To the BATMOBILE
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Sunday, November 27, 2005
 Witness my creation and be amused. Very amused... It tastes nearly as nice as it is colourful, and healthy enough for me to eat it (though I have one hand on the phone to dial 995 if heart pains do occur even as I type this). Willing to be hired to cook the above dish, extra charge if I'm requested to wear a pink fluffy bikini (A popular demand or so I'm told. It was two nights ago!). By day a chef, by night a caped crusader... This thus marks the shortest post ever! Though through sheer effort of cooking and the actual file size of the photo, I demand to be forgiven. TO THE BATMOBILE It just occured to me as I entered totheBatmobile for about the 15th time this hour (why, to clock up all those visitor counts of course! On the topic of this, I'm feeling extremely pleased to find out after much mathematical workings that more than THREE PEOPLE visit my blog - One step closer to my plans of world domination.) that I can't actually understand my last post. In every attempt to sound that teensy bit more intellectual, I have forsaken all semblance of grammatical structure et cetera et cetera... Of course, as a role model and idol of many young Singaporeans out there, I have thus agreed (with a nod of approval of the government) to make a public apology, and mention a word or two about the Speak Good English campaign. I thus quote "You do not have to use big words to speak good english". So the next time you even bother to think about using the word "Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis" (Which is a lung condition suffered by miners, or so they say.), STOP, clap your hands twice, shout "PAP" and communicate via monosyllabic grunts for the rest of your life (say with one sound words can?) I shall now proceed to buy ingredients as I intend to cook myself dinner tonight - Asparagus, ham and chilli pasta. Wellwishes and prayers are accepted. TO THE BATMOBILE Saturday, November 26, 2005
When I woke up tonight I said I'm gonna make somebody love me I’m gonna make somebody love me And now I know, now I know, now I know I know that it's you You’re lucky, lucky, you're so lucky Well do ya, do ya, do ya wanna 2x Wanna go where I never let you before Well do ya, do ya, do ya wanna 2x Wanna go off what I never let you before Well he's a friend and he's so proud of ya He's a friend and I knew him before ya Oh yeah Well he's a friend and we're so proud of ya Your famous friend well I blew him before ya Oh yeah Well do ya, do ya, do ya wanna 2x Wanna go where I never let you before Here we are at the transmission party I love your friends They're all so arty Oh yeah When I woke up tonight I said I'm gonna make somebody love me I’m honna make somebody love me And now I know, now I know, now I know I know that it's you You’re lucky, lucky, you're so lucky Well do ya, do ya, do ya wanna 2x Wanna go off what I never let you before Lucky, lucky, you're so lucky 6x Yeah Do you want to by Franz Ferdinand, which incidentally does have certain parallels with my life. Unfortunately enough, it never does seem to work out does it and it damn well certainly didn't come thursday night a la Fling, despite it being a tad enjoyable. Dancing the night away with babes (if my part of it was actually considered dancing... I believe I'm treading on dangerous grounds here by labelling them babes, attached as they are etc etc - Luck never goes my way anyway), boisterous singing, and the carefully scheduled and religiously following through of getting booze from the local 7-Eleven. TO THE BATMOBILE Monday, November 21, 2005
Oiled like a greek god of war, gleaming under candlelight like a prized trophy, I was slowly kneaded into submission by a masseur (I questioned his sexuality later on as his hands slipped further down my back and worked their way towards my unguarded buttocks). While he promised to "go easy", his attempts to seperate my every single (and "well-defined" - An adjective I never hesitate to throw in) muscle from their corresponding bone soon gave me reason to suspect otherwise. Siglap Centre has never before heard such pain-filled screams of terror before, not at 11.30 in the morning. Incapacitated by alcohol, 48 hours without sleep, and drugged by the overpowering stench of perfumed candles and herbal rubbish, I may have looked like a promising target to my would-be rapist. That was, until back flip into scissor kick a la Bruce Lee (and not Sammo Hung) connected with his jaw in a move I dubbed "Drunken Bull Counter Fox's Advances". Unfortunately enough, we exist in a world based on well-worked theories of physics and motion, where boys in puberty shouldn't go around partaking in superhero activities or pretending to be capable of gravity defying karate maneoveurs, and all I achieved was jiggle in a futile motion, further emphasising my buttock's increased vulnerablity. Emerging smelling of grapeseed oil, and perfume, muscles aching (and I suspect, torn