Surat Terbuka kepada Perdana Menteri

Saudara Perdana,

Semoga Saudara berada dalam keadaan sihat walafiat.
Saya di sini berada dalam keadaan “agak mabuk sikit tapi belum muntah-muntah lagi.”

Saudara Perdana, tujuan saya menulis Surat-Tak-Rasmi-Seperti-Yang-Saya-Belajar-Di-Sekolah-Dahulu ini ialah untuk membantu Saudara Perdana dalam masa yang tidak menentu ini.

Seperti Saudara, saya turut dukacita dengan sikap rakyat Malaysia yang sangat tamak sekali sehingga ada yang tidak mahu membayar tol kita yang termurah di dunia.

Saya juga bersimpati dengan Saudara dalam usaha Saudara menangani isu Ekuiti.
Seperti yang Saudara ketahui, Laporan terbaru yang dikeluarkan oleh Kementerian Pantun, Puisi, Sajak dan Teka-Teki (KPPSTT) menyatakan bahawa:

Kalau panjang namanya Jambatan,
Kalau pendek namanya Titi,
Dari Utara hingga ke Selatan
Semua orang hendakkan Ekuiti.

Saya setuju seratus-peratus dengan Saudara yang keadaan sebegini mungkin mencetuskan huru-hara hari-hari di Negara kita Malaysia yang selama ini menjadi kebanggaan Planet Bumi.

Oleh yang demikian, saya telah mengambil keputusan untuk mengkaji semula laporan Ekuiti yang dikeluarkan oleh ASLI dan juga laporan Kerajaan.

Setelah meneliti kedua-dua laporan tersebut, saya, selaku Blogger of the Year, berpendapat bahawa kedua-dua laporan itu adalah betul tetapi kurang tepat.

Punca kekurangtepatan laporan-laporan itu ialah Kaedah Mengira Ekuiti yang digunakan, iaitu Kaedah Ekonomi.

Seperti yang diketahui ramai, tidak terdapat seorang pun di Negara ini yang boleh dikatakan betul-betul pakar dalam bidang ekonomi.

Ini berpunca daripada Subjek Perdagangan dan Ekonomi yang diajar di sekolah dahulu yang membosankan sehingga pelajar-pelajar terpaksa cabut kelas dan menghisap rokok di tandas.

Satu lagi masalah ialah Kaedah Ekonomi sebenarnya tidak berasakan fakta, tetapi berasaskan Teori seperti Teori Teorem dan Teori Graf-Graf Yang Naik-Turun.

Justeru itu, saya di sini ingin mencadangkan kepada Saudara Perdana agar Ekuiti Kaum Negara dikira dengan menggunakan Kaedah Saintifik.

Mungkin ada di antara rakyat Malaysia yang bersikap negatif yang akan berkata bahawa tidak ada Kaedah Saintifik yang boleh digunakan untuk mengira Ekuiti.

Izinkan saya mengambil peluang ini untuk memperkenalkan Ciptaan Terbaru Saya, iaitu:


Penapis Ekuiti Lebuhraya-Persekutuan Pazuzu


atau lebih dikenali di kalangan ahli-ahli Sains terkemuka dengan gelaran ‘glamornya’:






PELPP




Untuk memulakan Eksperimen Ekuiti, Saudara hanya memerlukan se-buah Makmal Sains, Se-hasta Tikus Putih dan Se-das Selinder Lebuhraya-Persekutuan, seperti yang ditunjukkan di gambarajah berikut:

















Saya memohon maaf kepada saudara kerana gambarajah tersebut dilabelkan dengan menggunakan Bahasa Penjajah. Saya terpaksa menggunakan Bahasa tersebut untuk mendapat pengikhtirafan Komuniti Antarabangsa, yang masih enggan menerima keAgungan Bahasa Kebangsaan.

Eksperimen Ekuiti boleh diteruskan dengan mengikuti langkah-langkah berikut.

1) Berikan bebola Melayu, bebola Cina, bebola India dan bebola Umnoputera kepada Tikus Putih.

2) Dengan menggunakan Bahasa Tarzan, suruh Tikus Putih memasukkan bebola tersebut ke dalam Selinder Lebuhraya Persekutuan.

3) Rekodkan dari lubang manakah bebola tersebut keluar.


Setelah menjalani Eksperimen ini, Saudara akan mencapai kesimpulan yang sama seperti yang dicatatkan oleh saya dan ramai lagi ahli Saintis yang terkemuka.

Keputusan Eksperimen adalah seperti yang ditunjukan di gambarajah berikut:













Dengan adanya bukti yang kukuh ini, saya berharap Saudara akan mengambil tindakan sewajarnya untuk memastikan Ekuiti Tahun 2007 adalah lebih okay lagi.

Saudara Perdana, saya tidak meminta apa jua ganjaran untuk ciptaan saya ini. Apa yang saya lakukan saya lakukan Demi Negara.

Tetapi kalau Saudara mahu, Saudara boleh masuk ke kondo saya melalui Pintu Gelongsor (Sliding Door) balkoni saya pada Malam Krismas dan meninggalkan Sekotak Ekuiti ataupun Sekotak Absolut Vodka ataupun kedua-duanya sekali di bawah Pokok Krismas saya.

