The Simple

New words: Callow, graven, atheromatous, vituperative, recidivist, omerta, boondocks, avuncular, pastiche.

This week on A Stray World:

• Little to none women reps, because they don't care what men say,
• Refugees celebrate World Refugee Day, thoughts and comments.

First Issue
Women, Family and Community Development Minister Datuk Seri Shahrizat Abdul Jalil noted the record low numbers of women involved in politics.

For the record, it's:

• 9.6% of Parliament;

• 25% of Dewan Negara;

• 6.9% of state assemblies;

• 12.5% of local authorities; and

• 7.6% of board members of Bursa listed companies.

Proactive steps have been suggested to increase their numbers, but first, we must identify the reason behind the lack of boobs on the board.

Interviews with Mrs Dama, a housewife, suggests it has to do with the men.

“They are callow idiots,” she begins with vicious tenacity. “I have thirteen children and what does my god-damn husband do? He goes and ***** another woman.”

But surely this has nothing to do with Parliament.

“Let me set the record straight,” Mrs Dama said. “I have to handled thirteen bawling children at home with no support from the ******* **** in his ******* *** smoking his ******* weed. Now you are asking me if I want to talk to another hundred or so men trapped in a windowless room without soap operas and television so I can at least pretend I am listening? I think not.”

“What my mother is trying to say is the men in there are just pieces of meat to her,” interjects Susi, the eldest daughter. “You see, my dad treats my mum like the sex toy she was expected to be. So you must understand her less than tolerant attitude towards the MPs who can conjure up classical sexist jokes on the spot in front of the national body of governance.”

The interview was terminated prematurely because the half-naked father who had just woken up was demanding beef stew for lunch. Needless to say, I left before the wife slaughtered the family cow.

Is this true? Do women avoid managerial positions because to them, men are just pieces of meat? They are not worth the time of effort?

“Look, we can't have women leaders because they are distracting,” said KG, a Parliamentarian. “Those bouncing balls in sacks are just too enticing, they make me forget what I am going to say. Every time someone raises an issue and a woman MP responds, I can do nothing else but try and picture her naked. Can you really blame us for making sexist jokes? We are healthy, adult males.”

However, leaders of the nation are expected to be more... mature, about the situation. Surely the old men in power are... 'steadier' than the average Malaysian man.

“We are not 'steady',” KG responded. “Look, there is a reason why UMNO, MCA, MIC and the rest of the gang have women divisions. It's to get them working for us, but never us working for them. We don't have to see them, we don't have to hear them. But we get to joke about them and during the annual party conventions, hit on them. This arrangement also virtually ensures the next president of any party, and subsequently, the Prime Minister, will be a man.”

“Proper women are like toilet seats,” he concludes. “They should learn to support us and take our crap. Not make their own crap.”

Second Issue
At an unknown moment in time during this week, some people celebrated World Refugee Day. Because our former intrepid reporter, Ahn Ser Mi, died from bird flu during an interview with the H5N1 virus, we have replaced her with Ahn Ser Yu, her sister.

This week, Ahn Ser Yu interviews a bunch of KL kids regarding the aforementioned celebration.

Ahn Ser Yu: World Refugee Day. Your thoughts?

Kid 1: What kind of holiday is that?

Ahn: It's not a holiday. At least, not holiday celebrated here in Malaysia.

Kid 2: I know what it's about. It's about people who are refugees. That like, some kind of deviant teaching.

Ahn: Not at all. They don't exactly welcome the refugee status.

Kid 1: So they have been forced into it! Why hasn't anyone called the police?

Kid 2: Don't worry, I have them on speed dial (dials a number on his mobile phone).

Ahn: When I say refugees, I mean people who have ran away from oppressive governments or some other situation that has forced them to leave their homes behind. Like the Karens from Myanmar.

Kid 1: Are you serious? They couldn't spread their deviant teachings in their homes. So they came here to do the devils bidding instead.

Ahn: You aren't listening.

Kid 2: Hey don't worry. I just got off the phone. Apparently the Malaysian government doesn't support the refugees who enter this country although it's a UN thing. In fact, we actively seek to extradite them.

Kid 1: Yeah. That's cool.

