I don't get it

My brain is filled to bursting point with things I don't get right now. And that sucks balls although I haven't the faintest idea how to suck balls nor the sensation of it being sucked.

Here's some of the things that I don't get. 

I don't get how, as humans, we can treat our fellow man with such little respect. I don't get how people can buy $1,000,000 homes and cars while people are starving to death. I also don't get how Britney Spears can sing. Bob Dylan too can't sing but he's different.

I don't understand the lack of general knowledge and I know I don't know everything but its almost scary how little my generation knows about the past. I also don't get our election system and how politics works over here. I don't get why marijuana is illegal and the ketum leaf (mitragyna speciosa) is not.

I don't get global warming. Who to believe on this subject is beyond me. I know the earth is warming, the carbon count is higher and all that shit. The weather pattern of late is screwed. Is a catastrophe about to happen? I've no fucking idea.

I don't get people blaming their addictions on the makers of the product. The tobacco industry didn't force that cigarette down your throat. McDonald's didn't put a funnel in your mouth and shove their burgers down it. We have choices. For better or worse, we make them. I smoked and then I quit. I don't know what made me quit and I still don't get why I started in the first place.

I don't get homophobia. Some of my buddy's are gay while some of the girl friends dig girls on girls. Love is fucking love, people. Stop trying to define it. Love is errrrr...abstract.

And I don't get how Hannah Montana can fucking sing in the fucking nude while swinging on a wrecking ball.

Movie

I just watched 'The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo". It is most definitely about a girl with a tattoo.

A dragon tattoo.

That is all I remember.

Hiatus corpus whatever

It's been over a year now.

But fuck that. I was just being lazy and shit.

A few people I know, both relations and acquaintance passed on. One drowned while another overdosed on some crazy drugs. At least the former was doing what he loved. Don't get me wrong, the other guy loved the drugs but he once told me it was his only way out.

The year's almost ending and here I am still planning that trip to somewhere, anywhere.

This could work this time. The trip. To somewhere. Any where.

To The Walls With My Balls

Call these guys what you want.

Ol' school, retro, whatever but I'm now listening to this German outfit, Accept's - Balls To The Wall - and that song, in my humble opinion rocks to the power of 10. This is one of those catchy tunes where you get it the first time and if you didn't, then you're either tone deaf or just a plain stupid.

But before you even bother to go you tube this magnum opus, it goes something like this - balls to the wall, balls to the wall, you'll get your balls to the wall, maaaan...balls to the wall, balls to the wall.

Baaaa......lllllllllllssssss.

I mean, how difficult is that? Baaaalllllllssssss...

It is also a good song on a rainy day. And its raining here where I'm at.

And the stupid case I'm suppose to do is conveniently adjourned to Thursday. Fuck you, Plantiff lawyer!

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So I was over in the Philippines just before Christmas and that was nice.

It was also my first and definitely not my last because I'm so fucking going again later this year. There isn't much to say except that it rocks like that song, balls to the motherfuckin' walls, kinda. I think Thailand is all good but I find them ladies who speaks English with that definitive slang to be, somehow more appealing.

The big city was nice. Nice because stuff were cheap. But shit, it was a weird to walk into a 7-11 and be greeted by a nice smiling security man strapped with enough fire power to take down a small fucking bank. But I suppose in a country like the Phil, that sort of security detail is necessary. And you just have to do the pork run. I swear to G, how they make pork taste so good there is just mind boggling.

And I also did Fields Avenue. Balls to the motherfuckin' walls. Again.

Here's a tip - when doing Fields Avenue, make sure you have lots of lollipops in your pockets. It works with the street kids. There's a lot them. Never throw money. Give lollipops instead.

Speaking of lollipops, the Lollipop Bar just down the road probably has got the most square feet of fun than the rest of the bar I walked into. And I got acquainted with Mary Grace from one of the islands. I don't know if that's her real name but who gives a shit. And she was very nice. The way she danced, I mean.

Anyhow, its really quite dreary watching them girls do the pseudo-dance and they look even more disinterested to but hey, how often do you get to see them girls do-that-thang, yo?

Pictures, you ask? Are you out of your fucking mind?

That is all.

Normal Shit

Even if I could, they wouldn't appreciate it.

You know whats not normal? I'll tell you whats not normal.

Fucking.Valentine's.Day.

Fuck you!

Yeahhhh, that's the way to start this shit. Its been awhile.

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Ok, so someone just now told me I was not normal.

Errr...so here's what I think.

With me, normal is having a good shit after I had my first cuppa joe in the morning. If I didn't feel it was good shit, the day wasn't going to be good. And this idea of what "normal" people do hasn't applied to me in so long that I've completely lost touch with the whole idea of errrr...what is normal. I don't wear what is hip and I donn't fuss with my hair. I wear the shit that I like because I like them.

I dig action movies, comedies, animation and entirely too many TV series for my own good. I used to like reading comics and my favourite still is Spiderman. I also write shit. And I hate it when strangers touch me. I, on the other hand, like to touch. Them ladies especially. I do live on my own terms because I was educated through interactions with other people that trying to make them happy was only going to fucking kill me. I know who I am and I am very good with that.

The only normal that I care about is normal for me. It's simple. The things that make me happy are the things that make me happy and I refuse to make apologies for that. So fuck you.

There are things that I am comfortable doing and trying, things that I can be convinced to try, and then there are things that if someone tries to push me into doing, they'll find out what my fucking brown ass looks like while I walk away.

I find people who thinks that other people are strange to be not normal. I think people do this because they want to be more comfortable with themselves and reassure themselves that they're okay, that they're right and that they're normal. That isn't my job. I'm cool with being polite and civil, but I don't need to fit your conformity. It won't help me. It won't soothe me. And, in all honesty, it would never work, it would just feel like wearing a too-tight pair of jeans after wading through a fucking lake in them. And wahts up with the tight jeans I see these days anyway? I can't make them see the ocean of mega stories in my head, the characters swimming to the surface so that I can know them, the poetry that dances through my neurons. The hugeness of my fucking ego.

