him for a girl. Not that we, women are catty and whiny but it is indeed more in our nature to be so, no thanks to our predisposition to mood swings especially around that time of the month.

So anyway, I now learned my lesson not to address a retarded opinion by some stuck-up assf*ck (not especially at 3 in the morning after a long hard day of work) no matter how flattering offensive it may be. It’s not worth it, I tell you. After all, the only opinion that should matter to us is from those who do not hear voices in their heads do not have demons in them do not have major issues we care about.

Dear j,

Thou shalt be cast onto a steaming dung-heap, O thou who art a byword for idiocy!*

Sugar

*Special thanks to Biblical Curse Generator.

I used to love Aerosmith. Never as much as I love U2 but I really liked them, you know? All those fun songs, Janie’s Got a Gun, Walk This Way, Blind Man, Crazy, Deuces are Wild, but then they started singing about missing a “pig” and wanting to be an insomniac which was the theme song of a wretched movie where people did nothing but climb up mountains for the whole two hours, like it was a mountain-climbing movie, no? It proved to be a disastrous move (no thanks to you, Liv) and it’s been all the way downhill for them after that.


The culprit…

In fact, they have started to dig. I'm sending them a shovel and a spade right this minute and I encourage you to do so, too although they probably won't need any help with the digging...So will someone please tell my co-worker to stop tuning to that station that plays that dreadful sham of a song over and over? It’s about as classic as yesterday’s newspaper, okay?

It doesn’t help that this station’s other most wanted single is the one by my favorite singing robot (oh, she’s the only one there is?) called “Inside You’re Just Begging for A Dirty Joke Title” (TM Jacob). Can you say eew?

*Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the friggin' station just decided to play the stupid song right when I'm waxing lyrical about it!

Eew.

What should women smell like?

Candy, that’s what. Or freesias. Or freshly mown grass. Or blueberry muffins. Or leather. Anything really. Anything but MORNING BREATH, that is!!!

I went to a meeting this morning on some artsy-fartsy museum project we’re currently working on and we were greeted by a girl with a cool boho chic fashion sense that made me wish I worked in a museum instead. Loved the flowing hair, loved the frilly skirt, loved the Jesus sandals, loved most of her that is until she opened her friggin’ mouth.

Jesus in a car seat (TM PiKKeL WeeZel)! it was 10.30 am for heaven’s sake and I expect for those bristles on a stick (read: toothbrush) to have touched those ivories (more like canaries…canary yellow, actually) by then. Can I just say you’re not supposed to have a stinky mouth when you’re meeting with people on business, not especially for the first time?!

God, talk about first impressions. I don’t care if she has Einstein’s IQ (she doesn’t) there’s just no excuse for not practicing super basic hygiene. If it’s not her thing, how hard is it to pop in a mint, for crying out loud?

I didn’t have breakfast as usual and my empty stomach + girl’s kiss of death combo proved to be a lethal mix. God, people sometimes amaze me. Okay, make that most times. I considered throwing up on her but excused myself instead. I wouldn’t want to confound myself, too you know?

This has got to be a joke! Tell me that Bin Laden is in fact, St. John the Baptist reincarnated and I would be more apt to believe it.

The silver arrow failed Kimi Raikkonen yet again. Leading by 11.3 seconds after 36 laps at Hockenheim and the MP4-20's transmission just had to lock-up...Ooooooh! I'm really this close to flying all the way to England, break into the McLaren headquarters, find those pathetic Mercedes engines, blow them into smithereens and feed every miserable nut and bolt to those inept McLaren engineers responsible for those cursed engines' development. What good is a fast car when it cannot friggin' finish a goddamn race???

Aaaargh!!! Kurashitte kudasai!

Oh, my friggin’ lord, enough already! For a highly-developed, cosmopolitan city, Singapore sure could be quite so backwards.