Ahn: Kids. I was born into a family of refugees.

Under mysterious circumstances, both KL kids were found dead in a drain a few days after the interview. Ahn Ser Yu claims she was eating beef stew at the time of the incident.

Politically correct profanity:

Instead of “shit storm”,try the more gentile “stinking rain”.

Of Herbs Squenched

This week, a special report on the Medicinal Plant Discovery Award competition.

Your humble servant, this faceless writer of numerous English articles has performed what could easily be described as the unthinkable. Like an American doughnut seller frying char koay teow. Not since the Chinese story telling competition in Primary 3 have I willingly participated in a project that required me to speak perfect, lucid, fluent, perfect, grammatical-error-free, Chinese.

Throughout most of this year, I have been spending a significant amount of my time preparing reports for the said competition. The objective: to build a health product or medicine from any local plant. The limitations placed upon us were that it be an original product, and its mode of application, external.

You may imagine that would be a humongous undertaking. To do what the gigantic pharmaceutical industry does every day every day with the nonchalance of a hungry lumberjack in the forest. We, with an exhaustive supply of research papers, decided to use the guava by sifting through dozens of wide-ranging reports before a cursory description of paste made from the said fruit caught our eye.

Before anyone accuses us of plagiarism, allow me to point out the original report amounted to nothing more than the boiling of fruit juice with the cellulose remnants of the fruit until it attained a gel-like consistency. We took our cue from the slightly exaggerated description of the guava's medicinal properties.

As with any organic substance, heat easily denatures the biological substances within the guava. That was one among many flaws we pointed out in the report which incidentally, didn't provide any empirical data on the effectiveness of the guava derived product as a medical cream.

Countless hours were spent perfecting the processes involved. It began with an ambitious bid to imitate the cream-like substance from the report which inspired us. Unfortunately, we had no expert help in the matter so we pretty much threw various (expensive) substances together with the haphazardness of rats among a hundred different French cheeses. The Internet, gave various details on the steps we needed to take to create a guava cream; and as detailed as the instructions were, we failed to create the light, creamy lotion we hoped to obtain.

This was where Occam's Razor came into play. Instead of creating a terrific product from complex instruction and expensive chemicals in a high school lab with equipment older than the family car; we simplified our steps and curtailed our ambitious pursuits to focus on creating a respectably effective product from high school lab equipment older than the Pentium Celeron.

The product was quickly derived and the report sent between nerve-wrecking exams, concerned parents, worried teachers, and relatively horrible exam results on my part. Not long after the entire melodrama of the first season, the networks renewed our series and we found ourselves in Kuala Lumpur for the finals.

I cursed my bad luck when the call came in telling us we needed to do the entire presentation of our project in Chinese, if we wanted to win. After risking my life by staying up till the wee hours of the morning to get myself stung by Aedes mosquitoes, testing the products on the bumps produced, compiling the English report, and designing the English presentation (which had to be presented using PowerPoint), I didn't find the Chinese language request foisted upon us with the brazen rudeness of Simon Cowell in a gay and lesbian convention singing “You Will Never Walk Alone” as their drunk induced theme very pleasing at all.

After all the public railings (by public, I meant me) against the organizers, the entire presentation was translated and given a face-lift while I attempted to give a credible delivery in a language I have good reason to avoid like a prostitute dressed as a drunken clown.

My team was awfully patient with me. Embarrassment. Supreme, unsurpassed embarrassment is the perfect phrase describing my initial attempts. Finally, on the day we should all be departing for Kuala Lumpur, the teacher and my partners finally teamed up to give me three-to-one voice coaching lessons. The entire morning was not wasted as I finally hit my stride.

I took on the lecturing parlance of a China Central Television (CCTV) and Phoenix TV talk show host. Trust me, it's less embarrassing to to talk like a pretentious, loud oaf than stutter around my materials enough to get me nominated for the Chinese version of Forest Gump.

Friday was a blur of motion, sights, sounds, touch and smell as we rumbled towards KL on one of many commercial buses plying the North-South expressway. Evening traffic jams, taxis and LRTs phased in and out of existence until the final foot powered travel to the First Business Inn. This block of glass and stone, as with many other hotels with ostentatious names, failed to reflect the “First” title bestowed upon it.

