Exquisite agony

He grit his teeth and threw back his head as his body tensed in response to the myriad sensations it was experiencing. Rhythmic waves of pain racked his body and built relentlessly towards a climax... In the aftermath he lay spent and groaning, barely able to struggle to his feet.

Welcome to the world of reflexology. And get your twisted minds out of the gutter.

So re-minisce, at the instigation of a rather heartless friend - who also requested the head and neck special for him (re-minisce suspects that reflexologists actually run a secret collaborative with chiropracters) to add, well, injury to injury - has had intimate aspects of his soles touched by a stranger. He tripped walking on flat ground three times, after.

********
In recent news, the crew (?and cast?) of the RSS Garang have been found guilty of flagrant negligence (re-minisce is disappointed to note that the other unspoken charge of gross stupidity was apparently dropped) resulting in the tragic collision with the ANL Milk Maid and the subsequent loss of four hands and eight bosoms. oops. Bad taste again. Go suck a polo.

Apparently Judge Dredd presiding was not convinced by the Defence's case (although he reprimanded the civilian crew) that the ANL Milk Maid was culpable as well, because it had not

1) turned a hard left
2) gone straight
3) turned right

Can anyone else spell d-e-s-p-e-r-a-t-i-o-n?

Interestingly, the press had a field day (although re-minisce occasionally thinks they should really have a pond-day, the way some of them write) bandying about subtle terms like "bore down on" and "mowed down" with succinct ease in their highly stimulating and refreshingly impartial articles, where the guilty parties "lowered their heads in stoic silence" heroically, and their wives stood a little way in the corner sobbing. The violinists shuffled by, red roses between their teeth as they played a passionate polka and my, my miss american pie... oh oops. Sorry got a bit carried away there.

I suppose the moral of the story is akin to "don't turn your butt to a big Dutch mutha" or "better to take it up the front than down behind". Such is the wisdom of the Law today. Why do I feel a sudden urge to procreate?

********
Walking The Street (ie orchard road) of Singapore, anyone would come to think that Charity begins, if not at home, then on the sidewalk. After the umpteenth fresh-faced prepubescent female's insistent (but polite!) spiel about why we should donate to organisation X (nevermind that we have already! This is for a different organisation, really!) Re-minisce was just about ready to take that tin and stuff it up where the sun don't shine. Uh, oh yeah thoughts like that are deviant and against the law. Well all right then, to take that child and stuff her into the tin. Oops. Who's that knocking on my door.

But seriously folks. Maybe we're going OTT a little bit. Enforced "Charity" is no charity
at all, especially when it assaults your senses every three paces. Charity in excelsium?

*********
In still other news, it seems a man of the cloth has been accused of misappropriating five million dollars of church funds. In his defence, he claims he did it for the good of God. Yes, quite. One wonders what he'll say come judgement day : "Really, God! That ferrarri was a wonder of engineering which I dedicated unto You! And that condominium was okay because I put a cross in every room! And those inappropriate pictures of my God daughters, well honestly I'm human too yknow. You can't expect me to be like, any different, just because I'm a priest right? Cmon, what's a few favours between us religious types, hey. We're all on the same team right?"

(humming noise as electrostatic discharge builds)

*********

In still other news, re-minisce wonders if he should meet with his co-writer, J W, since after all they're both in the same geographical location for once. Uh oh. That makes DrGoat immensely more arrestible. That knocking on my door is getting to me...    # Re-minisce denies liability.3/27/2004 03:39:00 pm

Electrical Mechanical Dissociation

Re-minisce is saddened to report the tragic loss of his PC this morning at oh-eleven-hundred hours. Despite his best efforts at advanced life-support and a complete transplant of the Heart of his computer, the subject failed to respond beyond the slightest flicker of it's CPU fan. Relatives were said to be inconsolable. The corpse was interred in his suitcase to a sombre funeral dirge, to be airflown back to the Hub of Hubs, where it is rumoured that Twin Separations and even Ressurrections (after failed twin separations) are achievable, at 50-50 odds.
Re-minisce realises that the last joke was in extremely poor taste, but well sod you and sue me, my computer's dead. My bay-bee. Sniff. Poor taste? Go suck a polo or something.
Speaking of which, what's with all the strange ads popping up over London. I mean, "Get in On, the NHS"? Get out of the city. I've NEVER seen a nurse look that good, and just imagining some of them with uniforms that uh well-fitted and unbuttoned down to there is enough to make the hairs on Re-minisce's neck stand bolt upright in sheer terror and commit hari-kiri with a razor blade. Or leap screaming silently (because if human hairs could scream out loud, re-minisce suspects evolution would have ended abruptly for the homo sapiens) to their deaths.
And the new Kit Kat ad, with some breathtakingly beautiful blonde suggestively biting on the tip of a kit-kat. To quote my current voice of wisdom, Dido : Where's the sense in That? I mean, it's kit-kat for crying out loud. There are kiddies watching this. Pah.
Re-minisce would like to take a moment to observe the tragedy that transpired recently in Milan.
..
He'd also like to take a moment to observe the stupidity that's transpiring in Singapore. (See J W's post below)
Apparently the First Amendment is Responsible Sex. And we're not talking contraception or family planning.
One wonders if we'll see another U-tur... um 180 degree reassignment of heading in ten years when Singaporeans have finished multiplying like mathematics prodigies. Perhaps the Second Amendment will read something like Thou Shalt not have Orga(censored)ms, fine $2000. Stop at half. Or summat.

