They say that you can tell a person's character by the company he or she keeps.

A couple of my friends have just been issued a court summons for peeing in public.

At another friend's house, we sit on stolen café chairs.

In yet another house, I tripped over what used to be the 'C' in Coles before it was pried off the side of the building.

Oh dear.

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Muscles!

On treadmills and weight benches, glistening with sweat as they burned and trembled under the strain. I sat on an unoccupied rowing machine, absently sliding back and forth as I watched my friend rhythmically pump more than twice my weight.

“That’s more than twice my weight,” I observed helpfully.

He ignored me, pumping the bar up and down without missing a beat. It would have seemed effortless if it weren’t for the throbbing veins and blood vessels threatening to burst.

“Do you want some of my peanut butter?” I offered him my jar and spoon.

*Grunt...pump…grunt…pump*

“What would you do if I tickled you right now?” I leaned forward, finger extended in anticipation.

He hesitated in mid-pump, then straightened shaky arms to lock the bar back onto the rack. He sat up and glowered at me. “You mean if the bar didn’t crush my neck? I’d probably crush yours.” A frightening threat, but his purple face let it down. He sighed in exasperation. “I thought you wanted to check the gym out. Go check it out! And leave me alone.”

I gave him a withering glare. “I heard that last bit, you ingrate.” And rubbed peanut butter into his hair in retaliation, narrowly avoiding an angry swipe. Then I retreated to the other side of the gym with my peanut butter. I didn’t want to be within reach of an irritated guy who could a hundred kilos. Imagine what he’d do to the peanut butter.

Mmm, yummy peanut butter. I ate another spoonful while surveying the gym.

At one end, an obscenely sculpted gym rat glared at himself in the mirror, scrutinising his body for the slightest hint of jiggle. A slightly less-muscled, but definitely more sexy guy bent over next to him, reaching for his water bottle. Mmm, yummy arse. Come to think of it, there were many yummy arses in the room (mine included, of course). And only four…no, five…wait, four… Well, only four or five females besides me, depending on whether the feminine-faced but scarily buff individual in the corner sported boobs or moobs.

I licked my peanut buttery spoon thoughtfully. Hmm, I could definitely see a few "fit" reasons to join this gym.

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WORDS!!!

Scrawled in bold ink, all over my arms, legs, shoulders and stomach! Where did they come from?! Someone must have broken into my room last night. And tried to steal my stuff, only to be foiled by my genious anti-robbery strategy - I hoard my valuables on the bed and sleep on top of them. Not very comfortable, but by god, I'm not letting anyone get away with my booze and chocolate!

The messages on my body were probably that same someone expressing his/her frustration in great detail. I looked closer. Hmmm..."Kiwis have gonorrhea". Right, a Wallabies supporter there. Some smiley faces, and various "Happy Birthday"'s in bad handwriting.

Oh.



It had started off as a quiet birthday dinner. Friends, food, prezzies, cake, and an intimidating amount of balloons. All good. I was happy.



And then someone suggested moving on to the pub. I protested of course, but they dragged me along. Bloody alcoholics.



Things started to get a little hazy from there. I recall karaoke, pool and tequila. Actually no, I don't recall any of that. But those are the ingredients of every Wednesday night at Curtin. And if my non-recollecion is anything to go by, my birthday was no different.



Somewhere along the way, someone must have rustled up a marker and tried to make up for not buying me a card. Soon enough, random strangers were scribbling on me. Not that I was complaining, it gave me a chance to reciprocate on the hot ones. Remarked one as I worked in fierce concentration on his perfect abs, "How long does it take to draw a smiley face?"





But the highlight of the night was not the free drinks or dancing or birthday shout outs. It was the birthday present from some random guy.



One more to add to the hoard.

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A gift!

Approaching my 21st birthday, I thought that I was too old to play with dolls. But that was before I got my very own Capt. Jack Sparrow to play with! He says things so naughty that even my dog blushed when she accidentally nudged the button. And he's amazingly detailed, right down to the dirty fingernails. I only wish that the same attention to detail was given to his, err, anatomy (you depraved lot, there are THREE hands!).



So thanks to you, I can now molest Johnny to my heart's content. And if that's not a great gift, I don't know what is.

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"A team of Australian palaeontologists say they have found the fossilised remains of a...'demon duck of doom'". (Reuters)"

C'mon. You don't need to go 40,000 years back in time to find a Demon Duck of Doom. You can catch, behead, and pluck your very own Demon Duck at the nearest duckpond.

That comical waddling isn't fooling me. Not anymore. Oh no, I've learnt my lesson.

Innocent child that I was, I believed in the propoganda fed to me. Squeaky rubber duckies, ducky stuffed toys, and an endless stream of cartoon ducks. All of which led me to believe that the most I had to fear from our web-footed "friends" was an impromptu shower from friends trying to imitate Daffy Duck. Growing up on the likes of Disney and Darkwing Duck, it was inevitable that the only souvenir I chose to take home from Disneyland was a Donald Duck cap, complete with a duck bill...bill.

Foolish times. Of course, this misguided affection could not last. My parents, fed up with the hysteric fits over roast duck dinners, decided that I needed to learn the ugly truth. They brought me to a duckpond.

