Variety Pack
Testify
The other day I yelled at some lady in the BSC parking lot. She was waiting for a parking spot. She could’ve pulled to the side instead of holding up 10 cars behind her, including my own. So I decided to knock on her window and give her a piece of my mind. She said she was waiting for parking. I asked her if she expected the rest of us to join hands around her and pray until she gets a parking spot. She didn’t get it. Move to the side, dumbass, then you can wait for a parking spot till your tits sag down to your ankles and the rest of us can happily get on with our lives. The problem with Malaysians is that they’re only ever considerate to inconsiderate people. Someone blocking traffic, someone cutting queue yadda yadda--- nevermind, that’s just the way things are…Bullshit. It’s the way things are because it’s the way you let them be. If I could just yell at one stranger a day, I think I’d make the world a better place.
Alright, alright, maybe yelling isn’t exactly the solution to all the world’s woes. After all, the lady didn’t end up moving her car but simply clicked her heels three times and said, “I’m waiting for parking. I’m waiting for parking, I’m waiting for parking”. Dear Lady, I hope an entire parking lot falls on your head while you sleep tonight. Warm Wishes and all of my love to you, bitch. By the way, there were plenty of parking spaces available on the floor below. No waiting and hogging traffic required. Oh, I forgot, perhaps going two floors up in an elevator might prove too strenuous for the gentle lady.
Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman but Quite Possibly a Man
“Hey, guess what Auntie L asked me about you, today?” said a friend of mine. This was about two years ago, while I was still studying at my old college.
Auntie L was a fellow student and famous figure at the place. Her fame was partly derived from the fact that she was part of a group of students dubbed the Relics; people who had first enrolled at age 18 and had stayed on for far too long, longer than it would usually take for someone to get a degree, seniors to the seniors (the King of Relics is a guy whose name I can’t remember but I know that he’s been in his freshman year for 8 years. Whenever he passed by, people would say, “That’s the guy who’s been in the same 2+2/ 4 year program for 8 years!”). Auntie L wasn’t really anyone’s aunt, not that I know of anyway but people called her that because she had the demeanor of one. Think of your loudest, most obnoxious Mak Datin aunt with the big ass, stiff RTM newscaster’s bob and a compulsion to stick her nose into everyone else’s business – that was how Auntie L came across as. I had no idea she had any idea who I was. She was an antiquity, I was a freshman (or was I a sophomore? I can’t keep track of these things) and we’ve never said a word to eachother.
“She asked me whether you’re a lesbian. She’s convinced that you are.”
“Why, is she interested? She’s not my type,” I said. I usually prefer someone, more whatyoumccallit, biologically male. If I did have a thing for the ladies, I’d probably go for the playboy bunny or better, beer-ad type. Yeah, I’d like that. Some tease and all-sleaze. “And convinced? How? She’s never even talked to me. She’s talked to you but not me.”
“Well, you do come across as a bit butch, you know. And she’s not the first person to ask me the question either.”
I did run around with the Mardi Gras crowd in college. Half of my friends were gay and the other half were probably just in denial. I was gay by association, I guess. “More like fag-hag,” said my friend. Him and another friend of ours once handed me an article they had found in some dumbass female magazine entitled “Why You’re Still Single” and circled in red was Reason #5: You’re a Fag-Hag. “Don’t worry,” they said, “Who needs to date when you can be our fag-hag?” Just because I’m not entirely worried about being single doesn’t mean I find being your fag-hag a dream come true, pricks.
“Anyway,” my friend said, “I told Auntie L you’re not a lesbian; you’re a man.” He thought this was funny. Me, not so much. I don’t have much of a problem with being mistaken for a lesbian. But a man?! You bitch! “I would say that you’re actually a gay man trapped in a woman’s body but then, even when you seem to like a guy, I’m not sure whether you want him or you want to be him,” continued my friend.
Well, what’s the difference? We’re all attracted to people who remind us of either our best self or our worst self, either way, our most interesting self, a self we could not be bothered to actually be.
