Bad coffee + good looking baristas = #1

That is why, whenever I patron restaurants or even hawker stalls (approaching the end of the month), I have always been more critical towards the service they provide rather than the quality of food they serve. Culinary skills can be nurtured, so there is always still hope. Being a gigantic asshat, however, I’m afraid that stays for good.

Which brings me to Kissaten, this cozy, quaint, three-storey Japanese-Fusion restaurant nestled within the thriving and constantly cockcop-blocked commercial development of  Jaya One, Petaling Jaya.

So, I was at rooftop “bar area” of Kissaten (I hope it means something else in Japanese and not something that tells me to kiss a size ten feet) with a couple of friends for some drinks to drown the sorrows of being employed. Business for them was slow and we were the only customers of the night (you will find out why).

Okay, before I go on. Remember the crazy, psycho and stalking bitch/jerk you once dated but never had the guts to own up to it? The one who would call you every 10 minutes and loved you enough to let you experience your very own version of Wicker Park? Okay, just keep that in mind. Let’s paint a picture of a crazy, psycho and stalking person in your head. Good? Ready? Let’s continue.

Probably your ex.

At the bar, only one waiter cum bartender served the 6 us the entire night, and his name? Guy. 10 points for originality there. And Guy, who seemed to be trying his best to impress us for his imaginary show and tell session, could speak Thai, Mandarin, Cantonese, English and probably Elvish, I wouldn’t have been surprised. A waiter named Guy and expansively multilingual at that. Nothing weird there, right? RIGHT?

Trying his best to win the much-acclaimed “Freak Waiter of the Decade” award, Guy then started hitting on the guys. Not so much on me because either I was the worst-looking guy on the table or I just didn’t bother giving a fuck about him. Guy, decided that going gung ho was the only way to go, started pulling this guy from our table to the bar every 15 bloody minutes. For what? I don’t know. After that grab-and-kidnap-your-customers farce, Guy probably felt a little stupid… for not making EVERYONE feel uncomfortable.

He then conceived this little game of his own. Every time when we got ourselves immersed into an interesting conversation like setting up our dream bachelor pad, stupid music that makes us weep or dead Indonesian at a concert, Guy walked over and went, “HI GUYS. I JUST WANT TO SAY SOMETHING.” He then proceeded to offer a handshake to everyone on the table, which we reluctantly, not to mention regrettably, obliged, “I JUST WANT EVERYBODY TO BE HAPPY OK!” Guy then started touching the guys.

Okay, it was more of a borderline molestation.

Still thinking about that psychotic ex of yours? Don’t let that image disappear.

Your ex. No?

After awhile, Guy started giving us FREE imported beers. “Nice,” I thought, “probably that’s a retard’s way of saying ‘I’m sorry for being a total asshole.’” The first bottle came, then the second bottle, then the third, and before we knew it, he gave us over 10 bottles of imported beers. On the house.

Oh I forgot to mention, he forced us to finish all of them. On a Tuesday night.

You know how VIPs get treated to free-flow of alcohol at glamarous functions or events? Yeah, it was pretty much like that, except for a hot, exotic girl serving us drinks and lighting up our cigarettes, we had Guy – the man who haunts your nightmare. Guy then started pleading, “CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET? DON’T TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS! I JUST WANT ALL OF YOU TO BE HAPPY!” That is when I realised maybe it was his last day at work and he really just wanted to fuck his employers over by giving out free booze. “I JUST WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY! TONIGHT, WE WILL OPEN PAST 2AM! WE OPEN UNTIL 4AM!” I took a glance at my watch, it was only 12:30am. Damn.

Everybody HAPPY!

The same crazy cycle happened over and over again for every 15 fucking minutes. Guy comes over, babbles some indistinguishable nonsense, puts down a bottle of imported beer on our table, pisses on our patience by forcing us to bottom-up the drinks, and then goes back to the back of his bar, probably to pump more meth into his nervous system.

“I just want to get the fuck out of this place,” I whispered. Fear lingered around our table and everyone felt uneasy. “Did you guys watch Hostel? What if he’s some crazy bastard who would severe our limbs and shit?” one of my friend said jokingly. To think about it, I guess he wasn’t joking at all.

