Disrobing Dominic

I want to get Dominic Lau's shirt off.

Seriously. I can't be in the minority here. Admit it. After looking at the buff, sculpted hunk of Chinese-British extraction by way of Hong Kong, don't you just feel like tearing his tight tee off?


Dominic Lau
Evidently the prudish folks at our local Men's Health magazine don't think so. Why else would they be all busy covering up the sizzling hawt meat on display? For the past few months, I've noted their usually sexy, grinning coverboys have been shockingly overdressed. No sign of chest hair, no shiny pecs, not even a flash of six-pack abs. All shrouded behind plain, purdah-like generic tees.

Not even a perky nipple in sight.

I know it's all about Men's Health - I'm sure the verbose editors would claim it's all scientific evidence, nutrition advice and rigorous exercises for the betterment of mankind - but we all know what we're paying top dollar for. Come on, show us some skin dammit. The healthy fresh-faced boys worked hard enough at the gym for it!

Detractors would claim the breeder boys are getting embarassed by the excessive display of luscious man-flesh on the covers of fitness mags. No doubt fearful that notorious gay-dars would zero in on them just for strutting around with the risque covers. Seriously. Are their sexualities on such shaky ground that they can't bear the slightest hint of doubt? Come on, straight guys who are secure in their heterosexuality wouldn't give a fucking shit.

So poor Dominic had to put on a shirt.

Paul : So what do you say, Dominic?
Dom : Hell, I worked so hard to build up my abs. Hit the gym daily for weeks, then subsisted on cereal and mineral water just for this shoot! Then they had to force a shirt on me. Dammit! Seriously, I should have just gone for the dimsum buffet!

Bet the fella doesn't sound anything like that ( hey if I knew him, I'd be hitting on him! ) but hey, I'm just saying!

Unless this is all the work of our notoriously busy censors again - fearing that a chance glance at rock-hard abs ( uncovered aurat! ) would turn us all into raving, drooling sex maniacs - and possibly horror of horrors, turn us all into decadent homosexuals since we all know the gay plague is shockingly infective.

BTW for the more literal-minded I am being sarcastic.

Back to the Front Page

Hold the press, we've got a new exclusive for the headlines.

Yes, Malaysia can produce a drama script riveting enough - and plausible enough - for television! Just check out the Frontpage. Tightly-paced action, excellent casting and eeriely familiar storylines plucked out from our own publication archives. Frontpage tells the story of a newsroom team of the daily The Voice covering the latest news from the notorious Axe Gang members to the enchanting black magic practitioner Maya Shaari.


Fortunately Ampang Medikal hadn't soured my taste for local television. Was hopeful when I caught the debut of Frontpage last week - and the second certainly proved to be a hit.

Only two episodes under their belt and already they have their main characters well established with brief defining moments ( cleverly spaced so as not to disturb the main storyline ) - from the stern editor Andrea Ng to their streetwise star reporter Jack Lee. A shared glance between the two - added to an annoyed look from the younger newshound Dylan Pereira - is more than enough to paint a picture of a complicated love triangle.

Certainly far more believable than the flimsy plots on Ampang Medikal ( a show desperately in need of resuscitation ).


Hot off the press!
Hope they all take a leaf out of the Frontpage! Find it amusing that so far all the female journalists at The Voice - excepting the optimistic rookie Nerina Rahman - seem to be antisocial bitches. We're creditably told their barks are much worst than their bite so we shall see. After all both of them have stories yet to be told and I'm confident the excellent scriptwriters will make us fall in love with them anyway!

And lookie here, it's a seriously muhibbah multiracial / multilingual cast - and they all have their roles to play.

Though I love writing, I've never been all that interested in covering real-life news. Fiction's more my style. And since I know first-hand how very fatiguing life in the newsroom can be ( have a handful of classmates sitting at those desks right now! ), I'll stay clear of temptation. But watching these dedicated journalists at work can be inspiring to say the least.

Sound like a rave to you? Oh yes it is though I might be a tad biased. Seems like I do have a tiny crush on the tough, taciturn journalist Jack Lee - played by understated hunk Tony Eusoff. Now where do I apply to be his intern?

Good Fellas

Paul : This seems like the best place to do it.
My ISO : I feel so dirty.
Paul : Stop touching yourself then.
My ISO : Hope there's no one around.
Paul : Trust me. I checked the entire place. There's no one around. I've already turned off the headlights. No one can see us.
My ISO : Never knew I would sink to such depths.
Paul : Bet no one's surprised though.
My ISO : Okay. let's do the dirty deed then.

Pickpocketing naive tourists and kidnapping bar-hopping heiresses in the City of Blood seems so terribly limiting for a man of my genius. Dissatisfied with the virtual reality of maiming and killing on facebook, I have decided to expand my horizons.


Yeah, they'll be sleeping with the fishes tonight.
Fortunately I have friends. Remember when I said that I could depend on my ISO to hide the corpse? Turns out I certainly can since I spent the wee hours of yesterday morning slightly inebriated searching for a dark lonely corner of town to dump the body bags.

The usual aftermath of a really horrific bloodbath. Guts. Blood. Bones.

Take care never to be on the wrong end of my skewer.

That's what happens after you have a lovely evening of barbecue and the remainder is tossed in a bin. One small bin's never enough for the trash so we had to drive around looking for a convenient dumpster at this ungodly hour - guiltily feeling like a duo of inept assassins searching for the perfect dump site. Wondered what people ( or the police! ) would think of two goodfellas wandering the streets in the dead of night with anonymous black bags dripping with blood. Fortunately we had downed enough spirits earlier to lend us courage.