beyond repair), violated, but still standing with virginity intact, I thus staggered home where I collapsed a weeping wreck on my bed. Or just collapsed on my bed in dead exhaustion. Even as we speak now, I don my cape, mask, black spandex and formfitting chestpiece, ready to leap out of my window into the endless night (and the 18 storeys of freefall below. Hang on - I'll take the lift). Take a hint from my steely resolve in my eyes, its payback time (minimum fine being the price of the massage plus surcharge for emotional damage)! TO THE BATMOBILE Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Mouth agape, eyes unfocused and fingers curled into rigid claws, Butlerman is once again pretending he's playing the guitar... Dumdumdedededumdumdumdumdum... Scar tissue that I wished you saw... Sarcastic mister know it all! And just as this particular guitaring maestro rears his head, nostrils flaring, he forgets the rest of the lyrics and more or less gives up altogether. The above mentioned lyrics do however, play a certain instrumental (pun intended and otherwise) part in this gutwrenchingly exciting (in otherwords, less dull than usual) episode of totheBatmobile! (Yet another attempt to revive the feeble comicbook allusion this blog endeavours to achieve, which failed after the first couple of entries.) Having just played the UWC under-whatever team (it ended prematurely due to lightning) today, and been on the receiving end of a pair of metal-studded boots, someone's knee and leaving half my forehead smeared on the distant corner of the pitch after having a couple of UWC's less daintier players drag me across it, this blog is nother other than an opportunity to flaunt my distinct manliness and flex my well-toned, lean, muscled frame (and my wide variety of stretch marks, hell, I am a stretch mark - note: this is an exaggeration and you need not shun me for the rest of your life). While less-than-friendly blows were exchanged on the pitch (I admit to having resorted to a few underhand gropes, grabs and punches when the referee wasn't looking), I was pleasanly surprised to not have my hand broken in the post match ritual of hand clasping, back patting and cries of "Well done, mate!" and/or "Good match hor?" and felt my face blushing underneath the mass of stud marks when they were questioning my lack of appearance at the national tryouts. (I however, maintain I had a subpar performance. No really, I'm not just saying that to garner pity or words of positive affirmation. Really really - and wipe that knowing grin of your face) I shall now retire gently to bed somewhat earlier than usual, in order to adjust my head posture into a seemingly human and upright position (propping it up with well-place sticks if need be). Any kind words of consolation, ill-deserved compliments and "sucking up" are still welcome with open arms, though a decent massage would not be misplaced. TO THE BATMOBILE Tuesday, November 15, 2005
As a good majority of you already know (the thought of which leaves a warm fuzzy feeling in my stomach, alongside the burning sensation that was the curry I had for dinner), my birthday had recently passed on the 8th of November. A handful of my friends (well - I think they are) have probably misplaced their presents/cards/brains come the eve of my birthday but all is forgiven (well more or less. See you in hell suckers!)... After a night of beer, birthday bling (I recieved a hefty nigger-ish medallion of a spinning wheel, batteries not included from my dear friends in some minute resemblence to theBatmobile's wheel I suppose), bulging bellies after dinner at Marche, and a distinct lack of beauties, I decided a night or two's worth of reflection was well in order to see what I have actually achieved these extremely short 12 months. Though most people know as well as I do that I haven't particularly accomplished anything worthy of mention as of this year, apart from purchase a pair of shoes, ruin another, virtually render all hopes of a relationship impossible (oh lets face the facts - I had a zero chance anyway...) and as of yesterday, I have lost 14kgs! (I'd carry on into a boisterous laugh as my cheeks would no longer jiggle along in merriment). The lattermost fact, in fact is rather shocking, as my quick mental calculations (with some reliance on my handy computer calculator) revealed that if I carried on with such drastic weight loss, despite my overwhelmingly trim figure and good looks, I may very well disappear of this Earth in a couple of years. Well and truly shocking. I ordered a pizza soon after... I shall save my 15-16 resolutions in the next log, as for now, I believe spending 4 hours muling over a single blog post has been bad enough, and my medallion needs polishing... TO THE BATMOBILE Saturday, November 05, 2005
