Archive for the ‘experiences’ Category

November 24, 2016

yellow flood

Remember this post I wrote about? The 2 hours’ worth of traffic standstill in the same 7 – 8km with my wife and daughter in the car? Actually, there’s one other thing that happened which I didn’t mention… and it is one of those things that will make me remember this day for the rest of my life.

You see, before reaching the big fucking jam, I already had the urge to pee. (you can see where this is going) It wasn’t a strong one, but just a small urge that makes you think you can hold for another 30 mins or so. That was until I hit the fucking traffic, right before the tunnel. When we hadn’t moved for close to 20 minutes in the car, I immediately knew I was in deep shit. I started to calculate the time for me to be able to go to the nearest restroom, and the calculation didn’t look very good for me. But I held a glimmer a hope that the jam’s going to be a short one.

At approximately the 45th minute’s mark in the stagnant traffic, I started to develop this pain which can be best described as those ‘menstrual pain’ that you bitches encounter. I was holding my pee so bad, that my butt cheeks were clamped shut hard enough to develop butt fatigue, on top of the throbbing bladder muscle that felt like a cramp’s coming. I had to sit side ways to let the gravity take over the aching butt muscles and cramp. My concentration started to wane. I was beginning to look for a dark spot anywhere by the long lines of stationary cars by the highway that I could somehow hide-pee, but because it was night time and there were so many car headlights lighting up along the road, I eighty-sixed the wild idea. I even thought of sticking my dick out by the window to pee, but my daughter’s at the backseat and my dick’s not long enough to do that (dick has to be at least a foot long to be able to feasibly do that)

At approximately 1hr 15th minute’s mark in the jam, I started to cuss incessantly. Nothing made sense anymore. The menstrual pain was so bad, that I think my brain simply had shut off the pain signal and it was all numb. I was hitting at the steering erratically and was at the verge of exploding. I swear, that was the color went offline in my eyes, I started to see things in black and white. I couldn’t make any sense out of anything I heard (my wife were talking to me at some point). Then, I saw the bottle – the Tupperware ECO bottle (500ml version) that I had right beside me, and I looked at my wife, and I told her – “I have to fucking pee in this bottle or I’m gonna die”. I then opened the car door, emptied out the water from the bottle onto the tarmac, slid the seat back to its furthest extend, stretched out both my legs, stuck my dick into the bottle and pee’d. I had to request for my daughter’s cooperation to not look to the front, erase this horrifying incident from her memory, and not talk about this to anyone or anything.

It was the craziest feeling of rush I’d ever encountered. Fucking pee jetted out mad like a stream of pressurized water in a carwash, so damn strong that I could see foam forming like it’s some kind of German beer. Then came another predicament – the bottle was fast getting full and I couldn’t stop! (I was also worried at the same time that my dick would get stuck in the bottle like one of those perverts who had to go to the hospital to get it out) The highly pressured stream of urine prevented the flood gate from closing, I had to literally assist with a pinch, and a re-clench maneuver (the guys should know what I’m talking about) and while doing that, I had to empty the bottle out onto the tarmac as fucking fast as I could before the levee breaks (cue in Led Zeppelin guitar riff…)! And I repeated for 2 more goddamn times! (that’s about 1 liter plus of pee). When it was finally over, I had my pants half wet (it’s inevitable) and a fucking ruined Tupperware ECO bottle. The relief, however, was indescribable. It was like, being able to live again after being dead for years.

Fast forward 30 mins later, I ended up visiting the restroom again at a drive thru McDonald’s (that was after learning that my father in law had been discharged from the hospital, and there’s no point for us to be there anymore) to have another round of draining, and those were the pee that got backed up in my kidneys (and perhaps even before the kidneys) due to the fatal exception error thrown by the failing bladder. In all, I must have pee’d close to 2 liters of urine that could have possibly gone out the other way. It was fucking insane. Definitely one of the craziest experience I’ve ever encountered in my life…

*The Tupperware ECO bottle, was discarded into the trashcan right outside the fast food restaurant. I sure hope no one would pick it up to use as a drinking bottle…

michaelooi  | experiences  | Comments Off
October 16, 2016

skeevy old man

I was at this regular food court in the morning for breakfast with my wife, Emily. We were waiting for our orders, when we got approached by this old man. From what I reckoned, he was probably in his early 60s. Donning a pair of thick sunglasses (perched on his hair like it’s going to make him 20 years younger or something), an oversized blue batik shirt and a pair of black old people slacks. He asked us this while pointing to an empty plastic chair at our table:

“Is this seat taken? Is someone sitting here?”