Picture in your mind a young, carefree child (cute as a button, needless to say). Her face lighting up with joy as she catches sight of feathery bottoms upturned. She wriggles out of her father's arms and runs to get a closer look, bread slices falling from the bag in her exuberance. At first, the ducks are considerably unimpressed with the repeated shrill cries of "HULLO DUCKIES!" But after a well-aimed hunk of stale bread clunks one in the head, they realise that "HULLO DUCKIES!" is in fact a feeding call. And as one, they rush to answer it.

"Mummy, they like me! They lik-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" The child's initial joy at finally being acknowledged by her feathery friends-to-be turns into terror as the whole flock charges at her. Her parents watch grimly from the sidelines, they know that the lesson is necessary. She runs along the bank towards her father but the ducks cut off her escape. In the unholy din of quacking, she panics and backs away. Sensing victory, a seasoned tactician waddles quickly behind the child and neatly trips her...into the pond. The mother starts forward, but her husband holds her back. "It's a shallow pond," he comforts her. True, the water only comes up to the child's neck. But the mother is not worried about the depth of the pond. No, she is concerned about the hungry swan paddling towards her daughter with cold intent.

Unaware of the danger behind her, the child is too busy fending off flapping ducks to scramble to safety. The swan, having already acquired a taste for toddler flesh after one too many duck-engineered 'accidents', goes for a sample. The child screams as her hair is yanked sharply from behind and the sudden pain lends her the courage to flail her way past the henchducks to solid ground.

But her ordeal is not over yet. The swan follows her and continues snapping at her hair, trying to pull her back. The ducks continue to peck at her ankles in the hope that she will give up and allow herself to be eaten without anymore unnecessary fuss.

Finally, she is rescued. Her parents are convinced that she now knows the evil ways of waterfowl and so, she need suffer no longer. It was painful, but the children must be taught. When they arrive home, the child gathers all her duck-related possessions to be burnt. It was a lesson well learnt.

And so, the next time you spot a duckling, do not hesitate. Stomp on it, drop-elbow on it, chuck a bowling ball at it, do anything as long as you KILL it! Or that unassuming ball of yellow fluff will grow up to be a Demon Duck of Doom.


The creators of Negaduck had the right idea.

________________________________________________________________

In other news, this blog can now be reached at http://thezebra.nutang.com. While the older url (http://www.nutang.com/members.php?user=theZEBRA) still works, the new one's much shorter, rememberable, and easier on the fingers. Yes, now you too can have fat fingers like me!

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Like a fresh wad of cash.

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Catastrophe!

I'm curled up in a naked ball of misery, sobbing in frustration. Despair overwhelms me. It's not the first time that this has happened, and I'm quite certain that it won't be the last. I want to scream at the unfairness of it all but the neighbours lodged a complaint the last time. I settle for squeezing stress balls instead, but my stress levels stay in the danger-red zone. I'm probably squeezing the wrong balls.

I'm not over-reacting. You would feel the same way if...

*pauses for dramatic effect*

YOU HAD NO CLOTHES!

Oh, I don't mean that I've been forced to walk outside in full nekkid glory. I stopped once the neighbours complained about that as well. I'm just so SICK of everything I have. I have to hold back a wave of nausea just imagining wearing the same outfit one more time. While I'm usually one of the first numbers you'd dial for a night out with (and so modest too, notice how I said "one of the first" and not "the first"?), I wouldn't be much fun at the table if I puked a little in my mouth every time I looked down.

It's because I hate buying clothes. No, no, that's not true. I love spending money on clothes (preferably other people's money). What I hate is the actual process of choosing clothes. MNG racks of clothes fill me with dread. Potential mind-numbing boredom of sifting through miles and miles of clothing which (a.) are too daggy for me to wear, or (b.) I'm too daggy to wear. I'd much rather wait in the dressing room while my friends (amounts to the same thing really) throw options over the door. But when I suggest this very simple solution, they bitch and whine at me instead. Hmph. The amount I'm paying them to be my friends, you'd assume that personal shopping would be included in the services.

Sigh. I want to move to a nudist colony.

*Has a sudden mental image of saggy bits*

Maybe not.

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Oh why oh why did I laugh at JonnyB? His agony which seemed so funny a week ago, is now all too familiar as I lay sweating in my furnace of a room.

I am melting. MELTING. My bed is no longer a bed, but a giant, soggy sponge. How is it possible to sweat this much? I get up and walk. No, I leak around the house in search of a cooler room. My pyjamas, sodden with sweat, are fiendish things. Clinging to me, pulling at me uncomfortably with every movement, leaving butt-shaped sweat stains everywhere I sit. Urgh. I have an urge to tear them off and prance about the house naked. But I don't want to scare the maid. She is new and is yet unused to my naked prancing.

How I long for the cold. Lovely Perth and its lovely winter. Diving under the covers until the bed stops shaking from my uncontrollable shivering. Having to hold it in because going to the loo would mean letting my warm spot grow cold. Huddling into a miserable ball of cold flesh everytime the wind hits me.

Anything but this stifling Malaysian heat.

Yes, even frozen nipples.

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