Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Here Comes the Crab!
The shitty things you find when your brain hurts, you’re crabby as a seafood salad and certainly in no mood to compromise:
Click image for full effect
WTF??? Of course you know it should be, “HOW MUCH LONGER?”
I understand that the use of the English language varies from culture to culture but I think we can all agree that there is a norm? I don’t have a problem with pidgin English (localized version) for as long as it isn’t passed off as the standard which is effectively what happens when the corrupted usage is perpetrated by a reputable name (the campaign is by a large banking group in the Southeast Asian region) in the popular media.
I’m an advocate of proper usage. I guess that’s what being an ESL teacher (English as a Second Language although I no longer teach at least not right now) does to you. My ears literally throb when I hear bastardized grammar structures but that I can forgive. Yet although it is indeed, permissible in casual conversation, there’s absolutely no excuse for it in formal settings, not especially in print when the effects are decidedly more permanent.
Yep, not even if that ad is supposedly trying to reach its intended audience by speaking their language. It’s just not acceptable. Term switching say, “knickers” for “panties” (British) or “paddock” for “field,” (Aussie) is perfectly fine but total disregard for grammar rules is not. And no, you can’t say otherwise. I’m mulish today, remember?
WTF??? Of course you know it should be, “HOW MUCH LONGER?”
I understand that the use of the English language varies from culture to culture but I think we can all agree that there is a norm? I don’t have a problem with pidgin English (localized version) for as long as it isn’t passed off as the standard which is effectively what happens when the corrupted usage is perpetrated by a reputable name (the campaign is by a large banking group in the Southeast Asian region) in the popular media.
I’m an advocate of proper usage. I guess that’s what being an ESL teacher (English as a Second Language although I no longer teach at least not right now) does to you. My ears literally throb when I hear bastardized grammar structures but that I can forgive. Yet although it is indeed, permissible in casual conversation, there’s absolutely no excuse for it in formal settings, not especially in print when the effects are decidedly more permanent.
Yep, not even if that ad is supposedly trying to reach its intended audience by speaking their language. It’s just not acceptable. Term switching say, “knickers” for “panties” (British) or “paddock” for “field,” (Aussie) is perfectly fine but total disregard for grammar rules is not. And no, you can’t say otherwise. I’m mulish today, remember?
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
EXPOSED: When Good Dreams Go Bad!
Three months on the job and I’m already breaking out in hives as I do when I’m overly stressed. Even an emergency facial proved futile in fixing this abominable pus mountain cultivating itself on my third eye chakra, looking like an organic bindi. It is enjoying itself loads together with its pals, a host of other despicable growths, that decided to party on my face without inviting me.
So I just slunk in my bed, defeated, and just watched one of my fave videos ever, Skid Row’s “I Remember You” several hundred times. It’s a really beautiful song and I swear it will be my wedding theme except that I have no plans of getting hitched and the single is actually reputed to be the best break-up song of all time. Knowing how my life is irony personified however, that just makes it la cancion mas perfecta en mi opinion (here’s hoping to attract more Hispanic readers…hah!).
Sebastian Bach was just so gorgeous that I couldn’t help but cry. I mean, how could someone so beautiful marry a hooker (well, she looks it) with eyebrows in a shape that only Joker could pull off? Worse, they’re still together 13 years, and two teenage sons later…er, sweet?
You just gotta love the hair…
The nostalgia sent me on a video hunting spree which led me to a fairly new episode of MTV Cribs (sometime 2002) where Bas gave a tour of his New Jersey abode which actually looked more like a KISS tribute museum with all the tacky paraphernalia that included a (gasp!) plastic cup laced with Gene Simmon’s blood in the freezer that Bas apparently wrestled other crazed fans for when Gene threw it to the audience in a concert.
More than his icky KISS collection and his wife, Maria’s Joker brows however, what depressed me most is that Bas looked nothing like his gorgeous diva self circa 1991. Then famous for his cocaine-chic emaciation, his Cribs reincarnation was a bloated shadow of his former sex-god glory. By my reckoning, he seems to have slipped into a giant barrel of beer, stayed there for a few weeks, maybe months, and emerged looking like an unfortunate drowning victim, except alive, prior to taping.
