To the BATMOBILE

2009-11-21T07:23:00.002+08:00

40 minutes of duty left to go, and whilst attempting to find a quote from Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere for his sister, Butlerman stumbles across this - and has 3 points to make.

"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up a whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life... You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' or 'how very perceptive' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love"

The character "Rose Walker" in The Sandman #65

1) Butlerman would trade his left testicle/soul to write like that.
2) Grand sweeping statements seem that much cooler when it rings true.
3) It's easy to jump to conclusions when a reader stumbles across something like this on this blog. Don't.

32 minutes left to go.
TO THE BATMOBILE.

interlude

2009-11-20T23:43:00.002+08:00

After 2 cans of teeth-rotting Coke (totalling 1000 ladles of sugar), and a lifetime's worth of Bejeweled Blitz, Typing Maniac and Word Challenge, Butlerman finds himself with 8 hours left of SAF duty before his blessed release back into civilisation. And reminds himself to get an iPod before the next dreaded shift, for fear of being driven insane by the melodramatic squeals of the countless Channel 8 serials that the other duty personnel survive on...

The will is strong... The will is strong!
TO THE BATMOBILE

frankenblog

2009-10-26T01:28:00.003+08:00

It lives again! Not the title hopes of Liverpool FC after an against-the-odds victory over the league leaders (because frankly, nobody reads this pile of dribble for sports news. Nobody reads this pile of dribble - period), but rather totheBatmobile, the biggest waste of Internet bandwidth since the birth of Christ. This is actually a modest self-appraisal by the author himself - after noticing Photobucket could not spare 82kb worth of memory to keep the background to this tripe sustained.

As a form of literary Hors d'œuvre for those new to the Batmobile experience, this blog has the moral depth of a baby's wading pool, and rarely, if ever, approaches anything vaguely intellectual. Instead Butlerman, Siglap and quite possibly Singapore's ~~sole~~ favourite superhero (or Singaporeans would have to settle for the arousing Cicakman or the Bryl-cream sponsored Krrish) only ever comments on his army-induced dwindling intelligence, and his failing social life and overall inadequacies with the female gender. To those already familiar with your one true savior, yours truly, you have my sincerest condolences and pity for actually bothering to come back to this blog (and deep inside, my inconsolable weeping gratitude).

Where does it all go wrong? What strange phenomena takes place which renders a fine physical specimen with wit and charm to boot incalculably helpless to any good-looking female? With the help of leading scientists, Butlerman undergoes a systematic dissection of his latest failure (his attempts are few and far between, for the information of the general populace).

Butlerman usually adopts a calm and aloof demeanor in any nightclub, adamant that the night's not going to be a good night (Black Eyed Peas be damned), and so cuts his losses as soon as possible. Nose in the air, he patrols the ground, condemning all the desperate long-sleeved bespectacled guys or bald new National Service enlistees to lifelong virginity and cold lonely bachelorhood. Tip-toeing around vomit, or dragging his shoes through sticky spilt alcohol mixes, he tries to ignore the few cool/beautiful ladies. Some guys may find this familiar (I can't be the only crazy person in this world).

Sun Tze probably once said "Nothing spoils your plan more than sexy lady who smiles at you", and he actually made sense. Because then you smile back - and the night's over. You force yourself outside under the moonlight, where surrounded by the unforgiving eyes of your fellows, you commit seppuku. Neil Strauss, famed author of the ~~sex-maniac self-help book~~ Art of Seduction guide "The Game" recommends you approaching a girl within 3 seconds of eye contact. Apparently girls don't even register the first sentence you ever say to them, and so it does not matter. Neil Strauss, is criminally insane. He also has the voice of a 6 year old choir boy. Stupid Neil Strauss.

Or you compound the mistake by staying. Maybe she actually meant to smile at you. She could not possibly be drunk (it's only 2am in a club! Impossible!). She's talking to another guy - likely to be a muscle-bound California Fitness trainer boyfriend. There she goes! Knew you were over-reacting. Nice song this- She's back! She's back! Good Lord she's smiled again. Perhaps an introduction is in order? After this song - you're not ready. She doesn't look ready. What do you say? What would she say in return?...

By which time, either nothing happen, she introduces herself first (after you suspect she's acknowledged that you're actually gay or a coward), or the club closes. No matter what, all the king's horse and all the king's men, could not put this back together again. To further complete the misery, you blog about it so the 4 people that read it can erase all semblances of your remaining dignity.

Sleep beckons - the solution to the above problem will have to wait. Any more delays and with Butlerman's lack of required sleep for the day ahead in the army, the SAF's fighting capabilities will be severely compromised. The rest of the world would immediately pounce, invading via an assortment of bicycles, tanks, submarines, flying saucers and tuk-tuks, and school children will be singing Glory to Syonan-To once again.

TO THE BATMOBILE

Disclaimer: The author would like to stress that he read The Game for mere entertainment purposes, because there was no other reading material available. Dead-honest.

help i'm alive!

2009-05-03T18:15:00.003+08:00

Few people outside the SAF would understand the agony of having the delightfully enviable choice between getting eaten alive by primordial man-eating mosquitoes and the less-than-gentle burning of army-issue industrial insect repellant (recommended as a cheap and effective form of prisoner interrogation). Thankfully for myself, the Great and Wondrous Butlerman (trademarked), the experience was relatively short-lived... only a matter of 5 soul-sucking days in a desolate camp, where despite the sympathethic allowances of bringing a handphone - Starhub apparently doesn't service jungles (can't imagine why not! Think of the customer base... Surviving orang laut villagers and various supernatural ghosties of malay folklore).

Stranger still, is the fact I seem to be the sole member of the human race (or the last remaining son of the planet Butlertron, sent to Siglap, Earth to serve as its protector cum ill-equipped poster boy - whichever way you look at it) who can emerge from the heatwave equivalent of an SAF operations exercise looking as pale as Edward Cullen after skin bleaching.

Fastforward to today, 4 hours from needing to wake up to head to the godforsaken wastes of Kranji (and I thought Sembawang was bad - the gods make a mockery of my complaints), and as much as I would have liked to bemoan Butlerman's well-exposed social ineptness and history of failure around the opposite sex as encapsulated by a surreal saturday night in Zouk, I rather get some sleep.

TO THE BATMOBILE
and then to Kranji?

to sembawang, then infinity and beyond

2009-03-23T23:24:00.003+08:00

Butlerman has had little or no knowledge of what trespassed in the outside world since his introduction into the vomit and lettuce coloured fatigues of the Singapore Armed Forces. While this is nothing new, being force-fed cardboard chicken on a daily basis, and the occasional treat of muddish chocolate, amidst other SAF's worldy pleasures, does tend to alter one's view on the world and the trivialities of hygiene and maintaining a social life.

----

As much as I would like to divulge scandalous, gossip-y material on the varied colourful personalities of his dear company mates (many of whom seem to possess more than one), there are several logical reasons to prevent such a hasty decision from taking place. One being the fact that a generous proportion of them are actually bearable (moreso then some of the people I already know). Two would be the likely outcome of a less-than-pleasurable death-by-parang should one of the more... opinionated members of Mohawk Company stumble across this. Provided they have read this far without succumbing to a brain aneurysm. They too, provide lovely companionship, usually after they've tired of attempting to beat the phone numbers of my female relatives, friends and fans out of me.

Instead I ready myself for the 50-hour long journey through the centre of the Earth, past the uncharted realms of El Dorado, skirting around Timbuktu in the process (not necessarily in order - I've not touched Geography since O-levels), to reach Sembawang to engage in a ~~lifelong~~ 10-week journey of self-discovery and complex material management courses to achieve the lofty heights of becoming a 3rd Sergeant Quartermaster (one assumes that it takes another 30 odd weeks to complete the status of becoming a Master... Geddit geddit? Quartermaster..?). Ewan McGregor, played by Obi-Wan Kenobi who is of Trainspotting fame and the star of many pointless ozone-killing yet extremely cool and sexy motorcycle journeys across various incredible distances and Charley Boorman, famous for being the aforementioned Scotsman's motorcycling companion and otherwise pathetic unknown (it's true!), would be proud of the journey yet to be undertaken.

Until then, as I bemoan my miserably-failed attempts of securing a Singapore Press Holdings Scholarship (Damn you, I can write coherently and logically! Just read the above... Oh fuck), and request for various gifts and messages of condolensces from women worldwide, I need to pack my dirty great fieldpack.

TO THE BATMOBILE

lunar angst

2009-01-26T03:09:00.002+08:00

As the great Protector, symbol of courage and hope eternal for all residents of Siglap, Butlerman has officially declared Lunar New Year to be absolute shite.

Editors note: Yes yes, I know I have a tendency to criticize/whine about every holiday or festivity that comes about, but this is entirely justified. I swear.

The traditional financial incentives aside, there's honestly nothing much to look forward to during this forsaken period in time. In roughly 12 hours time, I'd be drinking some soda that might have been flat coke out of a cup that tastes of old people (not in the cannibalistic sense; I'm sure you know what I mean - its a mix between the hospital smell and clothes that have been kept in the cupboard for too long). Then I'd have stale bakkwa forced between my defiant clenched teeth by an old aunty, who despite suffering from the most severe cases of Parkinsons, Alzheimers and various organ failures, is surpisingly strong. Once weakened by the blatant attempts at food poisoning, she will proceed to interrogate me in multiple dialects and languages (in reality a dark and deadly spell that leeches away my youth and vitality for herself to prolong her cursed existence) about my school, how I did for my exams, how the IB system works, my height, and the true meaning of life, despite having told her most of the answers every year before that since I learned to talk.

Having completed my arduous task, and after demanding I perform a lapdance for her with two oranges (something like that, anyway) I'd be rewarded with 2 dollars.

That's not actually the worst part. For if by some miraculous twist of fate that I survive this entire ordeal, I'd still find myself waiting for all my friends to finish collecting their million dollar bounty for being young fresh-faced members of the Chinese race, and counting down the minutes before I get enlisted for National Service to learn how to defend my people.

As if, as Butlerman, I don't already...

TO THE BATMOBILE.

4.55am ramblings

2009-01-05T03:38:00.004+08:00

Slightly hungover, throat sore, eyes tearing in protest from unremoved contacts, Butlerman slouches in a surprisingly uncomfortable position in his spoilt computer chair... and waits.

He is, waiting of course, for one of three things to happen -

1) Sexy ladies to burst through his door in minimal clothing,
2) Some inspiration to conjure up a coherent piece of writing that a couple of people would enjoy reading (myself being one, in typical egoistical splendour) - this of course would be facilitated by various muses, hopefully in the form of sexy ladies bursting though the door in the above-mentioned attire, or more likely
3) His aching back and buttock region to dissolve into a soft painful putty-like blob.

Instead, he makes do with the company of Doom and Gloom, unwelcome yet not unexpected guests in the once-beloved superhero's secret hideout. Fresh from witnessing the sound thrashing of his favourite football team, and with the release of the likely catastrophic IBDP results around the corner, there are funerals with bundles of optimism more than the Butler household. And then theres the subsequent fortnight's wait for NS - because every Singaporean male wants to run around the jungle playing Soldiers.

Butlerman would also like to remind fans and friends in a friendly public service announcement that he would likely have to resort to keeping in touch with them via phone - in bid to maintain sanity and ward of encroaching homosexuality. Both of which could be easily addressed by sexy ladies bursting... If only MINDEF would take advice from superheroes.

As the late night becomes early morning, Butlerman stifles a yawn, and conducts a thorough inspection on his rippling muscles in the mirror, and as he readies himself to visit the nonsensical universe of his dreams, he would like to tell Doom and Gloom to go f*ck themselves. But he would probably get beaten up.

TO THE BATMOBILE.

midnight madness

2008-12-14T05:21:00.004+08:00

To the uninitiated, the spiced XXL Chicken from the Cathay's Taiwanese Shilin-or-something-like-that Street Snacks would sound somewhat tantalising. Only the well-experienced culinary veteran would steer well clear of this particular and innocent-looking death trap. Butlerman does not fall under the said category. The consequences are both painful and... painful. Indigestion is never a pretty sight. The ominous growl that follows an unwelcome meal usually heralds the sensation that the Wile E Coyote's decided to test out an Acme rocket that's wedged in your sphincter. Someway or another there is always a detestable old auntie with rotting teeth who always notices your obvious discomfort and cackles in glee as she observes the vultures slowly circle. You're forced into a stumbling gait, in attempt to maximise comfort and gastric stability whilst rushing for the safety of the closest toilet.

The true leading cause of indigestion

Your situation is of course usually worsened by the fact the toilet is in severe disrepair, or populated by man-eating cockroaches, or better yet, you're stuck on a crowded bus. Movement is not recommended, because you're hemmed in by a couple of cosplay gothic Ah Lians, fresh from a night out at Plaza Singapura (only attractive to serial perverts/Ah Bengs) - physical contact will undoubtedly transmit some form of fatal cosplay disease (symptoms include uncontrollable pouting and disproportionately enlarged eyes). In immense pain, and without an avenue of escape, you eventually explode, showering everyone with the remnants of a once-tasty meal and leaving an embarassing smell behind.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the unenviable life of Butlerman, as he steadily navigates his way through the seasonal festivities. It must be said, however, in the wake of the exams that being bored has never felt so good in my life. Since then I've been attempting to cultivate some form of facial hair to the mild amusement of both my parents and a couple of primary school kids in my block who like to giggle at the man-boy with pubic hair on his chin. I take small comfort in the fact, judging by careful observation of his gene pool and current appearances, he be forever condemned to having a fat face. So there. And I hope he gets acne.

This is Siglap's resident superhero Butlerman fighting crime (and boredom), and losing spectacularly.

TO THE BATMOBILE

carrot cakes and objects of less importance

2008-10-06T01:19:00.005+08:00

This is a story of a time long ago: a time of myth and legend. When the ancient gods were petty and cruel, and plagued mankind with suffering. Only one man dared to challenge their power: Butlerman! Butlerman possessed a strength the world had never seen, and strength surpassed only by the power of his heart. He journeyed the earth, battling the minions of something or another, such as the all-powerful queen of the gods. But wherever there was evil, wherever an innocent would suffer, there would be... Butlerman!

