Thursday, December 13, 2007


...the little sparrow as it flits and flutters along the street. I sit, watching the little sparrow, hopping, skipping, jumping from bread crumb to bread crumb along the sidewalk. What can you do but admire the beautiful creature, striving to live in the face of adversity? And yet is it not expected of all creatures save certain men to continue one's existence in this world? All save certain men.

But this sparrow is a special one. Mingling in the crowds of people. Socially active. In and out trying to find it's niche in the rush of everyday hustle and bustle. Along the street it dances, weaving in and out, avoiding the stamping feet, the black leather shoes and high-heels, sneakers and slippers. Dancing. Once in a while it chirps its little call, almost shyly, raising its head, opening its beak in small song. It has often walked down this street before. Yet the song it sings everyday is a new one and the dance of life is strong. It dances for joy, it sings with faith that today it will find bread. Or rice for that matter.

And suddenly this sparrow has an identity, a face, a body, a gender. She flutters around, sometimes half-heartedly but always with a distinct purpose, with determination. Perhaps she has been in courtships uncounted for such is the way of life. Yet these things cease to matter when I look upon her so joyful and free. Always free.

Today the weather is good, her feathers remain unruffled, preened and prissy. Though tomorrow might be wet and gloomy, always she lives through and through. By and by her luck will change and the sun will shine again. The sparrow has been through harder times and never was she broken and defeated beyond revival. Yet always the little figure evokes a sense of want. The want to show special care and attention, to cater for her every need, her every feeling, her every desire. But who am I to know a sparrow's heart's desire or to boast of it if I did. Who am I to put words in her beak. Nought but a simple boy.

My eye is on her. The sparrow. And I watch as she comes closer to me, coming to receive the bread I give with love and care. She comes so close, away from the crowds in which she mingled, to take the little comfort I offer. The temptation is to keep her, to feed her till she stays, for I would give her security in this harsh world. Yet how can one chain this little creature, so joyful, so amiable, adorable with any bonds of metal, string or worse. Bonds of love. But the sparrow chirps its delightful song again and my heart is filled with joy. Had I my flute I'd play Mozart with definite pinkness in my music.

But again I sit and I watch and I think. I wonder if she'll fly away, to mingle again and never return. For how could one cage this beautiful thing when so joyful it is, so free. Always free. Always free.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007


...while sitting in a carpark. You know, once in a while you start to wonder, "Why DO people drink alcohol?" Then you realise, that wasn't the important question anyway. What was really important was why you were sitting in a carpark and thinking about such things in the first place. Then you get to the circular arguments that MS Excel hates so much and I hate Excel for hating. Why do hamsters eat goats cheese anyway??
I mean, it's not like there's no lactose in it for the lactose intolerant. Like pancakes... who has ever seen a pancake eat goats cheese? Those insane, raise your hand. *raises hand... to get the shotgun off the shelf* Ah well, that's not so important either. What's really important is...
"World peace".
Yes we have a Miss Whatever/Wherever/Whoever invading our public discussion. And goldfish swim around in circles and say the grass is greener on the other side of the fishbowl. And forget they said it 3 seconds later. Stately. Like a ceiling fan juggling chainsaws.
Actually, what's the point of juggling chainsaws when juggling glass shards is even more impressive? Especially if you're dressed in chainmail from the tip of your nose to the ends of your fingers. Like a knight in shining armour. From a long time ago...

Ride to Camelot Sir Knight and partake in the tournament of entrance. The Round Table really was gigantic wasn't it? Almost as big as some people's brain cavity. Note: Cavity... not actual brain. Measurements susceptible to paralax error while titrating mushy mango puree from a coconut sieve.

May you find happiness this Christmas.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

My Writing Is Getting More Meaningless... the days go by. But anyway, in an unplanned, unexpected, unintentional tribute to the late Luciano Pavarotti...


Perhaps it was her tone. Yes, that was what fired his rocket, blew his top, wrung the neck of his patience and all that jazz. Every so often something bursts your bubble, pushes you over the brink, makes you red-faced… clichés like that. But he’d done it this time. Way over the top, rationality thrown somewhere over the rainbow. Poor little Dorothy has to put up with a lost rationale. Lucky her. He had to deal with a guilty conscience. A very guilty conscience. Guilty in more ways than one.

It all started with a cliché. Much like that one. He never did like opera. The high-pitched, high frequency vibratos would very quickly grate the cheese of his nerves into miniscule flecks perfectly sized for pizza topping. So much for the prissy Prima Donna strutting around the stage. Just another modern, real life Carlotta. Then again, the resonating basses of rotund, bearded masculinity never did much for his ‘calm demeanor’ either. ‘Twas all a façade, the passive face he wore whenever he was dragged inevitably to opera after opera. Like the similarly inevitable “I really enjoyed that!” nonsense he spouted after each one.

His thoughts were going off at a tangent with an angle ‘panic’ to the normal. Illogical trigonometry was the least of his worries right now. What mattered was how to cover up the crime, create a believable alibi, do all those things that the criminal did in Film Noir detective movies. It was either that or grab his imaginary ‘Tommy gun’ and make a last stand. His heart was pounding in his chest, like in those bad novels you read when you wanted to remind yourself of all the badness of novel clichés. Oxymoronic. He was in deep figurative mud.

Her voice was still playing in his head. The tone that stoked the flames of anger ever present, surreptitious in the back of his mind. It was distracting. Very distracting. Just thinking about it made the hairs on his neck rise. Well they would have if he was particularly hairy around the area. But he wasn’t.

He decided to give up thinking and make that last stand. He began laying his case. He would plead temporary insanity. Everyone snapped eventually. Some more violently than others. But he was prepared to face the music. Fervently hoping it wouldn’t be opera, he gathered the remains in his hands and steeled himself for the inescapable consequences. Oh, he was in deep water. Deep boiling water. No. Boiling mud to stick to the previous analogy. All because he lost his head and stifled the voice of that infernally singing pest. With a hammer. Smashed her along with the CD player. Who wouldn’t after having to listen to the same recording of Madame Butterfly for the third time that day. Here comes the opera-loving wife…

Saturday, October 6, 2007

After An Extreme Hiatus...

...that I'm not particularly proud of, and a very long wait (I'm sorry Becky) I'm finally posting the spontaneous poem co-written by Rebecca Wong aka Becky (established poet) and yours truly. The amazing power of MSN right there. We've got two endings and an illustration (to come). Vote for the ending you prefer and send in ideas for the illustration.
Enjoy. And remember....

Curiosity Kills The...
Stuck its head too far,
Down came the cleaver,
A headless chickin ran into a bar.