It was a two-a-room arrangement in a three by three by three box with lighting that would be as illuminating as Edison's first light bulb. The showers were confusing in their lack of instructions which resulted in two consecutive cold showers at dusk and dawn. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner though not gastronomical art by any lengths of imagination, were delicious and generously served. Considering the entire affair was fully paid for by the event organizers, is was absolutely perfect.

The luck of the draw placed both teams from my school in consecutive order, right before morning tea. Needless to say, we spent all of Friday night and Saturday morning rehearsing our presentation. Nervous wreck wouldn't be the words to describe my state of mind. Silent resignation would be more apt. As with all pessimists, I became more fluent in my part of the presentation the less I thought of my chances of winning.

And by the damnation of fate, somehow I managed to pull it off.

Saturday morning was thereafter irrelevant, and the evening was spent roaming Times Square with my project members. One of whom unexpectedly, turned out to be an avid collector of soft drink bottles and cans. Yes, such a hobby does exist. And according to the animated proprietor of the speciality Coca-Cola store, there are only two such stores in all of Malaysia. And he was the proud owner of both.

Rain poured with the exact intensity of the storms back home in Penang. But somehow, they seem louder in KL. Scientifically speaking, it's probably because of the abundance of concrete, zinc, and aluminium taking the blunt of the raindrops. I prefer to think of it as karma-inspired drumming by the forces of nature.

The evening faded with the heavy rain, and dusk led to the hall of some primary school large enough to fit a aboriginal settlement. There, we feasted among thousands of others upon generous portions of food, water, tea, herbal drinks, herbal vodka, herbal biscuits and herbal sweets. The fact it was organised by the same people behind the Medicinal Plant Discovery Award competition meant the event was peppered with various vendors endorsing diverse products seemingly built out of bizarre uncommon fruit and plant parts. But who would complain when highly competitive vendors despatch overly-friendly ladies in shorts tiny enough to double as underwear.

The results came in. And we, incredulously, won third place. Our juniors won second. Of course, I was probably the only one who felt the essential feelings of disbelief that lend me my personality. I felt our product wasn't really that good. However, the others could not be any happier, which makes me happy for them.

Saturday was driven out of the drains with the pressure of the nights cold to hot shower. Then, a night of celebration by staying up all night with the juniors who had invited some female company. Needless to say, I stayed out of their conversation to concentrated on the go puzzles I have yet to finish even after one year.

The company turned in sometime after 3.00 a.m. Breakfasted at 8, then launched ourselves to Penang. A four hour journey home that was eventful by the artfully carved mountains we passed as we headed North on the expressway. The journey has ended, and we have won something. I suppose I should be satisfied.

Bird & Beats

New words: Monomania, Feckless, Uppity, Bastinado.

This week on A Stray World:

• Bahasa Melayu becomes Bahasa Malaysia, Group Urges Government to Stick to Bahasa;
• Bird Flu Hits Selangor, Deciding to Skip Penang for Health Reasons;
• Dear Prime Minister.

Issue 1
After careful deliberation between a cup of kopi-O and Milo ais, the Man has decided to rename Bahasa Melayu to Bahasa Malaysia, which in a twist, is actually a reinstatement of its former name, which in itself was a rebranding of the original name, which incidentally came from the same language that spawned Bahasa Indonesia.

Confused? Don't be, because for a nominal fee, you can now join the elite group of citizens comprising 99% of the population (the statistics have to right, because they come from uninformed guesses) who don't know anything about it.

“For years I have been calling it Bahasa, because saying the full six syllables reminds me of the devil, and my boss is hell, in the literal sense” says Mr. D, a witchdoctor currently teaching metaphysics at Universiti Sains Malaysia (USM). “Do you know that all of my students refer to it as Bahasa as well? I don't rally see why I should start uttering the full title.”

“Yeah, I agree,” says Faz, a metaphysics student who sells herbal remedies in USM. “Malaysia and Melayu are both three syllable words. They are a mouthful to pronounce. Just look at the Australians. They call themselves Aussies because it's so much easier on the tongue.”