Unfortunately there seems to be a surprising scarcity of dump sites these days. Actually inched down several blocks before finding one - all the while busy wondering where in the world the unfriendly neighbourhood gangstas go to bury their dead! Their backyard? The incinerator? The deep blue sea? Where do they hide the bloody evidence?

But the act of chucking the body bags at 1 in the morning? Not that difficult surprisingly - ten minutes was all it took. Disturbing.

So how does a life of crime sound?

Damsel Dimwit

You know the Marilyn or Einstein equation? Remember before when I said that given a choice between being born gorgeous / dumb or hideous / brilliant, I said I'd choose gorgeous / dumb? Being brilliant you'd know the hideousness of the situation so it'd be easier to be dumb enough to enjoy the pretty world out there.

Well make that gorgeous - and not too dumb. Since I finally ran into a Damsel Dimwit. Not that she'd actually know to get out of the way of a runaway truck.

I know! I am so mean. But honestly, my ISO and I couldn't help it.

The story goes like this. Seeing as it's Mid-Autumn Festival, we had a lil gathering of friends so that I could met up with my ex-classmates. Our recently dumped and heartbroken fella, Beercan Boy seems to have found a new mate and decided to bring her along for a quick meet-and-greet. Surprised that he hadn't thought the entire thing through since we aren't exactly known for our tact when it comes to his girlfriends. But perhaps ( a rather touching dependence on the legend of the Kitchen God ) he was hoping that some lotus paste mooncake would sweeten our criticism.

He was woefully wrong.


The Backbenchers Club
Her looks were immediately arresting of course and I'm sure Beercan Boy could compare her peerless beauty to the stunning glow of the full moon. Even I couldn't argue with that. Close to perfection, our Damsel Dimwit and certainly out of his league. Even briefly wondered whether Beercan had paid for her out of a mail-order-bride catalog :)

But that was before she spoke. Fortunately it took a full five minutes before the force of her personality hit us - and compared to her dazzling mega-watt smile, that turned out extremely dim indeed. I'm far from a genius myself - quite a himbo in my own way - but Damsel Dimwit certainly lowered the bar last night.

My ISO : If she asks me what I mean again, I might just kill her. Did she just say that Korea's an island?
Paul : I'm not sure. I'm still reeling over the fact that she believes collecting fireflies into a jar could be an effective solution to our energy problems.
My ISO : Maybe we shouldn't talk this fast.
Paul : You're right. We might be short-circuiting her brain.
My ISO : I give it six months.
Paul : God, you're mean.
My ISO : Monstrous.
Paul : Five bucks says three months.

I know. We are so mean. Swear I will do a good deed tomorrow to make up for it.

So when Beercan Boy nodded to us in his inexplicable way trying to ask us what we thought, both of us nodded in tandem agreeing that she's real pretty. That seemed to be the nicest thing we could say. After all... in the space of a year, Beercan Boy has progressed from an adulteress to a snake... and now to our Damsel Dimwit. Hell, she's the best of the lot!

The One Where Everyone's Gay : The Hospital Edition

According to Charming Calvin, enterprising gay men venture into the medical field in droves to justify themselves. Of course that inebriation declaration is a whole bunch of crock - certainly not true for myself! - but there might be some small hint of truth in there.

After all these days I'm starting to feel as if the hospital's literally teeming with homosexuals. Either my glitchy gay-dar's working overtime or gay boys seem to be popping out of every nook and cranny. Look this way and theres a gay nurse, turn the other way and there's a gay intern. Shocking! I'm sure the right-wing conservatives would have collective strokes at the hideous thought.

Of course I'm sure the numbers are greatly exaggerated since not all guys who are femme necessarily swing our way. And quite a few cases of pure wishful thinking since as we all know, confounding metrosexuals abound. But one of my colleagues Timber Tom seems to rely solely on the controversial duck theory ( walks like a duck, talks like a duck ).


Come join us!
Oh yeah... not to mention the highly confidential underground homo-doctor grapevine. No dubt they have clandestine skull-and-bones meetings with secret handshakes at the masturbatorium.

Seems my evident homosexuality pinged his overactive gay-dar enough that Tom saw no qualms in coming clean with me on his various theories. Reason enough to hit me for lunch to expound on his latest findings.

Paul : You can't be serious. You're telling me Maarof is queer?
Tom : As a three dollar bill, yes.
Paul : But he's married with kids.
Tom : So? Still gay as a mardi gras.
Paul : How about Rafe? How about Jim?
Tom : Gay. Gay.
Paul : They are both married too.
Tom : Beards I tell ya. Joe and Yaakob are gay as well.
Paul : You just named half the guys in the department. We might as well spring for a gay cruise to Phuket for family day next year.

Come on, I'm ready to believe that some closeted fellas - in a desperate bid to repress their sinful lusts - would actually get married to the closest beard and have children. A really small handful at the most. The rest are just femme acting but probably straight.

Far from agreeing with my sensible postulation, a disbelieving Timber Tom insists on lumping the entire lot into the gay category. No doubt to him everyone's gay until proven straight :)

Well if his far-fetched theories are to be believed, the hospital's definitely a scandalous hot-bed of homosexual activity. At this rate of outing, we'll soon be having our weekly department meetings ( with cocktails, go-go boys and thumpa thumpa disco music ) at the Marketplace.