For those that have been around a while, (Hey Neighbor – have the Aliens dropped in, or are they still doing fly bys?), well I understand the phrase I'm looking for is something like "Cleanliness of body was ever esteemed to proceed from a due reverence to God."
Or for those not out and about during the 17th century, something about they who keep ‘em selves clean are somehow closer to their Invisible Friend.
Now let me first say that I ain’t implying that my fellow cube dwellers at Puzzle Palace are necessarily filthy swine.
Nor do I have any desire to convert them to obsessive compulsive, country music listening, beer drinking, football loving critters ... though I have oft contemplated starting that Cult. The whole bit about swapping the Coopers for the spiked cordial on that final day of Honky Tonk Ascension never quite played out right.
Mind you, if the colorful globules of protein and nasal contents left sticking to the Puzzle Palace basins are anything to go by, a reassessment may be required of the porcine element within the cubist population.
What has me stumped (and slightly panicked) is that there seems to be a partiality to avoid washing hands with soap after "dropping the kids off at the pool". In fact, some don’t even bother with a rinse or even a dry wipe with a paper towel.
Now, I understand these people haven’t exactly been cuddling rats, or fondling lice covered monkeys … but they are pretty much going from handling food, to fiddling with bits of the nether region – with the odd caress of the germ clad porcelain – and then straight out the door back to their desk. Well “desk” is a loosely used term, as they have less surface area than an airline tray ... but that is a story for another time. Or maybe not their desk – maybe straight from the small room to the coffee room (or "pantry" as it is know on The Island). Or maybe to straight out shake someone’s hand. Maybe my hand ... (!)
And I mean it’s not like the amenities in the pisser are poorly appointed. There’s no cake of soap that has been stewing in its own juices on the side of a basin – it’s fresh, hygienic liquid soap.
In Puzzle Palace “Hey, more for Me” is usually a win. Not so with the ever near-full 2 gallon bottle of soap that smiles malevolently at me as I plod toward it and the washbasins.
Now where and when I grew up, we was learned that to win ya got to keep escalating the battle. So tomorrow I take one for the neat freaks. I’m leaving my OCD in its tidy little carefully arranged square suitcase at home. And I’m packing mud cakes & dung beetles for lunch, and after hugging a warthog I’ll leave a loaded diaper on the basin in the lav.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
On a Changing
Fear not Jethro and Mary Sue Mae Ellen, I ain't a changin'.
But the bit about the old road is a rapidly changin’ … it sure be true here on The Island.
Now, I’d best clear something up first, ‘cause the last time I quoted Dylan, one of my most perspicacious critics (Hi Mom!) swiftly pointed out that I misspelled Dylan and misconstrued the true revolutionary meaning of the lyrics. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was quoting that clown that was doing the Jack Kerouac impressions in Beverley Hills 90210.
So having acknowledged the feedback from the critics, back to changing … and change is a constant here on The Island. And it’s been amusing to write about that.
And it’s a little disconcerting when the road you drove on last Friday suddenly has an extra lane and a new s-bend the following Monday.
And sure it’s a little annoying that renting a place into a quieter low rise part of The Island was a great idea (until the park on the corner turned into a construction site for a 20 storey condo).
And I can even get over choosing a place that is a handy few blocks from a small mall (it only has 5 levels) that has a large supermarket … which 10 months later was completely flattened to build a new and improved mall (10 floors – coming soon! Invest now!).
No biggie.
But on the way home last week, the whole change thing has hit a whole new level.
You see the line it is drawn.
The curse it is cast.
My local (for those new to this diatribe of tripe please look up “Claypot Frog”, circa July 2009 A.D.), it has been a closin’. Well it has a been closed.
It’s one thing to lose a local park (to be honest, I’d rather skirt around a 20 storey condo than risk stepping in a Chihuahua’s dookie). And it’s another thing to have to go to the city for eggs and milk. But it’s a whole new thing for me not to be sure whether I have a Local.
To be fair, there are hawker joints that serve enormous pitchers of Tiger beers (on the sidewalk) all over the place. But I’m not certain this constitutes a “Local”. So I need hit the books:
“Lo•cal” British Informal. A neighborhood pub.
(Neighborhood is way too many syllables, let’s look up one of the smaller words … )
“Pub” Formal: Public House. A building in Britain where alcoholic drinks can be bought and drunk and where food is often available.
(I think this is getting warmer, except I’m sure it is meant to read “where alcoholic drinks can be bought and you get drunk, and it is a bonus if you can get a countery”)
Clearly this bookish stuff ain’t working.
