Monday, January 28, 2013

Change of Laws

In light of the recently concluded election, I have been toying with the frivolous dreams of being the Prime Minister of SIngapore. I, in reality would be a shitty politician not because I would be corrupt, but because the laws that I would implement would be rubbish and self-important. So peaches, if (let's just humour me now for a bit) I get to become the Prime Minister of this Republic, here are the 25 laws that I would amend and implement:

1) Corporal punishment for anyone caught in public with an offensive body odour. Create 20,000 new jobs for "BOPs" aka "Body Odour Police". 1st offense: $100, 2nd offense: $250, 3rd offense: 2 weeks imprisonment or $5000 bail.

2) With immediate effect, deport half of the Filipinos, half of the PRCs, a quarter Myanmarese, a quarter Indians, a quarter Thais and a quarter white-skinned expatriates. We keep the Banglas.

3) Do away with the ERP system. Money generated from Body Odour Programme would be more than enough to substitute the losses.

4) Every new immigrant/foreign worker must sit through (and fucking pass) Primary 6 level English or they can forget it.

5) Abolish 377A. Make gay marriages legal and extend it worldwide. Be the first Asia Pacific country to do so. Gay bridal registry would single handedly sustain the economy.

6) By Secondary One, students are allowed to major in subjects that they like and follow meritocracy to a T. Math, Science is not a compulsory module.

7) National Service is reduced to only 15 months. Serve so long in the army for what?

8) Only native Singaporeans can be a Singapore Airlines Cabin Crew.

9) Euthanize Minister Mentor.

10) Okay lah can have chewing gum. But as usual, you throw anyhow, fine.

11) Death penalty for rapists.

12) Fine Starhub, Singtel and M1 $60 Million each, so they REALLY feel the pinch and fucking install 300000 new satellites if they have to.

13) Corporal punishment...even for underaged teenage offenders. If you're old enough to riot, you're old enough to get caned.

14) Bring A&W back.

15) Build flats in Pulau Tekong and our neighbouring Singapore owned islands.

16) Abolish MDA and its homophobic, narrow-minded, self-respecting excuse of an agenda.

17) It is mandatory for every establishment that plays Christmas and Chinese New Year songs to also play Hari Raya and Deepavali jingles.

18) Disneyland Singapore motherfuckers.

19) Change our SMRT to bullet trains.

20) Do away with the different political parties. We all live under democracy. And such a small country want to have a lot of political parties for what?

21) No need to seek permission from Police to talk at Speaker's Corner. Want to talk? Talk until your saliva dry also can. Go, go, First world country what, have freedom of speech.

22) Anybody caught in public using/wearing fake branded goods would be fined. We need to inculcate a "classy" way of living.

23) We will still collect 7% GST but the government would only absorb 5%. The remaining 2% would be distributed evenly to various charities and for research work.

24) Malays CAN serve the army as a Commando and be in the Air Force, artillery etc. Bring your "Malayan Loyalty Paranoia" elsewhere.

25) Keep me as PM for at least another day.

Lightning And Hammers

One of the best advice that my mum have imparted to me is, "Don't try to talk about things that you don't know of or you will end up sounding like a goddamn fool." Yes, my mum used the word "goddamn" even when giving advice. So you know where I picked up my foul language from; at home.

But there is a great amount of truth in that piece of advice. People nowadays talk way too much about things that they know little or nothing of. Fools, fools everywhere. And that is the reason why I never talk about religion, politics or righteousness.

I am far from being a social or political commentariat but what happened two days ago was so politically incorrect that I just had to share. A couple of days ago was the by-election for Punggol East GRC and Melanie, bless her soul had to cast her votes because she lives in the constituency. So after casting her votes in the afternoon, she met us for dinner afterwards.

"So who did you vote for?" Steve asked excitedly.

"I don't know. I just crossed on a random box," Melanie answered nonchalantly, eyes skimming the menu.

"You don't know who you voted for?" Steve asked, slightly shocked.

"Oh, the one with the hammer logo?" Melanie answered, slightly disinterested.

"You mean the Workers Party?" Steve asked again.

"Is that what they're called?" Melanie replied.

Steve shook his head.

"What?" Melanie said, completely lost.

"You don't know your parties and ministers? The one who is deciding on your living conditions in this country?" Steve asked.

"Honestly, I don't give a shit," Melanie shrugged.

"Why not? A citizen must be fully active and be up to date with the political scene of his or her own country!" Steve explained. He sounded like a Grassroot leader.

Star scrunched up her face and went back to reading her menu.

"Oh please, there is no "political scene" in Singapore. Nepotism and a rambling senile old man does not make a "political scene"," Melanie rolled her eyes.

"That's not entirely fair, he single handedly made Singapore what it is now," Steve rebutted.

"Singaporeans make Singapore what it is now. It is our very own hardwork, our toils and middle class dreams that made this country what it is today. So do not discount our efforts and our forefathers for the past sixty years with the success story of one man, who if I may add, would be nothing without these very hands," Melanie said.

The whole table went silent.

"The scallops sounds good, no?" Star finally voiced out, trying to mediate the growing tension on the table.

"But still, you shouldn't take the voting process without any sense of importance whatsoever," Steve sternly said.

"Oh whatever Steve. Our political system is so backwards I don't even give a shit. Our laws are still from the British colonial rule and there is no openness about their way of thinking so really who cares?" Melanie rolled her eyes again.

Steve rubbed his temples, clearly having a hard time digesting all of these.

"Let alone marry, you cannot even sleep with the man that you love Steve. They treat us like criminals and you want to talk about taking them seriously? You cannot even see any gay rights improving in your lifetime Steve, let's face it. So who gives a flying fuck as to whether I chose a lightning over a hammer? Just cross lah! If they increase transport fare, I walk to work lor," Melanie said.

"Or hitch a ride in one of your customer's Jaguar," Steve replied snakily.

"Look at my face Steve. I am giving you a I-don't-give-a-fuck-to-what-you-say face," Melanie stared blankly at Steve.

I chuckled. Steve hit my left arm with the menu.

"Oh guys, Worker's Party won! This just in," Star suddenly said, looking up from her phone.

"And with that, my life totally...remains unchanged," Melanie said, sipping her iced water.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

25 Things You Don't Want Your Pilot To Say On The Plane

And I sure as hell hope and pray to the heavens above that none of you peaches will get to listen to any of these in your lifetime of jet setting experiences.

1. Shit, we are not going to survive this turbulence.

2. The journey to Milan wold take approximately 14 hours. As part of your in flight entertainment, we are going to play all Justin Bieber songs to keep you company till we reach our destination.

3. How many of you in this plane knows how to actually fly one?

4. You guys have watches Snakes On A Plane before? Well...urm, how do I put this? There ARE snakes on the plane right now as we are speaking.

5. Could someone get the two lovebirds fucking the crap out of each other in the toilet out from there thank you. It's literally shaking the entire aircraft.

6. Dear passengers, there is an unknown man holding a gun and a scarf over his head right now in the cockpit with me and he says this plane is heading to paradise.

7. Uh...yeah...just like that Phil. Suck it just like that. Ooooh, yeah, who's your daddy huh?

8. Paging for the crew manager. Your pilot is suffering from a heart attack right now as we speak and I think I am getting one myself...

9. Phil are we lost? Did we follow the correct route? Why is this not on automatic? Why are we flying over the Pacific Ocean?

