Quotes. It doesn’t really matter where they came from. They could have been uttered by famous and influential people, picked up from charming characters in movies, even shows like Family Guy. More often than not, they do make sense. A couple stuck in my head and are very much applicable to my day to day dwellings.

I once had a rather uncomfortable conversation with a friend’s father. He said, “Taufiq, when there are problems or conflicts surfacing within a family or any intimate, if not romantic, relationships, the man is ALWAYS to blame. Never put the blame on the woman… NEVER” How we ended up talking about it, only god knows. However I couldn’t agree more with that wise old man. He had the hands on experience. In the beginning he did not anticipate how much damage his misdemeanour would cause and the eventuality of things blowing out of proportion (shit hitting the fan) as it should. When they did, hell broke loose. He had almost lost all he had. It has gotten better for him since but left an ugly scar in his marriage. While he was lost in the world of infidelity he always had in mind, justification to his deceitful behaviour. There was always someone to blame and point fingers at. However once the real demon unearthed, the fingers were all pointing back at him. It was he who distanced himself. It was he who succumbed to the seduction of that hideous stray bitch and it was he who brought himself to believe that what he was doing wasn’t wrong. Little did he know, his whole family, the people who loved him unconditionally, had been, all that while, suffering. The wife had nobody to turn to, and the kids, longing for a fatherly guidance were lost “seperti kapal kehilangat nakhoda”. Despite the absence of him, the family, with whatever they have left, each other, pulled through. They patiently waited for the man of the house to come to his senses and rejoin a what-used-to-be a perfect family. And, unlike many of the similar instances, fortunately, he repented, and salvaged whatever that was left of his family and more importantly, marriage. It was however, never the same. The trust lost is never regained. Nobody could put humpty dumpty together again. It, he said, is like driving a car that has been fixed from a nasty crash. Not as good as new and far from being better. Never the same.

One fine summer evening during the last days of my student life I was hanging out with my two best friends in the back yard of our rented home in - effortlessly chugging a crate of Stella Artois (each) – when one of them said something quite surprisingly wise. It was more of an open ended question. He asked, “Guys, if there was someone who has, all these while, provided you with everything you ever needed that you feel forever indebted, and one day that very same person murders your mother, would you still be indebted to that person?” I sat there and thought, ‘wow, that is probably the best way to define the love a boy has for his mother’. That is one line that NOBODY, under any circumstances, should ever cross. No external factor, not even divine intervention, can ever disrupt that sacred bond between a son and his mother. The nature made it that way and that’s just the way it is and that how it should be. When I said NOBODY, I literally meant NOBODY without any exceptions. Those who hurt my mother, in any possible way for any possible reason, deliberate or accidental, are pieces of shit and do not and will not ever deserve my respect for what it’s worth regardless all the good things they have given me. Give me all the money in the world and beg for forgiveness, you will still be a piece of shit. And a piece of shit will always be a piece of shit.