Not being too pleased about getting mindfucked by a polyglot, intrusive, possibly homosexual and very, very generous Jack Torrance-inspired waiter, we decided to leave. Being the cheeky bastards that we are, my friends started pouring the excess beer (excess beer – never thought I’d ever say that) onto the potted plants.

As we got up, all prepared to get the hell out of there, Guy emerged from his bar with a video camera and started shouting “HAHAHA! YOU GUYS ARE ON CANDID CAMERA!”

Ha! Assholes!

Who the fuck am I kidding, he obviously came to us with more fucking beer . “NO! DON’T GO! FINISH FIRST! I GOT MORE HERE! NO NO NO!” Already tired from work, all the beer and having a prick as a waiter, my friend (drunk, possibly) told him off whereas I silently flipped Guy the finger before we stormed off Kissaten in a huff .

Boys and girls, that is the story of a waiter named Guy from Kissaten. I hope folk songs, tales and poems about this sonofabitch will be written and composed, so that when our children and our children’s children grow up, they will read about and pass on the legacy of Guy – the dude who won the “Freak Waiter of the Decade” accolade.

Future generations may not believe in his existence, but what do people know, most of us still think Batman is a work of fiction, too.

Holy shit...

Working, partying and not giving a shit about writing took up a little too much of my time.

A proper update to be in within a week. Pooh!

Yes, everyone loves Chinese New Year. But let me tell you what do I loathe about this festival.

The Weather

Chinese New Year is one of the most unique festivals ever, not only because it bears superstitions that are more retarded than an Anna Faris movie, but also because you do not actually need to remember nor know when the celebrations start, Mother Nature fucking does it for you. Like how snowing means Christmas is fast approaching in Western countries, you’ll know it’s time to pop the firecrackers when you start taking 6 showers within a day, your skin sticks like a band-aid and excessive perspiration ensures that your dong is well marinated.

Like this. But 100x less sexy.

This year, the temperature recorded at Ipoh (where I spent my CNY, sadly) was 34 degrees Celcius. Coupled with the unfortunate fact that there were no air-conditioners in my grandmother’s house, the sweltering heat made me want to flip the finger at Chinese fucking New Year and spend it in the car instead.

The Visiting

I am all for social conventions and I do believe that Chinese New Year is a good time to spend it with family, friends and loved ones. I said I’m all for social conventions, but it’s the social obligations that I have a problem with. Every year, I was made to believe that it’s a responsibility to pay every single relative in the family tree a visit. That is when awkward moments ensue. I have never understood the point in visiting people that you are not even close with. I mean, what is the fucking point? For 2 torturous hours, we pretend to be nice to each other, exchanging pleasantries and throwing well-wishes around and for the following 364 days, I wouldn’t even recognise (or give a shit) about the “uncle’s son’s cousin’s daughter’s mother’s grandaunt’s nephew” even if he appeared on the front-page of The Star for molesting an entire Lion Dance entourage. Which brings me to…

Lion Dances

With all due respect to Chinese beliefs, superstitions and urban legends, there is one question I had to ask regarding the whole Lion Dance establishment: what the fuck?

As far as I know, these anatomically-flawed creatures were made to ward off evils and all things horrible, so then again, what the fuck? Was the guy who contrived the entire image of the “lion” high on acid? Or were there no lions then? Or was the “lion” created just to show that the Chinese, like many other (shameful) instances, have our own version of Gremlins?

Right: A lion. Left: Still better than lion dance.

In all seriousness, these bastards have been creeping me out since I was a little kid. Not to mention the terrifyingly bland euphony played out by underage pre-teens that accompanies the whole circus while they rampage through the streets and malls, slowly but surely striking enough fear into kids (and some adults) to drive the country insane.

The Firecrackers

Let’s not kid ourselves, though firecrackers have long been banned in this country, every Chinese New Year the little bastards (and some adults) next door who think it’s cool to send their neighbors into shock and subsequent cardiac arrest will fire up those damn things until the wee hours in the morning.

