Flying the flag doesn’t help

Four days have passed since the National Day Parade which means that my town council can now remove the half a million or so flags that have festooned the entire estate for the last two months.

Actually, I’m being dishonest. It’s more like a million flags.

A large canal snakes through my neighbourhood and the railing along the length that faces the road is covered in national flags back-to-back. Add to that the buntings that have been put up between each and every lamppost and, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to up my estimate again. Two million seems a more likely number.

No wait. There’re still the flags that appeared mysteriously along some corridor parapets, especially those facing large roads. In short, my town council has taken all the cloth that could’ve clothed the entire world’s poor and destitute and used it instead to form the world’s largest eyesore.

The last time I saw this many national flags on display, I was watching a documentary on North Korea. And even that paled in comparison. One should ensure that Kim Jong Il never glimpses a display of patriotism as ostentatious as ours because he might, in between mouthfuls of grilled dog, question why his people are spending so much time growing tapiocas when they could be better employed sewing flags.

Not that I’m comparing our great nation with a failed state like North Korea. After all, North Korea is a country where freedom of speech is an alien concept and whose ruler inherited his position from his father and… Hmmm. This isn’t quite working.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that when the decorations do eventually come down, there will be a collective sigh of relief. Not just because we’ve all had enough of the crescent and stars but also because there is only so much patriotism that we can have forced upon us.

Unfortunately, this respite will only last till the next National Day which will almost certainly involve yet more flags and yet more government initiated “we love Singapura-ra-ing” to make up for the apathy that is slowly but surely seeping into the psyche of the common folk.

“If you refuse to be patriotic during National Day, then we’ll just have to do it for you.” seems to be the government’s modus operandi these days.

Which is ironic because it is exactly this paternalistic approach (which the PAP justifies with constant reminders that they brought the country out of poverty and that they are inextricable from the nation’s welfare) that has turned patriotism into a dirty word.

No ruling party should be larger than the nation in which it governs and, though we haven’t quite gotten to that stage, “Singapore” is now at least synonymous with “PAP”.

Perhaps this inability to differentiate state from party is a reflection of our lack of maturity as a people. Still, who can blame us? Judging from the few National Education sessions I’ve attended and all the National Day Parades I’ve seen, this PAP-centric view is exactly what our government wants to achieve. And that’s what they’ve got. But do they realise at what price?

Put simply, no number of flags will mask a national identity that’s already been shattered. Plus, it’s really very ugly you know.

Forget Lambos and big penises.

What will get you the women is cuteness. Such as this video right here. Show it to any unsuspecting female and she will immediately be filled with an irresistible urge to bear you children.

However, should she be a particularly hardy specimen, do not start whipping out diamond rings, car keys and all that sort of thing. Instead, the only gem you should show her should be this. No woman has been exposed to that and not demanded to be inseminated forthwith.

Since YouTube, I have had more than 500 women.

On Butt Rests

Recently, certain MRT stations have acquired butt rests (I don’t know what they’re really called so there), the idea being that you can relax in a sort of half sitting position while waiting for the train and then, once it’s arrived, get up easily to mow down any passengers between you and a proper seat. Except that they don’t work.

It is common sense that, for a butt rest to be useful, it must first of all be possible for the sitter’s butt to actually stay on the rest. Unfortunately, the butt rests that SMRT have so graciously provided seem to be coated with Teflon. Plus, they’re slanted. Plus, they’re concave. So after falling off twice, the frustrated commuter, determined to wait in a relaxing manner, is forced to cling onto the back of the rest with his fingernails while his feet are engaged in a sort of constant scrabble to prop himself up. From a distance, this makes him look like a frantic prawn trying to swim backwards.

Just last week, I witnessed a lady commuter attempt to sit on a rest, fall off, and then comment to herself that it was really more of a bag stand than a seat. Oh, and her knickers were red.

And therein lies the secret to this mystery. Far from being a gaffe, these butt rests play a much more important role – they help to keep our train stations safe.