I don’t know when I started growing invisible testicles and something dangly between my legs though I have a feeling it started in college. My mother gave birth to 4 daughters and one son. Next to my brother, I always thought I was the girliest one in the family. At the all-girls primary and secondary school I attended, I wasn’t exactly the epitome of femme but I thought I held my own as a member of the female race. Sure, I was a little rough and was a few characteristics short of being ladylike and sure, as a curve-deficient, broad-shouldered, tall-ish, flat-chested 14 year old with a boyband haircut, I would’ve made for a very handsome boy but I was never at any risk at being kicked out to the neighboring boys school across the road. At 18, I grew ass, boobs and my hair out (I’m a late bloomer, alright?) but funnily enough, that was when people started referring to me as a man. Blame it on a co-ed college environment where gender stereotypes are more prevalent than it is in a single-sex environment. It wasn’t enough to just be female; in order to compute in their brains as one, I needed to be something more or something less than what I am, either way, something they thought I should be. But I thought hey buddy, fuck you – if you must insist that men are Martians and women are from Venus then I’ll sit right here on planet Earth thanks.
I remember this one time in class, the lecturer was yakking on about the difference in masculine and feminine communication styles. “Masculine does not automatically mean male. Take Maryam, for example. She’s female but has what you can identify as a largely masculine style of communication,” said The Lecturer and another friend piped up to say, “But Sir, Maryam is a man!” The Lecturer laughed, “Oh, that’s right, my mistake.” Bleh. I flipped the friend a finger salute and went into a sulk. “Maryam, don’t merajuk,” said my friend, “Merajuk-ing only works for girls. It’s unbecoming on a man.” I punched him in the arm in response because I’m juvenile like that and possess the social skills and refinement of a kindergarten kid. The friend came to college the next day with a big, purplish mark at the spot where his arm had collided with my fist. “Oi, look at what you did to me,” he whinged, the sissy, “Why are you laughing? It hurts.”
Padan muka. Who the man now, suckah?! Who the man?! WHO THE MAN?!!
“You are,” he answered and then thought better of it. “Eh, sorry, no, I’m kidding! Please don’t hit me again…”
Footballer’s Crypt
I couldn’t sleep last night so I ended up watching an episode of Footballer’s Cribs on MTV. It was some Italian footballer and boy, do these people make for fascinating TV personalities. Here is an account of the second half of the episode:
1. We see Italian Footballer’s kitchen. Italian Footballer opens the fridge and takes out a clear, plastic Tupperware of what are obviously prawns. “Here are the prawns. I like the prawns,” he says. The wife says, “He likes the prawn very much. Prawn everything.” Italian Footballer takes out a bar of chocolate. “This is chocolate. I like the chocolate.” The wife says, “Yes, he likes the chocolate.”
2. We see Italian Footballer’s balcony. “This is the balcony,” says Italian Footballer. We see a rabbit eating a carrot. “This is my rabbit,” says Italian Footballer. He takes the carrot from the rabbit. “The rabbit likes eat the carrota.”
3. We see Italian Footballer’s closet. He points to the jeans he’s wearing. “I like the jeans.” He points to his jumper and says, “I like the jumper.” He puts on a beanie and a jacket and strikes a pose. “Now I am model!” he says.
4. We see Italian Footballer’s lovely swimming pool. “This is swimming pool. We like the pool.”
5. The end of the show. Italian Footballer says, “You see my crib. Now bye-bye.”
Oh, e troppo interessante! I couldn’t stop laughing. Ok, ok, I get it; the language barrier is a problem. It’s not like I’d sound all that interesting or intelligent in Italian (or in English & Malay for that matter). I took a class in Elementary Italian in college and cheated through half of it. My Italian vocabulary is limited to useful things like Parla Inglese? (Do you speak English?), Sono rimbata, vaffanculo! (I’m stoned, fuck off!) and Sono el Diablo – baciami, pollastrello mio o si va diritto al Inferno! (I am the Devil – kiss me, my little chook or go straight to Hell!). I vaguely remember how to say “I’m 18 years old” in Italian but that line is 3 years passed its due date. Still, I’m amazed at the stuff that qualifies as television entertainment these days. Even more amazed that I’m actually entertained by it.