Scarily though, I imagined I would still be willing to wash his feet for himlovingly every night, newly drafted Doughboy persona and all. Hey, this is someone I’ve been in love with since I was 11 or 12 so surely this is acceptable behavior?
Anyhow, it turned out that that Cribs episode was shot on a particularly bad day as the Bas has apparently been turning up in every major concert arena of late (and Broadway theaters well, not so recently) looking more like the god of babeosity that he is supposed to be albeit with a bit more weight and a tad more wrinkles. He’s 37 after all.
So what do all of these have to do with anything? With the 2005 VMAs wrapping up amidst the destruction of hurricane Katrina in Miami on Sunday, I just realized that I still want an MTV Moon Man very very very very very badly.
He’s dying to be mine and he knows it…
I miss making videos. I really do. Really really badly. Have I established that fact enough? I was supposed to be the next Michael Gondry. Or Stephane Sednaoui. But fuck it, I wasn’t born a trust fund baby. Like many others in a rut, I am probably not meant to pursue the things that I love, at least not without much grieving and cussing and trashing and kicking.
Surely, I would have turned out wild and direction-less if I were an uh, heiress but at least I wouldn’t have to slave over some thankless job that’s only good for the money. On second thought, maybe I don’t really want to be a Paris Hilton. There sure are more than enough tramps walking the face of the earth already.
So I just slunk in my bed, defeated, and just watched one of my fave videos ever, Skid Row’s “I Remember You” several hundred times. It’s a really beautiful song and I swear it will be my wedding theme except that I have no plans of getting hitched and the single is actually reputed to be the best break-up song of all time. Knowing how my life is irony personified however, that just makes it la cancion mas perfecta en mi opinion (here’s hoping to attract more Hispanic readers…hah!).
Sebastian Bach was just so gorgeous that I couldn’t help but cry. I mean, how could someone so beautiful marry a hooker (well, she looks it) with eyebrows in a shape that only Joker could pull off? Worse, they’re still together 13 years, and two teenage sons later…er, sweet?
The nostalgia sent me on a video hunting spree which led me to a fairly new episode of MTV Cribs (sometime 2002) where Bas gave a tour of his New Jersey abode which actually looked more like a KISS tribute museum with all the tacky paraphernalia that included a (gasp!) plastic cup laced with Gene Simmon’s blood in the freezer that Bas apparently wrestled other crazed fans for when Gene threw it to the audience in a concert.
More than his icky KISS collection and his wife, Maria’s Joker brows however, what depressed me most is that Bas looked nothing like his gorgeous diva self circa 1991. Then famous for his cocaine-chic emaciation, his Cribs reincarnation was a bloated shadow of his former sex-god glory. By my reckoning, he seems to have slipped into a giant barrel of beer, stayed there for a few weeks, maybe months, and emerged looking like an unfortunate drowning victim, except alive, prior to taping.
Scarily though, I imagined I would still be willing to wash his feet for him
Anyhow, it turned out that that Cribs episode was shot on a particularly bad day as the Bas has apparently been turning up in every major concert arena of late (and Broadway theaters well, not so recently) looking more like the god of babeosity that he is supposed to be albeit with a bit more weight and a tad more wrinkles. He’s 37 after all.
So what do all of these have to do with anything? With the 2005 VMAs wrapping up amidst the destruction of hurricane Katrina in Miami on Sunday, I just realized that I still want an MTV Moon Man very very very very very badly.
He’s dying to be mine and he knows it…I miss making videos. I really do. Really really badly. Have I established that fact enough? I was supposed to be the next Michael Gondry. Or Stephane Sednaoui. But fuck it, I wasn’t born a trust fund baby. Like many others in a rut, I am probably not meant to pursue the things that I love, at least not without much grieving and cussing and trashing and kicking.
Surely, I would have turned out wild and direction-less if I were an uh, heiress but at least I wouldn’t have to slave over some thankless job that’s only good for the money. On second thought, maybe I don’t really want to be a Paris Hilton. There sure are more than enough tramps walking the face of the earth already.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
I Think Before You Die You See the Ring
I’m all for fun at work. If it weren’t for employee handbooks condoning tequila shots in the middle of drafting a report, a couple of rounds of Beeropoly would surely be a welcome addition to yet another boring brainstorming session.
