If there was anything I could claim to being an expert at, it would be the art of sleeping on public transport. With the amount of energy I spend daily just... watching football is enough to justify a lifetime of sleep. Butlerip van Winkle sounds tempting.

If anybody should be prevented from falling asleep on public transport at all, or at the very least, be discretely covered with an innocent sheet of cloth, I'm afraid it should be me. Considering how I usually find myself waking up the experience of being stared at by a group of children in open-mouth amazement, who would then squeal and run away having found out the drooling ang moh hulk is alive and capable of movement.

It's usually after the time when I pretend as if the production of the cobweb of dribble connecting my lips to my left knee was a conscious decision that I realise I'm being observed with alienlike dispassion from an old uncle, who'd bare his toothless gums (or what could be a cleverly disguised supremely advanced communication device) once in awhile to frighten away potential commuters who might want to share the seat with him.

I have been planning to blog for the past week (this particular post has gone through 4 drafts... Yes I draft my blogs to obtain maximum frustration to annoy myself) in order to talk about the School Holidays to keep some semblance of chronological order usually associated with a journal, it seems that I've once again failed.

I can only remember one sordid event that I partook in during the holidays that involved a mind-numbing 12 hours of Lord of the Rings Extended Edition movie marathon, which never ceased to remind me how non-existent my social life is (or remind my faithful readers how sad my existence is). If for a single moment you thought that wasn't sad enough, the company and I present managed to have the fastest "baking extravanganza" ever, which consisted of 5 people crowding around watching the only proficient baker (I prefer to label myself a chef... a widdly inadequate one) mix cookie dough.

On hindsight, it was a great deal of fun.

What seeks to do Butlerman next?
(Editors note: That didn't come out right, it almost made it seem as if I had an active sex life)

And what doth Butlerman seek to accomplish next?

I've been meaning to conjure up homemade pasta with salmon in cream cheese sauce as well as bake lava cakes with the guidance of the afore-mentioned proficient baker, though the former intention may be as likely as the chances of England winning the World Cup (which is to say, none whatsoever)...

I'll end of here, because I'll know that the perfectionist Butlerman is would be satisfied with this substandard post. That and the fact I have $35 to win if Australia can somehow score against Italy.

TO THE BATMOBILE

I dislike bus rides, I really do. Be it past experiences that may have influenced me so, or otherwise, I was once again rudely reminded why taking public transport never went down well with me.

With my insides bubbling away like a beaker in a mad scientist's laboratory, the result of eating a bowl of wan tan mian flooded with chillis and being made to make a frantic dash from Heeren to Far East Plaza (or Shopping Centre, whichever is next to... whatever it's called) to collect a custom-printed T-shirt cum birthday present as the shop was closing, I boarded 36 in hopes of a seat to rest my weary buttock cheeks and rest my head gently upon a (hopefully existant) commuter's pillowy bosom.

The 36 bus ride at 10 is always eerily quiet. With the mild warble coming from TVmobile (which I may add, has atrocious programmes, having bought the rights to the American dribble such as Designer Guys, Diva on a Dime and a ridiculous Candid Camera-esque style show that's hosted by a cartoon troll), everything else occurs in a vague dreamlike quality. People get on and off the bus in total silence, bobbling their heads as the bus rolls over stretches of uneven road or dead crows or cats, like characters of Night of the Living Dead.

This time however, just as my eyes glazed over and my jaw was beginning to slacken, MotorolaMan had to intervene. With his new M21812318 Hands-Free Headset, MotorolaMan sat with the confidence of a well-endowed gorilla alpha male in the middle of the bus, waiting for the opportune moment to make the greatest inconvenience of himself (when sleep was just about to grant me her deep loving kiss).

"Tony, is it? It's me, Jackass. I'm on schedule as I said 2 seconds ago, will be at the pub ETA 2300 for the match. I left the portfolio in the office in plain sight so you couldn't miss it even if I didn't tell you. Can I ask you something, can you think of any one reason why anyone would employ a total anus like me? Why did I ask? Because I'm the sort of person who'd sell his wife to get the new M21812319 Hands-Free Headset with little Squiggly Attachments(tm)."

A nanosecond's worth of silence.

"Sweetie? It's me, your loviedovie... Yeah I'm on my way home, about 30 minutes or so. No reason to tell you, but because I got my new M21812318 Hands-Free Headset and I'm an anus."

I want sleep.

