Hah? Are they serious?

Newcastle United FC sends me e-mail. Sometimes, the e-mails consist of boring club news. Sometimes, they contain juicy transfer rumours (e.g. Fat Freddy is selling his NUFC shares and taking over MU).

Occasionally, I get WHAT?!!? e-mails.

Like this one. Wotthefucksup with the collar? Apa itu blue piping-piping all? Fracking ugly. Poor Owen, he has that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look.

This jersey is even uglier than Liverpool’s floppy labia jersey. I think Adidas is trying to pull a fast one on us. Good try guys!


At least Kuyt the Orc doesn’t model for us.

What a way to wake me up on a Monday morning.



The weekend’s around the corner.

I love weekends.

What I enjoy most is draping myself on the sofa, eyes fixed on the telly – watching football.


What do you mean there’s no football this weekend?


Why, why, why? What am I going to do lah this weekend?



Some people are born geniuses, with cognitive and mental abilities far superior to ours.

Broken Wind is one such person. He is fine specimen, a really brilliant chap. Einstein? Tesla? Newton? Pah, lightweights.

Anyway, one day as Broken Wind was working on the Unified Field Theory (surfing for prawns), his laptop computer crashed, a picture of Pamela Anderson frozen on the screen.

He scratched his head and soothed his karipoop hair. No problems here. He pressed Ctrl+Alt+Del and waited.

Nothing happened.

Hmm. That’s odd. He tried again. Ctrl+Alt+Del.

Pfffttt! The laptop refused to respond. He was still stuck on the same screen.

He poked at the on/off button a couple of times. The laptop did not respond to his prodding.

Poke some more. Poke poke pokey poke. Pamela stared back at him passively, mocking him.

Is that the best you can do?

Would you like to know what he did next?

Continue reading

Phrase of the Month


“This is Sparrrrttttaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”


(Drawing courtesy Frank Miller and Lynn Varley, Dark Horse Comics)

Six Weird Things About Me

Lily tagged me. So I guess I’d better do something about it, besides going over to her place and bonking her on the head (that sounds a little erm… wierd).

Anyway, here goes.

1. I am afraid of papayas.

Big, small, long, pointed, round – it doesn’t matter what size, shape or colour they come in. I am terrified of them. Oh and I’m talking about the real fruit here not erm, nevermind. I grew up in a plantation, and around my house, we had close to fourteen (14) papaya trees. Those huge, yellowish, bland papayas, which we had for dessert after every single meal (breakfast, lunch, dinner, supper) for eight years.

And you thought you were traumatised.

I guess this explains why I am scared of ‘fooking’ huge papayas as well.

2. I sing weird songs all the time.

All by myself. Random people I meet on the street must think that there’s something seriously wrong with me. Here’s a sample:

Tunku Abdul Rahman,
Curi rambutan,
Bagi saya tengok,
Oh kung ng sap man (fined RM50).

Let’s go to the loo,
We’ve got lots of things to do (ahem),
And the food’s that finger licking good…

Charlie Charlie Chit Pom Pom…

Saya Charlie Chickadee,
Sungguh enak sekali,
Siapa nak lagi,
Saya Charlie Chickadee.

Lei kum kei hou yau (Lee Kum Kee oyster sauce),
Chee pong ka chee.

Note: The actual words should have been ‘chan hai hou mei’ which means really tasty. But as a kid, I misheard the lyrics, and thus I ended up singing it as ‘chee pong ka chee’ all these years. Brilliant.

Tora datang lagi,
Teng teng teng teng teng teng!

There was a man from Nantucket,
Had an ayam jantan so long he could suck it,
He said with a grin,
As he wiped off his chin,
If my ear were a tak boleh I’d fakta it.

3. I can’t stand Horlicks too.

Once, when I was twelve, just before boarding a plane, my mama forced me to drink a cup of that thick yellowish semen-like liquid. Bleargh.

Five minutes later, I was purging and throwing up in the toilet. Both at the same time. Imagine trying to reach the sink while you’re stuck on the toilet seat.

One word. Real mess. Brown, white, gooey, smelly stuff everywhere.

Come to think of it, I can’t bear Complan, Sustagen, Nestum and all other drinks with semen-like consistencies. Yuck.

I wonder how Lils… Nevermind. :p

4. I have a pet cicak in my office cabinet.

He does not have a name. Yet.

5. I have the blackest thumbs in the history of the universe.

Whatever I plant own, dies. I had a potted geranium once. I loved it to bits, and so I watered it every single day. With lots and lots and lots and lots and lots and lots and lots aaaaaaand lots of water. It drowned and died.

Currently there’s a small cactus plant in my cubicle. I think it’s dead though – as the poor fella’s kinda brownish and well, sad looking.

6. I am obsessed with that crab catching programme on Discovery.

I want to be a crab catcher when I grow up.

I tag Dreymer, Differ, Spiller and Nine Millimetres.

Bleh Bleh Bleh

This weekend sucks.

I have tons of work to complete, and not enough time nor motivation. I’d much rather spend my weekends flopping and lazing around, watching Discovery Travel and Living. Ian Wright (not the footballer) makes me laugh with his antics. Anthony Bourdain irritates me with his self righteousness.

What’s worse is that there’s no football on the telly. No meaningful games involving important teams, that is. Heh.

I’d much rather watch the All England Open Badminton Championships… Koo Kien Keat and Tan Boon Heong kicked some major Danish ass tonight. Malaysia boleh!

I am going to bed now. Thinking about Lily and her hantu kopek. :p

– – – –

Access to Blogspot from my office has been severely restricted. Uwah… I am now officially appealing to the kind hearted authors of all my favourite blogs to migrate to wordpress. Please?

Thanks. :o)

Shopping for Pants

I have not gone shopping for pants in quite a while. My pants are starting to fray and fall apart. I think they’re beginning to smell too. Small children start crying when they see me shuffling towards them. And the final straw was when a complete stranger tossed me a couple of coins the other day.

Enough is enough. I am going shopping.

A pair of black trousers catch my eye so I tell the shop assistant stalking me, “I’d like to try on these pants please. Size 32.”

“Are you sure, sir? I think they would be quite tight for you.”

I am deeply insulted by this insinuation, so I haughtily retort, “I have always worn 32.”

“Very good sir.”

I strut (trans: lansi) towards the changing room with the pants draped on my arms. I close the door and try putting on the new pants. Uuuurrrggghhh…

The clasps stubbornly refuse to meet.


Suck in ample tummy. I try putting on the pants again. Uuuuuuuurrrrgggghhhh. Still cannot.

I try sucking in my tummy again. Bigger breaths this time. Uuuueeeeeeeeeeeeeeeegg… Face turning purple. Eeeeeeeeeuukkk…

Niamah. Tiu. Fuck it. I can’t do it. Pant, pant.

I open the door and meekly say to the shop assistant, “Can I try one size bigger?”

“No problem sir,” the shop assistant acquiesces, with the tiniest hint of a smile on his face. I have a feeling he will be bitching about me to his colleagues later, that bastard.

G2000 pants seem smaller these days. I’m going to write to them to complain about this.