Kickin' It Old School On V-Day

Since 2012 is the ominous year of the ancient Mayan prediction of the end of the world, then by all means this last Valentine’s Day shouldn’t be the standard conventional, pansy-ass, poofter of an event we men succumb to every year.

Maybe this year, my brothers, we should revisit the true meaning, history and origin of this blasphemous event, and go back to our roots of this obvious conspiracy against men-kind.

When contacted (via time machine), Claudius II (Roman Emperor, 270 AD) has this to say, “Back in our time, I did what I had to do and decreed that all young, able bodied men shouldn’t get married. Why? ‘Cause I knew better! And yeah, I also needed committed fighting machines to send to war who didn’t have to worry about writing love letters every night or call their bloody wives all the time! But did anybody listen? NooOOOo. Then that bloody Bishop Valentine had to go and performed secret weddings behind my back. 2 Ceasers later, the Roman Army was reduced to sagging masses of abused husbands and that was the fall of the Empire as we know it.”

Another (anonymous) respondent (circa Middle Ages) wrote in to say, “Back in our time, single men and women drew names from boxes to see who we get to hook up with. Not only did we have to wear their names on our sleeves for 2 weeks, we also got to get our groove on and not be frowned upon! Back then, it was the start of what you people now call swinging! Groovy baby yeaaaaaaaa!”

Digging a bit further, Kilgoran The Hunter (circa Ancient Rome) sent an email to explain how it all actually started, “Flowers and candy and candle-lit dinners? Maaaan have you guys got it bad! If you guys really have to know, this whole thing was called Lupercalia back in my day. It was a day when we feasted on mountains of food and alcohol, get freaky on the dancefloor in front of our huge bonfire, and fornicated with anything with a skirt on (or sexy wolf-pelt, which was the in thing then). All in the name of honouring our Pagan gods. So…yeah. Sorry, chaps”

So how did it ever get to where we are right now, brothers? When did it turn into pink cards and chocolates in boxes and set dinners at TGIF? Are there feminist conspiracies abound? Do Hallmark and Memory Lane actually control the social order of our planet for the past 100 years? Were they also responsible for Anniversaries too?

Somehow, everything that used to be manly about this day has been hidden, distorted, ignored, wiped out of our history books (or not shown on Discovery, or downloaded as an app, since most of us may not know what a book is nowadays). So much so that nearly all men-kind have never heard about the truth, the real truth and nothing but the truth.

That Casanova bought himself chocolates to make him virile so he could do as many chicks in a night. Nowadays we buy goddamned RM250 Patchi chocolates just to try and get laid.

That in medieval times, girls were fed bizzare foods on St. Valentine’s day so that they get so baked out of their brains in order to dream about future husbands in their sleep, and ultimately wake up the next day attacking the first person with a schlong to satisfy their urges.

If something did happen along the way, it sure wasn’t in our favour chaps. So I leave it to your imagination on how you’d want to approach what may very well be, your last Valentine’s Day this 2012. Who knows, your woman might like your new barbarian-like approach when you whisk her onto your shoulder and kick it old-school, Lupercalian-stylee with nothing more than a good stack of ribs and a six pack of San Miguel.

But just in case, send her flowers in the morning from blooming.com.my anyway. Cause you never know, those damn Mayans could be wrong…

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Objects in the rear view mirror...

…may appear closer than they are. Sort of an apt saying to kick off the new year. Looking back, we had one helluva year in 2011 didn’t we? While the past was touted more as the year of the “leaks” (Assange, BP, Chef Riz’s resume) 2011 was more a tale of change, and those awkward moments when most of us would go “Hooray!” at first, “Ermmm” in the middle and unfortunately “Uh-oh…” towards the end.

Ousted Mubarak? Awesome. In it’s place is a shaky government, not knowing really what to do as they’ve been sitting around listening to the old geezer for the past 3 decades.

Found Gaddafi in a ditch? Rejoice! Now the 3^rd largest oil reserves are up for grabs for the next big thug to pillage.

Kim Jong Il died? Gom Bae (cheers)! Now we have his son in his place with a more illin’ haircut and probably a bigger bloodthirst for pulling the moon out of its orbit and hide it in North Korea.

Osama? Let’s not go there, shall we.

Truth is, 2011 was a year that had us sitting on the edge of our seats, jumping up to celebrate on occasion with short bursts and squeals of victory, and then watched in horror as the enemies scored an equaliser into the net every time in response.

Closer to home, KL city saw the promising start of an integrated, connected sky walk system being constructed, linking major shopping malls to…err, major shopping malls. Perhaps this is a precursor to what we can expect to happen during the next rainy season as we watched in horror when Kajang was half submerged in floodwater. Even Jalan Tun Razak wasn’t spared of flooding, but at least for the first time, there was an actual, physical reason that caused a traffic jam on Tun Razak.