Adaptedly shamelessly from Kevin Sorbo's only memorable role of Hercules in "Hercules : The Legendary Journeys", once and always a favourite of Siglap's one true hero - myself.

It's been a while since Butlerman graced the pristine halls of the World Wide Web with his crimefighting presence... The masses would be pleased to witness my not-so-dramatic reentry to the world of literary garbage (happened so many times it's become rather embarassing, really.) Reasons aplenty for my disappearance, though it's mostly due to boredom and lethargy induced writer's block - I would like to shoulder the blame on studies but to be frank I haven't really hit the books that often (I'm fiercely opposed to study pugilism - I'm a study pacifist, as you will).

As I decided to sample the culinary delights of the Ngee Ann City (the Orchard Takashimaya to the intellectually challenged), the spectacle of watching my 3.50 carrot cake ("small, black and a bit spicy, my dear woman" were my exact instructions to the disinterested cashier. It sounded alot more appetizing then) being fried left a lot to be desired. I was always under the impression that the Union of Carrot Cake chefs only employed lean, wiry, tattooed survivors of the Japanese Occupation who boast a hearty Yan-can-cook-so-can-you smile. The Smurfette that was entrusted with the divine responsibility of satiating my hunger only proved that the Singapore's vast human resource is still unable to meet up to my high expectations.

Ngee Ann City's resident carrot-cake specialist
(granted, I haven't perfected the art of captioning with this blasted inflexible blogger mechanism)

Hailing from either one of the two possible destinations of the Smurfville or the Philippines (I'm not trying to be racist - she was quite obviously pinoy, albeit with a confusing disposition towards smurf caps and bordering around 4 foot tall), her background seemed to have a taming effect on her cooking. Other chefs tend to assault the poor cake strips with fifty foot-tall flames and wild rodeo shouts - she on the other hand fearfully massaged and stroked my carrot cakes (of the culinary variety I re-emphasis) as I watched on, close to tears out of pity for the carrots whose lives have been severely devalued by this woman's timidity. The resulting consequence of the debacle meant I was left with a plate of carrot cake strips tasting and looking like french fries prior to being deepfried. The upside of all of this is that I've been witness to the entire procedure of cooking carrot cake in psuedo slow-motion. I'm only just waiting for my induction into the earlier mentioned Union ofCarrot Cake chefs.

Until then, and seeing as I have nothing left of interest to write about and waste not-so-valuable internet space with, and my steadily drooping eyelids (out of tiredness, and not of any strange affliction), I bid thee Butlerfans (hence christened at a time immemorial)

TO THE BATMOBILE

public service announcement

2008-05-21T02:14:00.002+08:00

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

tender loving care

2008-05-07T00:50:00.000+08:00

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

close shave

2008-04-10T00:17:00.002+08:00

The notion that all superheroes ought to be well-equipped with gadgetry and wizzing technology has now well and truly been debunked. Attempting to shave using a clippers on a pair of Energizers (which despite their best efforts to advertise "Never say die" - were well and truly dead) was a total failure such is the state of the well-stocked boarding school inventory. No one in 8 rooms had a battery. It must be mentioned that being caught trying to scrape an electronic shaver against ones face when its operating out a slow motorised death is rather embarassing.

Thus signifies the end of anything unintellectual and self-depreciating that I would care to share.

TO THE BATMOBILE

taxi/stand

2008-03-31T23:30:00.006+08:00

It's official. In addition to a deadly array of martial art skills, the culinary expertise to match any award-winning chef that he possesses, and a masterclass sports act, Butlerman is now a fully fledge photographer.

Or not. Above demonstrates a feeble attempt of stylistic flamboyance that most first-time photographers rarely capture - I don't think I've broken the trend. Since then (midway last year) I've bumbled through taking some shots since with some ~~interesting~~ god-awful results. Hopefully within the year (it's a sad case when I'm not even sure I can complete anything by this year... to be elaborated upon somewhere someday) I should be able to retake some of the shots with hopefully more visually-appealing results. The shot above at Vivo's taxi stand just happens to appear pretty.

Speaking of taxi stands, Butlerman in recent efforts to "Go Green" has forsaken the traditional Batmobile in lieu of more environmentally friendly modes of transport. Captain Planet, who sports a similarly retarded haircut (had one today myself) and that same muscle-bound body, his fellow vigilante would approve. After submitting myself to an incredibly gruelling saturday of work and enforced entertainment, I indulged in a midnight screening of "The Bucket List" whilst doing my best to stay upright in one of Lido's sleazier cinemas (I've been on swings that were more stable). ~~Without any other option left open~~ Ine a magmanimous display of environmental awareness, Butlerman actually took a cab home.

Perhaps I'm used to lip-wobbling, face-peeling breakneck speeds that the Butler household enjoys driving their car at, but the pace at which Ong Kai _______ drove at provoked severe disbelief and irritation - I've seen people reverse faster into a parking lot. Despite bearing a startling and rather unfortunate resemblence to the supreme racer of Star Wars renown Sebulba, I was half-expecting to see a tow-truck pulling the taxi in the opposite direction, such was the manner the taxi was lurching along in. Every time we hit a corner (wildly enthusiastic figure of speech - at that speed we weren't going to hit anything), I was readying myself to drag myself out half spluttering drool from exhaustion and drowsiness to push the car along. Superhuman intuition or not, one is certain that this is probably not an isolated scenario.

Until he manages to start driving...
TO THE BATMOBILE

toilet break!

2008-03-03T22:27:00.004+08:00

It goes without being said that a blog post is long overdue, if only as a means of persuading everyone that Butlerman is once more at peace with the world. Relatively, that is. As a longtime pursuer of justice, "flabbergasted" would be the (lip-smackingly) appropriate word to describe myself when I found out that a certain high profile terrorist was on the loose in the mazey labyrinth of Singapore. Wentworth Miller's character in ~~Lost~~(EDIT - Butlerman is bad with popular culture) Prison Break would be kicking himself silly if he had thought of using the "toilet" ploy earlier. A bunch of average Singaporean students would have been able to prevent the Oompa Loompa lookalike from escaping, seeing as how we've been taking full advantage of our bladders since time imemorial to escape from classes.

Other significant events have occured in my life recently, but in the interest of self-preservation, amongst others, this superhero isn't going to air his dirty spandex laundry anytime soon.

(Yet another painful edit)TO THE BATMOBILE

!@#$

2008-02-13T21:54:00.003+08:00

The frustration of overdue homework unconsummated, unfulfilled, and about a million other things have culminated a bare few hours and minutes before officially the worst day in the modern calender. In short, Butlerman is a very very unsatisfied superhero.

In defence, I would like to claim that I've always condemned Valentines Day as utterly meaningless, since intellectual consciousness (which probably came not long after I vocalised my first swear word and realised it represents life in its entirety - deep!), yet that theory probably wouldn't hold a millilitre of water to any self-respecting psychoanalyst, as I proceed to howl my angst at the moon. In thoughtful consideration of everybody else, I shall explain somewhat thoroughly.

As consistent readers would have longed theorized, I tend to live my life in Gandhi-esque peacefulness and worldly acceptance, until times such as this when nobody is readily available to hear them out and the world wide web (and subsequently, you, poor reader) will became yet another victim to ~~Sweeney Todd's~~ my vengeance. And then in approximately 2o seconds, Mr. Hyde subsides and I leave the world in the peaceful state of religious/class/racial conflict and debauchery that it put itself in.

Despite proclaiming myself to be a romantic (a pessimistic one at best), and in the light of the omnimous shadow of the unstoppable juggernaut that lumbers tomorrow, even romanticism cannot stop me now. Leading intellectuals around the globe scratch their dandruff-ridden scalps, confounded as they struggle to understand me. For every reason why I would like to rant incessantly at ~~her~~ (even that seems too accusatory for my innocent sentiments) the opposite party of my past relationship, I can think of two more not to. For every reason why I would like someone to understand this, I can think of painful consequences of why not. Which basically sums up the incredible irony that accompanies the "privacy" of an online journal. Not that anyone who has a blog wouldn't understand. Admittedly, I've always had a certain amount of jealousy and accompanying disdain of anyone who would openly air dirty laundry.

Why whine - when you can beat around the bush and post from the poor tastefulness from the perspective of a lunatic cum superhero.

I shall afford myself, and yourselves this much information -> That I have ever much more to say that never goes said, if only because I feel it makes me a better superhuman to be a liar. In a mocking soul-search, is someone defined by his inner self, or the way he disguises them? I could go on, make references to religion & the Bible et cetera (and trust me I already have, but editions in the post mortem of this episode seemed overdue), and read Nietzschien theories and still not get the answer I suppose. Besides I have math to attend to.

Congratulations on getting this far. And sincerest apologies to anyone who took offence (I can think of a few), or was expecting another light-hearted whimsical flight of fancy of allusions to masked vigilantism.
TO THE BATMOBLE

for reasons unknown...

2008-01-30T22:52:00.000+08:00

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

different sides of a strange coin

2008-01-21T02:02:00.000+08:00

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

wildlife

2008-01-10T22:13:00.000+08:00

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

further clarification needed.

2008-01-09T20:56:00.001+08:00

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

butlerman strikes it rich with clarity!

2008-01-09T20:02:00.000+08:00

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 ~~hell-hole~~ boarding school hall (after all - who can withhold the magnificent maestro, the master escapist Butlerman!), he wishes to reiterate his now stable frame of mind after a horrendous beginning to the new year which would have seen any lesser being obliterated into a slime of self-pity.

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

2008, the year of has-beens

2008-01-07T17:38:00.000+08:00

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

relationship plagiarism

2008-01-06T22:44:00.000+08:00

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

the luck of the irish

2008-01-06T01:51:00.000+08:00

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

suitably (fucking) unhinged

2008-01-01T19:10:00.001+08:00

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

judgement day

2007-12-31T21:32:00.001+08:00

The dreaded countdown begins. As I begin this sentence, I now have 117 minutes and a bit of spare change to think of somewhere I can escape to, to celebrate the new year. Familial ties are disregarded in this superhero's sudden thirst for a comfort to be sought elsewhere.

Fittingly, amidst the death throes of my social life, I spent a good portion of my hours conscious today watching Terminator 3, an intellectually reducing movie where Arnold Schwarzenegger ~~pretends to be~~ ~~acts as a~~ shows everyone that he's a robot alongisde someone with a even lesser range of facial expressions than him (Kristanna Loken). I believe I speak for the majority of the male population that having your face melted repeatedly and being pounded on by various forms of weaponry, fictitious or otherwise, is but a small deterent for the opportunity to wrestle with Ms Loken.

Exclaimations and peals of laughter and excitement roll through my window despite my best efforts to drown them out with Dave Grohl's voice. A slight deviation off topic: I've just been replaying Foo Fighter's "The Pretender" and "Tranquilize" and the Abbey Road version of "Sam's Town", both of The Killers fame over the past 24 hours. It's not really the reknown batman theme, but hopskipping about in a 4 metre square radius setting the hearts of women worldwide aflame with my imaginary guitaring skills is something I take delight in. Until I reach a true real life rock god status (which is basically, never), I'm stuck in the reality that tonight is the one of the few nights I'll be sleeping in my own bed for awhile, instead sharing a room with 5 others in boarding school. A self-imposed exile, if you need further explanation.

One hour to go,
TO THE BATMOBILE

stockholm syndrome no.2

2007-12-28T02:14:00.000+08:00

I have finally succeeded in making a homemade pancake that well, looks like a pancake.
Another confident step in the direction of becoming the Ultimate Man™! Now, the other 1999 steps.

Does considering oneself's humanity before humankind consitute selfishness if it contributes?
Is madness a state of mind or a comparison to something insubstantial?
How does one sweeten a pancake?
Do I need to reprioritise my life?

Ask a strange question... get a strange answer.

3 posts in just about the same amount of days. Butlerman is back for good (if I got a dollar for everytime I said that...)!
Everybody screams and everybody shouts
"TO THE BATMOBILE"

weird

2007-12-27T03:34:00.000+08:00

Following the trend of short and uninteresting updates regarding my personal life, hopefully deviating away from that earlier stint of paddling in the baby-pool of emotional self-pity, I now have a sexy new t-shirt (in a shameless display of sucking up to the present-giver).

New year's resolution nowhere near the new year (well, relatively) -
1) Use the batphone more.
2) Mature beyond using ridiculous terms such as "batphone" to begin calling it what it actually is, an underused bit of technology that has about 6 million minutes of free talk time left in it (yes, my social life is hard to keep down).

Back to the baby-pool.

Strange how one spends a good hour or two in silent contemplation of fast fading hope before a sparked renewal that came with a change of scenery. Praying (it's serious when religious terms get involved) it's no false dawn but the heralding of a new era. Where there's a will, I have a plan.

Cryptic, and mildly inconsequential to any random stranger who stumbles across this.

TO THE BATMOBILE

stupidity

2007-12-25T16:08:00.000+08:00

Some questions shouldn't be asked. Curiosity killed the bat.

TO THE BATMOBILE

molesters and the enlightened.

2007-12-19T02:03:00.000+08:00

Maybe its a superhero thing or I could be sorely mistaken, but everytime I seem to take the bus I seem to be the victim of unfortunate circumstance. These are the inconsolable confessions of my encounter with a dirty molester of an auntie (a dirty mollusc of an auntie would be a stretch of an imagination, even for one such as mine).

Goes without being said that I now bear a "shoot on sight" policy with anyone above the age of 65 - barring my father who would unfortunately be gaining membership to that special group of people in a year or two... or could already be in it, though I'm going with his age being 63 until I find out (again). Extreme, but when a 70-or-so year old lady was rubbing her elbow over your thigh under the pretense of making a phonecall (call me paranoid but I didn't hear anyone answering on the other end of the line), you too would be plastering yourself against the bus window pane fruitlessly trying to mouth "SOS" through the glass at fellow motorists who were either 1) too oblivious or 2) avoiding eye contact after drawing the conclusion that I was just another bus-taking madman (plenty of those around). My efforts only managed to draw the attention of a gurgling baby in an adjoining Audi who seemed more preoccupied showing me the contents of his nostrils.

