To the BATMOBILE
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Wednesday, January 30, 2008
So it seems C-rated horror movie-dreams don't constitute the top20 blogposts of all time. Just as well, because recently my imagination has been running wild in the deadening environment of the boarding school, relying solely on the (thankfully) ill-timed siren of the moldy Vietnamese scholar's alarm at 5.45am in the morning (of which he obliviously sleeps through, thanks to the 200,000 decibel volume he plays his Eminem trash at) to keep me alive. Just barely. In the peace and tranquility that accompanies the departure of the dreaded Hall Mistress (a creature of mythical proportions, who lost all opportunity of a honest job once Lord of the Rings finished filming and the great demand for Middle Earth trolls dissipated), all madness subsides and the man behind the Butlerman mask can afford a momentary glance into the crystal ball of the future, the present and the recently past. Accompanying the stench of the Vietnamese' school socks, which at last count, contained a billion undiscovered colony of nanoscopic bacteria species, having last met good friend Ms Laundry a good decade ago, would be the unfortunate news that my right shoulder still feels as secure in it's socket as a beautiful teenaged girl parading around the slums of San Paulo at night advertising her virginity (sincere apologies are offered in lieu of the less-than-chaste imagery). Equally as depressing would be the mournful release (or, conversely, the wild celebrations of single women around the globe that would continue well into the weekend in drunken abandon; or so I hope) that Butlerman is once again the eligible bachelor that he used to claim he was - fat load of good that piece of shameless self-advertising turned out to be! Most unfortunate is the fact one only feels that the opposite party does not quite believe the (honestly) noble tendencies that I have come up with. In hindsight, who would. However, as life should be, there comes a glimmer of hope, and always the opportunity of a pleasant surprise (in no reference to the silent and deadly cloud of toxic fumes that my dearly beloved Vietnamese roommate just secreted from his posterior - vomit-inducing mouth-frothing stuff of World War 1 renown. Local flora and fauna would never be recover). It's just the mere matter of finding this brief sparkle of light in the all-encompassing shroud of doom and gloom. Butlerman, the Thirsterer (my vocabulary rivals Lewis Carrol's Jabberwocky) of Vengeance, the Sheath of Justice! The champion of darkness who now seeks to rest his world-weary (or teenage-angst-weary head) at a measly 11.34pm. Butlerman, once the dreaded Foe of the Evil-doers of the Universe, and now mere victim and human experiment subjected to the tortures of certain bodily odours. I must stress my desire for racial harmony and cross-cultural understanding, if only to ensure I remain out of jail. TO THE BATMOBILE Monday, January 21, 2008
It's been concluded. The jury has passed judgement. The condemnation has begun. I honestly think I'm crazy, not in the mind-ripping deedoodeedaa lip-bubbling Crazy-Frog sense, but in the self-aware-yet-deeply-troubled sense. Members of this exclusive club of insanity are usually locked up or postulate theories about expanding universes and life at the speed of light. Being of a modest upbringing myself, I'm waiting for the men in white coats to lead me away in a straight jacket. "Why the sudden plea, o Magnificent One?" cries the fans of Butlerman in adoration. Generally, people who believe they've nearly been possessed do not linger around in society for very long. Being assaulted by a pictureless and soundless nightmare and feeling conscious enough to attempt to force my eyelids open yet being unable to makes for an interesting night of sleep. Which has occured 3-4 times over the past 6 months yet I've finally found myself bored enough to post about it. It seems likely however, that I just dreamt the entire procedure up, because I've been a long suscriber of recurring dreams (nightmares of Lord of the Rings II troubled me for a week believe it or not - and it had little or nothing to do with the sexual tendencies of Ian McKellen), and was probably too dead exhausted to push my eyelids open. Anyway, following Hollywood horror-movie logic, you've just made a disgustingly big mistake by reading this post. You're next. Good news is, you get to spend an eternity with myself. "Running through hell, Heaven can wait" Long Road to Ruin by Foo Fighters TO THE BATMOBILE Thursday, January 10, 2008
Take a walk through the much maligned corridors of the boarding school halls, in particular the hall that houses the dark knight himself, the dreaded fist of justice, the respected, the feared, Butlerman. Tread lightly, for the floors mysteriously never dry (the tears of the forsaken are ever-flowing), and should you be as inconveniently equipped as myself to only have in your possession a pair of beach slippers which get as much purchase on the ground as I notoriously do with the opposite sex, then prepare to fall... and fall hard. Take sympathetic but wary note of the crazed, furtive glances of the ASEAN contingent that seek shelter there, but move swiftly amongst the discarded remnants of their school uniform! If antagonised, they become feral and must be put down immediately. Butlerman recommends a long broom for self-defence. They exhibit fear and distress in the vincinity of such symbols of cleanliness. Toothpaste and oral hygiene has proved fatal for certain species. Most demonstrate the ability to operate alarm clocks with an alarming (punny) proficiency. Experts postulate that these mammals believe that the greater their collection of annoying clocks, the more assured their alpha male status is. Moving on, pay particular attention to that mixblood shoddily dressed male in slippers and a sling sieving through the swill of sweatstained school shirts at 11pm and howling in denial. Yes, the "great" Butlerman, for all his self-righteousness has forgot to remove his exclusive council badge and now spends the unbecoming task of rifling through the aroma of bleach and a cocktail of bodily odours to find it. Edit: He finally did. Lesson learnt. Karma bites hard. TO THE BATMOBILE Wednesday, January 09, 2008
