The happy kittens
with their patchwork mittens
and furry booties on their feet

One two three
giggling with glee
and skipping without missing a beat

Brothers and sister
chased each other
right into the middle of the street

A truck driver went past
He drove rather fast
He felt a bump as something he hit

The happy kittens
with their lovely mittens
Well they became ground meat

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It’s quite odd. Lately, I’ve been noticing that my toys (yes, I still play with them occasionally) have been moving. Not in my presence of course, but I’d find them in positions and places different from those in which I’d left them. Suspicious and paranoid (they might’ve been planning to slit my throat while I was asleep and escape), I installed hidden cameras around the house. And one of them yielded this rather disturbing picture.

Highly alarmed, I started spying on my Lego men. The things I saw! I even managed to obtain more photographic evidence of their sordid little activities behind my back. It’s a bit blurry, but that’s because I had to jump back behind the couch to avoid being caught peeking.

It’s shocking, yes it is. I would never have suspected that my Lego men were using my Dodge without my consent. The nerve. And the sex is slightly disconcerting too. The horses in the background didn’t look too upset though. The toys nowadays. To think they once sat in their boxes patiently waiting to be mutilated by my grubby jam-stained fingers. Perhaps that’s it then. Tired of waiting on that dusty shelf, they took it upon themselves to entertain themselves and relieve their boredom. Hah, I’ll probably come across some ‘interesting’ home videos featuring the Lego clan soon.

Then again, it’s awfully self-centered to assume that only we have sex drives. Lego people are modeled on humans after all, so it shouldn’t be surprising that they might have the same needs that we do. Lego babies do have to come from somewhere. And since I don’t own any Lego women, I guess my Lego men had to make do with each other. Or maybe they’ve never wanted female Legolites in the picture anyhow.

Well, whatever it is, good for them. Now I don’t feel as guilty when I neglect them. But I still want my red Dodge back.

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In my 19 years of life, I have learnt a thing or two. And now, I shall bestow this wisdom upon thee.

theZebra’s 10 Rules to Live By:

1. Always sit with your back to the wall or facing a mirror. You’ll be the first to know if a deranged, gun-toting maniac comes rushing in. And never sit by a window. There are too many people outside to keep an eye on.

2. When at the ATM, be sure to keep one hand braced on the machine at all times. This way, if a mugger was to sneak up behind you and attempt to bash your head into the screen, your hand would, at the very least, buffer your fragile forehead. True, you’d most likely end up with five broken fingers. But hey, you’ve still got one good hand left to rip the mugger’s nose off and feed it to him.

3. Cover your ears when using the flush in an airplane loo. Or make sure to keep well away from the flush button when bonking someone (or being bonked) in that cramped space. Joining the ranks of the Mile High Club’s not worth a heart attack or ruptured eardrums.

4. Do not step beyond the red line at the driving range. Golf club heads can be very hard…and very painful.

5. Never be the only person in a swimming pool. It’s a well-known fact that this will open a hidden trapdoor, which will reveal a big dark hole leading to the Underwater Lair of the (hold your breath) GIANT CHLORINEWATER OCTOPUS. With your flipperless feet, you’ll never escape its Tentacles of Death. It’ll drag you own into its Underwater Lair, where it’ll then proceed to devour your drownded corpse. Beware. There’s one in every pool.

6. Don’t piss your waiter off, or any restaurant staff for that matter. It’s just not a smart move. They handle your food, and you never really know what goes on in the kitchen at the back.

7. Learn from others’ mistakes. Don’t stick your hand down and don’t let your head get too close to sidewalk sewers/drains. They’re famous hunting grounds of psychopathic clowns.

8. Somehow, I don’t think drowning in puke is on anyone’s list of ‘Ways I Wouldn’t Mind Kicking The Bucket’. So if someone starts to heave their guts out while flat on his/her back, show what a true friend you are and flip ‘im/’er over. Unless the puker’s a sworn enemy whose gruesome death you’ve been plotting for the past few months. In which case, you didn’t read this.

9. Before you flip another driver the bird, check to make sure she’s not your mom’s friend or a friend’s mom. That’s just asking for trouble.

10. The hot guy you just met? Yeah, the one with the great clothes and perfect hair. The one whom you just spent hours in conversation with, where everything he said made perfect sense to you and vice versa. The one who knows exactly what napkin rings are. The one whose number you’re about to ask for. Don’t. He’s gay.

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Now I don't normally do this, but I'm actually going to divert traffic away from my blog.

See, there's this guy over in Norfolk (somewhere cold and village-like *cue city snobbery*), and he's trying to save the local post office from being shut down...the next one's probably at least a plane ride away. So he wrote a song. And a video was made. The idea was to get it to the top of the charts.

It didn't get there. It should have. I know these things. It's got singing bunnies, chimps with violins, dancing sheep and monkeys in robes. Plus Tony Blair and Ozzy Osbourne make guest appearances. And it's for a good cause.

Really, what more can one hope for?

Eh music, what? Oh alright, it's not half bad. So what are you waiting for? Go. Even if the post office has already been bulldozed to the ground.

http://eclectech.co.uk/savethepostoffice.php

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There is a technique to riding the lift at Uber Bitch Jason’s apartment:

I press the button.

And stand well away, putting as much space as possible between myself and the window and the lift.

The lift dings and the doors slide open.

I lean sideways to peek into it and hesitate, giving anyone or anything in it time to make its presence known.

I duck in.

And immediately jab frantically at the button to shut the doors, hoping fervently that a hand won’t shoot in between them at the last minute.

