Wind of Change

We have all probably faced it. Some time or another. Our outlook, love, friends, jobs and various aspects in life.

The changing scenes, the people coming and going. Never really realising sometimes, what has been, is no longer. We pause at times to wonder where we have been, and where she, he or they have gone. Some of us linger, without fully understanding that what we think still is, just isn't anymore.

By the myriad of reasons and circumstances and decisions, people move on.

Like a dawning moment of watching an imaginary bulb light up in a bubble over my head; I've come to see my redundancy in what was once a probably important or even self-assumed irreplaceable position I once held.

The winds cut into my skin and tears at my flesh, blowing what once was, away. Change has come and I inevitably shall. Someday. When there is naught but ashes for the wind to change.

I don't want to wait for the blooms in an arid desert, anymore.

You Are My Sunshine

Its sometimes interesting how any song can hit you like a ton of bricks. A song from my childhood, and here, sung by music legends, Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan.

The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away...


Oh well.

Music Soothes The Soul

There is nothing like music, without which, the world would be unimaginably unbearable. The innate ability of a tune to make us reach into every emotion we can possibly feel is just so mundanely normal to most of us, it has become almost like a daily staple of nourishment we turn to, at every turn of our souls.

Haven’t we all cried listening to a song, smiled at the sweet memories from an old familiar one or simply fade into the beauty of a tune that surrounds our senses?

We seek the songs that speak our minds, our hearts and our emotions. Yet we can also find comfort and joy in times of despair and find an errant tear falling even when you least expect it.

So incredibly important as well, is the musician who is able to translate that music onto an instrument in a way that just touches you.

I found, through a link from a friend, a kid from Korea. Sungha Jung is just too incredible for words. I can’t imagine how magnificent he would be with his acoustic guitar when he reaches adulthood.

A whole host of videos of him playing can be found on YouTube and if you love music, you won’t regret going through at least a few of these.

The Other Side of February 14th.

There is something about today. Despite not ever having celebrated Valentine’s Day, mostly due to the crass commercialisation and jacked up prices for normally reasonably priced stuff, has always been a comfortable and fortunate feeling of having someone around, somehow, who loves you.

It is not surprising many unattached souls feel an intense feeling of loneliness, hoping for the day and night to pass to a new day. Perhaps the acute pain, loneliness and despair will go away tonight with an alcoholic pain-killer. One can only hope...


Sitting by the table, looking at the sky
He wonders where she could be tonight.

Perhaps she has already found another
And the joy and comfort in those arms
In an embrace where his arms once were.
In a past, no longer forever.

Alone, he remembers,
A love so rare.
Now diminished,
She's no longer there.

He pictures her smile
As the skies turn grey,
And he hopes she is happy
Now that she is away.

He misses her,
But he knows,
She is not his,
Not anymore.

May she find her smile
Where she is today,
He closes his eyes
And he fades away.

Top Shaman of Lala Land Resigns

Holy Chinglee, recognized as one of the most powerful and influential nurses in the healthcare industry, has resigned from her post as chief shaman in the Village Men’s Hospital of Lala Land.

In her tenure as chief shaman, the hospital has been transformed radically into a risk-taking hospital that has gained tremendous strides in controversial steroid use in its treatments for patients. The risks have increased the village hospital’s number of patients seeking treatment, compared to the low-risk approach of previous managements.

The great strides made in healthcare under Holy Chinglee, has been seen in the double to triple growth in muscular size and strength of their patients, since her appointment as shaman. The scrawny patients have become huge powerhouses under the steroid treatments and have been lauded by the village hospital and Lala Land’s elders as a testament to Holy Chinglee’s capabilities and handy talent in making things grow.

Insiders and critics however, have pointed out that along with immense muscular gain, the patients have also begun to loose most of the hair on their heads and gaining a remarkable increase in armpit hair. In recent months, all patients have also discovered an inability to have erections, and the inexplicable loss of one testicle. Many, whose muscular bulks have had raving public exhibitions, have also complained behind closed doors, that they have lost up to a third of their penis size.