So we develop a new one. Crusty’s Law (#94): to qualify as a “local”, said venue must have in its name (or tagline) one or more of the following: alehouse, bar, barroom, beer garden, beer joint, bistro, boozer, brew house, brewery, cabana, cocktail lounge, Coopers, distillery, drinkery, establishment of drinking, hotel, inn, lounge, moonshine, pool room, public house, roadhouse, saloon, taproom, tavern, or watering hole.
And while I hunt for my new Local, I leave you to ponder the extraordinarily profound lyrics from Bob Dylan McKay, ah heck, I can’t remember which of them covered it – go get yourself the Clancy Brothers version:
I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler.
I'm a long way from home.
And if you don't like me,
Well, leave me alone.
I'll eat when I'm hungry,
I'll drink when I'm dry.
And if moonshine don't kill me,
I'll live till I die.
But the bit about the old road is a rapidly changin’ … it sure be true here on The Island.
Now, I’d best clear something up first, ‘cause the last time I quoted Dylan, one of my most perspicacious critics (Hi Mom!) swiftly pointed out that I misspelled Dylan and misconstrued the true revolutionary meaning of the lyrics. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was quoting that clown that was doing the Jack Kerouac impressions in Beverley Hills 90210.
So having acknowledged the feedback from the critics, back to changing … and change is a constant here on The Island. And it’s been amusing to write about that.
And it’s a little disconcerting when the road you drove on last Friday suddenly has an extra lane and a new s-bend the following Monday.
And sure it’s a little annoying that renting a place into a quieter low rise part of The Island was a great idea (until the park on the corner turned into a construction site for a 20 storey condo).
And I can even get over choosing a place that is a handy few blocks from a small mall (it only has 5 levels) that has a large supermarket … which 10 months later was completely flattened to build a new and improved mall (10 floors – coming soon! Invest now!).
No biggie.
But on the way home last week, the whole change thing has hit a whole new level.
You see the line it is drawn.
The curse it is cast.
My local (for those new to this diatribe of tripe please look up “Claypot Frog”, circa July 2009 A.D.), it has been a closin’. Well it has a been closed.
It’s one thing to lose a local park (to be honest, I’d rather skirt around a 20 storey condo than risk stepping in a Chihuahua’s dookie). And it’s another thing to have to go to the city for eggs and milk. But it’s a whole new thing for me not to be sure whether I have a Local.
To be fair, there are hawker joints that serve enormous pitchers of Tiger beers (on the sidewalk) all over the place. But I’m not certain this constitutes a “Local”. So I need hit the books:
“Lo•cal” British Informal. A neighborhood pub.
(Neighborhood is way too many syllables, let’s look up one of the smaller words … )
“Pub” Formal: Public House. A building in Britain where alcoholic drinks can be bought and drunk and where food is often available.
(I think this is getting warmer, except I’m sure it is meant to read “where alcoholic drinks can be bought and you get drunk, and it is a bonus if you can get a countery”)
Clearly this bookish stuff ain’t working.
So we develop a new one. Crusty’s Law (#94): to qualify as a “local”, said venue must have in its name (or tagline) one or more of the following: alehouse, bar, barroom, beer garden, beer joint, bistro, boozer, brew house, brewery, cabana, cocktail lounge, Coopers, distillery, drinkery, establishment of drinking, hotel, inn, lounge, moonshine, pool room, public house, roadhouse, saloon, taproom, tavern, or watering hole.
And while I hunt for my new Local, I leave you to ponder the extraordinarily profound lyrics from Bob Dylan McKay, ah heck, I can’t remember which of them covered it – go get yourself the Clancy Brothers version:
I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler.
I'm a long way from home.
And if you don't like me,
Well, leave me alone.
I'll eat when I'm hungry,
I'll drink when I'm dry.
And if moonshine don't kill me,
I'll live till I die.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
On Pockets
So on the way to Puzzle Palace the other day we’re following one of those commercial vehicles, complete with 27 laborers wedged in the rear tray.
Three of them have been upgraded to business class (they were sharing a sheet of plastic to keep the rain off). One of the other fellers was probably looking pretty clever when they had first set off – as he’d planned ahead well enough to have an umbrella.
His strategy resembled something more like one of Baldric’s cunning plans once they hit the expressway (not only does an inverted, bright orange 7-Eleven umbrella fail to keep the rain off, it also appears to become an uncontrollable weapon of destruction to the 26 colleagues wedged in next to you on the tray of the Nissan Cabstar).
And then I notice the stenciled tag line on the rear of the truck:
“We specialize in building envelope technology.”