There were only 2 of us, so the seat wasn’t ‘taken’. But I didn’t know if he simply wanted that chair (which is common) or if he was asking if he could share our table with him – which was uncommon, because

a) Penang is a place that respects personal space, table sharing with strangers is not a common practice.
b) There were still a few empty tables at the back of the food court, and another lone-patron old lady with a table all by herself (if table sharing was his thing, he could have picked a better target, just saying…) – which oddly, he went right past and didn’t ask for a seat.
c) I do not like sharing tables with strangers. Even more so with old people. I’d lose my appetite if the table is shared by a stranger. If have to be, I’d rather give up my table than sharing it with strangers.

Anyway, I politely asked & remarked,

“Are you asking if you can take the chair? You can have the chair if you want.”

Old man then said, rather rudely “I want to sit here at this table!”

Bummer. I had to lie in order not to be rude, “I’m sorry, I am expecting a company to join us later. Perhaps you can find another table?”

Old man then flipped out and yelled at me, “THEN JUST SAY THE SEAT IS TAKEN!! YOU DON’T HAVE TO CHASE ME AWAY!!”

I was flabbergasted of course. Like, what the fuck just happened?? That was when my courtesy went out of the window. I went loud:

“HEY! Did you just say I chased you away?? This isn’t your table to begin with, how is it possible you got chased away?? Didn’t I tell you politely to find another table??”

Old man was taken aback because he didn’t think I would ‘talk back’, because you know, he is old. Things usually go his way because he’s a fucking geriatric, but too bad… I’m not a nice person. He then retorted in a toned down voice before walking off to the next table (like a table-to-table parasite):

“Aiyah! It’s still early in the morning, I don’t want to quarrel with you…” His response was ironic because he was the one who started to yell at us early in the morning. I wanted to castigate him further to lower his self esteem but, what’s the point. He had lived 60 over years to be this skeeve of a person, anything I say will not do him any favor but will only make me look bad for yelling at an old fart (that’s what it’ll look like to everyone). Who knows, someone might whip out a phone and the next thing I know, I might become an internet sensation in the wrong light. So I let him be and he eventually got a seat at the said lone-patron old lady’s table.

That fucking skeevy old man. If my daughter’s here, she would be traumatized. That is why I never liked old people. I think old people are overrated. Just because they’re old, they think they can get away with anything (and most of people are enabling them, by letting them get away with what they want). It’s exactly like spoiling a child – except that old people have way much less innocence. Most of them are rude, ignorant, and like to make scenes for attention. Some really bad ones, would even fabricate stories to discredit their own children or others, just to gain some pity attention. They set bad examples to our children and they fucking disgust me.

But I don’t wave a blanket dislike to all the old people because I know not all of them are skeevy. It’s just that in my code of things, they are always by default a “RETURN FALSE”… and will only get a “RETURN TRUE” when they do/did-not-do something or behave in such way that convince me otherwise.

michaelooi  | experiences  | Comments Off
April 2, 2016

‘minimum bbq two orders’

So I was at this Korean restaurant with my wife and daughter. Just the 3 of us. We took our time with the menu and waved the server over when we’re ready. A short fair skinned Bangladeshi server came to take our order.

Me: “I’d like this set of BBQ Pork here, and…”

Before I could continue, the short Bangla (SB) replied with an incomplete sentence in English:

SB: “Two orders.” *points at other BBQ selections on the menu*

Me: *confused* “No, no… I don’t want two. Just this one.”

SB: “No…no… two. Minimum two orders.” *repeatedly points at other BBQ selections on the menu*

I hadn’t got around to order the main course just yet so, I was thinking, maybe he was hinting at me that we’re not ordering enough or something. So I flipped the menu to the ala carte page and placed order for the main course first, and came back to this BBQ pork order – and gave him this ‘Is everything ok now?’ look.

