Too Stupid

Terribly politically incorrect I'm sure but there is such a thing as being too stupid. There I said it. These days with our limp-wristed stance on education, people are just so afraid to offer tough love.

After all everyone has impossible dreams - that particular castle in the sky just a little out of reach amongst the clouds. Some people hope to be millionaires. Some people wish to rule the world.

And yes, there are a handful who want to be doctors.

Unfortunately medicine isn't that simple.

And wishing isn't getting. With the surprisingly high attrition rate, there will be a few who just can't make the grade no matter how hard they try. Academic brilliance isn't necessarily a requirement for medical school but there's still a need for at least a modicum of intelligence.

So for kids with barely passable grades, please don't even think about it. Trust me when I say there are many better jobs out there! Geologists for one! :)


Paul : He barely passed biology in school.
Shalom : Time to dig out the torture rack?
Paul : I believe so.
But of course when the government sees a paucity of physicians in the country, it reacts hysterically by literally flinging open the doors to accept each and every medical professional they can find. Much to the detriment of the people.

Look, I don't doubt that there's a shortage of doctors at the moment - or should I say a maldistribution of doctors with most entrenched in the urban areas. But opening the floodgates to every medical school available in the region - including more than a few of dubious quality - just to fill up the doctor : patient quota isn't the solution here. Churning out doctors by the thousands won't help improve our medical services. All it does is bring in terribly inadequate intern doctors into the mix.

Kids who balk at examining patients. Kids who wield a needle and syringe like a wooden mallet. Kids who wonder what's hepatitis after five years of medical school.

Kids who can't even tell me what CPR stands for.

After five years of medical school, that's nearly unforgivable. And pampered as they are with their overwhelming numbers, you can imagine the interminable weeping when we give them the evil-eyed stare. Only a stare since hammering them too much only leads to repeated mental breakdowns I'm told.

And these callow interns outnumber the rest of us by a factor of 10 - so you can very well imagine the inadequate training they will get during their internship. Rather than the mass production of doctors, we should concentrate on improving the quality that we have now.

Otherwise we might have interns shabby enough that you might get a situation like this one day.


Seriously. Not knowing asystole? Now you see why the interns get hammered so much?

asystole
[āsis′təlē]
Etymology: Gk, a + systole, not contraction
a life-threatening cardiac condition characterized by the absence of electrical and mechanical activity in the heart. Clinical signs include apnea and lack of pulse. Without cardiac monitoring, asystole cannot be distinguished from ventricular fibrillation. asystolic, adj.

Silence is Sibyl

Guess I should have known that Scatter-brained Sibyl wouldn't remain out of my life for long. Like a bad penny, Sibyl resurfaces despite how many times she gets kicked to the kerb.

Then again I shouldn't blame the innocent waif - since the real culprit's obviously her sainted mama. Apparently not content with her single botched plan at a shotgun marriage with the unerring help of my mother, Sibyl's Mama has gone one step further by accosting my sister-in-law instead.

Sibyl's Mama : So how is Paul? Is he alright?
Sister-in-law : Perfectly okay I guess.
Sibyl's Mama : Still no girlfriend?
Sister-in-law : Definitely no girlfriend. Doubt he'll ever have one!
Sibyl's Mama : But what a shame that would be. Isn't it about time he got married?
Sister-in-law : Well I'm sure he's quite capable of finding his own partner.
Sibyl's Mama : But some things need a gentle push. What do you think of him with Sibyl?
Sister-in-law : WTF.

Persistent as ever despite the many premarital setbacks, Sibyl's Mama has decided to pull all the stops. Apparently Sibyl's unmarried status at her age keeps her mama awake nights! Wouldn't surprise me if I found Sibyl's Mama camped at my doorstep with her daughter waiting in a bridal sedan chair.


Paul : I'm gay, get it? Homosexual. Faggot. Gay.
Sibyl : Negligible. So how about it?
Paul : Well I do like the princess cut.
Not exactly the proposal I was looking for.

