if only it were one-in-ten.

There’s never anything to show for it. Whichever event ‘it’ happens to be. Of course, in the most superficial sense, anything makes a showing. I mean, one’s participation in any activity presupposes a registration in the relevant – if not spatial, then at least temporal – frame in which said activity’s being performed. Unless of course you’re evaluating instantaneous or concurrent events. Examples of instantaneous events are few and far between, but aren’t really difficult to pinpoint, such as Chuck Norris’s roundhouse kicks and Chuck Norris’s sidekicks. Other examples include Chuck Norris’s front kick and Chuck Norris’s left jab. The examples, of course, stand in the midst of bitter debates; skeptics question the temporal dimensions of punches. It is ridiculous, they argue, that the time taken for Chuck Norris’s fist to leave his side to come into contact with one’s jaw can actually be zero. This is a preposterous suggestion! Because one’s arms must be faster than one’s feet, Chuck Norris’s punch should actually register a negative value on the temporal scale. These selfsame skeptics, of late, seem to be gaining new ground following testimonies from his previous punch-ees that they actually feel the pain before Chuck Norris has even decided to punch them.

Concurrent events, however, seem to be really problematic. This is because any event can be seen to be concurrent with any other, and there is no evidence to really show that one’s in session overlapping the other at the same time. For example, if you’re stuck on a highway rush hour jam, and you see an adult male digging his nose in his static car, you’ll think that, on top of his digging his nose, he’s actually… doing absolutely nothing else! He’s just digging his nose! Cos we all know that when men dig their noses it’s a full time commitment, unlike pffft-y jobbies such as mechanical engineering, sociology, humanitarian outreaches, and marriage (pffft). But the point here is that we could imagine the impossible and construct imagined paradoxes in the vein of existing square circles, and propose that this adult male is actually, as he’s engaged in nasal sewerage maintenance; locked in a fatal crossing of psychological swords concerning the intricacies of the metaphysical conundrums and repercussions of Bertrand Russell’s struggle with denoting phrases, with regards to application in the field of whipped-cream-atop-blackforest-sponge-cake manoeuvres, or possibly perhaps just in relation to the exciting and intricate art of nose digging itself.

Seriously though, I’m not talking about this sort of events, nor indeed of such a myopic use of the term ‘to show for it’ itself. And so went yet another, but with nothing changed to the ontology of real life as will reveal itself come the start of the grind anew. Sometimes I suppose one may get optimistic once in a while, for no reason at all, and actually go to work on something, only to realize (that one has been realizing all along as well, but this is not the important or featured realization; concurrent, maybe? Hah probably lucid) that change is impossible a la Parmenides.

And also - so, here’s to you, Lucas, to echo Padme: so this is how liberty dies... with thunderous applause. From the what, 5 of us? And I will be that one sipping coffee at the tables which seat, only hypothetically, in this current case of course; fours.

It's been 3 months. To a good measure of 'thereabouts', anyway.

be psychic and drive.

I think it’s been more than scientifically proven that looks can’t really kill. Of course there’s the attempt in ’98 by one “Marcus”, who stared at his wife “Melissa” (the names have been enclosed in quotation marks to protect the actual characters of this episode, Marcus Whittaker and Melissa Shoemaker; because it will make it more of a bitch to type which should stop me from repeating the feat often) for 8 long months non-stop, after being advised to ‘try everything in your power’ by his attorney in the midst of a bitter custody suit on grounds of irreconcilable differences, most important of all being her ‘refusing to keep the toilet seat up’.

And of course there was “Cyclops-to-himself,-fucking-half-wit-git-to-others” “Morrison”, who convinced himself (and perhaps his imaginary friend “Moosie”, though this latter was ultimately non-committal in his exclusive exposé conducted afterwards) that he was instrumental in the deaths of the hundreds of individuals who passed his office portal and his supposed ‘phased-plasma rifle in the forty watt range’-equivalent bionic peepers. When it was pointed out to him that he worked in a fucking morgue, and so people who were rolled into his parlour were already dead before they passed his eyes, he protested to his straitjacket-bearing custodians that they were being myopic and irrelevant. Why were they, he mused, concerned with what happened before they encountered him? What’s important is that them victims were terminally knackered after he’d laid his eyes on them.

