Calling All Heroes: Spray It, Don't Say It

Okay. So the Prime Minister has woken up, said something about Bloggers not being above the law, and gone back to sleep.

And Boogers United are all going ga-ga, saying that his statement is sub-judice (which is latin for prima-facie (which is Aramaic for Verily) ).

At the risk of jeapordising my popularity (10 hits on Saturday, 16 on Sunday! Wooohoooo!), I have to say that I agree with the Prime Minister.
No one is above the law.
Not even Steven Seagal, who acted in the Oscar-nominated movie, Above The Law. Or was that Van-Damme? Maybe it was Dolph Lundgren.

Whatever.

The point is, The BlogoSfera was never the Rhombus of Free-Speech that Boogers United made it out to be in the first place.
No such place exists.

So, in order to take back this country from litigious tyrants, we at An Arsenal of Bloggers are taking this fight out of the BlogoBujur and onto the streets.
Because if this War is to be won, then we must win it outside the Kuboid of the law.

Yes.
We must become more than just bleary-eyed men sitting in front of a computer at 2am.
We must become:
Masked Vigilantes of Free-Speech.

Now I know what you Boogers United people are saying. Because you've been saying it loud and clear since this whole fiasco began:
You're saying that wearing a mask is cowardly. That being anonymous is wussy and that Real Men use their Real Names and that that yaddayaddayadda...

In fact, Booggers United have been sending angry letters to everyone from Keluang-man to Cicak-Man, asking them to "come out". I have evidence of this in my possession, which I am plagiarising here:


___________________________________________

Bloggers United,
The Blogosphere,
Blogologoloola,
Blogisthan.
29 JANUARY 2007

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

The A&W Bear,
A&W Restaurant,
Near Waikiki,
Petaling Jaya


Dear Bear,

RE: Come out, come out, whoever you are

With regards to the above matter, it has come to our attention that you are, in fact, a bear who is wearing a bear costume.

We at Bloggers United find this to be a cowardly act, and urge you to immediately reveal your real self, like other courageous bears who have thus far been fighting for the cause in their actual God-given fur.

Take for example Yogi Bear, who for years has been courageously stealing pickenick baskets.
Did Yogi Bear need a Bear Costume?
Even though he knew he could get in trouble with The Ranger, Yogi never once hid under the cover of Anonymity.

As such, we urge you to emulate Yogi and other such bears, and join us in whatever.

Your Sincerely,

Bloggers United

________________________________________


I don't know about you, but when I read that letter, I was pissed-off.
What gives Boogers United the right?

Bloggers aren't the first people to discover an avenue for Free Speech under an oppressive government.
No Sirreee.

That honour belongs to a group of people who for years have been writing in the privacy of toilet stalls.
Who have, somehow, found the courage to throw their rubbish directly under the "Dilarang Membuang Sampah Merata-Rata" signs.
Who, under the cloak of darkness, have found the time to spray paint Maniam loves Loga on the road behind Giant in Kelana Jaya.

Yes.
The true flame-bearers of Free Speech:
The Graffiti Guys.

And unlike Bloggers United, they never did it for fame and glory. Till this day, no one knows who these anonymous heroes are.

So my friends, if, like me, you want to write lewd and filthy things about people in power, I urge you to take to the streets with a can of spray-paint tonight.

"But Pazuzu," you're asking me. "What if people see me?"
Well, I thought you'd never ask.

You see, I have the perfect disguise:









As you can see, looking like this, people will immediately recognise who you are.

















But by merely putting on a ski-mask, everyone will think that you're a grass-cutter and ignore you.

And by simply modifying the grass-cutting machine like this, no one will suspect that, instead of cutting grass, you're actually out on a night of courageous Free Speeching.

Note: You might want to start off on simpler messages, like this.

* Disclaimer: Please note that when I say grass, I am talking about rumput and not Najis Dadah. Do you understand? Jauhilah Diri Dari Najis Dadah! Or else you will turn into a tengkorak like in those cool government posters from the 80s.

If you're an amateur Graffiti Guy, and you don't know what to write, feel free to plagiarise and mix&match from these selection of words which I have helpfully compartmentalised in this graph:

There.
Thanks to me, you once again have a purpose in life.

But remember:
With Great Power comes Great Responsibility.
Up up and away!
I am Aquaman and everybody hates me!
To the Batmobile!

This is Pazuzu, wishing all anonymous, masked heroes a night of Happy Free-Speeching.

Weekend Fun: What Weekend Fun?

No Weekend Fun this week.
I'm swamped with bloody work.
And if I can't have fun this weekend, neither can you.
It's only fair, right?
Now Flush Off and be miserable like me.

Pazuzu: The First Indian Prime Minister of Malaysia Since Mahathir (Allegedly)

Disclaimer:
In the interest of not being sued, every full-stop that appears in this post, and all posts before it represents the word Allegedly.
So in the case of the sentence you just read, it should be read as follows: In the interest of not being sued, every full stop that appears in this post, and all posts before it represents the word Allegedly allegedly.
In the case of the sentence you just read after the sentence you just read...(allegedly allegedly allegedly), it should be read as, fuck it. You get the picture.
So if you're reading this post out loud, as most people do, and you fail to say Allegedly in place of the full-stops, don't blame me if you get sued or arrested or killed.........................


Okay. On with the post.