Tetapi, pada pagi Krismas, jika saya tidak menjumpai kotak tersebut, saya berjanji tidak akan kecil hati.

Akhir kata, saya ingin mengambil kesempatan ini untuk mengucapkan Selamat Tahun Baru kepada Saudara Perdana sekeluarga.

Sekian Terima Kasih.


Saya yang menurut perintah,

Pazuzu

----------------------------------------------------------------

The Floating Turd is flushing off, but will be back after the New Year.

Here's wishing all of you a Merry Christmas, Selamat Hari Raya Haji and a Happy New Year.

May you all get a bunch of Equity next Year.

FLUSSSHHHHHH...

I Want My MAMEE!!!!

Maybe it's true what they say: That the holiday season makes you depressed.

Or maybe it's not true what they say.

Who the hell are They anyway?

And why are they always saying shit?

Anyway, something happened to me today. Something that Got Me Thinking 'Bout Stuff.

I went down to a convenience store near my office at lunchtime to get a Coke, right?

Irrelevant but funny detail:
The name of the shop is JusMart. And their tagline is: You Are Just Smart!
Really!

Anyway, I was in the shop when suddenly, I saw it.
It's yellow packet stood out like an Indian with Equity. On the packet, the familiar blue furry-monster pointed upwards to the red letters on a white band. The letters simply spelled:



MAMEE



I don't know about you, but I have fond memories of MAMEE.
When I was a kid, we'd purchase a packet of the stuff for maybe 20sen. Then we'd open the packet, and inside was a white sachet which contained a substance that might've been either salt, ajinomoto or cocaine.
We'd empty the sachet into the packet, crunch the packet up, shake it vigourously, then...well, as Norm from Cheers used to say - you'd have a party in your mouth.

So I saw this packet in JusMart, and believing that I Was Just Smart, I purchased what I thought was not just MAMEE, but a Trip Down Memory Lane.

I took the packet back to the office, excitedly tore it open, only to discover that...

The fucking cocaine sachet wasn't there!

They had replaced it with a sachet containing some unidentifiable gunky brown nonsense.
It tasted bloody awful. I was outraged.
Outraged, I tell you!

"How the fuck could they do this to me!" I screamed at my colleague.

"Huh?" he said.

"They fucked with my Memories!"

"You have mammaries? Who fucked with them?"

"The people at MAMEE!"

"MAMEE?"

"Yes, goddammit! Why are you making me repeat myself? Are you listening to me at all? They replaced the cocaine with brown gunky! Brown fucking gunky, I tell you!"


He didn't get what I was talking about, the fucking twit. People are so stupid nowdays. He just didn't understand.
It's not just about the MAMEE, I wanted to tell him.
It's Chickadees as well.


Remember Chickadees?

Back in the day, every shop you went to, there were Twisties and Chickadees, side by side. Like Ebony and Ivory. Batman and Robin. Lucy and Ricky.
Then suddenly, they became Mahathir and Anwar.
Twisties survived. Chickadees was sent to Sungai Buloh on dubious sex charges.

But then, lately, Chickadees seems to be making a comeback.

I saw a packet (they still have Saya Charlie Chickadees on the packet) a couple of months ago in - guess where? - JusMart. I'm thinking of suggesting to them a change in tagline.
We Fuck Up Your Memories seems appropriate.

The Chickadees taste was nothing like how I remembered it.

I thought that it was just a one-off thing, but now this whole MAMEE episode has me Demoralised, Depressed and Something else that begins with De- in order to keep this sentence "punchy".

This whole fiasco has convinced me that:

Life, like MAMEE and Chickadees, is best enjoyed in hindsight.

But then I thought: Wait a minute!

Then I waited a minute. When a minute was over, I thought:

I have a Time-Machine, dammit! I can just go back to my school days and buy all the MAMEE and Chickadees I want. And they'll taste like they used to taste! And while I'm there, I'll tell Anwar to "stop all this Bahasa Baku nonsense. It won't work. And you have other things to worry about."

So I got on my slide, waited for the sunlight to hit the mirror, Pushed Really Hard, and...





The sign on the old building said SRK Temenggong Abdul Rahman (1) (STAR 1) in faded letters that looked like they were cut out from polystyrene boards.
Outside the gates, I could barely make out Uncle's Truck, with its assortment of assams, drinks, and junk food packets.
The truck was somewhat obscured by a dense cloud of red dust, that emanated from a group of kids playing pepsi-cola 123, a game played on a suitably slippery tanah merah surface.
A Chinese boy shouted "Pepsi Cola 123!", then charged towards an Indian boy, sliding on the surface before kicking the Indian boy on the leg, a move that meant that the Indian boy was now "Out".
The Indian boy walked off dejectedly. He looked familiar.

I walked to Uncle's Truck, momentarily forgetting where, or rather when, I was.

"Uncle," I said, "Remember me?"

"Lu siapa? Apa lu Mau?" he said.

I sighed, a little embarrased, but also a little dissapointed that my Memory, once more, had let me down. Was he always this rude? I wondered.

"MAMEE lima-puluh, Chickadees lima-puluh," I said.

He looked at me strangely, but, like any Chinese-Malaysian according to Lee Kuan Yew, was compliant. He gave me the packets but continued to eye me as I walked away. I suspect he thought I was a paedophile.