There's no one to save the savior.

Edit---The above actually occuring on the 16th such is the remarkable speed of which I blog

As of this moment I face the unbecoming task of something I never thought I'd be forced to do - eat my words. Stuck standing in the nether regions of the bus (as experienced personnel would tell you, the worse area) without a handrail to hold on to and left clinging onto several presents I had only just proudly purchased, I all but crushed the 5 unfortunate souls neighbouring me on their ill-fated 36 journey. Desperately trying to avoid attention by drowning myself in a game of handphone "Midnight Pool" (a pornographic sounding name for an otherwise innocent game involving 2 sticks, a few coloured balls and heavily tattooed mustachoid men), I proceeded to caress a poor auntie with my bum as the bus driver displayed driving and coordination skills most commonly associated with corpses. I believe she got off the next stop. Butlerman sorry. Butlerman try not to do it again.

P.s.---Here's a rheteorical question for you. How hard is it for me to buy 4 presents. It makes me empathise with the Grinch really. My male model calves have been juiced after pacing up and down Orchard Road for three hours. And I only completed half my requirements.

TO THE BATMOBILE

from the king of complacency, with much love

2007-12-03T02:16:00.000+08:00

One always wishes he could say for certain that there was a brief period in his rather brief existence that he wasn't crazy. This particular superhero empathises.

**Health Warning: Hefty ramblings ensue**

Having recently watched the rather satisfying "The Illusionist" on my comptuer's DVD player while dribbling rice over my keyboard, I'm keen on quoting what the incredibly eccentric-looking character of Edward Norton, Eisenhower, said regarding how time seems to be flexible and how we wish we could slow happier times and fastforward the doldrums of boredom. Problem is, I can't remember it (and at 2.25 am, a time where superhumans should be allowed to tire, I'm not really hard pressed to find out what it was despite the trashy probably-spyware ridden searchbar handily located on my browser window). In fact I seem to recall skipping significant chunks of said movie just to find out if its contains a happy, heart-titillating ending (which, without a care in the world whether you've watched it or not, it does).

What had initially begun as a promising holiday break with proposed columns to write and hell, even the plans for a flipping short story (which I hope to revive someday somehow somewhere) seems to have dissolved into a miasmi of laziness and a series of stumbling blocks. The one bright spark of my holidays (and fittingly, totally unrelated to anything literary) shall not be further elaborated upon due to the incredible sensitivity of the topic (myself holding true to The Third Law of Superhumans ~ Thou shall not air emotional laundry publically).

In fact, the recently passed Sunday, majestically titled "The Great Culinary Experience" was a day set aside for myself to explore my hidden culinary talent by whipping up hot tasty pancakes (the very attribute that defines the Ultimate Man™. According to womens magazines, I swear). It's safe to say that Butlerman, despite being the beloved hero of mankind and enlightened protector of Siglap, wouldn't be recieving the "die die must try" rating made famous by Makansutra anytime soon. Speaking of which, it has always seemed to me that that particular programme has made it seem as if every other stall in Singapore is helmed by the next gastronomical genius to be exalted upon by the Michelin Guide. To further elaborate upon my resounding failure... indugle yourself in a prolonged stare at the following photo, and remember to utter a heartfelt prayer before you sleep tonight that you shall never be on the recieving end of one of my pancake breakfasts.

If I'm allowed to defend myself, I blame the eggs (which have been left in my fridge for months - the Butler family being notorious of rather starving to death then actually cook themselves any food), and the fact I can't flip a pancake if my life depended on it (hence the Texas Chainsaw Massacre re-enactment).

If you've managed to read up to thus far (or experienced enough to skip the majority of my written garbage decorated with about half a million brackets), then a hearty congratulations is in due order, and the calm reassurance that you would not have to struggle through more of my rubbish for at least a month or so. Until then...

Keeping you safe by keeping himself locked up,
Butlerman and
TO THE BATMOBILE

of facts and fancies

2007-09-11T00:08:00.000+08:00

Much to all you readers' grave misfortune (and like the classic superheroes of old), this particular Butlerman just wouldn't lay down to die in peace. Instead, holding true to his traditional ang moh roots, he must kick up a fuss as if anyone bleeding cared.

Before we step any further into the misadventures of Butlerman's life (which I promise you would happen within the next one week or 52), let us take a painful look at several important truths we (or rather, I, the poor misguided alter-ego) would have to accept.

1) My once vaunted "creative thinking process" would struggle to match a Pentium 1 processor - a statement reinforced by my reliance on cheesy computer-geek jargon.
2) No one knows this blog exists anymore - a far cry from the ego-inflating, giddying heights of Butlerman's heyday where I had (God forbid) female fans.
3) You are only here reading at the behest of a poor disillusioned soul's final wish before he descends into a downward-spiralling miasma of a couch potato lifestyle.
4) The truth is out - I really have no six-pack to boast of, be it rock hard chiselled abdominal muscles or even illegally obtained beer.
5) Ronald McDonald remains a far greater choice as a significant other than I could hope to be (its just a matter of hoping that the people who matter don't find out).
6) I seem to be cursed with this Captain Planet hairstyle that no amount of hair wax/clay/gel/cement nor visits to the stylist can correct - resulting in my barely succeeding attempts to restrain myself from stabbing that stupid stylist with his own scissors for his incompetency.

And yes, lest we forget, this is Siglap/Marine Parade District's very own superhuman vigilante, Butlerman speaking from the comfort of his base of operations.

three cheers
TO THE BATMOBILE

the last butlerman

2007-04-15T22:33:00.000+08:00

Making the largely-regrettable decision to turn on the TV for a 'few moments' (it never turns out that way, does it), Butlerman soon got obsessed with the ways of Bushido after spending the last 2 hours of his life scrutinizing every detail of The Last Samurai (punctuated by whines over Tom Cruises' impeccable eyebrows and detracting comments made a couple of years ago about Koyuki is only hot after you've been through a consummate sake binge- admittingly she is quite attractive in a certain manner even without the influence of alcohol) on his TV from 5 inches away.

It is with great regret that the authors/editors of this blog (all six of the different personaes of this highly disturbed schizophrenic individual) inform that Butlerman wishes to discard the imagination-stimulating formfitting spandex of the Butlerman costume to put on a kimono and wave a variety of objects such as a fan and/or katana in a vaguely androgynous fashion.

Wait a mo... that sounds disturbingly familiar.
Cue hauntingly beautiful Hans Zimmer music from the Last Samurai soundtrack-

Hopefully this time around, he'll end up looking slightly more masculine, befitting of his self-proclaimed alpha-male dominance of the extensive (so he claims) area that is Siglap.

TO THE BATMOBILE

the professional at procrastination

2007-04-10T22:42:00.000+08:00

To the BATMOBILE lives again! Wheezing grunts punctuated by exaggerated spurting releases of steam accompany the slow but steady revival of the much loved (hopefully) engine that drives this heaping pile of garbage that is literature in its crudest form. And because this blogging thought process pains me as much as it pains you to read my dribble, a hearty "Go stuff yourself!" is in order.

Go stuff yourself! Ah, the gratuitious use of vulgarities has always been the Butlerman lifestyle.

As usual Butlerman is in no proper frame of mind to write a coherent blog post (judging by how he refers to himself from a third person perspective), this being the culminated effect of an unfortunate accident involving the leakage of strawberry flavoured protein powder into my bag, resulting in me inhaling noxiously-sweet strawberry flakes for half the day (think shisha but protein-y?), as well as the undesirable pressure of finishing a commentary of a Sylvia Plath (someone who makes less sense in writing than I do) poem by tonight.

Perhaps the only reason why this post has come about would be because of Butlerman's concern that people believe he's 1) dead (superheroes don't die! for long), 2) boring (no comment) or in the worst case scenario... 3) not a superhero no more (in which case is blasphemy and warrants another "Go stuff yourself!" and perhaps physical assault).

And for lack of better subject matter to blog about, and an increasing lack of time available for a that Plath poem entitled "Tulips" -

Butlerman says goodbye,
Butlerman also promises to blog more often-
while refraining from speaking in third person,

TO THE BATMOBILE

sentosa is a bitch (you know, beach?)

2007-02-25T01:01:00.000+08:00

Butlerman goes to the beach, sans his usual superhero outfit, sporting instead a washed-blue PE tanktop on yet another of those questionably-awarded but dully celebrated AC holidays. He tries to emulate Ronaldinho/Robinho/Ronaldo/Rivaldo/any normal Brazilian in a flashy display of beach football, but ends up kicking sand into his face... Attempts to swim but has an overdose of seasalt for his trouble, served up with a couple million calf cramps. Ends up suffering from third degree burns on his head and shoulders region (complete with embarrasing singlet tan lines) and looking like the lobster display at your local Fish&Co. There has to be a moral in this story.

~~Always bring sun-block to the beach~~ Never leave my house ever again. (I type this out most vehemently as my father chances past my bedroom door and makes another passing remark over my resemblance to the red power ranger)

TO THE BATMOBILE

lessons learnt.

2007-02-15T20:58:00.000+08:00

Butlerman's lessons learnt no.1: Leaving water heater on for 2 hours makes for interesting bathing experience.

Yes, yes... Butlerman has been a lazy boy. Butlerman no want write long long.

TO THE BATMOBILE

bouts of insanity

2007-02-12T23:06:00.000+08:00

I'm quite certain, as a sleep-deprived, eyebag-cursed, homework-overloaded superhero, I could be achieving a far lot more then I am at this present moment by spewing my (lack of) insightful views over the world wide web. Instead, my imagination has been captivated by what was a meaningless forage into the junkyard of cyberspace that is Friendster where I've stumbled across the existence of a few more beauties from SCGS, where I was left astounded in the manner of someone who has heard of the word "female" but never ever seen one.

However, with more pressing issues to attend to, such as the realisation that via the increasingly faster and inevitable process called "hair-growth", my once bald head has now begun to resemble a potato (a hairy and obscene potato to boot). Desperately seeking means of which to cut my hair which doesn't involve me paying the Chinese New Year surcharge to a barber, I'm quite open to anybody offering himself/herself up for the task of trimming my sides (hair-wise) such that I resemble something more humanlike as less like a mutant tuber. This is actually (quite disturbingly so) correlated to Valentines day (as all potato-related issues always are to the occasion where pledges of love and romance are made... or are they?) because for the 17th time in all 17 years of my life have I found myself unable to be bothered to ask anyone (male or female) out - possibly ~~due to a deep innate fear of rejection~~ because I am Butlerman, end of story.

With stress threatening to tear my brain apart in a not-too-tidy fashion, I shall gently retire to the comfort of my bed and its tasteless bed sheets to meditate over the possible solutions after I've checked my room and pockets thoroughly in case there was an available Valentine there - one never knows his luck...

TO THE BATMOBILE

several startling 'stonishing stuff

2007-02-05T21:20:00.000+08:00

Due to the overwhelming response calling for my return to post (I had to activate my firewall to prevent the sarcasm from corrupting my computer - expended my repetoire of jokes to include internet jargon!), I decided once more to re-enter the world of cyberspace as the once famed Butlerman - striding forth in spanking black spandex and cliche yellow plageurised bat motif. Cue fanfare of trumpets and sprinkling forth of confetti!

Unfortunately, sporting a bicep muscle that flops a bit too much more then it should flex after a gruelling 2 hour gym session, a brain devoid of any imagination nor vocabulary to work around with (I've just stumbled across the blogs of some of my friends and have had my ego duly punctured inclusive of unflattering balloon-emptying flabbering sound), a fourth finger giving it's best impression of a purple sausage ever since dear Captain (of the rugby team I partake in) trodded on it, and a distinct lack of social life (possibly the most repeated phrase throughout this blog's entire existence - for good reason) ever since school has begun, I've decided to take the shortcut out and give a handy, dandy and hopefully somewhat interesting list of the little factual nibblet's I've stumbled across in my daily Butlerman routine.

1- Constructing a chemistry practical report is alot less exciting then its name entails (and even then its name doesn't really promise much does it...)
2- Wearing an oversized school shirt (Butlerman's desperation to conform to the ACS expectation is painfully evident) creates an interesting 'drag' effect when sprinting after that damned 196 that never bothers to standardise its arrival time every morning (the Batmobile isn't used to mundane, trivial tasks such as attending school - 'tis only education...)
3- The girls who pursue education within the hallowed and ill-constructed (think less hallowed and more hollowed) walls of ACSIB seem to have no perceivable vice. Inhumane, sick and twisted - they even stare at me whenever I swear as if I've said something wrong (honestly).
4- I do actually attempt to refrain from coarse language. (Countless readers smirking behind the safety of their computer screens...)

And once more, to cap off a very unproductive blogging spree in the most unconceivably random and anticlimatic of ways by just...

TO THE BATMOBILE.
Like that.

muuuuuuuuuse.

2007-01-17T21:30:00.000+08:00

Nearly a full day has passed since the Muse concert ended but the withdrawal symptoms are still obvious. Constant trembling, breaking out into cold sweat, foaming at the mouth and the unhealthy tendency to break out into my very own disastrous cover of "Stockholm Syndrome" complete with guitar riffs crudely constructed with my mouth (a la "waomaowaomaoniwniwniw"). One can't help oneself though. They were after all, awesome.

With bodies flying everywhere as people attempted (poorly) at bodysurfing and sweaty men heaving their bodies in my direction (rarely an enjoyable experience), it would've appeared to be a grotesque version of Cirque de Solei had the ever efferverscent Muse not been performing. To say it was worth the $90-something ticket price, having my feet flattened by a literally - bouncing - 120kg man, my white-ish Puma Suede's blackened beyond recognition, having my face kicked in by the flying foot of a screaming (from adrenaline and partly due to the fact myself and other nearby frustrated fans sporting footprints on our faces had unceremoniously dumped him on the floor) lunatic, totting around an umbrella (something I thought was an incredibly sensible thing to do, judging by the weather as of late but was soon labelled a poof) and teenage girls rubbing their sweaty bodies on me (something I could get used to, to be honest), would be the understatement of the year.