Two weeks after the CEO of a charity organization stepped down from his position amidst controversy regarding his salary package amongst others, Singaporeans are still screaming for his blood in a manner that would put Herod and Caiaphas to shame. (You may throw in Pontius Pilate into the equation for good measure...) And I thought good education cures narrow-mindedness…oh, well…

The general sentiment is that the CEO in question misused the organization’s funds. Never mind that he was single-handedly responsible for making the NKF the world-admired charity it now is. The public resents his S$25,000 a month salary, his first-class business trips, the fleet of service vehicles he had at his disposal, the bathroom in his office and even the gold-plated taps didn’t escape denigration. (Oh, those poor taps!)

Honestly, I don’t see why this should be a big deal. CEO’s everywhere else in this country earn an average of S$43,000 monthly, and private jets and other such perks are not exactly unheard of in other industries. Still, people assert that the deposed CEO is supposed to have some kind of moral obligation with the charity’s money coming from the people...yada, yada, yada...Hello? Can I just say that he in fact, served the charity for FREE for 23 years? And that even now, his salary is about 40% lower than average? If I were the Pope, I’d see to his canonization immediately. No one endures twenty years of school, in the process breaking the family’s piggy bank, to end up poor, no?

Apparently since the NKF is a charity the public expects its CEO (and its paid professional volunteers) to be dressed in rags and to subsist purely on gruel and hard bread. And heaven forbid that he fly business-class to a meeting in America or Europe! He should take one of those standing-room only budget airlines where you need to pay separately for the stale sandwich and cold coffee served for lunch.

Even the organization’s practice of hiring professionals instead of volunteers to handle its marketing affairs is currently under scrutiny. Doesn’t anyone even realize that this is the very reason why the charity is so successful? Well, none seem to. People are supposedly so distrustful now of charities that they are wary about donating to them. Oh, puhleeze…most do not have a drop of compassion running through their veins, anyway. The fact is, those who do not, and have not contributed a single cent are also those who whine the loudest. The horror! The hypocrisy!

Also, no one else seems to be bothered by the fact that the media is monopolized by the opposing party. The one that dutifully exposed the NKF’s ‘juicy’ secrets to the public and purposefully printed uber unflattering pictures of the CEO obviously in an attempt to make him seem like the criminal he isn't.

If anything, they exposed nothing more than the public’s ignorance and insularity…disappointing, to say the least…especially when your comments get deleted at the Channel News Asia forum boards because it's the only one that presents an argument to the contrary.

Heaven help me. I may as well be in Burkina Faso in the 9th century.

Quick! Someone get me a fake ID and a one-way ticket to Tahiti.

I’m joining the Witness Protection Program and assuming a new identity as a voodoo master specializing on rekindling lost love and offers lessons on thwarting the evil eye from Monday to Saturday (accepts laundry jobs on Sundays). Should anyone ask, I got my PhD in Sorcery from an authentic Haitian hocus-pocus university shortly after falling victim to a wicked witch doctor who turned me into a zombie. Yes, a real, honest-to-goodness zombie (ghastly shards of rotting skin optional) not the kind I turn into at work on Monday mornings…

Anyway, so this witch doctor’s wife ruined her third cauldron of gumbo in as many days, this time putting way too much salt, and unwittingly fed me the whole pot to cover-up her tracks and avoid being turned into a stinky, warty toad after her sorcerer hubby threatened to do so, fed up with her lack of culinary skills. Well, he could render a clove of garlic unrecognizable with just a blow of a rusty old cleaver, you know? He’s earned his props as a kitchen divo.

If at this point you’re poor brain is already in knots, know that salt is supposedly the counter-charm to a zombie curse. So, to make the long story short, I snapped back to my senses, got a good facial (to get rid of the ghastly shards of rotting skin, yes, yes…), and a full Ayurvedic massage, to boot (well, life had been um, quite stiff…) and became a full-fledged, friendly neighborhood, Voodoo Mistress (part-time laundry woman) at your service.