I walked towards my Time-Machine slide, but a little boy's voice stopped me.

"Uncle!" the boy said.

I turned around to see the pathetic-looking Indian boy calling out to me. He was skinny as hell and had bruises and blood on his legs - clearly from losing all those Pepsi-Cola 123 matches.
He was, I realised with a mixture of pity and amazement, Me.

"Uncle," 12-year-old me repeated.

"Yes?" I said.

"Can I have a MAMEE?" he said.

Was I like this? I tried to recall.

"Didn't your parents tell you never to take things from strangers?" I said.

He shook his head. No.
Liar, I thought.

"Well, you shouldn't take things from people you're not familiar with."

"You look familiar," he said.

Touche.
I gave him a MAMEE. I looked at the sun. Still time.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" I asked, knowing he'd heard this question many times from Uncles and Aunties.

"A veterinarian," was the familiar reply.

Liar, I thought. You hate cats. How're you going to be a vet?

"Don't you want to be a rock guitarist like Richie Sambora?"

Got you now, you lying little shit.

He looked at me, surprised. His attention no longer on the MAMEE.

"What's your favourite book?" I asked and mouthed the answer along with him.

"Peter Pan," he said.

"You really want to write storybooks, don't you?"

He shrugged, a gesture which was supposed to convey Whatever. Liar. I knew it conveyed Yes.

I smiled.

"I've written a book," I said.

"What's it about?"

"It's about a prostitu...errr...never mind."

"Can I read it?"

"No. You're too young. And besides, it's not published yet."

"How come?"

Man, what an irritant.

"Never mind," I said. I looked towards the sun. Time.

"I've got to go. You can have the MAMEE and Chickadees."

"All of it?"

"Yes."

I didn't need it anymore.
I was no longer Demoralised, Depressed and De-something.

"Oh, one more thing. If you see Anwar Ibrahim, tell him to stop all this Bahasa Baku nonsense. It won't work. And he has other things to worry about."

"Who's Anwar Ibrahim?"

"Never mind."

The 12-year old boy watched as the strange man, now without the MAMEE and Chickadees, who somehow seemed to know stuff about him, mounted a slide, pushed really hard and...





I am sitting in my office dictating this post to God. It's now 12.02 and He's complaining that He has prayers to answer. You just can't get good help nowdays.

Theoretically, I'm supposed to be working on an ad campaign for A Government Client.

Here's irony for you:
When I left school, I applied for a Government scholarship to study Advertising. They sent me back a letter saying my grades weren't good enough for advertising. (Do you need good grades to succeed in Advertising? Nonsense. All you need is the ability to lie. As you can see above, I had this ability since I was 12.) So the Government said I'm not good enough for Advertising, yet here I am anyway, getting paid quite good money for producing ads for the very Government that said I wasn't good enough to produce ads in the first place. Assholes.

I have to get out of here. I really do.

I have to be a published writer. Or Richie Sambora. Atau kedua-duanya sekali. But it's looking more likely that I'll take the writer route.

I have two rejection letters so far from publishers in Singapore who say that "we can't publish your book because the Malaysian Government doesn't have a sense of humour about these things."

But I have to get published, dammit. Somehow.

So here it goes. My New Years' Resolution:

1) Pay off debts (again)
2) Quit Job (again)
3) GET BOOK PUBLISHED!!!

Somehow.

Someway.

I have to.




I owe it to a 12-year-old boy.







------------------------------------------------------------------------------





Note to my MAMEE, err...I mean Mummy:
Ma,
Remember the time when you were supposed to pick me up from school but I wasn't there? And then you waited and waited and finally you left and went to Aunty M's house and almost panicked and cried because you thought I was kidnapped or dead or something?
Remember, when I finally got to Aunty M's house, I told you I saw some suspicious people near the school and panicked and started walking home instead of waiting at the bus-stop?
Well, the truth is, I was hiding in my class, eating 50 MAMEE and 50 Chickadees.
It wasn't my fault.
My Future Self gave it to me, so if you want to scold anyone, scold him.

Wait a minute, I am my future self.
Shit.

Errr...God?
I know I've said some mean things about You in this site and You want your revenge, okay?
I'm sorry, okay?
I need you to delete this last bit.
Don't hit the Publish button yet, okay?
Okay?
God?
No!
Don't hit Publi

Hey God! One Sugar, Two Creamers!

WARNING!
This post may be offensive to people who adhere to the following principles:

1) Kepercayaan kepada Tuhan
2) Kesetiaan kepada Raja dan Negara
3) Keluhuran Perlembagaan
4) Something that I can't remember at this time
5) Kesopanan dan Kesusilaan


If you are one of these people, please stop reading immediately. Also, please explain what the fuck does "keluhuran" mean.
Thank you.



WARNING PART 2: The Return of the Warning!

This post may also be offensive to Professor Stephen Hawking.

If you know Professor Hawking, please convey my apologies to him, buy him a beer and send me the bill. Then, as he takes a gulp from his mug, tell him that he shouldn't be Drinking and Driving.

Be sure to slap him repeatedly and forcefully on the back so as to convey the message that you are only being humourous, and in no way are you the kind of inconsiderate asshole who would park in a handicapped spot.
Thank You.

