Cousin Knows Best

Once in a while, you'll have the familiar old tale rehashed - the troubled teen gets exiled to a foreign place only to find kind but firm guidance under the care of a supportive adoptive family. Just the sort of sweet heart-warming tale you'd expect Hallmark to expouse.

Dan from Little Men anyone? Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights? Perhaps the Fresh Prince of Bel Air? Or something even more current, the OC?

I've always wondered where they got such abominable crock from since I doubt any rebel without a cause would fall into line that easily without breaking a rule or three. The black sheep listening obediently - with nary a protesting squeak - to his adoptive father's gentle, well-meaning advice? Father Knows Best? Seriously, I'd expect the brooding fella ( aren't they always brooding grim? ) to punch out the patronizing old guy before toeing the line.

And if their own family couldn't control their unruly behaviour, how could they expect someone else to perform that miracle? Doubt anything less than daily spankings ( and not in a kinky manner ) and endless brainwashing would achieve that particular goal.

Seems I spoke too soon. You see, not all my cousins are perfectionistas who march straight into the professional careers of doctors, lawyers and engineers.


Won't you take me home, sir?
There's always the occasional black sheep. Back up north, I have a juvenile delinquent of a cousin who frequently plays truant to patronize gambling halls ( disguised as cybercafes ). Any surprise that his scholastic results scrape the bottom of the barrel? Maybe you've seen him. Goes by the name of Richie Runt. Lil unprepossessing midget of a runt with a big snarky mouth - that I wouldn't be surprised had gotten him more than a few black eyes from the schoolyard bullies. Probably a dunking in the toilet too.

But I'm not laying the blame entirely on the gap-toothed tween.

Obviously eager to be rid of her parental responsibilities, his flighty new-age mama suggested that Richie come over to stay with us. Me and my brother. Though she said it in a half-joking manner, I could see the truth in her possibly inebriated eyes - and found myself simply shell-shocked. Made it sound like an everyday thing to have a child just handed over to the care of someone else.

Though I am starting to agree that she might be an unfit mother.

Flighty Mama : Oh, Richie should be transferred here. I'm sure you both would be great examples for him to follow.
Paul : You've gotta be kidding me.
Flighty Mama : Well maybe. But it's a good idea, right? He certainly wouldn't run into trouble with you watching over him.
Paul : You seriously think he's gonna bother a whit about what his two staid older cousins say? He's gonna tell us to fuck off.

Of course my serious-minded brother - always in the testosterzone - would have walloped Richie if the runt had dared sass him that way. Me, I'm a gentler soul and I don't hit. But I'd torture in slow devious manipulative ways.

Now wouldn't that be a tale made for the movies? Paul In Charge? The Manny Diaries? Hopeful writers would have you believe that the orphaned runt would blossom into a studious, respectable gentleman all in the space of one eventful season ready for the ball ( shades of My Fair Lady? ) at the grand finale! In truth, we'd probably be yelling ourselves hoarse trying to get Richie Runt to behave while spending the weekends bailing him out from juvie.

Of course this story would be different if the poor scruff looked like Benjamin McKenzie ( or even my hot Australian cousin ). I'd be helluva more accomodating that's for sure :P

My Milkshakes

I've always found it curious that the my friends, the Lushes don't wear more revealing clothes at work. At work I see far more Laura Ashley frocks than Versace glam. Not talking about shocking the stuffy seniors with scandalous gold-sequinned minis but perhaps just a modest slit up to there or even the occasional tastefully revealing neckline! Doubt that would outrage the moral code of our practitioners.

Paul : So why not a short short skirt to work? The coats would cover them up.
Fiona : The male workers would stare at us in a disgustingly lewd manner.
Sarah : Think drooling dawgs.

Never walked a mile in a lady's stilettos - well not figuratively - so I wouldn't know how being ogled and yet feel utter helpless would be like.

But today I finally caught what they meant.

Imagine randy leering uncles with their gaping fish-mouths and drooling chins. And I wasn't even at the secret neighbourhood go-go bar - I was at an immigration office! And the poor victim was an underaged nymphette who astonishingly had the glorious D-cups of Dolly Parton. And though our Lolita was dressed far from seductively, her frilly peasant blouse could only do so much to disguise nature's blessed bounty.


I'm talking here! Eyes to my face!
Certainly brought all the 'boys' to her front yard since it was quite obvious that the much older men around were eager to appreciate nature. Obviously the current fasting month - and her relatively juvenile age - wasn't enough to give the aging pervs a valid reason to look away red-faced. Easy to understand how they get all excited over the allegedly provocative schoolgirl uniform.

Look I have a tendency to ogle as well - though I try my level best to be somewhat discreet. But the pecs I drool over belong to gym-built fellas who would have no need at all to fear me physically. Come on, they could crush me with their ham-sized fists quite easily. Hell, maybe even a thick finger or two.

But I guess it's a whole different scenario for the girls. Especially a younger ingenue trapped with a group of older men. So how did our poor Lolita feel having her bountiful bosom stared at like fresh grade-A meat dumplings just off a rack? Can't say since the schoolgirl buried her burning face - and what she could of her generous endowments - under a local daily.

Shocking Thoughts

Just the other day while I was watching a trio of gung-ho medical students run about the ward searching for lumps and bumps, I chanced upon a sudden ventricular fibrillation on the general monitor. Having students about seemed reason enough to enact a tense, dramatic situation guaranteed to trump the medical dramas on telly. Fortunately the nurses were quite eager to lend a hand. So there I was calling for the crash cart while starting resuscitation on the unfortunate patient.

Thankfully for my aching ( aging! ) back, there were eager younger volunteers around to help out with the resuscitation.