Weapons of mass disruption.

They say firecrackers are used to fend off evil spirits, I say firecrackers are a sure-fire way for children to tell the world, “hey, I’m going to grow up to be a complete asshole.”

Back to Work

When your long holiday is over, all that is left to do is sit in the miserable, confined workspace in the office and bitch about how Chinese New Year makes you sick.

To present the awesome-ness of Bangkok, I am going to have to do the inevitable – comparing it to my own city. It’s nothing personal, just an equation that is necessary to draw comparisons. I will have to divide this entry into 2, or even 3 parts though. Firstly, it is going to be too long and tedious to read (and write) at one go, plus, it’s a fucking Monday in the office after a holiday, give me a medal for not jumping out of the window.

The people

Bangkok – The Thais are generally a bloody decent bunch of people. They smile all the time, they are polite, they try their best to converse through language barriers and they are very tolerant. I suppose these charming demeanours are byproducts of their staunch faith in Buddhism (I’m not a Buddhist) and the acknowledgement of their tourism industry and its importance to the booming economy.

And what the fuck does the Malaysian Ronald do?

Kuala Lumpur – We are generally a bloody decent bunch of people, when it plays to our advantage. We smile when someone drops a RM50 note in front of us, our taxi drivers are polite when a hapless tourist is stranded in Bukit Bintang past midnight, we don’t even bother saying a simple “thank you” when someone holds the elevator for us and we are as tolerant as a kid on Christmas mornings. I suppose these lovable attritubes are byproducts of our belief in the notion, “we are Malaysians, we don’t give a fuck all about everything or everyone else. Now, where the hell is my Nasi Lemak?”

The shopping

Bangkok – Chanels, Hermes, Diors and the likes at the corner of every street. Even the neighbourhood malls have luxurious labels residing in them. For (much) cheaper alternatives, the amount and magnitude of markets and bazaars there are near insanity. Chatuchak (sp?) Weekend Market itself has close to 80,000 stalls and you can buy anything and everything here. Well, maybe except for the secrets to understanding women, but I’m not even sure. 6 visits and I have yet to finish exploring this damn place.

The Thais don't care.

Kuala Lumpur – The opening of the 2nd Louis Vuitton outlet was a bigger deal than swine flu. Neighbourhood malls have Chinese medicine halls and Indian sundry shops as tenants. For (not necessarily) cheaper alternatives, we have the night markets in residential areas and bazaars in shopping malls (can never make the sense out of that) that give us an avenue to oogle at pretty girls without feeling a pinch of guilt.

The food

Bangkok – Spicy, sour and stimulating. Thai food are not for the masses and you can tell from the sweat-soaked faces of the ‘angmohs’ in food courts, street hawkers, restaurants and cafes all over the city. Bangkok houses a fine collection of international cuisines, intricate cafes and cozy restaurants, though.

70% chili, 30% sweat.

Kuala Lumpur – KL takes this one. Despite the delusions suffered by Singaporeans, the whole world knows that Kuala Lumpur, or Malaysia, is the capital of food. I don’t have to elaborate much on this. We can even turn shit into a culinary delight. We are that good.

Unsurprisingly, it will also probably be the maiden year I break every single resolution and then hate myself for it. Here goes nothing.

1.  Backpack across Europe

Europe reeks of certain aura and vibe that make me want to just pack my luggage and pay her a visit. Of the entire continent, I have only visited England, and that was about a good 8 months ago. What is not to like about Europe? The people are nice. The food, fantastic. The vistas painted across the horizons are postcard-material. The wine and alcohol, wonderful. Architectures are breathtaking. Oh, there is something about their football, too.

2. Dress up

Recently, I came to realise that I have a fashion sense so boring and dull, I make Keanu Reeves look like the best fucking entertainer in the world. My wardrobe collection holds a grand total of 3 colours – black, white and red. I think it’s time for me to start exploring more avenues in the aspect of my sense of dressing. Honestly, I lost count on the amount of times I came into the office with football shorts and lacerated tee shirts I slept in the night before. Now, if only I can find some time to give a shit.

