the entry about douchebag-ism much

we all like to think that we are better than the next person; nary one would ever think of himself as a, for the lack of a better word, shithead. but admit it, from time to time, we mess up and end up being the epitome of a sorry loser. what are the tell-tale signs of being a douchebag you say? well, read on.

1. whilst some things could go hand in hand, texting and conversations just do not. it's hard to have a decent conversation when half the time you're looking down at your mobile and rapidly thumbing away. whilst you're trying to impress the other party that you're capable of multi-tasking, the implicit fact to them is, you're just a douchebag. (i'm guilty of that too.) douche-meter: 2 out of 5

2. movie talkers are a classic breed of what i would call, platinum douchebags. they express their thoughts out loud or revel in revealing the plot-lines, or explain the storyline of the movie to their fellow movie-mates. here's some examples: "ok, here's where julia's going to take the knife and stab him from behind.", or when watching a comedy, *points* "haha! that's so funny!" douche-meter: 3 out of 5

3. while some looks are a precarious fence-sitter between fashion fineness and fashion flop,

over-the-top embellished prints on shirt and trucker caps courtesy of ed hardy are clearly way off the spectrum when it comes to fashion faux pas. if you're caught like a deer in headlights donning these sequined, campy graphic gear and think you're cool, you're in line to be the next giant cosmic douchebag. douche-meter: 3 out of 5

4. somewhere between fluffy light-heartedness and extreme hedonism, there's an entire caste of people who, for a better reason or not, choose to use animal/cartoon/scenic pictures in place of their profile pictures on social networking sites. whilst you might be clueing to others you're as cute as elmo or like a summer breeze in spring, a profile picture is called a profile picture for a good reason. spare us the agony of metaphorical decipherment of your level of douche-ism. douche-meter: 2 out of 5

5. oh-so-haughty elitists ought to be shot in the gonads. period. they think everyone is beneath them when in fact, they really need to be looking hard at themselves. if you subscribe to such ideology, congratulations, you have the hallmarks of being a major douchebag. douche-meter: 5 out of 5.

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the entry mons

i'm never that much of an epicurist, so when it boils down to fine-shitez-dining, i am pretty much alicia silverstone circa clueless days. cutlery placement, goblet codification, and the pretentious petite nosh displayed in an aesthetically albeit inexplicable composition, i had to play pretend throughout the entire session.

just to backtrack a little for the misinformed, i was invited to a posh restaurant for a luncheon, exorbitant et al, because, well, i had the providence of being the achiever in the top three producers in prudential. so, it was meant to be, that i plumped my ass at one of the fanciful eatery du jour, fifty-three, where they served modern euro cuisine. setting-wise, it was perfect, but i am never much of a conversationalist when it comes to such affairs. so my pictures did the talking. here's some:

exquiste feed at fifty-three with colleagues

no, it's not a footrest, but a bag rest for the ladies.

did i mention it was pretentious?

ever wondered what it's like to be caricatured? i've got one of myself and my friends vellene and hock yong. courtesy of chivas!

bugs-bunny-meets-elvis-coiffure

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the entry marches on

reservist has loomed on me; doomsday. every other day for four straight weeks, i am sent to the cursed parade square at safti military instituate, marching on for endless hours under the sweltering sun, with "dig in", "watch your front"-esque commands constantly barked at us by the paunchy regiment sergeant major wielding his willowy peystick (the juxtaposition of it all).

it's all in a day's work (well, 15 to be exact, including the rehearsals i have to sit through) for the saf day parade, a "highlight in the military calendar and serves as a reminder of the importance of national defence". bah, i say. bs! highlight this though: the numerous fainting spells spotted in the regiment wings. soldiers were falling out of the parade rehearsals, both young and curmudgeonly, dropping like flies due to the immense heat, no thanks to the afternoon sun. the fool that i am, refused to and soldiered on, through gritting teeth, and thus endured a 12-hour march that starts from 7 every morn'. hopefully i won't pass out due to over-exhaustion or some of my neighbouring comrade's feta-smelling body odour. hence, this is a plea from those who, like me, have perfectly functioning olfactory systems, to those who exacerbates the pungent air situation: shove a sweat stick under those pits!

when this entire pervy ordeal has been squared away, i vow never to don on the uniform ever. all i need now is a jolly-good excuse that could extricate me from the yearly callbacks. think, des, think!

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the entry about death by chocolate

sometimes when i feel a little manic-depressive/passive-aggressive/bi-polaric or experience anxiety issues, chocolate is the solution de facto. so meanwhile, when everyone else is chomping on organic foods or exercising the proverbial atkins, i am bueno-ing!



sober reminder to oneself: avoid two-faced people at all costs from now on.