Now this really got me thinking. Decorating an envelope I can understand (imagine being the guy who paints those red and blue marks around the edge of those air mail envelopes).
Envelope technology?
Well, sure, those envelopes with the little plastic windows would be pretty tricky to build. And maybe those yeller ones with the string ties that we use to send hate mail to the finance department would require a bit of extra thought.
Surely there is more technology in stamps?
I mean the gummy bit on the back of the stamp tastes way better than envelopes for starters. To be fair, my research on that stopped when I discovered toads.
And stamps have those cute little moon shaped perforations. My 4 year old can build an envelope. He was pretty crap at cutting out those little perforations when I asked him to build a page of stamps – and don’t even get me started on his shoddy effort at making the picture look the same on all 100 stamps. Lucky the Minister of Fun & Finance is a therapist in her spare time ... she should be able to get the boy right again by the time he starts college.
Look, I’m no marketer. But I’m willing to suggest that the envelope building market is under serious threat from those crazy electronic letters used by the young kids of today.
Mind you I’d like to see those young kids send the house key back to the old lady in an email.
Three of them have been upgraded to business class (they were sharing a sheet of plastic to keep the rain off). One of the other fellers was probably looking pretty clever when they had first set off – as he’d planned ahead well enough to have an umbrella.
His strategy resembled something more like one of Baldric’s cunning plans once they hit the expressway (not only does an inverted, bright orange 7-Eleven umbrella fail to keep the rain off, it also appears to become an uncontrollable weapon of destruction to the 26 colleagues wedged in next to you on the tray of the Nissan Cabstar).
And then I notice the stenciled tag line on the rear of the truck:
“We specialize in building envelope technology.”
Now this really got me thinking. Decorating an envelope I can understand (imagine being the guy who paints those red and blue marks around the edge of those air mail envelopes).
Envelope technology?
Well, sure, those envelopes with the little plastic windows would be pretty tricky to build. And maybe those yeller ones with the string ties that we use to send hate mail to the finance department would require a bit of extra thought.
Surely there is more technology in stamps?
I mean the gummy bit on the back of the stamp tastes way better than envelopes for starters. To be fair, my research on that stopped when I discovered toads.
And stamps have those cute little moon shaped perforations. My 4 year old can build an envelope. He was pretty crap at cutting out those little perforations when I asked him to build a page of stamps – and don’t even get me started on his shoddy effort at making the picture look the same on all 100 stamps. Lucky the Minister of Fun & Finance is a therapist in her spare time ... she should be able to get the boy right again by the time he starts college.
Look, I’m no marketer. But I’m willing to suggest that the envelope building market is under serious threat from those crazy electronic letters used by the young kids of today.
Mind you I’d like to see those young kids send the house key back to the old lady in an email.
Friday, October 8, 2010
On Colonialism
Well it was a fairly long stint, but I'm now capitally reformed. Crusty prisoner #ST50326 has completed his stay in Cell Block 2H (Cluster B). So I can resume these online shenanigans. So much to share (with so few). And a quick Cheerio to warden Wee Pin Me – thanks for the memories.
So The Hillbilly has gone all Colonial.
That’s right, wifey can no longer be referred to as The Maid. So we revert (as they say around these parts) to her formal title: The Minister for Fun and Finance.
And as it turns out, The Minister for Fun & Finance decided that Singapore Slings by the pool each afternoon was too much hard work. So she’s found a job. I think she’s the Tinkerbell at the school. Why an 8 year old needs a guidance counselor is a bit beyond me. I mean, how does that conversation go?
“Hi there little feller. So what is your name?”
“Spiderman.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. My name is Spiderman. So teacher said I need to come and see you.”
“So when did you become Spiderman?”
“When God told me so.”
(At which point the kid out in the waiting room calls out “I did not!”)
And being good at what she does, what started out as a part time Tinkerbell gig, has turned into full time work.
So we got a real maid.
Actually a really scary maid.
(Which if you’ve read any of my previous work, was probably all part of the Minister for Fun & Finance’s cunning plan.)
So one of my big challenges these days is when I wearily plod in through the front door in the evenings, not to show the fright when I catch a glimpse of our Domestic Helper.
That’s right.
Not only is Puzzle Palace becoming more and more sanitized, politically correct and otherwise part of the greater feminization of the world, I am now instructed by the Minister that we should use the appropriate term for our new employee: “Domestic Helper”.
Well chaps, I’d be keen to prattle on further … but the DH has just saddled up the horses. I’d better fetch the hounds and join Algernon and Winston for this afternoon’s hunt.
So The Hillbilly has gone all Colonial.