After downing a beer,
Down the road it ran,
Running hard, directionless…
It ran into a man.

And with one outrageous cry,
In a yellow polka-dotted tie,
He reached down, fingers wide,
And ripped clean off a feathered chickin thigh.

Now what happened next,
Lil’ chickin did not expect,
In fact, headless,
Dear chickin did not suspect,
That the crazy lunatic gobbled up the rest!
But sadly, his yellow polka-dotted tie,
In the end was bloody and messed.

And so lil’ chickin did not survive,
To peck on corn or do the jive,
And the thigh that was ripped…
In sauce it was dipped…
And if you pass KFC,
You might see,
Lil’ chickins destiny.

Bex N TX (1.9.2007 <--- Long time hor...)

Voting is closed and the ending is where it is.
But since I like the other one more...

Indeed most thought it was a tragedy.
And of the thigh that was ripped...
In thick sauce it was dipped,
To be served to his whole jolly family.

*grins evilly*

Tuesday, September 18, 2007


Looking On Leaving
Life's Orange Light
Licking One's Lollipop
Like Other Loons.

Live Our Lives
Listed Or Listless
Layers Of Lime
Looking Out Lucidly.

Lest One Lose
Love Of Life
Little Orange Lamps
Lead One's Legs.

Links Of Lunacy
Lurk On Lines
Leading Ourselves Left
Like Oblivious Lemmings.

Live Or Leave
Living Or Lifeless
Lied Or Lying
Lamenting One's Loneliness.

Lawak Orang Lucu
Laughing Out Loud
Life's Opaque Luminescence
Limps On Lamely.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Neither Fiction Nor Non-fiction Be, Strictly Speaking.

Um hi. Haven't posted for a while but here's another bit of writing that is too long to be a proper post. Read at your own leisure.

The Man

I'll try to post shorter stuff next time.

Sunday, August 12, 2007

An Essay...

A little something for those who wish to read. Written last year, some people have read it before:

My Interior Monologue.

Enjoy. Maybe? Just a bit? Please?

It's a bit too long to post as a post.

A Girl's Point On View...

In the cold wind-blustered streets of the metropolis, a matchbox girl approaches you slowly, shyly with small steps shuffling in your direction. Being kind hearted (as you are, aren't you?) you slow to stop, comfort the matchbox girl with a smile and reach for your moneybag. As the girl reaches you, you see her little face, world-weary yet with the still blossoming softness of youth. You begin to ask, "How much for a box, my dear?" getting only as far as "How..." before she snaps a match along her matchbox, lighting it, its small warm glow reflecting the heart of its bearer, both puny against the winter chill.

It strikes you as odd that the girl, whose comfort depends on wasting not that precious commodity, might strike up a match for a complete stranger but her next question draws your thoughts away.

"Sir, what colour do you see?"

You see the orange of flame and the blue of complete combustion. You see the blackness of the soot rising against the paleness of the white buildings that surround you. You see the oily brown of the matchstick. You tell her so, quite bemused by the raggedly adorable child staring at you with questioning eyes. And the child speaks again.

"Sir, are the colours you see the same as those that I see?"

That is the girl's point on view. Is the blue you see the same colour as she sees? Perhaps she sees what you would call red but by convention calls it "blue". Perhaps her orange is your purple and your brown her green. In that case only by convention are they the same colour.
Perplexed and embarassed to be so troubled by that innocent question, you forcefully reach for you coins and drag out twice the cost of 5 boxes of matches. Staring her in the eye, you open your hands into hers and close her tiny fingers over the coins. A mass larger than her cupped palms can comfortably hold.

"Get yourself something warm, girl," you say, "I have no answer for you this day."

She looks on at you in wonder and gratitude. Perhaps fearful you might change your mind, she laughs happily and runs as only a child can run. For now, in her mind the world is all right.

And yet yours is all topsy-turvy.

You stroke the new bristle at your chin and wonder. Do we all see the same colours? When I look in the mirror, do I see what others see when they look upon me? Might I maybe look like a rock and yet be recognisably me to the other people around me?

Is the world I see the same world that you see? Perception and interpretation tie together in a dead knot of reason. What we see is what we interpret. What we interpret is what we see. Would that you could all see the world as I do that we might understand each other better.

Is the world I see the same world that you see?

Sunday, August 5, 2007

Giving Her His Head...

'Twas a love,
Destined to be.
'Twas her love,
That was the difficulty.

He sought her so,
His heartache physical pain.
Where she was he didn't know,
Only his purpose kept him sane.

Tragic love stories abound,
Nature is a cruel mistress.
Never was there a love so profound.
Never was there a lover so against digress.

No, he searched for her.
High and low he searched for her.
And then by chance contact was made.
A silhouette beautiful,
Against the sunlight beginning to fade.

But she did not love him yet.
Try as he might, his heart so set,
She wholly refused any such union,
For without a dowry
How could there be a junction.

But then the male lover,
Spied a dragon fly by a flower.
And so crept the young brave,
And so struck he, hard and true
And in the name of his love, the dragon he slew.

With stubborn purpose he carried the carcass,
Presenting it before his maiden.
With such a suitable dowry for a lass,
How could any refuse their union.

And so they were joined,
The boy now a man.
And by now raging was the fire in his loins,
And he fell upon his bride as only a hero can.
At least, that was the plan.

But alas this tale is another tragedy,
An almost Romeo and Juliet story,
For Romeo the praying mantis,
Fell afoul of his maiden Juliet's kiss.

And so he passed on his gene,
But as they kissed she bit him clean,
And left him bereft, left him dead,
Left him his body,
Without his head.

Friday, August 3, 2007

What I've Done...

So yes. It happened. In the blink of an I. Eye should have known better. No wait that was wrong. 'Twas my eye that blinked and I who should have known better. No matter, minor things like these cease to have significance in the face of tragedy.

And so the bitter wind blows the clichés into my head. Filling the sails of my mind's ship as it plows through the waves of shame, despair and regret. So follow the clichés like dolphins to a fisherman's boat and so they are trapped in the net of my creative stagnation and absence of proper substance so as to be less blasé to you. The unlucky one. The reader of this journal of emotional void. And yet it is not a void, rather a deep dark pit with spikes and razor lined walls. A pit in which lie a multitude of flesh eating cockroaches and their voracious larvae intent on feeding upon the bowels of man. The hunks of manflesh. Bipedal meat.

But I digress. In my hour of darkness the distractive intrigue of a 'pit of death', by no means bottomless, serves to bring my mind away from the very topic that drives me to convert this post to emotive rambling. However I must emphasise that this post is not merely a personal one. Nor is it by any means an "emo" post however much it might seem so at the moment. Bear with me or bare with me. Actually, give me warning before you do so that I can close my eyes. Much appreciated.

