Monday, October 24, 2005
Chinglish Speak
I found this on msn spaces. Its good, so here it is. All credit to the dude who wrote this.
Chinglish Rule: How to count from 1 to 10 with a Chinese accent.
1 day I go 2 climb up a 3 outside a house to peep.
But the couple saw me, so I panic and 4 down.
The man rush out and wanted to 5 with me.
I run until I fall 6 and throw up.
So I go into 7 eleven and grab some 8 to throw at him.
Then I took a 9 and try to stab him.
10 God he run away.
So, I put the 9 back and pay for the 8 and left 7 eleven.
Next day, I call my boss and say I am 6.
He said 5, tomorrow also no need to come back 4 work.
He also asks me to climb a 3 and jump down.
I don't understand, I so nice 2 him but I don't know what he 1.
Chinglish Rule: How to count from 1 to 10 with a Chinese accent.
1 day I go 2 climb up a 3 outside a house to peep.
But the couple saw me, so I panic and 4 down.
The man rush out and wanted to 5 with me.
I run until I fall 6 and throw up.
So I go into 7 eleven and grab some 8 to throw at him.
Then I took a 9 and try to stab him.
10 God he run away.
So, I put the 9 back and pay for the 8 and left 7 eleven.
Next day, I call my boss and say I am 6.
He said 5, tomorrow also no need to come back 4 work.
He also asks me to climb a 3 and jump down.
I don't understand, I so nice 2 him but I don't know what he 1.
0 Comments:
Don't just stand there with your mouth open... say SOMETHING dammit!
Life, Love and Generality - 2
Never expect anything. Keep hoping, never expecting. You’ll never give anyone the chance to let you down.Objects of desire are best left unattained. You’ll never have to find out the awful truth.
Learn from the mistakes of your parents. They teach best when they aren’t aware they’re doing it.
Never give a woman power. Seriously. There is no gender equality; women are just superior even if they don’t look it. Men are simple beings. If a guy messes with a guy, he gets in his face. Women don’t need to mess with you. They have the annoying tendency of getting in your head without trying.
Love is a completely abstract quantity and as such, highly overrated. Sex, on the other hand… People who say sex is overrated are just picking at sour grapes.
Also, hate sex is always good sex! Damn, I’d break up with someone, just for that! Yeah, this is me now…
Freud was absolutely on the money. Everything is Sex and Sex is Everything. Look at your own life and you should have all the proof you need. Otherwise, you’re just…not right.
Every generation thinks that it has reached a previously unimagined pinnacle, only to be proved wrong by the next. Eat constant evolution.
Moral fiber is a relative term. It ain’t about being honest so you can end up in Heaven. It’s about doing whatever’s necessary to do right by the important people in your life, even if it means ending up in Hell.
Heaven and Hell are right here on earth.
Damn that Murphy and his motherfcuking law! Murphy definitely rules Hell!!
If you have time to think before you die, you’ll realize that you’re in the most serenely peaceful moments of your entire life. Now that’s worth living for.
Notice that I’ve started a Song-of-the-Week in each post of late. Not a song that I’m listening to right now, not something that influenced what I’ve written but just something that I choose to listen to more than others.
Read Part 1 of this series: Link
Low Millions – Eleanor
0 Comments:
Don't just stand there with your mouth open... say SOMETHING dammit!
Friday, October 21, 2005
The Real Deal
Notice how I disappear so easily these days? No, I haven’t been any busier… haven’t been any lazier either. Haven’t watched any movies, haven’t gone out a lot, haven’t been studying too much, haven’t been sleeping too much, just where have I been?
I’ve been right here, but probably still far, far away. Limbo, it is. Not here and yet, not there. Detachment through lack of accomplishment, it is.
I haven’t been idle; I’ve written 23/25th of a song and about half of a poem, but I abandoned both just as I was readying them for unveiling. Where does the enthusiasm go?
I began the song in beautiful flow…lyrics gyrating forth obscenely like concubines onto the harem floor that was my paper. The next morning I took a look at it and…naaah.
The poem: my first serious attempt at poetry (not rhyme) since I was 6 or 8 or something like that. It started strong, verse with meaning, read-between-the-lines stuff. Next morning…naaah. “Too juvenile.” I say. Ok, it was titled Vampiric Fantasy, but don’t read too much into that.