By the highly credible Butlerman's Extended Dictionary, "emo" is defined as such - "A string or phrase of words which when delivered with pained vocals and a caucophony of percussion, bass and lead guitar, could be mistaken for a Nirvana song". Effectively ruling out the previous post, which I had written under the severe influence of the strong anti-depressent, Hi-Lo milk (as previously stated). Especially after having my mouth stuffed full of sweet chilli tapioca by the uncontestable muscle of a certain rugby teammate (condemning evidence reveal his initials to be B.W.). TO THE BATMOBILE In a single brief moment of clarity that accompanied the indulgence of "The Killers", Butlerman has reached nirvana. No longer is he content with the piddling heights of superheroics, he is now barely satisfied with the giddying intoxicating heights of omniscient deityship! In laymen's terms, he's over and done with being emo. Dead-honest. As he sneaks through this post, under the thoroughly inadequate supervision of his "prep" study session in his In triumphant fan-fare and cheaply mass produced CFC-laden confetti and liquid streamer, Butlerman returns in his finest hour yet (an event bested every posted) as he finally realises that the possible conclusion, while anticlimatic to say the least, to his recent (yet prolonged)... "alliance" with superheroine (identity unknown, yet once under the moniker of "glittergirl") was something beautiful (shunning the favoured form of intense exaggeration to serve up a dish of romantic cheese and cliche*). Somehow that makes it all the more bearable. If she does stumble across this eventually, and I sincerely believe she might shudder at my tomfoolery (Editor's note: dying for an excuse to use that word - the way it rolls of the tongue... delightful!). But in desperation to lend the aforementioned her due time and space, this was the best even a godlike entity of epic comic-book proportions could conjure to convey the message across without getting stabbed in homicidal rage (I would). Surely in twenty years time, if the internet has not been rendered obsolete or the world still remains in a single piece, one would look back at this disastrous rambling of prose and wish he had sooner beat himself in the head with the conveniently on-hand bottle of MariGold Strawberry Milk (which begins to lose its flavour after the 600ml mark). Until then... TO THE BATMOBILE Monday, January 07, 2008
We have come full-circle. Episode 99 of the Butlerman Chronicles inadvertedly leads back to the pilot issue, albeit with a new cover, a new artiste and a change of artistic direction. Once more a clarification of identity is required. While the temptation to quote Gossip Girl is ever present, I fear for whatever manlihood I have left. I am, without a shadow of a doubt, probably nothing more and hopefully nothing less than - That guy who used to get decent grades but now couldn't buy an A even if he was backed by Donald Trump himself. That guy that used to go out with that pretty girl, defying countless odds in the process, and slowly and inevitably using up each of his "social nine lives" in a tragically comedic fashion. That guy that used to be able to play rugby somewhat proficiently (or at least, I thought so), but now can't seem to give a friendly wave in fear of his arms flopping about in a grotesque and painful manner. That guy that used to envision himself being a self-taught chef for romanticism's sake, but now seems only capable of serving up butter-tasting pancakes. That guy that's now ever so infatuated with Blake Lively. Who wouldn't be. The people cry en masse, "Chin up, laddy" (oddly defying logic and reality to adopt a weirdly comforting Scottish accent)! Women and children, friend and foe weep in sympathy at my dready disposition. Edgar Allan Poe, the Man of Morbidity himself seems to resemble Father Christmas in comparison with myself. My Chemical Romance finally realises that their band plays shite for music (admittedly I do listen and wail along to "Welcome to the Black Parade" when the moment hits me) and decides to make endless covers of the Teletubby theme song. Now if only the script writers of America would get back to work so I could continue the mindless satisfaction of watching Serena van der Woodsen get together with Dan Humphreys. TO THE BATMOBILE Sunday, January 06, 2008
Butlerman, in a moment of epiphany, is suddenly quite painfully aware that the relationships he goes through all seem to be ending up the same. Fuck. And yes, he doesn't know why he's saying it here... And yes, he acknowledges only small shrivelled vegetables in robes (or club-wielding men in animal skins) refer to themselves in third person. It had to be said sooner or later. TO THE BATMOBILE With each passing day in the relatively new year, I'm starting to believe I committed some heinous crime in my past life (judging by my recent fortunes, I was probably Attila the Hun, thereby accumulating enough bad karma to last an eternity). Surely my exploits as a superhero, saving lives and dismantling terrorist threats would have ironed things out in my favour by now - but oh wait, I haven't really done anything. Spending 3 months on the sideline through a injury thats painful enough trying to explain, let alone suffering it - put simply, my sternoclavicular (the ball at the chest-end of your collarbone) has been knocked out away from my body at is now a good finger spacing away of where it should be, I was hoping for a dramatic return to match fitness this very morning against what promised to be a gruelling match against NUS. Dramatic for all the wrongs at it turned out. Getting headbutted on the shoulder, for lack of better description- I exploded. Residents at Dover Close were surprised to find bits of ang moh flesh littering their HDB compound. I'm now struggling to maneoveur my slinged arm about to relay this message despite the doctor's reassurances that I was lucky not to have dislocated/broken something long and medical sounding (then again, he did look as if he'd been helping himself to morphine for a significant portion of his life), getting used to living with solely my left arm as I'll be disabled till kingdom come. Auspicious beginnings to a new year of rugby/school/life. Long road to ruin TO THE BATMOBILE Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Who needs panadol when headbanging is just as good a cure for headaches! I would have cheated a post and basically copied/pasted the lyrics of "The Pretender" on this blog but then again I must confess until I actually saw the lyrics on the net I have grossly misunderstood the lyrics (and probably incurred the humour of everybody in a 6 mile radius with my boisterous sing along for the past 2 days). "What if I say I'm not like the others? What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays You're the pretender What if I say that I'll never surrender?" has been thus changed in a stroke of lyrical genius by Butlerman to... "What if I say you're not like the others? What if I say you're not just another one in the place another pretender What if I say that I'll never surrender?" Whoops. "I'm finished making sense Done pleading ignorance" - Dave Grohl 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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