It started off with a footstep. One footstep that would forever stifle the life of that poor innocent organism. The little thing merely trying to live in this harsh world of UV radiation, free Al cations and the occasional lack of sunlight. But it had persevered. Nobody knew how long it strove to live, to pass on the information so terribly important, the burden it carried. What was that information? Now nobody will know. All because of a footstep. One single footstep.

The crunch was the punchline. The culmination of all the endured hardship. Poor little thing it stood no chance. With that crunch came the end of the toil of generations, the failure of the masses of individuals that lived and died such that this creature, this thing, could pass a message to the future. A message of hope to the masses, to the collected collection of its kind. A message never to be sent. Gone in the blink of an eye. With the lowering of a foot and a slight crunchiness.

And so befell a great tragedy. However that's not the worst of it. Worse is the fact that it could have been avoided. What I wouldn't give that I might take back my actions, neither purposeful nor in hot blood, and let the messenger through to do its work. I doomed a species. I doomed a race. I doomed a provider for perhaps the simplest of food chains that grows into the most significant of food webs. I doomed it and by doing so, I have doomed us all. Such is the Butterfly Effect. Such is the fate of the world. Repent not for you will pass anyway. Cry not for it will be to no avail. Noone can save you now.

"Except perhaps Christine," you say. Nay, even Miss Daaé can do nothing.

But now as eukaryotic macrolife draws to its end, the world deserves to know the truth. You, dear reader and the rest of the visibly living world deserve to understand that it was by no group effort that your existence draws to a close. No. It was solely an individual action. An accident as it were. I can only say that I hope, for your sake, that death is all that you expect it to be. Now, mass extinction faces us all and thus marks the renaissance of the evolution of bacteria to more large organisms such as you and me are now but not much longer. Perhaps they will be more perfect. It matters not anymore to us who are about to die.

Yes, it all happened because of me. Because I acted without thought. Because I stepped off the pavement in carelessness. Because I killed that important little thing before it could be pollinated. Because I stepped on a flowering daisy.

Friday, July 20, 2007

Musings In Bed And Train

Amidst the murmuring of the common sheep, each one of the concious bipeds hears the faint humming of life. It is a tune that runs through and through leading the bipeds towards an unknown goal. What is the goal of life? It would seem at first glance that the ultimate goal of what we call animals is to reproduce and keep alive that hum, that natural song. But if we merely live to reproduce then there is really not much point in living the way we do. If life's goal is to keep life going then it is but a mere attempt to survive. What then is the point of evolution?

The bacteria say, "We survive quite well, thank you very much. We don't need you to give us more habitable habitats, though they are rather nice. However, honestly speaking, feel free to bugger off because we've been here and will be here a lot longer than you fragile bipeds and your 'higher level' of conciousness."

And so we run along scientifically, superstitiously, morally, politically and by doing this we say we are distinct for mere 'animals', mere 'beasts'. "Our life has purpose". But does it really? What is the purpose?

Ask a parent and they'd probably say, "We want to make enough money to support our children and ourselves till we die."

I wouldn't know, that's just speculation. But doesn't that come back to finding a means of keeping life going?

Maybe the goal is to: Live a fruitful life by helping others within our means etc etc etc.

Helping others is to help them to survive isn't it? Do we always come back to the point of keeping the 'circle of life' going?
Or maybe the goal is to "Unravel The Secrets Of The Universe"! But doesn't everything the unconciously, so self-concious bipeds do have to have a practical use? "Curiousity killed the cat" they say. Some would say, "Curiosity has killed us all."

Would unravelling the secrets of the universe fulfill that "oh so wonderful" dream of the naive to live forever? Again keeping life going seems to be rather important though ultimately rather pointless.

I call individual eternal life a dream of the naive because I say there is no point in eternal life. Yes it would be nice to have the time to do everything there is to do, see everything there is to see. But would you share that sip of immortality? If you don't share it wouldn't you not stare at other's deaths every day? To watch the ones you love die to be replaced by similarly mortal loves is more of a curse than a blessing. What is complete knowledge when you're all alone? A veil?

And yet there's more. To be so "blessed" with eternal life (and so independantly fulfill nature's purpose), comes coupled with eternal aging. How many centuries of knowledge can make up for creaking bones, leathery skin and assorted health problems. Sure you can't die, but you can sure as hell be in quite a bit of pain.

Thus advocates of eternal life might turn to a different phrase: Eternal Youth. Again, would you share this eternal youth? Would you rather watch those around you growing old and dying while you remain spry, youthful and 'blessed'. If you choose to share it, who would you share it with? Surely it becomes even more of a curse once you share it. First you share it with a partner, then maybe your children and theirs and their children's children, in the end you have a race of "immortals".
What's so bad about that? Isn't that good? Isn't it easier now that we don't have to worry about dying before we fulfill what we wish?

Well, once you fulfill EVERYTHING, what will you do then? After a while everything will have lost it's flavour, just as even now there are young-ish people so bored with the world around them and life in general that "been there, done that" prevails and wonder is lost to all but the children and those who are able to overcome the deadening routine of life itself.

What is the purpose of life? Why live forever?

Why question all this? Why why?


Sunday, July 1, 2007

Singalong Song... With A Rhyming Pattern AABB

Bird. Sitting on my windowsill,
Waiting for the crack to fill,
Airing out my drawers,
Staring at the flowers, towers, lawn mowers.

Oops fail,
Fairytale tailed, highway rollercoaster spinny gale
force wind, spinning down the subway,
Kicking up the bloody ham.

Bits of lettuce up a tree,
Have some, it's all free,
Show the Asian mentality,
And amuse yourself and me. Tiddlee dee.

Cow and chicken, moose and duck,
Sometimes you really just want to say f-ish,
But it doesn't work not verbally,
And sadly haha hehe hoho eating a cherry.

Wonder dummy and super supper fairy,
Chocolate bunny and the ever useful dunny,
Cut the crap, get a life,
Cut it with a butter knife.

And hope the smell don't last,
It might put you on a fast,
Gasping, asphyxiation,
Playing in my imagination.

Rhymes with tortoise.
Aren't I good?
Eat me for food.

Tax that lazy pyloric sphincter,
Just try not to get a splinter..
Did that ring a bell?

That was lame,
One step closer to fame.
Easter eggs in a video game,
Like scratches on your picture frame.

Run in circles, till you fall,
When once you were standing tall.
Screaming mushrooms and lightsaber hilt,
Counter the Leaning Tower's tilt.