But, that’s all. I get no joy from this anymore. There are times when the urge to write is just so compelling, but I pick up the pen and…nothing. Not a word emerges and on the off chance that ink does flow, more likely than not, it’ll just end badly like the fruit of my three weeks past. What I’ve labeled as my ‘Songs’ aren’t really songs at all; I just want them to be. They’ve got lyrics but then, who doesn’t, huh? No, they just rhyme nicely and that’s about it. You couldn’t even call them poetry. And poetry? Who am I to delve the depths of profundity? Mindless profundity at that! Time to ‘fess up Rocky…I can’t really write.
I haven’t written anything mildly interesting lately and I don’t think I could be the columnist type, with a finger in everything and Bush jokes spewing out my butt crack. See…unfettered crassness gets me nowhere.
Everybody has a gimmick, an angle. I thought writing was my thing. Guess I was wrong. I have nothing left. At this rate I should just dress like a tree and stand by the road. That should complete the picture of invisibility.
But hey, I didn’t say I was going anywhere; Freedom of Speech and all that jazz…even if I can’t write well, I can still write. So keep suffering my onslaught, for I’m nevergone…
Hah! Take that Backstreet Boys!!
The most terrifying thought I’ve had lately is this: The only way I can get anywhere in my life is if I stop trying to enjoy it.
I’m so afraid this might be true.
The Who – Baba O’Reilly
I’ve been right here, but probably still far, far away. Limbo, it is. Not here and yet, not there. Detachment through lack of accomplishment, it is.
I haven’t been idle; I’ve written 23/25th of a song and about half of a poem, but I abandoned both just as I was readying them for unveiling. Where does the enthusiasm go?
I began the song in beautiful flow…lyrics gyrating forth obscenely like concubines onto the harem floor that was my paper. The next morning I took a look at it and…naaah.
The poem: my first serious attempt at poetry (not rhyme) since I was 6 or 8 or something like that. It started strong, verse with meaning, read-between-the-lines stuff. Next morning…naaah. “Too juvenile.” I say. Ok, it was titled Vampiric Fantasy, but don’t read too much into that.
But, that’s all. I get no joy from this anymore. There are times when the urge to write is just so compelling, but I pick up the pen and…nothing. Not a word emerges and on the off chance that ink does flow, more likely than not, it’ll just end badly like the fruit of my three weeks past. What I’ve labeled as my ‘Songs’ aren’t really songs at all; I just want them to be. They’ve got lyrics but then, who doesn’t, huh? No, they just rhyme nicely and that’s about it. You couldn’t even call them poetry. And poetry? Who am I to delve the depths of profundity? Mindless profundity at that! Time to ‘fess up Rocky…I can’t really write.
I haven’t written anything mildly interesting lately and I don’t think I could be the columnist type, with a finger in everything and Bush jokes spewing out my butt crack. See…unfettered crassness gets me nowhere.
Everybody has a gimmick, an angle. I thought writing was my thing. Guess I was wrong. I have nothing left. At this rate I should just dress like a tree and stand by the road. That should complete the picture of invisibility.
But hey, I didn’t say I was going anywhere; Freedom of Speech and all that jazz…even if I can’t write well, I can still write. So keep suffering my onslaught, for I’m nevergone…
Hah! Take that Backstreet Boys!!
The most terrifying thought I’ve had lately is this: The only way I can get anywhere in my life is if I stop trying to enjoy it.
I’m so afraid this might be true.
The Who – Baba O’Reilly
0 Comments:
Don't just stand there with your mouth open... say SOMETHING dammit!
Monday, October 03, 2005
Seasonal Spirit
If you’re a Christian and maybe even if you aren’t, chances are, at least one of your happy childhood memories will involve Christmas. Now I’m not much of a Christian, in fact the only reason that I put down “Christianity” in the blank space after “Religion: ” is because its what my parents practise. If things were left to me…well that’s a discussion for another day.
Anyway, as I was saying, kid memories of Christmas. I remember how cool it felt when I was cast as King Herod in the school nativity play. Herod’s the only guy who’s sitting comfortably, in no less than a throne, mind you. And he gets to gesture majestically and generally look down on everyone else. Hey, even Jesus didn’t get to do that!
It’s a different matter that I was a shepherd the next year.
The carols were actually what would get me excited about Christmas. I guess it’s the same for every kid. Even if I knew Christmas was two weeks away, I didn’t feel it till I heard the music. I loved Jim Reeves’ “Twelve Songs of Christmas” but the folks insisted on playing Boney M’s Christmas album. Whatever it was, it brought a warm and fuzzy feeling with it and for nigh on three weeks no one got tired of the same old songs everyday.
That was like a lifetime ago.