-Tau

p/s: don't mess with my mother

CEOs, Sweage and Civilisation

An integrated sewerage system is one of the most important yardsticks in the history human civilisation. In Paris, France, the idea of an integrated sewerage system was coined, or promoted, by King Philippe Auguste when he ordered drains to be built along roadsides in the city during his reign in the 13th century to channel household wastes into the river. However, the open-drain system was found disastrous as it contributed to the rapid spread of the bubonic plague in 1346 which believed to have wiped out up to 60% of Europe’s population. It took 150 years for the continent’s population to recover. The cleaner and more effective solution was developed by a man called Bruneseau, under the rule of Napoleon Bonaparte, construction of which took seven years from 1805 and 1812. Bruneseau also disinfected and purified the entire network of the subterranean sewer. In 1850, Victor Hugo further improvised the system as he separated the underground passage of sewage and drinking water using techniques made possible following the industrial revolution.
In London, the introduction of flush-toiled backfired as it overwhelmed cesspits, London’s primitive and inefficient sewerage system. This has led to two major black spots on London’s history; the widespread of Cholera disease and the infamous Great Stink. Addressing the gravity of the situation and to avoid the shame these civil blunders could bring to the ‘greatest empire in the world’, the Parliament decided to built a network of enclosed sewer as proposed by a civil engineer, Joseph Bazalgette in 1895.
Many major European countries followed suit and the ingenious technology was later introduced all over the world. The integrated sewerage system provided people with comfort and convenience. It also helped technological advancement. For instance, Elisha Otis’s invention of safety elevators would have been left in vain had occupants still had to travel to the ground to answer nature calls or Londoners still yelling “out the window” to rid their biological discharge.
Quite amazing the sewerage system, really. Developed in 1800s and until today, the basic concept of leveraging on water flow and gravity still works perfectly. The breakthrough, however, is always forgotten. We treat it as if it had always been there; as if nobody had to suffer or even die before it was perfected. It seems, many is taking it for granted and some is going backwards against the flow of civilisation.
Now, to the point I’m to make. In my line of work, i get to visit a number of office buildings to meet clients and most of the time I would meet with the top management of large corporations. Typically, the elite group (those holding higher position) would occupy the higher floor of the building while the working class; lower. As the meetings require high level of focus and professionalism I would hit the loo before the meetings commence. There seems to be a strong correlation between cleanliness of toilets and class of people utilising it. The executive floors are always clean while the working class ones, more often than not, covered in filth. Same apply to airplane lavatories. Business and First class WCs are always cleaner than those of coach.
I began to question. One: Did the likes of CEOs and CFOs become aware of toilet ethics, personal hygiene and common courtesy after they made their way up the corporate ladder? Or two: was it their in-built toilet ethics, personal hygiene and common courtesy that propelled their success? I think it’s the later. What do you think?
You can argue on volume and frequency of cleaning. But it’s not about numbers. It only takes one irresponsible bastard to spoil the comfort of an efficient sewerage system for everyone.

Unconditional love. Say what???

Woman: Love and emotional support? One at a time mister. Show me the money and body-convulsing orgasm, and then we talk love and emotional support.

Man: Love and emotional support? You have a pretty face? You have an epic pair of bosoms? If the answers are yes to both questions, let’s talk love and emotional support.

Men and women. We are all the same; messed up in the head and incapable unconditional love. We do try, all the time, to prove otherwise, using many different methods. Be it self help books, retarded friends’ advice and even religions. But we’re fooling no one but ourselves. We are very particular, have preferences, and more often than not, will jump at the first glimpse of a better option.

I will be polite here. Ladies first.

Yes, they can provide men with support and love and are vital components in the pursuit of the continuity of mankind. But these services do not come free. Quality of service depends entirely on how much men are willing to spend. I’m not talking love, protection and care of a man; I’m talking dollar and cents (preferably dollar of course and with a lot of zeros excluding decimal points). It does make perfect sense if you look at it. Like buying a car, if a customer walks into a Proton or Perodua showroom, the only questions worth asking for the sales person to the potential - and most probably eventual – customer would be which model, transmission type and color. Because there’s no point promoting the cars for there’s nothing to promote and the only reason the customer walked into either of these showrooms is that they know they can’t afford anything else. Once the car is sold, the sales person would say, not out loud for sure, “it’s your problem now”, with a smile in his face. After sales service? What after sales service? In fact, the soon-to-be dissatisfied customer probably does not even expect any after sales service. He knows, considering the amount he paid, he doesn’t deserve any. Now if we relate to men picking a mates. They know very well that with the little money that he had, could afford to or was willing to spend(t) that’s all he is going to get… Junk. If we look at the other extreme, say you bought a prancing-fucking-horse (that’s Ferrari) the after sales goes on forever. They’ll build you a car that fits every part of you perfectly. They’d measure the length of your thighs and width of your hips and even the diameter of each of your testicles, to the nearest millimeter to promise comfort. You decide what color, which part will come in. Your wish is indeed their command. Try buying your woman a RM20,000 Channel bag. I bet on my mother’s house, with my mother in it, they’ll fulfill your sickest, most disgusting sexual desires right outside the KLCC boutique. You will never ever have to tug your sorry self while she’s busy tugging someone else’s anymore.

Now we move on to the gentlemen.