While I would just as much like to go through the minute by minute synopsis of the proceedings of the concert and the songlist, but having just spent four hours after school been immersed in my school's drama club culture on my inaugural day at the 'Independent Stage', and more or less exhausted the amount of bracketted comments I'm entitled to (even for a personal, unofficial piece of internet blog garbage), I'll slowly retire myself to bed where I'll weep myself gently to sleep, pining out loud for the comfort of... Muse.

TO THE BATMOBILE!

more ravings...

2007-01-03T00:18:00.000+08:00

With barely 5 hours to I have to awake for my inaugural day into IB (fast becoming alot less appealing than it was 4 months ago - to be touched on later), and my pulse still racing (for no reason whatsoever other than the fact my sleep cycle has been severely messed around with), things are starting to look grim particularly for my mother who has the arduous and unenviable task of waking me in the morning. Nevermind sleeping pills, I'm starting to suspect tranquilizers are needed to put me to sleep...

(Not so brief interlude as I enjoy my spicy sardine toast sandwich and a slice of Lo-Fat Cheesedale, and after being assigned to print about a million pdf files in the ever-dreaded double-sided page format format, I return at 1.34am, feeling sufficiently tired and having about 4 hours of blissful sleep before I'm to be awaken)

While I'm still busy strugging to find the right words for the emotions I'm feeling for my orientations (us Superheroes naturally come across as aloof, being all homo-superior and all, and the maintaining-a-secret-identity bit doesn't make us the best companions for ice-breaking activities.), I'm starting to wonder of IB was really the right choice at all in comparison to the lure of RJC or god-forbid ACJC... All is not well within the vast (and often underused) mind of Butlerman...

If there is any consolation, the miniscule amount of females present in my batch of IB year 1's would contain a ravishing beauty who would fall for my roguish charms (which admittedly have yet to manifest) - the odds aren't great, but I'm willing to use any expense of hair wax and cologne to achieve this. Though a body suit and plastic surgery may come in handy...

TO THE BATMOBILE

that inevitable post

2006-12-08T02:16:00.000+08:00

Sitting plum in a chair, nursing a painfully and rib-baringly empty stomach, balancing a head of hair thats rivals the Amazon in terms of thickness (exotic wildlife notwithstanding) and clad in a pair of boxers whose elastic has long since been worn away (I usually like to vary the details abit but I believe the imagery used is suitably graphic), I begin to contemplate Blogging in every aspect.

As disillusioned followers of the Butlerman faith begin to question my recent lack of superhumanly activities and feats of heroism that I've longed been associated with that I've therefore been unable to blog about (such as... taking an eventful public transport journey), and female fans around the world constantly pine for my affection and dream of me gracing their beds (this I am certain of), I have returned when Butlerfan's (a catchy term, no?) hopes are at the lowest and the world is in its darkest hour to a resounding, uplifting John Williams (of Star Wars composition fame) chorus of "TO THE BATMOBILE" before dying down to mere quibbling decibel as my stomach finally gives into temptation and I take a break from blogging this post to forage into the 3am darkness to consume 2 slices of Kraft Cheese and a frozen Snickers.

Admittedly, consistency in terms of posting (and in hindsight, quality) may not be my strongest points when it comes to blogging - a list of my failings which includes grammatical errors abound, lack of proper punctuation and a seemingly-vast vocabulary which in actuality is rather repetitive (and having a disastrously poor sense of humour with ill disguised inuendos which leave me none-the-closer to achieving my dream status as God of Sex). However the desire to impress everything undesirable about me onto readers such as yourselves still resides strongly within the superhuman being known as Butlerman...

As my ramblings draw to a close, and the novelty of arranging my hair into strange arresting new ~~forest structures~~ hairstyles begins to wear out, coupled with the realisaton that my bubonic-like complexion of my forehead will not improve with consistent late nights - I must bid thee faithful Butlerfans (the term never gets old) goodnight and a hearty...

TO THE BATMOBILE

shaken or stirred?

2006-11-19T01:50:00.000+08:00

It's been at least a few days and I'm still feeling the high of watching Casino Royale. I'm starting to begin wondering if being a superhero really matches up to the high-flying Eva-Green-seducing benefits a 00-agent receives. The fact that I'm replaying the scene of Daniel Craig, clad merely in his trunks, emerging gracefully from the ocean after a swim in the timeless shampoo advertisements over and over again in my head has the makings of idol-worship. (If that doesn't push any guy over the edge to homosexuality I don't know what would - much to the dismay of homosexuals/fans of the Village People, I'm still straight)

I felt compelled to blog as of 2.20am despite the fact my eyebags are tickling the chest because well, my O levels are finally over and theres no more excuses I can give where my frustratingly irregular blogging is concerned. That and the fact I swear Mr. Craig's cheese-grater abdominal muscles visited me in my dreams last night and spoketh unto me, "Go forth Butlerman, and speaketh of my magnificence to the world", in the way that only his abs can say. Honest.

With the conclusion of the torturous O levels, I once more find myself with too much time and too little money - the surefire route towards insanity. While it is tempting for me to purchase a large pot of industrial glue, a few tins of corn beef and/or illicit magazines, and live out the remainder of my holidays in a fumigated stupor, indulging in the mindless debauchery of eating processed food and possibly flipping through a Victoria Secrets catalogue (the name of Butlerman is tarnished enough) to pass the time, I fear my financial difficulties have led me to consider salting french fries and sifting them into quaint little McDonald packets (it looks fun - and I'm being serious) to earn a little pocket money.

That I can worry about later on today, possibly after having yet another conversion with Mr. Craig's anatomy, as I'm dying for sleep. My brain hurts.

I'm man, Butlerman.
TO THE BATMOBILE

birthday treats

2006-11-08T19:41:00.000+08:00

So I found myself, sixteen years from the moment I emerged from my mothers womb flushed red and possibly screaming Gleneagles down (well my memory doesn't extend that far back though let's face it, nothing much has changed), enjoying the sensation of my birthday Taro Turnover burning my tongue off alone on the upper level of Holland Village's Burger King while pouring over my Biology Ten Year Series.

Someway through illlustrating the diagram for the carbon cycle and mumbling the birthday song to myself (cutting quite an emotional figure - it was alot more joyous than that I assure you; as joyous as studying Biology can get) a little irritant decided to flaunt his Vatican Boy Choir vocals and shatter a few window panes - possibly because he didn't particularly enjoy the Lemon Barley-Coca Cola-Sprite mix they serve up at the joint but it was inexcusable. Somehow one thing led to another and in an inexplicable turn of events, the remaining half of my Taro Turnover (which I was beginning to enjoy, having developed a certain resistance to its temperature after the nerves in my mouth had been scalded off) was found decorating page (3.3) 13 of my Biology TYS.

All was not lost however... I only had to wait till nobody was looking till I finished it.

(An anticlimatical ending I'm afraid, if there is even such a word. With death via Biology and Geography papers imminent tomorrow, even Superheroes need the odd bit of studying here and there... And a big thank you to all the well-wishers)

TO THE BATMOBILE

the worth of 'funny'

2006-10-25T19:01:00.000+08:00

Someone once told me I was (or hopefully, still am) 'funny'. Okay, quite a few people did say that, at various points in time, most of whom changed their mind as I belted out "Michael Learns to Rock - Someday" (or some other ballady classic) for the 50th consecutive time, and settled on classifying me as 'criminally insane'.

Not wanting to be overly modest about all my groundbreaking achievements (I've fumbled a couple of bowling balls in my lifetime - haha.) I must admit I used to have some killer 'knock-knock' jokes at my disposal, and my puns are quite capable of dealing out some heavy pun-ishment (keep reading, I implore you, the bad jokes will only last for a couple or more paragraphs, such is the consequence of being forced to blog against my limited imagination). Admittedly I would rather be complimented as being photogenic, this coming after my sister uploaded a photo she and I were supposed to have taken the night of her departure/fleeing to England - instead I found a cartoon character, mockingly dressed in the very same attire I was in that very night, by the name of Mr Tomatoface.

To utterly convince any skeptic of my powers in the field of Humour, I have spontaneously thought of a joke (a "blonde" joke at that) to embarass anyone foolish enough to claim to know me.
"What excuse does a blonde give when she forgets something?
I'm sorry, but my mammaries fail me"
Not my best effort, but with a little tweaking here and there, it has the potential to became one of the very greats. This of course, coming from someone who believes anyone culpable of cracking a "blonde" joke is in dire need of lynching (myself included). This joke, culminating as a result of an unfortunate conversation with a friend regarding the wonders of the word "breast". Should you decide to care about the basis of the discussion (you know you want to), it was an unanimous decision that the tongue rolls around it in a strangely affectionate manner (the word, you pervent... I liken it to be as enjoyable as pronouncing "pomp" or "Bob" or... "bump". Honest. You just can't get enough).

Deviating away from dubious blogging material to something abit more wholesome, I have decided that in order to supplement my increasing prowess at swimming, I have also begun to partake in yet another activity that would put my sexuality in question. Skipping. After watching Rocky, with themes of masculinity and sweaty men pummeling each other to pulp appealing strongly to my sense, I had decided that skipping (a proven method of improving a boxer's footwork or so I'm told, or perhaps to relieve a pent-up effeminate demeanor) would be a perfect compliment to my intensive ~~drowning~~ swimming regime thus becoming the ultimate fighter in the entire Universe, conquering crime and intergalactic threats all the while mantaining the perfect physique and being able to doggypaddle 50m without getting a cramp.

As my clock's arm draws closer to indicating 2am, the startling realisation that I haven't showered hits me (verily explaining the strangely agreeable sweet and sour scent of my body odour slowly permeating the room), as well as the continued pangs of muscle ache deep in my pectorals after a hard session in the gym yesterday reminding me to get some sleep soon before they tear themselves loose in rebellion (a sight to behold I'm certain - rebelling breasts! Sounds like something Pamela Anderson endures everyday).

Mmm. Breasts. (joking...)

TO THE BATMOBILE

watch this space

2006-10-23T17:25:00.000+08:00

Will update soon. Dead honest.

Meanwhile, if you would just stare hard at this space for all of 5 minutes, you're almost guaranteed to see sparkles. Honestly (possibly even more than before).

For a superhero, my work ethics are nonexistent.

TO THE BATMOBILE

sex sells.

2006-10-16T01:09:00.000+08:00

If you have pondered, as any faithful and true Butlerfan would have, on my lack of updating as of late, know that your once infallible hero has now run out of anything to talk about. It's almost as if somebody has set fire to my Rainforests of Creativity and now a haze of... Cloudiness... clouds (well quite obviously so) my mind. Or something like that anyway. Political/Current Affair humour isn't my forte to be honest.

Typical as it is, that I follow up on one of my best posts (in my ~~very~~ fairly modest opinion) 2 weeks later with a piece of literary rubbish, composed in a state of sleep-induced stupor, dressed inadequately dressed in a pair of Quiksilver boxes who's elastic has experienced one too many washes as my room's temperature begins to dip below the -45 degrees Celsius mark.

For lack of anything meaningful to ramble on about, I shall begin to recount an extremely steamy and particularly enjoyable dream I had several days ago. Save me your looks of disgust and/or embarassmen - I admit that I'm just as easily excitable as the average hormone-laden teenager (superhero notwithstanding). Perhaps more so but we shan't dabble with little details... Whatever the case is, this dream had scenes that would make Paris Hilton blush. My point being (if there is one at all), is not at all related to the promiscuous nature of the dream, but rather the realism the dream had, right from the very beginning where we exchange shy looks to the rough tear-the-walls-down passionate loving that bears striking resemblance to "Mr and Mrs Smith".

The depth of sorrow and self-pity, and the general feeling of screaming a la Tarzan and pulling my nipples off, threatened to rock the foundations of my pyschological wellbeing (to any concerned beings - I emerged somewhat unscathed, details of painfully swollen nipples conveniently omitted).

I must once again remind anyone and everyone that this woman is fictitious much to my great despair (the idea of that happening in real life is presposterous, almost as bad as someone masquerading as a superhero). Now if only I could remember what her face looked like (or if she even had one; joking - a disturbing thought).

TO THE BATMOBILE

you can drag a horse to water...

2006-09-26T22:11:00.000+08:00

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

times of troubles

2006-09-17T22:56:00.000+08:00

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

many great things...

2006-09-07T01:26:00.000+08:00

"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

"oh gee, what is it tonight?"

2006-09-03T23:12:00.000+08:00

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

secret identities revealed!

2006-08-24T23:03:00.000+08:00

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

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

2006-08-16T23:47:00.000+08:00

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

b is for...

2006-07-30T23:02:00.000+08:00

Celebrating (cue Tchaichovsky's 1812 Overture o.p. 49) my 102nd post! A milestone achievement, albeit 2 posts late but it's better late then never.

I feel strong, I feel fit, I feel inspired! For many reasons, none of which actually ties in with my 102nd post anniversary, but rather for the fact that I have finally watched V for Vendetta. What a hero! What a movie! And with the final scene of the British Parliament going up in an almighty explosion still flashing before my eyes, I can do nothing to prevent myself from leaping to my feet, and proclaiming "V, le moi saviouer" (which in French, means bugger all, but I meant to say "V, you are my hero"). There's only so much separating me from putting on a mask, and bombing our own Parliament House, that being the fact I can't get hold of any explosives.

(As my adrenaline dies down after 24 hours of delusions of grandeur and seeing myself quoting Shakespeare and melting the hearts of 16 year old males with tendencies to believe that they are the next Batman, I beg you to ignore all of the above regarding anarchy against the State of Singapore, particularly if you are in the employ of the PAP. Of which it is then questionable to why you're reading my blog - you bored little man you)

I was just kidding of course - regarding the adrenaline dying down. This post shall forever be virtually pumped full of ill-disguised allusions to one of my most favouritest movie of them all (most inspiring of all film's I've watched in fact. No prizes for guessing what costume I would be wearing come Halloween should I see the need to masquerade in front of aunties demanding sweets and getting smacked).