10. Is that a bird. another plane or is that a...fuck.

11. (*slurring) I hope you guys are having a party at the back there because we sure are having on right in front here woohoo!

12. If anybody on the plane finds a cock-ring, please pass it to one of the crew members and have it returned to me, thanks.

13. We're going down bitches, we're going down hard.

14. Lisa can you and the rest of the crew do another safety brief and demonstration to the passengers because we might need to exercise it out in about ten minutes.

15. You could have told me we were heading to Dublin like seven hours ago! What?! Bangkok?!

16.  I bet you five hundred bucks I can make this motherfucker make a 360 degrees turn, Top Gun style. In?

17. There is a lady in white here in the cockpit who claims that she died in an air crash seven years ago and drowned in the waters below and if you guys are doing this a joke, I am not amused.

18. Shit Phil, we ran out of lube. Lisa! You're needed in here and bring some lube along with you!

19. Are you passengers feeling lucky today? Because today we are going to fly over the Bermuda triangle!

20. If I'm going down, I am taking everybody with me.

21. I hate to say this but can someone tranquilize the baby that's been wailing non stop for the past hour and a half?

22. And the lady in white says that if she doesn't get to meet her parents today, we are all fucked.

23. Who is the motherfucker who is still playing with their phone after I have told you many, many times to switch the damn thing off?

24. What are the chances of survival if this plane crashes into the plains of Africa below?

25. Anybody who can sing me the best karaoke version of Leaving On A Jetplane gets to sleep with me when we land!

Chocolate Bearing Roy(ce)

There is no greater validation in a girl's existence much like a compliment of the physical kind. A simple "You look pretty today" is the greatest stamp of success for a girl; all those hours and money spent to make themselves look beautiful has finally, finally paid off.

In fact there is an urban legend that the words "You look pretty today" can soothe even a pre menstruating girl.

Hah, kidding. I'm just fucking with you. There is nothing you can do to soothe a pre menstruating bitch in heat. We all know that.

Where was I? Yes, validation and compliments. See the reason I'm writing this post because there seems to be a shift in balance in Melanie's life. We all know the adage, "Too much of anything is not good, even the good things." So what happens when you get too much of validation and compliments? What if that adoration from someone turns into an obsession? And the person receiving it is at a constant state of worry, panic and fear?

That's right peaches. Melanie, my dear tranny Melanie, has a stalker. Legit. And it's a butch who frequents her salon, one of her regular customers actually.

"I am terrified guys," Melanie shared yesterday during dinner.

"Why? Isn't it awesome to have a stalker? I think it's cute. I've never had anybody stalk me before, even when I asked them to," Star said, flipping her hair.

"I wouldn't say that if I were you," Steve laughed.

"So I've been cutting her...his hair for the past two years and she...he always brings me chocolates and stuff and I knew this butch likes me but I never once talked about it with her. But lately things are getting a tad, if not very, very creepy. Two weeks ago I received this from my colleague," Melanie explained, taking out a folded A3 sized card from her bag.

Steve took the card, opened it and went,  "No fucking way in lesbian hell, oh my fucking god."

Inside the card is a collage of over twenty pictures of Melanie. but that's not the creepy part. those pictures were printed from Melanie's Facebook account. That means the stalker actually stalked Melanie's profile and printed all of the pictures from there. On the card it read, "To the most beautiful girl in the world."

"That's what happens when you don't make your profile private," I said, scanning the card. It smelled of lemon citrus and vanilla.

"Aww, I think that's adorable!" Star exclaimed, taking the card away from me.

Melanie pinched Star's left arm and Star scowled loudly.

"For the past two weeks, every single day after work you can find her...him waiting for me outside with a small gift in hand. Ferrero Rocher chocolates, Garrett's Popcorn, Famous Amos cookies, anything. When I asked her, her name is Roy by the way, how come she has the time to wait for me everyday she says she rushes from work everyday just to meet me. I know right?" Melanie said, a worried look on her face.

"Roy. That's so masculine than I can ever be in my entire life and I'm straight acting," Steve laughed.

"It's not funny! I already warned my colleagues to NOT give this Roy my email and god forbid, home address! She has my namecard from work and unfortunately my mobile is printed on that and she wouldn't stop texting me. Like twenty messages in a day," Melanie exhaled tiredly.

"That's freaky," I said.

"What does Roy want form you anyways?" Star asked.

"She says she wants to get to know me better. Date me out. But I don't wish to. At. All," Melanie answered.

"So why don't you? I would give it a chance if I were you," Star pursed her lips.

"I am a man to woman transexual and you want me to date a butch who in actual fact is a man trapped in a woman's body. What kind of sick fucked up gender dysphoria shit you think I am into?" Melanie replied angrily.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Oh Thy Braveheart!

"Do you know what bravery is? No you don't know! You give a man a gun and a helmet, that's not bravery. You give a man a tank and a bazooka, that's not bravery. I'll tell you what bravery is. Bravery is every woman in this room who makes a gynecologist appointment and to show up!" - Joan Rivers

Yes Joan, that and the following 25 things.

1) Bravery is a girl going to the Maldives on a holiday and swimming with sharks, while she is having her period.

2) Bravery is an opening act for a Mariah Carey concert and playing a medley of Nicki Minaj's songs.

3) Bravery is a man wearing his favourite pair of Tod's suede shoes to go out when it is already cloudy outside.

4) Bravery is a set of parents carrying a fever stricken infant up on economy class on a 14 hour plane ride.

5) Bravery is telling your grandfather who just had a bypass heart surgery that you're sending him to a home.

6) Bravery is a girl going out to Orchard Road on a heavy flow day and carrying only one tampon.

7) Bravery is you fellow Singaporeans driving your new Mercedes to Johor Bahru.

8) Bravery is presenting to your fat BFF a set of BioSlim products and writing on the birthday card, "Hope this helps!"

9) Bravery is going through customs in a European country wearing your AAA grade Louis Vuitton Speedy bag.

10) Bravery is telling your mother to shut the hell up while she is suffering from menopause...and cutting celery.

11) Bravery is every Malay couple who decides to have another child.

12) Bravery is telling your college professor that you don't mind sucking his cock in exchange for better grades. (Girls...and guys, take note)

13) Bravery is slapping some random dude pretending to sleep on the train and saying, "Wake up, don't pretend!"

14) Bravery is going to your least favourite girlfriend and upon meeting her say, "You've put on so much weight!"

15) Bravery is creeping up behind an old lady and suddenly going, "Boom!"

16) Bravery is spraying your cologne/perfume at someone's face during peak hours going, "I can't take it!"

17) Bravery is cutting a queue in Singapore.

18) Bravery is going to a coffee shop, spot an empty table with a tissue on top, toss the tissue aside and sitting your ass down.

19) Bravery is meeting your secondary school friend on the streets carrying a newborn baby and going, "Eeeeuw, is that yours?"

20) Bravery is going to a movie theatre carrying a big plastic bag of Lays and sharing it with three other friends.

21) Bravery is trying to argue about Bollywood with me (not to mention extremely unwise and stupid).

22) Bravery is putting down Copenhagen, Milan, Paris as your hometown when in actual fact you live in Teck Whye.

23) Bravery is giving your Mum a cop of 50 Shades of Grey when she asks you to recommend her an English book to improve her English.

24) Bravery is a M.A.C makeup assistant telling one of their customers, "Sorry no amount of makeup can help you."