They are a bunch of cheating, lying, and deceitful sons of bitches. Never trust them. Here’s the conundrum. You can’t trust men with money but you don’t even look at men without. What does that leave you with? Ponder that. You may be the hottest, foxiest, woman he knows now. You probably have the sweetest rack, round, firm arse and vertical lips as tight its neighbor an inch away that he couldn’t tell the difference at times. You think he’s not going to go anywhere… forever. Let me break it down to you missy. The moment a wrinkle appears on your used-to-be pretty face, tits and honka-donk sags, and your verti-lips down under gape perpetually like a dead Indonesian volcano, he’s out the door. First his mind, then his heart, and eventually, sooner rather than later, his physical self. Unless you’re lucky enough that he dies before he could find your replacement.

For women, it’s always money first, sex second and the rest later and for men, its face, boobs, cunt, ass, and the rest, in that order. Strip off all our self-righteousness, men are just a bunch of lonely lowlife, housing long-term prostitutes, masked by the politically correctness of self dictated economic success and women… well, you get what I mean.

There’s no such thing as unconditional, and forever love. Terms and conditions always apply…. Always.

Poor Men and Smelly Calloused Feet

It happened in the year 2002, as I was going around looking for a decent pair of black lace-up Oxford shoes. Nothing fancy, nothing outlandish, no fashion-statement making pair of shoes. Just a good ol’ pair of comfortable black leather shoes for me to wear on a medical school interview (yup, medical school, but that’s another story for another day).

First, I walked into Penney’s on Henry Street. Well, who was I kidding… So I tried my luck at several department stores and shopping malls, Arnott’s, Roches, Blanchards Town, Illac Centre, Jervis Centre, St Stephen’s and the list goes on. Constrained by tight budget, I went into, among others, Sole Trader, Burton’s, Mark and Spencer’s, and even Dunnes Store. The day of the interview was inching closer and I had yet to find a pair that meets my requirements, which after all, are not at all farfetched.

The shoes must be black, made of leather, lace-up, flat with 1-inch heels and gently tapered tip. There, barely a line of simple prerequisites. But what I found was mostly, well, crap. Bulky looking ones were ruled out at first sight. I don’t have the built or height to pull it off. So were ones with ridiculously thick soles. Some had too many stitching on them, supposedly to distinguish between one and another. They’re missing the point. Men’s shoes aren’t meant to be distinguished. They should look plain, simple and classy while giving the master the deserved comfort and support.

These affordable shoes are made by a bunch of accountants who leverage on ignorance of the masses. They don’t know what they are doing and even if they did, they didn’t know how to. For instance, nobody wears patent leather in daylight, so why make them? Some copied designs worn by models for catwalk events. These shoes were designed such way (extravagant, outlandish, exaggerated) so that viewers and critics can see their design directions. For this purpose (catwalk), the shoes may be extra shiny and extra pointy for instance. But when the products actually reach the shelves, the extravagance, outlandishness and exaggerations had been very much toned down. The designs are so much subtle so the masses can absorb little changes they’ve made. This is the process that these ‘accountants’ missed. Thanks to ignorance, their eye-pokingly ugly products are still bought and people’s awareness in self presentation subdued.

Disappointed by the little choices I had, I walked into Brown Thomas on Grafton, hoping there’ll be some ‘lonely’, slightly scratched, Size-9 black Oxford available on sale. Luck of the leprechaun was not on my side. So I made another round at the malls and the stores. To my surprise, I ran into a pair, decent enough to my liking, affordable enough to my bank account. Plain black leather Oxford lace-ups, 1-inch heels with gently tapered tip. But boy was I disappointed. To keep prices low, the brand opted for thinner, less superior leather and lined the inner soles with synthetic ones. Result? A pair of rigid structured semi-leather shoe that do not mould into the shape of the master’s feet the way a ‘real’ leather shoes would. The moment I stood up, I knew, walking in those will be painful. And as the linings were made of synthetic material, my feet will not be able to breathe. Walking an average of three miles a day in woollen socks and shoes with ‘fake’ linings may and will lead to the feet producing some sort of a stench, thanks to super active sebaceous glands (especially in summer). I gave my gratitude to the shopkeeper and walked out in despair.

So I called up my funder, asking for a budget raise, and explained the gravity of my situation, and got it. I went straight into a small real shoemaker store and got myself a pair of plain black lace-up Oxford with 1-inch heels and gently tapered tip. I was indeed the happiest man that day. A few days later, I went for the medical school interview, walking tall filled with pride and confidence... and didn’t get a place.

