To the BATMOBILE

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

public service announcement

You know those double-sided Clean Colour highlighter markers that's been all the stationery rage since the 15th century? You probably do - seeing as you already own at least one in any shade of pink or red (I prefer maroon - speaks of passion yet with an air of sophistication). Ever felt the inexplicable desire to deface the limb or body part (common sense and good taste withstanding) of a friend? Please don't. This comes as a desperate plea to all would be perpetrators after having both arms vandalized - literally painted upon - with said markers.

It wasn't the way which I received it which irked me the most. Admittedly being pinned down by someone with his fully flexed thighs around the facial region is not the most glamorous of all positions I've been in, resembling at the most a pornographic wrestling maneuver. It wasn't the million messages scribbled across my forearms that did me in. No, not in the least the vile lies of "I love Zac Effron" or even the blatantly obvious truth of being labeled "Sexy beast".

Rather its the fact I've spent a good portion of the last 45 minutes in my shower skinning myself with a brush that has the texture and comfort of nail-studded sandpaper attempting to scrub it off. Hannibal Lector would've been proud of the amount of self-inflicted pain I had to undergo.

This has been a deeply personal heartfelt public service announcement delivered by Butlerman himself. He only has your interests at heart. (Editors note: This was written with a vile bitter taste in my mouth due to the immense cheese that much of this article seems to radiate - lack of creativity and the desperation to post something has resulted in thus much).

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 2:14 am
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Wednesday, May 07, 2008

tender loving care

Today, I was brought to someone I was told who was able to remedy my shoulders into something that vaguely resembles a normal human being’s.

The man himself looked quiet and unassuming in strange Mr. Miyagi clothes, apart from the disturbing fact he was positively juggling 4 separate clubs of ginger with disarming ease. In my unenlightened, racially-prejudiced blind Western ways I was beginning to doubt my friend’s mothers earlier words of wisdom.

“People say that he’s a qigong master that used to be able to take on 10 people at once” She had whispered to me. Then again, people had said that I was an incorrigible womaniser with beautiful ladies falling over me. I was desperate to believe both of them, though I was beginning to suspect my 20 dollars were going to be ill spent. I looked capable of breaking him in half – and that’s saying alot... This is me, the man with a couple of weak-assed semi-attached shoulders who would get manhandled by an Ethiopian refugee slave-child in his death throes.
The odds looked in favour of me. How could a self-styled trim and fit (in his own eyes) superhero possibly lose to the kindly master of Karate Kid who had probably recently celebrated his 219th birthday. That was when he shrugged back his sleeves to reveal preposterously large and knobbly knuckles. He was beginning to resemble the killer “tear your arms off with my chopsticks” kung-fu psychopath from Kill Bill than the whispy beard father figure that many kids dreamed of having as a master.

He struck soon after – proceeding to tenderise 90% of my exposed body with a surprisingly hard yin-yang chi-buster ginger weapon. Shrugging aside my cries of “my left big toe has a fractured socket” and “yes, you bastard – those unusual bony protrusions and tender swellings mean that my shoulder is injured” by denouncing me as a heretic and unknowledgeable in the true ways of Healing – through torture. I took particular offence from his smirks of disdain as he attempted to pulverize my vertebrae regarding how “soft” I was from “eating too many chicken wings” (this of course, communicated through the vomit-sounding Cantonese dialect). I’ll have all of you know my skin is kept smooth and supple through the religious use of skin-friendly soap. Thankfully he stopped soon after, and I stumbled away bleary-eyed and marinated in rice wine – I resembled a Chinese herbal delicacy more than a member of the human race.

And so Butlerman meets his match in the form of TCM (traditional Chinese medicine to the uninitiated) – although the extent of which you could consider being beaten up with wine-drenched ginger or hammers “medicinal” or anything vaguely beneficial is beyond comprehension.

The worst news? I have to go back on Thursday to complete the final rites before I am officially doomed to a lifetime of detachable arms.

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 12:50 am
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