execute order 66.

the month of the divine messaging system in overdrive continues and looks set to carry itself over to the next. it happens so much that it's seriously uncanny and no longer amusing. maybe if it happened to a lesser man or one who's not so accustomed to it (ok perhaps more of the latter than the former; i don't think i'm much of a 'more[or more-er cos less-lesser] man') the pumped-up fluids inside his brain will begin to push through his eyes cos of the pressure in his skull and lombardo will play the respective solo that's earned him his top 50 spot.

for example, and so i met this lady from a not-too-peachy past twice in a single week, at the same fucking place. ok so the recurrence of the venue takes 3 ticks off the uncanny meter, but it still is strange, considering - well just considering. the first time she did the nonchalant-looking-right-through-you-like-you're-constructed-wholly-from-perspex thing pretty well, considering (now, yes) how i had my staring-deep-into-your-eyes-like-you-owe-me-a-quarter-of-a-million-pounds thing going on, but she was caught with her pants down during the second time as we turned right into each other in our seats about 0.04 millimetres apart. i think i did that bemused half-smile to perfection but the poor dear couldn't take it as a gamut of emotions seized control in accordance with order 66 of her and her amazing brows which knitted half a sweater every this and other way cumulating at long last in a sort of a half smile as she struggled to regain control of her dallas maverick facial hair. and promptly fled to another table with her mate in record time. and demanded for her food to be served in record time. and wolfed down her meal in record time. and raised talismans all around her vicinity in record time. all the while with that smile frozen on her face of course, testament to the degree of shock hence experienced.

perhaps one will be moved now to think just what bovine turd i'm cooking up again, now, cos it ain't all that surprising to be faced with a flimsy coincidence. but it was the company i was in i guess. in particular, the nature of the species. and the means of interaction. i suppose i'm too established within the boundaries of my perceived stereotype that any deviation from it will be met with reactions of this sort.

and this is but one instance of reappearing apparitions of lives past. i wonder what the powers that be are trying to say this time. perhaps that i'll do well to bet on the heat to win after all cos i'd bumped into 3 men and 2 women over this period making up 5 and that's the number of playing players; and one of them i'd met eating shark's fin and the chinese commentators dub shaq 'shark'; and another i'd ran into queuing up at a betting centre and that's where you go when you uh want to place bets; and another had worn black that's the colour of the heat's home strip; and another was called stan and that's the name of the more successful van gundy; and this i met looked like she was in heat.

yoda banana earlobe.

it's franz after all, not strokes. sorry.

they just can't seem to air anything but star wars shit nowadays. and that is literal when it comes to public transport screenings. they buy two (was gonna write "2" but it looked strange next to "20") 20-second short clips and sadly, mistakenly or otherwise, they're both star wars trailers. with the same jumbled up flashes of pivotal scenes which are powerful narrative tools that move the movie decidedly forward like darth vader saying "the" and that of yoda with his head in mid-turn while attempting to address god-knows-who cos of the operation of the 180-degree rule at that particular point in the movie; only they're put in different orders. so if you're stuck on a bus from its fucking start of its route all the way to its fucking end cos you need to do stuff that you're not even meant to do at fucking 7am on a fucking sunday morning, with an mp3 player with a battery as dead as, dead; you're stuck on a jerking mass of discomfort and having to hear "the" being repeated in the same infuriating rasp for what distinguished mathematicians the world over, after careful calculations with powerful computers, will be moved to term, 'many times'; 2 and 16 seconds apart.

i'm still undecided as to whether the awkward factor is worse when i'm meant to talk to strange new people or when i'm hit by a blast from the past that makes it inappropriate to flee but not quite enough to have anything substantial to say to to escape from setting the record for the number of akward silences per conversation minute. the tension gets so thick that you can't slice it with a knife but if you throw a banana at it it'll stick. cos i'm a peace-banana-loving awkwardness generator.

perhaps parents should think twice about sending their kids off to learn dancing just cos they satisfy the requirements as set by the dictates of the gender stereotype. this here girl was literally dragged on and offstage by her compatriots, and those were the only instances of her synchronising her movements with her troupmates, getting at least her general direction right. cos the rest of her time was spent on total concentration on her left earlobe, as she first tugged it with her left hand, then the right, then the other way around with her right, and then things got really bizarre when she progressed contact with said earlobe to her bellybutton.