So you’d think I’d be the first one to sacrifice a lamb and dance around a fire naked to honor the gods when I discovered six-packs of Guinness Stout and bottles of wine, vodka and brandy in the office pantry last Friday. Was there going to be a party? In a department of five workers it’s probably not a bad thing to have some people over for a bit of socializing. My elation had been ephemeral however when shortly after 5.30pm a bunch of old fuddy-duddies converged at the boss’s office for a drunken night of off-key singing to the accompaniment of some really dreadful guitar strumming.
Not good. At all. Specially if you’re still trying desperately to finish some pointless presentation due on Monday morning before yet another Friday night goes down the drain. I mean there’s no way I’d be slaving over some inane project throughout the night and into the weekend. My weekends are reserved for marathonsleeping partying with nary a thought on the dreadful surprises the following week has in store on the work front.
Since when has the office been the “IT” place for sorry-looking old farts who sport identical comb-overs to party, anyway? I don’t think I could ever listen to “Eye of the Tiger” quite the same way again. It’s an awful awful song as is but butchered by a bunch of wilting seniors? I’m deeply traumatized. Sadako crawling out of my TV screen to scare me to death is nothing compared to what I witnessed.
maybe she wants a shot of Stoli, too...
Still, this might mean gone are the days of having to plot a convoluted scheme just to be able to sneak out of work in the middle of the day for a drink when your daily dose of Zoloft is underperforming. So I shouldn’t prolly be complaining.
Meanwhile, is anyone else bothered that practically everyone is a friggin’ photographer nowadays? Everywhere you go, hordes and hordes of them tote their Manfrottos and indiscriminately click away at anything from clouds resembling Pamela Anderson’s tatas to pond scum that look like George W. Bush and everything else in between. I used to think it took vision and innate creativity to be one but lately, a S$300 digital camera is all a photographer make.
This is all very cool but with even the crappiest of photos turning into Annie Liebowitz masterpieces with a little bit of Photoshopping, I don’t see how photography could still be considered a legitimate skill. I’ve always wanted to be one but it has lost most of its prestige to me now so I guess I’d just be a bum and hope that my mom buys my excuse for my current lack of ambition. Oh, well excuse me while I watch paint dry. I’d need the training for my new career path…
So you’d think I’d be the first one to sacrifice a lamb and dance around a fire naked to honor the gods when I discovered six-packs of Guinness Stout and bottles of wine, vodka and brandy in the office pantry last Friday. Was there going to be a party? In a department of five workers it’s probably not a bad thing to have some people over for a bit of socializing. My elation had been ephemeral however when shortly after 5.30pm a bunch of old fuddy-duddies converged at the boss’s office for a drunken night of off-key singing to the accompaniment of some really dreadful guitar strumming.
Not good. At all. Specially if you’re still trying desperately to finish some pointless presentation due on Monday morning before yet another Friday night goes down the drain. I mean there’s no way I’d be slaving over some inane project throughout the night and into the weekend. My weekends are reserved for marathon
Since when has the office been the “IT” place for sorry-looking old farts who sport identical comb-overs to party, anyway? I don’t think I could ever listen to “Eye of the Tiger” quite the same way again. It’s an awful awful song as is but butchered by a bunch of wilting seniors? I’m deeply traumatized. Sadako crawling out of my TV screen to scare me to death is nothing compared to what I witnessed.
maybe she wants a shot of Stoli, too...Still, this might mean gone are the days of having to plot a convoluted scheme just to be able to sneak out of work in the middle of the day for a drink when your daily dose of Zoloft is underperforming. So I shouldn’t prolly be complaining.
Meanwhile, is anyone else bothered that practically everyone is a friggin’ photographer nowadays? Everywhere you go, hordes and hordes of them tote their Manfrottos and indiscriminately click away at anything from clouds resembling Pamela Anderson’s tatas to pond scum that look like George W. Bush and everything else in between. I used to think it took vision and innate creativity to be one but lately, a S$300 digital camera is all a photographer make.