That’s right, wifey can no longer be referred to as The Maid. So we revert (as they say around these parts) to her formal title: The Minister for Fun and Finance.
And as it turns out, The Minister for Fun & Finance decided that Singapore Slings by the pool each afternoon was too much hard work. So she’s found a job. I think she’s the Tinkerbell at the school. Why an 8 year old needs a guidance counselor is a bit beyond me. I mean, how does that conversation go?
“Hi there little feller. So what is your name?”
“Spiderman.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. My name is Spiderman. So teacher said I need to come and see you.”
“So when did you become Spiderman?”
“When God told me so.”
(At which point the kid out in the waiting room calls out “I did not!”)
And being good at what she does, what started out as a part time Tinkerbell gig, has turned into full time work.
So we got a real maid.
Actually a really scary maid.
(Which if you’ve read any of my previous work, was probably all part of the Minister for Fun & Finance’s cunning plan.)
So one of my big challenges these days is when I wearily plod in through the front door in the evenings, not to show the fright when I catch a glimpse of our Domestic Helper.
That’s right.
Not only is Puzzle Palace becoming more and more sanitized, politically correct and otherwise part of the greater feminization of the world, I am now instructed by the Minister that we should use the appropriate term for our new employee: “Domestic Helper”.
Well chaps, I’d be keen to prattle on further … but the DH has just saddled up the horses. I’d better fetch the hounds and join Algernon and Winston for this afternoon’s hunt.
Monday, April 12, 2010
On Fakin' It
At the minute I have a little more time for indoor pursuits, as I fight off a 21st Century incarnation of the Bubonic Plague which one of the tatertots brought home from the Petri dish that is pre-school.
And The Maid is busy watching channels I didn’t even realize we had (The Oprah Channel, Glee Channel, Neurotic-Twenty-Somethings-Work-at-the-Hospital Channel and the Neurotic-Twenty-Somethings-Live-in-an-Apartment-in-the-Big-City re-runs Channel).
So I have time on my hands to read.
And while reading something that a colleague tapped out, I started thinking … an ailment that can usually be cured by applying liquor.
So after a couple of beverages from Jim and Dr Cooper (not necessarily in that order), it occurs to me that there is a heck of a lot of fake stuff here on The Island. (Cue Nagging Doubt #1.)
On the weekend I’m at the science park (I was lost, I thought the sign said Jurassic Park … to be fair, there was a forty-foot tall T-Rex that sent the tatertots scurrying when it bent down and had a gentle roar). And at one interactive exhibit I’m watching the Singapore FD teach islanders how to put out a fire. With an eFire. Yep a virtual fire is blazing away, threatening to engulf the entire … TV screen. Which is mounted into what appears to be an old Atari Centipede chassis. The terrified islanders are being trained on how to correctly aim the extinguisher … with its virtual CO2. (Cue Nagging Doubt #2.)
And meanwhile on Fantasy Island which is the small fake island for the filthy rich islanders, there is the virtual wave. (Cue Nagging Doubt #3.)
And recently opened is a fake Casino (you can't drink at the tables). (Cue Growing Panic #1.)
And when you get used to a nice old joint here on the Island, it gets knocked down and built into something that looks exactly like the place next door...
And like the place across the road...
(Holy homogenous hitchin’ post, Batman!)
We’ve seen this movie before.
And thus I came to work out that I am on some twisted version of The Truman Show.
And what worries me most is that is clear that the Creatives behind the series on which I am participating are running out of ideas.
Usually this is about when the main character dies in the next episode.
See you.
Bye.
And The Maid is busy watching channels I didn’t even realize we had (The Oprah Channel, Glee Channel, Neurotic-Twenty-Somethings-Work-at-the-Hospital Channel and the Neurotic-Twenty-Somethings-Live-in-an-Apartment-in-the-Big-City re-runs Channel).
So I have time on my hands to read.
And while reading something that a colleague tapped out, I started thinking … an ailment that can usually be cured by applying liquor.
So after a couple of beverages from Jim and Dr Cooper (not necessarily in that order), it occurs to me that there is a heck of a lot of fake stuff here on The Island. (Cue Nagging Doubt #1.)
On the weekend I’m at the science park (I was lost, I thought the sign said Jurassic Park … to be fair, there was a forty-foot tall T-Rex that sent the tatertots scurrying when it bent down and had a gentle roar). And at one interactive exhibit I’m watching the Singapore FD teach islanders how to put out a fire. With an eFire. Yep a virtual fire is blazing away, threatening to engulf the entire … TV screen. Which is mounted into what appears to be an old Atari Centipede chassis. The terrified islanders are being trained on how to correctly aim the extinguisher … with its virtual CO2. (Cue Nagging Doubt #2.)