well ok she didn't. but she was just standing there the whole time with a constant spooky glassy stare into the middle distance. i should've thrown a banana at her.

lord of the dance.

i'm not making this up. thank you dave barry. still.

how is it that shit piles up to hit the wildly whirling fan everytime the occupation finds a reprieve? ain't the truth of the world that it's always better on holidays, so much better on holidays; that's why we only work when we need the money? but the truth about the world is that crime does pay. the guns n' roses offspring is strokes-ed. i think no one will know the first, soe, who refuses to read this, will know the second, and minghai may well know the last. then again it isn't so hard a situation to imagine. considering how little (of my) time the grinder takes up during its periods of supremacy.

what's in a dance? it may very well be graceful endeavors cumulating in the resolution of some thematic concern or other, technical manoeuvres with a mind to deliver some sort of a social critique, exercises of the physical variety acting as a complex narrative tool, and the list goes on. it can, however, sadly, also serve as an outlet to spasmodic twitchings in accordance with those struck with the combined afflictions of the pavlovian and the sufferer of the dreaded psycho-motor deficiency syndrome. the result is fearful-looking combinations of sporadic gyrations of various body parts in accordance with a secret polyrhythmic beat only grasped by masters of percussions the world over with regards to the latter, and the uncontrollable emission of bodily fluids from every conceivable gland in adherence to the former. so it is that this here hypothetical gentleman will display never known possible contortions of his body with his tongue hanging limply from the side of his maw. it is an education in the human anatomy (or perhaps just this particular man's) as one discovers the endless possibilities of the human body, including turning your knees to the left while twisting your shoulders to the right while jerking your hips to the left while throwing your right arm to the left while thrusting your left hand upwards while attempting to break your neck throwing your head forcibly forward ALL AT ONCE. it's still all hypothetical though. purely hypothetical.

oh how i love dance. and, of course, how my hypothetical gentleman must love it too. and maybe when push comes to shove i may even love him more. perhaps if he did it with better control of his jaw muscles he'll actually look the epitome of technique and proficiency and give rise to a new art form. flatley who, indeed.

when 2 become 1.

... but it's to be said that the most over-rated of all and sundry has got to be electronics salespeople. you know, them self-important, pompous motherfuckers who always seem to be absorbed in the most fascinating subject of the universe: tom. if the absorb-ee happens to be called tom, that is. i mean, they're always positively swarming you when you will have nothing to do with them. while never being around to help when you really do need them, just standing behind their counters and smiling to themselves at how small their dicks are, waiting for fumbling you to fuck up and damage something in the process of examining it whilst not knowing that every single gadget in the store has a self-destruct button which happens to be the most ostentatious and sensitive one, the triggering of which by even a brush of your shirt sleeve will create a psychic boom which will be all that's needed to galvanise all uniformed personnel within a 3-mile radius into action, setting them sprinting to you and pressing that object and one of the 23,000 cards on the shelves bearing the reminder saying 'whatever you fuck up is yours, you motherfucking piece of crud' in your face. perhaps the guiding deity of the occupation is edward a. murphy.

so i bought 2 expensive mp3 players in the span of 3 days. on the first day, i'd gone to the store in hopes of getting a replacement for my md player which is all but considered a fossil by most of the human population today. and was promptly reminded of the fact that they're defunct. so i was faced with 2 choices: return home empty-handed and endure another music-less weekend, or get player of another nature there and then knowing bugger-all about anything other than the gadget equivalent of making fire with rocks. but of course, as they say, 'music soothes even the savage beast'. or should i say 'only music can soothe the savagery and stop all the carnage delivered by the psychotic beast oh please help stop him'. and as far as my savage meter is concerned it's positively reaching the extreme that screams 'fuck'. so i thought, what the hey, let's hear what this flaming homosexual of a mat has to say. so he proceeds to inform me, informatively, that what i absolutely need in my life to set it all straight and get me a good job and ensuring a thriving sex life, among other things; is a player that has 5 MEGABYTES of space. so i tried politely to correct him by speaking about 5 GIGABYTES but he corrects me. until he starts whipping out the products and reads off them acting like he's been saying GIGABYTES all his miserable fucking (literally) life.