All this rhyming's such a chore,
Makes me feel so much like a wh-odunit
in the making.
What with all the faking and money taking.

Haven't got randomly stuck yet,
But don't worry don't fret,
I will in the end,
But not before I display my tend...

...encies to waffle on and on,
Ice cream, truffles and a bit of corn.
Food here food there,
Wonder where my underwear...

...has gotten to,
In Super Mario Bros. 2.
Lot's of colours everywhere,
blue, green, black, red, yellow.

Hah I escaped my own trap,
And I didn't even need a map.
Now if I'd used the colour orange.
How strange...

I'm still not stuck.
Wonderful. Stupendous. Wallow in the muck.
Enough edits you're bored to death,
Just don't drink any meth... (...ylated spirits)

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Which Came First...

...the chicken or the egg? It was the egg ok? You want to argue we can argue on MSN.
...the hare or the tortoise? His-story tells us the tortoise won. But only because the hare wasn't smart enough to use his bad guy resources.
First in the "The Hare should have..." series
1) ...called the Bunny Mafia
Hope it appeals to some people. Another one coming whenever I manage it. BUT FIRST!!
LALAALA doing the funny dance of love and happiness. Flower POWER!!! In your dreams. And what dreams they must be...

The Hare should have... 1 by ~1nsAn3ss-Th3-aX on deviantART

Friday, June 8, 2007

Tell Me...

How come so few people realise what Jostein Gaardner points out? The chances of each one of us arising were amazingly minute... Just think, the number of you ancestors rises exponentially every generation back you go. Now if even one of them hadn't survived to pass on their genes you wouldn't be here. Does that make you value your life more? And how about that of other peoples?
Don't fool yourself thinking you're not special. Neither should you believe that life isn't worth it. Think about the sacrifices made just so you could be standing or sitting or whatever position you're in right now. Think of how lucky you are to be alive.
Stop being depressed there's too much of that nonsense around.
Kalau apa-apa terjadi saya akan jari kamu.
HA HA lawak kamu memang berjagung.

Monday, June 4, 2007

A New Shade Of Blue...'s called green. All you need to do is add magenta to transparent to get it.

Anyway, the piggon (PIG+draGON not pigeon) or drapig, whatever you prefer, up in the header has a few things to say about everyday English in this everyday and age. Actually I prefer drapig. Sounds a bit less stupid. No offense to the drapigs around the place. It's not as bad as a dongon or a drakey... (donkey+dragon if you don't get it). Of course here I am insulting the dragons. I would NEVER EVER support a dragon hybrid. Don't pollute pure blood MUAHAHAHAHA

Yes yes the questions. I got carried away by the chicken soup in the dish the spoon kidnaps. Moo moo said the cow. What's that Mr. Cherry Ripe? No you don't taste good. Ugh~
Oh yes... complaints geez people these days soooooo impatient.
Well let's see.
Query number:

1) Why is it that we haven't changed the "pot" in "like the pot calling the kettle black." to "wok"? I don't remember EVER seeing a black pot. Unless the dragon decided to breath in it... A pot with an extra coat of carbon is not a valid example of black pot. So there.

2) Why are there funny words that allow you to make silly subtitles in another language (Malay)? For example, fly, airplane, match, fire, arm and others I can't think of. What examples of subtitles?? Don't you use MSN?? Here are ones SOME people have seen before:

"Sebelum ciptaan satah-udara, manusia telah lama berharap dapat lalat seperti burung..." (Extremely lame most recent one. It proves the point though) (Before the invention of the airplane, man had long hoped to fly like the birds...)

"Bodoh! Kamu bukan mancis bagi aku!" (Fool! You're no match for me!)

"Meriam sudah ditangan? Baik! Pada signalku... API!!" (The cannon's been armed? Good! On my signal... FIRE!!)

More to come... other examples will be received encouragingly...

3) Mouse, mice. Louse, lice. Grouse, grice??? Don't think so. Nor do we get rice from rouse... instead you get roused from bed. But even for lots of people, people don't get riced from bed. That would be funny.

That's about it. Ok ok... I know I've used this A LOT but I can't help it... I love it so:
>.@ ARR!! I'm a pirate!!

Use woks... not pots... even pan is fine since most non-stick pans are black...

Saturday, May 26, 2007

'Thas been a while...

*Wait... is 'thas even a valid word? Apparently not says the spell checker. Apparently not says the dotty red line underneath each "'thas". I care not. The birds. They care not. The rum. It cares.
(now to the REAL post)
...since the funny little salamanders did a tribal dance in a circular motion with radius r around the stones of destiny. Yes pitiful mortals destiny is controlled by stones. But only if you believe it. Blockheads are the evolutionary result of mutation in the genetic material of stones. As if you couldn't see the connection. Stones in face evolved from humans. Yes we are NOT the pinnacle of evolution. Makes you wonder if there ever will be a peak. Guess not.
Seasons pass and the wheel of time turns. But what turns it? The giant turtle in the sky? How can we see the turtle turning the wheel of time but not the wheel of time (henceforth known as WOT to save time and characters) itself. Henceforth WOT shall not be mentioned as it is a threat to the sanity of tissue paper roses. Wot? Wot's that you say??
I dunno. Parsley and chicken pie? That evolved from Mars bars you know. Obviously not. LIAR!
Yes... short post office. Hmm.... big red yellow blue. Hanging sentence of obliviousness and insipid quality. Sinister... octopusses and octopi. Octopie? 8 pies in one?? :O
Scrumptious... (how did that even become a proper word??)

Saturday, May 19, 2007


There. I don't know what I said that for.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Some things you don't see every day...

Birds smacking each other with their wings.

A kid in a pram wearing iPod earphones... regrettably no camera was on me.

Sunshine to rain in 5 minutes.

Ants eating curry rice on a lawnmower.

Carrot cake soaked in rum 'egested' by a microphone. (isn't it an uncommon word? learn it in bio but the spellcheck says it's wrong)

And such and such.

Potato salad. (if I did I'd go mad... oh wait... too late)

Horse intestines.

Chocolate eating Venus fly traps.


Flying pigs.

Raindrops falling on your head. (if you do, stop looking up and move to a more normal climate)


Blog posts from Me.

Fibreglass keychains worth $61.93 exactly (US dollars)

The end.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

I Think It's Pretty Cool...

...that this is still around. I guess the SKBL 6 Cempa class of 2000 was just too good. Haha.