You know how it is these days. With bomb threats everywhere, everything needs to be kept under surveillance all the time. That’s why we’ve got those huge, spanking new cameras all over our train stations. And they’d work too if only someone could be bothered to watch them. To be blindingly obvious, watching people board and alight from trains is hardly nail-biting fun. Most people would rather entertain themselves by sawing their legs off. Clearly, SMRT had to do something to jazz up the show, to add that touch of excitement to the otherwise dreary monotony of eyeballing our country’s working class.

And that’s where the butt rests come in. Strategically placed, they lie in clear sight of all the cameras. Which means that in addition to keeping a vigilant eye out for our nation’s safety, SMRT personnel now have the joyous added option of betting on a game of “When will Joe land on his backside?” Or for the more sophisticated punter, “What shade are her knickers?” And all from the comfort of their control booths.

So you see, now we’ve really got foolproof security. Not only do we have a comprehensive network of eyes in the sky, we also have a dedicated bunch of eyes in Station Control. It works a little like Big Brother. Whether anything’s happening or not, you’re going to be glued to the screen anyway, because you never know when that hot Swedish mama is going to take a bath.

So kudos to SMRT. They’ve invested well in some butt rests that work, because they don’t.

They don’t deserve a raise unless they fight.

Today, I was listless at work. Nothing held any meaning. I got briefed on something, struggled with it for a bit then rolled over, a beaten man. I proofread an ad and didn’t notice that the “h” in StarHub should be in the upper case. This was later brought to my attention by a suit which should have been highly irritating but wasn’t because it simply didn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.

What, you might be wondering, is the cause of my despair, my utter dismissal of everything I hold dear? Well, this morning, I found out that the president earns more than I do which isn’t depressing in itself. But when you find out that he’s making about three million dollars a year which, incidentally, is about three million more than I get, that’s when you start chugging down the vodka and screaming “Oh God, why?!” Really now, for someone whose job scope consists entirely of shaking hands, sitting down at parties and nodding at a parade commander once every year, I think this a somewhat extravagant price to pay. Indeed, that pain gets even worse when I recall that I myself could have been in this very position if only I’d had the wherewithal to submit my application for the position of president. Yes, I know that I have mentioned this before, but I can’t help but look back fondly on the days when I actually had some ambition.

And then there’re the ministers, all of whom take home in excess of a million dollars a year. Yet, no matter how many parliamentary debates you watch, why they deserve this much remuneration never once becomes apparent. Where’s the disagreement? Where’s the passionate argument? Where’s the good old chair throwing? When I watch a debate, I want to see someone call someone else a no-good-pussy-licker. I want to witness a junior minister walk up to the prime minister and knock his teeth out. I want the womenfolk to make their stand by flashing us their breasts. No wait, I’ll pass on that one. The point is that we, the proletariat, wouldn’t mind paying our leaders exorbitant sums if only they’d give us a little indication that they cared instead of just muttering some unintelligible party-friendly drivel and then sitting back down again, satisfied that no one had understood anything.

Therefore, to ameliorate this problem, I have come up with a brilliant idea. I shall volunteer my services as a speechwriter to the highest bidding minister (or ministers – we’re all one big happy party after all) right now. With my vigorous, riling style making up for your somewhat dim delivery, there is no doubt that you will enhance your image as a man or woman with a passion for the people or, if nothing else, at least the enthusiasm for a good round of unarmed combat. It’ll be like the WWE but for intellectuals. And that’s all-important because, really, we’d be much more willing to pay for that.

Put down your microphones. Please?

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s true – karaoke will kill you. Or at least I wish it would, but it won’t. Still, there’s every reason to avoid it because, other than causing widespread deafness, hair loss and American Idol, it’ll also give you what’s known as “karaoke polyp” – a condition where an abnormal growth appears on the vocal chords due to the constant strain inflicted upon them by your over-imitating of Screamin’ Dion. You can read all about it in this severely overdue but life changing article.