25) Bravery is when your girlfriend goes to you and asks, "Am I fat" and you say, "Fuck, like duh."

You are of course peaches free to expand this list and suggest other forms of Bravery.

An Important Retail Letter

For a good portion of my young adult life (I feel funny writing that considering that I am only 24), I have been working in the retail sector before making the decision to become a writer full time. Therefore as much as I have an extremely high (yet easily achievable) standard of customer service and expectations vice versa, I find it very easy to relate to fellow retail service providers.

Because let's face it, there are disgusting shoppers out there, everywhere. And I have nothing but empathy for these poor retail guys and girls who have to serve assholes after assholes, day after day.

So this is an open letter to all the disgusting shoppers out there who have given a hard time to a retail service provider sometime in their live. I've got your back you poor sales staffs.

Dear Disgusting Shoppers,

Let me start by saying that unlike the Food and Beverage industry, there is no portion in your bill that says "Service Charge" when you buy anything from a retail store. That means that a) you are not paying us a single cent to render any form of service whatsoever to you and b) we don't fucking have to.

But we still do it because it is our livelihood and because we find an immeasurable amount of joy in telling you that the green blouse looks great on you when in actual fact you look like an overweight Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. So don't push your luck, because there will be no point in your argument where you say, "I pay for the service!" You are not asshole. You. Are. Not.

Here are a few things that I would like to highlight in regards to your shitty self-important attitude when buying a piece of clothing.

Firstly when you cheaply ask, "Do you have any discounts?" and we tell you politely, "Sorry ma'am but no" fucking take it or leave it. Asking another twenty times is not going to change the simple fact that THERE IS NO DISCOUNT. And don't push your douchey level further by asking arrogantly, "Why is there no discount?!"

Look, we do not have an answer for that question so quit asking. This is also not your father's shop where everything is going to be on discount as and when you please. And fuck you, there is no free gifts either might I add, you cheap ass.

Secondly, quit asking, "Is this all you have? Is this the only colours you have?" What is this? A dye shop? If there are other colours, we will gladly show you. Trust us, we don't wish to keep hidden colours inside the store room either. We want to sell it as much as you want to buy it.

This also applies to sizes. If there is no more "Large", then there is no more "Large". We are not going to knit or sew for you a cardigan from scratch to make an "L" size are we? So shut it.

Another thing, we are sales person not your spouse. Stop asking "Does this look good on me?" But of course we are going to say yes, even if you look like crap. We WILL say it looks great on you, perfect colour, perfect fit, great choice. Don't burden us with your insecurity. If the mirror in the store says you're ugly, the mirror at home will say the same thing. There is no point asking us retarded questions like, "Does this make me look fat?" 

Did you had supper last night? Then yes, you're a fat ass. I am trying to smile because I don't want to scream "Fatty!" in your face. That would be mean. True, but mean.

And last but not least don't come to the cashier point during sales and scream in your annoying fucktard voice, "Can you hurry up! I haven't got any time!"

Listen here. If you are in a hurry, DON'T SHOP. Easy? If you have a plane to catch, how is that my fucking fault? You were the one who took ages to decide on which top to choose so don't come rushing me like I owe you something. These things take time. Your credit card is not co-operating either, not my fucking fault. So don't be a total a-hole and scream us to hurry up. We can't come as fast as you. Everybody is built differently and not everybody suffers from premature ejaculation like you do.

So with that, have a great shopping trip.

Salesman of the World

Friday, January 18, 2013

A Screaming Star

I categorize my horror movies in two camps. The "scream fest" camp and the "spook fest" camp. There are horror movies that make you sit at the edge of your seat, eyes partially closed and then a horrific scream entails, and then there are those that are not that scream worthy but make your hair stand on its end and you think about it (and let's face it, imagine) on the way back.

I am a huge movie buff (Bollywood mostly, don't judge) and horror movies will always remain as one of the most favourite genres. The first horror movie that I remembered watching as a child was The Exorcist. That movie would become one of my favourite movies of all time.

I was eight and my uncle, who was vacationing from the States brought home the uncensored version of The Exorcist. My mum couldn't care less about shocking the living daylights out of a child or trauma of a child whatsoever, so there I was, at eight years old watching Linda Blair use a crucifix to masturbate, going down a flight of stairs facing up, and projectile vomit amongst many others. Of course I was terrified at that point of time but it also fascinated me and I would secretly watch the VCR again and again until I wasn't afraid anymore.

So it is to no one's surprise that I became a fan of horror movies and am always seeking new movies to scare and creep the hell out of me. As much as I love "scream fest" type of horror, I much prefer the creepy ones; the ones that make your imagination go into an overdrive and you get scared shitless...out of nothing. Malay, Japanese, English, Thai (personal favourite), anything.

Star on the other hand hates horror movies. She says that she would rather listen to Justin Beiber on loop for the whole day than sit through two hours of a horror movie. You would think that the dark setting of the cinema adds to the spook but no, even watching it at home on DVD is more than enough to scare the crap out of her.

So yesterday, I decided to let her watch this Thai horror movie called Laddaland with me on DVD and wrote down every single spoken expression that comes out of Star's mouth.

Here is a list of the rubbish that was recorded. And I am sure some of you peaches can relate and may have uttered the following pearls of fuckery wisdom too while watching a horror movie.

1) Fuck.

2) Oh my god I can't do this. I can't.

3) Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...FUCK!

4) Why am I watching this?!

5) Harry, shit did you just saw that? That motherfucker was just behind her.

6) Jesus on a fucking cross!!

7) Oh shit...shit.

8) Why is it always dark, I don't like this.

9) No!, no, no, nooooo...

10) If it was me in that house I would just kill myself and be a ghost myself.

11) Something's coming right. The music is making my heart jump I don't like it.

12) Aaaaaah!!! See! I told you!

13) How many times must that raggedy ass go inside the house?! She is just asking for it.

14) Harry my heart is beating so hard my tits are vibrating.

15) Why the fuck are you laughing you sick fuck! Harry!

16) I need a glass of water or I am going to combust into flames.

17) Oh my god at least there's sunlight.

18) Okay fuck here we go again, hold my hand.

19) It's behind you! BEHIND!

20) My head is spinning from all this screaming, fuck you Harry.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Begone Crow's Feet

Plastic surgery really is a personal choice, that much I can vouch for. No amount of insecurity or pressure can drive anyone to go through it but the person itself. And the person in question here is Star. Well she didn't really go under the knife considering that Botox is a non-invasive surgery.

Yes, Botox. Star, at a grand old age of twenty-four decided that Botox was the only solution to win the battle between herself and her deepening crows feet. That and she has 700 bucks to blow.

Naturally I was against it. I am all for plastic surgery don't get me wrong. But I just find the idea of a twenty-four year old woman getting a Botox injection absolutely ridiculous. What kind of low self-esteem is Star suffering from? Judging from her track record with men, she is hardly the kind of woman who needs to go under the knife to make herself more defensive.

And please do note that this is the same woman who spends over five hundred dollars every two months on her La Mer skincare products. All Star needs to do is wear a bandage dress and her fuckability factor goes into the stratosphere. And yet, she is adamant about getting Botox.

"I mean I can well afford it. And I can remain twenty four for the next six months so why not? There's no harm trying. If I don't like it, I won't do it again. Simple," Star reasoned with Steve, Melanie and I two weeks ago, five days before going for the procedure.

"That's what Joan Rivers said forty years ago and look at her," Steve said.