While my title make not make full sense to everyone who reads it off the bat, certain intellectuals may realise what significance of such a title means. It is a palindrome! However more gifted intellectuals would realise it is a very badly done palindrome, and the profound genius (only me) actually understands it is nothing more than a feeble effort at satisfying Blogger's increasingly exasperating demands for a title. I shall thus quote a man of prestige and stature to start off my second post in just as many days (Originality fails me in my hour of need), none other than the great Ozzy Osbourne - "I'm just a dreamer... I dream my life away" from his wellknown classic "Dreamer"... Why so? That being because I have yet again experienced a moment of higher transcendence - a moment of purity and bliss - a dream. To be more exact, a nightmare of some sorts (oxymoron I know but hell I'm rushing through this while still attempting to sound learned). This particular dream is not any less surreal than my highly enjoyable act of infidelity with a swedish beauty. This one took place in the midst of an unknown jungle on a seemingly deserted island with shadowy inhabitants. Yes, I must have fallen asleep recalling the last episode of "Lost" in the back of my expansive mind. On an island no bigger than the compound of my condominium and conveniently forested such that there were systematic square plots of land laid out (I'm not joking), the fact that the hopelessly stranded (composing me and many people I know) were in perpetual fear of the unknown ones left me in particular disbelief when I woke up. This disbelief was heightened by the fact, that someone, a total figment of my imagination, called Adam (He didn't reveal his name but he looked like an Adam), ended up making out with well, the girl... of my dreams (it sounds weird when I put it this way. If the girl I thus refer to, you know who you are, so ever stumbles across this, know that it was a dream, albeit a very strange one) at which point I awoke, startled, sweaty and having a deepfelt feeling to kill the first Adam (hell, the first person!) I came across. This could either mean two things - 1) I watch too much TV before bedtime, or 2) Someone called Adam is going to hurt me (either physically or emotionally according to some crackpot theory I furiously researched on the Internet). He almost already accomplished that. Must be quite some guy. *&!@#!&... Come to think of it, he did look like an "Albert" or "A...." TO THE BATMOBILE Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Women... Having just had a myriad of experiences (nothing explicit, mind you. Well - bar one) with women of all sorts within the last month and a half, I thought that it would be the decent thing to do to bare my (hopefully well-valued) thoughts about them. To keep conflict down to a minimum (and hopefully turn a few daggers from my back), I shall refrain from revealing their identities. Understandably so, there are several consequences waiting in store for me once this goes public, the least of all being a very stern tongue lashing (or furious MSN blocking - nothing one cannot get used to). But when a girl tells you she hopes to never stop talking to you, and proceeds to block and purge you from her life the following week, guys like me get vaguely amused. Honestly speaking, I solemnly swear upon Butlerman's sacred name, I have only never been lied to, when the conversation matter gets serious, once. Though the fact I'm absolute shite at telling apart such matters may have influenced that statistic... Just maybe... I shall end this prematurely both to appease my raging mother, and to limit the amount of trouble I might get myself into provided I carry on. (This is suspect to future editing, provided I see the need to get myself tortured by a female activist lynch mob - every man's daydream). (------Edit-------) So I'm back, and with no remedy to this frustratingly ball-wracking (I swear it is that bad) writer's block, and no less replenished after getting threats by my enraged my mother to "break my legs if I don't turn that f**king thing off". Well - really... (Cue for the guys to sigh "Women...") If anything, the infamous ACS(I) Concentration Camp is now over, and I confess it was alot more fun than what school normally was, and it did provide sufficient excuse for my otherwise pathetic lack of social activity. Ladies beware, the sirens have been sounded - the beast is out! Butlerman is back in town! (Who am I kidding - I ought to be the one hiding. Women...) TO THE BATMOBILE |
The Writer
highly confidential Martin Butler, or affectionally known to others as "Butler", "Butlerman", or just "Butt". -Most eligible bachelor of 2004-every year henceforth - step aside Mr.Clooney -Doesn't particularly enjoy much anymore having been desensitized as part of a cruel torturous regime a.k.a IB... -Dislikes everything he doesn't like... Nov 8th - Remember the date! MSN - butlerwantsu@hotmail.com (Add with caution) Archives
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a tense atmosphere of hot air, greasy stains and the endless grumbles of the engine - and that's only me 
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