As ~~they~~ I ~~always~~ now say, if V is for Vendetta, B is for Better (the most original thing to appear in this post - inexplicably the lamest. V, forgive me...)

"Beneath this mask there is more than flesh. Beneath this mask there is an idea, Mr. Creedy, and ideas are bulletproof" - V
TO THE BATMOBILE

watch this space

2006-07-22T00:54:00.000+08:00

This post has been a long time coming, with elaborate mindmaps, detailed plans and drafts drawn out that would make Stephen Hawking confused (if he managed to get past the barrier that is my handwriting). And so it is with no great surprise that final product has once again failed to meet my supremely-high expectations (the day I do, I shall die happy, in one final stand against the forces of bad-writing, complete with a piece by the London Oratory Group rising to a full-throated let's-give-those-orcs-a-whooping-Aragorn! crescendo, before dying down the thunderous crowd appreciation and hopefully having lingerie and roses thrown at my feet where all who know me would rise to their feet and proclaim out loud with tears in their eyes "Ladies and Gentlemen, that is my Butlerman!").

And so the actual post begins - with no proper subject matter in mind, and no witty joke thought up beforehand to weave my post about, with no intention other than to scavenge that one reader before he/she/it (I have not yet determined the gender) thinks my blog is defunct.

Butlerman has recently joined an exclusive group of people in this lovely microwave of a country (spandex-melting temperatures as of late. I can vouch for that), being one of the few people who've turned down an early place in RJC. White pants never really appealed to me anyway, not with all the stains that would have resulted from my - besides it wouldn't have matched the car. (Editors note: This doesn't truly reflect the reality of the situation, as I actually did apply for RJ in the first place, unlike the Super-Alpha-Male of my captain who was virtually being courted by every institution with their sights on the A Division Trophy)

The reasons are complicated, I can assure you all (and as a ineffectual method of deflecting all accusations of travesty and being labelled "Judas" by the ACS old boys, provided they stumble across this), but unless I manage to flunk all of my subjects (which now that I've said it, is the probable outcome) I shall be doomed to wear the ugliest tie on earth.

All in all, a much better fate than the one awaiting me at RJC anyway. I was already treated to a preview where on the day of my interview, as my close friend and I were busy navigating the labyrinth-like corridors of Hell itself (in the eyes of an ACS boy anyway), all the while we were being subjected to the scrutiny of various half-wits in pristine white buttock-clenching tights walking slowly around us, deliberating as if he was a sheikh deciding whether to purchase a prize mule, occasionally pausing in puzzlement when we opened our mouths and made use of our power of speech, as if it was some freak occurrence that a non-Rafflesian was capable of such intellect.

As this post draws to a close, I shall enlighten all still breathing with a re-discovered favourite of mine...

For the Longest Time - Billy Joel

Oh, oh, oh
For the longest time
Oh, oh, oh
For the longest time
If you said goodbye to me tonight
There would still be music left to write
What else could I do
I'm so inspired by you
That hasn't happened for the longest time

Once I thought my innocence was gone
Now I know that happiness goes on
That's where you found me
When you put your arms around me
I haven't been there for the longest time

Oh, oh, oh
For the longest time
Oh, oh, oh
For the longest
I'm that voice you're hearing in the hall
And the greatest miracle of all
Is how I need you
And how you needed me too
That hasn't happened for the longest time

Maybe this won't last very long
But you feel so right
And I could be wrong
Maybe I've been hoping too hard
But I've gone this far
And it's more than I hoped for

Who knows how much further we'll go on
Maybe I'll be sorry when you're gone
I'll take my chances
I forgot how nice romance is
I haven't been there for the longest time

I had second thoughts at the start
I said to myself
Hold on to your heart
Now I know the woman that you are
You're wonderful so far
And it's more than I hoped for

I don't care what consequence it brings
I have been a fool for lesser things
I want you so bad
I think you ought to know that
I intend to hold you for the longest time

TO THE BATMOBILE

a day to be made

2006-07-09T23:36:00.001+08:00

It's been a traumatic day, to say the least. So traumatic I've decided to put the foot down, damn those drafts that have kept my blogging at bay for about 2 weeks (I can't remember when's the last time I've blogged anyway), and go all out in a mass blogging bonanza, all guts and glory, keyboard a-blazing in frenzied typing.

(Editors note: It was about this time Butlerman took a well deserved 2 hours worth of "Pirates of the Carribean" after 60 seconds of no-holds-barred hardcore non-stop blogging. Arghhh matey.) So I'm back again, and I shall endeavour to finish this post before anyone gets the idea I've passed on from this world (I've disappeared for so long it seems like a reasonable hypothesis), and heaven forbid, would stop reading my blog - yes, all two of you.

Today has been an absolute shocker. Right down to it's cursed, bleeding core. While there was some justice in Portugal getting absolutely hammered by Germany in the World Cup, everything else has been downright terrible. To say why, would actually violate a series of guidelines I had set down to govern my writing on this blog to prevent myself from being murdered in a cover-up operation by the Government.

Forcing myself to wake up at 11 in the morning (toeing the line of insanity! I know) with my fingers smelling of garlic after an evening of panfrying my fish in cummin seed (the cummin seed never really aroused me - what wit), basil, parsely, onions, garlic and lemon juice (such was the ample amount of herbs and spices available in Singapore. My attempts at replicating Jamie Oliver has once again sunk to an all-time low... In hindsight, the dish wasn't that bad though I'll stick to red meat), I was hoping that I would have the opportunity to venture forth into town with the intention of catching a movie, preferrably "Superman Returns" (I was quite willing to give it a shot despite a shaming review from my friend - he was quite willing to shoot it. another display of classy humour, people you are witnessing a genius at work).

The world conveniently managed to forget me, well, all but one female representative from some strange company willing to offer students like me a job in their Human Resource Department (which brings to mind an underground lair of similarly aged people being chained to treadmills to power the building's electricity) with ample time set aside for study. This of course, coming after I decided to take a short cut through a dodgy-looking alleyway in town (whilst shopping for my sister's birthday present - a delicate and incredibly frustrating task) where it seemed quite likely a wild man with dreadlocks would jump out and drag me off wriggling into the darkness, but instead got molested by a surveyor asking me if I would like a job.

Admittedly, I was being a bit of a numbed nut by relaying my handphone number to him (or did I? I can't seem to vividly recall doing that, which of course would be extremely disturbing if they did source out my number).

A desperate plea to the ladies and gentlemen who have insofar managed to reach this little segment at the bottom of a forgettable post: Go ahead, make my day (thus explaining the choice of my blog title, so poorly constructed in terms of grammatical structure)...

TO THE BATMOBILE

3a.m. watch

2006-07-03T01:56:00.000+08:00

While the news of England losing to Portugal 3-1 at penalty shootouts may not come as a great shock since everybody but Englishmen themselves believe the English are rubbish at footie (this applies in general to the British and their sports), it's still depressing enough to warrant a blog post. Or. rather, the foremost important and therefore introduction to one.

Now I've really lost reader interest.

Having made up my mind prematurely to not comment yet another time on LTA or Singapore's public transport commuters (keep your cramped little seats you devils!), which would usually leave me bereft of anything to talk about, it's 2.42 in the morning and I've just watched Night Watch, and I've suddenly been struck by a strange (and very probably untrue) notion that someone out there would give a couple of hamster droppings and a piece of string to know what my views of it are.

If the New Paper is anything to go by (it usually isn't, unless you want to read ads on end about handphones or cyber sex) Night Watch to my memory had recieved good reviews. And so it was with great anticipation that I rushed to Video EZ to borrow it to watch in my early morning eyebaggy bloodshot-inducing pleasure. That and the fact it was Russian made me believe that there would be tall slim darkhaired nymphomaniac beauties named Ivona and Tartala making out midfilm.

It turned out to be something about Igor Ytchevialonkskolopic (it's all a bit hazy now - the movie finished all of twenty minutes ago) using torchlights to beat up vampires. The sight of the evil boss of the Dark Side (strangely named Day Watch - things don't work the same way in Russia apparently) pulls his spine, conveniently metal, out to use as a sword, forced me to take immediate eye-cleansing action in the form of illicit magazines (just joking. Seriously).

Overall I was rather disappointed as there was no development between his vampire neighbour and the protaganist, and the dismal lack of special effects and spectacular fight scenes between superpowered characters (stuff which gets the blood pumping). To top it off, Ivona and Tartala never made an appearance. I'll just have to make do with imaginative dreams as I drift gently to sleep.

TO THE BATMOBILE

of sleep and cookies

2006-06-20T14:53:00.000+08:00

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

when superhumans collide

2006-06-17T01:00:00.000+08:00

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

of butterflies and omens

2006-06-08T00:24:00.000+08:00

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

study was never this painful

2006-06-05T14:47:00.000+08:00

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

parental advisory : may cause death

2006-05-26T00:02:00.000+08:00

People around the world would tell you that Butlerman is afraid of no supernatural power. After all, everyone else should be afraid of the powers of Butlerman himself.

People who know Butlerman that little bit more would tell you Butlerman screams worse than a little girl when watching any scary movie, from Saw 2 to Barney the (Evil Vengeance-Seeking Blood-Hungering) Dinosaur.

Butlerman himself would tell you that he was stranded, alone, and afraid at Queensway Shopping Centre for two consecutive days (Friday: To purchase Puma Clydes and Saturday: To pass the time while waiting for the rest of the rugby team to appear for the supposed "Rugby" BBQ party at Normanton Park to take place), due to untimely thunderstorms. I was never on good terms with the various deities placed in charge of "Luck" in their respective pantheons of religions.

After surviving a painful and thoroughly distressing soaking (with my bloodcurling cries of pain shaking the likes of Hannibal Lector himself), and having made my way to Normanton Park after spending an hour at Queensway due to the marvelous time-adhereing abilities of the ACS(I) Rugby Team, I decided to proceed to the nearest toilet to relieve myself (akin to releasing a dammed Niagara Falls)/reapply my mascara.

What caught my eye was this poor, seemingly homeless old citizen (he had his toiletries with him) giving himself a shave in the toilet. Deciding this activity of self-grooming was nothing odd, as I myself was no stranger to rearranging my hair into a arresting array of spikes in front of the mirror after every shower for my own amusement, I thought no further of it.

Five hours later, at the unearthly hour of a quarter to midnight, having drunk more than my fair share of carbon dioxide/Cola, I found myself once more having the urge to tear off my shorts and urinate in public. In lieu of the parents present, and a couple of security guards, I hastened my way to the same toilet. Lo and behold! Right before my very eyes was this same man, still busy with his razor, with his facial hair in the same half-shaven state as that of 5 hours ago, and quite oblivious the growing puddle of urine beneath me.

I'm not taking the unlikely chance that this man was no denizen of the Underworld, and am therefore spreading the truth far and wide cometh the hour when my corpse would be found in my room, having been shaved to death (grated cheese comes to mind). Besides, as most horrror movies go (a la "The Ring") if you've read thus far, you've probably doomed yourself to a similar fate. I'd enjoy the company in the afterlife.

TO THE BATMOBILE

a strange frame of mind.

2006-05-21T21:10:00.000+08:00

I have come to realise something from the past several days, living on a diet of tasty japanese jellies, romance comedies (Notting Hill, Four Weddings and a Funeral, so on and so forth...) and the odd cheese omelette, which I may add, I cooked myself - and am still alive to tell the tale. This is something that can only be realised after surviving on a diet of tasy japanese jellies (important to note that they are of the peach variety - more on this later) and romance comedies etc etc. Most importantly of course, being the romance comedies.

Whereas once upon a time I was part of an elite squad of genetically modified supertroopers vent on conquering the world through various means of strongarm tactics, a fearsome gang known throughout the lands as... "The Christmas Gang". (Truly, a name that inspires terror), the relationship seemingly soured for a great deal of time, something which till now I cannot understand.

I don't usually like to ramble on about such an emotional turn of events for it makes poor reading (I'm quite sure I lost most of your interest by now - yes you, that one reader). Still, fans be rest assured that my heart slowly tears as my tagboard (finally justifying all that effort to set it up. It was a torturous HTML experience) shows signs of some recognition from my dear friends.

As my tagboard seems to have taken a new breath of life (I fear of speaking too soon), I am feeling decidedly peachy (oh, the wonders of foreshadowing in the works of literature. Who would knew peaches -> peachy?). My swollen ego has grown to a greater capacity at the sound of a new fan proclaiming the loveliness of my face. Life has seemed generous of late...

It would not be unwise, knowing my luck, to go and make preparations for the worst case scenario following this series of events...

TO THE BATMOBILE

murder!

2006-05-09T19:11:00.000+08:00

1050 hours, Space Frame, ACS(Independent)
I found myself striding forth purposefully into the great halls of ACS(I) early yesterday morning, with great intent on aceing/marginally passing my Biology Practical that even the sound of my footstep issued forth triumphant "Hallelujah"'s.

I had more than a quarter of an hour before my practical to burn by daydreaming about scandalously bare specimens of water chestnuts and long beans. Well, that was the plan, till I got accosted by a nasty piece of work masquerading as a middle aged woman. Prodding her stubby finger into my chest to gain my attention as I tried to walk over her and keep my hopes of an illicit imaginary outing with my biology experiments alive (or tried to, as she was up to my belly button and ended up sticking her finger in an otherwise undiscovered but extremely painful crack in between my kneecap and my shin), she was in a great frenzy to get from the old administrave office to the new one 200metres away.

Several minutes worth of finger pointing (the non-vulgar sort), elaborate diagram drawing and occult demonic sacrifices later, she still harboured the belief I was directing her to a labrynth beset with traps that would make Sean Connery shiver. It was now 1100.