And meanwhile on Fantasy Island which is the small fake island for the filthy rich islanders, there is the virtual wave. (Cue Nagging Doubt #3.)
And recently opened is a fake Casino (you can't drink at the tables). (Cue Growing Panic #1.)
And when you get used to a nice old joint here on the Island, it gets knocked down and built into something that looks exactly like the place next door...
And like the place across the road...
(Holy homogenous hitchin’ post, Batman!)
We’ve seen this movie before.
And thus I came to work out that I am on some twisted version of The Truman Show.
And what worries me most is that is clear that the Creatives behind the series on which I am participating are running out of ideas.
Usually this is about when the main character dies in the next episode.
See you.
Bye.
Monday, April 5, 2010
On Stacks ... or Stacks On
It could well be illegal to work hard on The Island.
Which is why I’m doing a lot more cruising than carving on my 42” longboard as the designated First Aid Officer for the tatertots, who are wobbling their treadlies down the shared walk/run/cycle/rollerblade/hovercraft/pet-menagerie connector to the beach.
Apparently clear instructions from adult First Aid Officers like “push back on the pedals to stop” are somehow lost in translation on the way to a tiny mind. Said instruction apparently means “take both feet off the pedals, splay legs at right angles to the bike, and wobble directly at the frail old lady with the walking frame”. Mind you, I can’t really blame the little spuds. Not sure that I’d pay all that much credence to a fat guy in a Ramones t-shirt on a board that is the width of a Twinkie.
But credit must be given to the hard workers.
And one of those is coming the in the other direction.
Downunder we have Jim’s Mowing. It’s a venerable franchise involving people towing trailers full of mowers, grass cuttings and the paraphernalia that is required to tidy a lawn or garden.
So now picture all of those tools and that machinery … on a bicycle. We’re talking a most impressive balance of a mower, grass catcher, leaf blower, box of assorted hand tools (and gloves) and a rake. On a bike. Feller pedaling along as if it is perfectly normal.
Now before y’all start to espouse about the size of a Aussie backyard versus one on the Island, let’s just agree that Fu’s Feng Shui Garden Services are saving a lot of money and getting quite a few more carbon credits than Jim is.
Which is why I’m doing a lot more cruising than carving on my 42” longboard as the designated First Aid Officer for the tatertots, who are wobbling their treadlies down the shared walk/run/cycle/rollerblade/hovercraft/pet-menagerie connector to the beach.
Apparently clear instructions from adult First Aid Officers like “push back on the pedals to stop” are somehow lost in translation on the way to a tiny mind. Said instruction apparently means “take both feet off the pedals, splay legs at right angles to the bike, and wobble directly at the frail old lady with the walking frame”. Mind you, I can’t really blame the little spuds. Not sure that I’d pay all that much credence to a fat guy in a Ramones t-shirt on a board that is the width of a Twinkie.
But credit must be given to the hard workers.
And one of those is coming the in the other direction.
Downunder we have Jim’s Mowing. It’s a venerable franchise involving people towing trailers full of mowers, grass cuttings and the paraphernalia that is required to tidy a lawn or garden.
So now picture all of those tools and that machinery … on a bicycle. We’re talking a most impressive balance of a mower, grass catcher, leaf blower, box of assorted hand tools (and gloves) and a rake. On a bike. Feller pedaling along as if it is perfectly normal.
Now before y’all start to espouse about the size of a Aussie backyard versus one on the Island, let’s just agree that Fu’s Feng Shui Garden Services are saving a lot of money and getting quite a few more carbon credits than Jim is.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
On Gettin' Piggy Wid It.
So there I was apologizing away to Singaporean drivers, and the next day (after cussing at them all under my breath on the way to work again) there is the headline on the front page of The Island Tribune: “McDonald's says sorry to Singapore”.
What the … ?
McDonald’s doesn’t say sorry to anyone.
Heck, this is a company that has been known to shut down a store when its staff threatened to join a union – and then open up a new store across the road under a new franchisee. Why they’ve even pulled the stores right out of a whole country when the locals didn’t play Right.
It turns out that while most of western folk just celebrated New Year, the Chinese are about to celebrate theirs next month. So a clever marketer at McD’s comes up with the idea to make a few extra coins by flogging little plastic toys that depict the animals of the Chinese zodiac calendar. It turns out there are 12 of the little critters.
Seems like a good plan.