"But Joan Rivers is fucking fabulous," I chirped in.

Steve nodded.

"Oh Joan Rivers and Melanie can do it but I can't?" Star raised her voice defensively.

"Because Joan Rivers is a legend and Melanie is a tranny who needs Botox to soften her naturally mannish face," I explained.

"Hello, I'm still here," Melanie suddenly spoke, eyes finally peeled away from her Blackberry.

"And you would be expressionless for an entire day and wouldn't be able to blow off the candles of a birthday cake. That would be sad, really sad," Steve continued, not missing a beat.

"What the fuck was that for?" Star shook her head, confused.

"I do not have a naturally mannish face, fuck you!" Melanie said, hitting my right arm.

And that was that.

And because we are all the pillar of strength for each other, all three of us decided to accompany Star for her maiden Botox procedure at this private clinic in Tanjong Pagar. Support yes, but also to laugh at her afterwards like what real friends do.

When she exited the doctor's room, all three of us stood up and crowded over her like concerned mothers.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked, holding her arm.

Star just nodded.

"Star, they injected your temples, not your mouth," Melanie rolled her eyes.

I laughed out loud.

"Shut up," Star said softly.

"Do you feel fabulous now baby?" I teased.

"I can't see the difference to be honest," Steve absentmindedly explained.

"Can you try to wink at me?" I goaded her.

Steve and Melanie laughed so hard a nurse came over and told us to keep air volume down.

Three days after that the four of us met again for dinner, for the first time since Star went for her procedure. Star looks the same really, just a tad more refreshed. The crow's feet was gone completely and her face did look tighter and more luminous. Star was really happy with the result of her maiden Botox procedure and told us that it really boosted her confidence.

"And also the shine on her face but don't tell her I said that," Steve texted me that night.

Eat My Shit Socrates

Sometimes, I write slightly shitty poems.

Once there lived a precarious little boy,
Who unfortunately suffered from a disorder,
It brought him very little joy,
Oh, before anything his mum is a hoarder.

The boy's name was Harry,
With three best friends at his core,
One of them is a full on tranny,
One is a faggot, the third's a whore.

Harry loves to laugh at stupidity,
His snarky mouth always rattling away,
It can make a prude go giddy,
And a Catholic nun go cray-cray.

His tranny friend is called Melanie,
And three years ago he was called Melvin,
Armed with a man made pussy,
Ready for show by the seventh gin.

The faggot is this hottie called Steve,
Who bleaches his anus for nothing but pleasure,
A flaming Adam without his Eve,
His bank account a motherfucking treasure.

And so the whore is called Star,
Who's an owner of a legendary pair of tits,
And changes men like she changes her bra,
Body have had no rest, especially her clits.

Have we talked about Harry's mother,
Who collects fridge magnets from fifteen years ago,
In total denial that she's a hoarder,
And OCD too let us not forego.

A younger brother Harold is his name,
Not that neurotic, frequents the gym,
The only sane one and nobody to blame,
A real feat considering the whole family is grim.

Harry is hopelessly obsessed with Bollywood,
He watches it night and day,
It's his other sustenance besides real food,
A real frenzied fanatic now if you may.

He also writes on his fabulous blog,
And it's aptly called A Son Of A Peach,
Narrow minded people may be in shock,
Cause the blog has morals in the ditch.

So lest you want to live and be humorless,
With nose high up and on your moral horse,
Harry tells me to inform you first,
He doesn't give a flying fuck and that too without remorse.

Thank you bitches for reading. Much love.

Monday, January 14, 2013

Doughing My thigh

This new year, Steve is hell bent of fulfilling his bucket list. You would think that a rich kid like himself would have gone through and accomplished a lot more than an average person, but having seen his bucket list, I am thoroughly surprised.

So last week was the start of "SBLP" otherwise known as 'Steve's Bucket List Programme". 2013 would be the year that Steve would try to strike off one by one of his Bucket's List. he, being a total pussy that he is, have asked for my assistance in his stupid programme. The first thing on the list: Go for a full body massage.

You would think that a man whose mother owns a mini empire of spas in the whole of Asia Pacific would have at least gone for a full body massage at least once in his life. But not Steve.

"You're kidding me right?" I asked him last week, both of us at his place going though the bucket's list.

"I'm not. I'm fucking ticklish and nobody have ever troubled me nor seen me naked for a massage," Steve said.

"So says the gay man who indulge in casual gay sex," I rolled my eyes.

Steve smacked my head from the back.

"So where are we going for a massage then Mr I'm-too-ticklish-for-a-massage?" I teased him.

"One of my mum's spa? Where else," Steve replied.

I smiled at him. Ah, the benefits of being best friends with a rich kid and god knows how much I needed that massage.

We settled for the spa over at this newly opened hotel in Sentosa. apparently the spa overlooks the sea and is exclusive as hell. Perfect.

"Did you make any reservations for the both of us?" I asked him the moment we reached Sentosa.

Steve shook his head.

"How are we going for the massage then? I've read online, the spa does not entertain walk-ins, only reservations," I asked slightly worried.

"I practically own that motherfucking spa, hello? Now shut the fuck up and let me prep myself mentally for later!" Steve raised his voice.

I snorted.

"It's a massage, not genocide in a tank," I replied.

True enough, the moment Steve opened the door of the spa, three staffs immediately came to his service; one gave us a welcome drink, the other one taking away our belongings and one to help facilitate a room for her boss's son, and his pathetic freeloader friend (me!).

Just then, Steve received a text from Star. Steve showed me and laughed. On the phone it read: Fuck you Steve! Why Harry? Why not me?! You cocksucker. Melanie also said fuck you. You owe us girls! Asshole!

"Jealous, obviously," I smiled.

We were then taken into this big room and it smelled of lavender and mandarin oranges. there were two massaging beds and two masseuse standing in there just waiting for us.

"I designed the interior. Nice isn't it?" Steve said.

"I didn't ask," I shook my head. Okay fine the room was fucking amazing. It's how Cleopatra's boudoir would look like is he lived in the 21st century. Chic yet opulent.

The two masseuse handed us a bathrobe and a disposable underwear to change into for the massage. Steve held the underwear up and said, "You're fucking kidding me."

A couple of minutes later the two ladies came in and we are already lying face down on the bed. The moment my masseuse started massaging me, I could feel my whole body relax. Meanwhile on the other bed, Steve is giggling away like a girl, "Ow! No, no stop! Hahahaha, stop! Okay, okay...stop! Hahahaha stop!"

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up." I groaned.

"She's kneading my thighs like a dough and I can't help it!" Steve said, laughing.

And bear in mind that this is only number one on his list. So help me god.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

25 Things You Shouldn't Say To A Girl On A First Date

1. I was free tonight, I had no plans, so why not right?

2. My colleague has the exact same dress as you. It was on discount wasn't it?

3. Gurrrl, you look great. Lurrrve your hair.

4. Shall we go eat at somewhere cheaper?

5. Sorry I am late, I was helping my mother do the laundry.

6. So do you this often?

7. I have so many things to share with you about me. Where shall I start?

8. Your lipstick is running. No, I'm serious.

9. I'm looking to settle down, hence, today.

10. Give me a sec, my mate/brudder texted me.

11. *talking on the phone "She's alright. Not gorgeous. A'ight."