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the entry about loathsome office ladies

of late, business has been dwindling down the spiral that it has led to a shrinking gamut of guzzling venues choices. dining at the local hawker centre would be the next best cost-efficient solution over restaurants charging exorbitant prices with pretentious amounts of food.

stepping into a hawker centre in the business district area during mid-lunch time and the one thing i have to gripe about, which is one you may share possibly, is that you have one huge cesspool of big, fat office ladies lumbering around the premises.

i don't even particularly like office ladies that much, even more when you see a whole lot of them. if you were to examine closely, some of them are really unpleasant looking. you can spot an office lady a mile away, what with their louis vuitton monochromatic purse, or the likes of it, clutched under their pits and the typical shabby looking office getup, congregating in groups of three or four. 

and if you have ever witnessed how office ladies eat, you'll also notice that they are always equipped with the art of holding crumpled tissue in one hand whilst still aptly maneuvering the chopsticks and spoon. from time to time, they use the same (same! gross!) tissue to wipe their nostrils or push their specs up (if they are bespectacled) with the back of their hand in the midst of their mindless conversations with fellow comrades. their cumulative decibel level, which is almost ear-crippling, are pretty much like their existence: redundant.

can you spot an office lady when you see one? plenty to go around.

a lot of them don't smell too good either: the fat ones usually have a urine and stalely clothes combination. the worst of the lot, and it equates to a large group of them, are those who use trinkets like packets of tissue to reserve seating space, while trudging around to decide which food they would like to shovel into their mouths.

get this: more than half the seats in the locale were peppered with tissue packets of varying design and content. it is an appalling display of hawker etiquette, if you were to ask me. couldn't they simply get one of their portly counterparts to sit at their decided location to reserve the seats instead of everyone flocking to find food? i know, for one, that i wouldn't want to sit at a table where an office lady sits. it would be an outright abomination.

proof much of their atrocities?

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the entry that smells bad

it is almost the end of my reservist training and one lesson i have regrettably managed to take away from this eight-day, military-morphing session is how foul-smelling one can be when donning on the army uniform. a fellow specialist of mine (name not to be disclosed, but i do hope you know who you are for the sake of future aromatic-smelling pleasantries) created a severe level of distress for my olfactory system over the week when we were in-camp together.

for someone who's sweat pores seemed to be working in over-gear, i am sure that my pot-bellied comrade has been informed of the crime of odor that he perpetually commits. yet, the pungent smell emits from him irregardless. it was so bad, at one time, i didn't have to turn around to know that he was behind just because i caught a whiff of his funk.

i would have overlooked it had we been out in the fields camping overnight for a couple of days, but the odor (i could envisage toxic, greenish odor with the hazard symbol of the skull-and-crossbones billowing from him) came when he was dressed in the green uniform for just a couple hours. and i am also fairly confident that during those hours, it was pretty much inert activity. the question thus lies upon how did he ever manage to be a tromping sewage?

i guess at the end of the day, it all boils down to negligence of hygiene. maybe i should buy him a sweat stick. or make that a dozen.

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the entry four days into a resolution

update. it is day four and i am suffering from muscle sores now that my daily gym visits have been set in motion. i still notice the obtrusive paunch, but i can almost faintly visualize the top two abs muscle tiers when i suck in my gut hard enough. alas, the illusion lasts only as long as the duration i can hold my breath.

my diet has been giving me periodic food cravings, but i managed to successfully deny my palates any food that tasted guiltingly terrif. carb portions has been savagely cut to a quarter of my usual taking and all my meals are consumed before eight in the evening. the theory, according to my friends who have the worthier washboard abs, is that food consumed after that oft do not get enough time to be digested and thus gets stored as fats. i also imposed the no-snacking rule, whereupon if said ruling is flouted, moi puts a dollar into stay-off-the-fats piggy bank. current value of money-grubbing swine stands at zero dollars. more good news for me.

now all i have to do is to just persevere for another eighty-six more days of the grueling regime, stave off savory, unhealthy food and simply load up on un-delectable, nutritious nosh. sounds easy enough, only if it's in theory. in the meanwhile, i hope i do not collapse before that. all the way, carpe diem!

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the entry of anonymity

the good thing about being anonymous online is that you can be the biggest loser and flame at any possible thing or anyone that irks you. the bad thing, though, is when it comes around the other end and you bear the brunt of it.

i have been receiving anonymous comments from the same poster (i gather so, because the suspected comments have a distinct literal clumsiness about them) that can only be classified under the following categories. 1. derisive 2. diabolically derisive. while i have tried to display insouciance by not posting it, i must admit its kinda getting on my nerves.

so mr. incognito, whoever you ever, please have the balls to identify yourself. let me have an inkling of your identity, so i can swoop down and whoop your ass real hard. thank you.

p.s. i shall leave the moderation on still, but i will let all comment posts slide.

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the entry with nuggets of gold

admit it already. you've done it before and you know it. but never, never would you ever want to be seen in public doing it like a deer caught in headlights. it is frowned upon, but it feels good when the deed is done. despite its ignominy in most modern cultures (save olympics host '08), this habit has never seen more prevalence at public spaces in recent days.

how would i know? let me recount my story.

it was a sunny, glorious tuesday afternoon. and there i was, slowing my car to a halt as the traffic lights turned red when a blue coupe sidled up next to me. the driver looked in his mid-30s and had the typical nondescript features. it would have been a cursory glance had i not noticed him jamming his little pinkie inside his nose. perhaps his nasal harvest was lodged in hard-to-reach niches, but the way he kept going at it from all angles was enough to send vomitus climbing up my throat and i was this close to using the sun's rays to blind my eyes.

it's totally understandable that there's an instinctive urge to do the occasional nostril overhaul, but i'm sure there are subtler ways to achieve this. The basic manners is the use of a tissue or some disposable fabric (note: except the sleeves of one's shirt). or at the very least, run to the nearest restroom and blow it out by the basin. doing the conspicuous finger trigger, on the other hand, is socially unacceptable and irresponsible. think of bacteria and germs!!!

so the next time you decide to do a little booger hunting, think hygiene. think tissue.

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