Speaking of which, some snippets from Love Ecchery, a true work under development :

********
Sian, Sia : "KNNBCCB, they've taken pictures off my blog! What's a blog without pictures? Everyone go see my new picture-enhanced site!"

********
LewLian : "Oh, swear not by the inconstant moon and five stars" and
"Lomeo, Lomeo, wherefore art thou lomeo?"
Lomeo : "Well, my mommy and my daddy, see..."

********
BG Lea Sing Longandstrong : "Oh yeah? Oh yeah??! Well my Daddy is bigger than Yours! Who's yer daddy, huh, huh?? Who's yer daddy???"

********
Ju-Nu : "Come on, you know we have to. It's the law now"

********
Fanny : "oh yes, oh God YES, We'reobeyingthelaw! Oh, Hello, Nutella"

********
Moses Limp : "Watch closely, boys and girls as we create an educational video that shows you all how to obey the Law"
Ms Ho : "And remember, contraception is now illegal! And if you know what contraception is, shame on you!!"

********
Kumar-b : "Your lingerie is nicer than mine."
Fannalot : "You say the sweetest things. Let's do some law enforcement."

********
Cheat Don Juan : "Abidee Abidee. Aiyeepurplemoocow! Help, the Law is Coming."

********
Just added, supporting cast of Boys in Blue, who Take It All Off (except truncheons and pistols) to tune of I'm, too Sexy.    # Re-minisce denies liability.3/14/2004 01:40:00 pm

What are you waiting for?

Let's recount:

1960s - Have as many as possible, we do not really care for the moment because we need to get rid of those pesky Brits.

Late 1960s - Oops. Look at the charts and graphs, this is not good. We better think of something. Meanwhile, watch what you are doing at night! Ah Cheong, we better introduce colour television for the peasants! If they cannot afford to have one, install one at the community centres so that they have something to occupy themselves with at night!

1970s- Do what you want, but stop at two. If not, we will penalise you! Meanwhile, Ah Cheong, put up all these posters at every corner in Singapore. The sight of the two pathetic-looking girls sharing an uber small umbrella and a puny little apple with surely scare the living day lights of the peasants. Buahahahaha...

1980s - Ahh... Finally success. Ah Cheong, where's my million dollar reward for solving this problem?

Late 1980s - Oh damn! What's wrong with the charts again? Aren't we on track? What? They are stopping at two but many are going for zero? This is worrying.... We must think of something. Damn these peasants! *shakes fist*

1990s - Ok. Our pilot project has been way too powerful. We have to think of something to reverse this trend. Come... let's form a committee. It was an honest mistake.

Mid-1990s - Ok. You need not stop at two now. You can go beyond it if you can afford it. To help you do it, let's make the SDU more fun.

1998 - Shit. It is still not happening... What shall we do? What has worked in the past for us? Wait... It's money! Why didn't we think of it? We give them money! Let's give them a bonus for every baby born!

1999 - It is still not working. What shall we do now? What? Import foreigners? Alright. Let's relax those meddlesome immigration regulations. Let them in and make sure they come in droves!

2002 - I give up. Let's start a Romancing campaign. Let's allow just enough nudity in cinemas. Let them dance on bar tops if it is going to work for us.

2003 - Let's throw in more money. I am running out of ideas here.

2004 - You know what? I GIVE UP! No more Mr. Nice Guy. From now on, you better give birth to as many children as possible or I will hit you with the stick. Damn it! Go find a bed now and just do it! Shag, I mean. *points to the woman* Why are you not doing your DUTY? Go find a man now, marry him and procreate, so that you are a good Asian wife according to our Handbook on Asian Values (TM). *points to the man* What's freaking wrong with you? Can't you be more masculine? Go find a wife now and shag her. Come on. We need more babies! Babies! Meanwhile, Ah Cheong you go and see if we can promise citizenship for those foreigners who want to settle down here as long as they promise to have sex with their spouse every night without condoms. We have a plan and the plan is to have 8 million people on this little speck of an island as soon as possible. I am sure that Edmar guy is just an anomaly. Go on... What are you waiting for? GO HAVE SEX! GO GO GO!    # D W denies liability.3/10/2004 01:18:00 am

Glitch in the Matrix

(In much the same vein)

Picture a Roman-esque amphitheatre of garguntum size, brimming over to capacity (and slightly beyond) with hundreds of thousands of drably-clad people craning their necks to view, right in the centre of the scene, ten elderly gentleman seated on golden thrones.