PS. If you are Professor Stephen Hawking, I would like to point out several mistakes that you made with regards to the space-time continuum in your otherwise excellent book, A Brief History of Time. I would gladly discuss these mistakes with you over a beer.
Thank You.




Phew!

Now that that's over and done with, let's get on with the post:

Since I started this blog, many CEOs, heads-of-state and dictators have asked me how I managed to get God as my Secretary (or to use the politically-correct term - Girl Friday).

Well, it all has to do with Physics.

You see, when I was in Form 4, I stumbled upon this intriguing scenario in my Buku Teks Fizik:


Khairy mempunyai 100 biji Guli, yang diberikan kepadanya secara percuma oleh ECM Pisces setelah dia mengahwini anak Perdana Menteri.

Ong mempunyai 200 biji Guli, tetapi menurut Lee Kuan Yew, dia sepatutnya mempunyai 13,453 Guli.

Samy mempunyai 1 Guli, tetapi dia melontarkan gulinya ke arah kepala Subra, yang menyebabkan Subra cedera parah.

Jika Khairy, Ong dan Samy menggulingkan guli mereka di Lebuhraya Utara-Selatan dari Johor Bahru, guli siapakah akan sampai ke Sungei Besi dahulu?

Jawapan:
Guli Samy. Kerana guli Khairy dan Ong terpaksa berhenti untuk membayar tol yang dikuasai oleh Samy.



Fascinating, isn't it?

From that moment on I was hooked on Physics! I couldn't get enough of it! Wherever I travelled, I made sure to visit gypsies, who are, as you know, really good Physics!

But no aspect of Physics thrilled me more than the Aspect of Time-Travel.

According to Professor Stephen Hawking in his brilliant book, A Brief History of Time, it is indeed possible to travel through time if one was to "drive a DeLorean at 88mph, provided the DeLorean was powered by plutonium stolen by Libyan terrorists."

I wanted to test this theory out, but I hit a Snag. A very big Snag. Actually, I'm not sure if I hit a Snag or not, since I have no idea what a Snag looks like. If I did hit a Snag, I sincerely apologise to the Snag and the Snag's loved ones.

Anyway, I had obtained a DeLorean and stolen some plutonium from Omar Shariff, who may or may not be a Libyan terrorist, but I figured this was a Minor Detail.

The problem is, I overlooked one Major Detail:



I can't drive.



So it was back to the drawing-board for me. And after Putting My Mind To It, and researching many books on Scientific Mumbo-Jumbo, I am pleased to announce that I have invented:


The Time-Machine for People Who Can't Drive!


My Time Machine relies on the basic Time-Travel Principle that in order to travel through time, you must outrun the speed of light.

Taking this into account, I invented a Time-Machine using a playground slide with a mirror mounted at the top, as the following diagram shows.

Please note that this diagram is accurate right down to the colour used for the skin, unlike many Rascist Time-Machine Diagrams drawn by White People:











The Time-Machine works as follows:

1) At some point, the rays from the sun will hit the mirror and reflect downwards selari with the direction of the slide.

2) When this happens, you have to push yourself Really Hard and make sure you reach the bottom of the slide before the sun-ray does, as the following diagram demonstrates:






So there you have it. My gift to Mankind. And Womankind. And trans-gendered kinds.

Time-Travel.

Now, I know many of you have been asked this question before:

If you can travel back to any point in time, which point would that be?

And because many of you are stupid, unlike me and Stephen Hawking, you'll answer "The 60s!" or something equally moronic.

You want to know where I travelled to? Huh?

Well, I set the dial on the Time-Machine (I'll tell you how to build the dial in an up-coming post) for 7 days after Creation!

And there, the following conversation took place:


Eve: Hey Adam...like, what's that hanging between your legs?

Adam: I don't know.

Special Effects: WAAAZZZZOOOOMMMM!!!!!

Me: Hello, Eve.

Adam: Who the fuck are you?

Me: I am GOD!!!

Adam: Praise be to You.

Eve: What's that behind you?

Me: That's a playground slide.

Adam: What's a playgro...

Me: SILENCE!!! You know that thing between your legs, Adam? It's really fun to insert it into the mouth of that saber-tooth tiger.

Adam: Okay. Arrrrrgggggghhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

Saber-tooth tiger: Burp

Me: Now, Eve...where were we?

God: HOLD ON! HE'S NOT GOD! I'M GOD!

Me: NO! I'M GOD!

God: HEY! ONLY I'M ALLOWED TO SPEAK IN CAPITAL LETTERS!

Me: TOUGH!

Eve: I'm, like, so confused. Who's the real God?

Me: Who're you gonna believe, me or a Talking Burning Bush?

Eve: I guess that makes sense. I mean, come on! A burning bush?

God/Burning Bush: A bit much?

Me: Definitely.

God: Shit.

Me: Try not to be such a drama queen, next time.

God: But you're taking credit for MY WORK, I dammit! I worked on this shit for 6 whole days!

Me: What can I say? Life's not fair.

God: Bastard. So if you're God, what am I supposed to be?

Me: You can be my Secretary.

God: I believe the politically-correct term is Personal Assistant.

Me: Then how come they don't call Secretaries' Day Personal Assistant's Day?

God: You've got a point there. So where are you taking me for Secretaries' Day?