We won the Tiger Cup, but we lost to Singapore for the World Cup qualifiers.

We launched a new Proton, and it looks like a Mitsubishi again.

The future always looked so promising back in 2011. But when we finally get there in the present, we end up checking our receipt to see if we’re actually paying for what we ordered before.

So let’s try to approach 2012 a bit more cautiously, I say. Avoid spasming into premature ejaculation the minute we think we’re gonna get laid.

That one night stand you were working towards might end up in a long term psychotic relationship.

Happy New Year!

2012 ReSOULutions

2011 was like a bad girlfriend for me. One that didn’t put out much or wouldn’t swallow, but still had me run around doing errands and forced me to get in touch with my inner feelings. Like a lesbianic transvestite, it propelled me to continuously roger myself for 12 months on end.

Therefore, 2012 will be touted as the year yours truly will do some soul searching. And with every other new year that comes along, a proper resolution is again needed, as a checklist of awesomeness to keep me in check. Because though you may not have noticed, I am an advocate of not just content with awesome, when I can awe-all.

So as I leave 2011 in the rear view mirror, here’s looking at the list of 30 important things I intend to achieve for daunting year ahead….

     1. Develop spidey-sense

     2. Stop ordering Pure Vanilla at Coffee Bean

     3. Try not to look like an angry gopher while cycling        uphill

     4. Add Julian Assange in my FB friends list

     5. Guess the name of Samsung Galaxy S II’s replacement model (Galaxy S IV? Galaxy S XII?)

     6. Become a YouTube singing sensation

     7. Catch a snatch thief

     8. Invest in a new BB….without buying a fancy cover for it

     9. Stop checking under hotel beds for dead corpses

     10. Get a Licence to Grill

     11. Master the art of jiggling my pectoral muscles

     12. Buy a samurai sword umbrella

     13. Memorise a Pitbull rap song

     14. Sing in my own voice when karaoke-ing

     15. Learn a more macho way of shooing a rabid dog from chasing me while cycling (in 2011 the benchmark was a frantic, gasping “Hoish! Hoish!”, scissor-kicking while trying to pedal with one leg)

     16. Learn how to dive head first into a swimming pool….gracefully.

     17. Stop verbally threatening my belly before doing sit ups at the gym (You gon’ dieeee mafakah!)

     18. Accept the fact that the perfect porn movie does not exist on BitTorrent

     19. Delete Foursquare app from phone

     20. Stop secretly watching Keeping up with the Kardashians

     21. Read a book when NOT taking a dump

     22. Realise that shaving pubes does not make me look like a porn star

     23. Learn to flip food in a frying pan

     24. Stop saying “Dunhill Lights 20 satu!” when buying ciggies

     25. Finish all levels of “The Biggest Loser” on my XBOX 360

     26. Learn to bowl like a man and spin that ball, b!tch

     27. Pop my knuckles without wincing in pain

     28. Stop inspecting freshly cut toenails and wondering how the corners turned green

     29. Learn to love taugeh

And last but not least…

     30. Stop writing nonsense to try and make sense of nonsense.

So here’s to a hectic wedding schedule for the 20^th of December 2012, as come 2013, there’ll be no more nonsense of “that cool wedding date” for people to antagonise their families and friends with. Now that, is something I’m definitely looking forward to for 2013!

Stay safe, stay whimsical and stay true to yourself, mafakahs. See you on the other side!

The Cycling Diary of The Blue Boroi : Entry 3. Day 17.

Upped my game to an average of 30 clicks on a triple-loop round Melawati with a final BDSM session with K2 (K-Klub Hill, not in Nepal). Cadence getting more consistent, and I now manage to do my uphill burn pedals without grimacing like an angry gopher.

Still deciding when I'd want to try off-roading, as that will determine whether I get suckered into spending on that Cannondale full carbon roadie and fill my wallet with pretend money for the next six months.

Currently feel : Like A G6, like a G6...tat-tadat-tadat

But I still look like : The Hindenberg

The Cycling Diary of The Blue Boroi : Entry 2. Day 12.

Chased by 2 dogs on 2 separate sections of my route. My staff must've been right, I've been acting like a bitch lately. Either I was smelling like one, or those were gay dogs in heat. Either way, in those 2 instances, of which we never actually rehearse how we'd actually react to, the best I could muster was shouting "Hoish! Hoish! Hoish!" while frantically scissor kicking with one leg while the other was trying to pedal full rotations.

I feel like : Teen Wolf

But I still look like : Pumba

End of Day 12.

