To the BATMOBILE

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

you can drag a horse to water...

In a moment of madness, I had decided to forgo my usual medium-distance run in lieu of some vague attempt at swimming as part of my Superhero physical upkeep and all. As things turned out, it wasn't one of my better ideas (as a matter of fact, I struggle to recall one 'better idea' I've thought of in my lifetime).

I should not have ignored the early warning signs as I endeavoured to slip (squeeze would be a more apt term) into my trusty pair of trunks. Despite being marketed as a sizeable inch larger than my waist, I realised with much consternation that an indecent amount of ample thigh-flesh, pale as a corpse, was exposed to scare old aunties to death. Having earlier announced to my parents about the task I was about to undertake, I was reluctant to retract my decision for fear of harsh laughter and that smug look that all but encompasses "I knew you wouldn't...".

Striding purposefully towards my condominium pool and doing my best to seem professional and observe all six thousand variations of body stretches to disinterest my parents observing from our balcony (at no one point did I see them there. But I just knew. A superhero's six sense, if you would) as well as the bemused security guard cum life guard on duty who had most probably noticed my lumiscent thighs from a mile away in the 9pm darkness.

Snapping my goggles (rather painfully) into place, I decidedly looked more like a younger Dr. Ock of Spiderman fame than Ian Thorpe (largely due to physique as well) but after all, I had the benefit of the cover of darkness.

With a swan dive that would put a Baywatch lifeguard to shame, I plunged into the pool with the poise of a dolphin which soon gave way to undoubtedly the most disastrous looking freestyle maneouveur. Unlike other swimmers which seem to draw breath delicately as their head pronates around to accomodate their graceful strokes, I seemed akin to a surfacing whale, spewing water in a great burst of noise and frenzied activity as my oxygen starved lungs forced my mouth wide open a la the whale Monstro from Pinnochio before the icy grasp of the water dragged me back under, in the process of doing so filling my mouth with water and rendering all previous effort to breath useless. Whilst doing my best not to drown, I had to attempt to keep my flailing limbs from knocking swimmers in the neighbouring lanes unconscious, such that I had to hinder my movement to a feeble wobble to navigate through the water.

After an exceedingly valiant effort at completing 8 laps (with ample rest in between each 50m 'burst' I assure you, where I mumbled vague excuses to anybody who so as gave me a questioning glance as if to say "What - that's all?"), I decided to do my superhero status justice by giving a last herculean push for a ninth and final lap - even reverting to the wimpish-looking and highly detested breast stroke (stroking breasts however, is a totally different thing. Ignore this if you aren't above 18. Or even if you are, it would be best you did). Within 5 metres of completing my final lap, my last great froglike movement to propel me to the pool-wall ended in an almighty cramp - one with such a great degree of pain that I contemplated tearing the entire appendage off there and then to stop it.

Spasming wildly as though I've just gave a portugese man-of-war a massive bearhug, I spent the next few minutes dragging my body over the edge of the pool onto the comfort of land where I wept unshamely as I contorted my leg into a position that would have otherwise required the skills of a true yoga master (in the essence of Dhalsim from Street Fighter). To emphasis the degree of pain and awkwardness I was subjected to (and still am actually, 24 hours later I'm still required to hobble about), my mother had believed me to be a "poor wheelchair bound man who was trying to pull himself out of the pool".

It comes of course, with no great surprise for the stubborn fool that I am, that I shall attempt to swim again within the following two days (provided I have the time and my calf decides to work once more).

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 10:11 pm
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Sunday, September 17, 2006

times of troubles

You are Detective InsertYour NameHere lazing around in the familiar warm comfort of your plush couch. Evil has no place in your home and you are having your well earned rest from a day's work of attempting to prevent crime. All of a sudden your pager beeps furiously. "F*ck" you yell, asterix included, as you accidently choose your wrong starter Pokemon because of the interruption. You knew you should have gotten rid of your pager a decade ago when handphones were invented. But yet somehow you knew that this was a sign from your dark vigilante and fellow (and better) crimebuster, Butlerman.

It read (and yes you can sms pagers you technologically-incompetent fool):

"InsertYour, you there? Buggerdamnbloodyw*nkhell. A.Math and Geography tomorrow ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Help? Hello? I need string for Mapreading? And do you know how to integra..."

You breathe a sigh of relief as pagers can only hold so many characters in an SMS. As some glowing manifestation of kindness buds from within, urging you to offer a hand in help and support, a quick glance to your beckoning Gameboy Advance is all you need to make the decision and squash that little bloody manifest anyway. For the tower of support and companionship Butlerman is, he is not Pokemon Ruby Red. And now you have to find a way to cope with Bulbasaur for the whole game.