Ruing the lack of a swiss army knife in my backpocket to whip out and spear her through her black heart (though even in ideal circumstance it would take me twenty minutes to identify which was the blade and the surprise would be gone. I'd be better off beating her around the head with the handle). She seemed to get even more worked up when I began absentmindedly running my finger across my neck.

It all culminated in her proclaiming out loud "I'm starting to get exasperated with you... So you mean you exit through that door?", further illustrating her point by stabbing my foot with the heel her leather stiletto boots. It was then which I shot her. It became increasingly obvious that I was dealing with someone who had less IQ than the doorway I was attempting to direct her through, and I decided for the benefit of her corpse that I would demonstrate walking through that orifice to show that no, there was no deadly pressure-released spike trap ready to impale her.
If you ever happen to walk by that particular doorway during the course of the next few months, pay no heed to the rotting stench emanating from behind one of the potted plants. Her body's hidden there, next to the boy who had proclaimed loudly (and very foolishly) in front of me that the Additional Math paper was easy.

In retrospect, I probably did her a favour. Seeing as how her son (or daughter, whichever the case may be) is from ACS, she'd probably be driven to suicide soon anyway.
TO THE BATMOBILE

love actually is a movie.

2006-05-08T19:55:00.000+08:00

I desire greatly to marry Liam Neeson/Keira Knightley/Lúcia Moniz (the hot hispanic woman) in no specific order. Well maybe I'd prefer Keira Knightley and Lúcia Moniz over Liam Neeson, but only barely - and if they come as a pair.

My startling gay tendencies (and obviously very shocking to the millions of now-distraught females contemplating suicide) come as a result of watching Love Actually whilst I should have been studying Chemistry - which I suck at.

Yet another realisation was made as I watched this distinctly-British film was that my English, while deceptively bad now (I'm never satisfied with my blog standard nor my poor grasp of grammar - something that is never ceased to be rubbed in my face), it has improved by leaps and bounds since the start of this blog where i talked like this with no caps. and i had the worsterest english and rambled very long like so and so forth very longly...

Yet another step towards making to the Batmobile better!

TO THE BATMOBILE

dear mr. examiner man

2006-05-07T18:41:00.000+08:00

It has been prophesied! The gods have willed it so! Nothing could ever hope to save Butlerman from the dreaded clutches of Hell itself as the prospect of losing his entire holidays to the infamous ACS(I) concentration camp is becoming more and more of a reality.

Well the whole experience of the exams has been shitty, with the only high I've experienced in the last 2 weeks was feeling smug with myself while giving false looks of sympathy and nodding while others complained about their doomed Physics paper. (I dropped Physics in the last quarter of 2005 when I realised the only law of physics I knew concerned a cannonball and it dropping faster than a tennisball... Or something like that. That soft whirring noise you would probably be hearing would be Galileo and Newton turning - no, spinning, in their respective graves).

I tread once more along the thin line that separates bravery from foolishness, the line that dissects living life to the fullest and living life like a fool (full and fool sound alike! Butlerman make pun! Butlerman is happy. Butlerman reward himself with pat on the back). The line that my mother seeks to redefine and she purposely stomps up the staircase, accusatory finger and steely gaze/evil Wand of Doom at the ready to punish me for being awake when my Biology Practical is but 12 hours away.

But a superhero stands firm in his belief! He never falters to any show of might or oppression! He is strong! He is superhuman! He is... Butlerman!

She is but several steps from my door now, deliberately slowing down every footfall with maximum volume to let me know of her arrival. Every sweat drop is a chore... My breathing grows harsh, but in times of trouble, I take heart from lessons learnt from watching Ultraman as a child - "Always wait your breast starts beeping and goes all shiny and red before whooping enemy ass". (Who says Ultraman has no educational value?) Today will be the day I finally get to do what I want!

My dear mother however, seems to be slightly more irate than usual. This superhuman theory will be tested out, dear devout followers - but at a later, safer date. Dreams of frog dissection and Biology Practical theory await, as well as a firm spanking by my mother (dreams of Jessica Alba or Liv Tyler as her personal spanking assistant go unfufilled).

TO THE BATMOBILE

(an unre)solved mystery!

2006-04-30T21:31:00.000+08:00

The mysterious race that dwells within in the deep recesses of the Amazonian Rainforest that is my writing (refer to last thursday's post, which you should immediately go read over and over again, repeatedly re-clicking the refresh button on this page to generate as many "hits" for this website as possible), has finally been discovered via a wrong turn by our illustrious superhero.

The originally deemed-nonexistent tribe of Butlerman Fans has existed all along! After doodling on Microsoft Paint (the programme that devalues the Windows Package) for a good half hour as some sort of twisted self torture instead of the pleasure I ought to be getting from deviating away from E Math study, I decided to check my e-mail.

Lo and behold! I had tons of mail from fans of all sorts. Many of them in particular promised that they could enlarge my penis, guaranteed (the proof that was offered to me through images was stunning in a poke-my-eyes-out sort of way. What I can say is that the models obviously enjoyed themselves). My first thought was that it was a mite surreal, with more than a few dozen people (the large majority being women. The odd male was scary) seemingly preoccupied with my genital size. Usually something that is rather private, but I'm touched that so many share my burden. At least I thought they were fans.

Now, considering how for the last 2 entries had concerned fans, rainforests, Maths, and/or (burst) weiners, in particular how I've gone a bit overboard in the lattermost detail (the mere gestation of this thought would drive most women into mass suicide - lemming style). It would not be a bad idea to change the subject matter (you can't fault me for having another of my abrupt topic changes this time) - I have decided to reveal the latest 2 songs that have been stuck in my head for the past few days.

Coldplay - The Hardest Part

Note that this is in video because my sister did tell me specifically to go watch the video - with obvious reasons. One of the more "robust" Coldplay songs of late (always felt that Coldplay songs have a spine-chilling feel about them - something to listen to when you're contemplating the mysteries of life e.g. my eternal bachelor status) which reminds me a tad of REM really. Not to say I'm any expert in this (got to grade 5 for piano and subsequently failed the requirement for grade 6...)

Gnarls Barkley - Crazy

The one song to rule them all. Need not say more. (Health warnings : May induce addiction)

TO THE BATMOBILE

gastronomical delights

2006-04-27T14:38:00.000+08:00

I never knew cheese could evaporate... Not till my mother decided to serve up a hotdog with a slice of Cheesedale which obviously overstayed what it was due in the microwave by several weeks. One can't complain though, it was a welcome intervention from one of my million A Math practice papers... Such was the incohorent state of consciousness I was in that I mindlessly devoured the majority of it (badly burst weiner right down to the extremely out of place chutney "sauce" - us superheroes develop strange taste...) only pausing to notice the melted cheese, having lost all semblance of viscousity and thus dripping onto my right boxer leg (sounds weird but I believe that is the proper term. Thigh, anyone?).

What was most disturbing about my mid-morning meal was that while Cheesedale cheese (and all forms of cheese for that I know) usually hardens within the next five minutes of being heated, what I consumed seemed to have taken on the properties of something more... Extra-terrestial?

*Typing becomes irregular as green tentacles start growing from the tips of his fingers*

TO THE BATMOB...

"Hold on!" Devouted fans may cry out in dissatisfaction, having felt cheated of a proper development into the topic of Butlerman's choice.

As no such entity actually exists...

TO THE BATMOBI...

"But what if one actually does?" The thought bothers to surface in my mind.
Stupid thought.

I have 3 clear paths to take into the crazed wilderness that is my writing.
1) I could write about food.
2) I could write about my lack of literary ability and attempt to correct it to make that "devout fan" character exist.
3) I could finish of the remaining LE of BATMOBILE and go watch Lost.

Like any headstrong superhero, I carelessly toss away the most sensible option (number 3) and decide to go crashing through the remaining two paths aimlessly and run myself into a few trees (literary representations of Writer's Block. How deep) and get exotic birdshit on/in my head (representative of my writing. I could not think of anything deeper - thus falling back on what I watched, reminiscent of my traumatic childhood experience of watching George of the Jungle).

Talking about melted cheese, unrecognisably exploded sausages, and/or exotic birdshit (I'm not too sure about you, but it sure puts me in the mood for more food...), I found myself in Serene Centre's MacDonalds sometime this evening, having felt slightly peckish after A Maths tuition (whereever A Math is concerned, my rate of digestion quadruples) and greatly desiring to purchase at the very least, a McChicken. Oh sodium galore.

Unfortunately as I vigorously opened my mouth to order (hard to explain, but vigorous nonetheless), a glance into my wallet to dish out the money needed to purchase such a tantalizing snack revealed that I could only afford to spare one dollar. The words "One grossly salty, oily and fat-filled, yet oh-so-tasty McChicken" caught in my throat, and all I could manage was to avoid wheezing like a deflated balloon and made my way out of the queue muttering a lame excuse that I was late for... something. My ACS badge promptly turned black, shrivelled and vapourised, having found my being unworthy of something representing an obscenely rich family of schools.

Unfortunate. Even more unfortunate is the fact my Geography remains half untouched with my exam but 12 hours away. Screw that devout fan I say. Superheroes have no time for fanclubs (I may live to regret my decision - but so will I when I get back my results at this rate).

TO THE BATMOBILE

batman (butlerman) forever...

2006-04-16T20:38:00.000+08:00

(Editor's note: It has taken me yet another half a century to get myself down to writing this entry... Nothing new really, considering how its taking me five times as long to get myself down to studying for the upcoming Mid-Year examinations... I live life on the edge!)

The 12th of April was not a good day, for obvious reasons (to those who do not realise the significance of this date, I shall type out two words with fire in my veins and blood in my eyes "Rugby finals". Yes I meant the two of you...). I hesitate to delve even surface deep into the topic, for even with the willpower of a God and the self control of the Buddha, I struggle to restrain myself from polluting my beloved online journal with words of anger against the Singapore Rugby Union, and what they have taken away from Butlerman and his minions (I meant teammates. Slip of the tongue?).

Fast forward till today, where many other things have happened in between now and then, the utter disastrous Chinese Oral (I always claimed that Chinese women have beautiful lips! Editors note: Forgive the explicit content. Ignore, if you please...) Examinations inclusive. Most eventful of all would be my near death at the hands of half a dozen motorists along Orchard Road, which happened naught but a few hours ago (my bladder still leaks with ill-controlled fear).

As I was making my way through the maddening systems of pedestrian crossings (in desperate bid to get myself from the back of Wheelock Place to the front of Tangs) after sending a dear friend off, I dropped a coin. Note however, it was not just any ordinary coin - it was a one dollar coin, and it wasn't just anywhere which I dropped it, for I dropped it while crossing the road from Wheelock to Lido. With my wallet being as thin as an Ethiopian drought-plagued farmer on a hunger strike, I did what any sensible human-by-day-superhero-by-night would do. I stooped to pick it up.

As my back creaked out several concertos worth of groaning, my keen Butlerman senses failed to notice that I was the only person left on the road, with the lights just turned green. I was stra nded in the middle of the road, with hundreds of automobiles bearing down on me with the drivers wearing expresisons not unlike Jack Nicholson in Batman.

This was then I proceeded to kick into a backflip before doing a series of somersaults to safety, all the while juggling my decrepit Canterbury school bag. Not really. I had to prostrate myself before a cream-coloured Nissan to beg for my life, before he glanced over me like I was an imperfectly formed piece of shit, and signalled for me to move on.

Without any more unforseen incidents like these, I should be making preparations for immediate cremation after I finish my Mid Years, with my mum quite keen on reliving her cane-wielding masochist days.

To the dear friends who now make their pleasant way to Shanghai, Beijing wherever their OEP may lead them to... Do remember to get me an offering of peace and declaration of my greatness.
TO THE BATMOBILE

acting schmacting

2006-04-09T01:03:00.000+08:00

Oh I confess it now!

All those hours spent in front of the computer, all the way till 2 am nearly everyday spent redoing script after script after script for Centrestage 2006 was fun... Actually - not really. Though forsaking the usual sleek black leather Butlerman outfit for a tight pink tube top and a long flowing kimono (the "long and flowing" got lost along the way - it ended shorter than my boxers... Something that the audience was keen to let me know).

Admittedly, Centrestage was good for my self-confidence, a.k.a ego, as it did allow the opportunity for me to flaunt my acting talents and similarly my confused sexuality. The bright lights! The action! Oh the cameras! Oh the pretty girls in the audience (and damn the bright lights for blinding me...)!

The memories...

Note that I'm only taking time of my busy superhuman schedule to write this because of great amounts of fan-induced pressure and expectations, and have therefore spent the last 2 weeks churning out the above 3 paragraphs. A working ettiquette to die for...

2 weeks on from my bi-annual crossdressing indulgence (I was tempted to say "bi-annual moment of shamelessness" - the emperor of Lies Most Blatant), it is now the eve of the B division rugby finals and I shall stride forth onto the pitch tomorrow, breast puffed full of self-worth and blustor. That is, until the match begins and I am forced to run off to change into a less urine-stained pair of shorts.

Nah... Not really.

Maybe.

Naaaaah.

The pre-match jitters have begun?
TO THE BATMOBILE

masquerade!

2006-03-26T01:40:00.000+08:00

For just this once, out of the comedy of errors that is my life, I have no trick up my sleeve, no quotable quote, nothing to offer to stop this rampaging cancer of boredom that has infiltrated my life for the last two weeks, bar warbling out songs such as Bohemian Rhapsody, Phantom of the Opera, and everybody's favourite "Boom, boom, boom, boom" by the Venga Boys at random intervals, ultimately culminating in the summoning of the Singapore CID/CIA/SWAT (I think I got it right the first time) to 119/121 Dover Road to put me down at any means necessary.

To tell the soul-baringly truth here, I wasn't exactly planning to blog again for the next... week (month? year? the amount of time it'll take me to finish off my excess work - about half a million chinese compositions)... But after waking up at 1 in the afternoon and decidedly looking like a crossbreed of Medusa and... Prince (it surpasses the "Bad Hair Day" standards - don't you hate it when that happens? Unless it only happens to me), all previous plans of heading out into the vast vast world of tiny tiny Siglap were shattered. Not to say theres any one virtually worthy of myself (even I blushed as I wrote that. Don't take it too seriously) but it is more likely that the security guards at my condominium won't let me back in; or they'll just laugh at me.