Over the years Mr. Reeves crawled into the back of a dusty drawer with Boney M in hot pursuit. They were replaced by some Goan crap and my enthusiasm went out the window. But that wasn’t the reason why I stopped waiting for December, why I stopped fighting for a chance to decorate the tree, why I didn’t care about the presents anymore. After Christmas came the two weeks’ refractory period which included the momentary high and low of New Year’s Eve followed by New Year’s Day. Then came the rest of January, when people began to go back to their real selves and warm and fuzzy left on vacation. As soon as I concluded that Christmas was just an excuse for people to indulge themselves, all sentiment was lost. “Hey, it’s Christmas!” could be an excuse for anything from bumming cash off a friend to extra servings of a cholesterol filled dinner to a quickie right after church. And all the while people try and walk the roads with a serene air as if they’ve temporarily found inner peace. (Except when they’re doing last minute shopping) So where does the serenity go during the rest of the year? Why aren’t people just as nice and neighborly, February through November?
Now I begin to cringe around the second week of the twelfth month of every year as I feel the almost mandatory air of cheesy seasonal cheer set in around me. I can still stand some of the songs, but only some. So now the month is just cold, the holiday has grown old and I can’t remember a recent December when I haven’t been bitter on the inside.
On a related topic, I can’t stand it when I read, or worse, hear the word “Xmas”. Why doesn’t anyone have the time to use a slightly longer syllable in “Christmas”? It’s the correct word! Recently I found out that “X” was actually used as a symbol for Christ in some old times. I will not even consider the possibility that the average syllable slicer is aware of this, so I will just continue to be pissed off at every one of them.
One tequila, Two tequila, Three tequila, Floor
Fiona Apple – Across the Universe
Anyway, as I was saying, kid memories of Christmas. I remember how cool it felt when I was cast as King Herod in the school nativity play. Herod’s the only guy who’s sitting comfortably, in no less than a throne, mind you. And he gets to gesture majestically and generally look down on everyone else. Hey, even Jesus didn’t get to do that!
It’s a different matter that I was a shepherd the next year.
The carols were actually what would get me excited about Christmas. I guess it’s the same for every kid. Even if I knew Christmas was two weeks away, I didn’t feel it till I heard the music. I loved Jim Reeves’ “Twelve Songs of Christmas” but the folks insisted on playing Boney M’s Christmas album. Whatever it was, it brought a warm and fuzzy feeling with it and for nigh on three weeks no one got tired of the same old songs everyday.
That was like a lifetime ago.
Over the years Mr. Reeves crawled into the back of a dusty drawer with Boney M in hot pursuit. They were replaced by some Goan crap and my enthusiasm went out the window. But that wasn’t the reason why I stopped waiting for December, why I stopped fighting for a chance to decorate the tree, why I didn’t care about the presents anymore. After Christmas came the two weeks’ refractory period which included the momentary high and low of New Year’s Eve followed by New Year’s Day. Then came the rest of January, when people began to go back to their real selves and warm and fuzzy left on vacation. As soon as I concluded that Christmas was just an excuse for people to indulge themselves, all sentiment was lost. “Hey, it’s Christmas!” could be an excuse for anything from bumming cash off a friend to extra servings of a cholesterol filled dinner to a quickie right after church. And all the while people try and walk the roads with a serene air as if they’ve temporarily found inner peace. (Except when they’re doing last minute shopping) So where does the serenity go during the rest of the year? Why aren’t people just as nice and neighborly, February through November?
Now I begin to cringe around the second week of the twelfth month of every year as I feel the almost mandatory air of cheesy seasonal cheer set in around me. I can still stand some of the songs, but only some. So now the month is just cold, the holiday has grown old and I can’t remember a recent December when I haven’t been bitter on the inside.
On a related topic, I can’t stand it when I read, or worse, hear the word “Xmas”. Why doesn’t anyone have the time to use a slightly longer syllable in “Christmas”? It’s the correct word! Recently I found out that “X” was actually used as a symbol for Christ in some old times. I will not even consider the possibility that the average syllable slicer is aware of this, so I will just continue to be pissed off at every one of them.
One tequila, Two tequila, Three tequila, Floor
Fiona Apple – Across the Universe
2 Comments:
ADITYA, at 6:00 PM, October 05, 2005
woah!!
one mother of a comment!
good to know...
one mother of a comment!
good to know...
Don't just stand there with your mouth open... say SOMETHING dammit!
"trumpets sound, the angels sing ,listen to wat they say,the world i happy bj boy because its christmas day...."
does dat ring a belll....hahahha
seasons greetings...
ciao