Wednesday, May 9, 2007


Just as the lunar cycle has been discovered to affect the tides and the menstrual cycle (see the connection?), it has been found erroneously that the orbit of Mars around the Sun is inversly proportional to the time taken for the differentiation of spermatids into fully fledged sperm cells. Similarly, homicidal mania is just the alphabet in the mirror. Don't believe me? Go have a look.
Yes I know I'm wrong. The bright blue LED of speaker power signalling made me test you for worthiness. You are now worthy of inheriting the Bostik Glustik. But you can't have it. It's mine.
I saw a gecko crawling around on the ceiling of the train from Uni. A sparrow rolled by and picked up a piece of bread. The gecko on the other hand, was a foot away from the nearest fire escape. It let the fire escape. So did I. Then I trapped it in a butcher's freezer. The rent was a months passage to the ant's Olympic size pool. Little did he know that the buggers were filling it with formic acid. Luckily I knew. Cheat me of 5 pounds of kitty litter will you? Well permanent marker to you too!!
F/A = E ∆L/L
The stress on my spinal cord (diameter 3cm) due to my brain (mass 25++ kg) is equal to the bounciness of a quilt covered rubber duck multiplied by (the change in length of a blade of grass as a helicopter flies overhead divided by the actual length of a leg hair). From this equation calculate the time wasted by you to measure the level of my mental instability.
Or you could not. And neither would I.

Wednesday, May 2, 2007

Irritated And Deprived Of A Moon?

Stare deeply into the brightness... Spoil your eyes.I like this one personally...
Just trying to be different

Some Thoughts:

When you're irritated, taking pictures of a full moon, barefoot at about 10ºC is rather calming. Honestly.
That bright thing IS the moon ok in almost darkness but not quite (lamp post was quite far away)... not the Sun being a selfish heavenly body.
Anyway, today we focus on anger and irritation yea? Not the moon. When you get angry hor, do you ever feel like spreading it around? Like putting on a sulky angry face so that people get irritated with you and end up getting angry? Hehe. Like good little children.
People say misery loves company. Since misery and anger are related (cause and effect in the reverse order ><) I would hazard to guess that anger likes company too. Hence we all spread the anti-love. Or am I wrong? Isn't it true? When one gets angry isn't everyone within lets say a 5 foot radius more likely to somehow get irritated as well? Maybe I'm over-generalising. Perhaps. However, rum and Pepsi is smoother than rum and coke. But it was partially flat Pepsi.
I digress. How wonderful. Anyway I was also thinking... when I'm irritated I feel like doing all kinds of things (mostly violent) like punching something or making stabby stabby motions with a knife and accidentally coming into contact with the aggravating factor. Interestingly, the last thing I want to do is something funny that will potentially remove the irritation (not even Hayate no Gotoku!). Now isn't that weird too? Shouldn't you be WANTING to get rid of the irritation instead of thinking of the biophysics of particles in stabby stabby motion? Now why is it that I am so unwilling to let go of my irritation?
I have absolutely no idea. In biopsychological terms, anger is actually a focussing 'agent' if agent is the right word. Think about the last time you were angry about something that involved an action (like retaliating from getting whacked on the thumb with a PVC pipe). I'd be willing to bet 10 cents that you could focus better and go berserk WITH accuracy. Correct or not? So... do I keep the irritation so that I can focus better? Subconcious inherent behaviour?
Even if that sounds acceptable... irritation leads to carelessness while proper anger is a focussing 'agent'. Isn't that right? I think so anyway. So my reason kinda falls apart because if u keep the level at 'irritation', you're going to make mistakes. Soooo why keep irritation? Because you're so irritated that everything is going to increase it? Then why want to hit something?
Anyway I can't think of anything so if someone can think of a reason pls let me know XD
Sadly the clouds ran away from the moon before I got home. I bet if the damn passenger hadn't decided to have SMOKE and the damn bus driver hadn't decided to WAIT FOR THE IDIOT I could have gotten home in time.
The spiders have come to ask for forgiveness from the paper slugs of wondrous metallic properties.

Monday, April 30, 2007

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Part 2

Here it is.
Sorry for the wait if you were indeed waiting for it.
Hope this works:
Till next time... you'll just have to read the actual posts XD

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

When You're Sleepy,

make a sound like a crazy polystyrene monkey: baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka baka.
By the way, if you have a goldfish, check its teeth for signs of zirconium student access card disease. Cure with fake Nike boxers. Wish the goldfish "Get well soon" and hop on the next subway train to Hawaii. Pearl the Bomb Harbour and harbour pearls of wisdom to bomb. Ship a pack of Dunhills to a nudist beach and call all the women there fat. Call all the men wimpy and prepare to get the bashing of your life (alternatively run away very very fast). Make sure to avoid stepping on pinecones as you cross the beach road as this will interfere with the cure. Splash your way through the sand to the closest boulder with the encrypted inscription:

Bnmfqzstkzshnmr, H itrs vzrsde xntq shld

Decrypt it and jump for joy in blatant, ecstatic celebration. Decrypt again just to be sure and toss down two shots of overproof Bacardi to show that you're a man (chilled Ribena for the women). Eat a magic mushroom. Contemplate your stupidity and follow the hallucinations to the Forest of Gnomes.
NOTE: No matter how hard the hallucinations hit you, kick you and cause you intense pain, they ARE NOT the people from the nude beach. I repeat THEY ARE NOT. In fact, chanting "I do believe in fairies. I do. I do." won't help very much (unless you're particularly religious).
Regardless of whether the fairies come to help you or not, the gnomes will start a bonfire as you enter the forest and douse it before they start it. It's magic OK?
Take the next plane (once you are physically able) over the Himalayas and hijack it. Fly in a circle around the top of Mount Everest 10 times or until crispy and golden. Heat the apples in a saucepan and add butter and salt to taste. Throw away the interfering apple pie recipe and prepare for a crash landing. Rub salt in the wound and blow your own trumpet (for atmosphere, a requiem is pretty good). Swirl the snow around in you mouth for flavour and smash head first into a rock. If you aren't dead, well done. Proceed to roll of the nearest ledge, tumble into a deep crevasse and have an easter egg for doing so well.
Remember no pain, no gain.
Snort some weed, choking on the cellulose in the process.
Finally, make your way home. If your goldfish hasn't starved to death, hit it a few times and flush it down the toilet for making you suffer (in your state, the goldfish will win so don't worry about the RSPCA).
Rejoice, you saved your goldfish. Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