The Cycling Diary of The Blue Boroi : Entry 1. Day 10.

I've been cycling nearly every day for the past 10 days now. Since I noticed most fitness geeks keep a log of every freakin' thing they do, I thought what the hey, it might be of some motivation for me to keep on going.

I'm gonna keep it concise and short, relevant and insightful. Maybe some day it may spawn some other weakling such as myself to also take control of their lives and health. As the parking ticket machine in Wangsa Walk Mall always says..."Change Is Possible!"

So here goes....

Day 10 of cycling

Thigh and calf muscles don't hurt as much. Either I'm getting stronger, or the pain inflicted on my balls from my awesome professional bike seat has numbed my whole nervous system.

I feel like : Hugh Heffner

But I still look like : Paul Giamatti

End of Day 10.

The Road Less Traveled

I’ve just started cycling again. My shiny blue & white Polygon, complete with blue gloves and helmet, blue digital chronograph watch and fake Oakleys from Batu Ferringghi (blue as well) makes me look like a smurf when I roll out on my lazy Saturday morning.

Every day as I pass by my parked shiny blue bike in my front porch, it felt like it was calling out to me. “Ride me, you Viking” it would whisper. It was like an elegant wench, always in a ready and bent position. It was also my Excalibur, a weapon of mass destruction. And by mass I’m referring to the mid-section, specifically.

I even created an alter-ego of myself. The Blue Boroi. A mythical cycling God that can only be seen by the lucky few on alternate Saturdays of the month (best I can do for now). The Blue Boroi rolls out of its cave, awakened by its weeks of slumber, motivated by the nasi lemak stall by the bus stop that always ‘habis stok’ by 830am.

Geriatric joggers tremble in fear. Stray cats in danger of spitting pebbles. Wild dogs stunned into submission. A whizzing mass of blue and white may seem pretty unnerving to the neighbourhood folks of Taman Melawati.

Whilst I was childishly playing trigger finger on my gears last weekend, pretending I was Luke, on the last run deep in the steel canals of the Death Star, with R2 in the back. I chanced upon a pack of multi-colored spandex wearing, co-ed middle aged tribe of cyclists. No, not middle aged. Close to retirement. They looked amazingly bright and flashy, yet mind bending when you try to imagine all the folds of old people skin trying desperately to breathe through the scientifically designed cycle suits. They moved in unison, silent and focused. I on the other hand, was a lone and solitary bulbous blob that winces at even the slightest undulating incline on the road.

Yet they were composed. Looked fit. And oblivious that their chaotic color coding frightens little children and squirrels.

I decided to pace my attention back on my burn session, veered in the opposite direction and continued my self-torture.

After about 16 kilometres of pain (verified by Endomondo on my HTC Desire S) and crushed ball sacks, I glided to the local kedai runcit for a bottle of Tangy Tangerine 100 Plus (because I truly believe I outdid myself) I sat next to the Reverse Osmosis water dispensing machine, flanked by the kelapa parut machine, on the steps of the kedai. Time for a fag (which coincidentally is also a pack of blue Lights).

Suddenly they appeared. Like a scattered pack of Skittles, they descended upon exactly where I was, and decided to park, hang out and grab some drinks. I paid no attention to their chatter, or the fact that I had sweaty, wrinkly legs in ball-hugging spandex around me. In various shades of crazy.

Then I also noticed that at the mamak stall opposite, there were other packs of two-wheelers, equally gay in colors and shiny materials, but different age groups and demographics. There were the husbands and wives club (which I suspect is actually a swinger group by night), the yuppie brigades (since I saw their Touaregs and CRVs nearby with roof and rear rails attached. And they also called each other Bro a lot) and also the hardcore, lean machines that were obviously serious cyclists. They were all in packs, and I was all alone.

Was this a cultural phenomenon that I’ve missed out on, having just initiated into a world of cycling without knowing the do’s and dont’s of the two-wheelers’ code? Will I be a social pariah in the world of cycling, alone and amateurish? Should I step up and say hello to one of the groups and make friends? Find strength in numbers? Modify my wife’s old swim suits and fashion myself a belly hugging jersey?

And then, as I was still deep in thought, 2 little boys walked past and into the store. As they came out, they were giggling something about ‘Telur’ and ‘Geli’.

And I felt good about myself again.

And so I dedicate my unwavering insistence to ride solo for the rest of my days, in normal man sport shorts and plain ‘ol rugby jersey, to a dear friend named Robert Frost, who wrote :

Two roads diverged in a wood and I –

I took the one less travelled by.

And that has made all the difference.

Thank you Rob. Thank you.

Now, time for that ice pack. Someone down there needs some TLC.