Obviously, this is great news. Not since Nazism has the world seen a greater threat than that which lurks in karaoke lounges, all of which have horrible names like K this or Party that. It is an abomination that we simply must destroy or we will all suffer endlessly from a severe malady. Get it? Malady, melody? *Guffaws*

Ahem… yes. Actually, there’s a bit more to it than that.

Back in the old days, young men grew up drinking and smoking in billiard saloons where, if nothing else, they at least mastered the manly sport of poking balls with sticks. These days, youngsters spend their adolescence drinking and smoking while murdering some Taiwanese song. And what good does that do? Just an hour ago, I heard something that went “Woah woah, woah woah, woah woah” from someone by the name of Jay and from what I know, that’s a hit among karaokeists. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life looking like you’ve got a c**k in your mouth, I see no conceivable benefit of this.

To make matters worse, karaoke addicts are willing to pay ludicrous fees for the opportunity to drive each other insane. The lounges know this and charge upwards of $50 a session. $50! Really, that’s like paying to have your ears cut off. Still, what truly makes this whole obsession with karaoke scary is that no one’s safe. Even Pat – the most rational human being on Earth – is reduced to a warbling mess in the face of lyrics that slowly change colour. I know grown men who, when clutching a microphone, have suddenly believed that they are Mariah Carey. It is all just impossibly stupid.

So, in just a few short paragraphs, we’ve established that karaoke is harmful to your health, more evil than Nazism, damaging to our children’s future, devastating to families because it causes financial ruin and that it makes people behave like idiots. Why do I somehow feel that that’s not enough?

Children are a waste of time

As I was listening to Tenacious D on the train this evening, another sort of scream pierced my Cresyn earphones, blew my ear drums out of my nostrils and then proceeded to bounce around inside my cranial cavity. It was a child. And I, along with a whole cabin of disgruntled passengers, wanted to kill it. And yet, its parents seemed curiously unaffected. I assumed that they must be deaf but then deaf people don’t talk on the phone. They must be stupid then because they didn’t realise that about fifty people were quite ready to forcefully wring the air out of their windpipes and then do the same to their offspring.

Frankly, children ought to be disciplined from as young an age as possible. Crying might be a child’s way of asking for a feed or some otherwise legitimate attention. But children learn to lie young and some cry just so that they can rejoice in some parental fawning. Plainly, we can’t have any of that. Crying for anything other than food or a nappy change should be rewarded by mashing the culprit’s head into a grater. If your child still fails to change its ways, then you should turn Christian. Because then you’d have an excuse to stone it.

I, though, wouldn’t bother with children. Certainly, looking at myself, I wonder why my mother ever bothered with me. And anyway, if you believe all the horrific predictions that are floating around the cable news ether, bringing more human beings into this world probably isn’t worth it. After all, in fifty years, we’ll all be swimming around in one huge ocean because the bloody ice caps have melted – if we make it that far. A far likelier scenario is that George Bush and his madcap rightwing loonies would have long ago condemned us all to hell in one huge nuclear inferno.

And besides, not having kids means that I’ll never face one of those “Yes, Daddy surfs porn too. Now get out!” moments.

Children, then, are a waste of time and we should all be content with having cats. They’re far less noisy, far less smelly and they won’t mind even if you spend all your time looking at naked women.

On newly-weds and bad breath

A few days ago, I met SB on the train to work and we got around to talking about a couple, let’s call them K (the husband) and Y (the wife), from our JC days who’d just gotten married. After the usual “they’re gonna have ugly-ass children” comments which, in this case, will unfortunately be accurate, SB let me in on a theory of his.

“I have observed that newly-wed couples tend to have bad breath.” he announced.

“Huh?” I said, intelligently.

“It’s not just K and Y. It’s every newly-wed couple I’ve met this year. Their breath stinks.”

“I wonder why.”

“I mean, they can’t all possibly have decided to stop brushing their teeth after marriage, right?”

Which is when inspiration struck.

“Perhaps, it might have something to do with a number.” it was my turn to announce.

“Eh… what?”

“You know… THAT number. After all, what do newly-weds do the most?”