In the laterestest Bloggers United Update, the movement, which is fast gaining popularity, did something so bold, so revolutionary that yadayadayadayadayouknowwhat?
We at An Arsenal of Bloggers are sick and tired of all this whinging and whining about Free Speech and Human Rights and whatever and shit.
Blogging about it won't do a damn thing. Are you listening to me, Bloggers United? Should I fling a pizza at you to get your attention?

Talk is cheap.

At An Arsenal of Bloggers, we are committed to Action. We intend to do something about the State of the Country.
So I, Pazuzu, President of An Arsenal of Bloggers, am hereby announcing my candidacy for the Dictatorship of Malaysia.
It's time this country was run by someone with balls. And since, due to a genetic deformity, I have three, I'm as good a candidate as any.

As Dictator of Malaysia, I will immediately introduce steps to eliminate whatever it is that everybody is complaining about. We'll start with:


Step 1: Electoral Reform

Apparently, the present election system is so screwed up that you can only be the Next Prime Minister of Malaysia by marrying the current Prime Minister's daughter. While in theory, this is an excellent idea, the problem lies in its implementation.
There are people (probably communists) who think this system is unfair and not at all "transparent".

Here is how I will tackle the problem:

As Dictator, it will be be my constitutional right to have a concubine consisting of female TV3 newsreaders. These newsreaders will provide me with many daughters.

When I am ready to step down, I will cry at my party's General Assembly, and then, after the slightest bit of persuasion, reconsider my decision and step down a year later.

During this year, all TV Networks will carry a reality show called For Love or Power.

This show will feature a daughter of my choice who will be matched with 10 potential suitors.

Each week, you, Joe and Jiminy Public, will get to choose, via sms, which contestant gets eliminated. That's democracy at work right there.

The contestant who you think Loves my daughter the most should be eliminated first.

The last remaining contestant, the one who will go on to become my son-in-law, will be the contestant who really wants to marry her for Power.

And he will be Heir-to-the-Dictatorship.

I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking "How is this different from what is happening now?"

Well, the difference is, You, Joe and Jujube Public, get to vote on who becomes my son-in-law. Stupid.
Sheesh.

Surely you agree that this is a much better system than the one we have now. Right?

Exactly. So that's settled then.

Which brings us to:


Step 2: Errrrr...Hold On.

I have just received some very exciting news. Apparently, there is a Sale! going on in Johor Bahru. Everything must go! 90% off! Karaoke Bars are offering happy hours all night long! Prostitutes are going for 20...No, 15...No, 10 Ringgit an hour!





Okay. Now wait for it...

Wait for it...


Waaaaaiiiiiittttt...

There.
Phew.

Now that I've gotten rid of all my Singaporean readers, I can proceed to tell you about:

Step 2: The Invasion of Singapore

Our media, as you already know, has been infiltrated by Agents from Singapore. This is very bad for some reason.
Because of this, Bloggers United, in a move that can only be described as "wussy", has decided to boycott said media.
As Dictator, I intend to nip the problem in the bud. Because as you know, buds are where problems should be nipped.
And the bud, in this case, is Singapore.

So naturally, we need to nip Singapore and take back what is rightfully ours, which is...well...Singapore.
But this won't be easy.
Our Army will be powerless against the might of The Singaporean Armed Forces.
This is because Singaporeans are trained during National Service to fight for their country.
Malaysians, on the other hand, are trained during National Service to sing patriotic songs, which, unless you sing really badly, is useless in the heat of the battle.

So we need a really good military strategy if we are to defeat the Enemy and win the war.
Thankfully, having watched the movie Troy, I am a really good military strategist.

Here is my plan:

Top-Secret: The Trojan Balloon Parade

Singaporeans love parades. Evidence of this is The Singapore National Day Parade, an event that causes Singaporeans to become so overcome with patriotism that they immediately head across the causeway to get the hell away from Singapore.

Taking advantage of this love for parades, Malaysia (as a conciliatory gesture) will hold a Million Malaysian March across the causeway. We will all carry conciliatory balloons.

But what the Singaporeans will not know is that the balloons will be blown by Malaysian smokers, who will fill the balloons with second-hand-smoke.
You see, over the years, Singaporeans have evolved into organisms that will drop dead immediately after a whiff of cigarette smoke.

So, as a participant of the Million Malaysian March , when you arrive across the causeway, smile and give your conciliatory balloon to a Singaporean, like this:







Then take out a pin and pop the balloon.
The subsequent release of second-hand-smoke will immediately kill him/her as the following diagram shows:








After we've conquered Singapore, as a mark of our sovereignty, we will blow up the causeway and build half-a-bridge to nowhere.

To officiate its opening, we will invite all Mat Rempits to race across the bridge without telling them that it isn't really a complete bridge.

So you see, in one fell swoop, and without knowing what the hell a fell swoop* is, I would have restored our sovereignty and gotten rid of all the Mat Rempit as well.

No-No. No need to thank me. I'm just doing my job as your elected Dictator.
You may, however, show your appreciation by singing the following patriotic song:


Everybody:

Once a upon a time,
This country was a zoo,
Then he came along,
The Great Pazuzu!

Just the men:

Before, we sold our country,
Like a bloody whore,
But with Pazuzu,
We conquered Singapore!

Just the women:

Oh how we all
want to marry him,
If only he didn't write,
Under a pseudonym.