Me: I hear Siti's performing at The Hilton.

God: I hate Siti.

Me: I'll let you Smite her.

God: Yayyyyy!! You're the best boss ever!

Me: I know. Go get me some coffee.

God: Okay!

Eve: What about me?

Me: I've other plans for you...come here...mmmmmmm

Eve: Oh God...yessss


And so you see, because of my Intervention in History, everybody's happy now.

Except Adam.

And maybe Professor Stephen Hawking.

Too bad.

If they complain, I'll just tell them my Secretary works in mysterious ways.

101 Uses for Cats: Cat-as-Trophy

I fucking hate cats.

Note to The RSPCA:
Before the lot of you start taking to the streets in the nude and holding up signs that say "I'd rather go naked than visit www.thefloatingturd.blogspot.com", i urge you to diet. Nobody wants to see you in the buff. Really.
Also, I urge you to read the reason why I hate cats. I'm sure, if you have an open mind, you'll see that my argument makes perfect sense.

I hate cats because they are Reincarnated Nazis.

Think about it.

The bloody things strut about as if they're a Superior Race, like the reason everything else exists is To Serve Them.

Also, when you're eating your Nasi Lemak at the warung, the bloody things will stare at you as though you owe them money or something.
And if you don't give them a piece of your Ayam Rendang, they'll think nothing of jumping up on the table and taking it from you. Without asking for permission.

Even rats have the courtesy to wait until after you've finished eating before stealing your food, dammit.


For more information on why rats are better than cats, i urge you to watch the excellent documentary "Itchy and Scratchy".
Also, you can check out "Tom and Jerry", but I recommend you watch earlier episodes, when the characters couldn't talk. The newer, soulless version has given the cat and mouse voices, to cater to children nowadays, who are too stupid to use their imaginations.

Note to Self:
Future post topic: Has the Road-Runner run away for good?


Anyway, as I was saying,

Shit. What was I saying?

Oh yes.

I fucking hate cats.

They serve no discernible purpose in The Great Scheme of Things.

But, as Someone Who Is Very Concerned About The Way The World Is Turning Out, I intend to change that.

As such, I hereby suggest 101 Uses For Cats. I will reveal these uses one at a time, so as to keep you, my dear Loyal Reader who Clearly Has Nothing Better to Do, on tenterhooks.

I like saying tenterhooks. Tenterhooks tenterhooks tenterhooks. What the fuck are tenterhooks anyway?

Note to Self:
Look up tenterhooks


So;

As promised, the first proposed Use for Cats is:




Catball: The Cat-as-Trophy!




Catball is played like Football, or as the Americans like to call it, Huh?.

It will be played with 11 Men on each side. (Why only Men, you might ask. Well, because Women stopped reading this post after the first sentence and have left their desks to go and hug a tree somewhere.)

But instead of a ball, the game will be played with...are you on tenterhooks yet?...A CAT, as the following diagram demonstrates:


(image by Michaelangelo, courtesy of The Louvre, Paris)



The objective of the game is for players to chase the cat until it runs into the opponents' goal. The other team (Bolton) has to Defend by blocking the run of the cat.

The team that manages to chase the cat into the opponents' goal the most times wins, as the following diagram shows:


(image by Leonardo, courtesy of The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles)

Note to The RSPCA:
I am not a Cruel Bastard. The players will NOT be allowed to kick the cat. Players who do so will receive a Yellow Card. Players who kick the cat Really Hard will receive a Red Card. Okay? Now put your clothes back on.

At the end of the season, the team with the most points will win the prestigious Cat-as-Trophy, so named because I can't think of a better pun.

So there you have it.

Use Number 1 for Cats. Only 100 to go! Bet you're waiting on tenterhooks for Use Number 2 - Cat-a-Tonic!

Right?

Right???

Oh well...

Note to RSPCA:
You wanna piece of me? YOU WANNA PIECE OF ME??? I'm right here! Bring it on! I'll shove a tenterhook up your naked ass!

Where Men Go While Women Wait to Come

If you're one of the millions of people worldwide who have read this blog (the zeroes can't display properly on the SiteMeter below), then you would have noticed that I have something of a dispute going on with a certain Lily Liverbird.

This dispute stems from the fact that I am always right and she is always wrong.

And as A Man (I'm talking about the dictionary definition of A Man, which is "a person who refuses to acknowledge the existence of Laundry Detergent", not the current definition which seems to be "a person who is a poncy little fart"), I reserve the right to write long sentences in parentheses.

Also, as A Man, I am offended by her constant ridiculing of my gender's ability to perform in the sack.

So I have bravely taken it upon myself to write here today in defence of:

The 3-Minute Man

You see, because of some serious miscalculations on the part of my secretary (or God, as many of you know Him), men will achieve an orgasm in under 3 minutes.

Women, on the other hand, will achieve an orgasm (according to Dr. M) in the year 2020. If all goes well and the Current Administration doesn't fuck things up.

This is in no way the fault of Men. In fact, the blame for this imbalance can be placed squarely on the ample bosom of Female Inefficiency.

That's right. Men achieve orgasm faster for the simple reason that we have other things to do, dammit!
Important things!
Things That Will Change The World!
History is filled with examples of how men have changed the world by coming fast. And since I can't, offhand, think of what those examples are, I will cite the most famous one:

Mrs Einstein arched her back as Einstein thrust his throbbing manhood into her.