However, these examples aside, what looks can do, in our sophisticated time and age with our breakthroughs in the fields of science, technology and pastry decoration, is to stop automobiles. Just the other day I was witness to such a phenomenon. And so here was a matron sitting next to me in this bus shelter, and along comes a bus which she was presumably waiting for, for she muttered to herself and unfolded to her full height at the vehicle’s advance. Then, with the sheer force of her willpower and megawatt squint alone, brought to bear on the poor semi-visible driver who surely would’ve been admonished following the resulting complaint letter had he been less alert, the fate suffered by many others before him thus far; she brought the bus to a shrieking halt. She then sashays up the pin-point-accurately-stopped automobile as if precision braking was owed her, and indignantly waltzed to a seat without paying the fare, pinching the bus driver’s butt for the token sexual harassment to heighten his discomfort in his seat, his job, his mortgage of doom, his oppressive wife, all in all, his miserable life; along the way.

I suppose sticking a hand out for public transport is considered passé these days. In fact, taxi drivers nowadays operate by intuition alone, instinct telling them that people who DON’T establish eye contact with them are the ones who need their services the most. I mean, they find you the best when you're skulking and/or making out in an alleyway, than if you were right out on the curb dislocating your shoulder flailing your hand every way about. I can just see it now: the day will come when public transport service providers will feel slighted and refuse to stop for people who wave earnestly at them, and you’ll have to pointedly ignore them in order for you to get them to stop. It’ll be a prerequisite for bus and taxi drivers to possess psychic abilities, and the public transport dance will see them drivers forcibly dragging screaming, protesting, flailing, but satisfied; passengers into their respective vehicles.

happy birthday to you.

In an unprecedented move, I’ve decided not to talk about sex today. Ok perhaps not really unprecedented in the strictest sense, but I do remember writing about sex for my last 2 postings and I can’t really remember anything before that (except perhaps more sex) and I’m not bothered enough to check if it’s a serious tendency problem. I’m not sure I should be, considering how my brother tells me men think about sex for a third of their waking hours. Howls of chagrin and indignation ensue of course – ‘How can this be true when we also, as an empirical fact, think about soccer/basketball/cricket/the art of tutu manufacture for three quarters of our lives?’ and ‘This is impossible! We think of sex more than half the time!’ – but, fuck! I’m not gonna talk about sex. So there.

What’s in a date? Why do people find it necessary to attach importance to what seems to me to be a purely arbitrary system of ordering our lives? For that matter why do we let that order our lives in the first place? And I don’t mean ‘date’ as in that which is a prelude to sex, because I’m not gonna talk about it. I mean ‘date’ as in that of the ‘today’s Universal Lose Your Virginity Day, otherwise known as Valentine’s Day’ variety. As far as I can see, and as far as anyone should but don’t see for the obvious reason that no one in the right mind ever does think of, and should ever think of; dates under such a critical light as if it’s a nail-biting conclusion to some cliffhanger of an Armageddon-inducing make-or-break all-or-nothing ice-cream (well this constitutes the first contact with a hyphen for me, so) dilemma faced by the masses a la questions such as ‘is blue the new pink this season?’

No, really, I’m making a point. I think. What’re dates but certain configurations of the earth and the moon and/or the sun (depending on whether you’re a poster boy for the lunar and/or solar calendar)? Or, of course, some may argue they’re actually demarcations between the blinkings of a divine eye or something. Me, I can’t ever get with this notion of dates for sure. I mean, how romantic is it when you exclaim to your girlfriend, ‘Hey honey-bunny (I’m sorry Tarantino occupies a place in my heart), happy 2400493024^th blink of Great A’Tuin’s (I’m sorry for the Pratchett reference here as well) right peeper!’ In any case, even the more conventional calendars fail to tell me why it is that the positions of the sun and/or moon can confer magical powers such as sexual tension on this thing they call ‘days’. I mean, why’re numbers like 365.25 (the absurdity, as you can see, multiplies once you take technicalities to their logical conclusion) more important than any other number, so much so that we go out of our way to make fools of ourselves by pretending to be social and civil when we’re never gonna achieve sufficient merit for both; every such period? How’re numbers or, if you wanna stretch it the astrological way, magnetic fields; relevant to this tomfoolery?

Perhaps celebrations should just be that – celebrations. With the relevant factors being those which are being celebrated of course. And it does no good to just say ‘my day’. It’s just fallaciously question-begging. Relevance here will therefore be milestones confined to that individual who’s on the receiving end (I prefer to use the term ‘victim’) of attention and fawning over. Or, as it happens on a more frequent basis, that of wedgies and unfastened bra clasps depending on your gender and/or undergarment preferences. Milestones in this case will mean, of course, expected things which creep up on you when they happen, such as the Instance of Growing My First Whisker and the First Occurrence of the Pimple; as well as totally unexpected events such as What in Fuck’s Name Just Happened THERE?! and Why the Fuck am I Bleeding Here?!!