SB: “No…no… two orders. Minimum BBQ two orders.” *repeatedly points at other BBQ selections on the menu*

My patience was wearing thin. My wife Emily then asked me to check the small prints in the menu, but there was nothing mentioned about minimum orders. I tried to ask SB about what did he mean by ‘minimum two orders’ and why aren’t we allow to order just 1 BBQ pork, but all he could reciprocate was this blank look while muttering ‘minimum BBQ two orders’. Since we’re about as productive as a chicken and a duck trying to have a conversation, I asked for the manager. A chubby Korean teen (must be the owner’s son) came and explained:

Chubby Korean kid: “It’s very hard to explain… uhh… very hard to scrub. If one order, need to… err… wait.”

Then he called out in Korean to another middle aged lady who was at another aisle, whom I reckoned must be his mother. His mother went all Korean back to him and he then said:

Chubby Korean kid: “The pan, very hard to scrub. Need 2 orders. One order, a lot of work!”

I was thinking, two orders aren’t going to make it any easier, are they? Fucking dumbass Koreans. I was ready to lose that BBQ-fucking-minimum-two-orders-pork there and then. If these guys couldn’t figure out that losing an order is a worse trade off than scrubbing the goddamn skillet, then they’re probably better off to have their asses dictator-ed by Kim Jong-Un instead of hitting a boner like this. Anyway, after a few loud exchange of Koreans between the mother and son, chubby kid proposed a workaround,

Chubby Korean kid: “One order, can! But need to cook inside kitchen! Ok?”

I was like, who the fuck cares? I just want to eat the pork and I do not really care if the Bangla grills the pork on the table skillet or in the kitchen skillet.

Me: “No problem, just do what you must.” And the order was finally placed.

We could hear a commotion right after our order was placed, right around the kitchen area. Probably still couldn’t agree if 1 order is worth to scrub the goddamn kitchen skillet.

Anyway, my gripe about the whole thing was – communication. I have nothing against Banglas (except their body odor), but more often than not, we get people like them fucking up our dining experiences by not being able to communicate properly. For this, I can only blame the restaurant owners/managers, for putting the wrong labor to the wrong tasks. In this scenario, things would have been simpler if they have gotten some locals to be the hostess and take orders, and get the Banglas to scrub the skillet instead. But they had to save that wee bit of labor cost to go for Banglas, and had to devise this stupid plan of minimum 2 BBQ orders to justify the return of investment for spending time scrubbing the goddamn skillet.

michaelooi  | experiences  | Comments Off
January 19, 2016

fire risk at petrol station

I have this habit of recording my fuel consumption whenever I start a new tank of gas/petrol with my car. Usually, I’d just whip out my cellphone at the pump to record the stats right there and then with an Evernote app and then I’d put my phone away. But today, my actions drew some uncanny reactions from a couple of old farts in a white MyVi at the pump behind my car.

The driver, who looked like some old hunchback dentist, was glowering at me like I was the perpetrator who stole his wife’s XXXL underwear or something. I wasn’t sure initially if he was actually targeting me but my suspicion was later confirmed when his fellow old fart passenger – who looked like an old pedophile priest – pointed at me and was mumbling something to that hunchback dentist in the car *inaudible dialog*. I immediately became uncomfortable of course at the bordering rude theatrics, and gestured back to the 2 gents with some hand signals while lip syncing –> ‘What the the fuck are you looking at??’ (I’m not fond of old people, so I didn’t hold back from expressing my thoughts)

Pedophile priest then lifted up his antique cellphone (with buttons) and pointed at it – to indicate that he’s/they’re not happy with me swiping my cell phone at the pump (this must be the root of the age old urban legend belief that cellphones may cause fire at gas/petrol pumps). You can imagine that this is the same scenario that happened in Mos Eisley cantina in Star Wars episode IV, when Ponda Baba told Luke Skywalker in his unintelligible alien language at the bar that he doesn’t like him there, resulting his arm being hacked off with a lightsaber in an unfortunate turn of events that followed. My reaction? Unlike Luke, I gave them zero fucks. Of course, if given the permission to act freely without any consequence, I’d have opted to walk over to the MyVi and break off its side mirror in lieu of an arm as a trophy… Anyway, that’s not how the society works so, I went ahead with my business amidst the consternation of the 2 senior citizens with slightly elevated blood pressure.