“I did some maths,” a bespectacled young lady enthusiastically chips in.

“It takes one extra second to say Malaysia or Melayu and three more seconds to write it down on our exam sheets. If we have to write on average 30 Bahasa Malaysia in each exams, we will have wasted 90 seconds per exam. Multiply this by 4 and we have wasted 360 seconds. We spend at least twelve studying before coming to university. That's 4320 seconds of our lives gone down the drain. And I haven't even factored in the times we spent writing the extra words in our essays and practice sheets.”

“Now do you see the REAL PROBLEM?” quips Mr D. “That is why we will take this opportunity to announce the foundation of a new NGO. We call ourselves the No-Ma-No-Me, the No Malaysia No Melayu.”

“Our agenda is to get the official policy makers to use only, and exclusively, the term "Bahasa" as the official reference to the most spoken language in Malaysia,” says Faz.

When queried on how this would benefit the nation, they responded: “The reduction in the writing of this long winded but commonly used term will reduce the risk of carpal tunnel syndrome, especially in the writing of an essay of the national language, by two hours.”

“Besides, it aids nation building by allowing the Malays and non-Malays to stake their claim on the language equally because of the apparent neutrality of the word” adds Mr D.

Who knows, maybe one day we too will remove the “Eng” from “English” because of the need to place our stake on that language as well.

Issue 2
Bird flu has struck Malaysia, killing an indefinite number of chickens in Sungai Buluh, Selangor. However, one is puzzled as to how this disease managed to slip through the Northern States without leaving a large number of dead birds behind.

A Stray World now presents an exclusive interview with a genetic expression of the H5N1 virus who calls him/herself Alex.

Field correspondent Ahn-Ser-Mi reports.

Ahn: Good morning Alex?
Alex: ...
Ahn: Um, so why did you skip the Northern States to go straight for Selangor?
Alex: Me... Alex.
Ahn: Yes we have established that, Alex. Why did you decide on Selangor first?
Alex: No... You Alex, me Jesse.
Ahn: (Ahem!) Okay. If you insist, you can call me Alex and I will call you Jesse.
Alex: No, no, no! Me Alex. You Jesse. You Charlie.
Ahn: (Ahem) Sorry I have to blow my nose.
Alex: This Petri dish too small for all of us. I leave. No, I leave! I leave as well! Leave! Leave!Leave!
Ahn: Somebody help! I think I am dying.

Interview suspended due to death of reporter:

Ahn-Ser-Mi (2006 – 2007)

Issue 3
A hearty congratulations to Prime Minister Abdullah Ahmad Badawi for his marriage to Jeanne Abdullah. No cynicisms or ironies attached. I am genuinely happy for you.

Alternative Profanity: Instead of “asshole”, try “proximal chasm”.

Shroud Indiscriminate

New Phrase:
Shit, the sea is cool. (Attributed to a visiting friend who enjoys roaming the watery kingdom of Queensbay, Penang)

This week on A Stray World, we explore culture.

It is a feeling of great anxiety. As if the mind is being ravaged by tonnes of pop-idols and Hollywood remakes. Great goblins of trash espousing the benefits of fame and fortune, arrogance and vanity like a cup of oily, overpriced Columbian coffee served in a Starbucks kiosk.

Yet this is the nature of society as we know it. The Muslims of this country are partially correct about the detrimental influence of the Western nations. The effects have been immediate and far-reaching. An entire generation scarred by the repetitiveness of reality singing contests and pretentious fairytale courtships.

However, one need not blame the West for every deterioration of our national consciousness. We can start by blaming ourselves.

Malaysia is a country rich in heritage and blah, blah, blah. A string of clichés and connectors repeated so often it has attained the same level of effectiveness in expression as the winner of the second Malaysian Idol.

How much do we actually know about our country anyway? First, we should ask ourselves, do we really love our country?

I do love my country. I love the land, I love the people. But I detest the law and its enforcers.

In this regard, I point to the first settlers of this country, the Orang Asli. Specifically, of Peninsular Malaysia.

How many of them can you name? This group of individuals lassoed into the “others” category in the National Registration Department form.