Fuck dates. Ok ok perhaps only thrice a year. And I’m still not talking about sex, whether you amorously gravitate towards fellow human beings or a type of fruit.

the metaphysics of spandex.

An age-old puzzle/paradox/conundrum/[insert your choice of technical term with which to coax sociologists into bed (with you of course, though some will prefer watching them sociologists having at each other and keeping both and either at safe distances such as buried 20,000 leagues under the sea together with George Foreman in berserk mode with an endless supply of oxygen and a steady diet of asparagus designed to sustain said mode; but I can’t see how anything you say will ever be sufficient for anyone to fuck another person other than you – as it is it’s difficult enough getting yourself shags with only your mouth sans that classified as unnatural to the law and goddamned heavenly to the majority of the human population) here] has been plaguing the definitive personifications of the epitome of knowledge, the extreme gurus of the marriage between epistemology and ontology, the sultans of swing, the piper at the gates of dawn, the master blaster of the plaster duster, etc.:

What’s the metaphysical constitution of reality as we know it and what’re some of the implications of any of the attempted answers to this question with regards to existentialism?

Ok my apologies to current victims of eyeball-rolling and escapement of bodily fluids in foam form from the orifice due to overexposure to, as it is, my day-to-day dealings of shit like that. What the REAL puzzle is:

Why do men look fucked up in spandex and sand together?

I mean, you do gawk (and of course you do more than gawk if you’re camped with the ‘Testosterone ‘R Us’ club) when women don (barely a technically-correct term, considering what little there is, ontologically, on the part of the don-nee) their bathing suits and strut around in the sand, but you do, at the same time, find something inherently wrong with someone stripped down to something the size and shape of panties similarly stepping about on the beach. Is it the legs? The asses? The incredibly long hair sheathing them legs affording a year-round impregnable fortress against ultra-violet rays?

So we can imagine women with said hair, and clean-shaved men (this latter image is more unsettling and will probably fail probability tests and refer to a null set, but for the sake of the argument let’s all be fair and assume its plausibility by imagining it as some sort of a thought experiment), but the problem still exists. The obvious candidate at this point will be the bulge. But what if you’ve got someone who’s victim to a freak accident involving 2 grapes and a half-nibbled banana and the part of the anatomy frequently referred to as 'where the sun doesn’t shine'; who’s also otherwise America’s Next Top Model? Ok bad example about the model; I mean, have you seen the competitors that one’s churning out? But you know what I mean. I conclude by copping out as usual: non-natural properties. That’s as close to a ‘I-have-no-idea-whatsoever-and-I-don’t-really-give-a-flying-fuck’ line of answer if there ever was one. And if only Desmond read this. Hah. He’ll be turning over his proverbial grave, if he even had one in the first place. As it is he won’t forgive me and my smugness for Nagarjuna for years yet, I’ll imagine.

On a totally unrelated note, it seems like shit is approaching critical mass again. And so the cycle starts anew, right on cue, as if operating on clockwork.

I hope I miss the ringing and oversleep.

if there's a poisoned fear, a wasted year, a man must learn to cope; if his obsession's real, the suppression that he feels must turn to hope.

I have arrived. Petrucci and his hair in the flesh. Myung’s calculated tapping to what I suspected was a blatant inclusion of that part from Metropolis. Rudess’s fingers whenever they do that 4-man-in-unison thingy. Portnoy banging the sides of his head with his hands in time to his abuse of the skins and crashes. And uh Labrie throwing his larger-than-life ass about whilst prancing around the stage in leather pants which have seen better days serving a somewhat more robust derriere. Okay I’ll admit I don’t really agree with the group’s direction in the frontman department but hey you’ve gotta admit that it works. ‘You’ meaning all the die-hard fans out there of course. And how fucked up they must have felt. ‘They’ referring to the band members. After years upon years of flirting with the ‘you’s, what with cancelled concerts and igniting petitions and all that, ‘they’’d have thought that the online signatories should’ve amounted to more with regards to the piteous state of ticket sales which ‘they’ described modestly as ‘They’re selling well’. Uh. ‘They’ in the immediately above case referring to them tickets. Shit it’s gonna go fucked up really soon if I keep this up.