That would be like me shitting a bad shit on a Tuesday morning.

The Marching Band

So some buddies flew over to the West side, put on a yellow T and marched in the streets of the nations capitol on Saturday ala the Arab Spring do. One got hyped up too soon, donned it a day earlier, got spotted while having breakfast in a coffeeshop and was arrested by the police. Stoopid. He should have worn it on Saturday instead because the whole idea was to wear it on Saturday and flaunt the colours. Obviously, he wasn't in the crowd on marching day.

He is, stoopid.

They say yellow is now the new black or whatever that is suppose to mean. Thousands took to the streets over the weekend and while marching and singing some songs by Seals & Crofts, they got their asses tear gassed and shot with water canons. And they enjoyed every bit of it. Yes, that's what the boys gloated over coffee just now. They fucking got supa high from being gassed and eating fucking salt. It was all worth it they said. The searing pain in the eyes and shit. To be in the heat of shit, to stand and be counted, they said. All in the name of fair election, fundemental liberties and rights of the people and whatever. Good on ya, boys.

And then some buddies went to that stupid festival thing over at the village-of-a-few-cultures-by-the-beach to generally get drunk and high on shit. I was informed it isn't as intense as before, whatever that also means.

I stayed home, watched a few episodes of The Family Guy and drank half a bottle of rum from Barbados while getting periodical live updates from friends over from the West side and from the boys over at the village-of-a-few-cultures-by-the-beach on what was going on. I couldn't care a flying fuck but the rum was good. From some gay mountain in Barbados or something. But it was good.

I think I want that yellow T shirt. The one they wore at the London march. Okay, maybe they didn't march but stood around in some corner or something.

I still want that yellow T shirt.

JC Day

You can say what you want about JC and his whole "turn the other cheek" mentality as it applies to neck crushing badasstitude but the second coming of Big Jay Cee in chapter 19 of the awesome Book of Revelation treads a fine line between being intense, hardcore and the totally insane.

In St John's account of the Apocalypse, the big bossman of all King of Kings busts out of heaven on a white horse, wearing robes drenched in blood and shooting a huge, double edge sword out of His mouth.

He smites the Armies of Darkness with the mouth blade, chokeslams the devil and his minions into a burning lake of fiery brimstone and then rides off into the sunset leaving behind nothing but a bloody field of bird-eaten corpses.

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That is totally awesome.

Talking Whisper

"Do not interrupt me. I am talking to my whisper"

Awesome.

Papa Rock

A few weeks ago and that would be weeks before that nice wedding by the beach front I was at recently, I flew in to the West Side on an impulse. I say on an impulse because I woke up that Friday morning and so decided to take the afternoon flight out. And that I did.

On my arrival, I did not know where to go or what to do but I knew I had to have some beer. And that I had. Lots of it. At that Changkat road place. Fucking expensive.

Later that night I met 'Papa Rock'. And he was doing what he knows best. And that is to be on the street and to busk. Been doing that for years now. He's wheelchair strapped. Got into a nasty road accident years ago and busted his back. He was, as usual with his sidekick, Pak Man and another new adition to the crew. Usually it was just the two of them. I didn't get the newbie's name. But he was also cool.

Pak Man saw me first and stopped midway of 'Have you ever seen the rain?' by CCR. Fucking Credence Clearwater Revival, yo!

He went, "Hey! Mat Sarawak!".

And I went like, "Yo!".

And Papa Rock went all emotional going, "Where the fuck have you been all these years?!!"

And I just went like, "Yeeeeeooooow..."

Because it was way past 12 midnight and I had been drinking like for the past 9 hours before that and I was like, drunk.

I first became acquainted with Papa Rock when I was very young and in college. He used to sing on the streets around Central Market and each time the pair were there, I never missed like, just sitting and watching them sing. I sort of became a groupie and their bitch or something like that and was sometime asked to sing along with them. Which was fun.

So that night, we sang. Lots of CCR, a couple of stuff your dad listens to and a few M. Nasir's. We didn't do bad. In an hour or so, we got like close to 40 bucks.

A nice girl with a pair of good legs came along much later and asked if she could join too. She sang and she sang very nice.

She was nice.

And in local news, the communists are making a come back!

Yaaaaay!

Twenty Three

I just finished "To Kill A Mocking Bird".

That would have to be my fourth time. Don't be giving a fuck what you think, but it be good. Yes, it be good.

And like Loki, I think Mr. Ewell is so misunderstood. Who the fuck is Loki, you ask? Go fucking google it you moron!

And apart from being notified recently that I now have 23 followers on this thing, I was at a broseph wedding last week which I thought was beautiful. I just checked on the 23 and found one of the blog owner is a suicidal Indonesian dude. He's got it all planned and even tells you how to do it the right way.

There is another one who claims he's from Eye-ran and exclusively dedicates his blog in celebration of naked women with huge boobies from that part of the world. I spent a good hour browsing through his page, if you must know. I think I'm already liking Ah-med a lot.

And there's this other one who I think is a French dude because everything is in French. I browsed through his pages and most of the photos were of dismembered body parts of human and animals. Lots of black and red. Very gory. And a few angry humans with beady eyes. I think he's an artist.

And there are also two blogs promoting the wonders of yoga. Not nice.

The rest are either in some language I dont understand or just plain fucking boring.

Oh, and the couple that just got hitched? They did their matrimonial enslavement vows at this boat club by this nice beach and there were lots of beer and Japanese girls. One looked a little like Miss Hikaru from a distance.

And then someone I know died last night.