3. Get a promotion

Though in my situation, it doesn’t really make a difference. I am the only English Writer in the entire company and I have been running this one-man department for over 3 years. I am my own senior, my own protege, my own mentor and my own tutor. Basically, it’s a one-leg-kick shit I’m dealing with day in, day out. But damn, I have never experienced getting promoted before. No, really, it doesn’t make a difference, I will still have to pick up after my own crap.

4. Reduction of alcohol intake

2009 was one big beer keg to me. I have become so adept and tolerant towards the percentage, it’s starting to scare me a little. The amount of alcohol I consume have risen by threefold and the amount of intoxicated experiences have receded all the same. That is the body’s method in telling you that you have been drinking way too much and the impending consequence of alcohol poisoning shall realise if reducing alcohol intake is not listed in your 2010 resolutions. Scary.

5. Take more photos

To drive myself to take more photos of and with the people around me wherever I go, I splashed out on a new camera a couple of weeks back. I never knew why, but prior to this, I was never one to be interested in being in photographs or to even take pictures of, well, things. I should also spend more time with my DSLR, that poor sod has been spending way too much time with the fungal and dust at the forsaken corner of my cabinet.

6. Get a hobby

I play football on a weekly basis, but that’s a passion. I write every day, but that’s because I am paid to do so. I love technology and my gadgets, but those are just a waste of fucking money. I really need a refreshing and gratifying hobby. Like collecting RM50 notes or something, I don’t know.

7. Stay healthy

That means I have to cut down on the alcohol, cigarettes, instant noodles, Ramli burgers, late nights and getting to know idiots who will blow my arteries into pieces. I need to go for a body checkup too.

8. Value myself

Because I know I deserve to be happy for being just the person I am. Because I know it is my God-given right to make decisions for myself and live my life as I please.

2010 will also be the maiden year I start learning how to make myself happy.

Have a happy new year.

Weddings are evangelists for optimism, which is why everybody loves a good wedding, right? But do you know how a bad wedding is like? A bad wedding is the one wedding I attended a few weeks ago. It was so bad, I spent more than half of it standing under the drizzle.

Inspired by quite possibly the worst wedding I have attended so far, here are 8 ways to host a wedding that everyone would want to forget:

Hosting your wedding in a dodgy restaurant that is located lightyears away from civilisation.

The rule is simple. If you can’t afford to host a wedding in a decent hotel or at least in a presentable venue that is recognised by universal GPS units, you are not ready for marriage. Unless we are talking about shotgun marriages, of course. Even then, shotgun marriages should be held in a farm or something.

Sharing your wedding venue with other couples.

Like having your wedding in some God-forsaken place is not horrible enough, you chose to share it with other unfortunate couples. The said wedding I attended had 3 couples sharing the same venue and time, and the emcee(s) had to address the guests of each couple by the colour of the table cloth. Yes, the fucking colour of the table cloth. There were yellow, pink and white. My table was pink. I am feeling ashamed even by recalling the absurd experience.

Having pensioners serve beer to your guests.

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I never felt comfortable having 50-year-olds dressed in unflattering one-piece dresses serve me beer. These poor ladies are supposed to be at home, enjoying the company of their children or working out on their Wii, not serving alcohol to someone who is young enough to be their kid. Some things you just need to leave it to the younger ones to do it.

Allowing vendors to go around selling newspapers.

For the love of Mars and Venus, it’s a fucking wedding, not some pariah Chinese food court. Although the differences between the two might be very vague.

Allowing vendors to go around selling lottery tickets.

The same as the above, only thing worse about selling lottery tickets is that someone might actually strike lucky and steal your thunder for the night. The thunder you had to share with 2 other couples, hah.

Having a traditional Chinese emcee.

Traditional Chinese wedding emcees, better known as ‘tai kam che’, are quite possibly the most annoying people in a wedding aside from fucking kids that run around. God, these middle-aged women draped in glaring outfits and 50-kg worth of make-ups sure know how to ruin an already forgettable wedding. They have the tendency to dramatise every single sentence that spews from their mouth. The most annoying aspect of having a ‘tai kam che’ is that they seem to rhyme everything single well-wish that nobody in the hall gives a shit about (that includes the couple in union).

