Deuce deuce

22 years just came by,
22 years and you wonder why,
22 years flew by close,
22 years tho' not smellin' like a rose,
22 years tho' is just a number,
22 years but it ain't no blunder,
22 years full of venture,
22 years in my picture,
22 years with some pain,
22 years worth of gain,
22 years brought me tears,
22 years showed me cheers,
22 years you gotta be bold,
22 years experience hold some gold,
22 years chics in the row,
22 years I need some flow,
22 years you gon' get dazed,
22 years I'ma hit it in your face.

Thus it ends with brewed malt... for now

Talk about a long winded week. Recap.

Monday, 10th
Woke up half blurry as usual, still tasting the aftermath from the road-side burger which I whored for. Pissed. Squeezed a fair amount of toothpaste into my mouth and brushed my stained teeth by the window, voyuering chics jogging in the park opposite my house, jiggling their assets. Showered. Shaved. Dressed up. Kissed my bolster goodbye and head to the office.

Sorted some working papers out and left for a half-day seminar. More like a food-marathon. Morning coffee with finger food were served. Cakes and shit. 2 hours later, its a coffee break. More food. This time, fried noodles, mini-pizzas, cheese cakes and loads more. 2 hours later. Lunch.

-Now thats only a half-day seminar. People in this part of the world live to eat. We eat on every occasion. We dine in weddings. We dine when our kids turn a full month. We dine when our kids turn 1. We eat when they turn 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7... 30, 40, 50, 65. We eat at their funerals too. During festivities, we eat all day long.-

Got back to the office, bloated. Tried to lift my 3 tonne arm. Failed.

Tuesday, 11th
Repeated the same shitty morning repertoire.

Sorted more paperwork. Left for a full day seminar. Another feasting galore.
Menu: 1 morning coffee
2 coffee breaks
1 sit-down lunch

Another bloated day.

Wednesday, 12th
Again, the same repertoire.

This time, not seminar, but a meeting with a client.
The agenda: Proposal of the most efficient business structure for client's restructuring.
And boy was I bombarded with loads of question. This is what happens when your boss is out of town and you got to handle a meeting by yourself.

Thursday, 13th
Repertoire, repertoire, and a hot chic jogging in the park.

3pm - Deadline for client's annual report. And I'm still compiling the balance sheet items. I'm so screwed.

Friday, 14th
There wasn't any hot chic jogging in the park, much to my despair. The one thing that brightens my day, not there.

No deadline, no seminars. But a pre-graduation cocktail party. Smiles, small talks.

The food, to die for. Roast lamb, beef *something something*, salmon platter, fettuccini cabonara etc wine etc wine etc.

Went home, bloated.

Saturday, 15th
Up earlier than usual. There wasn't any time to spot the hot chic in the park. Last minute polishing of shoes. Pissed. Showered. Shaved. Suit up. Time for my 4-button suit to play its part on me.

Got to Hilton just in time. Graduation ceremony. No, I'm not the one graduating. I'm the slave for the day. Quite a well paid one though. Again, refreshment is served.

A friend was whining all the way through the function, as she was "converted" as one of the VVIPs, "forced to make small talks with old geezers", as how she puts it.

Ended up in the cinema with her and another friend, for Into The Blue. Paul Walker for the lady, Jessica Alba for the 2 men.

Iced vanilla latte to end the day.

Sunday, 16th
For the first time in the week, I get my well deserved sleep. But was then woken up by some a**hole who screams through the phone. Wrong number. What the f*ck.

Spent the day doing nothing. Apart from eating.

Evening comes, a wedding reception. More food. Cold plate, sharks' fin, duck stew, pork stew with bun, baked salt prawns, brocolli with shrooms and ended with apple pie. Not to mention the free flow of beer. I think I downed half a jug before even the first dish comes up. Few bottoms up with the groom and by the end of the evening, I think I forgot my own name for a moment.

Which goes to say... Beer... Good....

Corporate Gigolo

There was that sound in my head this morning. I was on my bed. I tried to ignore it. Closed my eyes. My hands could not hold still. The urge. I tried to fall back to sleep.

It was calling me. I tried to fight it off. Be strong. Resist temptation. "Come...." it calls.

I finally succumbed to the devil in me. I followed my hand.

I don't usually do this on Sundays. I do not flip my planner on Sundays. Its something I practise in order to make me feel that my world does not revolve around that blue pvc-skinned book. I try not to make my life feel so routine.

And I just freakin' realised that my whole week ahead is packed. And I mean PACKED. Not a single day next week, or this week, for the matter, is going to be a normal 8 to 5 in the office. I have 3 seminars, a meeting, formal function and a dinner. Not to mention the deadlines I have to meet this week. I'm so not going to like this.

I shall buy myself a treat ahead of the insane week I'm about to have. Excuse me while I whore myself to get myself a road-side burger.

To Suit Or Not To Suit, That Is Not The Question.

I thought I wouldn't need a new suit anymore when I decided not to attend the hypocritical graduation. Perhaps I was meant to contribute to the fashion industry this time. Fate. But I ain't got no fate giving me no money to suit up.

First thing on the agenda on this morning's meeting : I need you guys to get your suits ready.