After the event - yes, the patient survived due to my recently googled SCREAM techniques - I had one of the students telling me that I looked uncharacteristically serious while performing cardioversion on the patient.

That would be the exciting electrocuting the patient bit you see on the telly.


Lexie : Whoa, that was impressive.
Paul : Hur hur.
Of course that innocent statement had me smiling. Seriously? God, if she only knew half the thoughts going through my head! Now that would be even more shocking than 360 Joules of electricity!

Hmm... wonder if the fibrillation's precipitated by a heart attack or by some electrolyte abnormality. Potassium?

That's the first. Now that's the usual scenario most doctors would have running through their heads while preparing the paddles ( dripping with gel! ) for cardioversion. After all there's an urgent need to hack at the root of the problem. But then I also have some of the more unorthodox thoughts as well - hence the need to keep a straight face.

Hell, could they prepare the amiodarone any slower?
I wonder what I'll have for lunch today. Noodles? Rice?
Fuck, was that some blood spurting! Damn, there goes my silk shirt!
God, where are the cute medical students? No junior McDreamys? Are they keeping them in storage somewhere? Then again, it's a weekend - I bet the cute ones are partying.

And the worst.

Damn, wish I had a sworn enemy I could place under the paddles. Would be kewl to see him twist and shout.

Monstrous, I know.

The Other Side of Queerdom

If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, talks like a duck - it's a duck.

But as we've recently come to find in Malaysia, not everything's that simple. Slick lawyers can be mistaken for something else entirely. So can rampant homosexuals for that matter.

X : I fantasize about men. I have crushes on men. But I'm not gay.
Paul : Huh?
X : Well I don't have sex with men.
Paul : Huh? So that hand on my crotch bit was purely an accident then?

But let us not jump to conclusions yet.

So how would you define a gay man? Is it by the thought or purely defined by the act? By definition, homosexuality refers to sexual behavior with or attraction to people of the same sex, or to a homosexual orientation. As a sexual orientation, homosexuality refers to having sexual and romantic attraction primarily or exclusively to members of one’s own sex.


You think I'm gay?
So if a fellow has the occasional lustful thought without acting on the supposed sin, would that make that fellow gay? I would think not.

But if it occurs on a regular basis without abating, I think that would be just cause for suspicion. The thought counts. Since otherwise if the homo definition only extends to those who have indulged in backyard schoolboy buggery, I'm afraid quite a number would have lost their pink passports a long while ago.

And that includes the closeted virgins out there. Not to mention those not receiving their anal dose regularly.

Makes sense actually. No wonder after a certain age, you'd find gay men nearly extinct in the country! Since most -if they're not put out to pasture without their weekly buttfucks - either repent, revile or revise their tactics! Repent by getting married to the nearest willing bridezilla. Revile by taking an aggressively homophobic stand instead - perhaps even opening a reformation camp for despairing fags. Or otherwise revise their tactics by making haste to leave the country for pinker pastures.

But that's all me. Some people equate homosexuality with the act of sodomy by itself. So rampant in our papers these days that it's a matter of time before they have a raunchy show-and-tell article on sodomy. :)

For those curious about visiting the other side of the matter just take a look at what Afiq has to say about gay muslims. Not that I'm commending him for his point of view but I'm glad that he has put forth his ideas in an articulate, non-judgemental way while somewhat tolerating ( sort of! ) the mores of the unrepentant sinners. Quite a refreshing take - out of the mouths of babes - far from the usual rabid militant curses I get from the right-wing conservatives!

Babes in Toyland

Channelling the stereotypical crytic asian ever ready with a handy saying, Charming Calvin recently came up with this - he claims that our behaviour at 3 will provide a window to our aged selves at the age of 80.

Owing to my approaching senility, I can barely recall even my primary schoolyears - apart from brief snapshots of sepia-toned memories that I half wonder whether I clipped from weekly reruns of the Wonder Years.

But I bet if I could look back, I'd find myself making something. Search around the attic and you'd find one of my dusty home projects. Always the arts and crafts fella even back in kindergarten - my busy lil hands making up DIY projects, drawing caricatures and building castles with the wooden blocks. Not forgetting creating mayhem with my endless prankster tricks. Quite a few tiny tots out there in the sandbox who got punked by me, I'm sure.

Learned pretty fast to cover up my tracks though so I rarely got caught. Anyway who would have suspected a sweet attentive pupil like me?


I think I'd prefer to play with some Lego.
Of course some things never change as Calvin says. I still doodle the occasional monstrous mutant colleague. I still do the occasional prank. And I still like building things. Hence my recent fascination with Lego building blocks. Scrap the recent - I don't think I actually ever left Lego behind ;)

Each time I bring my nephew to the toy store, I never fail to make a stop just to check out the newest gizmos to be found. Approaching the dreaded mid-life crisis, aging daddies clutch on desperately to their youth by purchasing phallic symbols such as fast cars and boy toys. Me, I get a second childhood. And Lego fever.

Seems like I'm not the only one indulging in such juvenile hijinks since I got inundated with excited queries from my colleagues ( some even older than me! ) once I mentioned a Lego Warehouse sale. Even an elderly matron sheepishly commented on the latest train set she bought.

And I'm certain they weren't all buying for their kids.

Now that I've probably embarassed myself by revealing my geeky Lego fetish, might as well tell you that I've got my eye on a certain fast-disappearing set! A Lego Market Street set with a three-storey shophouse full of graceful balconies, turrets and even a gargoyle or two. Now, come on, wouldn't you want to play with that? It even has a basket of fruits and vegetables for the grocer to sell!


The Market Street Set
And I'm not even gonna think of the Green Grocer and the Cafe Corner set yet.