needless to say, the one he badgered me to get was positively fucked up, after i'd gotten home and fiddled with it and done research on it on the second day. so i went back to the store on the third day and begged for an exchange. with my sob story down pat and all. so i rattled it all off to the selfsame member of the 'brotherhood of the purple underpants', starting from how my gramma'd been struck by a mysterious ailment, about how my future wife'd been struck by a mysterious ailment, about how the rest of the world'd been struck by a mysterious ailment; and that the only one thing left to do to prevent armageddon was to take the fucked up piece of scrap metal back and grant me another superior one. the man listened, got totally confused by my second word, but still had his last riposte - "but it's used," he declares triumphantly. oh no oh fuck i'd forgotten to take this into consideration. so i had to cook up some more details about how the use of that thing would interfere with the proper working of the gps systems the world over and lead to catastrophic pandemonium, and the only thing left to do was to force it off me however much we both loathed things to be thus.

he finally agreed. and asserts that he was doing me a favour mumbling on and on about how i'd used that piece of fuck. after informing me that i'd gotten 8 songs on it. i don't know what happened to the other 242 i was scrolling through on my way there. but i wasn't about to argue. i mean, hey, he's the one who's making a living knowing such things, and i was but an md player-loser-user. and cos i really didn't fancy a visit by the security guard who first eyeballed me and then flashed me a smile on my way into the store looking all ready to give me a grease down and a shiatsu.

and the crowd goes wild.

(have you ever been to) electric ladyland.

paint is overrated. people make too much out of what colour can do to one's life and how it can reflect one's mood and personality and whatnot. surely another arbitrarily-determined indicator, who's to say what yellow signifies or denotes? and it's all fucking relative anyway, or does anyone not know the age-old debate regarding the my-green-your-green-fuck-you-and-your-green business. so bollocks to the colour wheel and what-have-you's; blue and orange do not clash; an over-ripe daffodil doesn't look wrong on water.

on the other hand, it still does constitute a mortal sin if you wear a red jacket over a green shirt, and backed up by orange pants and blue mules. with white socks. those that show cos the trousers aren't long enough for the leggings to reach the tops of the wearer's shoes.

technology is overrated. everyone keeps thinking to keep up with the times in the chase to be 'the king of electronic gadgets'. or, failing that, then at least 'the baron of tiny flashing blue lights'. hence the constant yearning for larger storage capacity in one's music playing machine.

albert: i've got the latest mp3 player! it has 8gb of free space! i just got it 3 minutes ago!

bob: big fucking deal. i got the one they released 3.96 nanoseconds after you left the shop. mine has 8.012gb.

albert (hangs his head in shame): you are the king; i bow down to your superiority, and will presently hurl my obsolete, primitive dingdong into the dustbin.

(bob is not listening cos he's busy paying homage to his new king as well, losing all bowel control and reduced to a slobbering dribbler of saliva as charlie sashays past, the superior size of his balls for all to see, what with his new-fangled paper clip-sized machine proudly - for all it's 3-second-novelty life span's worth - adorning what's known in the appropriate circles as a "gadget-corset".)

to all ye fucking sahibs.

yeah the preceding entry looks fucked up and is confusing, to say the least. well i lifted it straight off my last friendster entry, that's why. for old times' sake. and cos i wasn't bothered enough for 2 separate postings. but then again this will count as one separate one to correct that perceived confusion. no matter. so to clarify things, yes this is THE ONE. can't be closing this down now; i haven't even started! that was for friendster. as in the last paragraph of the last entry. fuck i think i've successfully confounded myself as well.

