Drag Me Out Of This Hell!

After years of not seeing each other, Ginger and I finally reunited. And what a better way to rekindle our long lost friendship than watching a sucky horror B-movie together. Oh yeah, we love to “scaugh” (scare + laugh) ourselves silly and bitching about the movie a long, long after that; which in a way would compensate our sore disappoinment for not getting tickets for that new “Transformer” movie.

So, Saturday afternoon , right after lunch at his home we checked our brains out at the theater’s door and watched “Drag Me To Hell” and giving a new meaning of “hell”to the people who sat next to us. First of all, the movie was a apocalypstic train wreck. We laughed so hard throughout the movie that I think I broke my laughing bones (if there’s such thing exists).

I mean, come on, you know you are in a hell hole when the main character debates whether or not she should keep the button that cursed her or ultimately give it away to someone else. Those of us in the audiences chose to debate the far more provocative questions of whether the demon, in fact a jackass or rather a saviour that killed her and put out of our misery once and for all.

And the visual effect wasn’t that any good either. The last and final scene where they got this big, the-Exorcist -inspired scene with people twirling, spinning up and about in the room, the effect was so-so at best, which is like a perfect storm of movie suckiness.

My favorite part of the movie, though, would have to be that medium’s reaction when he figures out that our lady in distress was cursed by the most powerful, ancient demon, Lamia; he looks like a chimpanzee slowly discovering that the reflection in the watering hole is actually him.

But all bitching aside, like I said to Ginger at the end of the day, the most important thing about the whole experience is the chance for us to hang out together again like we used to do, the companionship, the laugh, the bad movie and all. Man, I am glad she’s back.

Ginger, in her bad, baad hair day.

But in an extremely rare good day, Ginger, is a handsome woman; compassionate, charming, attractive and shapely, too. Now, a lot of people confuse my ability to recognize Ginger’s many qualities as “having a thing for her”.

Nothing could further from the truth, for the most part. Ginger is my friend and the two of us share a very special friendship that I wouldn’t jeopardize for anything. Even if she’s experimented with mind-expanding drugs or I had saved her life or something. The point is, Ginger and I are great friends. And that’s all.

Well, unless you’ve heard her say otherwise?

I Believe In Judgment Day

I drive to work everyday. Yep, just like any other snobs who repulsed the idea of sharing our private space with strangers in public transport. And of course after spending almost a quarter of our monthly income on gas and toll, we have to look for the cheapest mean to park our sub-50k car.

And Oh Boy, what a price I have to pay for being a tightfisted snob. On Monday, all four caps on my tires’ tube got stolen. Damn!

But being a person who staunchly believes in Judgment Day and afterlife; instead of throwing nasty hissy fits by the roadside, I just prayed that evil-doer got rotten in Hell. I am sorry, but those four caps cost me RM10.00.

Oh yeah, RM10.00 that I could have just dumped it in the ravine or burned it in this scumbag’s a**hole instead; ‘cause as per yesterday’s afternoon, all my new set of caps got stolen YET AGAIN.

God, I sure blew my stack this time, I was so angry I could spit bullets. Only two nights ago I was griping about it for a good 20 minutes with my close friends and now it happened again.

Piss off doesn’t even begin how angry I am right now. I seriously need to look for new parking spot now or start (gasp!) paying for better, nearer place to park my car.

Oh sure, everything is my fault!

I Swear, This Is Not PD!

Let’s face it, our working life is pretty thankless. We toil for 12 hours a day, largely for the benefit of the richest 1 percent of population, and then we come home to craps like 'Kimora’s Life On The Fab Lane' and 'Paris Hilton’s New BFF'. We are an inch closer of throwing out of the window our TV set everyday, but we quickly remember that 'E!’s Top 10 Fabulous Holiday Destinations' is next. So the TV throwing can wait another day.

Obviously I needed a break. I needed fresh air, sunshine and a chance to get away from it all (and that means parading around in my tentlike shorts, putting my belly on proud display at a beach). And what a better way to accomplish all that than to take an old-fashioned, four-days-three-nights vacation in a certain remote-but-exclusive part of the country?

This vacation costs a fortune that I truly believe only emirs can handle them comfortably. It was so expensive I felt a certain pressure to run around like a madman, trying to have fun every second of the day. Since there isn’t a hell of a lot to do at the beach (the whole idea of the beach is there’s nothing to do there) a conflict may arise , causing dizziness and vomiting.

And as the world struggles against the tsunami tide of credit crunch; for 'aristocrat' like Din, credit crunch is not in his vocabulary. “Credit crunch? What’s that? Is it a new brand of slimming breakfast cereal?”, exclaimed my partner in crime.

If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.

Ask anyone, your friends or family – to tell you what they want out of holiday and they will invariably tell you the same thing; ‘I want to spend quality time with the people I care; I want laughter, good food and fun’. It’s as simple as that. We all share the same vision. So if we want the same thing, why does holiday so often highlight our differences and divide us rather than bring us closer together?

Essentially, the answer is simple; because we’re different. Yes we all are. That’s why I’ve long accepted the fact and tried not to worry too much about those little things. Why get an ulcer over things that don’t matter?



Once I was at the beach, with the water lapping up against my shorts, I saw clearly that all man’s worrying is ridiculous since we are all just particles. A speck of tiny sand. Now, what’s the point of having to be flown back from an expensive vacation, a whipped and dejected man, as a result of worrying about all the money I have spent and those people I had short-tipped?

Man, I have another waay important thing to worry about. It’s called credit crunch.