*nervous laughter*

“Don’t be disgusting.” he finally managed to mutter.

“That means that all the time you were talking to K,” I edged him towards the abyss “you were actually smelling Y’s…” and pushed.

“Fuck!”

“Exactly!”

Stop tinkering

Yesterday, as with every other day, I was welcomed home by a cacophony of barking, slobbering and the pitter-patter of paws on wood. For some reason, the dog seems to think I enjoy going deaf. Or having my ankles chewed off. The noise is usually put to an abrupt halt when the cat gives her a good swat on the nose. And after the swatting last night, I picked the hound up, looked into her doleful eyes and said, “You… you are a proud descendant of the grey wolf. So why haven’t you torn the feline’s head off yet?”

It’s really the fault of us humans, though. 100,000 years ago, in a cave somewhere, someone toted the world’s first handbag and decided “Oh, how charming. Now all I need is a dog that’ll fit into this.” And thus, we pesky human beings, with our penchant for selective breeding, have reduced the majestic wolf into a sock-chewing bundle of fur.

At least we’ve left cats more or less as they were. My cat habitually leaves cockroach and gecko bits outside my door as his contribution to the family’s well-being. And then watches as I curse and throw it all down the chute. But you get the idea. Cats can hunt. You try asking a Maltese to catch its own dinner. You’d be lucky if dinner didn’t eat it first.

And we’ve gone even further with all this genetic tinkering. Already, we’ve made chickens that get so heavy so fast their legs break under all the weight. In cattle farming, there aren’t just ways to make cows gain more weight. We can even get them to fart less. And now, scientists are looking at growing meat sans the animal. They reckon that, in a few years, they’ll be able to grow meat in meat sheets and then use the stuff to produce ground meat products. Give them a bit more time and we’ll be plucking steaks from branches. All very smart but not very tasty, I’m afraid. The thought of lamb chops grown out of a Petri dish is about as tempting as having a romp with a blow-up doll.

And therein lies the problem. Things just aren’t natural anymore. I like cats in general because there’s something beautifully primal about the way they’re built. I’d like any large dog for much the same reason – they still retain some semblance of wolf-ness which I appreciate. But toy dogs, no matter how many bags you can stuff them in, are just an anomaly. Even if they’re so darn cute.

Crocs

Eric Cantona once said “When seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea.” The universal reaction to this was “WTF?” which is just about how I feel about Crocs.

If you haven’t noticed, people of all ages have been strolling around our shopping malls bedecked in these… well… foot-things. It’s as if ugly has become the new black. Everywhere, left feet are laughing at right feet and vice versa until they pass a shoe mirror whereupon they both start sweating despite the “breathing” quality of the Crocs they’re in.

And to make things worse, Crocs come in almost every colour. This would normally be a good thing if not for the unfortunate fact that no Croc-wearer in the world has any sense of colour coordination whatsoever. I’ve seen people dressed in black shirts, black pants and oh-my-god-are-those-yellow-Crocs. I once tried to help someone like that cross a street because I assumed he was blind.

And then there are those who like red Crocs. Frankly, they might as well be walking around in a pair of placentas because they rank almost the same on the scale of all things distasteful. Sure, red is a hot colour and on a pair of stilettos, it says “I’m so passionate, I could kill.” All it says on a pair of Crocs, however, is “I’ve got the fashion sense of Elton John. And I would like some hot gay sex.”

Daisy chains

A daisy chain refers to sexual relations between three or more people, with each person both performing and receiving oral sex simultaneously.

I did not previously know the meaning of this phrase. What a marvellous concept. It’s the epitome of a win-win situation. Not some crummy old “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours” compromise. It’s more like “I scratch your back while you scratch, oil up and massage mine”. Politicians should think like that more.

“Hey George, you do me, I do you, and we can both screw France.”

Or something like that.

Of course, daisy chain has many other meanings such as…well… a chain made up of daisies. Or a series of connected events. But come on, what are you gonna be thinking when someone tells you she’s just made a daisy chain? Pistils? Such are the trappings of the human mind.