Friday, April 20, 2007

Rubber, Inflatable Abdominals Of Slumber

Beware the abdominal snowman. The abominable one is surely no worse for wear. The leather makes for a rather good winter picture diary. Super Combat Butlers to rescue the prisoner cover slips from my sludge-enveloped, feathery earthwormy friends. Mossy green polar bears have the most insquishable appetite for easter bunny hair. Poor bald bunny. It's not funny. Especially when it was all sunny. The yolk in my polk-a is runny. Besides the point, a bit to the left, maybe a bit above as well lies the belowest of the bellow's below. Did you think you could hide from a feather angel? Squiggly fish lateral lines.
If you study the weather, you have no life. Great offence was not meant to be a part of the non-offensive implication of the objectionable comment I never just made. I mean, who wants to look at the fluffyness of floating razor-blade wielding permanent marker flavoured water vapoured pastel coloured simpleton thievery. Lost track of my train there. Slipped the rails. Fell of the railing. Stumbled into a plastic slipper. No, pitcher plants have not been drinking slime balls to get high. That's the proboscis monkey's proboscis' 400598th nostril hair's incentive to achieve greater hights of sound quality. As for the 400599th nostril hair, picnics in the rain, living among the oak trees, feeding on pencil case fibres. From their diet, it can be deduced that eyeballs are cholesterol free and suffer not from constipation. Mastication of mastification seems to help. What's mastification? The process of mastifying something.
Just as obviously, using a negative sign in a coin box doesn't help to stop the plague. Sing a song of six pence a pocket full of bones... stones... cones... phones... tones... credit-card holding uniformed arctic terns. Migration is the ultimate form of settling down for a lifetime. Blue LED goes on a nomadic journey to find the fabled land of coffee bottle top Gomoku games.
Back to square one. Nought or cross? That's like asking "Somersaulting butterfly or mentally disabled euphemistic grasshopper larvae eaters?" But not really...
If you thought walking into a steel rod was funny, try jumping off a ledge into a pool of cockroach guts. Just at that moment, if you're lucky (which you probably won't be) and amazingly dense (which you could be, even now...) the medal of pica honour will meep its way onto your lap with amazing dexterity. Finally I will be one with the gold ribbon as the assault helicopermermeterer THING zeros the max and stationaries the pointer on the head of a backflip triple loop monkey-fly-undone barrel-of-wine roll. Eeeeeeooooooo plop.
Like washers in the night. Doing laundry.

Comic part 2's gonna be late... probly.

Sunday, April 15, 2007

End Of Break

The power cable is too tired to make me ramble much. I planned to have the whole 2nd comic finished by this weekend but it's not going to happen. Hey what do u expect when it's 5 times the number of panels as the the 1st one...? There I go defending myself from the invisible non-existent demon ribbons. Also, to cram everything into one thing is too much of an overload. So in the end the cards decided to split the comic into 2 installments.
Number one:
Hopefully part 2 get's done...

Thursday, April 12, 2007

A Hong Kong Exit

Haven't been to Hong Kong. Neither has my nailclipper screw. As a matter of fact neither has the Queen's Slipper Joker card. What a coincidence. Nevertheless, the multitudinous cans of coke make their way to the front of the hall for a liquid N2 demonstration.
You know, its pretty wonderful how people can touch type, look at the flowery wallpaper and think on how to kill a mockingbird with the picture of Dorian Gray paying particular attention to the elements of style and the origin of species. Such a person is a fortunate man in the prodigal summer of all creatures great and small. But what is this thing called Science? Massively munchable miniature favourites I guess. Crafted and distilled by the Bundaberg distilling company. Ziii-iing~
The fluffy toy sits and contemplates the world from his spot on the shelf. With eyes perpetually melancholy and fluff perpetually upright, he wonders what made him lifeless. Yet without life how can he wonder? I wonder. What a wonder. He and I, we need to wander to wonder and ponder to ourselves the wonder that is life and the ability to wander and wonder. Poor fluffy toy. Stuck to his spot on the shell. The towel hanger cries for retribution. The bathtub prays for redemption and the chewy power cables of alcoholic death rain snow and hail on unwitting giant condors passing by on their paper maché wizard hats.
Nonsense is a lot harder than it looks. Rock-hard even. Marshmallow even. Swine even. Cranial damage of the lower pelvis is terrible. Life threatening even. Mousy! Like Wen's birthday cake when he turned 13. Heh heh.
Abstract extraction has begun in the organic slop that is a primordial soup. Cream of perhaps mushroom, bacteria, archaea, perhaps hogs, perhaps cows, perhaps goliath beetles. All taste like chicken. Slash them with your key chain. Chop chop. Easter eggy, jelly beany, dairy milky, dreamy delight. What a delicatessen.
And in the shadows the pencils prepare for a full on assault on the carpet bag of comforter, bolster pillowy deathness.
Red wRong
Orange OrthOdOntist
Yellow Yoinking
Green egGs
Blue Before
Indigo intervIewing
Violet Veal

Monday, April 9, 2007

First RHMS Comic: Eagles' Revenge

Here's the first ever comic on RHMS and if I'm not mistaken it's my 10th post. Hehe. This comic is dedicated to my cousin Li Jin who just went for NS in Singapore. It's rather fitting once you look at it. ;)

...Click Me...
...the picture not the words...

That was the eagle's revenge. Hope the dairy chocolate cockroaches enjoy it.
*Read horizontally left to right (3 lines)
EDIT: In case you have no idea where this came from on my blog, refer to my very first post.

Saturday, April 7, 2007

A New RHMS Image: New Energy Same PLINk

Fuzzy wuzzy was the bear. Fuzzy wuzzy was his hair. And his heir. And fuzz. And thing. Wuzzee fuzzy? Yup. Wuzzee the keychain of destination? Eh wot? *Plink*
I'm confused now. The sun just lay down. I think it gave up trying to poker the moon. No money in it. Just like there's no wind where the turnips nest in autumn. Winter, spring, summer they fall. Hehe. Heh. He. H. Grizzly.
Fried chicken is full of cellulose. Fried chicken is full of a substance that tastes like chicken. Therefore cellulose tastes like chicken. True? Like Garfield's skin and bones modelling career. Off the rock-er. And mine. Phooey.
You are what you eat. So am I. I eat cow, chicken, fish, swine, vegetables, marshmallows, wait scratch the 2nd to last one. This means I'm a hybrid cow-chicken-fish-vegetable-swine-rock. At the same time people call me human (actually I'm from Mars but don't tell... I'll hunt you down with my death ray blaster gun adaptor cable speaker pen ink phone) YEA~ RUN, YOU!! Thus the definition of humans, from my point-of-you (or point-in-you if a get the knife ready), is:
hu-man-s :
1. combination of daisies and carbon fibre mixed in a smallish saucepan and gently grilled over a liquid N2 fire.
2. gummy
3. plink
The swine have spoken, the apocalypse is at hand. And with the clenching of my fist... squashed.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Before I Begin My Perilous Journey To Uni

When playing XIII, rum and coke zero make the crossbow go fuzzy and shoot shotgun pellets into the electrical fields of daisies.
Some real life silliness (well I found it silly) for a change. Found on the Med Building male toilet, on a cubicle wall, I quote:
"You'd expect med students to be able to avoid pissing on the seat."
Which was of course met with profound profanity and vulgarity. The real side to doctors, people!