Just The NST:

We promise that
we won't sue
An Arsenal of Bloggers
And their leader Pazuzu!

All together Now:


Naa Na Na,
NaNaNaNa,
NaNaNaNa,
Pazuzuuuuu.....




xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


According to my research which I am plagiarising here, the phrase "one fell swoop" has Shakespearean origins:

Shakespeare either coined the phrase, or gave it circulation, in Macbeth, 1605:
MACDUFF: [on hearing that his family and servants have all been killed]

All my pretty ones?
Did you say all?
O hell-kite! All?
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam
At one fell swoop?

Okaaayyy...that explains a lot.
As Dictator of Malaysia, I will ban bloody Shakespeare.

Bloggers Against Bloggers United

As you may or may not know, I am pissed-off with this current movement called Boogers...I mean...Bloggers United.

Not only is Bloggers United a stupid and weak name, their members think nothing of diving in the penalty blog while real Bloggers are on a 49-post unbeaten run.

Also, they're starting up some legal-defense-fund for some unknown bloggers who are being sued, but they did nothing - NOTHING, I tell you - while I, Malaysia's Blogger of the Year, was being being sued by Citibank for unpaid credit-card bills.

They just stood by and watched while my fundamental right to Free Money was being eroded by a giant, bullying corporation.

As such, I'm starting my own kick-ass, attack-driven movement called An Arsenal of Bloggers. Unlike Bloggers United, our movement-off-the-ball will not only defeat whoever, but we'll do it in style, dammit.

Here is our logo:

Feel free to plagiarise it and paste it on your blog, as I have on mine.

If we all do this, then maybe, just maybe, as Bloggers we can be Invincible once again.

I would like to say more, but alas, I am out of bad metaphors.



xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx



Update: 2-1! Hah! Take that, Bloggers United!

Weekend Fun: Did ENO I'm Being Sued Too?

Apparently the Malaysian Blogging Community (MBC) is up in arms over some bloggers who are being sued. Or something.
MBC is so pissed off over this development that all their members are putting up this logo on their blogs:

I refuse to put the above logo on my blog! I am pissed-off with the MBC.
Firstly, I am offended by the term Bloggers United. What a stupid name. Surely, a better, more attack-minded name would be An Arsenal of Bloggers.
Secondly, while they're all BlaBla-ing away about supporting those bloggers, nobody seems to give a shit about me!

Yes.
I too, am being sued, dammit.

But where's my Reformasi?

Where's the fucking tabung for my defence?
How come nobody's taking to the streets and setting parking meters on fire on my behalf?
Where's my face-on-a-t-shirt?

You know what, MBC? Forget it.
I'll fight my fight Alone.
I don't need you, MBC!
And my logos are better than your logos! Hah!

Anyway, as I said, I am being sued. I received this letter yesterday:


________________________________________________

Lingam, Singam, Singam,
Token-Bumi-Guy, Lingam & Associates
Advocates and Solicitors
Long Bar,
Selangor Club,
Kuala Lumpur.
Tel: Enganged

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

Mr Pazuzu,
Weekend Fun,
The Floating Turd,
Blogspot.Com


RE: We're going to sue you and nobody cares, not even the MBC


With regards to the above matter, and by using the word verily very much, we verily would like to inform your goodself that your goodself is being sued by our goodselves on behalf of our Client, Absolut Vodka.

It has, verily, come to our utmost attention that your goodself has recommended that my Client's product be used in a sick, but we must admit, humourous game called Uday, Qusay, BOOM!

Verily, this is verily unacceptable to our Client.

Please verily pay our goodselves a verily verily big load of moolah verily soon. Alternatively, you may verily offer our Client verily free advertising space on your blog, which is verily verily funny.

Row row row your boat, gently down the stream.
Verily verily verily verily, life is but a dream.
(The above sentence is a play on the word "merrily". It was used to show you that we in the legal profession can be humourous too.)

Verily.

Yours Verily,

Linga..no wait...I mean, Singam.

Advocate/Solicitor

______________________________________________

I have decided, at the risk of being called a wussy, not to fight the charges. Because, frankly, I don't trust the Malaysian Judicial System. I mean, seriously, would you put your fate in the hands of Malaysian Judges, who don't even have the good judgement to not wear a dress and a comical wig to work everyday?

Not me.
No way.
So lets get this over and done with, okay?
Here's the free ad:

So there.
It has been done.
I hope that, after this, no other company will sue me for using their Brand Name inappropriately.
On that note, let's get on with this week's fun installment of Weekend Fun!

Fun With ENO!

Fun With ENO is a fun yet uneducational way for you and the kids to spend the weekend.
To start playing, you will need:

1) A bottle of ENO
2) Some sugar
3) Some empty bottles
4) Some water
5) A place that has many ants

Each player is given one empty bottle.
To play, first pour some ENO into the bottles, followed by a thinner layer of sugar.
Then wait until a Swat team of ants invades the bottles, lured in by the sugar:

Stop when exactly 100 ants are in the bottle, and stomp on the remaining ants. Make sure you don't get caught by a naked RSPCA member.
Then, quickly fill the bottles with water.
When you do this, the fizz from the ENO will cause most of the ants to pop out of the bottle, like this:

The player with the most ants out of the bottle at the end of the round wins!