Then someone from HR must have come late into the meeting. Because I can only gather the meeting then went something like this:
Marketing: “So here are the pre-run samples for the 12 miniature cartoon figurines of the Chinese Zodiac calendar. Market analysis suggests we can sell each of these at $2 - $3 with each Happy Meal.”
HR: “Is that a little pig?”
Marketing: “Well, I think they prefer to call it a wild boar. But sure, if you were born in 2007, or back in ’71, well then you were born in the year of the Pig.”
HR: “Won’t the Muslim population on The Island be offended?”
[Finance, Customer Service, and Production managers avert eyes, and begin neatly arranging their pens.]
Marketing: “What the …? There are 12 signs in their zodiac! Exactly how culturally sensitive is it to reduce it to 11?”
HR: “Well, what does the Boar Pig represent?”
[Marketing makes quick phone call to assistant.]
Marketing: “Gallantry. Virility. Or something like that.”
So now Mickey Dee’s is apologizing to us for replacing the Wild Boar with a Cupid figurine. Happy Valentine’s Day.
Now there are so many places to go with this, and … Whoah. Hang on. What does that say … ?
“Sat on boyfriend; killed him”
You.
Are.
Kidding Me.
I’m afraid you’ll have to put the ironies of the McD’s story together yourself.
Because The Island Tribune has been kind enough to provide some more fine journalistic work from those folks over at Fair and Unbalanced News, and I’ve just skimmed the essential details: 136kg vs 54kg, sat, face. And read the next line “... apologized for squashing the father of her children.”
I don’t know why I bother writing these blobs of tripe when that sort of stuff is being reported daily from back at my old trailer park.
What the … ?
McDonald’s doesn’t say sorry to anyone.
Heck, this is a company that has been known to shut down a store when its staff threatened to join a union – and then open up a new store across the road under a new franchisee. Why they’ve even pulled the stores right out of a whole country when the locals didn’t play Right.
It turns out that while most of western folk just celebrated New Year, the Chinese are about to celebrate theirs next month. So a clever marketer at McD’s comes up with the idea to make a few extra coins by flogging little plastic toys that depict the animals of the Chinese zodiac calendar. It turns out there are 12 of the little critters.
Seems like a good plan.
Then someone from HR must have come late into the meeting. Because I can only gather the meeting then went something like this:
Marketing: “So here are the pre-run samples for the 12 miniature cartoon figurines of the Chinese Zodiac calendar. Market analysis suggests we can sell each of these at $2 - $3 with each Happy Meal.”
HR: “Is that a little pig?”
Marketing: “Well, I think they prefer to call it a wild boar. But sure, if you were born in 2007, or back in ’71, well then you were born in the year of the Pig.”
HR: “Won’t the Muslim population on The Island be offended?”
[Finance, Customer Service, and Production managers avert eyes, and begin neatly arranging their pens.]
Marketing: “What the …? There are 12 signs in their zodiac! Exactly how culturally sensitive is it to reduce it to 11?”
HR: “Well, what does the Boar Pig represent?”
[Marketing makes quick phone call to assistant.]
Marketing: “Gallantry. Virility. Or something like that.”
So now Mickey Dee’s is apologizing to us for replacing the Wild Boar with a Cupid figurine. Happy Valentine’s Day.
Now there are so many places to go with this, and … Whoah. Hang on. What does that say … ?
“Sat on boyfriend; killed him”
You.
Are.
Kidding Me.
I’m afraid you’ll have to put the ironies of the McD’s story together yourself.
Because The Island Tribune has been kind enough to provide some more fine journalistic work from those folks over at Fair and Unbalanced News, and I’ve just skimmed the essential details: 136kg vs 54kg, sat, face. And read the next line “... apologized for squashing the father of her children.”
I don’t know why I bother writing these blobs of tripe when that sort of stuff is being reported daily from back at my old trailer park.
Monday, January 18, 2010
On Gettin' Jiggly Wid It
Well this is awkward.
I now need to send out a deep apology to the men, the women, expats, and any pimply-faced, probation-licensed teens that I may have singled out or offended in my diatribes on driving the Singaporean roads and expressways.
Sure that whole swerve-into-a-lane-without-indicating thing is a little irritating.
And yeah, that thing you do with the turn-a-corner-from-any-lane-you-choose-into-any-lane-you’d-like, sure does get stuck in my craw.
And sure, it seemed like driving a moped with the cubic capacity of a thermometer, at 80km per hour faster than it was designed to go (in my blind spot) appeared to be a dangerous maneuver.
I’m sorry.
Or as my new friends (the crafty Koreans) would say: “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Shawty. Shawty. Shawty. I’m going crazy, crazy baby”. Oops. Got a bit carried away there, Super Junior. (Perhaps those cheeky Poms, The Vapors, were more prophetic than I’d realized back in 1980.)