Of course my sister-in-law had been forewarned prior to the phone call. Seems our surprisingly resourceful Sibyl had already tried to acquire information from my hapless sister-in-law before. Can't imagine what prompted the delusional creature to inquire since I hardly paid her any attention when I knew her! Surely I can't be held to blame since I didn't set out any unscrupulous lures, I swear!

Unless buying her one dinner amounted to a wedding proposal.

Note to self - Be as hostile as possible to impressionable girls of marriageable age. In fact bury all manner of friendly impulse if possible. Especially when shockingly tenacious matchmaking mamas are in the background.

And yes, I do need an alliterative nickname for my sister-in-law ( starting to be more like my sister actually ). Ideas?

Growing Pains

Or should I say aging pains instead?

A few months back when I heard a friend of mine complain about rheumatism, I raised an eyebrow. Bloody hell, the sprightly fellow's right around my age! Younger by months to boot! Surely those particularly arthritic symptoms belong solely in the luckless domain of the elderly and infirm. Crotchety granny aches & pains I used to call them.

To hear one of my own peers weep, whine and moan about the painful cricks in his knee, I found myself starting to wonder. Surely we aren't all that old yet! Is it already time to break out the walking cane? I'm far from aging gracefully of course - what with the middle-age spread creeping up - but I'm not headed for the retirement home yet! Took a brisk walk up and down a flight of stairs to check out the old knee and found that mine functioned quite normally.

At least for now.


See! I am very bendy!
Then today another one of my friends - whose identity shall remain unknown for the present - comes to me with a prescription for hair regrowth. Seems he had gotten an urgent referral from someone stricken with a similar disease. A bald spot?

Friend : I wonder whether this hair treatment would work as well for my hair loss.
Paul : How can you have hair loss? You're a kid!
Friend : The Propecia referral came from an even younger friend of ours.
Paul : Out, damned bald spot! Out, I say!

And this depilated fellow is younger than me by a couple of years!

Thankfully I've been spared some of the worst. Though I'm obviously going to check my scalp for balding spots on a daily basis from now on.

Thinking Out of the Book

The Book. Since the Book literally dropped from the heavens ( depending on your own version of the story ), it has given strength to the weak, speech to the voiceless and wealth to the poor.

On the dark side however, the Book also lends itself to quite a lot of misinterpretation by those who would pervert such information for their own nefarious purposes. Fiendish creatures who wouldn't think twice about using the little religious knowledge they have to impose their own despotic archaic rules upon the less enlightened.

And there's simply no challenging these sly fiends since they always rush back to thump the Holy Book when in doubt. And the meek simply shiver at the very thought, cowed by the very idea of heavenly reprisals. After all, most of us aren't brought up to question the Book.

You'd expect those around us - at least the more learned fellows - would be able to think, question and ask! Or at least hope they would.

Zaharah : Yes, I would follow the book without question.
Paul : So if the Book lay a command to kill your best friend, you would? Without question?
Zaharah : I'd have to think about it.
Paul : Think about it? So it could be a yes?
Zaharah : Yes.

The fact that Zaharah had to stop only for a split second before wielding the unforgiving ax left me a little unnerved. No doubt she would have butchered her bosom friend with barely any remorse.

Well maybe a single tear after the brutal act.


Bet they wouldn't ask anything even if we told them to dance Gaga-style on the temple steps!
And I bet Zaharah would have followed the unquestioning lemmings to leap off the nearby cliff if it had asked her to. Quite a terrifying idea. Just a few words from a Book would drive someone reasonably sane to commit an act akin to murder? How much more to stir the zealous hearts of the less tolerant? How very easy it would be to use the Book as a tool to stir the unthinking masses into a mindless jihad!

But seriously. Is it really too much to expect these gullible folks to think out of the Book? If God didn't want us to think, why would He have given us a brain? If He had wanted unquestioning obedience, He would have created simple robots instead.

Do not ever think that faith is weak if it questions. Even a little child learns to ask when it first speaks. Far be it for me to quote from the Book but ... for God has not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

Think. Question. Ask.