The scene shifts, as our focus settles on the floorspace in the middle of the collosseum.

The council of wise men (and Pimpli the dwarf) convened.
Their flowing white eyebrows complemented their flowing white beards, which were completed by their flowing white robes. Standing in austere silence, they resembled a large herd of sombre, damp sheep. (except for Pimpli the dwarf, who was clad in dwarven chain emblazoned with a flowing white orchid motif, who looked more like a sightly obese traffic bollard)

"Gentleman," breathed GohDolf, the tallest, whitest and most flowing of the Coven(ant), "we are gathered here today, to bind in holy matrimon..."

(at this juncture, Pimpli pokes his battleaxe into GohDolf's knee and hands him an Ornate Scroll, bearing the Seal of Office)

"Ah yes" intones GohDolf gravely, peering over his Spectacles of Wisdom (+10) at the scroll borne in his hands, while subtly pushing aside the Seal of Office, which is currently for some reason juggling a small red and white ball on its nose.

"Dear peanuts," he booms, in a deep, resonant voice somewhat reminiscent of Whoopi Goldberg "This council is convened".

Pristinely white robes flow wisely as ten heads nod austerely in agreement. Pimpli's chain mail clinks a little.

"The fate of Little Earth hangs in the balance. We have deliberated this quandry for months on end, consulted with countless prophecies, consorted with priests, priestesses, almanacs, insurance agents and other heathen criminals; crunched numbers and thumbs, and broken a million heads..."

Pimpli's battleaxe falls to the ground with a clatter as he nods off. He wakes with a start and bends down to pick it up. This doesn't take long, since he doesn't have far to go.

GohDolf glares at him, and robes flowing most indignantly, continues. LeeGolast, Regent to the Elven Throne turns slightly glassy eyed and, if artistic licence was legal in Little Earth, might even be said to drool a little. Certainly the white froth flowing down his white beard complements his pristinely white robe rather prettily.

"and so it is that we have reached our decision."

The silence is punctuated only by the scratching of the scribes' pens, as they faithfully and responsibly record events as they are deemed suitable for the consumption of the masses, to be unfolding.

"Our population is diminishing. Our genes dwinding."

(several female commoners glance guiltily down at the large spaces that comprise the major parts of their blue denim leggings)

"There is only one solution."

(An Optrex blimp takes the opportunity to drift by subtly)

"We must have more mumbefudgefudgefudge".

Gasps from the crowd.
Hushed silence.

A little boy of three, only slightly taller than Pimpli turns to his mother, eyes round as saucers and squeaks. "Mummy, did the tall man say Sex?"

The focus shifts as the camera pans around in bullet time, meticulously recording the stark horror that bleeds slowly onto everyone's face at the sound of the Dreaded Word.

Hands slide agonisingly slowly towards throwing knives as Inquisition members garbed in blue leather react to this fatal transgression punishable by hanging, garrotting, tarring, feathering, and finally, execution...

The sun burns Whitely, as dozens of Inquisition Officers flow into action.

End scene.    # Re-minisce denies liability.3/04/2004 06:45:00 pm

Thu Mar 04, 12:17:58 AM
Prime Suspect : J W

HEAR YE

Recently the peasantry had been busy discussing (and discussing only) certain issues close to their hearts.

While the more astute ones were talking about the latest developments in the long-running 1,001 episodic saga involving our sarong kebaya airways and, er, Someone, (not to be confused with the 1,001 episodic saga entitled "A Kindred Spirit") not many are really focusing their eyes on the upcoming elections involving our friends from the north (their nationality does not start with the letter "M" by the way). So while news of the new Democratic hopeful (not our "don’t pray pray" Chee) lines himself up for the standoff of this century (hopefully Florida will not be in the spotlight this time round for all the wrong reasons) completely goes past many of the peasants, many on this little speck of an island are now unearthing yet again the age old issue of, well, conception.

I will not attempt to be yet another broken record here by reminding one and all about the better than perfect efforts by the gahmen in curbing the erstwhile rising-through-the-roof conception rates amongst the peasants in the 60s and 70s where young men were so plentiful that being "tortured" by their resident Sarcents and Occifers in the army never made the headline news in our national rags. Many from my generation will no doubt remember the two-girls-sharing-a-puny-apple-sheltered-under-an-even-punier-umbrella posters which filled every corner of all gahmen institutions back those days, warning the peasantry about the consequences that await them if they failed to �?stop-at-two”.

