the filipino s.w.a.t. team.

Let me tell you about my costume. Imagine what I say in the remaining of this paragraph just so that you can visualize it all. You know the beautiful costumes that dancers you see wear? You know, those you see on the television when you’ve got fuck all to do with your time/life. In particular, I’m sure you’ve seen them sleek, hip, uppity-up ding dong-ing spiffy black numbers that allows for both freedom of one’s limbs in their totality and are pretty much the epitome of design and chic worthy of compensating for global fashion disasters such that the fashion police becomes extinct for the next 3 centuries.

Got that all in your head? Well our costume is not like this. At fucking all. So whatever you have in your head now, take note not to include even a passing suggestion of it in trying to conjure up an image of our costume in your mind.

The garment, when viewed under pure, undulating white light, finds its place, with regards to hue classification on the 4096 colour wheel preferred by graphic designers the world over; under the nomenclature “Fugly”. And its woeful fuck-up in the size department. Hell knows what manner of demographics were consulted – what, trolls with 1-foot torsos, 5-foot legs, size 20 chests and size 36 waists? Or a close enough measure of ‘thereabouts’, anyway.

But excitement mounts in Sashayville as the respective ‘everyone’ anxiously prepares, in all anxiety (sorry I don’t know anymore forms of ‘anxious’), to parade the distinct poverty in the cloth department with regards to that which stands as each and every individual’s Helm’s Deep to modesty. Of course this isn’t done without some measure of subterfuge. There’s the usual bitching directed at them poor tailors who’ve already been condemned to burn in hell by the grand-sugar-daddy of words, the Bard himself; but you’ll need light-sensitive shades (preferably those with cardboard for lenses) in order for you to miss the multitudinous glints of gratitude in them peepers in response to yet another chance outside of only their everyday fashion escapades to flaunt what they don’t have but are under multiple layers of realistic, life-like illusions that they possess in excess.

And so, what do you have but a group that looks as disjointed as Houdini should every time he does that frightful thing with the box and the water and the semi-clad nymphet from Arabia in the toilet 2 doors down Sunset Strip. I mean, we look like crack members of the S.W.A.T. team who’s invaded a troop of Filipino maids and in the midst of the confusion, due to the theory in accordance with the Transambulation of Pseudo-Cosmic Anti-Matter, has resulted in the whole bunch of us (I mean the crack troops and the servants) performing miraculously coordinated spasmodic twitching to bad music, a poor audience and an even worse organization.

my forehand sucks.

Kept away once again, this time out of necessity as frolicking and façade-painting comes into the foreground in the exciting world of Beng Chang’s Neurosis. And so another one is past, with nothing to show for it except the multiple layers of sun burnt skin and the inane need to bury my head in my chest when school reopens soon enough. Not to mention the characteristic immense low as the effort taken to shake off the desire to talk to people who don’t even exist in your once again echo-inducing empty world gets a tad obvious and overwhelming. But of course it’s a self-remedying thing, this. As opposed to once again the strange phenomenon that is that people just can’t stand hearing that I’m single or something hah.

You can see why rednecks’ll rather engage in tennis than badminton. The former calls for none of the sissy finesse that the latter requires, instead banking on the satisfying outlet of brute unbridled force. And of course there’s the sun factor. It just doesn’t feel like proper masculine sport when you perspire and it’s not due to the sun. I mean, I think it falls in the same category as sleeping without the fan on, chess in a poorly ventilated room, reading with my still @$#$#%$ windless fan, and fencing. Of course, the above list is to be severely criticized for being totally unfair to one of the activities. I mean, hey, chess is an Olympic sport! Or is it some other similarly huge motherfucking time and money leeching event. I know it’s a registered sport cos I read about it in one of them Bookworm Digests once.

So we played tennis today. Or, rather, made a valiant effort at doing so. Then again valiance counts for fuck all at the end of the day. The knight can be miles away from saving the damsel in fuckloads of distress when his horse steps on his toe and decides to call it quits, or he can very well be a knot shy of undoing the woman’s bonds when he gets mowed down from behind courtesy of a mixture of bad breath and spittle as emitted by the dragon (I can’t ever go with the fairy tale notion of fire-spouting creatures); what matters is the result otherwise known as ‘failure’ – effort counts for naught at all.

So yes, we had our racquets and balls (they do so resemble parts of the Grinch’s anatomy don’t you think), and appropriately togged out in our shorts, foolish smiles and the permits which we don’t have cos it’s just fucking dumb to go spend even a sliver of effort booking the courts when the percentage of the world’s population playing tennis on a bright sunny holiday weekday morning in school is zero. Ok not really zero. Cos our morning was spent losing balls and hitting purposeful ones to adjacent courts where proper players went at each other just so that we can annoy them and steal their balls when they’re not looking.

If you haven't already noticed I've let this read better in accordance to Leonard's suggestion regarding punctuation. Then again it may count for nothing as well cos perhaps no one reads this anymore. Oh well. As always, for everything with me, for the sake of, then.