Archive for October, 2005

October 18, 2005

RUI

I’m sure many of you people have heard of DUI. That’s “Dive Under It” – which literally means, you shove your head under some skirt to eat somebody’s clam. o_O

Kidding.

That’s “Driving Under Influence” (of alcohol, not of your PMS or whatsoever shit). It’s dangerous, you know, when you’re driving inebriated … as you might mistaken a bunch of housewives as a bevy of pigeons, which somehow at that particular state of mind, makes you think it is amusing to plow your junk into them. That’s when something unfortunate happens.

But in Malaysia, we have another hybrid of “under influences” that’s almost as deadly as DUI itself – RUI. That’s “Riding Under Influence”. You know instead of a car ? The drunkard would ride on a motorcycle.

The difference between DUI and RUI
DUI = The drunk gets charged in court after smoking them innocent people.
RUI = Everyone fucking dies including the spongebob who rides the bike.

So, it’s kinda like a kamikaze situation here when there’s some fucktard trying to ride a bike after getting zonked real bad. It’s not like a rare sight either – ask yourself, how many times have you seen some old Indian bozo riding his bike in a zigzag manner on a perfectly straight road ? Countless of times (well, at least in Penang…). And these people, sometimes may end up dunked inside a drain, clogging the drainage system which in turn, allowing mosquitoes to breed and fucking get us all shitload of dengues. (that’s a wild idea but you get the point).

I myself had an encounter with these dangerous RUI motherfuckers before when I was a teenager. Here’s the story to give you people an idea about the danger of Riding Under Influence… :

It occurred on the wee hours on Christmas day and I was heading back to a party location after refueling my bike. Halfway through the journey, I was brushed by this fast motorcycle with a screaming pillion rider on it. “Merry Christmas Wooooo!” he yelled. There was a contact… and almost made me lost control of my bike into a nasty ditch. But I was good, I managed to regain control of the bike and stayed put. Of course, my subsequent reflex was to cuss out loud after balancing my wobbling bike back on its course (don’t ask, that seemed to be the most practical thing to do at that particular moment).

“I HOPE YOU FUCKERS RIDE INTO A TRUCK TONIGHT #$%^&*() !!!”

You know what ? They did ride into something. Not a truck though, but a car driven by some chick exiting an apartment at a high speed curve. I didn’t learn about that until I was negotiating that curve myself – saw both the rider and pillion lying on the middle of the road like dead rats.

I was stunned, you know, realizing that something I had just cursed a few seconds earlier came true before my eyes. Part of me was feeling real ecstatic about it, but another part of me was feeling like I’ve just done something terrible. Soon, the compunction took over me and I stopped my bike to lend some help.

The first guy was the pillion rider (yes, that noisy Santa Claus). It was a Malay bloke and he was totally unconscious. I checked his pulse, he’s not dead. There was a strong smell of alcohol about him (ironic isn’t it? I thought they’re forbidden to consume…). I then moved that dickhead and flung him off like a ragdoll onto the side of the apartment guardhouse. (he was too “sleepy” to even complain…).

I then ran to the rider and tried to move him – but that guy let out a soft groan and said “Sakit …Sakit…” while holding his leg. I checked on his leg and found that it was broken like a matchstick right at the middle of his shin. I ignored him and tried to move him again. This time, he let out a louder groan “Sakit… sakit”. Like his partner, he smelt of alcohol as well. That was when I snapped

“HOI !! APSAL TADI RACING MACAM ORANG GILA MIA TIME TARAK SAKIT ??? PUKIMAK CHEEBYE LU ORANG!!!”

I moved him nevertheless, totally disregarding his complain about his broken leg. Like his partner, I flung him off to land hard on the cement floor at the guardhouse. He went quite content after that and I looked across the road – only to see that stunned lady standing beside her semi wrecked Toyota. She didn’t do anything but stood there like morgue pillar. I then issued an order to the guard (with an attitude) to call for an ambulance and I bailed off the place with a story to tell.

Some of my friends said (after I relived the story to them) that I could have crippled the rider’s leg for moving him around like that. But think about it, if it wasn’t me moving them off the road, they could have got themselves ran over by any oncoming vehicle at that high speed curve. (that time was about 3 – 4 am, but there could be garbage trucks moving around at that hour). The only thing that I regretted that night, was that I didn’t take the opportunity to bitch slap both of them motherfuckers (or at least piss on them). Blame it on my inexperience, I was too shaken to do anything cool (still teenager maa…).

So there you have it. A real life encounter with a couple of RUI fools. Always remember, do not ride (or drive) when you’re drunk. Push your bike home if necessary… or just crash at a nearby toilet.

michaelooi  | traffic shit  | 18 Comments
October 16, 2005

tele-assholes

It was just a few minutes away before my turn to present my slides in a meeting, and my cellphone vibrated. I frantically checked out the call – “Private Number” – it said.