It Wasn't Meant To Be

Friday afternoons should be the happiest time in a week for me. I should be home by 5.00pm and be watching my favourite toons. I should be eating dinner by now while making weekend plans. It should be a joyful, most awesomest, super-fantastical-psychedelic Friday.

6.15am I was still trapped in Jalan P. Ramlee, where everywhere seemed to be completely clogged up in one enormous jam that stratched all the way down to Jalan Ampang.

Damn. Why there’s always something, somewhere: roadworks, a diversion, a wonky traffic in this maddening rush hour? Why? WHY?!!. Whatever it may be, I kept hoping it’d sort itself out in a moment and the next green would release lots and lots of cars and we’d all be rattling along, multiple lanes of happy motorists zoming out of the city.

No.

Still here

One hour ( I mean, seriously, one our) of heel-toeing-clutchwork-that-had-my-ankles-aching later, I was still on the same spot. Damn. I fiddled about with the radio to find a song, any song, but there’s only wittering, ‘slow moving on the........’. Oh come on, I mean, surely there must be some traffic moving somewhere. I thought, ‘If this goes on for much longer I’m going to start fretting’.

But then I reminded myself to not let the little things get to me. Not.Let.Them.Get.To.Me. And that was just about time too when I gazed out of the window and saw a sign - just a few meters from me. The sign from God.

KLCC parking. That’s it!

The wheel in my brain was immediately spinning. I talked to myself (I’ve done this a lot lately), ‘All I need to do is just escape to the parking, find my way to the exit to Ampang Elevated Highway and voila! I’ll be be home in no time’. Yes!

A-ha! Who would have thought of that? Pretty briliant idea, don’t you think? (Especially when it comes from the guy who once thought Toni Braxton was a guy) I was really pleased. So hurriedly I drove in, picked up the parking ticket and rushed to the other side of the exit. I was so happy about myself. I thought this got to be one of the smartest thing I’ve done, that no one ever thought about. I should get medal for this. Or patent the ‘secret route’. ‘I am such a genius’. Gosh, I simply couldn’t stop gushing about myself.

But as they say, good things never last. And the cruel reality will set in sooner than I thought.

F***! My ticket got rejected. Shock slammed me in the chest like a truck. (And now this is the part where I hate myself so much I wanted to die in a violent sex-gone-wrong accident). I forgot to pay the ticket at the autopay machine.

And by the time my puny brain realized this too, a dozen of impatient cars already lined up behind me, honking – increasingly irritated about the hold up.

I was breathing harder and harder till I was almost hyperventilating. I felt as though I’ve lurched into some evil parallel universe, where everyone would kill each other for sport. ‘I don’t deserve this, I am a good person, I pay my taxes and I love animals’. I chanted.

Apparently no sign from God this time for me.

Only after a few intense moment later, I managed to pull myself together in time and accepted the fact that there was only one right thing to do - get out of the car and face the consequences. So I turned off the engine, put my bravest front and stepped out of the car, causing a slight commotion at the back. I thought I would face a firing squad as they got their rifle f****** loaded and ready to go.

But alas, the best I could offer to these angry mobs as a rebuttal, was just a weak hand-waving like I was a second runner-up contestant in beauty pagent.

I felt slightly wobbly about the legs and slightly manic inside but I plodded through, passing all these cars looking calm while trying to ignore all the curses hurled at me. I headed to that damn autopay machine as quickly as possible just to get this tragic episode of my life over with.

Once paid for, I started the engine and sped off – running away from this excruciating, painful memory forever, far, far away. It should be a happy Friday afternoon for me. But it wasn't meant to be.

Damn!

Happy Birthday, Faizal!

A couple months ago, Faizal lent me this book, which he mistook it as “must read” and “classic”. Even though, my guts feeling extremely doubt any remote possibility of either of those strong words, I decided to accept the challenge and read the book anyway.

And boy! What a laborious two months of eye rolling it was.

It’s about Samantha, a London lawyer, who left her high-powered career to become a housekeeper in a remote countryside; only to find out later, she was used as a bait in one of the UK's biggest corporate scandals......and (gasp!) fall in love in the process.

Woa! Seriously, Oh Come On!

A lawyer with an IQ of 158, who accidently becomes a housekeeper, solves the mystery of her sudden termination of service and saves her old office GBP50 million AND along the way, wins the heart of a hunky gardener?!? Man, you have got to be kidding me!

Honestly, I think the book is trying too hard to be popular among its readers, it ends up being somewhat contrived and predictable; attempting the usual feel good chick flick and finally ended up somewhat middle-of-the-road.

The author not only seems to enjoy murdering precious old-school romance, but also seems to relish jumping up and down on their corpses. How else can you explain the way the central male character/hunky love interest behaves in it, which speaks and acts in such a fabulously affected manner that it would set off the gaydar of a coma patient? Erkk...

O Gosh! And that loads of moony-eyed swooning in between makes me want to punch someone in the mouth too.

Fortunately, today is Faizal’s Birthday and I don’t think it would be wise for me to go on and on into details for all the reasons why I am not a fan of the book so much. (Though by now, I get an eerie feeling there’s already a little voodoo doll of me in his desk, impaled by drawing pins)

So I think I just stop this madness and leap to my feet and cry out;

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FAIZAL!!!I WISH YOU FABULOUS YEARS AHEAD AND MANY MANY MANY HAPPY RETURNS.

And since I have already had this nagging suspicion abbout his weird taste in modern literature, this year, O yes, I know exactly what to get him– two really good books (with cover of a man holding a gun on it).

Now, where do I put that 'Sex In The City' book of mine?