To make the game more interesting, each ant may represent 1 Ringgit, like a casino chip.

You may take your winning ants to Genting and ask the friendly casino personnel to redeem them for cash. Make sure you wear a suit or a batik shirt, so that they won't think you're some kind of wacko.

So there you have it! This week's edition of...no wait. There's more!


More Fun With ENO!

Using the Memory-Loss Method of Socialising, made popular by Mahathir and Soros, get yourself invited to the home of someone you hate.

Bring along a bottle of ENO.

When your host is not looking, sneak into the kitchen and replace his Coffeemate with the ENO.

Then, at the end of the evening, when he asks you if you would like some coffee, say:

"No thank you. But you carry on."

Then just sit back and enjoy your Weekend Fun!


So there you have it. This has been another edition of Weekend Fun. I will continue to bring you more fun things to do next week, even if I have to risk being sued.
Because, aw shucks, that's just the kinda guy I am.
Till then, I remain your Ultimate Funtasy, Pazuzu.

Now Flush Off and enjoy the weekend, you crazy wanker, you!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


The idea for using ENO to pop ants originally came from my friend Daryl, who shared the idea with me one day while I was setting fire to a cockroach-dipped-in-Ronsonol on a Nescafe tin (don't ask).
I thought I should mention this before the MBC accuses me of Plagiarism, a crime which the MBC believes is punishable by Death.

The Da Vinci Code: You Can't Flush The Truth Away

Women, the only gender in the world that is unable to distinguish fact from fiction, are always quick to invoke The Da Vinci Code in Mars VS Venus-type arguments.

The Da Vinci Code, which was written by Dan Brown based on secret messages in the drawings of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, states that Jesus Christ was married and had kids and that Women Are Superior for some reason.
Or maybe it states that some religious wackos will run around France killing each other over some paintings.
Whatever.

If people want to think that The Holy Grail refers to Jesus' daughter based on a work of fiction, that's fine with me.
It's just a book, dammit.

But then, the other day, on my daily visit to Engrish.com, I stumbled upon this:

On a children's toy!
What is this world coming to?
Is nothing sacred anymore?
People, this is where I draw the line:


_________________________________________________




First, the Da Vinci Code says that the descendant of Jesus is a girl.
Then, clearly taking his cue from the book, this toy manufacturer has the gall to suggest that Jesus is a girl!

Being a devout Catholic who has passed by St Francis Xavier Church many times on my way to Ol' Skool Pub and Bistro, I was outraged! So outraged that, in order to disprove Dan Brown's findings, I myself have been painstakingly researching the works of Leonardo Da Vinci.

I started with this famous kitchen decoration, The Last Supper:

At first, staring at the painting as a whole, it just looked like a bunch of guys arguing about who gets to sit next to Jesus, like children fighting for the front seat.
So I asked myself:
What does Da Vinci want me to see?
What is the hidden meaning behind the painting?
Can anybody hear me talking to myself?
Will they think I'm weird?

Then it hit me. And I hit it back. Because nobody hits me and gets away with it, dammit.
I decided to break up the painting into different segments.
And this is what I deduced:

This is clearly a woman, who has discovered something so distressing that she has fainted.

These bunch of guys are clearly pointing an accusatory finger at someone, deflecting the blame away from themselves.

This guy is obviously holding his hands up as if to say "It wasn't me!"

And it was only then when I realised the Inescapable Truth.
What could distress a woman so much that she would faint?
What would make grown men turn on each other, refusing to admit whodunnit?

And the answer, obviously, is:




A Floating Turd!



So, through his painting, Da Vinci was trying to say that the descendant of Christ is a floating turd. And since I am The Floating Turd, the descendant of Christ is...ME!!!


Being The Descendant of Christ, I know what you're thinking.
You're thinking that this is all circumstantial evidence.
There's not enough proof.
So I dug deeper:

Supposedly, during The Last Supper, Jesus asked everyone present to drink some wine, which, symbolically, was the Blood of Christ. And The Holy Grail was the cup that held the Blood of Christ.
So how come, in the painting, there are no cups? No wine?
It's as though the people in the painting are taking great pains to convey the message:

Drink? Not Us!


Drink Not Us. Drink Not Us. Drink Not Us.

Surely it's an anagram! It must be!
So I tried rearranging the alphabets. And guess what it says?

Drink Not Us = Turd No Sink!

A non-sinking turd!
A...Floating Turd!
Again, everything points to ME!


Still think it's a coincidence? Then consider this other anagram:

Jesus Christ, Descendant.


Rearrange it, and what do you get?

Turd Ascends, Injects Shes!


Turd Ascends = once again, A Floating Turd!
Injects Shes = obviously, since we can rule out a dildo, A Man!
A Man who is A Floating Turd = ME!!!!

I am the Holy Grail!
I hold the Blood of Christ!
I...am the Descendant of Jesus Christ!

I'm not sure how I feel about this.
On one hand, I've always suspected as much.
On the other hand, my life is in danger.

There are people who would kill to keep this information from you.
People like Dan Brown, who is a member of Opus Dei, a Catholic sect determined to keep the truth hidden.
In fact, he's already tried to kill me once, to ensure that this entry would never have been posted.
Just the other day, I was staggering down the street, when I was approached by Dan Brown:


Dan Brown: Macha, I am from Opus, Dei!

