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Sunday, July 31, 2005

martin butler (is the) half-blood prick

Lightning-shaped scar on my forehead or not, it would not be overly presumptious of myself to claim that my life has (rather similarly to the tanker at Sentosa) run aground yet again.

With fluctuations in my fengshui, or chi (to your preference) that would render even the sturdiest contigent of Taoist elite monks to lose control of their bladders in fear, yesterdays torrents of bad luck virtually drenched me in... bad luck.

The signs were apparent even as I woke up (late again) at 8am, and it took my toothbrush about a dozen times to find my mouth, giving my right nostril, eye and ear several probes before choking myself on the blasted thing. In such a state, I could hardly put on my shorts without losing balance and collapsing sideways into sleep, yet in half an hours time, I was to report for a rugby match (of all bloody things - a quick wrestle with three bears would have proved less tiring). It was only through reliance on my packet of Fisherman's Friends lemon-flavoured lozenges that I managed to retain conscienceness throughout the entire day - the lozenges themselves tasting nothing less then toilet detergent, but I was adament throughout the day it was the untimely coke/muddy water swallowed during the match/a. math tuition that ruined the taste. Personally, I thought it was the math, but with three tests next week that I have no bloody idea about anything thats tested (more bad luck), I was forced to limp/shuffle/crawl into class, bloodied and bruised to sit through Hell.

4 pain-wracked, unlucky hours later (Every so often being victim to 5-minute-long), I was summoned upon to entertain a nice girl I still only know as "Maple Syrup" (for her inexplicable reasoning of not wanting to impart with that piece of knowledge) on the behalf of her friend (I so swear that was the only reason - "F*ck"). Knowing myself very well, I more or less accepted with deepest resignition, regret and shame later when I found out I slighted her. Which probably explains why I still remain a bachelor despite the good looks. What made it worse was the inability to say anything remotely close to an apology.

Some people call it "arrogance", some, "cowardice" (guys "no balls lah"), I just say it's because I suck at sentimental bullshit. Or bad luck. Bad luck sounds nicer and less detrimental to my swollen ego.

Martin Butler (a.k.a Butlerman) will forever be the half-blood prick.
Within 2 months (hopefully), he would be a "sexier, fitter, prick" he claims proudly, flexing his muscular biceps to reinforce his point. He also dully notes that his 4km should begin within 15 minutes if he wants to be back home and showered in time for "Little Britain".

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 8:30 pm
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