Negrito, Penan, Jahai, Batek are among the strange and wonderful names that have persisted through the ravages of time. As much as I enjoy learning about these people, it always saddens me when I realise there will always be something missing. Like a misplaced earplug when Paris Hilton is playing on the radio.

These people with their own unique language, music, food and culture are being slowly and steadily assimilated into mainstream society. Where women are victimised and children are raped with the frequency of Hollywood making a sub-par sequel to a blockbuster cult classic.

To quote an example of this blatant disregard for our own cultural heritage, just remember the Kelantan government has an active “loyalty points” programme where a Muslim who marries an aboriginal (and the subsequent conversion to Islam) gets RM10,000.

Another example is the rather vacuous excuse of religious purity, invoked for the immediate and future dispersal of any showroom piece of the ghosts and ghouls and otherworldly legends pervading this land of many peoples and faces.

To paraphrase, what sick bastards wouldn't want to see a ghost trapped in a bottle?

It is with great pain that I realise most of my acquaintances flatly refuse to learn anything and experience anything that they are unfamiliar with. Though I can be accused of being prejudiced in this manner, I can flatly state that my prejudices come from direct experience. I have come to detest modern Hollywood movies because of their emphasis on special-effects and explosions, with little regard to the story at hand.

This is a conviction arising from the rebellion of the mind after the umpteenth outing to the cinema to accompany my buddies to watch yet another hyped up million-dollar budget film. I don't mind wasting my time and money for my friends, I just don't like to repeat the process.

It is not the desire to be different that I say what I say and do what I do. It is a desire to learn about humanity. In a sense, to study myself. Though admittedly, it is also a rebellion against sex-induced rap/pop songs awashing the landscape like a plague of Manchester United fans after winning the Premiership.

Variety is a gift to the mundane. And I do welcome the fact that my acquaintances have varied tastes. However, what I never welcome is to close ones mind and heart. Though I try not to judge anyone else but myself, it is terribly hard to do so. Particularly when I know what the flaw is.

Empathy is something we can all learn to pick up. And for the average Malaysian out there who is content to listen to only one side of the story, to make judgements preceding the evidence, I can only hope the damage they will inflict will be limited to themselves. Unfortunately, that is not the case, due to the relative scale of this syphilis-like affliction.

“Read less, watch more TV,” House.

So I see the sharp jagged, serrated mountains of the Andes; and scale the vast deserts of Morocco; and I found myself flying into the oceans and inhaled the blue-blood of the Earth. I find that all entrancing. Wonderful. Achieving an euphoric state incomparable to anything else I have ever experienced. I could do this in person, but TV is cheaper.

After something like this, how can anyone even consider cuddling up in an air-conditioned room devoid of anything but the mechanical precision of modern man pervading every facet of the white bland walls.

On Sunday, I was witness to an event which I regretted paying for. A thousand Chinese orchestra students simultaneously playing to an audience of ordinary folks.

The event was to begin at 2000 hours. It began at 2010, when the VIPs turned up.

When the night was suppose to be about the music of Chinese culture became a brazen political landfill of campaign speeches by our VIPs. At last, the instruments began to hum to the beat of the conductor more than an hour after the designated time.

The lack of harmony was obvious to anyone with an ear for music. The beats were erratic and some sections of the medleys became entire mudflats of dirt and debris. When the organisers awarded themselves the Malaysian Book of Records for the most number of musicians in a performing band, I had to exit to the toilets before the mediocrity and absurdity of the entire event liquefied my mind and damned my soul.

Is this what our culture has become? A series of Crazy Frog ringtones? Where insane acts of blatant disregard for culture and decency have become our culture? Where we choose to selectively blame the West for our forsaking of our culture, yet ignore the fact that Western culture actually encourages their people to discover and learn about others.

Rap didn't just come about. Its roots can be traced back to Ghanaian music. It was a profound form of poetry and art that has since evolved into the superficial land of music videos filled with guns, girls and gyrations. Yet this is American culture. More sex. More booze. More fun.

What about us? What about our culture? What of our music? What of our people?

It's a wonder that it is the work of foreigners who seek to protect our culture. While we busily scramble to remove every trace of it.

Alternative profanity for the week:
Try the more feminine "cow dung" instead of "bull shit".