Me: Why are you speaking with an Indian accent, la dei?

Dan Brown: My name is an anagram! It actually means Brown Dan. As in Brown Danaraj! And I'm here to kill you with this parang, la dei!

Me: Dei, don't kill me, la dei!....Shit!...Look behind you! It's Harry Belafonte!

Dan Brown: I'm not falling for the old look-behind-you-it's-Harry-Belafonte Trick! You think I'm stupid ah, dei?

Harry Belanfonte: Deeeeeiiiiiiii-O, me say Dei, me say Dei, me say Dei, me say Dei, me say De-e-ei-O!

Dan Brown: Wow! It really is Harry Belafonte, la dei! I'm so distracted!

While Dan Brown was distracted, I kung-fu-kicked him and Harry Belafonte pinned him down.

Me: You bastard! You tried to kill me!

Dan Brown: And I would have gotten away with it if it wasn't for you and that pesky Harry Belafonte!

Harry: Pazuzu! Always two there are. A Master and an Apprentice.

Dan Brown: I'll never tell you who my Master is!

Just then, a poison dart was sumpited into his neck. With his last dying breath, he managed to blurt out:

"A few horny rip! A...few.....horny..........rip..."

I looked at Harry. Harry looked at me.


Harry: A few horny rip?

Me: I think he was trying to tell us who his Master is. But the bastard can't get enough of his bloody anagrams. I know one thing. His Master must be a woman who still wants us to believe that the descendant of Christ is female.

Harry: A few horny rip. An anagram. Hmmmmm. Okay, we rearrange the letters and we get...A fire why poor? Friar we phony? I can't seem to crack the code.

Me: I have a feeling the clues to unscrambling the anagram are in here and here.

Harry: I'm sorry, Pazuzu. You must continue on this adventure alone. Sad to say I'm on my way. Won't be back for many a-day.

Me: Goodbye, Harry Belafonte!

Harry: Goodbye....and Pazuzu?

Me: Yes?

Harry: Be careful.

Me: I will, Harry Belanfonte...





I will...



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

In light of this Revelation, I have asked God to resign as my Secretary. Since He's now my relative (according to some beliefs) I don't want to be accused of cronyism and/or nepotism.

I'm not like Some People.

I'm currently looking for someone to replace Him.

Weekend Fun: Uday, Qusay, BOOM!

Ever since I started blogging, random people have accosted me on the street, looking like highly-strung drug addicts, and begged me to do something about my lack of entries during the weekend.

"Do something about your lack of entries during the weekend!" they would scream. "Our weekends are miserable without you! Last weekend I sat by the computer, hitting Refresh every 3 minutes to see if you've posted anything and I forgot to feed my baby, who died."

I don't want any dead-baby-blood on my hands.
But at the same time, on principle, I only blog during office hours. That way, I can theoretically blog while getting paid, which enables me to keep this site free for You, My Dearest Reader/Apostle.

So now, I have come up with a solution on how you can keep yourselves occupied during the weekends and yet leave me the hell alone.

Weekend Fun is a new feature in The Floating Turd.
Every Thursday or Friday, I will come up with something for you to do during the weekend. Something fun. Hence the name Weekend Fun!

This weekend's fun activity, inspired by the ever-humourous Iraq War, is:

Uday, Qusay, BOOM! (Beginners' Level)

Uday, Qusay, BOOM! is a game that can be played with 3 or more individuals. In fact, the more the merrier.
To play, you will need:

1) One bottle of Absolut Vodka
2) A shot glass

To start playing, have your friends sit in a circle.
One person will 'start the ball rolling' by shouting out the name "Uday!"
The person next to him will then shout "Qusay!"
The next person will then revert to Uday followed by Qusay again for the person after him.

When this sequence of Uday, Qusay, Uday, Qusay is completed, the next person reverses the cycle by starting with Qusay followed by Uday and so on.

If somebody screws up the sequence, everybody in the circle should shout "BOOM!" really loudly and insist that the screwer-upper bottoms-ups a shot of Absolut Vodka.

Example with 5 friends:

Friend 1: Uday!

Friend 2: Qusay!

Friend 3: Uday!

Friend 4: Qusay!

Friend 5 now has to change the sequence.

Friend 5: Qusay!

Friend 1: Uday!

Friend 2: Qusay!

Friend 3: Uday!

Friend 4: Qusay!

Everybody: BOOOOM!!!!

As you can see, Friend 4 (Ross) should have changed the sequence by shouting "Uday!". Since he didn't, his punishment* will be to down a shot of Absolut Vodka. This is a fun game for the whole family and I urge you to start playing today!

Uday, Qusay, BOOM! (Advanced Level)

The Advanced Level of Uday, Qusay, BOOM! is pretty much the same as the Beginners' Level. The only difference is one additional element:

Each participant will be provided with two cardboard cutouts of the faces of Uday and Qusay Hussein.
As they shout out the name, they should quickly place the corresponding cutout over their face.
If someone shouts Uday but places a Qusay Cutout over his face, everybody should shout "BOOM!" and force him to down a shot.

So there you have it! The very first installment of Weekend Fun!
Till next weekend, I remain your Funmaster General, Pazuzu.

Have a great weekend.
Now, Flush Off and leave me alone.



* For people who don't drink, the punishment should be to do "Nude Squats". You never know when a packet of drugs will fall out of their private orifices, which can potentially provide even more fun for you and the family!