The lift makes strange noises. It always does. Perhaps it’s saying hullo to the other lift on its way up to the 15th floor. Or perhaps it’s the cables protesting the cable cutters someone up there is wielding.

I tense (because tensing up is a great help when a lift free falls twelve floors).

The lift dings again.

I hide in the blind space behind the control panel. In an ambush, the slightest moment of surprise can be the key to survival.

There is no one there.

I run to my car.

It’s only Jason’s lift. It’s partly the way the lift doors refuse to move till I’ve given up hope, and then suddenly shoot open, making me wet my pants. Partly also the horror stories reported by Jason, for instance when the doors repeatedly opened 3 inches before clanging shut, clang clang clang, forcing him to climb up the stairwell in pitch darkness. Mainly though, it’s the lovely view of the huge, moonlit cemetery right next door from the lift lobby window.

I try not to look. But it’s like being witness to something truly horrifying, like Will Ferrell’s naked ass in Old School. I can’t help peeking.

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A little black car died today. ‘Twas a sad sight to behold.

Lonely, lonely, it burned by its lonesome self. As metal twisted and plastic melted, the little black car thought of all the times it had waited alone in the dark without so much as a don’t-worry-I’ll-won’t-be-gone-long to cling to. But then, its owner always came back, which meant it was still loved, and all was right in the world again. Only now, he was never coming back. And the little black car cried bitter tears of abandonment, sobbing and choking on the stench of burning rubber.

It cried out to its owner, but he was long gone, loyalty and little-car-love discarded. It cried out to the other cars, but they were too busy whizzing past, lost in the chattering of the radio and the drone of the a/c. It cried out to the gawking onlookers, but they were too busy taking pictures and watching the greedy flames feast on bits of it. It cried out for someone, anyone to tell it not to be scared, that everything was gonna be okay. But no one came. And so the little black car cried some more, hurt and frightened.

At last someone did come. A glorious, flashing, siren-wailing fire engine. It barreled down the road and screeched to a stop, full of pride and heroes-to-be. It whipped out its hose and unleashed great jets of water onto the burning little black car. The flames sputtered angrily out, and the smoke turned into steam. And everyone craned anxiously forward, to hear what the little black car had to say.

But the little black car was silent. It had stopped crying a long while ago.

And everyone crept ashamedly away. The onlookers with their cameras tucked away. The fire engine that was too late with its might-have-been-heroes. Even the passing cars couldn’t bear to see, so they whizzed on by faster than before.

And all that was left was what once was a little black car.

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There are many who would shudder at the mere thought of the task which lay before me. One that would cause even the stoutest of hearts to quail and flee. But neither the tears nor pleas of my faithful hound could sway me from my mission. I was to begin the Purification of the Dark Realm beneath the Bed.

As I approached the feared boundary where dark met light, I perceived something odd. Paw-prints. Tiny, dusty paw-prints criss-crossing the parquet floor. Something had clearly been cavorting beneath the Bed where I laid myself down to sleep and received visions from the gods.

Suspicious, I bent down and peered into the murky gloom of the Dark Realm. Twas with a sudden shock that I caught sight of floating pairs of red eyes glowing from within the shadows. I gasped in surprise, and immediately regretted it. Alerted by the sound, the crimson eyes turned as one towards me and narrowed to slits, as if their owners were furious at my interference.

“Hold! Identify thyself, intruder!” A squeaky voice emerged from the darkness.

Truly, it is written in the ancient texts that “Curiosity killethed the cat”, but being no feline, I heeded not these words of wisdom. Fascinated, I stretched a hoof into the shadows, hoping to draw one of the crimson-eyed creatures out into the light. At the same instant, I felt dozens of sharp little teeth snap onto the offending foreleg and start to drag me bodily towards them instead.

I panicked and struggled in alarm, but to no avail. Soon, I was hauled completely into the Dark Realm and almost immediately started to…fall? Yes, I was tumbling impossibly through space which couldn’t have existed. It was a nauseating experience. I had no light to gain my bearings by, I could feel not the wind of the speed of my descent, and all the while, my foreleg was in agonizing pain from the steel-like grip of the sharp jaws embedded firmly into my flesh.

To be continued…

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A new card has found its way into my already-so-full-its-seams-have-burst wallet. That factoid by itself would not be much to crow over if it wasn't for the British Council logo emblazoned boldly on the face of the card declaring me a member of its library.

And it's this library of which I feel compelled to sing praises. Admittedly at first glance, the place didn't seem much for wallowing in literary bliss. Compared to the glass 'n steel, modernist look of the library@orchard in Singapore, the KL branch with its eight or so simple racks of fiction looked almost sec school-like. 50 bucks for this? Arrrr, not by a long shot, matey.

But then I peered closer at the titles offered. And I saw Books! Ian Rankin, P. G. Wodehouse, Stephen Leather; the faaaaat-ass Jonathan Strange novel (two copies!); and war poetry...WAR POETRY! And I'd only been there for ten minutes! A strange buzzing started in my head, I felt a sudden urge to dance a happy jig. And a happy jig I would've danced too, right in full view of the various BC denizens milling about. That is if it weren't for my too-loose pants and a wonky button. As it happened, my hands were elsewhere occupied (3 paperbacks and 1 hardback), so BC lost its chance for its first indoor moon sighting.

Still 50 bucks for as many books as you want in 6 months...you get 4 books to be returned within a fortnight, so that makes at least 8 books a month. 6 months brings it to 48 books (I used a calculator) - about a buck apiece.

Excellent.

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