Karaokes.

This is the mother of all wedding destroyers. I fucking hate it when they have karaokes in weddings. They make conversations nigh impossible, they subject you to auditory anguish and no one enjoys it other than the wanker who is singing it. It’s just plain stupid. The wedding I attended had this old, scrawny man who was evidently drunk straggered to the stage, grabbed the microphone and started babbling inaudible nonsense. That asshole went on and on speaking to his imaginary pal on the mic with the karaoke music playing at the background and no one even gave a shit about his boozy antics. He finally stopped and when he tried to descend from the stage, he tripped on the stairs and fell over like a penguin on crack. Funny stuff. The only positive from the entire wedding.

Sending out classy invitation cards that do not reflect the sorry state of your wedding.

Because it takes an asshole to raise expectations but to inhumanely destroy it with fucking colored-table-cloths-seating-arrangement and karaokes.

Though in all honesty, I think weddings are overrated.

The guy you shared the elevator with who reeked like he last took a shower during his christening. The cashier who returned your change soaked in shit-like remnants. The asshole who just couldn’t shut the hell up in the theatre. Or the salesperson who just wouldn’t let you walk away without killing someone.

Fact is, this world is over-populated with so many half-wits that the day you do not come across any form of stupidity or wankers is the day you should start worrying about the apocalypse.

Here is my personal pick of 5 kinds of idiots that will make Josef Fritzl look normal.

1.  My balls itch. I hate my life.

Emo people, or more popularly known as whining retards in my book, are a fucking pain in the ass. These precarious creatures would capitalise on anything and everything to act like humanity owes them a permit to the throne. Sometimes, the aura around these idiots are so dispririting that you cannot help but to wonder if they are even humans or an inbred of Idi Amin and a demented Rottweiler. Oh the weather is rainy today; maybe they should slit their wrists. Hey, the remote is out of battery; these dicks should play a game of Russian Roulette. God, Jessica Alba with a new haircut?! Off the ledge now, boys!

Like what they say, being emo is just a miserable excuse for a man to act like a woman.

2.  Hi world. My girlfriend loves shitting on my face.

The information age saw an upsurge of many initiatives that help keep people from all around the world connected. Social networking sites, blogs, mico-blogs, photo-sharing sites, emails, instant messaging and of course everyone’s favourite, Adult FriendFinder. The progression of technology simply means that idiots now have more avenues at their disposal to show the world what morons they really are. I’m talking about attention whores. There is only 1 type of blogs that I do not read. It is the ones where the authors think that I have fuck all to do with my life but to read about what they do every single day, depicted as grossly precise as grossly precise is possible. From getting out of their IKEA bed which they bought 231 days ago, to brushing their teeth with so-and-so brand of toothpaste, to seeing a yellow mockingbird bird on by the window sill. Honestly, I would rather watch 2 Girls 1 Cup on repeat than to read about a total stranger’s experience with the fucking laundry routine.

Then, I have this total tit on my Twitter list who consistently and constantly Tweets about how his girlfriend mistreats him. He whines to the world when his girlfriend does not have time for him. He whines to the world when his girlfriend does not return his calls. He whines to the world when his girlfriend thinks he is an asshole. Big applause to the girlfriend, if she is even real.

Issues like that should be resolved behind closed doors. Stop wasting precious digital space by spewing shit about how your chick refused to give you a tug job because of your crabs. And oh of course, for the very reason that no one gives a flying fuck.

3.  My badass chrome door handles spell 20hp!

These bunch of idiots are a byproduct of the Napoleon Complex. Take a drive out on the roads today and tell me how many modified cars do you see that spot any or all of the following:

• Loud, ugly and gigantic mufflers
• Wide, hideous and cringe-worthy bodykits
• Blinding and epilepsy-inducing High Intensity Discharge headlights or strobe lights
• GT-wings so large that they could double up as picnic tables
• Shoddy vinyls or stickers that tell the world everything the car is not
• A fuzzy dice

Now, how many of these cars are national junks or overpriced Japanese products? Nothing wrong with the cars, mind you, as I myself drive a sub-RM100k Japanese made vehicle, too. But does substituting the Toyota emblem with BMW’s make my car go any faster? Does brassy exhaust pipes and cheesy fibre bodykits make me look any cooler? Will a chick choose pick me over the guy over there just because I have a fucking fizzy dice in my car?