Thinking that it might be some important call made by one of my suppliers, I made a quick exit from the meeting room and answered the phone

[whispering] “Yeah… who’s this?”

*had to whisper because I was standing next to somebody’s desk.

“Good morning Mr. Ooi. This is Muthusamy calling from Citibank. I am here to promote bla bla bla. Are you convenient to talk ?”

Tele-fucking-marketers. Who doesn’t hate them… I usually won’t even let one complete the first sentence, but this Muthusamy guy fired his words in such a rapid pace that I almost thought he actually called from a radio station…

[whispering] “I’m not convenient to talk”

“I just need 5 minutes to explain to you about our super awesome once in a lifetime offer bla bla bla …”

[whispering] “Look Muthu, I’m in the middle of a meeting right now. I’m hanging up…”

“Oh I’m very sorry Mr. Ooi. But when will it be convenient for me to call you back ?”

[whispering] “Can you call me back like, next year or something ?”

A brief moment of silence followed. I think he got dumbfucked and was trying to decipher what I had just said.

“Errmmm… Mr. Ooi, perhaps I’ll call you tomorrow at 4 pm, would that be ok for you ?”

[whispering] “I’ll decide if I’m free enough to talk to you by then.” and I hung up on him. The whole episode lasted less than 20 secs and I went back to my meeting. He never called the next day.

To me, telemarketers are the human version of those email and commenting spams that misuse the communication technology to annoy people. They’re like fucking parasites of the human civilization.

If one day my kid were to date a telemarketer or be a telemarketer himself/herself, I’m gonna fucking kill him/her with my own bare hands. Mark my words.

michaelooi  | happenings  | 31 Comments
October 15, 2005

the visit

I entered the ward that I was looking for, saw him perched on his bed looking at a box full of medicine. I went up to him and said a “hey”. He looked at me as if I’m a stranger and squared it off with a smile.

“You are?” he asked. Yep, he forgot who I am, again.

“I am your daughter [my mom]‘s son, Michael”

“You’re [michael's mom]‘s son ? Oohhh… my bad memory. Sorry about that” he said with a sheepish smile. I told him that it was ok, you know, like… I can’t be expecting a 90 year old guy to remember every single one of his 20 over grandchildren’s name, right? It’s not his obligation anyway… Then I went ahead to ask him some stupid ass questions that supposedly be able to allay my own guilt for being such a motherfucking ignorant jerk…

“How are you feeling grandpa?” (like, who could be feeling great inside a fucking hospital ward ?? *smacks own head)

“Not so good, the nurses here aren’t really that good…”

Hell, I know what his definition of “good” is. The old man hasn’t lost his touch when it comes to handling the opposite attraction, I’d be fretting at ugly nurses too when I get old. But that isn’t the thing that bothered the old man (and me, and us). It is something else…

You see, he has been very ill. The tough old dude discovered that he had been coughing some dark rotten blood off his mouth, and said that something was dead in him that bled off this mess. If you were to put it in some way of describing it, it’s like he was menstruating off his mouth. He tried to complain to his own children, but they would dismiss him off as feigning a possum to gain sympathy and attention … as he always did.

But this time, it was for real. After being ignored, he went to the doctor himself and they found some ominous looking dark spots inside his lungs. After a few rounds of body checkup later, the doctor told everyone a very bad news – the old man has terminal stage lung cancer. There is nothing that anybody can possibly do to save him… as he is already too old to go through those treatment shits. So, his children conspired to make him believe that he just had a minor lung infection and put him into this geriatric care ward to nurse off his final days – which is where I stood that day, in front of him.

“It’s damn boring in here… have to look at the walls day and night. I think I won’t make it long… I lived too old. It’s not fun living this old when you have all these illnesses and pain in your joints”

It was an ugly truth that both of us mutually knew, and I didn’t even attempt to pacify the old man with another lie. I just gave him a smile.

But everyone knew it could have been better than this. Grandpa has always been such a pain guy to handle and has had shitload of conflicts with his children. Nobody wants to live with him and he has been living alone ever since my grandma passed away. If only he was a bit nicer to his children, he would not have to be in this sorry state right now. He could have lived off his final days with ANY one of his 8 children … and die off a happy and accomplished man.

Well, sadly, things don’t usually happen the way they should. Life is always a bitch everyone has to put up with. The circumstances in the past had paved for what is happening today and who am I to rant what the old man think is right for himself?

Whatever, I did the best I can that particular moment – we shared a few blank talks about some inane stuffs, gave him some attention to his old day stories (which I must have heard a few hundred times) and lent him the company he needed to forget about boredom. That’s the least I could do…

michaelooi  | personal  | Comments Off
October 13, 2005

smell something ?