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Nan-Maku-San-Ban-Da, Ba-Za-Ra-Dan-KAN!!

Away with you spirits and ghosties of the missing gauze cleaning wood pulp rubber stopper Aspirin tablets!! AWAY!!! AKU HALAU MU!!! BELAH!!
There we go... no more haunting for you naughty naughties. Even the noodles are drinking themselves to death because of your milky evilness.
Oo my coin jumped to my right hand, did a pirouette, backflip somersaulted and smashed into my right cornea. Isn't he a great friend? Yes I thought so too. I'm sure the ribbon rapped furry meerkats did too. Didn't you little fellows? Cute little farts are the meerkats. Make me want to cuddle them and strap myself up in a straight jacket and spit on the tetrahedral clothes pegs of insanity that hang around disturbing the millions of synapses happening every second in the center of my thinking area. Krrff krfff. No late-night photo session for you. HEY!! No curi masuk! ISH ISH ISH!! Go to your room and think about what the wallpaper aphids have done to the cheerios in my waste paper basket milk bottle. BOHAHAHAHAHA
I see dry calculator button shells... they're... coming... to... find... you... in... my cupboard. The locusts go to war! All that remain to defend us are the grass-blade wielding ladybugs. FIGHT!! FIGHT!! Oh well... locusts lost. The eagles will have revenge.
Transformers!! More than meets the explodoeyeballs of retinal doom.
UPDATE: Hey! Did you know the process of bleaching paper involves the use of reverse writing and expert sleight of foot? Neither did I... intriguing possibilites (unlike having to chew on your leather suitcase when there's no other food in the world you aren't allergic to). Clicky. Penguins don't walk very well... their natural swimming footwear just doesn't suit their ice-skating tendencies. That's why they use their fattily insulated feathery bellies. Just like uncorking a twist-top bottle of green ink to drink. MM tastes like rubber wing-tips. Very windy too.
Isn't it nice how you get a yellow-white colour in your left-pinky-toenail when you stand in a cave?

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Frills Or No Gills?

Hair is falling from the bountiful forests of the Nestea bottles. w00t w00t w00t
ahw000gaa!! Timberrrr-laannddd matressessss...
Cerebrations! Cushy government jobs for all who oppose the government. Down with mechanical pencil sharpening razor-shelled mussels. Up with hot air (as it usually goes anyway). I saw sparks. They were running around digging whole holes in the whiskey. Swim my little hair follicles swim!! Swim for your pathetic lifelessness!! You're freeeeee... free like the red light on the thumb drive incessantly flashing bleep bleep KokoKrunch. *munCh* *mUnCH* Count the pH of pond slime sarcophagi. That's a legitimate scientific experi-mental case. Just like the chicken schnitzel that Fluffy the tyranical box ribbon's paper airplane. What hanging sentence? Simpletons all of you!
So long, farewell aufwiedersehen goodbyee,
I'm off to eat a tasty sheep wool piee.
Oh god! I'm high! Can't be bothered to rhyme...
My pencils are sleepy. The twinkle is fading from their styrofoamed Smirnoff cup-holder. What?
kskrxxxhasxxxoorrzzz jooo!! MAPHACCKKKKK!!! coff coff

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Too Much...

To the body snatchers out there, please refrain from stealing peoples' identities and their various gazelle-y undergarments. They aren't yours! In any case, leave YOUR nonsense outside the door THEN you can come in for a glass of harbour trash. They do wonderful things with pollution these days, I hear they're feeding left over shower heads to the poor and donating squamous kelp to seriously overnourished bats for safekeeping. Lugubrious I say! Just absolutely peppery. SnE@ze.
Orange Marshmallow Fertilizing Gumdrops, Wonderfully Tasteless Fillet-o-hamburger, Big Bummed Quince?? Take all the capitals and what do they spell? A mercifully vertical death caused by stripes-of-zebra poisoning... It's wonderfully painful. Makes the rough ERs conduct surgery very very gently on the various sponge tables. When that happens, there's apparently a success rate of 99.98729303112938% when dissecting a pair of shorts that pillows will inflate and expel the fluffy doughnuts hidden away beneath the curry icing. Thus it all turns out just plain drafty. Breeze coming through. *plonk*
That reminds me, made purple leaflet curry today. The chlorine-fill really helps to push the taste right to the edge of your conscience. Aphids have a better sense of direction than a GPS attached to a chunk of liquified bubble wrap. When they eat breakfast cereal it means that the world will come to an appocalyptic end cause by a hundred million combination locks releasing gas at the same time. Foul stuff. There are better ways to go. Soft toy plushies for instance. Delectable.
Cause and effect are linked by a series of fortunate events that led to the invention of the black and blue crossword puzzle of ultimate thumbdrive shapes. Scrummage for iPod cables in a bucket of liquid earthworm-hide suitcases to win the 1st prize. Steadily dividing differentiated epiglottis cells. It's a first in animal psychology that's for sure.
I can't be bothered to boil the firefly tails so a cold shower seems to be impending. *DUN DUN DUUUNNNNN*
Just one last note, salivating on windows has been proven to reduce the risk of growing cancerous tablet pens out of your budgie's left tripulated jeronimouous wing-tip feather (fourth from the left of the right-hand wing on a three-winged camel).
To infinity and hairstylist brushes!!

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

A Post A Day...