The XXXVJ Annual Floating Turd Awards

Welcome to The XXXVJ Annual Floating Turd Awards, which looks back on the previous year and creeps into the houses of the winners to use their toilets and leave a very stubborn award in their bowl.

This show should've been held in December but was postponed due to heightened terrorist activity that forced the organisers, at Molotov-cocktail point, to drink excessive amounts of beer, thus rendering the organisers incapable of tyhbdfhvoagfqytef.

As you can see, arriving now at the red carpet, are many Datuks, Tan Sris, Tuns, Penyimpan Cap Mohor Besar DiRajas and Guardians of The Moat, along with their wives and second wives, who have been generously donated to them by main sponsors - TV3.

Here's a VIP now! Datuk Seri Samy Vellu, you're looking "mighty spiffy" tonight. Who designed your hair?

Samy: Lim Kok Wing.

Yes. Thank you, Datuk. And here's old-favourite Tun Dr Mahathir. Tun, how do feel right now, walking down this red carpet?

Dr. M: I feel marginalised. I specifically asked the organisers for a bridge instead of a red carpet. Even half a bridge would've been okay. But these incompetent bastards are selling our sovereignty! I'm being censo-

Yes-yes. Thank you, Tun.

Well, the moment you've all been waiting for is here! Lets cross over now to PWTC, where, due to a catfight backsid..I mean backstage between Azwan Ali and Aznil Nawawi, your stand-in soft-wristed host will be AC Mizal.

AC Mizal: AC di mana?

Crowd: AC di sini!!!

AC/DC: HaHaHa! What a funny Malay pun on our name! Is he wearing more make-up than us? Bastard!

AC Mizal: And now, to present the first award for the night, Malaysia's darling homewrecker - Siti NurspeakadaEnglish!

Siti: Good Friday, Tuan-tuan dan Puan-Puan! Warning! Teleprompter Error! Please ensure Teleprompter is plugged in properly!

Err, okay. Thank you, Siti. Due to technical difficulties, all hosts and presenters have been asked to remain backstage where they will be plied with glasses of Coca-Cola with straws in them. Ahem. If you know what I mean.

Okay, then.
The first award of the night is:
Best Actor in a Musical or Comedy

The Nominees are:
1) Hishamuddin Hussein for UMNO General Asembly Part XXV: The Keris Strikes Back!
2) The Incest Pantun Guy for UMNO General Assembly Part XXV: The Keris Strikes Back!
3) Dr Mahathir for Memento 2: I Don't Remember Fucking Up The Country.
4) Pak Lah for Sleeping While the Enemy Accuses Me of Fucking Up The Country.
5) Khairy Jamalluddin for The Puppet Master.

And the winner is: The Incest Pantun Guy!
We have no idea who he is, but he delivered a pantun that goes something like this:

Tepuk amai-amai
Belalang Kupu-kupu,
Something something something
Datuk rogol Cucu!

And everybody in the hall, who comprised the people who run this country, burst out in laughter. There is a rumour that even Pak Lah woke up for awhile, pretended to laugh as though he was listening, and fell back to sleep.
It is the opinion of the organisers that, if you can get people to laugh about Incestuous Rape, and do it in a manner that rhymes, you deserve a floating turd in your bowl.
Congratulations, Incest Pantun Guy!


The organisers regret to inform you that the organisers are bored of this entry, which the organisers think really sucks.

The organisers are already working on a new entry where the organisers will prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the organisers are, in fact, descendants of Jesus.

Watch this space.

In the mean time, please feel free to add categories, nominees, and winners of your choice in the comment box. Or not.
Whatever.

The organisers are flushing off now.

Thank you.

Death and Taxis

I almost died last night.
I met mano-e-mano (which literally means mano-o-mano) with The Grim Reaper.
Only it was not The Grim Reaper we have all come to know and love.

No thanks to Hollywood and their "creative licence" and shit, we were led to believe that The Grim Reaper was a guy with a Cloak and Sabit who spoke in a booming, echoey voice.
Because of this, all my life, I've been avoiding people who fit this description.

But now I feel sorry for the poor Cloak and Sabit guys, who have had to endure people avoiding them for no good reason whatsoever.
They're probably just some guys from DBKL whose job it is to sabit all the lalang.
And who have to wear a cloak due to DBKL budget cuts that have forced them to abandon the stylish-yet-functional green flourescent vests.
And who've consumed too many Fisherman's Friends.
So the next time you see a guy with a Cloak and Sabit who speaks in a booming, echoey voice, please give him a hug and some money.
Those DBKL lalang-sabitters are grossly underpaid.

Anyway, it was after work when it occured. I was standing by the road. I hailed a cab. The cab stopped, I got in and...

And there he was.
Death.
The Grim Reaper.
He looked me straight in the eye, and in a voice that was neither booming nor echoey, said:


"இணைப்புகள் - தமிழ் தேடல் எந்திரம், பகுதிபிரிக்கப்பட்ட நூற்றுக்கணக்கான"

Oh no, I thought. I had been in this perilous situation before.

"I don't speak Tamil," I said.

"Are you Indian?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And you don't speak Tamil?"

"Yes."

"நூற்றுக்கணக்கான!!!#$$%^#@@!!!"

"Whatever."