That aside, there’s something innately weird when you consider the fact that you’ve got maestros doing their thing both on and off stage, and that as a result of that, the people you have downstage should be maestro-wannabes; and the parallel fact that instead of aspiring shredders and double-pedal-ers you get psycho-motor-deficiency-sufferers jerking spasmodically to perfect Portnoy beats. Okay perhaps a possible dodgy mitigation is that that’s their take on moshing techniques, but there’s no excuse when you get to the obligatory waving-in-supposed-unison numbers. I mean, there Labrie is (still in his ridiculous excuse for pants), showing everyone how it’s done with exaggerated clapping motions; and here my neighbours are, suggesting to me that they’re just as surprised as I am concerning the orientation of their arms with respect to the rest of their bodily organs, and the music (read: none whatsoever). And there again you get people seemingly nodding to the music, but on closer scrutiny you realize that they’re only there in the physical sense; their souls have ascended and they’re really nodding to the secret beat of the Tabezo drums of the metaphysical rock group by the name of Epiphenomenal Qualia playing the intricate melody of the Gulugulu Heavenly Tribe.

But they played Pull Me Under. I mean ‘they’, not Epiphenomenal Qualia or the Gulugulu Heavenly Tribe. To the delight of the dude behind me who kept up an hour-long nasal whine/scream/yelp/battle cry/orgasmic yodel which probably traversed the length of the concert hall and resonated with the perpetual feedback and drove Labrie insane enough. That and perhaps the uncomfortable hunk of leather which kept on riding up his impossible butt crack. I mean his annoyance. Ok bad running joke, bad pun on the song name. At least I’m writing?

Alright probably no mitigation.

crouching tiger, hidden spudmeister.

I think my fellow countrymen are worthy of praise and adjectives of the glowing variety, such as ‘industrious’, ‘efficient’ and ‘homosexual’. Ok perhaps the last one is a blatant case of equivocation, but that doesn’t mean it’s not false. Alright and maybe I’m being a bit too hard on that son of a bitch doing the classic false appeal to authority shit in class. You know, the kind who will go ‘Ma’am, can you give a short discourse regarding the dynamic undertow of the philosophical tensions belying the subject-object anti-pseudo transperambulatory materialism behind “Standing Tiger/Crouching Dragon”, which I read about in a book?’ in film class, to the consternation and burning interest of the spinster stuffy matriarch of a lecturer who spends her weekends with heated bananas and who has a thing with larger shower heads. Uh. In case you didn’t know “Standing Tiger/Crouching Dragon” is the name of an oft-neglected, yet effective orgasm (sexual, just in case some other flaming homosexual’ll like to describe his movie-going experiences in language best left to copulators) generator as detailed in the newest version of the Kama Sutra complete with new, snazzy (or so they think; I mean, “Randy Recliner”?) names for positions and what they call a Carnal Rating column which, following a layman translation, rates the amount of bones both parties will snap in attempting to derive pleasure.

Anyway, on to the industrial and efficient bit, which, disappointingly to anyone, or possible anyones, reading this; has got fuck-all to do with sex. Well. Then again I don’t suppose it’s over and above anyone thinking about sex with whatever material he has to work with: words, washing machines, curtains, what have you. I mean, not obviously, in the mundane sense of the word. My concession for off-track thinking has gained new ground I see. Anyway, so there was this boy (fuck you paedophiles who’re already starting now) who was attempting to sleep and drink at the same time on a bus ride. And what does he do but fail miserably in all 3. When the bus jolted, bringing his cranium into terminal contact with the part of the anatomy most highlighted in “Wanton Wheelbarrow” of his neighbour, at the same time generously dispensing his Slurpee down the breast pocket of said beneficiary of this event, had the latter been in the mindset most suited for “Surreptitious Slurpin’ ‘n Spankin’ Spudmeister ”, which, in this case, he was not. Which was a right shame.

And so I’ve covered man’s basic needs in this short passage: food, drink, sex and shelter. Of course, we have the glaring omissions which are regretted for now but which will be covered in latter tendencies to jerk back into digital life, such as sex, football, sex, sex and advanced corsetry techniques. And I think they should ban all them motherfucking sociologists in analytic classes. No offence to said motherfuckers, of course.

the return of the hair-apparent.

My emphatic response is – NO!! Well not quite as emphatic. And neither quite as upper-case-y nor as exclamation-mark-y.

