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Death of a Bunny Named Bunny
Thursday. 11.28.02 3:04 am
A bunny died today. He was a good bunny. He was a loved bunny. He was a smelly bunny.

The lack of entertainment during lessons made the classroom about as fun as eating peas. So it was of a general opinion that a class pet was needed.

Enter two bunnies named Bunny and Bunny.

Bunny and Bunny were happy bunnies. They ate together, they played together, they slept together (no, not in that way). They nibbled shoelaces together, they dashed laps round the classroom together, they pissed teachers off together, they…well, pissed together. A lot.

But all that changed when Bunny died. It was a sudden death, which shocked everyone including Bunny and Bunny. One minute he was jackrabbiting around, the next he was as stiff as a mouldy block of old cheese. And as smelly.

Bunny’s sobbing classmates put him into a shoebox and laid him to rest behind the sandy long jump pit – where hundreds of students unwittingly pay homage to him annually.

That left Bunny heartbroken and lonely. His brother and only playmate was gone. He tried to find a substitute in his well-meaning classmates, but they just couldn’t fill Bunny’s paws. They couldn’t dash as fast, jump as high, or nibble as many shoelaces. No, they just wouldn’t do. He tried to find strength in his tiny bunny heart to go on, but it proved too much for him.

So he jumped.

But jumping up and down just tired him out. It didn’t dull the pain.

So he jumped again. Out a sixth storey window. And whiffled his nose all the way down.

But miracle of miracles, he survived. Without even a scratch. Maybe he wasn’t meant to die after all. Maybe the Bunny Bigwig in the Sky was sending him a sign. Maybe he was meant to go on with life and fight for the rights of bunnies all over the world. Maybe…just maybe, Bunny was still with him and protecting him.

Bunny clambered to his furry feet a new bunny. Renewed with hope. With promise. With life. He would make it through. He would make Bunny proud of him. He started to hop across the road to a distant land where he could start anew.

And was promptly mowed down by a red Volkswagen with a ‘Save the Animals’ sticker on the back.

I knew that bunny. My shoelace knew that bunny. So this is to remember a bunny who was true, who was good, who hated cucumber. This is to tell you that although it seems terribly difficult, I will pick myself up and go on with life. A lonely life. But LIFE nevertheless. Bunny knew that. And up in Bunny Heaven, two bunnies named Bunny and Bunny grinned and whiffled their noses.

Note: In memory of Bunny and Bunny and to help support the cause they fought for, please mail donations to :

‘Say No to Rabbit’s Feet’,
Big Bunny Knows Inc.,
P.O. Box 101-1880,
Selangor, Malaysia.

For more information, please contact Fluffy at fluffy.diddums@bigbunny.com.

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Of Proms and Drunks
Tuesday. 12.3.02 10:50 pm
Prom night. A big night. A night of dressing up, good food, hot guys in suits (some unfortunately not as hot), dancing and photos. A wonderful night for some. A bloody nightmare for the rest.

The horror begins WAY before the night itself. Three months before, you’re worrying about your date. Will your date cut it? Will he ditch you five minutes before the limo arrives? Will he like you? WILL YOU EVEN HAVE ONE?

Let’s not forget about the cost of attending such a glorious event. About RM200-300 will have to be set aside for the dress itself, another RM150 for matching sandals and bag and maybe another RM100 for the hairdo. Joy. A coupla hundred-ringgit notes which could’ve been set aside for your new electric guitar instead. And did I really forget to mention the ticket for your ribbon-bedecked chair itself? Well, that’s another RM100. Well, that’d actually depend if your date were a true gentleman, or a Singaporean.

From the minute you decide to attend till the day itself, you’ll be stressing over your dress...or your lack of one. How the hell can you be expected to find one in less than six months? If it’s not the right style, it’s not the right price. If it’s not the right price, it’s not the right cut. If it’s not the right cut, it’s not the right colour. If it’s not the right colour…you get the idea. The point is, THERE IS NO PERFECT DRESS. But you’ll have to eventually choose one. After all, bare bottoms aren’t really that becoming in photos. So you flip a coin and pick a dress. From then on, you’ll wonder, “What if I had looked some more? Would I have found IT?” But you have to accept that it’s a given rule that every dress after that will look doubly better on you and’ll cost half of what you paid for yours.