It was months ago when I first saw this not-really-bad-looking chick at my workplace. Tall and slender, high cheeks, proportionate body shape. A girlfriend material.

At that first time when I saw her, she was wearing this really nice looking pair of low cut blue jeans. It looked good on her. Her long legs somehow matched that low cut jeans very aptly… and the sight of her bleached white ass was kinda delectable. (yeah, it was worn so low that the sight of buttcrack was very overt like a phone booth)

And one thing about this girl I’ve noticed, was that she’s very aware about her hind exposure – each time she walks pass a pack of ogling wolves or a cackle of hyenas, she would pull down her T-shirt to cover up her caboose. Not sure what the fuck was that all about … probably an act to preserve some decency. Whatever.

It was kinda kooky at first, but after an umpteenth encounter with Miss Cover-Ass, we sorta gotten used with the sight of her beckoning act. And the excitement died down after a few sightings… nobody gave a hoot about her anymore.

But a couple weeks ago, something suddenly hit me about this girl. I’ve noticed that she’s been wearing the same jeans all these while ! Same cutting, same colour. (note: I’ve never seen her going about without covering her ass, so it has always been a low cut jeans on her…)

A friend suggested a credible reasoning “maybe she has a few same jeans leh?”. But I don’t think so. For lolas (*wink), maybe. But jeans, they’re damn expensive. If you’re to get yourself a pair of jeans of specific color and cutting that you like, would you be getting yourself like … a few pairs ? Not very likely. Unless you’re autistic or something.

So, the most plausible explanation here is, this girl has been wearing the same pair of jeans to work. Every fucking day. Only washes it once a week.

I know … I know … it’s kinda common for us guys to wash our jeans only weeks of usage. But that’s us… as guyssss, as “sleazebags” the girls have been labeling us as. We rightfully claim the title to be as such. Even if that were to be debatable, at least we don’t wear the same pair of motherfucking jeans from 7 to 5 every frigging day for a week (and for every awakening moment at the workplace). That’s just plain gross.

The only thing positive that I can think about being such a sheer beatnik, is the symbiosis relation. You know symbiosis, right ? 2 organism of different species coexist together in a mutual beneficial kind of way. So who are the 2 organism in this symbiosis relationship ? Our sleazebag lady here and her pet bacterias inside her jeans. Her grimes and filth feeds the bacterias … and the bacterias adds character to her stinking jeans.

Anyway… whatever the reason is, I’m not interested to find out. The root is still, she’s fucking gross. There shall be no justifiable excuse for that on this planet. And you people keep wondering why mosquitoes are abundant nowadays … sheesh…

michaelooi  | characters  | 24 Comments
October 12, 2005

memo

My workplace had a power failure today. Total blackout. Most of the lights were out except some of the emergency lights… and of course, the air conditioning too. So it’s kinda musty and hot in the office.

I just came back from my lunch when it happened. But luckily, the network’s still up and running (as they’re hooked to some power generator or something). So most of us were still able to access the network through our portable PC’s. I fired up my email program and saw a memo from our management (details modified to protect the confidentiality).

To : all employees

description
Please be informed that our company is having a power failure. However, the data server is not affected and being supported by the generator.

how will this affect the users ?
The company has no power supply.

business units
All employees located in the workplace.

That’s hell u’va memo, isn’t it ? I laughed so hard that I almost shat my pants. Hell.

I do not know how would that memo help us in any way other than wasting the network bandwidth. Like, it was already so fucking dark in the office… and the air conditioning wasn’t working. Any birdbrain would have been able to wild guess that it’s a fucking blackout. Now why do they think that they need to remind us employees that we’re having a blackout? It’s a wonder how bureaucracies drive people to do ridiculous things, isn’t it ?

Some 35 minutes later, while I’m still sitting in the DARK and MUSTY office, I received another memo…

Update:
Power has not been restored yet. Facilities is still investigating.

Oooh, as if I couldn’t tell… what the fuck bebeh. They sent the exact same memo half an hour later, to remind us employees about the shit situation we’re in… so as we’re not clueless of what’s happening.

Then about a while later, the office lights began to flash back to normal. The air conditioning hummed its usual washing machine dry spin tone (that’s a big ass air conditioning unit, ok ?). Then almost as predictable, I beamed at my email program… expecting something from the management. Sure enough, 15 minutes after the power was restored, the final memo came :

Power has been restored at 2:10pm. Facilities consultant indicates that the power lost was caused by power switch gear tripped.

Enlightening indeed. Had they not send out those memos, I probably wouldn’t have known if a power failure had occurred… GODDAMN !

michaelooi  | work shit  | 17 Comments