Yes, I’ve given this plan some thought, okay, a lot of thought…can you tell? Here’s why:

6.30-7.30 wake-up/prep for work
7.30-8.30 commute to work
8.30-5.30 Work! Work! Work!
5.30-7.30 Work some more…yep, I’m a slave to the grind…
7.30-8.30 commute from work
8.30 home

Yes, I’ve become an easy target for socio-pathic, serial killers who are on the prowl for their next victim…I now have a gasp! – daily routine…

…just like my geeky high school Math teacher, and the cranky old banker next door, and mum’s frumpy accountant friend.

No offense to those who have a daily routine (although lots of luck with those pychos…) but I’m someone who wasn’t supposed to have one! Why else would I get a communications degree? I was supposed to space-out, cram, party, clown, ram, panic and jam, and then do these in all possible variations and permutations! But here I am instead, working in a supposedly creative environment but where everyone’s move is calculated down to the trajectory of the balled-up piece of paper expected to hit the rim of the trash basket in 1.76 seconds flat at a speed of 110mph. Sometimes, I fear that people here could be androids…or just boring…or both…Oh, is it 11.53 am already? Excuse me but my sked says I need to go to the loo…

I’m reminding me more and more of Tara Reid lately. And how I wish I mean the sexy, freshly-scrubbed version but it’s actually more like the downtrodden American Pie 2 Tara with the eye luggage the size of original 1854 Louis Vuitton flat trunks! I swear my eyeballs would literally fall off their sockets if I don’t get enough sleep soon. Some gross but fairly accurate visuals there...

zoom in on this photo and you’d know what I mean…better yet, just watch AP2 again…

The fact is, I’ve finally managed to patch things up with the Sandman…insomnia more or less under control but I still refuse to turn in early even if I can because hello? I just like subjecting myself to barbaric rituals such as sleep deprivation for instance, no?

Well, it’s actually more like out of habit having gone to bed no earlier than 4 or 5 am for the longest time and my body seems to be rejecting the idea of sleep but self-imposed suffering is chic nowadays, you know? So, I'm sticking to my barbaric ritual claim...

I'm actually hoping that my lack of sleep will inspire erm, my public to initiate a website in my honor…I won’t mind being at the center of a “Let Drizzle* Rest” campaign (*name changed to protect the identity of the person involved...)

I can envision it already…t-shirts, caps, mugs, ballpens, the whole caboodle all with my name on them!

And please don’t forget to sign the petition. I’d pretend to be angry and hurt and threaten to sue all of you together with your whole family up to the nth degree of affinity - even Fido won’t ecape my wrath - for making fun of my self-imposed disease when you’re supposed to understand the pressure I’m going through to be perfect and be compassionate about my plight…right.

I hate short lunches. It’s right up there with world hunger, the Iraq war and Katie Holmes.

Meals for me are like minor social events and are thus, treated as such. Hell, I would even pile on the Bvlgari and put on a Balenciaga, only I own neither. Lunchtime is when my mind finally kicks into activity after a whole morning of basically hobbling around like er, some hobbling thingy. It’s when I can, yet again, dazzle my adoring public (a.k.a. my friends back home) with (uber) stylized narratives of my latest escapade albeit one that took place in my own backyard. It’s when I can pretend I’m a trust fund baby, feasting on my fillet mignon, totally forgetting about the fact that I’m a slave to the grind probably doomed to work my butt off till I’m 65 and eligible for Social Security. So, bite me if I’m currently devising an evil plot that will have these people I currently work and grudgingly have lunch with at the receiving end of a pebble-loaded blowgun firing spree.

I’ve always known that the Chinese eat fast but I thought it was because there are usually at least 6 dishes in a lauriat meal so food is gobbled down at a frantic pace to make sure they get to sample every (mushroom) dish available, no? But since I’m talking about simple, single-course lunches (two-course if you consider Fish and Chips two separate dishes) and not wedding party-type lauriats, I’m really wondering what the rush is about.