I’m very sorry.
Because I’ve now been to Malaysia.
It was a short trip. Technically I was in a vehicle on four occasions. It felt like forty-four occasions. (It's hard to tell with your eyes squeezed shut while gripping the seat in white-knuckled fear.)
To be fair, two of the occasions I was passenger to a work colleague who drove remarkably carefully … particularly given the sheer random chaos that was taking place on the “road” around him. I use the word road carefully, as it would appear that if you are in a vehicle in that country, then a driver need not limit himself to the “road”. He is entitled to use bits of sidewalk, median strips, ramps or people as part of the general carriageway.
So the other two occasions on the Malay bitumen were in “taxis”.
And I use the word taxi carefully, as I wouldn’t want to create the impression that a taxi is some type of licensed, street-worthy vehicle that is carefully regulated by a transport authority.
Apparently I could have used some liquid paper to scrawl the word “meter” (correct spelling optional) to a digital watch, sticky-taped it to the dashboard of my first car (a $50 Torana), and placed a cardboard sign with the word “taxi” (spelling optional) in the rear window … and I could have earned a few Ringgits.
So I learned a few things on my journeys to and from the airport in a “taxi”:
1. Having a seatbelt is mandatory.
2. Having something the seatbelt actually plugs into is optional.
3. Despite what your 8th grade Physics teacher will try to tell you, it is in fact possible to experience G-Forces in a 1.6 litre 1986 Nissan Sentra (that’s a Nissan Sunny to you Singaporeans, and an ’86 Pulsar to you Aussies … and I ain’t even gonna try to describe this vee-hic-le to you, Jethro).
4. It turns out there is a Shock Sensor in my laptop. And, although it is somewhat validating that technology is confirming your concerns about whether land-based vehicles should be moving so swiftly in lateral direction, you know you are in trouble when your PC starts shutting things down.
So I say Sorry. Shawty.
I now need to send out a deep apology to the men, the women, expats, and any pimply-faced, probation-licensed teens that I may have singled out or offended in my diatribes on driving the Singaporean roads and expressways.
Sure that whole swerve-into-a-lane-without-indicating thing is a little irritating.
And yeah, that thing you do with the turn-a-corner-from-any-lane-you-choose-into-any-lane-you’d-like, sure does get stuck in my craw.
And sure, it seemed like driving a moped with the cubic capacity of a thermometer, at 80km per hour faster than it was designed to go (in my blind spot) appeared to be a dangerous maneuver.
I’m sorry.
Or as my new friends (the crafty Koreans) would say: “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Shawty. Shawty. Shawty. I’m going crazy, crazy baby”. Oops. Got a bit carried away there, Super Junior. (Perhaps those cheeky Poms, The Vapors, were more prophetic than I’d realized back in 1980.)
I’m very sorry.
Because I’ve now been to Malaysia.
It was a short trip. Technically I was in a vehicle on four occasions. It felt like forty-four occasions. (It's hard to tell with your eyes squeezed shut while gripping the seat in white-knuckled fear.)
To be fair, two of the occasions I was passenger to a work colleague who drove remarkably carefully … particularly given the sheer random chaos that was taking place on the “road” around him. I use the word road carefully, as it would appear that if you are in a vehicle in that country, then a driver need not limit himself to the “road”. He is entitled to use bits of sidewalk, median strips, ramps or people as part of the general carriageway.
So the other two occasions on the Malay bitumen were in “taxis”.
And I use the word taxi carefully, as I wouldn’t want to create the impression that a taxi is some type of licensed, street-worthy vehicle that is carefully regulated by a transport authority.
Apparently I could have used some liquid paper to scrawl the word “meter” (correct spelling optional) to a digital watch, sticky-taped it to the dashboard of my first car (a $50 Torana), and placed a cardboard sign with the word “taxi” (spelling optional) in the rear window … and I could have earned a few Ringgits.
So I learned a few things on my journeys to and from the airport in a “taxi”:
1. Having a seatbelt is mandatory.
2. Having something the seatbelt actually plugs into is optional.
3. Despite what your 8th grade Physics teacher will try to tell you, it is in fact possible to experience G-Forces in a 1.6 litre 1986 Nissan Sentra (that’s a Nissan Sunny to you Singaporeans, and an ’86 Pulsar to you Aussies … and I ain’t even gonna try to describe this vee-hic-le to you, Jethro).