This is all very cool but with even the crappiest of photos turning into Annie Liebowitz masterpieces with a little bit of Photoshopping, I don’t see how photography could still be considered a legitimate skill. I’ve always wanted to be one but it has lost most of its prestige to me now so I guess I’d just be a bum and hope that my mom buys my excuse for my current lack of ambition. Oh, well excuse me while I watch paint dry. I’d need the training for my new career path…
Monday, August 22, 2005
Vengeance is Not Ours, It's God's...*bow*
I went to this al fresco bar, Sanctuary along Orchard Road last Saturday night. The place currently features an acoustic cover band whose lead singer would almost certainly put Rob Thomas out of business with his serious vocal chops. The guy almost looked like Rob Thomas, too. If Rob were hit squarely in the face with a wrecking ball, that is.
I’m still not done shaking my fist in the face of god whimpering ‘why, oh why?’ like the blind child asking for a piece of bread and some mercy in that overused declamation piece. Thank god for Egyptian cotton towels on sale. For a mere S$49, I have somewhere to curl in a fetal position and wail, ‘in luxury,’ if I may add, as the Peri brand’s slogan goes.
About the only thing worse than singers who look nothing like they sound are PSEUDO BLOGGER TROLLS WHO ACT NOTHING LIKE THEY SHOULD!
I don’t know about you but I wouldn’t make a movie review without seeing the movie first. So what’s up with these arrogant assf*cks who feel it to be their place to comment on an issue like they know every little circumstance that surrounds it? Even more infuriating, they feel like they know you enough as to actually tell you what to do.
I mean, don’t tell me to “get over it” when you don’t know why I wrote what I wrote to begin with, okay? I mean, why should your opinion matter, again? If you’re a Giga member or someone who has contributed substantially to the welfare of humanity, then I might just consider what you have to say even if I don’t know you. Otherwise, you’re non-existent in my book especially if all you’re going to be is some annoying critic with nothing important or constructive to share.
Please don’t be so haughty as to act like you know me when your sole basis is this blog. You can probably read all the entries in here and you won’t even come close to within one percent of knowing my true person so, don’t even try? For your sake? Sheesh…
And I thought disabling the comments feature will prune out all the smarty asses but apparently not…oh, well…
DO NOT FEED TROLLS
May you be kicked by an incontinent camel, thou plaything of Beelzebub!
Again, special thanks to the Ship of Fools people for their ever brilliant and handy Biblical Curse Generator
ON THE RAVE SIDE…
Kimi Raikkonen became the first driver in history to win the inaugural Turkish GP yesterday. It would have been a perfect day for Mc Laren if only Juan Pablo Montoya didn’t get a sudden attack of imbecility during the penultimate lap. He swerved off the road in truescatter-brained Montoya fashion allowing Renault’s Fernando Alonso to beat him to the chequered flag in second place. God, he’s totally useless and I really don’t know what Ron Dennis was thinking when he signed him to the team. Even if JP were the only driver left in the universe together with Alex Yoong, I’d take Alex. At least his incompetence on track had been mildly amusing. Juan Pablo’s is just plain maddening!
But nothing a plateful of Swedish meatballs cannot remedy. Who would have thought IKEA would have the best meatballs in town?
hmmm…divine!
Well, it prolly goes without saying since it’s a Swedish store and all but I didn’t think the in-store café would have some of the best grubs around as far as casual dining goes. The poached salmon was tasty and the cheesecake among the best I’ve tasted, too.
Now, I feel a haiku coming:
Round like ping-pong balls
Swimming in rich yummy sauce
Oh, keep them coming
Now, please say you’d come back? Please?
RANDOM USELESS INFO:
Someone found my site using the search words, "jiggling boob pic" at MSN search! Whoohoo! ;)
EDIT: 21 December 2005
Alright. Due to the overwhelming number of surfers who reach this page looking for a copy of the declamation piece referred to in this post's title, I decided to give in...again...and grant your wish. So just click on the title and get your very own copy of this award-winning masterpiece...NOT! kthx...