A few months ago, I was going up the steep ramp that leads to the parking lot of 1Utama. A cute little Kancil was next to me. That flippin’ ride had everything listed above. Huge exhaust pipes, gimcrack bodykits, a GT-wing that really, really looked out of place, some Mitsubishi emblems all over and a matching driver to boot. The funny thing was, through all the bloody racket the muffler was making, that little pimped up car could hardly move up the ramp, and his bodykits were violently fraying the rough surface of the ramp. Whereas I, seated comfortably in my humble little Toyota, whizzed passed that twat in total silence and suavity.

Your car should be loud and flashy only if you are driving a Ferrari or Lamborghini. Anything else you’re just an attention-seeking tosser.

4.  Hey, I’ve been chasing you across 10 blocks, now give me my 5 cents back!

I’m all for thriftiness and diligence when it comes to monetary issues, but it’s the stingy assholes I cannot stand. I’m not talking about kids. Kids have every right to act like total jerks when it comes to money because well, they don’t earn for themselves (unless we’re talking child labour) yet. It amazes me how many working, white-collared and well-paid professionals I have met over the years mindfucked the crap out of me over a few cents or dollars.

I always believed that the one time we can give a telling assessment to one’s character is when the bill arrives at the table. The ones who place immense importance in setting a good impression and maintaining good social relations would offer to pay for the entire bill without prodding. The ones who are rational and reasonable will go dutch and pay for half of the bill regardless.  The stingy assholes you should probably see the last of will whip out a calculator and pay for only what he had, even down to the dollar and cents.

The ones who need to conveniently leave on an “emergency” because the family dog ate the aunt are the ones you should just shoot dead on the spot.

5.  Sir, would you like to buy my left nut, sir?

No word in my vocabulary can describe the repulsion I feel whenever my Salespeople Alarm goes off. It’s not the profession that I have a problem with, it’s the manner these assholes go about stalking and hassling people that makes me want to shove a middle finger up their nose. The worst of the lot are the credit card wankers. Whenever I spot these clowns in a mall, I try my very best to distant myself as far from them as possible and avoid any sort of contact. The split-second you share an eye contact with them is the catalyst of having a acid-doused band-aid super-glued to your ass. For the record, I think majority of the salespeople are either deaf, stupid, delusional or all of the above. Like a 5-year olds in a Toys “R” Us, these wankers cannot take “NO” for an answer. “Sir, do you want a credit card, sir?” “NO.” “Sir, do you want a credit card, sir?” “NO.” “Sir, do you want a credit card, sir?” “NO.” “Sir, do you want a credit card, sir?”

For the love of God, should there be a day these bellends actually bothered to conjure a better sales pitch to sell their rotten products, I would then at least pace myself down, look them in the eyes and put in some extra effort by uttering, “Fuck off”.

Until then, it’s still going to be good ol’ solid “NO.”

If there is one thing in this universe that can turn reason into irrationality; intellect into downright stupidity and a high-flying, white-collared executive into a fucking farmer, it’s Facebook.

I’m not going to play high and almighty here because I use Facebook, too. I mean, who doesn’t right? Celebrities use it, parents use it (unfortunately), politicians use it, the person next to me uses it and chances are that twisted nut from high school is searching for your profile with it at this very moment. 

You know what Facebook is? It’s a manifestation of mankind’s gradual inability to socialise or hold a decent conversation over coffee without having to smokescreen their true self. With Facebook, that freak who jerks off to anime characters can have 500 cyber “friends” just by putting some badass rap lyrics into his profile. But when there’s a power outage on a Friday night, he ferociously masturbates to the Super Mario Brothers poster before throwing a cosplay party with his goldfish.