"Oh Yes," said Einstein.

"Oh Yes," said Mrs Einstein.

"Oh Yes Yes Yes" said Einstein.

"Oh Yes" said Mrs Einstein.

"Oh YesYesYesOhGodYesYesYes" said Einstein.

"Oh Yes" said Mrs Einstein.

"Oh YesYesYesYesYesYes OhGodOhGodOhGod" said Einstein.

"What?" said God.

"Oh Yes" said Mrs Einstein.

"Oh YesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYes" said Einstein.

"Oh Yes" said Mrs Einstein.

"Oh YesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYesYeeeeeeessssssssssss
Ahhhhhhhhhh!" said Einstein.

"Huh?" said Mrs Einstein.



So you see, from the above passage (taken from the book Einstein: Beyond the Hair, written by Ashley Cole) we can make two very important deductions. That:

1) Einstein has come

2) Mrs. Einstein hasn't

What the moron Ashley Cole doesn't reveal in his book are the thoughts that went through both Einstein's and Mrs Einstein's heads directly after this incident.
Through extensive research, I am now able to reveal these thoughts to you.
I have also helpfully highlighted Mrs Einstein's thoughts in pink and Einstein's in blue, a system that has been used for years to help men and women figure out which toothbrush belongs to whom.

That's it? That's it?

E=?

What an insensitive bastard!

E=m something, hmmmmm.....

I put up with all his shit...do his fucking laundry...

E=mC X a(opp+u know me)?

...and this is how he treats me?

E=mC + XXL?

Fucking bastard! First thing tomorrow, I'm gonna post a comment on liverbirdforever.blogspot.com

E=mC2!!!!! Eureka!!!!!



So there you have it.

Irrefutable Evidence.

While Mrs Einstein was whining away about her lack of pleasure, Einstein had efficiently come and gone on to discover E=mC2, which is, as you know, the secret formula for Coca-Cola.

The importance of this discovery cannot be over-emphasised (have you ever heard anyone order a JD-Pepsi?).

So, my fellow Men, I urge you now to Stand Up, Fart, and Head To Your Neighbourhood Bar.

There, you will find Other Men.

Slap one of them on the back forcefully and say:

"Last night I had sex and I came in 52 seconds!"

Then Buy A Round and Raise A Glass and say:

"Here's to Male Efficiency!"

They will agree with whatever you say because you have Bought A Round and they hope that you will Buy Another.

If we all do this, together, who knows what we can achieve?

A cure for cancer?

Peace on Earth?

A shaver that has not one, not two, but THREE blades for a smoother shave?

A way to move the 2 up when you type E=mC2 in Blogger?

The possibilities are like women's complaints.

Endless.

Revised National Anthems

Malaysia

Malaysia, Malaysia,
The Government will trace 'ya,
If they don't like what you say,
They will use the ISA,
And a few years' stay in prison will face 'ya!

Malaysia, Malaysia,
The Government will erase 'ya,
Everything is fine
if you toe the line
If not, then Hishamuddin will keris 'ya!



The United States of America


Everyone is free
In the USA
from Alaska
to Guantanamo Bay!

A land where anyone
can become The President,
The guy we have now,
got the job by accident!

We don't give a fuck
about other lands,
we play football
with our hands!

Coz we know
no matter what hap-pens
We have
nucular
NUCULAR
nucular
NUCULAR
nuuucuuulllaaarrr...
WEAPONS!!!


The Republic of Macedonia

O! The Republic of Macedonia,
Buy our women a drink, and they might just bone 'ya
Then take down their number, and say "I'll telephone 'ya!"
Then get the fuck out of Macedonia!!!!


To be continued...

Men Invented The Glass Floor, Women Think It's A Ceiling

No thanks to bloggers like Lily Liverbird and her Cult of People Who Tell Me I Suck (CoPWTMIS), Men are now being blamed for every single thing that plagues the world.

One of these things is The Glass Ceiling, which is, as you know, a ceiling that prevents women from climbing up to The Next Level and rearranging all the furniture.

Lily and CoPWTMIS will have you believe that Men invented this ceiling because they're afraid that women will Take Over The World, effectively reducing the role of men to drinking beer and burping.

Well, as Blogger of the Year, I am here to tell you that I have stumbled upon a Revelation!

A revelation that will Shock You!

Were it not for the fact that I have already revealed it in The Title!

Yes. According to Reliable Sources, the Glass Ceiling was originally designed by men as a floor.
Men invented this for the same reason they invented Shoe Polish and That Little Round Pencil-Sharpener With The Mirror On It:

They want to see what kind of knickers women are wearing.

Soalan Bonus For Men:
When you were in school, and your teacher who wore a short skirt sat down, what Method, besides "dropping the pencil", did you use to see her knickers? Discuss.

As such, it is actually in the best interests of Men that Women are above The Glass Ceiling.

So what exactly is keeping women from rising to The Next Level, you might ask. Or you might not ask. I don't really care. I'm going to tell you anyway. It's:

Other Women!

I'm sure this revelation would have Shocked You were it not for the fact that I have already revealed it in the post at the bottom of this page!

Ask yourself:

How many times have you heard women say "I hate working for women bosses"?