And the function I am to attend is next Saturday. One bloody week.

Plan A : Made a call to my tailor right after my meeting. He'll have to check with his schedule if he's able to cater for my short-noticed request.

Plan B : For contingency's sake, dropped into Tun Jugah to hunt for my suit after lunch. G2000 to be precise. There was only one decent-not-too-old-age-inducing suit left. New stocks would only arrive on the 15th. How very convenient. The sales representative talked his way into making me try out. Try I did. He even threw in the tie. The suit fitted almost perfect.

However, it didn't quite fit in in my budget department. It costs a bloody 599 bucks, inclusive of slacks. Was tempted, but thank God I was alone. It may have been different if there was a woman with me. A diagnosed deficiency known as impulse-shopping.

The only reason why the G2000 suit did not digest well with me was due to the fact that it would have been a waste. Come on, this is Kuching we're talkin' about. Even if you apply anti-perspirant on every single inch of your body, you'd be getting cock-stares from the public. "Poser" would be the word used.

So I decided to pop in my tailor and he was able to squeeze my request into his already tight deadlines. Had my measurements done, my 4-button suit is now in process and ready for collection by this Thursday.

And its costs only 360. But it had better fit.

Leeches R' Us

Graduation Invitation Confirmation Deadline: 9.00 p.m 7th October 2005

Its now 9.42 p.m and I've not confirmed. It means only ONE thing. I ain't goin'.

Why you ask? Weren't you pretty much excited bout donning the robe?

'Cos they charge a freakin' huge amount for a simple ceremony. It's not only the guests I invite that has to pay, I have to pay the same for my sorry a**. Haven't I paid the f***in school my fees? After owing me a graduation for almost 2 years, they're still digging my pockets? Now they're coming after my a** for some more? I say "KISS MY A**".

You ask how much? They're charging me 45 filthy bucks for the tickets, which is inclusive of a high tea. The robe and hood rental would cost me another 138 bucks, of which 100 is a refundable deposit. That is 83 freakin bucks for receiving an empty toilet-paper-roll-makeshift scroll. And the tea, it has to be one hell of a tea, 'cos its supposed to make you high. I'm not complaining on the high-inducing tea part though. And there's the graduation potrait package with a minimal of 50 dough. And for some of you rich poser c*nts out there, 133 bucks may be pubic hair for you, but it means cupping the left tits of a hottie in a club for me. Why left, I personally don't know. I'll just leave you to figure that out.

And I ain't even donning a complete graduation attire. It don't mean sh*t if its without the hood.

And I guess I won't be too complete without either my wide-screen tv or my set of contemporary-modern furniture.

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Before I forget, I have to give credit where credit and attribute is due. The picture of the beer on the sandy beach was un-informedly obtained from LaineyLashes. I would like to "uphold" her for her creativity. I hope she doesn't mind and re-considers sueing me for piracy.

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I just sent a friend down to the airport for her vacation to smog-gets-in-your-eyes-and-nose KL. Kuching's very own Mini-KLIA is still in progress and I have to yet to see any resemblance with the oversized KLIA.

I hate airports if it ain't me who's leaving. I just have something going on with the air around it. I have this urge to just buy a ticket right there and then. The air must have been chanted, or worst, cursed.

No wonder Malaysia Airlines is doing so well. We Asians love red. I was wearing a red T. The red LED on my dashboard of my ride blinks in red, begging me to put my belts on. The executives in MAS love the red to the extend that they posted their performance figures in Ferrari Red.

I say, WELL DONE.

Or better yet, KISS MY A** YOU FREAKIN' LEECHES.

Incompletely Complete

And just as I thought I've been forgotten, the past just caught up with me.

The most unexpected phone call rang into my chep-a** cordless phone in my crib. It was from a certain institution with one of the most profoundly known educational politic in this highly developed town (or some would like it to be referred to as a city). And I DO stress on the phrase "highly developed".

It was an invitation. No, it wasn't an invitation to an opening of a R'n'B club. No, it wasn't an invitation to collect my flight ticket to the states for me to watch Lakers and Sixers play. Nor, was it even an invitation to witness a melanine-pigment-deficient man dig a hole in the ground to build the tallest building in Sarawak. Right... Malaysia Boleh. More like the "The White-A**-Boy Can-NOT" (sing it in the Carrier tagline theme). White-boy who wants a share of everything. Punk a**.

Okay, it was just an invitation to a graduation ceremony. It is time for me to finally accept that empty scrolled-up piece of paper. For a higher-diploma equivalent course I undertook and completed 2 years ago. Talk about lag. Another feat of the spirit of Malaysia Boleh. Of course we can. With all the dim-wits for the society's representatives, of course we can.

So, its time for me to don the robe. Minus the square hat, sadly.

Wait, that bloody institution did not organize the event. The governing body's local office did. Leeches. There'd better be lucky draws. Or at least "A" lucky draw. Draw me a plasma tv and I'd give them the best testimonial. Okay, I wouldn't ask too much. I'd just settle for a 21" wide-screen tv... Or a set of contemporary-modern furniture would do too...

Get me those and I shall feel relatively complete for a while...