Image courtesy of Lamebook.com

Don’t get me wrong, though. Facebook used to be interesting, at least for me. It used to be interesting until they started allowing gobshite application developers to add more massive junk into it. Stupid simulation games, for instance. If you want to be a farmer, get the fuck off the comfort of your leather seat and move your family to a bloody farm! If you want to run a restaurant, take the first step by actually doing something about it! If you are indeed just a genuine lover of simulation games, there is a myriad of games of that particular genre you can buy out there if you would just stop Facebook-ing for one long minute and step into the real world. Leave Facebook alone, I don’t need to know how much you sold that basket of flippin’ carrots to another moron for.

I don't give a fuck. Really.

Then, along came the horrifying quizzes. This one really gets to me. I am not even sure if people in Facebook take the most ridiculous sounding quizzes because they really believe in them; or are they just dimwits who thinks it’s cool to lose some friends by letting them know what kind of chocolate they would be, what are the chances of them getting laid today, what is their secret ninja name, at what age will they grow a third nipple, when will their testicles fall off and what fucking tossers they really are. Since the ’share-my-quiz-results-with-the-world-because-the-world-has-fuck-all-to-do-but-to-read-them” fad started, the amount of people I actually blocked in Facebook went up by threefold. It’s really no fun coming in to the office on a Monday morning to have Facebook telling you that the co-worker you have always wanted to murder has 20% better chances of screwing Megan Fox than you.

No, not after this.

Lately, I realised Facebook added a new feature into their site. It’s this nifty little thing called ‘Suggestion’. This feature randomly suggests friends from your list for you to keep in touch with. Really? Wow, look what Facebook is doing to us. We have evolved into such asocial beings to a point where we are giving some fucking program the task to tell us who we should interact with.

For the icing on the cake, the name that has been occupying my ‘Suggestion’ box for almost 2 months now is a friend who passed away 2 years ago. The good people from Facebook are asking me to reconnect with a dead person.

Reconnecting with the dead. Like how Facebook asked me to.

So, what’s next from Facebook? Telling me who I should marry and how many kids I should have?

Oh wait, they have the answers to that in the fucking quizzes already.

Nothing spectacular if you’re a bus or taxi driver, that is.

No, I am not here to talk about the 4 rounds of traffic congestion I had to go through. Horrible traffic situations have become such a norm in this country that people tend to mentally shut you off whenever the words “traffic”, “jam”, “accident” and “government” are strung together in a sentence.

Of the 3 hours I spent in the car, almost one-third of it was used looking for a parking bay in my office’s vicinity. You see, I work in this place called Mid Valley City, or The Worst Fucking Place In The World, as I would like to call it. Engaging in ruthless combats for parking spots with thousands of other patrons on a daily basis has become a routine. It’s like all the men in the world have just stumbled upon the last remaining whore-house on planet earth after the events of 2012.

Logically, a shopping mall should not be packed to the brim on a Tuesday afternoon. A tuesday afternoon for heaven’s sake! But no, this shithole of a place gains exemption to the rule of logic.

I have been working in this place for 3 years and the one thing I have learned is that too many Malaysians have too much time on their hands. Leaving kids out of the picture, shouldn’t it be a bloody crime to be caught strolling around a mall on a weekday afternoon? Don’t these people have anything better to do with their lives like watching the TV, making sweet love, cleaning the house or participating in the human race like how many of us do by getting a fucking job?

Worried about the epidemic outbreak of H1N1? Go to the bloody mall, that will help! Economy downturn and you can’t even afford tissues to clean up your shit? Drive to the mall, that will solve your problems!  Your wife eloped with the neighbour because you are out of a job and a no-life twat to boot? Come to Mid Valley, this is where good people like you converge!

I wouldn’t have been this disgruntled if it wasn’t for the lack of parking bays in that dump they call a mall. But the fact that I had and will still have to go through each and every single day, battling for parking spots and cursing my way through horrifying traffic just so that I can make my little contribution towards a better economy, whichwill consequently lead to giving these lazy bellends more reasons to congest the roads and fill up the car parks on working days just to go on cheap dates fondling each other in Sushi King, pisses me off to no end.

Pudu Jail is still vacant, right?