Now back to the question – can a cellphone actually cause a fire at a gas/petrol station? Let’s fucking do this in an FAQ form for convenience’s sake.

So, can a cellphone cause fire at a gas station?
Fuck yes of course. Only if you short the battery contacts or do basically something stupid with your phone to cause a spark – like stabbing the battery pack with a metal knife (like this).

What if you use your phone normally?
Nuh uh. Not going to happen. You’re more likely to get a fire with a running engine than a fucking cellphone (my hypothesis – running rubber belt is like a Van der Graaf machine, spark plugs firing, car full of operating electronics/electrical doohickeys).

Well then, why do people keep saying cellphones cause fire at pumps?
Because they’re ill informed morons who also believe Microsoft is paying $1 to an orphanage everytime you share a post in your Facebook. You see, it takes a spark to ignite the gas/petrol fume to be able to start a fire. A phone is simply too lame to do that. You know what’s the major cause of fires? Static electricity.

What is static electricity?
Fucking google it you cheebye.

How does static electricity cause a fire?
When the static electricity discharges to a ground point or lower potential point through the air barrier, a spark is created (same principle that causes lightning) and MIGHT ignite the fume to start a fire. Your phone doesn’t do jackshit to make you gain charge.

How’d this normally happen?
When you move around, you pick up static electricity. When you’re charged and happens to touch a ground point near the refueling nozzle, there’s a chance that it might cause a spark, and therefore, might ignite the fume. That’s why gas/petrol stations are required to follow strict protocols to ground their pumps and shit.

How can I avoid this?
If you must ask, stay the fuck away from gas/petrol stations. If you must go anyway, just keep your bare hands in constant contact of your car body or the metal part of the pump console, BEFORE you fucking pump the gas/petrol. Stay at least a couple of feet away from the fueling point – away from the fume (besides being combustible, it is also carcinogenic – causes cancer), while maintaining constant contact with the car body/pump console. Refrain from walking around.

Do you have proof for this?
I don’t. But there are shitloads of research done and all you need to do is do some reading. Also, this is a busted myth by the Mythbusters – check the short video out here.

To the 2 old men glowering at me today, you know they’re saying that cellphones are bad for the brain, because it literally microwaves your head and causes brain damage. I wonder why you guys didn’t choose to believe in that as well?. Is it because you’re being a selective moron? That must be what you are.

michaelooi  | enlightenments, experiences  | Comments Off
December 11, 2015

feminine

Company T installed some fancy ass toilet seats in the loo recently…

On the right side of the seat, rests this plastic bar with 2 knobs labeled “family” and “feminine”.

Here’s the picture of the knobs:

Looks like the control for a goddamn massage chair…

I’ve seen these from the internet before. Very popular in Japan. What those knobs essentially do is shoot a jet of water to clean your ass or something (to save the loo user the energy-sapping chore of having to use a bidet). This is a non-electronic version, but those in Japan are mostly electronic, which has better capability I guess… like maybe dispense some warm air to dry your nuts or pneumatic tampon removal…

For the clueless blokes in Company T, this novelty of a gadget seemed to have piqued their interest enough to make them inadvertently wet themselves and the floor (evidenced by the wet booths – you can actually see the water beads all in the pic above). That’s a mistake. The idea is, your ass needs to be on the seat, otherwise the water will simply shoot out of the bowl unobstructed thus wetting everything in its path.

Anyway, the curiosity got to me too. But I was smarter than them rats, I sat my bare ass down on that bowl and tested the damn knobs. So what was the difference between “family” and “feminine”? It is just the angle, boys… just the angle. The “family” rubs the rim, the “feminine” shoots higher pressure at it. I don’t know why but, I guess it must be a sexual thing. (girls like anal).

michaelooi  | experiences, work shit  | Comments Off