5 great ways to feel fucked up:

1) watch television. any channel.
2) have rainwater splashed on you by every single vehicle that passes by a cheebye narrow road divider.
3) brave the weather just to reach your destination and witness the abatement of rain of any intensity 2.5 minutes after.
4) stand next to a bigot and have him coo the words 'why are all the electrical engineering lecturers indian? cos they need the lights hurhurhur.' right in your ear.
5) attempting to sleep in a room with a NABEI CHEEBYE FUCKING FUCK FUCK BITCH CUNT damaged hi-fi.

how many agaetis byrjuns does one man need.

due to overwhelming pressure from the people who aren't my 'friends' cos they refuse to bow down to the friendster machine i've decided to transfer the whole of this thing elsewhere. cos if anyone should comment it's these people. so here you go, my motherfuckers! here's my new abode:

http://i-am-zen.blogspot.com/

to paraphrase the great rock band, 'here's to all of you who've stucked with us through all the fucking shit. and to all those opposed... hmm, well, hahaha.' now to cross my fingers and hope the friendster people don't read this and send me death threats for having defected. the new one looks inferior, though i can't believe i'm praising something like friendster for design-related stuff. a tad too bright and cheery. and i'll have to say lime green and baby blue really doesn't become of me. oh well. whatever for my motherfuckers that's how much i love you ahahaha. and to further stress the point on how much i love you, i'll have you know that it was a fucking painstaking process that i got all the posts AND comments over. had to make the comments myself giving me fake names. now the posts are no sweat but the i can't toggle the date and time setting for the comments. so as it stands blogspot received 21 comments all sent to the same suddenly immensely popular blog within an hour. but it's alright. cos i love all of you. oh how i love you. oh yes i love you. OH YES OH HOW I FUCKING LOVE ALL OF YOU MOTHERFUCKING SONS OF BITCHES.

during term time they spend their daytime hiding in grottoes and living off sewage fungi and algae. occasionally they slink out into the daylight to get at fresh rainwater dripping off the nearest drain. when night falls they creep right out and engage in the sale of useless trinklets in the red light district or the hawking of dubious-looking sausages in other similarly seedy parts of town. their name is legion and they are many.

i mean, where the fuck do people who do in-between-semesters studies escape to during normal termtime? the whole school is absolutely seething with them now that we're gone.

so i guess this is the last entry being made to this here thing. direct your attention and comments to the new place now will you. or am i only talking to julia again. hahaha (the laughter can be either mirthful or bitter depending on how things turn out).

my statue of liberty mug.

delirium reaches new heights, and what's fucked up is that it's all occurring after the supposed emotional and psychological drain-machine that is the pitting of individuals against one another against a relative scale that does nothing but create unnecessary anxiety, disillusionment, farting and suicide attempts via suffocation by body odour. yes some people actually believe that once you crest the 3-day peak you become a demi-god in the realm of personal hygiene in that you transcend it and ascend to a superior plane of existence and you no longer need the vulgar touch of moisture of any sort to ever taint even an inch of your skin no more. it's uncanny and totally coincidental, but somehow the corner that don't half pong always seems to enamate from that harbouring the chink chinks.

anyways yes my delirium. oh, so it's all about me now, huh! just felt like getting that on the screen. so i was doing proper work thinking up captions for movies for cable, long past their having been shown on cable. i guess at some point, perhaps during deliberation about which is the most diplomatic point of insertion of my trademark 'motherfucking son of a mangy bitch' (but i suppose that was never gonna sit too well with sensitive parenting couch potatoes. maybe if i changed 'son' to a relatively harmless 'offspring'); something snapped and i was told the next morning that i had left my mug out on the table the entire night.

and the remote control submerged in the washbasin.

getting to understand anew why i did what i did back in the fucked up days of wearing ugly collars. or maybe it's just the sort of people that i'm getting re-acquainted with that's making me think and say all this. but i'll like to think that i really enjoyed the activity then, as i think i am now. it's a sort of a release in a really warped way, a kind of a supplement to the more direct form of reprieve i've engaged in for the past 13 years. besides, it's gonna take up substantial amounts of time so perhaps i'll have a much easier break this time round.

now everyone can't watch tv cos nobody has the suitably-trained muscular ability to switch channels manually by pressing the buttons on the little box. darwin will be heeded. maybe that's how the world will end. perhaps god will send an angel down to confiscate all exisitng remote controls and everyone will die of seizures as a result of over-exposure to cnn news. the lucky ones will die of bad vibes from soap re-runs.

inflate your scrotum today because it's fun.

a moth died on my crotch today.