Oh... my. Geography and A Maths. If you should so much as to stumble across this before 8am September 18ths, remember to offer your wellwishes, bulging packets of money, young beautiful daughter's hands in marriage and other such delightful gifts.

Until then, I shall attempt to sleep.

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 10:56 pm
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Thursday, September 07, 2006

many great things...

"In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:
It wearies me, it wearies you;
But how I caught it. Found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn."

This of course, bears great relevance to what I am about to talk about. It is not everyday that I quote Shakespeare on my blog (I should do more often, for its obvious threefold advantage. 1) It gives the pretense that I am a highly enlightened; so much so that I am beyond the need of searching Thesaurus.com for synonyms of intelligent to arrive at "enlightened". 2) It may, by some bizarre stroke of luck/my ingenuity, actually be connected to my subject matter in deeply profound and philosophical manner. 3) Confused and disgusted Literature students may stumble across my blog after searching online for Merchant of Venice crib notes and give me vital ego-boosting page counts).

Unlike MoV's Antonio (if he did have a surname, I forgot and can't really be bothered to really go find out - Banderas would be an intellectual guess), I actually have quite a good inkling to the source of all my pains (past, current and yet to come).

In roughly six hours time I shall forcefully be thrusted into the most gruelling 12 hours of my life (in recent memory anyway) I have affectionally labelled beforehand "the Gauntlet", of which includes -

9 to 12noon - Hacking away at rugby-hardened shins in a 'friendly' ~~deathmatch~~ street football marathon under baking sun. Tomato-red suntan and embarrasing PE tanktop tanline package included.
12 - 5pm - After a too short lunch break and splashing of water onto oneself to reduce the odour, 5 hour study period ensues, with prime choice of location (School library with poker-faced librarians breathing down my neck, or classroom oh-so-tempting with its unidentified stains on the walls that bring to mind a fight to the death involving copious amounts of coffee. This is provided any of them are open/available for sweat-reeking people to utilise)
5-6.30pm - Attempting to survive on rugby field against UWC after agreeing without prior thinking to playing a match.
6.30-7 - Splash more water on oneself, rush to Crown Centre, and eat a french fry or two to prevent my stomach from digesting itself.
7-9pm - Conclude day with 2 hour orgy of Additional Mathematics. Conscienceness preferrable.
9pm onward - Collapse and die smelling like a sewer with gallons (an obviously inadequate amount) of deodorant.

With many great things to come... I'm positively dying in anticipation...

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 1:26 am
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Sunday, September 03, 2006

"oh gee, what is it tonight?"

Many a shocking news today (many a shocking grammar too)... But where do we begin...

And so, Steve Irwin has passed on, which is tragic to say the least (no, seriously - )... It seems fitting that such a guy would lose his life pursuing his greatest passion. Talk about occupational hazards...

For someone who's survived wrestling with crocodiles of all things with broken ribs to boast about, and all other things scaly, deadly or snarl-y, to succumb to a "usually docile" animal; it rewrites the definition of 'mortality' (deep, is it not).

Despite being the self-proclaimed Defender of Freedom and Guardian of 7 Siglap Road, I'm more likely to meet my demise at the hands (or rather, hard toe-stubbing edge) of a mean coffee table in a comical-in-the-macabre-kind-of-fashion involving extreme amounts of clumsiness only associated with me.

Other such "shocking news" I bore reference to would encompass my friends sexual lives. Not exactly something I'll be keen to share over the net, or with anyone for that matter, but enough to make me reconsider my morals and give me a serious case of nightmares. While my very sex life (or social life - a more politically correct, and less suggestive term. Nothing much to be suggestive about, I assure you, as perverse as my behaviour tends to lend itself towards occasionally) is no Aesop's Fable, it pales - positively blends into milky-white oblivion - in comparison.

(The sad fact is, for the supposed casanova that I make myself out to be, purple suit, peacock feathered felt hat in golden trim and pearly white leather dress shoes, my ~~sex~~ social life is in limbo. Stasis! Nowhere! Nothing! Cold storage! Other synonyms from Thesaurus.com! At this current state of desperation, all I'm looking for in a female is a heartbeat - and mark my words, there may come a time when I may have to compromise on that too. Editors Note: Don't take me too literally.)

Having just finished watching "Waiting..." (Hilarious, great script, perverse, hot actress in Vanessa Lengies. Highly recommended!) and the clock showing 3.03 a.m, my bed beckons invitingly and I shall gratefully oblige...

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 11:12 pm
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