12. Do you have Facebook?

13. You're wearing too much makeup.

14. I can only spare two hours. I have plans later.

15. You smell exactly like my ex-girlfriend.

16. You're quite...flat aren't you?

17. I have the entire DVD collection of Sex And The City. I could borrow it to you sometime.

18. If not for my mum, I wouldn't be here.

19. Were you skinnier than you are right now?

20. Man do you have big feet.

21. I call my car Jingles. Cute right?

22. *looking at your breasts "Do you have names for the twins?"

23. I'm surprised that you actually have a job. You look like the homely kind.

24. I forgot my wallet. Could you pay first for dinner?

25. I'm sorry but you're bleeding cause your skirt...shit.

School Of Bullies

The repercussions of bullying is much more severe than we think it is. "Bullying" and "Death", in this day and age is not much of a stretch and this fact by itself is sickening and alarming. There are hundreds of kids who commit suicide because of bullying. In some cases, bullies physically harm these poor children, sometimes to the point of death. For me it all boils down to education.

The lack of education breeds ignorance and ignorance is the very foundation of bullies and the act of bullying. Let's face it, acceptance is much harder than ignorance. So kids who are different, in the slightest bit becomes the subject of bullying.

But all seriousness aside, bullying can give birth to two things: insecurity or self confidence, and in abundance for both. The reason why I'm talking about bullying in this post is because Melanie's nephew have been the subject of bullying, all because of his water bottle.

Melanie bought for him a pink water bottle and the poor kid barely made it into the second period when the other boys in his class started teasing him and calling him a girl. That was two months ago and the situation has worsened. Yesterday one of the boys called him a "fag". The boy has been taken into disciplinary action but Melanie's nephew has started to dread school as of two weeks ago, before the shocking utterance.

"I hope that boy gets touched by a pedophile," Melanie said, recollecting the incident to us.

Steve chocked on his latte.

"As a victim of child molestation fifteen years ago, I find that oddly...amusing," Steve laughed. When he was ten, he was molested regularly by his uncle who was also a drug addict.

"Pedophile crackhead" as Steve would always say.

"I think parents have a moral duty to impart proper values and lead by example, at least until the kid is big enough to know the difference between tolerance and ignorance," Melanie said, flipping her legendary weave.

"That is why I don't wish to have any children, simply because I would make a very bad parent. By twelve my child would probably use the word "cunt" to spit at a female classmate as a joke because "My daddy uses the word "cunt" to joke with my tranny godmum!" Very likely," I bemused.

Steve chocked on his late again.

"That is wrong on so many levels!" Steve laughed throatily.

"Where do you think the boy learned the word "fag"? Star suddenly chirped in, her mind finally shifting into the gear three minutes after a topic of discussion has ended. That's Star for you.

"God knows. Maybe he was watching his father's stash of Brent Everett gay porn?" Melanie said.

Steve chocked on his latte for the third time.

"Guys! I'm trying to drink my soy latte stop it!" Steve continued laughing.

All four of us have been bullied during our school years. Steve suffered from a case of money extortion, mainly due to the fact that he was a rich kid. Star would be taunted back in school for being the only eleven year old in fifth grade who developed breasts. Star, being Star retaliated by taunting the boys to see their mother's tits for the same thing (at eleven, and already a bitch). I myself was the subject of bullying for being the tallest in class. They called me "bamboo pole".

Melanie's bullying was the best. When Melanie was still Melvin, the boys would call her a faggot, gay, cocksucker and the likes of it. Her retort?

"Pull down your pants and let me suck it then."

Silence. Good one Mel.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

PRC Ghosts

Lately I have been experiencing rather weird occurrences in the middle of the night in my room. Ever since the house was renovated about a week ago, every night at around 2am, I will hear marbles dropping and rolling around on my ceiling. This would be followed by the sounds of furnitures being pushed around. It will go on and on until at about 4am and by then I would either be scared out of my wits or really angry because my sleep have been gravely affected.

As far as I can remember, the family living upstairs don't have any young kinds and I dread to imagine my fifty something neighbour playing with marbles in the middle of the night. Of course being Asian, the only way to conveniently explain the weird nightly noises is if we go the supernatural route.

As a kid growing up, and I am talking about ALL Singaporean kids, we are being brought up with countless stories about ghosts, spirits and the likes of it. "Got ghosts!" is by far the only phrase (and last resort) that our parents use to deter us from playing hide and seek, loitering at the corridor at dusk, extending our play session at the playground etc.

And so we grew up, that and coupled with our Asian culture that is very predominantly heavy on the supernatural way of thinking, to be really in tuned with anything that is remotely different from the ordinary.

According to stories by my mum (who is a total supernatural junkie), if we hear such noises on our ceiling in the middle of the night, it means that there are spirits playing with us and the best part? If you hear it up on your ceiling, they are actually inside your room beside you.


"You're not scared?" my mum asked yesterday during breakfast when I told her.

"No," I replied half-lying and mouth full of hash browns.

My mum is lazy these past few days and so for the past week she calls McDonalds delivery for breakfast but I think the real reason is because she doesn't want to dirty her new stove. It takes an OCD to know another.

"Just pray," my said, wiping her mouth with a serviette.

"What if they're Chinese ghosts? They wouldn't understand me," I shrugged.

"Huh?" my mum said, confused.

"Or PRC ghosts. That one pray in English also cannot understand," Harold added.

"Huh?!" my mum explained, more confused that the first time. "Yes, please joke about it boys. One day when you really see it, then you will know!"

"I seriously don't think there is anything more terrifying than you," I caustically replied. My mum glared at me.

"I don't think our house is haunted. It's too clean and sterile for anything to "stop by". And besides the only ghost I know feasts on virgins and there is none on this table right now," Harold said, face deadpan.

"I hope the ghosts will come and show themselves in front of you boys tonight then you both will know!" my mum raised her voice, exasperated that her two sons are not taking her seriously.

"A mother who wishes the worst for her kids? Tsk tsk tsk! What has the world came to?" I mocked her.

"I will throw my hash browns at you, stop it," my mum rolled her eyes.

The Fart Machine

Flatulence, or farting as we know it is one of the things that I find myself grappling with on a daily basis. I am a heavy after. There, I said it. In a short span of two hours, I can fart as much as fifteen times. Imagine then the amount of farts I let out on a daily basis.

My farts, like everybody else can range from silent to shockingly loud and scentless to that of a dead carcass. I don't know whether I suffer from a condition of severe flatulence if there is such a medical term to start with. I also try try my best to avoid food like ginger considering that it is one of the famous "wind-eliminating" natural ingredients. I once had ginger chicken for lunch and I farted in the living room for a full three hours non stop.

"I feel like a Jew in a genocide tank! You're suffocating me!" Harold shouted that day; he was in the same room playing Halo 3 when it first came out.

I can't help it. I don't think I have mastered the art of controlling your fart really well yet. My idea of courtesy is by sorry AFTER I have farted instead of relieving myself elsewhere private in the first place. Ain't nobody got time for that.

But it's hard because I always try to be polite about it and nine out of ten times I try to keep it in and then the feeling of wanting to fart would go soon enough. But nine out of ten times I would fail and fart it off anyways and at the same time fall lower into the category of "uncontrollable farmers".

Up till last year, I was always morally plaqued by the condition that I'm suffering. It had affected my sex, social and professional life. And then I accepted it. One day I woke up and I decided that I should accept this shortcoming of mine.

My rule is: "If you didn't hear or smell it, then I didn't fart."