Slow Food Takeout

And what a mistake it was to ask Nervous Nancy for a ride to the airport.

Though the anxious filly has calmed down somewhat at the workplace - what with the bitter disputes with her colleagues - and turned near responsible, I have to admit that Nancy still has a problem with time management. More like she has a problem with time. Procrastination and tardiness seems to be her worst faults but after a couple of lectures, she has been trying her level best to overcome them.

Though I doubt Nancy can do much about her tendency to dawdle.


Paul : You gotta move faster. Otherwise the patient's gonna be in the mortuary by the time you react!
Nancy : But I'm moving as fast as my flats can go!
Paul : The patient with the knee amputation hobbled to the toilet faster than you did.
Nancy : But he had a walking cane!
Yes, she moves like a slug.

Blood pressure's falling, alarms ringing and nurses wailing - and yet our Nervous Nancy seems perfectly oblivious to the wild commotion. There she goes, our phlegmatic heroine, plodding along her way impervious to the warning signs around her. Nothing seems to penetrate her foggy haze of abstraction. As I zip through the work at hand, our Nancy seems to move almost in slow-motion!

Which is why it was a mistake letting her to drive me to the airport.

Believing that impatient doctors usually gulp their food down when time's running short turned out to be misleading when it came to this particular female. Since Nervous Nancy takes exactly two hours to tenderly nibble through a cucumber sandwich. Crumb by crumb. Even with the clock ticking, she seemed perfectly unperturbed and continued to peck at her her leisurely brunch.

Paul : I've checked in but there's less than half an hour to the plane taking off.
Nancy : I'm eating as fast as I can.
Paul : That's what you said an hour ago. Gulp it down now with the drink before I force-feed you with a straw.
Nancy : I'm trying!
Paul : Move it, move it, move it!

Even under the threat of violence, she only seemed to speed up by a near imperceptible amount.

I won't even talk about how slow Nancy drives. Swear a blind octogenarian limping on a bum knee overtook us.

The David Beckham Syndrome

You know the type.

That gorgeous hunk of male perfection - handsome, wealthy, intelligent - impossibly blessed in almost everything. Well, at least till Mr Perfect opens his mouth. Just when you're imagining suburban bungalows, golden retrievers and platinum rings, he speaks. Then everything comes to a painful ball-crushing halt. All the naughty wet dreams you imagined fizzles into thin air at the sound of his ...teeny reed-like voice.

Yes, that's what you call the David Beckham Syndrome. Oh so pretty to look at - but oh so highly annoying to be close to.


Heh heh heh!
As it turns out, the new doctor Marty McFly falls squarely into that particular category. Quite amazingly adorable but with one horrid flaw. Not that he squeaks in a high-pitched squeal only canines can hear - the boy actually speaks in a lovely mellifluous tenor. That isn't the problem here.

The problem is Marty's young. Seriously young with all the giggles, pouts and head shakes associated with extreme youth. Sure he appears perfectly professional at work in his suit and tie, almost carries off the competent doctor look.

But when Marty's out and about in town - or out for dinner with me, he giggles. Persistently.

Paul : So how are you liking the city? New place eh?
Marty : Well it's okay I guess. Heh heh heh.
Paul : Have you picked a specialty yet?
Marty : Don't know leh. See how lo. Heh heh heh.

Thought I was talking to Beavis & Butthead for a sec. So much so that I thought of bopping him with a rubber hammer. Certainly not the usual mature behaviour for a self-possessed physician. Hard to believe he's gonna be out there saving lives!

Then again, maybe I should just gag the fellow. After all he's still plenty cute enough to look at.

The Freudian Boyfriend Slip

Denial's not only a river in Egypt. The currents are obviously running quite swift over here - and my mother's knee-deep in it.

You remember my pitiful attempts to come out to my mother? Lately I have been vacillating between telling her outright and letting her figure it out with visual / verbal cues. Even my taciturn brother has grown disgusted seeing my amateurish fumbles when the subject crops up. Rather than watch frustrated from the sidelines, my brother - and sister-in-law - have decided to take a more pro-active role in outing me instead.