Wow. I'm doing pretty well considering that boiled socks have a distinct taste of pickled wombat hair. Now who would have thought that? Surely not the intercontinental missiles I just fired at the dolphin in the cable car on the telephone wire. My bad. So long and thanks for all the squiggly onion whiskers. Fish are the new green. Firey brown is the new wireless mouse (though most of them are, firey brown obviously). Suppose the world was as flat as a well-rounded orange peel. Where would all the beetles go for summer vacation? Sizzly frostbiting sunscreen.
Kiwis. If you think about them, scooters are more likely to blow up like an imploding 2-cent coin rather than scoot. They should be called squashy...ers. And so, following a logical thought path, kiwis obviously originated from some remote Pacific island off the coast of Bhutan. Similarly, frogs have been found to exude exotic slimes from the inside of their mouths that they use to attract predators as part of a courtship ritual when vying for the attentions of a cd-cover. The scientists who experimented on the frogs reported a significant loss of brain-cells in the surrounding plant life. This was found to explain global warming by way of sophisticated simplicity. Double S-words!! Triple your hair growth score. Piddly.
I've just borrowed your nose-hair trimmer to trim the edges of a clothes hanger's toenails. They were getting pretty long. Almost as long as the moths have been chewing on the garlic doorknob of vampirism. I like garlic. It's scrumptious. AND it leaves a strong afterthought in your left nostril but a weak one in your right auricle. Ossicle bones walk around at night and knock into things. Dreams are the result of tampering by elephant ears that have nothing better to do than watch TV on a power adapter cable. Ears, ears, ear components, flowery manliness.
Passionfruit was last seen over 50 light years away making out with a pair of old three horned 'awd bovines. On your knees to worship the clockwork firebolts of mockingbird beaks. *SQuAWk* Canaries sing rather nicely don't they? Magpies do too. Crows just cackle like sick constipated paper towels. Nice and yellow.
It's been a pleasure. Now time for the window to photosynthesise a breath mint.

Don't worry. He's got anti-missile barrier. Plus the ICBM relies on man-made echolocation which is no match for dolphin sonar. I'm an animal lover... as if I'd do something that evil... GEEZ.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Snippets of Reality

I was walking in from the bus stop right? Right?? Yes of course. I thought so to. So where was I? Oh right I was walking in the drain from the stop into the bus... No wait... I was walking in from the bus stop and stepped into the drain! Got it. Anyway there actually wasn't a drain to step in but I spent the next 5 minutes chewing on a roll of newspaper wrapped with coins. Despicable, that kind of moss. Just as I was stepping out of the solar plexus, a hovercraft went barrel-rolling rather steadily under my twitchy toenails. A pair of sparrows were hating each others guts in a passionate embrace over the controls. In the end, they landed rather peacefully on each others head. I thought it was pretty well controlled for a bladder.
Incidentally, the price of free chocolates sky-rocketed to a new low while the crickets practiced ten-pin bowling on a concrete tennis court. It was going rather well until it started raining blunt glass shards that cut deep and made a mess of the front laundry.
Optimus Prime says that every man should have a label stuck to his lapel to aid in the process of soft-toy manufacturing. Megatron however believes that hard liquor is the key to the evolution of all Prokaryotic species. Therein lies the essence of their ongoing conflict over glass houses. Autumn. Summer. Winter. *BoINg*
10 minutes ago the clocks around the world ticked for ten minutes and here we are in the past. Sudoku has also been proven to be a menace to society by causing stand fans to riot against the merciless punishment of the floorboards of Canadian houses. Sweet aspartame flavoured masticatable rat bones!! How succulent and juicy.
Chop chop. Splat. Spish. Bonk. Things that go bump in the night are going *spRoINg* just for variety.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Monday monday~

As the train came into the station on my way home today, (I was getting on it) I had an instantaneous image of myself jumping in a star-jump kind of jump out to meet it. *WHAM* The slowmo effect went through my head as well. ooo Chewy.
In other totally relevant news, it has been discovered that ants are the cause of Australia's drought. These malicious creatures (second only to beavers, tied with those evil fluffy white ducklings), dug deep deep chutes which were used to siphon rain water into gigantic pools that they used to train their ever-growing ranks of Olympic swimmers. What? This just in, roses have been declared a threat to the theories of Quantum Mechanics (what a nice shade of purplish yellow ochre), leaving a lingering smell even when they don't exist (when you're not looking at them). In addition (oo connectives), humans have been proven to have evolved from rocks from fossilized material over 2 days old. Amazing what archaelogy can do these days.
Termite oil has been deemed to be of a higher quality than palm oil and even corn oil especially in causing better tasting deaths. Astrologists have uncovered a new meaning in the shape of a 100-year old fig tree. Consequently, marshmallow oil still remains the top oil for cooking and general roasting of human flesh to appease the rock-hard marshmallow swine deities.
Back to the ants, it seems that they have built drain pipes out of empty exoskeletons to steal water from human dams. Damn those insidious creatures! Badgers don't spray you with foul-smelling musk like skunks!! Hair doesn't spontaneously ignite, though if it did the atmosphere would be as toxic as the soft spot on your chin.
Garble garble waffle waffle ice cream diaries and chocolate floppy discs of plastic.
Bits of chunky gravy float around in a sea of thick water fortified with fan blades blended with high quality beans to give a fragrant coffee-like aroma. Bouncy.

Sunday, March 11, 2007

To Celebrate A First Post, Consider:

An eagle soaring majestically high in the cloudless sky, over a green but flowery valley surrounded by white peaks blablabla etc etc. Isn't it a picturesque depiction of stereotyped majesty? Love the big words don't you. Welcome. I can guarantee that big words won't be a big part of ma blog. Nor will proper posts it seems. You see, the eagle saw a rabbit. Yes. Cute little bunny is going to die. So it seems. The eagle dives. It gets closer and closer to the seemingly unaware bunny. 5m away. 4. 3. The eagle covers 2 metres in .1 sec. Fast isn't it? Go count the velocity if you feel so inclined. The angle from the ground is 73.449129372103º. Have fun yea? Anyway back to the story. The eagle died. The end.
Now how did that happen? Well next consider that if pigs could fly rabbits would probably be rather safe, and the human race would be doomed to even more antagonistic bombing than we usually get from our feathery friends. Yea. So if pigs could fly then the eagle would die, don't you see the logic? There's definitely logic in that. In fact you can calculate it, you see...
If you've believed me up to this point go hide your red face in shame because you're totally irrational and have no semblance of logical thought whatsoever. I mean just because pigs can fly doesn't mean rabbits would be safe (unless the eagle prefers pork, which I doubt) nor does it mean the eagle should be dead. So there.
Anyway, for the rest of us NOT-SO-SHAMEFACED people, we're all wondering what happened to the eagle except me of course, I mean this is MY story. So, why? Consider (i love that word) :
a) massive heart failure just at the opportune moment
b) lightning struck it on a clear day
c) Aliens killed it with a DEATH RAY!! ooo technology
d) rabbit had a shotgun
Now which is the most likely? Well shotgun obviously, everyone can get guns these days so why shouldn't the rabbit?
You're dead,
100 pellets in your head,
One green and one red,
Hang on... wasting vital nutrients. *munch* *munch*
Good old rabbits and their rodent table manners eh?
If that made much sense (emphasis on much) please explain it to me...

Arr!! Eat pellets eagle scum!! And so will I GRR