In a press statement, the Village Men’s Hospital has denounced steroid manufacturers and vigorously defends its own creed and practice. A hospital spokesman says, “Chinglee has been an inspiration in her time with us. Many men are now able to parade themselves on the dirty beaches of Lala Land in pride, under her care. Despite the small (sic) losses due to external factors for which the hospital cannot responsible, we have advised the men that, they can still achieve and enjoy prostate orgasms through anal probes with help from their lovers or wives.”

Holy Chinglee has also expressed no regrets in her handling of patients and premature release from the hospital.

Speculation is now rife on her next move, and many are wondering if she will continue her radical treatments in private practice, especially on her husband who is the Chief Elder of Lala Land. But anonymous sources have waved off such rumours, saying he does not need such treatments and already enjoys prostate orgasms leisurely.

She has also refused to comment on the possibilities of her induction into the Elder Council, which could see her sitting next to her husband in the treetops of Monkey Hill in Lala Land.

---

Holy Chinglee previously revealed her admiration for Singapore’s Ho Ching (who enjoys much love and support from people who love and support her), and has described the latter as an exceptional role model.
-Unregulated Free Press

Mediacorpus Bastardus

I have a growing love for Singapore’s free to air Mediacorp’s Channel 5. The likes of which can only be compared to my enthusiasm in getting my scrotal sac being cut off to make a purse.

There is little that I look forward to watching on TV these days, with the gamut of local productions being forced down our throats like mothers feeding their children cod liver oil. Then we have the wonderful host of movie reruns, they now call encore telecasts. Crap by any other name is still crap.

And I’m sure everyone loves reruns of local shows. I love them too, just like I love having my shit shoved up my ass, just so I can defecate them all over again.

Recently, I’ve only really looked forward to the weekly airing of CSI, one of the few shows that are actually interesting to watch, that I’ve never watched before. And tonight is the night it should air. Then I discover, they’re pre-empting it for a delightful local drama ‘Sweet Tapioca Porridge’. Whoop de fooking doo. Here I am waiting to watch a thrilling forensic drama, and I get tapioca porridge. If they want to stick their tapioca into porridge, why can’t they pre-empt some of their own local crappy productions which already dominate primetime through the entire week?

Sure, they may be some pretty watchable local productions (and nonyas or bibiks or babas speaking perfect mandarin just doesn’t cut it for me), but for the love of your viewers’ sanity, don’t intrude on our staple of good international fare after 10pm.

Imagine the hungry thrill of entering a renowned steakhouse only to be told they’re only serving only tapioca porridge that very night.

I hope they get a delightful porridge disease on their tubers.

Away

I stare out of the windows, into the dark night. Lights from homes around me shine like beacons in the shadows that cover mine. The stars have hidden themselves tonight, refusing to share their radiant beauty above, while glaring surrogates of artificial ones on the streets below vainly attempt to fill their place.

I wonder where, she might be, ignoring probabilities that answer my nostalgic mind. She is away. Not here. The breeze replies. So very far away.

The wind brushes my face; I struggle to let it disperse my thoughts. All it does is scatter my broken mind.

I pretend I can see her. I pretend I am fine. Even as I watch everything crumble, piece by agonizing piece. I think I see her, even when I know it is not. A farcical wait for a new day, knowing I truly seek its dusk and the darkness to rest my charade.

Will she remember me, or think of me, even in irrelevant moments of her life, if I was away. Would she even know? Perhaps, relevance has left, and the wind howls in the empty chambers of my heart. Decaying, cleaved and hollowed by that which has gone away. Away to a life unfettered by me.

Perhaps she will smile. While she is away. I find comfort that she will, and perhaps the stars are with her tonight.

The stars are away tonight. Nothing is here tonight. The wind sings to me tonight, alone in a crowded city of lights.