With my neck feeling as if it is broken from a day's training worth of tackling an Express Bullet Train also known as my captain, it wouldn't be such a bad idea to stay in the house, possibly go to sleep and forget I ever looked like what I do now.

TO THE BATMOBILE

just another phase of life?

2006-03-04T21:04:00.000+08:00

There comes a point in life where no man can avoid the consequences of his actions; where every man must make a decision, where there is no right or wrong answer. The time has come for Butlerman to make this important step that would determine much of the following weeks of his life. Which starter Pokemon should he choose?

Cast not your eyes of scorn upon your (once worshipped) aspiring superhero! You know you played Pokemon once upon a time, perhaps sinned as far as to even watch the cartoon (while the men have no possible means of escaping eternal damnation and hellfire, women can redeem themselves via succumbing their souls to me. Nah... Just kidding - though it may help).

The issue of the O levels just actually raise a few doubts as I spend about two hours writing this down... Especially after my dear sister went mightily close to blowing my house roof off with her A level results. Something my parents are hoping I would replicate in a few months time, and it seems I would... by showing them my phone/internet bill.

*Cue a not-so-quotable quote* Time to hit the books, before my mother hits me with one *Can laughter ensues*. Like many of my badly constructed jokes, it is becoming more of a reality, as my mother gives me another of those deadly gorgon-like stares as I make eye contact from the relative safety of my room.

"I don't wanna hear, I don't wanna know,
Please don't say forgive me,
I've heard it all before, and I
can't take it anymore...
Sorry by Madonna (Bears no relevance to the above mentioned topic, but I like the song anyway. So sue me.)
TO THE BATMOBILE

oh the mundane!

2006-02-23T22:26:00.000+08:00

Butlerman admits it. The creative juices have stopped flowing (while other juices still freely... The cries of censorship lie unanswered). My life is no longer as interesting as it once was. Rather, I can't seem for the life of me (pun obviously intended) to make my life interesting for your benefit as much as mine...

The only time my heart managed to quiver a pulse of excitement was when I was thrown into a heated arguement with the 74 bus driver who was adament that a dashing young man such as I did not have 45 cents to pay the bus fare with, after my fully-milked EZ Link card beeped embarassingly as it hit negative 40 dollars (or some other nominal sum). When it became increasingly apparent I was telling the truth, I was still forced to surrender my last 40 cents to travel 3 stops down the road. Superhero pride dictated that I returned later to smack him around his pimply jowls and get the last laugh. Though what really happened was I burst through the windows (the door opened too slowly) as the bus arrived outside my school and made a quick getaway, with the driver screaming after me, "You owe me 5 cent arh? Owe 5 cent, pay 5 cent argh!".

In vain attempt to divert the attention to something other than my hair-raisingly dull life (which I liken to be less interesting than watching paint dry, or even watching TV Mobile), I begin the never ending quest to seek true perfection, something which I was confident I was fast approaching, yet not fully reciprocated in survey results...

Go on then... take part in the survey ! You know you want to...

TO THE BATMOBILE

love actually is...

2006-02-14T20:31:00.000+08:00

What does a man do when he arrives home to the drudgery of his house, as he settles with the grace of a sack of potatoes into his computer chair, swivels around to face his computer when every other virile male on the face of God's good Earth is busy delivering roses, chocolates, chocolate roses and the like to their significant other?

(Editors note: The initial paragraph was written on valentines day itself... However it was only today which I thought of an answer...)

That particular man, in this case is no ordinary man (but a Butlerman! Cue can laughter, followed by a profound sense of loss as I realise my sense of humour has died), has realised that while listening to Greatest Love Hits 1990 may not exactly soothe his toubled, single (and very lonely) heart, some enjoyment can be derived from publically declaring (via a blog) his absolute inadequacy when it comes to girlfriends. (It is duly noted that such sado-masochism may have turned several candidates away, despite my musclebound physique, charming smile and heroic profile. Whoops?)

As the timeless hit "Show Me The Meaning of Being Lonely" by the Backstreet Boys plays for the 50th time, it has become apparent that my consistent failure to please not only members of the opposite sex, but a group of beings that is especially dear to my heart (Yes yes... Butlerman screws up again), may actually be due to some inherent failure of mine. Time for Butlerman to consider a career shift (or taking up meditation to find ill deserved inner peace in the mountain regions of Nepal, and hopefully a spiritual companion to boot...)

TO THE BATMOBILE

say what?

2006-02-12T22:39:00.001+08:00

Warning! This would probably come close (or if not, it already is) the sketchiest blog post I'd ever have.

Blame me not! Because if it wasn't sketchy, I would never have had the reason to write this post anyway. Hold on to your seats/horses/hairpiece (depending on which era you're from), because this might blow you away! (Just as it did me, albeit on a teensy bit more physical note... Cue cheesy carnival music).

Apparently, on Saturday, the 11th of February, the ACS(I) rugby team was having a small (well...) sparring session against NUS to gain some match practice before the upcoming B division group match on the following Monday, the 13th. During which, I more or less got pummeled into oblivion from behind by an NUS player. Or so I've been told. In my present state, the furthest back I can recall after the supposed incident was when I woke up this morning with my hair cut (I found out I had it done on Friday), my shoulder aching and having strange dreams of having a doctor peering into my eyes.

As things are at the moment, my friends know more about what I did on Saturday than I do myself... And it won't get any better! The doctor said nothing I forgot would come back. Which is a pressing issue as I have an E Math test tomorrow and it seems that being bonked on the head has left me totally oblivious to what I've learned so far, though I won't be surprised if I didn't know anything in the first place...

Villians and crooks beware... Butlerman will get hold of you someday. Right after he (hopefully) scrapes his test and regains sufficient memory to function properly again?

TO THE BATMOBILE

down with the sickness...

2006-01-26T20:47:00.000+08:00

Here's an experiment for anyone who's bored enough to read my drivel (or post on my tagboard for that matter... the fact you even know my blog exists connotates a certain amount of desperation). Take a heated, pointy stick and tickly the back of your throat till it starts to react in violent and often painful ways. That is what I have been enduring for the past day and a half (semi-annually for the last 16 or so years of my life).
That is, in essence, tonsilitis for the vaguely curious - and it is something which has plagued me for a decent portion of my life (I blame my double-edged gene pool which has blessed me with a physique of a chiselled Greek hero bust, the intellect of a nuclear scientist et cetera et cetera which has left me with a pathetic excuse for a pair of tonsils).
As my wide variety of well-developed muscles ache terribly from a day's worth of school (admittedly I slept half of it away) as well as a session of rugby training in my less-than-superhuman state of health has left me desperately in need of sleep, if I am to wake up at all, least of all on time for the highly anticipated ACS(I) Chinese New Year celebrations (my heart can barely take the excitement). Thus I shall once again, resort to the obviously illegal ploy of posting copyrighted lyrics of yet another song that no one would listen to anyway.

Soldier Side by System of a Down (read, hum, and enjoy)

"Dead men lying on the bottom of the grave.
Wondering when Savior comes
Is he gonna be saved

Maybe You're a sinner into your alterning life
Maybe you're a joker, maybe you deserve to die
They were crying when their sons left
God is wearing black
He's gone so far to find no hope
He's never coming back
They were crying when their sons left
All young men must go
He's come so far to find the truth
He's never going home

Young men standing on the top of their own graves
Wondering when Jesus comes
Are they gonna be saved

Cruelty to the winner, Bishop tells the King his lies
Maybe you're a mourner, maybe you deserve to die
They were crying when their sons left
God is wearing black
He's gone so far to find no hope
He's never coming back
They were crying when their sons left
All young men must go
He's come so far to find no truth
He's never going home

Welcome to the Solider Side
Where there's no one here but me
People all grow up to die
There is no one here but me
Welcome to the Solider Side
Where there is no one here but me.
People on the Soldier's Side
There's no one here but me."

TO THE BATMOBILE

civilisation!

2006-01-20T21:20:00.000+08:00

Soft beds!
Showers (and not pails)!
Clean clothes!
Edible food!
Not a whiff of a swamp!
And not a blasted fly, mosquito, frog nor ant within visibility's range!

Such were the words I cried out in joyous harmony, and I openly wept on my knees in front of many a stunned security officer after passing through immigration at Tuas. Sobering up proved easier than expected, after I brushed off several rifles aimed at what security personnel percieved to be a dangerously crazy threat, as I began to realise that the camp was passably fun.

I should not be unused to this process anymore, more commonly known as "eating my words". Once again I must retract my words, as I humbly concede that the camp was decent, and wait for it... even enjoyable (oh golly) at some point or another. This was due to a certain individuals that I'm quite certain won't ever stumble across this, and with minimal damage to my ego, I am free to proclaim aloud that it was the instructors of the camp (always is in fact - especially this camp more than most) that justified the trouble of dragging myself down to Kluang. From the hoop-sinking, basketballing foursome of female instructors (the sight of a particularly and quite-obviously oversized instructor nail a 3-pointer with eagle eye accuracy was majestic to behold, and she proceeded to pummel the living daylights out of the school basketball players and my perception of physics alike. Respect.) as well as their male, and equally entertaining counterparts, who enlightened us with secrets, ghost stories and other similarly juicy pieces of gossip.

Having unburdened my soul with my confessions which would hopefully spare my obviously hell-bound soul, I shall now proceed to shower for what would probably be the 4th time since I arrived in Singapore, in yet another moment of water-wasting splendour to rejoice in a state of hygiene previously unattainable for the last 5 days.

Many thanks to the friends (inclusive of instructors) who made the fly-infested, ant feeding ground of Kluang that little bit more tolerable.
TO THE BATMOBILE

going regional?

2006-01-15T20:25:00.000+08:00

No one goes to Malaysia on their own free will. It's common knowledge. There is only one person I know who goes to Malaysia on a semi-regular basis (annually, as a matter of fact - Any more regular and he can't be considered human anymore), and it is only because he's visiting relatives during CNY for money...

There is a saying, that if you take any post-Armaegeddon/invasion scene from a Hollywood film, and chuck in a desert's worth of dust into the surroundings, you get Malaysia. (Actually there isn't, but now I've said it - there ought to be). It doesn't help that each time I've ventured forth into the dusty depths of Hell that is supposedly "Truly Asia" for any social activity, it's a 9 hour drive of sheer boredom (affectionally known as "The Gauntlet") to Ipoh, where by the time we've reached the blasted place, we've forgot the purpose of the trip anyway. Not that there's much to do in Ipoh anyway...

Educational tours to Malaysia are a different thing altogether. Educational tours always are. Due to my superhuman physique, and my luscious lengthy legs, long distance bus rides are hardly ever enjoyable, even without the added torture of having someones elbow in my gut, or my inadverted selflessness in taking the only seat without a working air-conditioner.

Nobody goes to Malaysia on their own free will... The same holds for tomorrow morning, approximately 0800, where my corpse, bloodied from heavy struggle, and still screaming would be dragged through customs across the border where I'm supposed to endure a 5 day camp (from the 14th to 20th) at Kluang (a less intimidating name where it ought to be called "Swampland")... Pray for me.

Or you could always attempt to relieve my boredom and message me, provided my phone hasn't run out of battery yet. Unless there happens to be a socket in the middle of an open field.
If not, I shall return within the end of the week, provided I don't get killed by a mudslide/flood/haze/accident/mad malay men.

TO THE BATMOBILE
(Note: I bear nothing against the inhabitants/natives/people of Malaysia... Just the country itself)

a moment of mortality

2006-01-09T19:54:00.000+08:00

Despite bursting full of creativity and wit today (peak of which was when my delightfully irritating teacher crackled out "I'm giving out the circulars now!", the words "Sir, but they're rectangular!" burst forth unbidden from my mouth and stunned everyone into a stupor), I have decided to pay homage to those to have made an impact in my life, after one of them brought up the memory of residing on top of the Ngee Ann City rooftop once again, and we shared in our similarly face-crackingly-so-stressed-out period of being selected for the rugby squad. Speaking of which, I'm not fishing for any compliments when I'm say, I have not feared so much for my selections as before as now, and it is becoming a increasingly scary reality that I shall not be chosen. Everything I have worked for within the last 3 years has never been rendered so meaningless, as every step I take now, clad in my jersey, seems to be without the support of my coaches and teamates, and to a certain extent, even my friends (this I admit, I crave above all)...
Unfortunately enough, this post is less about me and more about everyone else (many of you breathe a sigh of relief as your eyes, bleeding from reading my bullshit, are allowed a brief respite...)!
This song, is dedicated in (some vague) order of importance -
1) A great friend, whom soon, for the first time in 7 years that I've been (my fingers tremble with suppressed emotion/ego) blessed with his company, I shall not be in the same school as him.
1.5) My brothers in arms from the team, who I have had many memorable incidents (and accidents) with.
1.5 again) My sister. Even with my famed humility, I could only struggle out those two words before I had to insert the punctuation.
2) My teamates, whom I've let down time and time again. If the selections tomorrow do not go my way, it shall be the last time I'll let you all down...
3) My classmates (and other GEP people), another set of people I've let down if I fail in rugby.
4) Various members of the opposite sex - always ready to give me a swift kick in the nuts provided whenever they see fit (one would think by now I would get used to it).
5) Everyone else who has influenced my life for the better (teachers inclusive - the one and only time I'd mention this other than Teacher's Day...)

One Blood by Terence Jay

"In a faraway fires,
Where the hills forever burn.
At the feet of our heroes,
We try hard to learn.
But the lesson is lost there,
In the smoke and the mud.

That we are, one flesh, one breath, one life,
One blood.

I stood by the river,
That ran red with shame.
I stood in the killing fields,
Where Death had no name.
I stood with my brothers,
And awaited flood.