I’m still not done shaking my fist in the face of god whimpering ‘why, oh why?’ like the blind child asking for a piece of bread and some mercy in that overused declamation piece. Thank god for Egyptian cotton towels on sale. For a mere S$49, I have somewhere to curl in a fetal position and wail, ‘in luxury,’ if I may add, as the Peri brand’s slogan goes.
About the only thing worse than singers who look nothing like they sound are PSEUDO BLOGGER TROLLS WHO ACT NOTHING LIKE THEY SHOULD!
I don’t know about you but I wouldn’t make a movie review without seeing the movie first. So what’s up with these arrogant assf*cks who feel it to be their place to comment on an issue like they know every little circumstance that surrounds it? Even more infuriating, they feel like they know you enough as to actually tell you what to do.
I mean, don’t tell me to “get over it” when you don’t know why I wrote what I wrote to begin with, okay? I mean, why should your opinion matter, again? If you’re a Giga member or someone who has contributed substantially to the welfare of humanity, then I might just consider what you have to say even if I don’t know you. Otherwise, you’re non-existent in my book especially if all you’re going to be is some annoying critic with nothing important or constructive to share.
Please don’t be so haughty as to act like you know me when your sole basis is this blog. You can probably read all the entries in here and you won’t even come close to within one percent of knowing my true person so, don’t even try? For your sake? Sheesh…
And I thought disabling the comments feature will prune out all the smarty asses but apparently not…oh, well…
May you be kicked by an incontinent camel, thou plaything of Beelzebub!
Again, special thanks to the Ship of Fools people for their ever brilliant and handy Biblical Curse Generator
ON THE RAVE SIDE…
Kimi Raikkonen became the first driver in history to win the inaugural Turkish GP yesterday. It would have been a perfect day for Mc Laren if only Juan Pablo Montoya didn’t get a sudden attack of imbecility during the penultimate lap. He swerved off the road in true
But nothing a plateful of Swedish meatballs cannot remedy. Who would have thought IKEA would have the best meatballs in town?
hmmm…divine!Well, it prolly goes without saying since it’s a Swedish store and all but I didn’t think the in-store café would have some of the best grubs around as far as casual dining goes. The poached salmon was tasty and the cheesecake among the best I’ve tasted, too.
Now, I feel a haiku coming:
Swimming in rich yummy sauce
Oh, keep them coming
Now, please say you’d come back? Please?
RANDOM USELESS INFO:
Someone found my site using the search words, "jiggling boob pic" at MSN search! Whoohoo! ;)
EDIT: 21 December 2005
Alright. Due to the overwhelming number of surfers who reach this page looking for a copy of the declamation piece referred to in this post's title, I decided to give in...again...and grant your wish. So just click on the title and get your very own copy of this award-winning masterpiece...NOT! kthx...
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Cherries on Top?
Note to self: BE surfers do not appreciate tasteless haikus…
If I stop writing them would you promise to vote for me? Or even just consider the possibility? Please? With peanut butter on top? No? Oh, well…
I recently came across a blogger who was ranting about how she could never seem to win in Battle of the Blogs. It’s something I have never tried so I gave it a go. I mean, how hard is it to win these battles anyway? I thought my layout and content are competitive enough to win a few head-to-heads but boy, was I wrong!
A dozen battles and some 150 creditsdown the drain later, and John Gochnaur’s batting average is looking like the record of a lifetime in comparison.
Now, I don’t mind losing to the witty diarists in the BE community so much but when you can’t even win over a wretched porn site, you tend totinker with the idea of posting a few nude pictures of your own question God whatever the hell happened to basic human decency…hmmm…
If I stop writing them would you promise to vote for me? Or even just consider the possibility? Please? With peanut butter on top? No? Oh, well…
I recently came across a blogger who was ranting about how she could never seem to win in Battle of the Blogs. It’s something I have never tried so I gave it a go. I mean, how hard is it to win these battles anyway? I thought my layout and content are competitive enough to win a few head-to-heads but boy, was I wrong!