And on occasions that people do hear or smell it, a feeble "sorry" would suffice. I am now known as "The Fart Machine". And no, I am not going to try and defend myself here.

I have also read somewhere that girls fart three times more than boys. Does that also mean that I am actually a girl inside? Because as far as I am concerned, I don't think I know of anybody, man, woman or Melanie The Tranny that farts as much as I do. An incident that happened yesterday though had me questioning my place in society.

I was watching Wreck It Ralph yesterday in the cinema with Melanie and I had three egg sandwiches before the movie. You know where this is going right? Bear with me.

Ten minutes into the movie, I felt my stomach became hard and the feeling of wanting to fart suddenly rose from a measly one to a fucking eleven in a matter of seconds. I tapped Melanie's right arm and whispered to her, "I want to fucking fart. I can't stand, it will go off and I will fart at someone's face."

Melanie glared at me and whispered, "I swear if you fart, I will disown you as a friend right here. There are kids everywhere around us Harry please don't be fucked up!"

"I can't hold it any longer," I said softly, beads of perspiration forming on my forehead.

"Don't!" Melanie whispered and beat my left arm. And with that I suddenly farted, thankfully a silent one.

There was silence for a good five seconds, the only sound was the glaring animation from the screen. Melanie noticed the silence and turned at me and snarled, "You did not..."

Suddenly a kid, this youg boy sitting behind me raised his voice to his mother, "Mummy! It's smelly! Somebody poot poot! Egg smell mummy..."

Melanie and I only watched Wreck It Ralph for half an hour. We both couldn't bear the embarrassment.

Menstrual Empathy

I think the best and most sincere kind of empathy is when you have gone through the painful, tumultuous experience yourself. Therefore, I could never fully empathize with girls and their menstrual cramps. I've never experienced it so whenever Star goes "Fuck! I feel like someone is grazing my pussy and stomach with a razor blade inside!", all I would do (and can do) is massage her neck and say, "Relax...relax..."

"Why are you massaging my neck, get off me! I am having menstrual cramps not neck stiffness!" she would always reply, annoyed.

"Ungrateful cunt," I would silently say.

What is even more weird is that Star usually has a high threshold for pain. Once she fell down in the middle of Orchard Road and bruised her elbow rather badly and she didn't even wince. Not even once. She attributes her high threshold for pain because of all the mammograms and pap smears that she has gone through over the years. But when it comes to menstrual cramps, Star loses it completely.

Yesterday was no exception.

I accompanied her after she finished work to have dinner and she wanted to buy a pair of shoes afterwards. I had no plans in the evening so I said okay. She was trying on a pair of slingbacks at On Pedder when she squeezed my arms. Very, very hard.

"It's coming," she whispered, closing her eyes.

"What? Who?" I nervously replied, eyes scanning the room for incoming ex boyfriends.

"Cramps," she replied, eyes still closed.

"You look like one of those mediums who is contacting the dead," I joked.

"I will hit you so hard, don't make me!" Star said, raising her voice slightly.

"So what do you want me to do?" I rolled my eyes.

Silence. It is true, there is nothing I could do to soothe her menstrual cramps. What, touch her stomach and say a few prayers?

"I need to sit," Star said softly.

"Sit then," I replied annoyingly.

"Fuck you, I hope you get menstrual cramps in your next life," Star glared at me.

I stared at her blankly.

Star sat down, clutching her stomach, a pained expression on her face. She took off the shoes and started to massage her temples with one hand, the other hand still clutching her stomach. She started growling softly, "Oww..." She crouched forward, looked down on her feet and continued to growl for a full thirty seconds.

I feel like I'm in the zoo.

"Are you just going to stand there like an idiot?!" Star finally shouted, exasperated.

"Just because you are having menstrual cramps doesn't mean you can be a total asshole. I will kick you in the gut if I have to," I replied coldly.

Just then a sales assistant came to her and asked, "Ma'am are you done with the shoes?"

Star turned to her and raised her voice, "Can't you see I am in pain?! I'm having menstrual cramps for fucks sake who gives a shit about your shoes?!"

Everyone in the store looked at her.

I laughed softly at the side. Star picked up a shoe and threw it at me.

"Star! You wil pay for that if it breaks! And people are looking!"

"I don't care. I want to go home now!" she cried.

"Get up then," I said.

"Carry me home! Please!" she raised both of her hands to me.

I left the store. Even ridiculousness has it's limits.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

Tell Tale Signs

Star's colleague, this 47 year old mother (let's just call her Lynn) got the biggest shock of her life when her 17 year old son came out to her last week. Lynn was surprised, she didn't suspect anything remotely queer about him at all.

"Mothers and their delusion. Once that boy came to our office to visit his master and I could smell the gay scent from a mile away. For fucks sake Harry he was wearing a low neck leopard print top. The only straight man who would wear that is if he is Crocodile Dundee. I mean, he walked past my office and said "Nice Louboutins!" Harry, that boy was gayer than Adam Lambert's eyeliner," Star shared with me yesterday.

So Star and I came up with a list of tell-tale signs to figure out if your son is gay. We plan to publish it as a little booklet with illustrations and sell it at Mothercare. We predict a little fortune befalling us thereafter.

And before any of you think this list is decretory, stereotypical or homophobic, a) you don't have a sense of humour to laugh at yourself and b) my best friend is an anal bleaching gay man and my other best friend is a transexual so screw you.

Are you ready mothers. Here are 20 tell-tale signs that your son is probably gay:

1. He is always flipping his imaginary extended hair, like it's long and he's in a Head and Shoulders shampoo commercial.

2. He loves to hand out at his cousin's place. Rita because she has an extensive Barbie Doll collection and Jake, because he is cute.

3. He owns the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. And make no apologies about it.

4. His wardrobe is more extensive and bigger than his sister.

5. He has a penchant for animal prints. Leopard, zebra, whatever.

6. His skincare regime takes a full hour.

7. Whenever you go shopping for clothes with him, he always tells you, "Mum, no."

8. You accidentally saw the contents of his phone and his wallpaper is a shirtless David Gandy.

9. Whenever he is on the phone with his best friend, he goes "Gurrrl" every two minutes.

10. He is pretty.

11. You never have to clean his room. It is spotless, like his pretty face.

12. Joins the gym.

13. Tells your husband, "Dad, I will not be seen in public with you wearing Crocs!"

14. With his first paycheck he bought for you a YSL mascara because his "friends" tell him that they're awesome.

15. His hair is always perfectly coiffed.

16. He brings a cute guy home and introduces him to you as, "My friend". Straight boys say, "My bud". True story.

17. Knows the name of every of the Victoria Secret's Angels.

18. Listens to Mariah Carey on loop.

19. Always asks you, "Mum, would you still love me if I'm different?"

20. Dildo in the closet.


25 Signs You Live In A Ghetto Neighbourhood

1. There are a lot of barbershops. One at every corner.

2. There are shirtless kids running around, when they are supposed to be in school.

3. A lot of teenagers around the area are seen wearing the McDonalds uniform.

4. There are not many cars and those seen around the neighbourhood usually have a jacked up door at the driver's side.

5. Weekly dance battles. At the parking lot.

6. The men in the neighborhood have a favourite spot, usually under a bridge.

7. There is always someone running away form something or someone, otherwise known as "Random Running Man".

8. 6 out of 10 of the men in your neighbourhood are mechanics. 4 of them don't even know how to fix a car.

