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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//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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Ding-a-ling ding ding ding, ding-a-ling ding ding ding, ding-a-ling ding ding ding
*Cue background James Bond theme as a stripey hoofed agent demolishes the baddie’s hq without a hair out of place despite 127 machine-gun-armed minions and saves the world *

Yes, ladies and gentleman. I have watched...drum roll, please...Die Another Day. And it was such a wonderfully typical Bond movie. Swagger swagger, saunter whistling through a hail of bullets, let’s have a shag, witty comeback lines despite months of torture, power-rabid villains (who never look as hot), fancy a shag, immortality, cars that probably wouldn’t even start if you or I were behind the wheel, terrible puns and a little round of slap and tickle to finish the day off.

Loverly movie. Not that I would’ve noticed though, being too busy drooling over Pierce Brosnan. Yes, you read that. Pierce Brosnan, who’s incidentally older than my parents. Still, there’s a wonderfully mature, sophisticated, jaw-droppingly sexy aura one can achieve only when one is of a certain age and looks like Pierce Brosnan. Perhaps it’s the way he wears a suit, the way he handles a gun, the way his voice lingers yummily in your mind. Or perhaps it’s just my hormones.

Whatever it is, I need to get the DVD. So that I can watch the whole movie again without having scenes rudely censored. It just so happens that said scenes are love scenes. Hee hee...

I suppose once the 007 euphoria has worn off, Pierce will have reverted back to his original hmmm-not-bad-for-an-old(er)-guy status and Hugh Jackman will once again reign supreme in my ever-lusting heart. But until then, the name is Bond. James Bond.

Quote of the day:
James Bond: You know, you’re cleverer than you look
Q: Hmmm. Still, I suppose it’s better than looking cleverer than you are.

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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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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 [email protected].

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