By the time I put in a forkful (or chopstick-full?) in my mouth, everyone else on the table is already washing down his meal with a demitasse of hot milk tea. Eh? It’s almost as if David Copperfield swooped down from nowhere to perform some random ‘disappearing’ magic act on a whim. I swear to God it’s not even five minutes! It takes me far longer to walk the five steps to the bathroom early in the morning.

I suspect that they merely snort the food down their noses. If snorting cocaine gives you an instant high, it’s possible to also get instantly “full” this way, right? So, I set off to put my theory to the test over lunch today. Alas! My subjects turned out to be way sharper than I thought. In the time it took me to slice a chunk of fish fillet, I looked up to see my colleagues’ plates already licked clean!

Oh, well, there’s always tomorrow to play Nancy Drew again…

No one seriously cuts their nails by their desk in the office! I arrived at my work place (fashionably) late this Monday morning to the sight of my colleague casually snipping away at her cuticles by her computer. I must have startled her when I said good morning coz she jumped back a little but then went back to her clipping duties like it’s totally acceptable for people to be grooming themselves in public.

Whada??? Sure, her cubicle is supposed to be her private shrine of some sort but it’s not as private as the Oval Office, you know? I may be being anal here but how different is cutting your nails really from say, brushing your teeth? Would you gargle away happily by your desk? No? I thought so. Yes? Dude, stop taking advice from Tom Cruise. Seriously.

Meanwhile, a guy I work with just came in wearing the same exact pair of pants he donned just last Friday. I would give him the benefit of the doubt that those trousers have seen the insides of a washing machine over the weekend if only he didn’t wear them on Thursday, too. It’s a casual work environment and jeans are actually permitted in the work place and I’m not quite so anal as to say that I wash my own jeans after each wear. Heck, no! Or they’d fade so fast especially those dressy indigo ones that can be oh-so-chic paired with delicate, layered tops. But c’mon, there are certain rules to adhere to here, at least in my book.

First, you never wear the same pair of pants (jeans included) more than once in the same week but if you absolutely must , say you’re having a fat week and those jeans are the only ones that can keep you off Ritalin, then be sure you do it on a Monday and a Friday. There should be enough time for the jeans to erm, aerate in between wearing. Secondly, can I just say that only basic pants can be reworn? You know, plain, nondescript pairs? This guy in the office has been wearing his camouflage pair (!) since Thursday! And from Monday to Wednesday, he sported a pair of basic blue jeans but with embroidery across the hip! Can you get any more telltale than that?

I get the feeling though that these people are not exactly trying to be discreet…it may be a cultural thing, I’m not sure, in which case it still doesn’t make it alright. Or as I said, I may be being anal, in which case, do whack me in the head with a rubber chicken. I won’t whack you back, with a real chicken. I promise.

In other news, Kimi Raikkonen came in second in yesterday’s French GP at Magny Cours. Alonso, who was on pole, took the title but only because he was lucky. Luckier than Kimi, at least. Kimi’s engine blew during Friday practice and was penalized ten places on the grid for requiring an engine change. If he started at number 3 as he originally qualified, he would seriously beat Alonso to a pulp…he’d leave him in the dust on the first turn and lap him at least twice in the same race. Not about to happen though. If there’s one woman Kimi can’t charm, it’s lady luck who’s being as much a bitch to him as she is to me…Still, he came in just 11 seconds behind Alonso from number 13 on the grid…You gotta be a genius to do that. But then, Kimi is not just a genius, he is a god. In fact, I’d gladly lead a cult to venerate him…


I'd kneel before him anytime...;)

We’d have Sunday worships and F1 Guidebook Studies and have fortnightly fund racing (not a typo) programs. It would be cooler than Scientology, I swear, and even people on Prozac can join. If you want to convert sign-up, drop me a line...

And speaking of geniuses, I saw Batman Begins on Saturday. I know, three weeks after it opened in cinemas worldwide but I’ve been life-less busy, you know? I’m not really a fan of superhero movies but Christian Bale so totally rocks as the caped crusader, that I’m seriously going to watch the movie three times more. Seriously.