"Why don't you speak Tamil?" he asked, clearly agitated.

"Because most people in this country, including Indians, can speak English or Malay. I'm fluent in both languages. So I can communicate effectively with most people in this country. I don't need to learn an entire language just so I can order a Thosai without getting scolded for being a traitor to my kind."

"What if you visit India?"

"What if I visit The Democratic Republic of Congo? Do I need to learn how to speak Democratic-Republic-of-Congoian? Should I quit my job and devote my entire existence to studying languages, including morse-code and that clickety-click language that they spoke in The Gods Must Be Crazy?"

"But Tamil is our culture. We must preserve our culture!"

"Can you dance the bharatanatyam?"

"Errrr...."

"But it's our culture! We must preserve our culture. Now dance, dammit! Dance!"


That shut him up. And that was the problem.
I don't know if it was his intention to terrorize me or whether he just wanted to get me out of his cab pronto, but he started driving like a lunatic. At breakneck speed. Past red lights.

I knew then that I was going to die in one of two ways:

1) Death by Lunatic Indian

As you already know, Indians have no qualms about killing other Indians because of their perceived lack of Indian-ness.
Historians have recently unearthed concrete proof that Gandhi was in fact killed because he was played by Ben Kingsley, who is not Indian.
Had he been played by Rajinikanth, he most certainly would have survived.
Not only that, he would have ditched all that passive-resistance nonsense and killed the entire Brtisih Army in one elaborately-choreographed move and proceeded to perform a geographically-impossible dance within a span of 3 minutes in 5 different continents.
So if they can kill Gandhi, India's Father of Independence, surely this guy wouldn't think twice about killing me, Malaysia's Blogger of the Year.
I had heard the voice of Death. And I couldn't understand a word.
He spoke Tamil.


2) Death by Crumpled Cab

I could almost see it:
The crumpled red-and-white tin lay in a ditch by the road. My lifeless body lay strewn nearby, providing the inspiration for the chalk-outline-guy's latest masterpiece.
My brains lay splattered about, like Nestum from a digestively-challenged baby.
My last act in life was to create a massive traffic jam on the other side of the road.
Years later, a Chinaman would recall:
"I saw his brains splattered everywhere. So I bought 10 Big, 10 Small. First Prize, man!"
That would be all my life would amount to. Inspiration for some random Chinaman to gamble on numbers.



But I didn't die.
The Grim Reaper allowed me to pay him off with RM5 above the meter charge. It was a good deal, considering the alternative.
So fuck you, random Chinaman! Go get your 4 digits off someone else's dismembered body! Hah!

Anyway, the whole incident has left me pensive.
I keep thinking about my death.
What will happen to me after I die? I wonder.
If you think that I'm being unnecessarily morbid, then you don't know what it's like being an Indian in Malaysia.
When we're alive, nobody gives a toss about us.
Suddenly, when we die, everybody wants to claim the rights to our bodies. The courts get involved. Parliament gets involved. People talk about it in parties and warungs.

Indians are like Artists. We're only worth something after we're dead.

I don't want Anybody fighting over my Body when I'm dead. Everybody should just leave my body alone. Is Anybody listening? Leave my Body alone! Somebody better tell Everybody that they can't just take Anybody's Body!

Everything I've written so far has been Ado. So without any further Ado, I hereby leave You, my dear Loyal Reader, with directions on what to do with my body after I'm dead.

Please follow these directions to a "t". When you reach a "t", make a right and go straight until you come to a "w". Fifty paces away, you'll find a spot marked "x". Beneath this spot lies my dead body.

Using a Ginsu Knife, kindly cut my body up into manageable-sized parts. Place the various parts in boxes. Then tape the boxes with masking tape. I'm not really fussy about the colour of the masking tape, but if you have time, and if it's not too much trouble, blue would be nice.

I would like specific Body Parts to be delivered to various bodies (no pun intended) as indicated below.


My Hands

My Hands are to be delivered to a Hollywood Studio of Your Choice.
It is to be used as either the Main or Supporting Actor in a horror film featuring an evil hand that has been transplanted on to a transplatee, who then unwittingly beheads horny teenagers and leaves their heads in cupboards, to be discovered later by other horny teenagers who will scream loudly before they themselves have their heads chopped off.
If my hand wins an Oscar for it's performance, kindly have either Al Pacino or Dustin Hoffman accept the award on my behalf.


My Heart

My heart should be delivered to the girl on the cover of a Playboy magazine that my friend gave me when I was thirteen. I think her name is Miss April. She wore nothing but a pair of pink roller-skates. Please deliver my heart to her, along with the following note:

This belongs to you. It always has.


My Ears

My ears should be delivered to The Hallmark Sappy Greeting Card Company. It is to be inserted into a Greeting Card that should be designed as follows:

My Brain

My brain should be delivered to The White House.
It should be used to replace the brain of President George "WW3" Bush.
I realise that with my brain being dead and all, it is completely useless. So clearly, this is an improvement over the President's current brain, which was an illegal campaign donation from Paris Hilton.


My Nose

My nose should be bleached and delivered to Michael Jackson.


My Penis

My penis should be delivered to the concerned people who frequently send me E-mails urging me to "Enlarge Your Penis Now For Only $9.99!"
Along with my penis, please enclose a cheque for $9999.00 and ask them to enlarge my penis to 1000 times its current size.
Then tell them to stick it in a personal orifice of their choice.