A dozen battles and some 150 credits
Now, I don’t mind losing to the witty diarists in the BE community so much but when you can’t even win over a wretched porn site, you tend to
Friday, August 12, 2005
Oh, yeah? Oh, yeah!
I was reading Sarcomical’s blog and was inspired by her phantasmagorical haikus so I decided to attempt one of my own:
Friggin’ dunderhead
Disgrace to the human race
Eat my daisy dukes*
*Dedicated to the high-bred poet that hears voices in hisempty head.
Disgrace to the human race
Eat my daisy dukes*
*Dedicated to the high-bred poet that hears voices in his
Monday, August 08, 2005
Hat Trick
I’m on a roll, y’all! I just reached Confucius-level wisdom. I am now officially a great sage.
I’ve been putting off going to the salon since I came to Singapore. To be honest, I’m wary about getting my hair done in here. Of course, my concerns are almost certainly unfounded but I have an über talented hairdresser back home who can whip up any hairstyle I request him to do so yes, I’ve been spoilt. My growing pains proved much stronger than my paranoia however so despite my apprehensions, I decided to take the plunge and get that hair cut on Sunday.
I took all the necessary precautions that will make any (fashion) paramedic proud. I brought a photo (however cheezy) similar to the style I want which any halfway decent hairstylist should be able to approximate and opted for a pricier salon which should logically have better standards. I was careful. So, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS FRIGGIN’ ABOMINATION DOING AT THE TOP OF MY HEAD!?
Not only did the idiot stylist insisted on giving me a totally different cut but he also took a long time crafting this ridiculous facsimile of a sham of a hairstyle that makes Richard Simmons’ coif look absolutely fab.
I’m Ally McBeal circa Season 4 reincarnated, instant dork extraordinaire with a bad fringe. The layering at the bottom is hideous, too. Like the clod used a soup spoon and a butter knife instead of scissors.
Lesson learned?
Always bring brass knuckles to the salon to punch idiot stylist with. Really.
I’ve been putting off going to the salon since I came to Singapore. To be honest, I’m wary about getting my hair done in here. Of course, my concerns are almost certainly unfounded but I have an über talented hairdresser back home who can whip up any hairstyle I request him to do so yes, I’ve been spoilt. My growing pains proved much stronger than my paranoia however so despite my apprehensions, I decided to take the plunge and get that hair cut on Sunday.
I took all the necessary precautions that will make any (fashion) paramedic proud. I brought a photo (however cheezy) similar to the style I want which any halfway decent hairstylist should be able to approximate and opted for a pricier salon which should logically have better standards. I was careful. So, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS FRIGGIN’ ABOMINATION DOING AT THE TOP OF MY HEAD!?
Not only did the idiot stylist insisted on giving me a totally different cut but he also took a long time crafting this ridiculous facsimile of a sham of a hairstyle that makes Richard Simmons’ coif look absolutely fab.
I’m Ally McBeal circa Season 4 reincarnated, instant dork extraordinaire with a bad fringe. The layering at the bottom is hideous, too. Like the clod used a soup spoon and a butter knife instead of scissors.
Lesson learned?
Always bring brass knuckles to the salon to punch idiot stylist with. Really.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Apocalypse Now
I turn 27 today. Do you realize how many uber talented, rich, famous and beautiful people have died at this age?
Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison...the list goes on and on...
God, I should be careful...
Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison...the list goes on and on...
God, I should be careful...
Monday, August 01, 2005
Another Lesson Learned...(At This Rate, I'd be Confucius in No Time!)
A public service announcement:
When your favorite Swiss Herb Lozenge plainly states that taking 10 in a span of 1-2 hours may have laxative effects, please do not ignore it then consume the whole box in like 15 minutes.
As I did.
Well, the new blackcurrant flavor was a little hard to resist but still, you’ll thank me for it.
Trust me.
Really.
Powered for Blogger by Blogger Templates
When your favorite Swiss Herb Lozenge plainly states that taking 10 in a span of 1-2 hours may have laxative effects, please do not ignore it then consume the whole box in like 15 minutes.
As I did.
Well, the new blackcurrant flavor was a little hard to resist but still, you’ll thank me for it.
Trust me.
Really.
