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Thursday, August 24, 2006

secret identities revealed!

The cries of the people were heard! The desires of the masses was fulfilled! They cried in singular orgasmic unision, "Show us your face beneath your mask!". The women swooned, the men prostrated themself in reverence!

And I complied.

Of course, this was not entirely my idea. After all I am a modest soul, and it is a well-established fact that being photogenic wasn't what I was meant to be (the picture above however was a pleasant surprise - after all, I did take some peoples advice to do this 'smile' thing that they claimed would be useful).

The diagram above, however, is supposed to match my face shape/size/features (whatever it does - doesn't seem to work very well) to the most similar looking celebrity. It was with no great surprise to many (though I accepted it with a sinking heart) that I am apparently most similarly featured to a french actress (the collage goes clockwise starting from Quasimodo on the furthest left).

Looking like Saddam Hussein is one thing; but, a french blonde Calista Flockhart lookalike is a totally different think (even with the conventional, obvious reasons set aside). There is something about caucasian women that has always deeply troubled me/piqued my curiosity. Right up till the age of twenty-five or so, they all appear to be contenders for America's Next Top Model, utterly delectable, sweet smelling and clutching wicker baskets filled with fruits for their grandmother halfway across the forest. While the following is undocumented, it is ~~safe to presume~~ a scientific fact that once married, this sets off a a time bomb, ticking away in her which at a predetermined date will explode (presumably all of a sudden in the course of the night) and make her bloat out like a malfunctioning airbug.

Despite bearing (hopefully unnoticeable) resemblances like a strange moustached amigo, Chad Murray in lipstick, the strange guy from Malcolm in the Middle, Anthony Hopkins jolly alter ego (as well as Jesse Metcalfe, intentionally left out because he looks like Action Man after an overdose of Botox treatment - my ego can only be dealt so much harm in one day), looking like an Iraqi dictator and hip hop star (not the same person mind you) might have its benefits someday.

Till that day, I shall muse over the wonders of plastic surgery.

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 11:03 pm
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Wednesday, August 16, 2006

(something very witty and funny that hasn't been thought of)

I have not yet succumbed to the pressures of my prelims yet (far from it as a matter of fact). Instead, I have compiled a list of reasons for my downright failure at keeping a consistent stream of textual diahhroea to keep anyone bored enough to visit this blog entertained.

In order of severity, believability (vocabulary fails me at the most inconvenient of times).

1) GMDS - Good Music Defiency Syndrome. Well. Seriously.

The type of music I listen to does affect the quality of writing I produce. For example, listening to techno is the writer's equivalent of trying to sew while having a seizure (for me anyway). In general, playing music tends to induce me into a divinely inspired burst of creativity in a splendour of dancing extravaganza. Which leaves much for me to explain whenever my parents enter my room without knocking and catch me in a mid-air pirouette or in the climax of a grave-turning air guitar solo.

2) The occasional bee in my room.

No need for further elaboration. Whats the use of improving my writing skills or entertaining you dear readers out there, when all I'm gonna get is a bee sting in my eyeball and die in a horrible explosion due to complications arising from surgery.

Speaking of "all I'm going to get". Monetary donations as well as offerings of your souls are accepted in my soon-to-be-established Support-Butlerman! fund in order to better society (and get me new jeans). Words of advice and comments on writing can also be given, but those aren't valued much.

This leads on to..

2.5) Not wearing a shirt.

Major, major problem. This tends to affect most guys with ego, big or small. There is an insatiable desire to walk over to the mirror in my room and go through every Mr. Universe pose there is. This tends to take place after my pirouettes and "Enrique Iglesias - Hero" starts playing.

This has been labelled 2.5 because there might come a time where I may have to commence a massive cover-up operation and edit this point away if this comes back to haunt me.

Of course, what follows after my daily flexes would be...

3) Daydreams of making love to a hot (oriental? I'm not picky) cheerleader on a bearskin rug in front of an open fireplace in a cabin on a snowy mountain.

Once more, no further elaboration. And no, there is no one in specific (seriously).

4) (Now for the weaker excuses) As Butlerman, international heart-throb and guardian of the galactic empire that is Siglap, I have been busy saving stuff.

5) Studies.

Which is funny because I'm neglecting my A. Maths integration test which would take place in a matter of eight hours and having just realised I don't really know what the integration of Logarithms. And just handily forgot about Trigonometry too.

Oh well. Maths beckons.

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 11:47 pm
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