The solution was so way beyond perfection that, two decades later, we have reached a new low in terms of our conception rates. Of course, the gahmen (in fact every gahmen would also be) was concerned about what this will mean to our little speck of an island. Social costs arising from the population not being able to replace itself (hope this sounds right) will probably mean dipping into our national coffers for solutions to all sorts of problems associated with a declination in the population numbers.

Now, under such situation, the gahmen will do something that any other gahmen will do under such situation. That is to convene a council of wise men to plot charts, analyse numbers and postulate figures to get to the bottom of the problem and nip it in the bud.

The problem is everyone (even the peasants themselves!) knows or rather can define main bits of the bottom of this problem but it has grown so big with flowers in full bloom and roots the size of an elephant’s trunk (not surprising given the fact that it was planted two decades ago) that it is now near impossible to nip it in the bud.

Then again, when you convene a council of wise men like that, the wise men would be expected to deliver. So the council of wise men continued to deliberate, plot more charts, analyze more numbers and postulate more figures, and in the process dunk gallons of coffee and ingested thousand boxes of donut, just so that they can come up with a world-class solution that will put other gahments in the First World to shame.

***

So on the day they were supposed to deliver, the council of wise men gamely stood at the tower of the castle with the scribes, who held the job of simplifying whatever that would be announced to the peasantry via the national rags, waiting below with their hands holding a notebook and a pencil with bated breath.

One of the wise men, who arranged for a hairdo job at a neighbourhood salon (frequented by the old Bengs and served by old Lians), strode to the rostrum, cleared his throat and gently tapped on the microphone to make sure that every peasant on the island would hear his wise words.

Next, he took out a scroll, which no doubt was pored over by all the court officials in the kingdom and possibly even the King (not to be confused with the man named Elvis, although both Kings were made popular during the same era) thousand times over, and started to declare, not the results of the recent Oscars, but the solution of the century.

"Dear peasants," he began in his deep-throated voice, which seem to resemble how the mannequin of Nicolas Cage would sound like if it spoke. "We have deliberated over the problem for months on end, plotted a thousand and a million charts, consulted the almanacs, the stars, postulated a million figures, balanced a thousand and one equations and of course, analyzed a gazillion and one numbers… �?

And so, the spokesman from the council of wise men droned on, while the peasants continued with their usual activities, i.e., queuing up for tickets to watch some Aerospace show, debating over whether their kingdom should rejoin some football league with neighbours from the north, complaining about dirty toilets and how the brightest of the peasantry do not know enough of current affairs. While at the bottom of the tower, the scribes were busy scribbling down every word the spokesman said.

It took ten minutes for the spokesman to plough through the scrolls which gave detailed description of every figure analyzed, every chart plotted and every time contents of many a coffee mugs were spilt on the scrolls. It took them another ten to give some background on why conception rates were so fearfully low.

At the end of the long introductory speech, the spokesman’s facial muscles began to contort a bit as though a smile was slowly forming on his otherwise poker-like face. A little twinkle in his eyes, always reserved for times when he receives his paycheck (some say the council of wise men were always paid seven-digit figures just to plot charts, analyse figures and postulate numbers), came on. The scribes looked up, anticipating the solution of the century.

�?My fellow pea- , I mean, countrymen. After months of deliberation, we have finally found the solution that will signal the end of the falling trend in terms of our conception rates,” he introduced again.

�?From now on, our female pea-, I mean, countrymen, will be given two extra months of maternity leave! We are confident that by releasing them from up to another 40 days of work in the fields or treadmills, they will be charged up enough to want to have another child just so that they can try to get themselves off work for another 40 days!”

The scribes, having long conditioned to such rousing (but in essence boring speeches), applauded as though they were all Peter Jacksons at the recent Oscars.

Then, another member from the council of wise men strode forward, gently nudged the spokesman away and proclaimed how the council had fine-tuned the policy further.

�?We will use a sliding ruler for this,” he said, in a voice reminiscent of a cross between Elton John and Michael Jackson. �?Female peasants who are first-time mothers will get 40 work-free days and for every subsequent baby peasant that they conceive, they will get few work-free days until they hit their fourth child when they would be entitled to a maximum number of 40 extra work-free days. Imagine that 40 extra work-free days!”

Again, the scribes applauded as though they were Dubyas during the capture of one certain man by the name of Saddam.

�?That is our world-class solution, worthy of our pay-check of six zeros and preceded by the number �?one’,” boomed the voice on the microphone which was drowned out by all the applause. �?Before long, we are confident that the conception rates will rise again!”

Meanwhile, on another tower, another council of wise men just announced the latest change in the policy which would allow more �?barbarians” into the kingdom to work because the kingdom had to be more prosperous (to ward off competition from other barbaric kingdoms) and since the peasantry were too lazy to upgrade themselves by learning how better to wash test tubes and they had been asking for way too many work-free days, especially those female peasants.

***

Background article     # D W denies liability.3/04/2004 12:17:00 am