Paul : My brother said he's gonna help.
Calvin : Uhh... how?
Paul : No idea. Just smile and nod.
Hence the surprising turn of conversation last night during dinner. Don't ask me how they managed to steer the conversation that way.

Brother : Paul does walk pretty fast. How do you catch up?
Sis-in-law : Certainly tough having a boyfriend like that.
Calvin : Certainly is.
Mother : Definitely.
Paul : Hmm.

It was definitely not whispered sotto voce.

Hell, it was loud enough to carry to the next table. For a momentous second the word boyfriend hung in the air like the proverbial pink elephant. With blinking neon lights. Even the usually unwitting Charming Calvin looked as if he'd been clobbered with a sledgehammer.

Yet my seemingly obtuse mother carried on as if nothing had happened.

So what will my brother do then? Who knows. Maybe they'll make colourful banners next.

The Cold War

There is a sort of uneasy peace these days.

In the aftermath of the peace talks between the warring combatants, things have been calmer somewhat. Rather than come to verbal blows, they have agreed to resume some measure of professional civility. With the occasional disgruntled sniping under their breaths.

Of a much softer decibel these days of ceasefire though.


Teamwork people!
At the moment all of them have signed the proposed treaty - though I'm not that optimistic to assume that the girls will be sharing a peace pipe anytime soon with all their unfortunate past history. A pity they all don't seem to be able to find happiness at work. The job's relatively manageable, their bosses aren't particularly malignant and the nurses are simply lovely.

Yet there's a palpable feeling of discontent in the atmosphere. Though I'm slowly starting to see a common source.

Just today I heard Ebullient Eve saying.

Eve : Well I'm not complaining but you'll notice that someone - who shall remain unnamed - comes just a tad later than the rest of us. Perhaps I should emulate her.
Paul : Like the lemmings do?
Eve : Not to mention there are folks who leave work without completing their duties. I've written it down in my book.
Paul : Should we jail them? Off with their heads perhaps?

Starting to see a pattern actually - that inevitably leads to one person. Turns out this is not the first time our wily Eve has checked up on the rest of her hapless colleagues. And subsequently tattled to their superiors. Starting to think Eve might be working part-time for the moral police. Wonder if she actually notes down in a little black book every terrible misdeed done to her.

Wouldn't be surprised if the conniving minx has a list for us as well. Poor Nervous Nancy doesn't even stand a chance.

Really hope the new girl does better.

Step Into My Web

Said the spider to the fly.

With me being the particularly predatory arachnid. Though the McFly wasn't at all repulsive.

Fresh from the end of his grueling internship, Marty McFly's the latest addition to our roster of resident doctors. Hard not to notice him with the giggling nurses all buzzing about his resemblance to a certain Korean actor. And yes - despite all my preconceived theories that male doctors are generally frightful - I gotta admit Marty's pretty cute and all that.


Hello, I'm the new doctor in town.
Especially when he accidentally dropped by my office, all fresh-faced, eager and perfectly suited. Thought he was a delicious breakfast treat delivered to me.

Marty : Hi, I'm the new doctor here.
Paul : Sure you're in the right place?
Marty : Well they did send me here. I'm supposed to join you, I think.
Paul : Join me? How refreshingly forward. For that, I'd better close the door I think.
Marty : Oh no, I certainly don't mean that heh heh. Just meant that I'll be under you.
Paul : You certainly will be.

Sigh. Of course nothing so wild. Though Marty did get a tad lost on the way to the office.

Seems the mischievious clerks at the office sent him on a wild goose chase. Due to an administrative fumble, Marty was sent over to a different department while the next medical officer has been promised to us. Unfortunately not another strapping bloke - but Marty's affianced wife who comes to join him in a bit.

Oh yes, Marty's straight and married. Bloody hell.