And how many times have you witnessed the following scenario where two women meet:

Woman 1: Hieeeeeeee!!!!
Woman2: Oh! Hieeeeeeee!!!
Woman 1: Muah Muah
Woman 2: Muah Muah
Woman 1: I just loooove what you're wearing!!!!
Woman 2: Oh? This thing? I just threw it on lah!
Woman 1: Well it looks absolutely gorgeous!
Woman 2: Oh! hee hee heee...errr...hey, there's my date...I guess I better go now...take care
Woman 1: Okay! Byeeeeeee!
Woman 2: Byeeeeeee!

Then Woman 1 turns around and looks at you with the following expression:




Woman 1: What a fucking bitch! Did you SEE what she was wearing?!!
You: Huh?
Woman 1: I can't stand that bitch!
You: Huh?
Woman 1: Fucking slut!
You: Our Father in Heaven, Holy be Your Name....


So you see, it is, in fact, Women who keep themselves from rising above The Glass Ceiling. Because All Women Hate Each Other!
And they have the nerve to suggest that the world would be a better place if it was run by them!
I shudder at the thought. And you should shudder too. I like saying shudder. Shudder shudder shudder. Why should we shudder, you ask?
Consider the following shuddering glimpse into an alternate reality:

The world is experiencing an acute shortage of Vanilla-scented candles. Some countries in Africa only have Sandalwood incense-sticks. And even that is running low on supply.
The Leaders of The World have gathered in The United Nations to address this issue:


MALAYSIA: Did you SEE what Thailand is wearing?
INDONESIA: I can't stand that bitch!
MALAYSIA: What a slut!
THAILAND: Hieeeeeee!!!!!
MALAYSIA/INDONESIA: Hieeeeee!!!
THAILAND: Muah Muah
MALAYSIA/INDONESIA: Muah Muah
SINGAPORE: Hieeeeeee!!!!
MALAYSIA: Go away.
SINGAPORE: Ohmygod! Is someone, like, smoking in here? Eeeeuuuwwww!
MALAYSIA: Just ignore her.
INDONESIA: Heyyouguys....have you heard the latest?
THAILAND: What?
INDONESIA: Oh...I can't say
MALAYSIA: Come on lah-come on lah
INDONESIA: But I promised I wouldn't...
MALAYSIA: AlaComeOnLah!!!!
INDONESIA: Okay...but you didn't hear it from me...
THAILAND: Okay
SINGAPORE: I really think, like, someone's smoking in here.
MALAYSIA: Shut the fuck up! Okay, Indonesia...continue.
INDONESIA: Okay...Israel and America...you know...
THAILAND: No way!
INDONESIA: Way!
MALAYSIA: No waaayy!
INDONESIA: Way waayyy!
THAILAND: They're fucking?
SINGAPORE: Hey! You said the F word!
MALAYSIA: I knew it! Bloody Lesbos!
SINGAPORE: Hey!!! Who stuck chewing gum in my hair? Get it out! Get it out! Get it ooooouuuuuttttttttt!!!!!!!!
AMERICA: What's all this commotion!
THAILAND: Someone put chewing gum in Singapore's hair.
AMERICA: Okay! Who put chewing gum in Singapore's hair?
MALAYSIA: giggle giggle giggle
AMERICA: If nobody admits it, you're all going to be punished!
MALAYSIA: giggle giggle giggle
ISRAEL: whisper whisper whisper
AMERICA: What's that?
ISRAEL: whisper whisper whiper
AMERICA: Yes, dear
ISRAEL: whisper whisper whisper
AMERICA: Yes, munchkin...
ISRAEL: whisper whisper whisper
AMERICA: Ahem...well, it has come to my attention that Iraq has been thinking about the possibility of maybe sometime in the future acquiring the means to possess chewing-gum related ingredients!
IRAQ: Huh?
AMERICA: Hand over your chewing-gum related ingredients! Now!
IRAQ: Please not to be bothering me while I am shoving this dildo-like apparatus up the asshole of Kuwait!
KUWAIT: Aaaahhhh!!!!
AMERICA: If you do not comply, we will launch a nucular dildo up your ass!!!
IRAQ: Fuck you, Israel's Bitch!
AMERICA: This is WAR!!!!!
BRITAIN: Whatever you say!
MALAYSIA: giggle giggle giggle


So as you can see, women will NOT make the world a better place if they were in charge.
And I for one am willing to sacrifice not seeing their knickers in order to ensure that they remain firmly below The Glass Ceiling.
It's a small price to pay to ensure that the world remains safely in the hands of Men.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to have a beer.
Burrrpppp.

Why Men Write Poetry Gooder Than Women

Amazing!
Just two posts and I've already been voted Blogger of the Year by The Association of Voices Who Magically Appear When I'm Drunk (TAVWMAWID)!
Gosh, this is such an honour!
I'd like to thank Randy, Jermaine, Tito and...errr...the other one.
But most of all I'd like to thank Almighty God, who types out these words as I dictate them to Him, and sometimes brings me coffee.

Anyway, as Blogger of the Year, I feel it is my duty to ditch my humility and Tell Other People How To Write Goodly.
And by Other People, i am talking specifically about Women.

You see, it is a well-known fact that Women talk nonsense.