My Toes

My toes should be delivered to a certain Lunatic Cab Driver. But before that, kindly kidnap one of his Loved Ones. After that, deliver the dismembered toes to him, along with the following message, which should be written using magazine-cutout alphabets:

If you ever want to see (Insert Loved One's name here) again, wear a hat, sunglasses and a trenchcoat and put RM1,000,005 (he still owes me five bucks) in a dustbin in (insert your location of choice here).

When you collect the money, please buy something nice for yourself. I insist.
The rest of the money should be delivered to:

Dewan Bandaraya Kuala Lumpur,
(Bahagian Sabit-Lalang),
Wilayah Persekutuan,
Kuala Lumpur,
MALAYSIA.

Along with the money, please include the following note:

I'm so sorry I always avoided you guys. I thought you were Death. Please accept this money as a token of my remorse.


The Rest of My Body

The rest of my body should be delivered to the characters from the movie Alive, to use as they see fit.

Nandri.

Kepada Pazuzu, Dari Perdana Menteri

Saudara Pazuzu,

Semoga Saudara berada dalam keadaan sihat walafiat dan tidak "hangover".
Saya di sini berada dalam keadaan mengantuk.

Saudara, terlebih dahulu, saya ingin mengucapkan Puluhan terima kasih (disebabkan Saudara berketurunan India, kerajaan tidak mampu mengucapkan Ribuan terima kasih) kepada Saudara kerana mengambil masa untuk mengemukakan cadangan Saudara untuk mengira Ekuiti secara Saintifik.

Saya juga ingin mengucapkan setinggi-tinggi tahniah kepada Saudara di atas gelaran Blogger of the Year yang dianugerahkan kepada Saudara oleh TAVWMAWID.

Sebenarnya, saya sendiri merupakan Peminat Setia belog Saudara sejak pos pertama Saudara.

Saya juga menyokong penuh usaha Saudara untuk menangani gejala sosial seperti belog Lily Liverbird, yang menggalakkan wanita-wanita Malaysia mengabaikan nilai-nilai murni sehingga ada yang tidak mahu meniduri Wakil Rakyat mereka.

Saudara,
Sukacita saya maklumkan di sini bahawa saya telahpun mengarahkan Kementerian Sains, Matematik, Geografi dan Pendidikan Jasmani (KSMGPJ) untuk menjalankan ekperimen ekuiti dengan menggunakan Penapis Ekuiti Lebuhraya-Persekutuan Pazuzu.

Saya baru sahaja menerima laporan mereka dan mereka mencatatkan keputusan yang sama seperti yang dicatatkan oleh saudara dan Saintis-saintis terkemuka dunia.

Namun begitu, Kabinet (ataupun dalam bahasa kebangsaan - Gerobok) saya berpendapat bahawa rakyat Malaysia belum cukup matang untuk menerima Bukti Saintifik untuk mengira Ekuiti.

Menurut kajian yang dilakukan oleh Jabatan Kajian dan Survey Kebangsaan (JKSK), rakyat Malaysia lebih berminat terhadap bidang Peraduan daripada bidang Sains.

Ini jelas terbukti oleh fenomena Akedemi Fantasia, di mana berjuta-juta rakyat Malaysia mengundi untuk membolehkan artis kesayangan mereka bergambar separuh bogel di kolam renang dalam majalah URTV.

Oleh yang demikian, Gerobok telah mengambil keputusan untuk menolak semua Kaedah Mengira Ekuiti dan memberi semua Ekuiti Negara kepada seorang rakyat Malaysia bertuah yang bakal memenangi Peraduan Mewarna Ekuiti!

Untuk mempromosikan Peraduan ini, saya sendiri telah merekabentuk logo dengan menggunakan komputer:








Peraduan Mewarna ini terbuka kepada semua rakyat Malaysia yang beragama Umno dan bermastautin di Damansara Heights.

Untuk menyertai Peraduan ini, anda hanya perlu mewarnakan gambar berikut secara kreatif dengan menggunakan Magic Colour Schwan Stabilo:









Gambar anda mestilah menggunakan warna-warna dan unsur-unsur Nasionalisme. Di sini, saya sertakan beberapa contoh gambar yang dianggap Kreatif dan yang Tidak Kreatif.



Kreatif






Tidak Kreatif





Gambar yang dianggap paling kreatif akan memenangi Ekuiti Negara. Hadiah-hadiah saguhati seperti Modenas Jaguh dan Tiket Percutian ke Pulau Jerejak juga menanti anda. Keputusan pengadil adalah muktamad.

Saudara,
Dengan adanya Peraduan ini, saya yakin tidak akan berulang Peristiwa 13 Mei yang, seperti diketahui ramai, berlaku apabila Kaum Cina dan Kaum Melayu bergaduh untuk hak mengorat 13 anak dara bernama Mei.

Akhir kata, saya ingin memohon maaf kepada Saudara Pazuzu kerana tidak dapat meninggalkan sekotak Absolut Vodka di bawah pokok Krismas Saudara pada malam Krismas.
Ini disebabkan semua stok Absolut Vodka Negara telah dihabiskan di Perhimpunan Agung MIC yang lalu.

Sekian Terima Kasih,

Saya Yang Menurut Perintah Suami Anak Saya,

Perdana