I was reading my own postings in this long-left-for-The-Grateful-Dead thing and was compelled to think up responses for some of the things I falsely said. It’s one of the failings of reading the things I normally read cos I’m forever compelled to reply to THOSE, and then sometimes, when there’re real people around to hear those replies, they’re treated to schizophrenic responses to said replies delivered with fervent gusto as though the “I” that I was 2 minutes ago was some raving lunatic with no semblance of human understanding and logic whatsoever, and had done a disgustingly gross misreading of the whatever-fuck-it-was (it don’t matter no more cos that’s besides the point – the point here… I’ll tell later. If I remember within the space of this post to interject between my wrestling with my own self). And so this verbal ping-pong (or just plain tennis if you swing that way. “That way” being whichever way Maria Sharapova’s legs are showing up on the screen) will endure, until finally I can’t, not out-reason, but out-shout; myself anymore, and I slide into a physically quietist position, all sides of me within still clamouring for their pieces to be heard but with the engine promising to deliver them having blown a carburetor (to stretch that metaphor for all its worth).

Anyway I was saying I was false. Well not really so much of the time, but just that I did leave it in the plural form to deny myself the benefit of the doubt (the “me” now, and “now” as in during and before the posting of this, you see). But that’s still besides the point. The point is the post in which I said the goon watching the traffic in the different direction from the direction of traffic was wrong. It just dawned upon me, some hours ago, that he could’ve been trying to look out for incoming cars from the reflection off the rears of the cars passing his line of sight. You see, I figured if you can see a vehicle behind passing vehicles this way, chances are you’ll get proper-fucked if you attempted to follow the chicken there and then, cos the vehicles’ll be close enough. Though it probably isn’t the most intuitive method of death-by-reductio-ad-roadkill prevention, it is a rather brilliant way out, huh, if I may de-socket myself by patting my (the “my” now, who just thought of this) –self on the back. And I think I’m so brilliant the world’s plotting to de-seat me as the Thinker of Marvelous Ideas, starting from my hairdressers who’re plotting to surreptitiously crown me with what was previously voted the World’s Worst Haircut. They think they’re so clever and they think I don’t know. Hah! So there!

The point was my incessant need to argue with anybody and everybody, first and foremost with myself; all the fucking time. Ok perhaps not ALL the time, cos I did get out of the conundrum to remember this. And then some, cos this constitutes another instance of my not being free from said conundrum. Erm cos I’m arguing with myself again, for those who didn’t catch that. I think I’m becoming more disjointed and incomprehensible. Perhaps this return’s for the worse. Hah. But, like a professor’ll say – nyah nyah nyah. There’s the academic life for you, I guess.

p/s: On a totally unrelated note: when you couple the exciting Fringe with the exciting Tail, you don’t get the EXCITING conjunction ending in a stylistic coup the follicle ticklers will swoon over; you get the fucking mullet.

i want to go to paris and bagged-dad.

And stowaway bags. Those harbouring stashes of groceries, electronics, meals, books, life-sized sex toys in the likeness of Paris Hilton, etc. So much there is in observing the placements of these. You’ve them buggers who unabashedly ‘fall asleep’ IMMEDIATELY after having deposited them in the adjacent seat(s). And those who keep them carefully and thoughtfully arranged on the floor just so that only every single person will trip over them every time they attempt any known form of physical movement.

There’s an art to Adjacent Seat Bag Placement, you know. First you take up 2/3 of your own seat. Then on the adjacent seat on the side where more of you reside, you place the relevant article, taking up the magical fraction of a seat again: 2/3 (remember this golden number well). This means you’ll now have your article sitting near, next to you, with the two remaining 1/3 of the seats flanking you and your baggage. The advantages of this arrangement are plenty. Firstly, you have an impregnable (upon pain of discomfort experienced in parking one’s ass in such a position as to have the raised partition separating seats nestled between one’s butt cheeks) force-field of 1/3 seats on either side of you that’ll effectively foil hand bitches’/bastards’ schemes and thus gives you leeway for undisturbed slumber. Secondly, in case you get woken up, you’ve then given yourself the heavily clichéd choice between fighting and buggering off. Cos if the disturbance has come from a spectacle-wearing, tutu-donning, Backstreet Boys-listening, mother-fucking whoreson of a bleeding effete; then you’re politically correct (where they practice politics in my world anyway) in taking up the rest of the space on your wings and appearing justifiably indignant. However, if you’ve been gently cooed awake by the most courteous, civil-minded, polite, etc. gentleman of all gentlemen; then you can hasten to acknowledge his silent chiding and make way for him drawing everything into your unoccupied 1/3s. And his 7-foot, 500-pound frame. And his facial calisthenics that will rival that of Mike Tyson’s should the latter find himself confronted by a dinner with horse manure as garnishing. The normal course of action in this case is of course best accompanied by the contortion of one’s body into the foetal position whilst emitting suitably apt whimpering moans of apology in strategic, sporadic bursts.

Somehow this has gotten to become somewhat a monthly thing. Whatever. No time, no want. Oh well, whatever, nevermind.

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.