9. Door to door haircut services motherfuckers.

10. Gunshots once a week.

11. Everyday at 4 in the afternoon, some random woman at the playground would be heard screaming, "You need to take care of your child!"

12. The cops are not the only one with guns.

13. There is always a random couple at the staircase beside your house, and a wet patch nearby.

14. THAT, or they have a can of glue in their hands.

15. Random man comes up to you once in a while for a cigarette.

16. Cats, cats everywhere.

17. There is one school in the neighbourhood but the school bell never rings.

18. Instead of door knockers, most houses have a letter from the back pasted on the door.

19. Every night you will hear a glass bottle break...and then a scream.

20. You can never leave your shoes or underwear outside your house overnight. Gone baby gone..

21. A five year old kind at the playground knows the meaning of "crack".

22. Random syringes and needles everywhere.

23. 8 out of 10 times when a car passes by you, the windows are down and it's Ludacris or 50 Cent on loudspeaker.

24. There are always catfights in the neighbourhood. The human kind.

25. There is a beautiful girl from the block called Jenny.


Cribs, Extreme Makeover

After waiting for over a month, today my house has finally finished with its "extreme makeover". The night before my mum was busy texting me again and again with the same message: "Don't forget to be there at 10am please!" I don't see the need to reprimand me again and again when I am living with the interior designer and he is the one sharing with me all the details of the newly decorated four room apartment.

I texted her "Okay" four times and she still sent me the same message.

"Mum, stop it! Did you even read any of the incoming messages? Go check it now!" I texted her.

"Oh. Sry. :P"

You see what I have to deal with peaches?

So this morning at 10 am sharp I was there with Steve outside my gate and to my surprise, both my mum and Harold were already waiting outside.

"Harold! You're still alive!" I teased.

I was actually half serious. The past three weeks, I have not even met let alone received any of his text. It's like he suddenly disappeared to an unknown land and came back after a long time. He did post on his Facebook status that he is enjoying the one month break from "all the craziness". I think he meant my mum.

Harold rolled his eyes.

"Did you learn how to roll your eyes like a girl from your cock-sucking buddy Sean?" I teased again.

"Shut up harry!" Harold answered, rolling his eyes again.

"Shut up Harry!" I mimicked him. "So fabulous," I teased for the last time.

"Are you guys ready to see your new house?" Steve interrupted.

"Yes! I am! I am sick of these two boys going at it. I hope you've done a great job Steve, hope you have stretched every single dollar of mine and transformed my house or you can forget about eating with us again," my mum straight, face deadpan.

"Okay..." Steve said softly, I think out of fear.

"I'm only kidding! A dollar's gonna make me holler!" my mum suddenly shrieked.

That caught all the three of us by surprise and there was an awkward silence for about five full seconds. I am also in shock that my mum referenced Honey Boo Boo in her daily conversations now.

"Right. Are you guys ready?" Steve said, keys in doorknob. Mother and two sons nodded their heads simultaneously.

You know the kind of sound that a kid makes when he or she opens up a fantastic gift for his/her birthday? It is a cross between being in awe and wanting to cry out of happiness. It was just this certain type of "Oooooh" and my mum did that about twenty times when inspecting the new house.

"Steve crept up beside me and whispered, "What does "Oooooh" means? Does she like it or it that an "Oooooh what the fuck did you do to my house you wretched child"? I am confused."

"I think she is in love with it," I replied. And why wouldn't she. The house was beautiful. It was everything my mum imagined for and more. Minimalist chic? Check. Spacious area? Check. Hints of Balinese? Check.

The kitchen was in black and Steve had installed a steel exterior oven, overhead utensils rack, refrigerator and sink. My room was exactly how I wanted it to be and I was more than happy. The different shades of beige and cream and light browns on the walls made my house bigger than it really is.

All in all, forty grand well spent. And Steve didn't take any more money form us, not a single cent. He even gave us a cheque of $8000 of "leftover" money.

I wish I could take pictures of my new house and show it to you guys but my mum said, "Don't! I don't want anybody to follow and copy the interior of my house!" and snatched my camera away from my hands. Childish much?

"Now that our house is perfect and magazine ready you stop your hoarding habit," Harold said, lying down on his queen sized bed.

"I was never a hoarder!" my mum defended herself.

"Then you are a...COUPON QUEEN!" I shouted from across the living room. That'll teach her to never reference Honey Boo Boo ever again.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013


Ever since A Son Of A Peach opened up a Twitter account a couple of months ago, I have been experiencing a daily struggle with condensing my thoughts in 140 characters or less to update a tweet. This is a terrible misfortune for people like me who firstly, speak in complete sentences and secondly always using the correct spelling for every single word.

But in the name of technological advancement and hitting the social media iron while it is still hot, and of course for you readers, I will continue to fight the battle that is "140 characters or less" like Britney to depression.

The trending topic on twitter are more often than not a good push for my creative and snarky mind and on NewYear's Eve one of the trending topics or hashtag was #2012TaughtMe. And since we just celebrated 2013 less than 48 hours ago, I thought it would be a great idea to list down 12 things #2012TaughtMe. Some people call it putting things in perspective, I call is "snark vomit". Here we go:

12. #2012TaughtMe that there are women out there who don't have enough self-respect and dignity and who gives second chances to physically abusive misogynists. We call these group of women: Rihanna.

11. #2012TaughtMe to be more tolerant of offending body odour in public transportation. To efficiently counter and treat this phenomenon, just bring along your toilet air freshener wherever you go and spray it liberally within a 5 metres radius. It beats (and definitely less painful) than having to use a fucking clothes peg to pinch your nostrils.

10. #2012TaughtMe that there are no pretty (and intelligent) girls in Singapore worthy enough to be a Miss Universe. How many times have we won the pageant? That's right, never.

9: #2012TaughtMe to be fully equipped with a song that is memorized by hard. This will come in handy when waiting in line at the ATM and the person in front of you is taking forever. Sometimes I sing loudly, they think I am a nut bag and leave immediately. Works like a charm every single time.

8. #2012TaughtMe to think before I speak, which is not a lesson really, cause I never do it.

7. #2012TaughtMe the importance of the "subscribe" button in Facebook. Because I never learn my lesson when it comes to thinking first before saying anything, I find myself constantly ridiculing impressionable young girls who act slutty or pompous self-righteous cuntheads, With the subscribe button, i can choose to unsubscribe form their wall posts and my life instantly becomes much less stressful and more peaceful. The adage "the less you know, the less you get hurt" applies strongly here.

6. #2012TaughtMe the catchphrase "Bitch, please." Highly versatile and a kickass punctuation/ reply/retort to anything remotely stupid. Use it.

5. #2012TaughtMe to say "No". This year I have said "No" to a lot of things. Things like Coke, E and Ice. Melanie's fault. But I am proud that I never once succumbed to her and took any form of recreational drugs. I get the same high from watching Bollywood movies anyways. True story.

4. #2012TaughtMe the importance of weather forecasting. This year alone I was stuck in town in the pouring rain four times...wearing suede shoes. That is two Tod's, a pair of Church's and a Car Shoe and you (or anybody for that matter) should never experience the kind of seething rage coupled with a sense of helplessness that I felt on those four occasions.

3. #2012TaughtMe to find humour in the death of quality television programs. That is why I thoroughly enjoy Here Comes Honey Boo Boo and Keeping Up With The Kardashians. I can't decide which one I love more though. It is a toss between Honey Boo Boo's redneck sassiness and Kim Kardashian's lilting (fucking annoying) baby voice.