As for the shoes, they are so comfortable and durable that it has been eight years and I still am wearing them. But eight years is indeed to long even for a pair of beautifully made yet robust British made Oxford. I realised it is about time I looked for another pair, and I thought, “Fuck”.

My view so f*ck you

I rewarded myself just a tad too much having completed several tasks at work today after a whole day of ‘plan-your-life motivational seminar’, smack in the middle of KL. So I’m a little on the opposite of the lucid side writing this and should you find ideas that I bring about a little preposterous, incomprehensible or constipating, well, fuck you.

So after the handsome reward that I presented myself with, I experience what some might call (or that’s what it actually was) the ‘out of body’ experience. Scary at first but after a few seconds, the feeling of absence of gravity, I found, rather pleasant. I floated about the ‘Heights’, then decided to go farther up to get a broader view of the surface of the third rock from the sun. It was spectacular. Streetlights guiding motorcars to wherever they were going and neon lights of all sorts, give character to buildings and structures.

I could also hear things. Fuel injectors in cars hissing fuel-air mixture, analogue timers clicking in traffic lights and sound of hair growing on an old man’s head cycling through Sprint heavy traffic.

That was when I begun to wish I was back in my physical body where I was safe form these supernatural ability to see, hear, and know more than I should. I heard people talking; about the traffic, about the food, about their jobs and about others, and I realized why there are so much hatred, bigotry, madness, and war in this world. It is the way we assign connotations to otherwise slightly, only slightly unfavorable situations. I heard them say; “the traffic is torturous”, “the food tastes nasty”, “my job is hell”, “that fellow is such a Hitler”.

These words used to refer to these situations are repeatedly, obliviously and unnecessarily continuously applied, not only in sheer exaggeration but totally out of context.

One, the traffic cannot be torturous because you’re in your air-conditioned car listening to ‘flirty-at-ten-thirty’; a luxury Chinese war prisoners did not have while the Japanese yank out their finger nails one at a time.

Two, if the forty dollar per dish linguine was not cooked el dante and all coated in salty carbonara, is what you call nasty, what do you call leftover half-eaten chicken wings a KFC cashier serves to his kids everyday for dinner in the Philippines?

Three, if your job was hell, try hell.

And four, that fellow you called Hitler, was he going around looking for men with circumcised penises to be gassed to death? No, that fellow you called Hitler, is just your boss, who’s probably cracking his head figuring out what to write on your increment evaluation knowing your work is shit.

We should just stop being too dramatic responding to all slight negativity that gets in our way just because we can. Why can’t we say something comforting like, “wow, the traffic is quite heavy. I’ll just sing along this gleeful song? That ought to kill time”, or “meh, so the pasta is a little soft”, or “that fellow is a son of a bitch”, which is (or rather should be) a compliment to him. And I’ll tell you how.

See, we’re not only using those words I just mentioned in exaggeration and completely out of context, we even taboo words that relate to love, pleasure and intimacy. We use words such as ‘fuck’ or ‘suck’ or ‘blow’ and their variants to express anger; to imply unfavorable outcomes. We say “fuck you” or “fuck off” to express disagreement. We say “that sucks” or “that blows” to express dissatisfaction. We call people names to insult; such as ‘fuck-face’, ‘cum-face’, ‘son of a bitch’, ‘cock sucker’, ‘carpet muncher’, ‘bastard’ and the list goes on.

All these as verbs, are things that we as sexual creatures quite enjoy doing. To fuck simply means ‘to copulate’, or more commonly, ‘to have a sexual intercourse’, during which people do these things like blow, suck, munch, and make the involuntary fuck-face and eventually cum-face. A son of a bitch, a bastard, is a product of love and affection between two persons. How’s that an insult? It should be and it is a compliment. What is so wrong about expressing love; showing affection? What is wrong about it at all?

It’s all a part of expression of love and romance. Love and romance keep us sane; keep us going, lacking of which make us go mad. We’d be lost without them and we’d end up fighting for something else to fill the void. We start to fight for what other similarly deprived people, too, fight for. Fights become intense, bringing up hatred in people and in many cases result in wars; torturous, nasty wars as if Hitler was brought back from hell.

