Pragulka

I have two things I'd like to share today. Two very, very unrelated things. Let me try to do this. Let me try to connect the two things.

Thing One.

Russians do this thing that I find very interesting. What they do is get together with a couple of friends, of either sex, and go out for a walk in the park. They'll find a bench and just sit and talk. Maybe have a couple of cold ones while they're at it but that's the gist of it. They sit and talk. 

Weird, isn't it?

They sit and talk. In parks.

Holy Shit! New Post!

Blames. I've got plenty of that. So, that's a gajillion to you, Twitter. A bajillion to my non-existent Muse. Twenty mega-watts of it to the absolutely non-demanding cycle. But the bulk of the blame goes to the lack of drama in my life.

Yes, a good writer should always have drama in his life, as to fuel him with inspiration. Don't tell me otherwise, shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

Gah! I need to write more. I used to be able to write about nothing and people will still read it. I once wrote a 400-word debut article for some online paper about how I was deciding on what to write as my first article. I found it quite brilliant, though other creative forces on the team weren't as awed by it as I was. Oh well.

New New Year's Resolution: Once a week. I'll write once a week.

As I have no real substance to write on, I'll leave you with a nice song.


I Thought You Were My Boyfriend - Magnetic Fields




Yes, that's a guy singing. No, I don't watch the office. No, that doesn't make me gay.

The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny

For the whole of the last week till this moment, my pride in calling myself a Malaysian was renewed.

Yes, we have fucked up politicians and politics.

Yes, we have screwball theologians and theologies.

And yes, the fatness of our city rats, both literal and proverbial, disgusts the living hell out of me.

But the week leading up to the 14th of February 2010 filled me with nothing but pride. 

It was the Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny, as Neil Cicierega would say. The Eastern Metal Tiger was up against the Western Homicidal Flying Baby. 

Just imagine.

A ring where the two combatants fight, thirsty for each other's blood. Metal Tiger, equipped with nought but its claws and fangs, pacing the arena. Its eyes never left the smug look on Homicidal Baby's face. Its throat thirsts for Homicidal Baby's blood.

Homicidal Baby is not worried. He can fly. To counter Metal Tiger's primitive claws, he has the all-new and latest equipments of Archery. Why, he could fly to dizzying height and rain death upon the silly feline. He could zip around the tiger, tiring it before delivering the coup de grace. He could...

... be Metal Tiger's dinner. In fact, now, he is.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, lords and dames, children of all ages, Oriental Imperialism trumped over Western Imperialism this year! 

All over Malaysia, the malls were bathed in Red, the symbol of prosperity and, I imagine, the blood of the dead baby. People were deafened by the Dong Dong Dong Chang, instead of being fatally nauseated by over-sweetness of cliche love songs. 

In short, we won.

Congratulations, Malaysians. You make me proud.

Johan Ariff Bin Juhari is leaving on a jet-plane. Well, first on a train, then on the express train, then on a jet-plane... well, technically, not a jet-plane, rather a boeing 777. So, yeah... He's leaving on a train, then on the express tram, then on a boeing 777, don't know when he'll be back again. Oh, babe, he hates to go... Except, no, he doesn't hate to go.

The title says it all.

Malaysian internet sucks and I don't know if my new place has internet or not. So, here's something to remember me by until I get back.

Goodbye bitches.

P.S.: Much love to people who leaves a comment saying how they like Konstantin Vasilyevich, my new hat, and Anton Bulgakov, my designer scarf from MTJ [Makcik Tepi Jalan]

Post-post-script: I look super thin because blogspot compressed the pic. Thanks, blogspot! I'll post a sexy pic of me if enough people leave a comment on how thin I look.

P.P.P.S: I am having such a Shane Dawson moment for asking people to leave comments. I think I'm gonna be depressed if no one leaves a comment. Leave a comment if you don't want me to get depressed.

P.P.P.P.PMS: I've edited this like 5 times. Comment on what you think about my anal-loving anal-retentiveness!

How Stalin Actually Defeated the Nazi

Crazy Russians

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Added:

You know, just when I start to have good perception on Russians, the bad apples have to show themselves more than the normal people.

My kitchen window is the target for batting and throwing practice for racist schoolboys. Almost every night they throw snowballs or use some stick to hit the window. Thank God for grills. And not really boys too. If 10 year old bastards were doing this, I can understand, but these are teenagers.

Dude, if you wanna show you're a big shot, come and hit us.

And just now, trying to take out my garbage in -20 weather in only a sweater, the garbage man said that this is not the place to throw garbage AS he was picking up garbage bins. He in his thick dusty winter wear was arguing with me, who was shivering because I've got only a sweater on. He absolutely refused to take my two medium plastic bags of trash.

Not wanting to cause trouble, I turn back toward my apartment. The bloody bastard just had to say, "I'm watching you if you return!"

I mean, what the flying fuck, man?

P.S. I know this post sucks but it's 7.54 am and I still haven't slept and my housemates are all sleeping, so, I can't vent.

P.P.S. But to be fair, the garbage man wasn't being racist. Some Russians just have the need to feel superior over other people, even among themselves. I don't know why, maybe it's the socialist upbringing. Most Russians don't, though. Most Russians are pleasant, albeit cold at first. Only those who work in the service industry. Maybe they feel inferior because their job by definition is providing service to others. Maybe, it's the need to show You're-not-the-boss-of-me! Like Malaysian government workers. Hmm, maybe that's it.

Law of Gaga

I don't know why but this equation is beyond my understanding.

Who is this Lady Gaga?

What's so special about her?

Why am I nodding, tapping my foot, doing a little shoulder dance to the beat?

Why is the rice taking too long to cook?

Secrets more mysterious and important than the meaning of life itself.

011110: Palindrome Day

I've got a First today.

A naked man touched a naked me.

Here.

 Don't ask why.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

A big thing considering I grew up in a society where I get lip for wearing knee-revealing shorts.