So off to the prom you go. A night of trying to look good, not smearing your makeup, perfect manners, not stepping on your date’s toes and red-eye photos. But even when it’s over, it’s not over. You’re expected to go clubbing, where you’ll drink yourself silly, dance like a monkey with two toes, have a friend puke over your less-than-perfect dress (well, you didn’t really like it after all, did you?), and spend the rest of the night with a drunk date who can’t find the way back to his car. The only good bit about that is you’ll probably be drunk too, so you won’t mind.

Prom night. A spectacular night. One to be repeated for every year you’re in secondary school. Thank god tomorrow’ll be over soon.

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Christmas Spirit
Tuesday. 12.17.03 11:01 pm
//I wrote this some time ago. Just thought I´d post it to help with the spreading of Christmas joy and spirit.//

Christmas is coming. The stores started putting out their Yuletide decorations a month ago, your Christmas shopping is half done...or you wish it were, red and green wreaths hang at almost every door, you’ve received and sent off Christmas cards by the stack, and carolling rehearsals are now a part of every Friday night.

Ahh...Christmas. The joy of DIY Christmas trees from Ikea, the stringing up of tiny light bulbs (amidst muffled exclamations and curses), the shattered bits of fragile ornaments, gummy tongues after licking too many stamps, the frayed tempers of parents busy planning for Christmas dinners, and the guilty faces of little children caught trying to peek into their presents. When needing a break from all that, turn the radio or TV on, and be prepared for HBO movie after movie bombarding you with the spirit of Christmas – the very thing which stressed you out in the first place. There is only so many times you can listen to the same Christmassy jingle without being tempted to hurl the radio out of the 25th storey window. ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ and Linus’s speech on the True Meaning of Christmas however has once caused a certain cynic to go all misty-eyed and vow to enjoy Christmas for once. She forgot about it the next morning though.

This is the time of the year when cynics link arms and wiggle their tushes merrily to the beat of ‘End of a Christmas Dream’. There is no more satisfying scene than the heartbroken face of a young boy who has just realised that Santa’s beard is indeed detachable and is not even made of real, 100% Santa hair. Do you remember those little cane-shaped red-and-white striped treats which only come out once a year? Yeah, well you’d better enjoy them, kid. ‘Cuz those things don’t come cheap anymore. Grinning elves in pointy, belled shoes stand behind booths, boxes of gaily-wrapped peppermint candy canes in one hand, and a credit card machine in the other. Thousands of letters to the North Pole remain unanswered, kids have given up trying to be nice and have reverted to the easier life of just being plain naughty. Science tells us that if Santa did deliver presents every Christmas Eve, he’d have kicked the proverbial bucket years ago.

After spending the first seven impressionable years of your life in ignorance and useless fantasies, it’s high time you realise that you’ve been deceived by the people whom you love and respect most of all -- your parents. It’s just another grown-up plot to keep you terrified of not receiving any gifts at Christmas, of being blacklisted by the fat bearded old guy, to keep you on your toes, to put you on your best behaviour. So that you’re exhausted by the end of the day, fall asleep face-first into your spaghetti, and are too tired to ask for another five minutes before bedtime. That’s over now. You’re finally safe in the knowledge that Santa’s probably bedridden, if not already dead of cholesterol or diabetic problems, that the toy factory in the North Pole has almost certainly been repossessed by the government after years of tax evasion, that the Santa and Co. corporation have been sued countless times for emotional damage, that the reindeer are definitely too fat to fly anywhere, that Rudolph’s nose has run out of batteries anyway, and that the elves are on strike till their lawyers have negotiated for more benefits like company cars, medical benefits, annual leave and bonuses as well as paid vacations to somewhere warm for a change. Safe in the knowledge that your roof will stay intact, that no one will track soot all over the living room, and that you will never have to deal with cookie crumbs and milk stains on the carpet...

Until you wake up one Christmas morning to find reindeer poo on your lawn.

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I See Dead People
Saturday. 4.19.03 12:25 am
Wahooooaaaa. Freaky freaky dream last night. Out of the blue, I dreamt that...hang on, I’ll start at the beginning.