Life is a Beach

My ocean of love,
She swells and roars at my approach,
As the waves embrace and cover me.
The splendor of her beauty unbound,
Waning miserably cupped in my hands.

My hopes akin to sand.
Her soft touch soothes my tired feet,
Bearing the heaviness of my entirety.
I reach for its soft touch,
They slip and flow through my fingers.

My dreams illuminated with stars.
Radiating visions of bliss and delight
Into my weary old soul.
Sweet escape that beckons me
Darkens and fades in anguished tears.

Love does not belong to me.

Hope torments me with fading fantasies.

Dreams die in agonizing reality.

Life, is a bitch.


Lord, I want her to be happy, no matter what that means. To be free… even if it’s from me. I want her to find the love she deserves, who will see her always as I do now, through Your eyes.

Self-Regulated Regimes?

Down in Lala Land, the Senior Elder for the State of Artful Communication of Misinformation, Mr Money Phuck You has described local toilets as ineffective self-regulated regimes.

Speaking in the Elder’s Council situated in the treetops of Monkey Hill, Mr Money cited the example of shit that erupted from various visitors to local toilets after an elder was set on fire in his kitchen, by a grumpy old rickshaw driver, while serving food to needy serfs.

The local toilets were abuzz with the sounds of different sounding farts and droppings, after eating the food served by the elder. Mr Money described some farts as sweet smelling, while criticising others, which he termed as unhelpful and thus not conducive to a public amenity.

“Significant numbers of farts heard were too loud. A small number was downright smelly. It’s disappointing.”

Mr Money added that the toilets’ bulletin boards should have been used to provide information on how to release softer or more melodious farts and how drinking less water may assist in less watery stools that will not stain the toilet seats so kindly donated by the council.

He said, “It is a squandered opportunity for a higher degree of self-regulation. It would have been an example of the genesis of the first step towards a more responsible, a greater self-regulatory regime.

“But many of those farts were not rebutted nor answered. And I think it is not healthy for some of those to crap unsavoury shit in the toilet unchallenged, unquestioned, and unanswered.”

Many in the council nodded their heads in amazement that Mr Money was able to use the word “genesis” in his sentence. All agreed that it was an excellent way to provide a useful double emphasis on the meaning of taking a first step.

Lala Land’s incumbent dynasty is now making more efforts to engage visitors to toilets, after the Advisory council on the Impact of Mushy Stools (AIMS) submitted its proposals in December last year. But it is opting for a cautious and pragmatic approach for now. It is yet unready to face current serfs who enjoy taking a dump in an assorted freedom of styles and personal expression.

Mr Money said that in order to develop a responsible toilet, all parties, including the toilet administrators and toilet goers, have a role to play. He has however not prescribed the methods of playing while in the toilet. Insiders have anonymously let on, that the elder will soon touch on the proper positions to be used while taking a dump. Unacceptable positions such as males sitting down to take a piss may soon be officially frowned upon.

He said; toilet goers and toilet administrators need to maintain credibility, so that the elder council can enjoy their visits to toilets. Apparently, official farts and dingleberries expelled by elders in the council have gained a sweet intoxicating reputation amongst themselves. After all, elders are paid with bananas of the highest quality, and will thus produce only sweet aromatic excrement and pleasing melodic farts.

Differing opinions are generally labelled as silly and ignorant, due to intake of poor quality bananas.

The senior elder also encourages serfdom to pin notes on the bulletin walls of toilets to praise and generally enjoy the farts and floating islands left behind by visiting council elders, who found time to grace the toilets with their officially aromatic shit. He looks forward to all toilet users helping, to establish and enforce norms of acceptable toilet behaviour.

Mr Money also holds the official Lala Land’s commission of Rear Admittance Officer in the elite navel inspection guard. He has cited his admiration for Singapore’s government and RADM Lui Tuck Yew’s commendable efforts in attempts to control the internet and seeks to use similar policies to police disappointing toilet behaviour in Lala Land. He has also often copied speeches made by the latter for his own benefit.