i don't think the poor bugger smashed its brains out plunging headlong into where the sun or moon or whatever other sort of luminescence have you don't shine, but that my and my groin's being there were merely conincidental. perhaps i just happened to be there when the end of the dragon's final flight across the waves reached fruition. cos it's not as if my nether regions harboured the rod in its flaming, undulated glowing state; i was watching basketball at that time, after all. and doesn't the object of everyone's desire in that context resemble an inflated scrotum of a member of the elephantiasis 'r' us club.

speaking of ball games. it's fucked up how the games, when pushed for their complete descriptions, simply sound anything from absurd to ludicrous. look, let's take basketball. 5 black motherfuckers toss an inflated scrotum amongst themselves. suddenly 5 other motherfuckers, this time pasty whites, get into the fray and the tossing takes place among all 10. the pasties can toss the scrotum from afar into a hole almost as small as their 'ball' with a decent degree of accuracy, but the negroes caught on the hole business and, ruminating on the sheer inefficiency of it all, decide to just shorten the tossing distance to virtually nothing by merely dropping the ball into the hole. they fall to arguing and pushing among themselves and someone wearing a ridiculous striped shirt, standing nearby, barred from the game cos of bad looks, acts like he's the king of the world and proclaims, due to bigotry, the blacks winners. of course he gets creamed but the black motherfuckers like what they hear and they successfully intimidate the whites with the superior size of their chests and by accusing them of being exploitative communists. the mediator takes the flare out of his left ear and we have basketball. expand both the hole and the number of rednecks with lots more running leading to lots more foam escaping said rednecks' mouths, double the referee's bad looks, top it off with a perverse prejudice against hands, and voila! - hockey (ok ok so it's football).

and people actually get paid for moving balls around! fuckloads, in fact! tell anyone you wanna engage in the highly technical job of a cake decorator (this actually is meant to be the ideal job for me when i took some psychology test back in uniformed school. you know, the kind that describes in detail who you are, the level of your sensitivity, what time you go to bed, your masturbation frequency, etc., all in, like, 3 questions pertaining directly to neither of the above information) and you'll get laughed out of town. but inform your parents of your uncontrollable urges to apply your boot liberally to spheroids and you'll probably get tears of pride.

i played football today.

chink chick chuck chonk.

back. after 2 weeks or so of exams and their related preparations (of sorts) have prevented constructive input of any kind at the end of the days. ok it's not like what's being recorded here is anything substantial to begin with. and this isn't an apology. just an explanation. perhaps to no one. maybe nobody reads this but julia. no matter. i'm totally fine with it being an explanation by me to me, in accordance at least with aristotelian catharsis.

the library on holidays abounds with strange people with their origins rooted in an existential plane totally divorced from the weekday public's. for starters there're fathers with sons. well it's not the case that they're not to be allowed in my point of view but it gets somewhat distracting when you're a hair's breadth away (pardon the pun) from pulling out every single strand of your hair attempting to work out the calculations surrounding einstein's twin paradox while your neighbour is equally hard at work with his 7 times table.

turning the other way, we have, at the adjacent table, not a-decade-premature, aspiring entrants into the campus; but individuals who've obviously eaten perhaps 2 more barrels of the proverbial salt. by that i mean those stuck in the awkward years between those claimed by lecturers and that characteristic of those pursuing further studies. well perhaps age isn't what's most apparent about the group. i mean, they're not just middle aged, but they look very much like your run of the mill middle aged men who spend whole days either reading newspapers and drinking beers in coffeeshops of the chink variety, or reading newspapers and drinking beers in gambling dens of the illegal variety. the disconcertment heightens as they discuss complex physics equations complete with calculations filled with differentiation and integration signs ad infinitum. in hokkien.

now it's been argued by some that chink dialects constitute inferior languages on account of their lack of sophisticated terminology pertaining to chemistry and physics and what have you. today these "some"'s eat their socks and do the chicken dance and sing the fries song in hokkien. in the first place it should be clear that fixation of terminology is but arbitrary, and intonation and articulation superiority just seems an absurd supporting argument.

i end here cos i've lost my line of thought completely. i think i was on the phone for the longest time in my life. there goes my brain. i mean radiation. if that be true in the first place. then again it's already fried anyway by my use and abuse.