Some of you well-read, updated, general-knowledgable ones might be aware that a few days ago, the chairman (or some equally big-shotted big shot) of Taylor’s College died in a horrendously horrendous car crash. A terribly un-nice thing to happen to a very (apparently) nice guy. I should know. Had a very in-depth conversation with him once. It went something like this:

Him: Congratulations.
Me: Thank you.
Him: You’re welcome.

Anyhoo, last night, I dreamt of him. We were in a room, and he was holding up two suits. He asked me, “Which suit do you think I should wear to the funeral?”

Come again?!

“Which suit?”

Alriiiiight. S’not everyday you get to help someone pick out his clothes for HIS funeral. So I helped him choose one, and stood there wondering if I should let him know exactly whose funeral it was.

Hurrr…not your everyday(night) dancing-bunnies-on-the-sidewalk dream. In all probability, it means absolutely nothing and is just me being more of an ass than I usually am.

All the same, I’ll be sleeping with the lights on tonight.

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Trust No One
Tuesday. 5.17.05 10:12 pm
So there we were, wandering around a bus terminal at 6.45 am. We’d just spend three and a half hours in the dodgiest bus imaginable. Only to step down and immediately be assailed by a horde of cabbies. Armed with Mr. Stinky, I flailed away at them and drove them back while my buddies searched for a way to Langkawi that wouldn’t involve us hocking our shoes and iPods to pay for the ride.

Suddenly, a guy dodged a swipe from Mr. Stinky and approached us. Apparently, he was one of the ferry operators to Langkawi, and our bus driver had pointed us out to him. Ferry Operator Guy was heaps helpful, pointing out a bus we could take to the jetty and telling us to tag along with him. And like the lost KLites we were, we were only too glad to do so.

Until FOG whipped out a phone and rang someone. Ordinarily, I never eavesdrop. And neither do my friends. Ever. But someone managed to overcome her reservations and sidled up closer to FOG. Y’know, just in case. And it was just as well cuz as it turned out, we were the topic of conversation. Hmmmm…slightly dodgy. And then he hung up, turned to us with a grin and oh so casually mentioned that a group of friends were picking him up at Langkawi and maybe we’d like a lift to our resort? Hmmmm…even dodgier. Plus, we wouldn’t have to pay. AHA! That clinched it! A free ride?! Hah, get into a car with you? We might just as well be begging to wake up in an ice-filled bathtub with our organs missing. Not bloody likely, thanks all the same.

Then again, it wouldn’t do to turn him down too vehemently. He might get offended and have a group of would-be organ harvesters waiting to beat us up when we arrived. So we hemmed and we hawed, putting off actually saying ‘no’ for as long as we could. By that time, the connecting bus had arrived. Along with another decision. Since we already knew what bus to take, should we hop onto the next one instead, putting as much distance between us as possible? Or should we stick close, to monitor his every movement and phone conversation? Better the enemy you know and all that.

We decided to watch FOG. So onto the bus we piled, making sure to box him in so as to prevent any secret phone conversations. I ended up sitting on the seat next to his, and after awhile, I noticed something. This FOG was wearing a flash watch and new Nike sneakers. Hmmm…not to be snobbish, but how does one afford that stuff on a ferry operator’s salary? Never mind, I reasoned, it might be fake goods. Then I caught sight of something else. He wore a gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand. The interesting thing was that this ring was too large for him, to the extent that a twist of paper had been wedged between the band and his finger to prevent it from slipping off. Now that was suspicious. If one were to buy a gold ring, wouldn’t it make sense to purchase a ring that actually fit? That got me thinking. What if he had taken it off a dead guy? And what if the dead guy had been alive before he encountered FOG? By the time we got to the jetty, I’d worked myself up into a right state. Secret plans or not, I wanted DISTANCE.

So we jumped out, dragging our bags after us, and took the earliest ferry out of there (not his, obviously). Paranoia? Maybe. But I don’t trust people wearing rings that don’t fit.

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A Bit of Sobriety
Wednesday. 5.18.05 10:36 pm
“We are all racist. It is how we deal with that ugly fact that is important.”

I came across this in a book this afternoon, and it kinda hit home. I’ve touched on the subject of racism before, but I’ll go into it again. Because the line above got me thinking…yes, for you cynics with puzzled expressions, I am occasionally capable of this. But don’t hold your breath.