4. It turns out there is a Shock Sensor in my laptop. And, although it is somewhat validating that technology is confirming your concerns about whether land-based vehicles should be moving so swiftly in lateral direction, you know you are in trouble when your PC starts shutting things down.
So I say Sorry. Shawty.
Monday, January 11, 2010
On Black Beans
So while I’m wandering The Island solo (the wife and tatertots are dodging bushfires in a sun burnt land), I see the sign:
“No. 1 Premium Coffee in Korea”
OK. You’ve caught my eye.
Why you cheeky promotional sign, you.
Clearly, you know I love enormous pitchers of strong, black, Arabica coffee beans in steaming hot water. And you obviously know that I’m a slut when it comes to gimmicks and quirky displays. (Even when you slip the word “premium” into the phrase to make it a tautology.) Tell me more, you cheeky Asian marketing hook…
The sign read Tom Toms.
Oops, no - - on closer inspection it is “Tom N Toms”.
Now you’ve got my attention.
Those cunning Koreans have slipped a GPS into a Coffee cup. (Speed camera in 100 meters. Place coffee in left hand. Please Slow Down. Long medium drink ahead. Burn lips here.)
So I’ve pretty much got this blog written as I amble across the pavement to TNT. (Did the Marketing department think through that acronym?). And then when the décor appears to be a Korean version of Starbucks, I’m thinking this must be a franchise from the southern Koreans, not from the northern land run by the little feller with the tiny willy. No, at this point, I’m thinking I don’t need to change a line of my pre-written prose.
I order a large long black (which after some to- and fro- with the nervous, young, uniformed lady behind the counter I concede to be a “Grande” black coffee). I get served a shot of Expresso in a “Grande” cup … now I know I don’t need to change a single word of the blob I’d written in my tiny mind as I’d crossed the street.
Then I wheel around to find a table under an air-conditioner, and there it was …
A promotional banner.
Now, to set the scene … I am quite experimental when it comes to mixing beverages with exotic foods. For example: Cheese Pizza and Red Wine. Or Chilli Dogs and Bourbon + Coke (no ice). Heck, this one time (at Band Camp) I even dazzled my colleagues with my culinary conjecture by drinking a Coopers Sparkling with my Cocoa Pops.
So the TNT banner has Pretzels.
Many Pretzels.
Many flavors of Pretzels.
Mmmm. Salty pretzels.
Sure there wasn’t a GPS in my Expresso. But to combine tasty Pretzels with steaming hot Coffee? That’s like Wow. Like Wipeout.
We have so much to learn from you crafty Koreans.
“No. 1 Premium Coffee in Korea”
OK. You’ve caught my eye.
Why you cheeky promotional sign, you.
Clearly, you know I love enormous pitchers of strong, black, Arabica coffee beans in steaming hot water. And you obviously know that I’m a slut when it comes to gimmicks and quirky displays. (Even when you slip the word “premium” into the phrase to make it a tautology.) Tell me more, you cheeky Asian marketing hook…
The sign read Tom Toms.
Oops, no - - on closer inspection it is “Tom N Toms”.
Now you’ve got my attention.
Those cunning Koreans have slipped a GPS into a Coffee cup. (Speed camera in 100 meters. Place coffee in left hand. Please Slow Down. Long medium drink ahead. Burn lips here.)
So I’ve pretty much got this blog written as I amble across the pavement to TNT. (Did the Marketing department think through that acronym?). And then when the décor appears to be a Korean version of Starbucks, I’m thinking this must be a franchise from the southern Koreans, not from the northern land run by the little feller with the tiny willy. No, at this point, I’m thinking I don’t need to change a line of my pre-written prose.
I order a large long black (which after some to- and fro- with the nervous, young, uniformed lady behind the counter I concede to be a “Grande” black coffee). I get served a shot of Expresso in a “Grande” cup … now I know I don’t need to change a single word of the blob I’d written in my tiny mind as I’d crossed the street.
Then I wheel around to find a table under an air-conditioner, and there it was …
A promotional banner.
Now, to set the scene … I am quite experimental when it comes to mixing beverages with exotic foods. For example: Cheese Pizza and Red Wine. Or Chilli Dogs and Bourbon + Coke (no ice). Heck, this one time (at Band Camp) I even dazzled my colleagues with my culinary conjecture by drinking a Coopers Sparkling with my Cocoa Pops.
So the TNT banner has Pretzels.
Many Pretzels.
Many flavors of Pretzels.
Mmmm. Salty pretzels.
Sure there wasn’t a GPS in my Expresso. But to combine tasty Pretzels with steaming hot Coffee? That’s like Wow. Like Wipeout.
We have so much to learn from you crafty Koreans.
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