This is clearly documented in the Gospel according to John and Paul, which states that:

Desmond has a barrow in the market place
Molly is the singer in a band
Desmond says to Molly "girl I like your face"
And Molly says this as she takes him by the hand:

Obladi oblada, life goes on yahhh
La la la la life goes on


See?
But just because they talk nonsense, doesn't mean they have to write nonsense.
And nowhere is the Nonsensical Woman-Writer Epidemic (NWWE) more prevalent than in Blogland.
Time and time again, you come across posts written by women that are not only utter rubbish, they are also wrong, grammatologically-speaking.
These women string together randomly-chosen words and try to make them sound like poetry, but they often end up sounding like Japanese t-shirts.
RAISE YOUR HANDS, all of you out there who have come across posts like this:

Oh!

The pain!

Oh!

Why? Why? Why?

Why is what?

Who is where?

I am You.

You are The Shoelaces.

That tie together the shoes.

That keep me grounded.

But...

Alas!

I have stepped on...

Chewing gum.

And it is...

Icky.

Penitence! Transcendence!
Sing a song of...
sixpence!

For all is lost,

And I am...

Dead.

Are your hands raised? Yes? Well, put them down, stupid. I can't bloody well see you, can I?

The point is, you'll never see men droning on and on like that. Men write better poetry because they just say what they mean.
The world's best documented poem, in fact, can be found scribbled behind a door in the MEN's room at a Mamak restaurant in Taman Daya, Johor Bahru.
It goes like this:

Anak kucing
tangkap tikus,
Aku kencing,
Engkau jirus

You see? You see?
This poem works because it adheres to the Three Basic Rules of Poetry:

1) It rhymes
2) It's simple
3) It offends people who possess Nilai-nilai Murni

Here's another example of Great Poetry, which is written by me, but to this day strangely remains ignored by the Arty-Farty Pulitzer Association (AFPA):

I strangled a cat
until it was dead,
Maybe for lunch,
I'll eat it with bread,

some pickles and onions,
some mayo and cheese,
But I'll skin the cat first,
'Coz fur makes me sneeze


I realise many of you women will find this post offensive and sexist. I urge you write angry responses immediately.
I'm looking forward to reading your comments as I'm thinking of starting a Japanese t-shirt company.
Thank You.

Okay, God. Stop typing now and get me some coffee. No don't type THAT, dammit! No-no-no...oh, just forget it!
Idiot.

Astronatas

When you read the Letters section in websites such as Malaysiakini, you can't help but feel that Malaysians are the most unpatriotic people in The Galaxy.

Clearly, these myopic idiots can't see why it's important for The First Malaysian in Space to conduct experiments on Batik Printing and Teh Tarik.

Allow me to enlighten you unscientific morons:

The Importance of Batik Printing

When senators from all over The Galaxy meet at an Upacara Rasmi to debate the impending Attack of the Clones, and Malaysia decides to send Hishamuddin as its representative, surely he should be smartly attired in Batik.
Surely you realise that representatives from other planets will laugh at him if he was seen waving his keris dressed as Queen Amidala, while delivering the following important pantun:

Kalau nak belajar jadi Jedi,
Belajarlah dari Encik Yoda,
Cina semua boleh tutup kedai,
India semua boleh po'dah

So you see, Batik Printing is a very important component of the National Space Progamme.
It's a matter of National Pride, dammit!


The Importance of Teh Tarik

It is a celeverly kept secret that Mamaks actually own this country. But no one knows about it. We're all ignorantly walking around in a Maggi-goreng induced stupor. We don't know about this because the sneaky buggers wont declare their Equity. Consider the following figures:

Malay Equity: 18.6% - 225% depending on who's releasing the figures
Chinese Equity: 99.99%
Indian Equity: 1.3% in toll change
Dan lain-lain Equity: They're dan lain-lains. Who cares?

So where are the figures for Mamak Equity? Told you they were sneaky buggers. They won't declare it because they don't want to arouse our suspicion!
Okay, so the Mamaks have colonised Malaysia.
Next, they'll colonise Earth.
Then what?
To Tarriiiikkkk where no man has Tarriiikkked before!
Sneaky buggers.

So now do you understand the importance of The Malaysian Space Programme? You ignorant bunch of losers?
No?
It's the Malay Space Progamme, you say?
Hmmmmmmm...
Well, you do have a point there, I guess.

So:

In order to make the Malaysian Space Programme more Malaysian, I would like to suggest that subsequent Astronauts sent into space be non-bumis:

Malaysian Space Programme 2

Send TWO Indians to space to train under a Jedi master, so that they can master the Jedi Arts, learn to use a lightsaber, and then fight...each other.

The Indians should be supplied with many bottles of Seven Seas whisky/tape-head cleaner in order for them to also find out the trajectory of puke in space.

Malaysian Space Programme 3

Send a Chinese into space in a rocket loaded to the brim with toilet-paper and tell him/her to "use it to wipe Uranus".

Malaysian Space Programme 4

Send a Dan Lain-Lain into space and forget to bring him/her back.

Malaysian Space Programme 5

Send an Orang-asli into space with instructions to "sumpit a lethal poison dart into a black hole, with the hopes that it will travel back in time and come back and hit whoever it was that suggested sending a Malaysian into space in the first place."