Hmm. Still I wonder if I can somehow make a switch. Have him transferred to us instead? Perhaps claim that I prefer a better yin yang balance in the rather overwhelmingly female department? At least he'd make some nice eye candy.

The End of Men

Earlier this year, women became the majority of the workforce for the first time in U.S. history. Most managers are now women too. And for every two men who get a college degree this year, three women will do the same. For years, women’s progress has been cast as a struggle for equality. But what if equality isn’t the end point? What if modern, postindustrial society is simply better suited to women? A report on the unprecedented role reversal now under way— and its vast cultural consequences.

Seemingly spelling the end of men from an evolutionary context. Seeing the sensational title of such an article, most men would either get painfully defensive - or even worse, shrug it off altogether as so much hogwash.

Judging from the comments made, more than a handful won't be able to maintain focus long enough to get through such a long, wordy article. Even when our local pundit wrote about the issue, quite a number of the male commenters decried the length of the article. Obviously they would have preferred pithy tweets.


Whaddaymean I gotta get a decent job?
Take a look at our local universities and it's easy to see the above trend. Far more obvious when it comes to the Malay population with pastel-coloured tudungs outnumbering the boys in our local campuses. Quite a worrying trend since I wouldn't want to work in a single gender department.

Seriously. It doesn't work well. The proof's right here in my own overwhelmingly female department where estrogen rules! Well apart from me that is. Rather than form a solid, enduring sisterhood, the girls prefer running their own combative cliques instead.

Really, a mixed gender department would be preferable - though at the rate boys are dropping out of high school, I don't think we'd be able to find all that many male doctors in the future. Even worse when the boys these days are content to have slackers and losers in the media as their role models. So buck up boys!

When I look at my nephew and niece, the differences become quite apparent. My niece Chatty Carmen picked up a book even way before she could read, flipping thjrough the pages with apparent interest and wonder. Once Carmen managed to ascertain the complex symbols as meaningful words, she has turned into quite a junior bibliophile, gobbling up dozens of fairytales and fables in a month. With such a heightened imagination - and frequent exposure to the written word, she's even started doodling little stories of her own in her charmingly misspelled writing.

Even one of her uncle setting up home with a Charming Calvin. Hmm.

While her rambunctious brother hasn't picked up pen and paper as yet. Rambling Raoul seems far more interested in playing with his Tonka trucks at the moment. And though he tries to emulate his ambitious sister as much as he can, Raoul stops short at reading and writing. Children's literature obviously holds very little appeal.

He's already 3 by the way.

Worrying?

Beyond the Sea

If someone told me a few months back that I'd be standing out in public singing karaoke, I'd have thought them hallucinating on K.

I mean, aren't crappy crooners the reason why impromptu bar fights actually break out? Only so much a rowdy gang of inebriated thugs can take with a croaking frog on stage before broken beer bottles and dismantled chairs start flying.

Thug #1 : Bloody get off the stage, you talentless cow!
Thug #2 : The fucking pitching's all off!
Singer : How dare you insult me!
Singer's sugardaddy : Don't say that about my precious girl!

And in the midst of all that outraged machismo, a drunken melee ensues. All because a misguided wannabe rock star took to the stage.


No encore?
So yeah, I try not to endanger myself by hogging that particular spotlight. Not in public anyway.

But my friend Gregarious Gaia assures me that it's not so. Seems the gal has given an unwilling captive audience a couple of impromptu serenades - and miraculously escaped unscathed each time. Of course the fact that Gaia's a curvy six-foot goddess might have helped weigh the scales in her favour. If I'd braved the stage, I'd probably be hot-footing it out moments later with enraged boos, broken plates and rotten tomatoes following in my wake.

But when we both heard about the existence of a boat bar out in the bay, we just had to check it out. Our party girl Gaia especially. We were forewarned that the venue's just a little out of the way, quite a bit dodgy and obviously meant for the less discerning locals.