-Unregulated Free Press.

Life vs Work

Apparently, Nominated Member of Parliament Loo Choon Yong thinks, since Singaporeans aren't spending enough time fucking, to fertilise our women, they should start working longer weeks again.

During the 2009 Budget debate, this very Loo (pun inadvertently intended) tried to flush away what he thought was a turd. Branding the move to a shorter work week by the public sector and then the private sectors in 2004 as an erosion of the Singaporean's work ethic, since he feels we have not improved our fucking skills (or better phrased perhaps as "skills in fucking") in any meaningful way.

The Loo gurgled, "We should accept that as a people our procreation talent is not our forte - nothing to crow about.". Urging the government "to take steps to determine whether our productivity and competitiveness have been affected by the five-day week and to review the policy, if necessary."

Unleashing his own watery stools, he voiced concerns over what he called the "all life and very little work" attitude of the younger generation. Pointing to local newspaper Straits Times reports on how to maximise leave by taking advantage of public holidays that fall near weekends as an indication of an erosion of the work ethics.

With a very typical old generation mentality pervasively found in many of our fathers and local bosses, it would seem work productivity is measured by the number of hours spent in the workplace. Similar to how many loos have a pervasive shit smell.

Many people already spend their off-days at home, working on shit they brought home from the office. I wonder how horny anyone can get when their anuses is choke shoved with that much work. But of course, Loo probably thinks all Singaporeans probably need is a 5-minute poke and cum session (20 minutes or more really is just wasting time and energy with all that grunting and cardiological movements).

I might have added that it could be due to his own personal ejaculative experiences, but I could be wrong.

Perhaps the Loo knows what he is talking about. For all I know, he could be God's gift to women, and can probably fertilise any woman at will, at any given time, in between work. Who knows, perhaps women get incredibly horny and ready to bear babies when looking at him. I wouldn't dare say anything, I'm not a woman and I have never understood them.

Personally, if I were a woman, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't wanna fuck him. But being a man, who knows what women want? Could that be the reason? Perhaps he doesn't want the rest of us to get lucky when he can only resort to self gratification? Just an assumption, and if anyone thinks I'm saying it is so, it is purely misconception on their part. Well, at least that's a form of conception, even if it missed.

All I know is, most of us mere mortals probably need to spend an abundant load of time before our penises even feel the warm breath of a woman's love. Time, which an extra day off on Saturday may not prove sufficient.

We can even throw away Sundays as anything remotely useful, considering many, if not most, poor saps like us spend it cleaning our homes, buying groceries and largely moping around thinking about the dreadful looming Monday. But of course, Loo probably has a maid to do that all for him, while he does his patriotic procreating during commercial breaks on TV. Again, I am only assuming, and I could be wrong. Besides, with so much commercial time these days, our efficient Loo might probably be able to complete his duty and shower too.

So whats wrong with trying to maximise leave by taking advantage of public holidays that fall near weekends, that we might finally actually get some nookie? And may I remind ourselves (yeah, guys, I'm talking about us), most of us probably go back to work with blue balls anyway. Most men who turn up for work on Monday, may have a sullenly frustrated look. Guess why?

Women can have it anytime they want, but us men, well... we are mostly just waiting around for that golden moment. Like hookers in Geylang. And that hardly comes (pun fully intended).

He did try to excuse himself by saying, "I have nothing against our young Singaporeans having fun and partying. But I hope they will work as hard as they play."

All I can say is, when there is too much work, we may somehow find time to play, but we won't necessarily be able to get hard.

Update:
Apparently, the Loo is executive chairman of the Raffles Medical Group. And an ex-staff tells me how they are totally maxed to the core where work is concerned.

Apparently she was always so dried out from work all the time, there wasn't any chance after getting home, that she'd be able to get wet. :P

So, my dear Loo and your fellow rich cronies, you are among the leading causes to Singapore's low fertility rates.