So let’s all take a step back and think. Think about the words we use in our day-to-day lives. Let’s ask ourselves. Are they really appropriate? Are we over exaggerating? I’m sure we can change our perspective on all the little negativity and misfortunes in life. We’ll then begin to take things easy. We’ll be more composed and relaxed as fewer things will bother us. Take a chill pill y’all

Now for you who took time to read this havering, I thank you, and I’d like to say, fuck you, you carpet munching, cock sucking cum-faced son of a bitch.

Banana

I only eat seedless fruits. I find the idea of putting in something in the mouth and not swallow them disgusting. I don’t chew gums too. There are a few stories behind this but I’m not getting into that right now. I do eat fruits with tiny seeds like grapes and watermelon; the seeds, I’ll just swallow. So, most Malaysian fruits are out. The best seedless fruits of all are non-other than bananas. They are nice, soft, sweet, high in potassium, vitamin C, carbohydrates for energy, glycogen, no fat, no cholesterol, and no sodium and they are available all year round. They don’t stink and in fact they smell quite good.

Bananas are widely available world over. Everybody can recognize a banana. Yellow on the outside, and white in the inside; beautiful. They are quite versatile too. You can eat them raw or be creative and cook them; improvise I might say.

I also like the fact that their global presence, that made them well recognized, turns them to be a very practical choice of fruit. The world knows them. I know them. Wherever I go I somehow tend to look for bananas. Those places may have many exotic fruits to offer and I will give them a try but so far, I haven't and I think I will never find a type of fruit that I love as much as bananas. Bananas are like my gravity. I may once in a while prefer other kinds of fruits but eventually my love for bananas will and always will prevail. They fulfill my needs and I understand them. I know how to eat them. I know when to eat them and when not to. I know how to cut them and where to poke to split them open.

So that’s that. I love bananas. The way they look; yellow smooth skin on the outside and soft and tender in the inside, the way they taste; the riper, the sweeter. I like them cold, I love them hot. I like them in pajamas, even better without.

They give me strength and energy and ease my guts.

Hi, my name is Tau and I'm a smoke-oholic

Argh, I’m so sleepy and it’s so cold. I’ll just wind down the windows and have a smoke.

This traffic is killing me. Think I’ll have another one. (10 minutes later) I’ve been here for 15 minutes and travelled barely 100 meters?!?!?! Where’s that pack of fags?!

Phew, finally here. Time for coffee downstairs. Nothing like a cup of iced coffee and a smoke at seven in the morning. “Hey, you’re here, come join me for another smoke or two”.

Fuck, she looks staggeringly hot today. Can’t concentrate. Better get some distraction. A fag will do it. Down boy... down boy.

Shit, writer’s block. Need some inspiration. Think I might just step outside for a puff. Hmm, still nothing, another one ought to do it.

Finally it’s lunch time. Cold skin and heat from the sun, Clorets mint to hide hungry man’s bad breath but something’s missing. I should light up.

Where the hell is my food?!?! Guess I’ll have some appetizer first. Give me a damn lighter.

That was filling. You know what’s better than a cup of iced coffee and a smoke at 7 in the morning? A cup of iced lemon tea after a heavy lunch in the middle of a hot afternoon, and a smoke.

Wow that lunch makes me feel like dozing off. Need some nicotine rush. Just to be on the safe side, I’ll have two. And another coffee.

Shit, it’s five and I still have a lot to do and the A/C is off. Weather seems nice. Warm and sunny outside. Such a waste if I didn’t go out and enjoy it with a stick of my beautiful DML.

“Dude, you’re off?” “Nah, need fresh air” “I’m with you.
Fuck this, I’m getting my fix. “Guys, pub, now” Ahh, ice cold drought on a warm rainy evening. Gah! They’re talking about work. Where’s that pack?

I smell of an Irish. Need to get rid if this before the missus finds out. One, two, three… that should do it.

Home finally. One before shower, one during, one after, one before dinner, one after, one while surfing, one while on the phone with the other missus, one before brushing teeth, and one after, one before sleep.

And that’s how I smoke 30 sticks of cigarettes a day. I need help… New lungs I can get, but at RM9.30 a pack, I’ll be broke by mid-month.

Hi, my name is Tau and I’m a smoke-oholic.