I had to help Emily clip her toe nails today. This whole knocked up thing sort of made her experienced how it felt like to be Homer Simpson… where your belly’s so big, you can’t even see your own crotch…

The prerequisite requirements for dating Uncle Michael’s daughter:

- A reader of MichaelOoi.net of minimum 3 years, or commented there for at least 200 times with intelligent questions/remarks - whichever comes first. (subject will be randomly asked with questions pertaining MichaelOoi.net archived entries as assurance)

- The first time and everytime you see Uncle Michael, you must pay royalty in the form of alcoholic beverage in 1 liter packaging. If the liquor’s contraband or of counterfeit quality, you’ll be banned indefinitely from seeing his daughter

- You’ll have to declare any outing/date one week in advance, where you’ll also be required to register your personal details (residence address, academic history, place of employment, etc) with Uncle Michael. Uncle Michael will use that one week buffer period to verify your facts. If any of the declaration is found to be bogus, you can start look for another date.

- Any time you would like to bring Uncle Michael’s daughter out to anywhere, you’re required to leave your passport.. AND… something of significant value as mortgage at his residence (eg. your notebook, your expensive watch, your pet dog, etc)

- You’re required to bring home Uncle Michael’s daughter, safe and sound, before midnight. If you’re late for more than 5 minutes, Uncle Michael’s gonna torch your mortgage item. More than 10 minutes, your passport will be destroyed. More than 15 minutes, Uncle Michael’s gonna molotov cocktail your bike/car the next morning.

- Uncle Michael will be operating a toll inside/near his residence. A toll that charges exorbitant price to cover the painstaking years of raising up his daughter. You are required to pay for the toll charges with no question asked. If you fail to pay, or attempt to bargain, you can start look for another date.

- Uncle Michael will probably rear a very mean dog. If Uncle Michael’s dog doesn’t like you, you’ll have to bring his daughter home 1 hour before the stipulated curfew hour and pay double the required exorbitant toll fee (to insure against your lack of charm and build up Uncle Michael’s confidence)

- If you ever hurt Uncle Michael’s daughter’s feelings and make her sad, Uncle Michael’s gonna make his mean dog hurt your bunghole in return, and make you an even more sad motherfucker.

*I’ll update the list when I can think of more

I had to accompany Emily to go for her routine checkup today. But because the waiting room’s so full of knocked up ladies and constipated housewives (so I presumed), we kinda had to wait at the adjacent pediatric waiting area - where I get to see plenty of crazy kids running around screaming like the world’s gonna end, concurrently reminding me about the perilous journey I’m gonna have to drag my ass through… and what kind of life that would be left for me…

In the middle of the pandemoniac madness and self demotivating thoughts, I noticed of a nice little girl sitting on a miniscule wooden stool with an elderly woman squatting nearby… whom I supposed to be her grandmother. That little girl was working on some motley puzzle cubes with full concentration, while the grandmother kept an eye on her (probably just to make sure that she doesn’t swallow a table). Then all of a sudden, the little girl turns over to her grandma and asked, loudly

“Grandma, why won’t you sit?”

Grandma instantly went beet red - embarassed - and sheepishly answered,
“Uhmmm errr uhmmmm, grandma, uhmmmm… cannot sit…”

And the little girl didn’t even bother to ask why. Coz everyone knows why. If you don’t, then let Uncle Michael tell you why - it’s because Grandma is as big as Randy Savage “The Machoman”. Heck… grandma even has the same spiral perm hairstyle, coupled with a tight nylon tank top to reveal her doughy pair of wrestler hands, and a pair of faded eyebrow tattoo with greenish hue on it - she looked FORMIDABLE to even Randy Savage himself. If grandma sits on that little chair, it’s gonna fucking explode. You know why, little girl? That’s because grandma weights a few planets more than the biggest Barney you can ever find.

I was stiffling myself hard not to laugh, so as not to show a very bad example to the youngs (maybe I was just being considerate, there were no kids checking me out). Man, it escapes me why anyone of that age and size, would do so much to ‘enhance‘ their physical appeal. Like, come on, what is she reckoning to get out of that outrageous makeover? A wolf whistle? A one night stand boon from a hunk? Puhleeezz… with that kind of outlook, she’ll scare even the meanest wookie! no shit holy motherfucking cow!

I’m amazed that the kid’s still fine. She’s one tough little girl. If I were to have a grandma that looked like that? I’m gonna be so freaked out, that I’ll swallow a table.

I was busy surfing the net at home, about a good 20 feet away from Emily, who’s working on something with her notebook at the coffee table.

Emily : “Dear…”

Me : “hmm?”

Emily : “Can you bring me that mousepad?”

How I wished that I can answer her “No”. But everyone on this planet knows, I can’t. Why? 3 reasons.

1) She’s my wife.
2) I love her.
3) She’s pregnant.

That’s a triple kill for whatever faux inconveniences/excuses I can come up with. Even if I’m suffering a temporary paralysis, I’ll have to think of a way to bring that mousepad to her. (Just in case you don’t know - 20 feet is equivalent to 20 million miles to any bloke in a couch-potato mood at home)

Me : [walks over with the mousepad] “Why don’t you just keep this mousepad under the coffee table? That way, I don’t have to painstakingly bring you the mousepad everytime you need it.”

Emily : [giggles] “I just love asking you to bring me that mousepad. Let’s keep it that way”

I have a strange feeling that it isn’t all about the mousepad. It’s about the twisted ways of a particular odd behaviour. I’ve got 2 months to go before the madness ends…

So, people, if you’re not ready to scale the distance to the moon by foot, don’t get married.

I came to know that some of you have just discovered my blog. Well, big fucking deal and good for you. I have nothing to say to you and also, please, don’t be confronting me in public about what I’ve wrote or what you think about me. This blog, is my own personal site of letting out… an extended hidden side of me that I prefer not to discuss in person. I hope you people can respect that…

And then, there might be some posts of mine which may cause you some discomfort, especially those concerning my/our workplace and it involves you, somehow. I can offer no explanation on this difficult behaviour of mine. Maybe if I don’t do this (bitching about fucked up people at workplace inside my blog), I’d probably be an even more difficult person. Like, someone you hate, who would backstab your ass and discreetly spit on your keyboard. Who knows.

Hence, the only logical thing that I can offer to you, should you ever feel pissed about what I wrote, is an advice. The advice is - Just find the nearest toilet bowl, put your head into it, and flush. Heheh…

It is only good if you can understand, that the moment you choose to read this sacred site that details the sick side of my personality, you’re making a decision to delve deeper into what I think - and I shall not be held accountable to whatever negative repercussions that might befall on you. Take this as a privileged disclaimer for those of you who knows me personally.

I certainly hope that this will not change anything about our existing friendship. If I tulan you, we probably would never have been friends in the first place. Think about it.

Have a nice day guys.