I’m one of those who pride themselves in having an open mind (or so we claim). Having said that, less-than-pleasant thoughts still flit through my mind—thoughts that are racist, sexist, heterosexist, the list goes on. And that worries me. In spite of my efforts, am I turning into a bigot?

And then I read that statement. And it rings true. Because no matter how much we try, it’s just human nature to treat those different from us…well, differently. It’s an evolutionary thing. Back when we were knuckle-walking hunter-gatherers, it was essential to pool all resources together as a community to survive. So any stranger walking into camp looking to borrow a cup of sugar would most likely instead be handed a mammoth tusk and told exactly where to put it. Sounds like a load of psychobabble? Aye, that it might be, but ‘tis true.

So yeah, it honestly shouldn’t come as a surprise that we experience –ist thoughts. It’s really what we do with those thoughts. We could spill blood with those thoughts. Or we could stop and realize the potential harm they could lead to. Maybe if we just admitted to our –isms, we could actually do something to prevent more ugliness instead of dancing around the subject in the name of political correctness.

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Dude, Where’s My Money?
Sunday. 6.6.04 10:12 am
‘cking hell. I think I just lost 50 bucks.

I was at an ATM machine last evening and tried to withdraw some money. Everything went fine…at first. The machine went beep-click-whirr and spit out my ATM card along with my transaction statement, but goddamn if it refused to fork my money over as well. I kicked it then, but only succeeded in bruising my toes. Christ, did it think it was being funny? Was I the victim of some sick twisted joke the evil hunk of metal had meticulously planned out? Bloody hell, that was my money! I could have done a frillion things with 50 bucks, like:

- bought the Darkness’s album
- or watched Van Helsing five more times
- or bribed my way out of a speeding ticket
- or purchased 50 bucks’ worth of paper clips to link into an elaborate suit of armor
- or extended my Lego family to include women, cattle and intact horsies
- or got half an iguana from Pets Wonderland
- or eaten 50 a-buck-each durians
- or gorged myself on Maui Brownie Madness and Old Fashioned Butter Pecan
- or settled my medical bill after eating too much ice cream and durians
- or paid Milê to kiss Joel…but he seems willing to do that for free tho
- or added another 10 cars to my Hot Wheels collection.

My life (and Joel’s) could have been enriched in so many ways, but now these things will never come to pass. I am hollow. And I wish the ATM machine eternity in the Junkyard of Hell for this.

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Blame the Buttmonkeys
Tuesday. 10.28.03 5:42 am
An interesting thing happened the other night. I was driving home after rugby practice with No Balls Ken when we encountered what seemed to be a roadblock – cops in blindingly hideous neon vests, flashing lights and sirens and whatnot. But as my car inched past Stick-Waving-Cop No.2, we noticed something else. By the roadside, a truck was trying to pull out a van which had wrapped itself around a half-collapsed tree like an overaffectionate chimpanzee. I felt a pang of sympathy. Poor tree.

Now being one to always mind my own business, I drove past the crash site with nary a glance backwards. But invisible buttmonkeys sneaked into the car through the air-conditioner vents and yanked the wheel to the side, forcing me to stop on the road shoulder. Afraid of contracting rabies from said primates, NB Ken and I jumped out and sought safety in numbers, which coincidentally was around the tree/van hybrid.

The van was a total wreck. The front was completely thrashed with the passenger’s side barely hanging on. NB Ken sneaked closer, presumably to look for blood or brain matter. Whatever. As long as I wasn’t gonna be the one scraping grey gunk off my shoes. I was leaning casually against another van when a guy next to me informed me that the dead body was in it. Didn’t faze me tho. I merely jumped two feet and nearly collapsed from cardiac arrest.

That put me in a bit of a spot. NB Ken was merrily toeing patterns in the gore underfoot, and I didn’t want to spoil his fun. Should I stand closer to the mangled corpse or risk the possibility of trampling on bits of him instead? Life’s little decisions. Then I spotted Hideous Vest scouting about in the undergrowth near the wreck. He was probably gonna pull out a severed limb in a moment.

I didn’t stick around to find out. I grabbed NB Ken in a headlock and manhandled him back to my nice safe car. Then drove home at about 40 km/h.

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