Imagine your average Chinese junk with dozens of indigent immigrants squeezed cramped into a sardine can and you'd have the bar! Rickety rattan tables with vinyl covers and bowls of Ngan Yin peanuts to munch on while the television screen played the odd Cantonese drama serial. Appropriately lit up by dozens of traditional oil lamps - the ones backlit by images of sultry Shanghai sirens of old!

And oh yes, they had a karaoke machine.


What would a Chinese joint be without that important prerequisite! Since the place turned out to be somewhat empty after a rainstorm, we took advantage of the situation ( emboldened by a potent mixture of alcohol and seasickness ) and commandeered the lone machine.

Only to find it woefully lacking in English songs. Apart from Celine Dion, Michael Jackson and a couple of boy bands, we didn't have much else. So to the chagrin of the reluctant listeners who slowly trickled in, Gaia and I took the stage to belt out some Backstreet Boys and Westlife. Thankfully the burly patrons were constrained to keep their weapons outside.

Otherwise being thrown overboard for inadvertently butchering a Top 40 hit would have been the least of our problems :)

Braving the Frontier

Once upon a time, there was a young city slicker who finally opted for a change, heeded the call and decided to pack his bags for the frontier. Tired of the hustle and bustle of city life, he wanted to return to a simpler way of life. Finding a piece of paradise out at the edge of civilization, he started to build himself a home. Braving marauding bears, dangerous rattlesnakes and even the odd hedgehog, our aspiring hero slowly shed his citified ways, adopted denim and even developed a reasonable tan.

All while ekeing out a living in the frontier.


I wish I could quit you!
Doesn't spend too long on his cold and lonely homestead though before he's desperately writing back for a mail-order husband to join him. Demands are plenty of course - some fancy clothes, a decent cabin and a wildflower bouquet! But after several seasons of planting crops such as corn, carob and cotton, the passing mailcoach leaves behind a gift. One sexy ranch hand ready to start a new life with the hero.

Love blooms and they're soon spending every evening dining together at the ring of the dinner bell.

Two cowboys in love on the frontier? Certainly not my autobiography about life in the back of beyond. Sounds like the extended What If version of Brokeback Mountain but it isn't. It's actually an episode of Frontierville. Part of the game involve completing missions such as clearing the grassland, raising the chickens - and oh yes, getting married. Seems the game actually allows the option of choosing a spouse of the same sex.

Gay marriage on Facebook! Hell, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Who knew! If that isn't growing acceptance of homosexuality, I don't know what is.

The naughty possibilities seem endless! Imagine visiting your friendly yet studly neighbour to plow his fields! So many choice ripe cherries to pluck after all. :) Imagine the horror of the religious fundamentalists as they panic hysterically over the homosexual agenda.

But that obviously doesn't interest me as much as the next step. After all traditionally what comes after marriage? Wonder if the game allows child surrogates / adoption!

My One-and-Only Football Weekend

Unlike many of my more athletically-inclined peers, I've never liked football.

Somehow the idea of more than a dozen grown men chasing mindlessly after a fleeing ball never actually drew my interest. Despite the fact that quite a few of them looked quite fetching in short shorts.

I much preferred the rowdier game of rugby where the main idea was to whale on the enemy till they gave up. Or even hockey where we whaled on the enemy with sticks. Not exactly Aussie Rules but those were the days the coach tossed us something vaguely rounded - and the entire class just ran amuck over it. Obviously I ended up plenty black-and-blue with bruises back in school.

Which makes football even less fascinating since the seemingly fragile footie boys wince piteously at the teeny-tiniest injury. The veriest scratch on the thigh seriously. Played up for the benefit of the sympathetic referee no doubt.

And believe me I've looked hard at their perfectly toned legs :)

Of course as I grew older - and started accepting my wildly skewed sexuality, I found my previously rabid aggression levels receding. Hence my graduation to the milder sport of volleyball though I still had a tendency to spike balls really hard. My other classmates stuck as die-hard footie fans - and I willingly participated every couple of years as the bookie ( forever praying hard for a major upset in the game ).


Maybe I'd have converted into a fan if this happened more often!
So how did I end up going to a sports bar on two consecutive nights to watch football?

