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too much and too little |
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Asshole Bastards
"If foreigners think that Malaysia police are brutal, please go back to their own countries and not to stay here," Noh Omar told reporters in parliament. (Noh Omar's remarks come just days after a video emerged of an ethnic Chinese woman being forced to perform naked squats in a Malaysian police station.) from the BBC
Cloven feet dig up roots
A car, when you think about it, is no more than a fetishised unneccessity that crawls on city roads trafficking men cringing from the sun from one air-conditioned block to another. We should all mourn the passing of the buffalo and the trishaw everytime we rush headlong from nowhere to nowhere at 30 miles per hour.
Go, go with the flow
Run, run, run into the sink.
This Swimming Age
Hunting celebrities is like hunting seal, except deadlier, for flippered penguin hunters do not have publicists. Beneath the shiny, oily glitz and glam of showbiz newsreportage flows the blood of people like me, who for the sake of a daily meal and a Playstation 3 contrive to deliver the stories you hunger for, like the colour of Johnny Depp's faeces after a bowl of laksa. It is important; it is vital; it is the very glue of civilisation in this untethered, slippery age. But a new foe has arisen that threatens to undermine us all: the blog. With its scant regard for copyright, originality and any semblance of truth, it is now the printed publication's greatest challenge, because it is precisely the same except for the residue of ink print it does not leave on the readers' fingers. It is able to deliver an equal amount of bullshit in half the time at absolutely no cost. How do you beat that? You can't. To try is to be as foolish as to tap dance wearing slippers. But that seemingly free source of nonsense is not without cost, for every site that is not focused on porn on the Internet is to deprive it of its most useful feature, as a global network of mutual masturbators. (P.S. Words when joined together in a subject-verb-object sequence invariably form sentences.)
I think arctic winter sucks.
Nothing makes me prouder to be Singaporean than tales of misery in other countries. A few months ago when I was still with the Enkef, the orientation involved visiting SGH, a local government hospital, for view the Foundation's facilities there. I was with a group of Indian nationals, all with master degrees from very good Indian universities. On the van back I asked them what they taught. "It's amazing! It's so clean and the facilities are fantastic," one said. "In India, the hospitals are horrible, horrible." Of course, I chalked it up to him being polite. That is, until today, when I read that in a woman died in a Calcuttan hospital BECAUSE ANTS ATE HER EYE. I can't think of a worse way to die: A WOMAN has died in a Calcutta hospital after ants ate one of her eyes as she was recovering from a cornea operation, media reports said. Gauri Chakraborty, 55, had complained of terrible pain after the operation at a state-run hospital, but a nurse told her it was normal and left her unattended, her son Soumen said. He said that when her bandage was removed the next day they found big black ants nibbling at her eye, PTI reported. "She died a ghastly death. We don't even know the reason of her death," Amitabha Kar, Chakraborty's son-in-law said. Local Health Minister Surjya Kanta Mishra demanded a report of the incident from the hospital authorities. In response, hospital superintendent Sukumar Das said a five-member inquiry committee had been set up. The woman's family found a gaping hole and ants swarming in it when they lifted her bandages. Scampering rats and stray cats and dogs sharing bed space with patients are not uncommon sights at India's overcrowded state-run hospitals that are used by millions of poor and middle-class people.
The week has started off auspiciously; therefore, it is doomed to end in terror, defamy, disaster. Hong Kong beckons on Thursday, and while I should not bemoan getting a free trip to an ex-crown colony, I am scared. For one, my grasp of Cantonese is non-existent, my fellow reporters' tentative. Secondly, the stars for whom I must speak to I know little to nothing. Thirdly, I take two weeks to recover from jet-lag. These factors point only to one conclusion: fire and blood. Nothing went wrong today, thank God, and I even had the opportunity to partake in a prank. My supervisor's birthday was last Thursday, but she was on her guard, and stressed, so we decided to leave the tying of raffia around her car and spraying shaving cream over her windscream to today. She'd have to take half an hour just to cut her way through so she can open her doors and clean up. We had to look around for her car, and we found a white Toyota with our company's sticker on it, and immediately went to work. The fact that we committed our felony in the midst of heavy pedestrian traffic, mere metres away from a guardhouse, in the parking lot in the factory next to my office, says much about our vigilance as a people. It took us 30 very-satisfying minutes. I returned to my office, trying to surpress a giggle when I saw my boss. I nearly broke down in laughter when she said goodbye. Ten minutes later, I received a message. The resulting SMS conversation went like this, after I kindly translated it into English from mobile-speak, for you. W: Hey has Dawn left the office? I: Yeah, 15 minutes ago. W: This is strange. I messaged her to leave earlier because got jam. She replied that she had already left and there was no jam! There was no mention about the prank! I: Oh my god. I wonder what the guy who owns the car must be thinking. Like, who is "33 and proud of it", as recently sprayed on his or her rear window and who got "Pun'd!" on the windscreen? (The K melted into a blotch before we left).
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