"Tony ah? Just updating. Unexpected red light so I'll be at the pub ETA 2302 rather than 2300. If Seng Wee calls can you tell him I'm a faggot."

With ample powers at his disposal, MotorolaMan wore away at my endurance and I crumbled like a rotten cookie. Dragging myself off the bus when my stop finally came, having managed to gather 2 seconds of peace and quiet as by a miracle of God, MotorolaMan could not get a connection, I was confronted at my door by my dog offering me a saliva sample, which I could not but respectfully decline.

Next on my agenda, a football match to watch and a good deal of rest before I find MotorolaMan and settle scores.

TO THE BATMOBILE

Not too long ago, I made a secret pledge to myself (involving dead children and pentagrams of fire. Just joking) to blog occasionally during the holidays if only to maintain reader interest that is no doubt drawn to the massive homosexual cyber orgy occuring in the critically acclaimed BATFORUM.

As my holidays are boredom epitomised and I have nothing to write about, the pledge has been broken, and the gates of Hell have been opened to pour forth Armaegeddon unleashed and all peace on Earth will cease to exist (if it did exist at some point in time. Not as I know it). In a last ditch attempt to stop the invasion of utensil-wielding redneck (or was that supposed to be redskinned), and after reading one too many tag post apart anal sex, Butlerman has come back with a bang.

Of course, no one knows who's tagging what these days, certainly in the BATFORUM anyway. I've had people come up to me and ask me "So what have I been saying recently?" (How on bloody earth do I know. I don't keep records of everyone like the government does. Possibly the first and last piece of political humour you'll ever catch me saying)

This of course, makes tagging as pointless as... the Butterfly stroke, the purpose of which is nothing more than make other swimmers such as me who have some difficulty with the doggy paddle feel inferior. (I'm actually a passable swimmer. But pretending to be unable to swim does have its merits, especially on days when the female lifeguard on duty looks like something out of Baywatch).

And because I set about writing this blog post with absolutely no idea what to write about, I thankfully have several (two in fact) vomit-inducing puns to keep you (the one reader of this blog) entertained. This of course, would shatter whatever illusions of superhuman grandeur any of you held me in.

(1) First, there was the X-men. Now there's the Omen.

I shan't bother to write down the second one, for it's far worse than the first in my opinion, and I have no intentions of sinking that low... yet.

To the more observant follower of this blog (though we've already established there's only one. In which case I should have said "If you have noticed"), I've employed a different writing style this time around with quite a heavy influence from stand-up comedians... (Well it's a bit less stand-up comedy and a bit more sitting-down rambling).

TO THE BATMOBILE

I could say the following was all my fault. It probably is. I mean... I knew the holidays would be this boring and all, and I did have to go back to school anyway. Actually thinking that it would have been a break from boredom was a foolish thing to do indeed...

As always, anything that I had planned to achieve in school passed without any incidents (in fact it turned out better than expected having bumped into several friends). Instead it was only about fifteen minutes later when higher powers came to the conclusion that 2 hours of sanity in Chemistry supplementary lessons was about all I was entitled to have in 4 weeks of holidays.

Boarding a Bus 13 which seemed destined for the Lilypudlian Backpackers 2006 Convention, which had all the spacious seats either occupied by a 5 foot tall person or his 10 foot tall backpack, I was forced to squeeze into the smallest seat on the bus (the one right above the wheel). One couldn't complain much at that point in time, after all, I did have both of the seats to make do with.

Well that was until a couple of stops later when Monstro (*the name of the whale from Pinocchio) and his missus decided to test the bus' weight limit. When confronted between the choice of a seat recently vacated (the previous passenger having just alighted) with a dribble of sunlight and the perfect view of Telok Kurau, or sharing the tiniest seat in the world with the largest ang moh on the bus, you could trust any sane human to make the former choice. Missus Monstro reasoned "Got sunlight ver hot" - and both squeezed into the one seat that was giving me breathing space. I just had to tuck my knees under my chin and wait (in a position reminiscent of one of Houdini's tricks) out the ride.

Spending the final fifteen minutes of my journey soaking up the moisture from their underarms, tickling my chin with my knee-hairs and being subject to pressure amounting to millions of kilograms was one thing, listening to the couple murmur to each other not-so-softly of what they'd like to do to each others (undoubtedly quibbling in excitement) inner thighs was another.

Sheer torture.

TO THE BATMOBILE