Blame my ISO.

Not much you can do when a rare visitor comes asking for instant football coverage. In high-definition no less. Hell, I don't even subscribe to the regular sports channel! Fortunately the town's seemingly football-crazy so there's no shortage of venues playing the games live on widescreens. Just had to follow the stink of testosterone and sweat to find a sports bar to go to.

Can't say I've enjoyed the game any more than I did before but I surely did appreciate making a few bucks off the unexpected upsets this weekend :)

One Night Stand Shirt

Certainly an object no footloose fancy-free bachelor can do without. Especially one who intends to do the dirty.

We all know the rules of the game. When it comes to a one-night-stand, we go in - and then go out. As soon as the act is done, preferably before breakfast is served if possible. But most of us don't have the luxury of coming to work late - and that hasty walk ( sprint? ) of shame through a strange neighbourhood usually leads us straight to the office.

Where we have to try our best to bury all evidence - lest we draw the curious gazes of the office gossips.

So what do we do? After all we fellows know that regular slacks can last a few days at the most - barring some unforeseen accident at the cafeteria. Socks and shoes are no problem as well. Briefs / boxers can be easily dispensed with if needed. Running about commando for one day is still somewhat acceptable.

But the shirt. Especially the working shirt that's a uniform for us average joes. Few bosses would allow an employee to strut about with his shirt wrinkled, mussed and untucked. Every single crease, dirt and smudge would appear on the unforgiving lines, practically a screaming red alarm announcing the sordid details of the night before.

So yes, you do need a One Night Stand Shirt.


Sandy : No, no, I'm a good boy I am!
Like the one hanging incriminatingly in Slim Sandy's car. Just waiting for luck - and that fortunate fellow - to come knocking at his door.

Paul : And what's this?
Sandy : A work shirt?
Paul : Hanging here by its lonesome on a weekend?
Sandy : Just in case.
Paul : It's a One Night Stand shirt, isn't it?
Sandy : Umm... no...
Paul : Umm... you're lying?
Sandy : No... no... I'm not...

With Sandy's fair cheeks flushed a flattering pink, he doesn't make a very convincing liar. Still, at least he's practical. No doubt he has a ready toothbrush and prophylactics tucked neatly into the front pocket!

Bo Peep and Her Black Sheep

Not surprised the particular Bo Peep I know lost her black sheep.

During my weekend back up north, I managed to catch up with a few of my cousins - the notorious Richie Runt included.

Every family has a big black sheep after all. Well, a runt in his case. Falling short of the academic of his other perfectionista cousins, Richie has descended into a path of flunking grades, juvenile truancy and gambling dens.


Richie : So this is how you're gonna keep me out of trouble, cuz?
And who could blame him with a flighty mama like that! Came up to me with happy, happy news, practically clapping her hands with glee.

Bo Peep : Ooh, my son Richie has turned over a new leaf!
Paul : Sure it's not the other side of the same leaf?
Bo Peep : Oh so funny you. I meant that he's changed for the better. Studies harder, concentrates more.
Paul : Good news then.
Bo Peep : Especially since he moved down a class.
Paul : He moved down a class?!
Bo Peep : Yes, far too many notorious gangsters in the class above. So many thugs you won't believe. So he just had to move.
Paul : To a lower class?
Bo Peep : Yes, the headmaster suggested it.

Good God. Richie Runt can't even top a class of uncouth two-bit hooligans? Troublemaking boys who spend their time skiving off from class to apply their brand of juvenile delinquency to the unwary suburbs?

And here's the mother so terribly pleased over his supposed 'achievement'. No wonder Bo Peep lost her black sheep way back in elementary when Richie started hanging out with the wrong crowd. Soon enough he's out baa-ram-ewe-ing with the rest of the big, bad, black flock.

Despite having quite a smart-aleck mouth, Richie isn't all that bad a kid. Just needs a little nudge every now and then to set him on the right path. Isn't it time someone brought him back into the fold with a hard disciplinary rod?