2. #2012TaughtMe to always double confirm the real gender of a seemingly androgynous looking individual. This year alone I mistook two preteen boys for a butch and I really blame this confusion on Justin Bieber.

1. #2012TaughtMe that we should stop listening to what people say and letting it affect us. Like the Mayans. Instead of shouting "Happy New Year" at the stroke of midnight, a drunken guy beside me shouted, "Fuck you Mayans!" Good for him I say.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Three Million Dollar Ball

This New Year's celebration was different for the four of us friends. For the past three years, our New year's celebration is a grand affair, something that we look forward to right after Christmas. For the past three years, Steve, our best friend, the scion of an empire (he hates it when I call him that) would throw the biggest New YEar's bash and invite all of his friends, relatives, contacts, clients and of course, us to usher in the new year in the biggest way possible.

But this year, there wasn't any bash, no big ball, no free flow of champagne, no sweet door gifts ($300 spa vouchers anybody?), no dance floor, no fine Italian food, no nothing.

Back in November 2012, Steve shared with us about his desire to do away with a New Year's Ball as he is famously associated with.

"I'm too old to throw a party," he said.

"You're 25," Melanie rolled her eyes.

"Fine, the real reason I don't want to have a party this year is because I..."

"Please do not say it is because you don't want to waste money. Your bank account is inexhaustible," Star butted in halfway.

"It's not that. I just...I just feel empty? I don't know. When I turned 21, I thought it was a great idea, almost mandatory. Son of tycoon throws a party, you know. But I just feel like this year onwards, and the years coming ahead, no more party. I just want to spend it with my closest friends, something intimate, meaningful," Steve shared.

I could hear hundreds of people from the gliteratti sighing at that very moment.

"Does that mean that the supposed three million dollar budget used for the ball could be used on us instead?" I joked.

"Of course if you want it, I will give it to you!" Steve smiled earnestly.

I looked at his face. He actually meant that.

"I'm just kidding," I replied softly. Damn it.

That was two months ago and yesterday, the four of us went to The Fullerton for a small get together; his ex boyfriend (who is now a good friend) and a few others of Steve's closest friends organized. Because there wasn't a ball this year, we three (and hundreds of members from the gliteratti) had no plans so were were cordially invited by Steve and boy did we have fun.

When we arrived, one of Steve's male friends opened the door and Star squealed. It was Dan The Man (read the blog post of the same name to refresh you memory), Star's new regional manager and imaginary fuck buddy. Apparently Dan is Steve's old university buddy back in London; Steve took Architecture, Dan, MBA.

I have to give it to Star. This Dan guy is really, really good looking even I can't stop staring at him for the first two minutes after our initial handshake. And yes, he smells of Bulgari Men, as famously described by Star.

"What if he's gay?" Melanie teased.

"Don't fuck with me like that. Not on the last day of 2012. I can't handle that shit. And just because he is friends with a gay man doesn't mean his is gay too you stupid tranny!" Star growled behind Dan's back.

"Possessive bitch," Melanie flicked her hair.

There were a couple of other people whom we didn't know but didn't take long to warm up to (by the fourth glass to be exact). There is a certain sense of joy indescribable when you spend time with your closest friend at such a momentous time of the year. There were plenty of food (great italian from one of Steve's restaurants) and his father had given him six bottles of champagne and Ben (Steve's ex) was such an excellent host, we couldn't ask for more.

We played Snap like children, huddled together (all ten of us) at the balcony to witness the fireworks when the clock struck twelve, drank some more and played some more games.

The highlight of the night was when we played Taboo and Melanie had to describe "Ghosts" and said, "People are afraid of this thing...What is it?"

"Lesbians?" Ben guessed loudly.

The whole room shook with laughter and Star spilled champagne on her top and that is when you know that things are really getting fun. Oh, and yes, Star made out with Dan at the end of the night on a couch in the living room of the hotel suite and Melanie threw a pillow at them and screamed, "Score!"

A ball of a time, without three million dollars.

Five People You Meet In...

I would like to take this opportunity (in all my hangover glory) to wish all of you readers a blessed New Year. I know I am one day late, but I haven't got the opportunity to properly get the alcohol out of my system before I even try to write coherently (yes, I am a gibberish drunk).

I got back home at six thirty on New Year's Day from a rather insane party (more on that in the next blog post) and New Year's Day just whizzed by and me just staring at the ceiling and telling myself that I shouldn't have drank that extra shot of Smirnoff last night.

So now that I am feeling much better, here's wishing you a Happy New Year and may 2013 be filled with lots of sex, out of the roof orgasms and happiness, in that order. And hopefully herpes-free by 2014.

The other reason why I am writing this post is to express my utter fascination with people's conversation when they are drunk. Alcohol brings out, in my opinion, the best of everybody. I have seen alcohol work it's magic on many people.

Alcohol transforms a quiet introvert into a chatty, charming and funny social butterfly. Of course there should always be moderation in everything and the same rule applies for here for alcohol.

Excessive consumption of alcohol can turn the aforementioned chatty, charming and funny social butterfly into an annoying clown that is asking for a muzzle to be shoved in his or her face.

But really now, the conversations that we have in our drunken stupor has always fascinated me. i find the exchange unintendedly hilarious and not to mention stupidly precious. The gems of conversations that I have overheard (and eavesdropped) last night in the aftermath of New Years along the streets were aplenty.

I have narrowed down the Top 5 drunken conversations that I heard last night that was so charming Amy Winehouse would gibberishly approve.

Drunken Conversation 5th Place:

Star, Melanie, Steve and I were walking around town and walked past this Indian man who was clearly drunk and was hugging his female companion for support. He told her, "I...made a promise to Lord Shiva that I would never drink again. Sharab, sab kuch, nahin hoga (alcohol, everything, never again)!"

Star said to me, "He broke his promise to the Lord. Isn't Shiva the God of Destruction?"

"Good luck to him then," Steve said softly.

Drunken Conversation 4th Place:

We were walking past a shopping centre scouring for a 7-11 to get cigarettes and Gatorade at four in the morning and there was this girl who was slouched against a metal railing and she closed her eyes and massaged her temples saying, "Guys, this is really 2013 already right?"

Ah no honey, we managed to freeze time. Yay.

Drunken Conversation 3rd Place: 

I was waiting for Melanie to arrive at The Fullerton where we had a party held by one of Steve's friends and was standing beside a group of boys sitting by the lobby. One of their friends arrived wearing an Abercrombie & Fitch sweater and then one of the boys said, "Eeeuw, you're wearing that? That's so gay!"

Just then a drunken Caucasian man walked past and he shouted, "I'm gay and I'm not wearing an Abercrombie sweater assholes!" and then walked off in a gait much more "fierce" than all of Tyra Banks modeling career.

Drunken Conversation 2nd Place:

The four of us were having supper and at the table beside us, a man was holding a beer can in one hand and his wife's right palm and he slurred, "I promise you, 2013, I would be the best husband for you!"

What lies. Start being a good husband by being sober first I say.

Drunken Conversation 1st Place:

A young woman was seen gyrating outside a building, singing and dancing (badly) to JLO's Dance Again, obviously taking advantage of the alcohol and attention. It was grating and painful and the only redemption was when his equally drunk boyfriend who stood quietly there for a good fifteen seconds, closed his eyes, opened them and said, "Bitch, please."

That made my 2012