And We were one flesh, one breath, one life,
One blood.

Then I fell to the ground,
Tasted ashes on my tongue.
Thinking that only the dead,
are forever young.

There was peace in the twilight,
and for a moment, a morgue.
There was a road without danger,
a world without war.
Then I would take all your suffering,
it won't do any good.

Cause we are one flesh, one breath, one life,
One blood."

Not a classic, a mite cliche, but the best I could do (in what must be my shortest blog post ever). Wrote down the lyrics myself as the even the expansive World Wide Web had diddly-squat about this song.

I fear for tomorrow (or is it cold resignation?)
TO THE BATMOBILE

bound and chained...

2006-01-04T21:01:00.000+08:00

Someone once told me I have the innate ability to make anything I do sound interesting* (whereas I could never make myself sound any more appealing)... I shall attempt to entertain once more with accounts of my *drumroll* second day of school, and my first few encounters with my new (and utterly dastardly) form teacher. Curse you!

I don't take physics, having mastered it at the age of 6 (followed by 4 forms of martial arts - Taekwando, Karate, Muay Thai and my personal favourite, Kama Sutra, all forms of classical art and 8 different languages), and as I was about to make my way out of the class for about the 20th time in the last half hour, he proclaimed in a deep resonating (heavily Indian accented) voice that - 1) I couldn't leave the class, 2) I couldn't rest during free periods, and 3) My sideburns were too long.

In the silence that followed, I hastily gathered up the remnants of my lower jaw and cleared up my nosebleed. Butlerman has never felt so much more imprisoned than during his 2006 physics lesson. Superheroes should never be bound! And never once should their sideburns be gotten rid of! Even my Elvis impressions were lost on him and he slowly drew a finger across his lack of facial hair. Humourless bastard.

It's been a weird day, I grant it that much... Even as I blog (at my customary snail pace) I'm talking to one of the least likely people I'd ever talk to (for the simple fact that person scares the balls out of me) - however my ego shall only leak known the fact that I find it suitably interesting and pleasant. You only heard that once.

*He actually said "Butler(man), you're full of bullshit." Hell it's the same thing anyway.
TO THE BATMOBILE

a final salute to the passing of 2005?

2006-01-03T20:50:00.000+08:00

God forgive me! I've committed yet another cardinal sin in copying a friends copied (its a vicious cycle) blog topic in order to mantain some semblance of updating in here... A thousand apologies, though be assured that I don't mean any of them. (So sue me... You'll see me in court, but I'll find you in a dark alleyway beforehand. Be very afraid.)

So begins the first step towards eternal condemnation.

1. What did you do in 2005 that you’d never done before?
Dance para para badly. Never again...

2. Did you keep your new years’ resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Somewhat actually. I did manage to get down to doing a couple of worksheets this year (which is a stark improvement over 2004, where I did none...). And yes I shall make more, if only to see how far short I fall (it makes a life of bullshit more fun)!

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Not particularly, no - though I know a few people who look as if they are about to (editors note: The eternal hellfires of damnation shall scorch my soul...)

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Nope. Had a few scares though.

5. What countries did you visit?
Shanghai, Malaysia, Bangkok. (edit: Shanghai and Bangkok aren't countries but you get what I mean...)

6. What would you like to have in 2006 that you lacked in 2005?
Money, good fortune, rugby championship (and while we're at it, chuck in a car, beautiful women and a thousand free wishes)

7. What dates from 2005 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
31st Dec! And other dates which I forgot. It'll come back in a moment or two...

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Writing my first cohesive essay for Social Studies, slimming down to Marie-France Bodyline standards, and thats about it?

9. What was your biggest failure?
Ah... The sheer awesomeness of my failures placed me on no.1 of Santa's naughty list, despite being the devilishly sexy superhero who saves the day - everyday. Screwing up many a friendship (oh the scars! The scars!), not dancing para para well enough to progress to the next round, doing absolute sh*te for Math, the list goes on!

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Another endless list, and I shall not start.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
Sexy blazer from Top Men. Cheap too - the last in stock and my size! (Material satisfaction!)

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
Watching family after family pile their plates with food at Christmas buffets and proceed to finish a quarter of it.

14. Where did most of your money go?
I should be asking that question...

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

16. What song will always remind you of 2005?
City of Blinding Lights - U2! Well it reminds me of lying on top of Ngee Ann City's rooftop at night with my friends... if that counts?

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Honestly I don't know.
b) thinner or fatter? Thinner! (Butlerman scores! Woohoo)
c) richer or poorer? Poorer...

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Study harder (Editor's note: study? what's that?)

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Pissing a certain arch-nemesis of, though I suspect I've been doing it since 2003 anyway. Whoops?

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
Badly. That is history.

21. What was your favorite month of 2005?
December.

22. Did you fall in love in 2005?
Yes. No other comment needed. Thank you.

23. How many one-night stands?
None.

24. What was your favourite TV programme?
Desperate Housewives, Lost, Little Britain

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
Nay! I am a man of peace! *Clad in shining armour and knightly posture*

26. What was the best book you read?
Anything by Bill Bryson

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Bloc Party! And well, I already knew System of a Down but they get a honourable mention.

28. What did you want and get?
A sexy watch.

29. What did you want and not get?
Many things...

30. What was your favorite film of this year?
Saw 2 wasn't bad, though I watched it from behind my fingers for 80% of the time (and screaming myself silly for the other 20%)

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Being the honour-bound, lifelong servant that I am, I was at training working my butt off.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I shall rip this off a friend and proudly proclaim his very statement "the presence of that special person, whom I have not met".

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2005?
Reveal my fashion secrets I will not. (And no, nothing to do with Yoda...)

34. What kept you sane?
Whatever it was, it didn't work particularly well?

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Always thought Minister Mentor LKY was a sexy beast (this comment would probably bring about the end of my young, prospectful life and this garbage of a blog).

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
The one shaped like a spoon (I'm sorry. Nothing comes to mind as of yet.)

37. Who did you miss?
I've stopped talking to a few people this year and while it hurts my ego so, I admit that I have missed each of them a teensy bit. Only a teensy bit.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
I've met quite a few people this year, though the people towards the end of this year would get the famed Butler's stamp of approval (I would actually name their names but I don't name names. Note: If really bored, read that 10 times over very quickly.)

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2005.
Be careful of what you wish for?

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
"On a cob web afternoon
In a room full of emptiness
By a freeway I confess
I was lost in the pages
Of a book full of death
Reading how we'll die alone
And if we're good we'll lay to rest
Anywhere we want to go

In your house I long to be
Room by room patiently
I'll wait for you there
Like a stone I'll wait for you there
Alone

On my deathbed I will pray
To the gods and the angels
Like a pagan to anyone
Who will take me to heaven
To a place I recall
I was there so long ago
The sky was bruised
The wine was bled
And there you led me on

In your house I long to be
Room by room patiently
I'll wait for you there
Like a stone I'll wait for you there
Alone, alone

And on I read
Until the day was gone
And I sat in regret
Of all the things I've done
For all that I've blessed
And all that I've wronged
In dreams until my death
I will wander on

In your house I long to be
Room by room patiently
I'll wait for you there
Like a stone I'll wait for you there
Alone, alone"
Like a Stone by Audioslave.

Comprehend this at your own discretion. My fingers ache.

TO THE BATMOBILE

new beginnings!

2006-01-01T20:08:00.000+08:00

Spending my first few conscious moments of the year 2006, in my PE tanktop, carrying a massive bag, a set of speaker and a Winnie the Pooh pillow, doing my very best to expand my hips via intense facial contractions (it was worth a shot) to prevent my oversized boardshorts from falling to my ankles, trudging by Orchard Towers (and through many puddles) may not exactly be the best way to kick off the new year.

What was a good way to kickstart year 2006 fortunately happened eight hours before, and while memories of the experience comes back in dribs and drabs, I seem to remember excessive amounts of alcohol, attempting to dance to 70's hits, brilliant company (I'm taking extreme caution in describing them.. I'm treading on dangerous ground), and over the top whistle and horn blowing (of the chaste kind).

In all honesty, the looming task of combating the seemlingly indomitable year of 2006 is a frightening one even for one such as me (this coming barely 24 hours after I got complimented that my ego has deflated! Whoops) and I am thus far, very ill-prepared to do so. As it is I have about half a million chinese songs to practice for holiday homework - of which I've lost the lyrics. My immediate future looks rather bleak if you'd ask me (not that anyone actually does - but just so you know)...

Whining and my worthless dribble aside, I'd suppose it wouldn't hurt much to wish all those who bother to read this a happy new year...

A year older (well I forgot about the anniversary), slightly more mature and that little bit less egotistical
TO THE BATMOBILE

censorship strikes again!

2005-12-29T01:02:00.000+08:00

I must apologise profusely for the last statement in my previous entry, before the men in white coats of the Censorship Board of Singapore comes and drags me away to a secret underground labrynth they use to house human experiments (the secret is out!). Well not really, but just in case a girl reads it and slaps me across the face. Unseemly of Butlerman to do such a thing! To compensate for such a disgrace, I'd... plonk down the lyrics of one of my favourite songs...

(note: The whole teenage angst lyrics thing going on doesn't really apply. It does have a nice tune though...)

Blind - Lifehouse

I was young but I wasn't naive
I watched helpless as he turned around to leave
and still I have the pain I have to carry
a past so deep that even you could not bury if you tried

after all this time
I never thought we'd be here
never thought we'd be here
when my love for you was blind
but I couldn't make you see it
couldn't make you see it
that I loved you more than you'll ever know
a part of me died when I let you go

I would fall asleep
only in hopes of dreaming
that everything would be like is was before
but nights like this it seems are slowly fleeting
they disappear as reality is crashing to the floor

after all this time
I never thought we'd be here
never thought we'd be here
when my love for you was blind
but I couldn't make you see it
couldn't make you see it
that I loved you more than you'll ever know
a part of me died when I let you go

after all this time
would you ever wanna leave it
maybe you could not believe it
that my love for you was blind
but I couldn't make you see it
couldn't make you see it
that I loved you more than you will ever know
a part of me died when I let you go
and I loved you more than you'll ever know
a part of me dies when I let you go

Female fans - read, listen and be appeased. Guys, do not mock my attempts at displaying the deep side of me, it's buried somewhere inside the cold heart of stone* that beats in my chest, I'm quite sure..

*coupled with a Chest of Steel(tm), it stops any bullets. Recommended for any budding Superhero.

TO THE BATMOBILE

tis the season to do much folly...

2005-12-27T20:03:00.000+08:00

Heavy beats revetabrate around the room. Hissing sounds.. sound as steam slowly fills the room. You cough (and ten years later, develop lung cancer and die a slow painful death. Don't smoke!). Suddenly trumpets blare, and the smoke parts to reveal a majestic silhouette, his cape billowing behind him by the combined effort of the air conditioner and every female's sudden exhalation. The next day you wake up, and have a really bad hangover. You knew you shouldn't have drunk so much, you hallucinating drunken fool, you.

This was more or less the scenario I hoped to achieve last night at somebody's Boxing Day Special (note: there was nothing remotely special, apart from the fact it was a bit small and the DJ was particularly bad) house party. Though admittedly the people I met at the party (whom I really didn't expect to mean kind of deflated the pompous Superhero bluster. The talons are long and ever-reaching... (Names shall not be mentioned... well not in public. You have been warned however.)

While I do feel the least bit of bastard-ness (my endless reservoir of vocabulary dried out. My bad) by not talking to some of them, after all... I'll think of an excuse when it hits me. My sincerest apologies! Unfortunately enough I doubt they'd be reading this. Can't say it'll contribute to any sleepless nights though.

On a totally unrelated and extremely gross note, have you ever wondered why sex is spelled entirely with your left hand? Neither have I. Not till I found out. But I'm sure guys would know why.

TO THE BATMOBILE

even it is just for a few days...

2005-12-25T20:57:00.000+08:00

It is sometimes said whatever you say in the past may come back and haunt you. It was also mentioned once or twice that I happen to look quite hot. One of these bears more truth than the other, and its not exactly the one I'd prefer...

The above statement however does not (thankfully so) refer to my previous post of my C-grade horror experience in Thailand (in which case, if it did, I'd probably be dead - a scenario which I'm quite sure will bring at least some measure of festive cheer to some...), instead I refer to what I believe was the post before that. You know, the one which I mentioned where I was not going to blog anymore et cetera et cetera et cetera...

While celebrities often claim to retire and thus stage a comeback, an example being Cher who seems to have an annual farewell tour followed swiftly by a comeback tour sporting a new nose/upper lip. Hell I even know a girl who does the same to her boyfriend(s), which brings about a myriad of possibilities in terms of making bets among my friends for entertainments sake.

To summarize several paragraphs more of beating 'round the bush - I don't think anybody reads my worthless dribble anymore, so much so to the point that my dear (well, up till then!) friend mentioned he was one of the three people who read my last post... (Author's note: Its well known that less than 10 people visit this page on a weekly basis but still - only I get the satisfaction of making fun of theBatmobile's lack of viewership. It gives me that much satisfaction. Yes. That much.)

On a slightly more festive note, merry christmas all (who chance upon this blog. The rest of you shall suffer in hell)!
TO THE BATMOBILE

(My blog title of course, comes from Snow Patrol's "Run"... Such a sweet song...
I'll sing it one last time for you
Then we really have to go
You've been the only thing that's right
In all I've done

And I can barely look at you
But every single time I do
I know we'll make it anywhere
Away from here

Light up, light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you dear

Louder louder
And we'll run for our lives
I can hardly speak I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say

To think I might not see those eyes
Makes it so hard not to cry
And as we say our long goodbye
I nearly do

Light up, light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you dear

Louder louder
And we'll run for our lives
I can hardly speak I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say

Slower slower
We don't have time for that
All I want is to find an easier way
To get out of our little heads

Have heart my dear
We're bound to be afraid
Even if it's just for a few days
Making up for all this mess

Light up, light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you dear)

curses!

2005-12-21T22:46:00.000+08:00

Nothing else makes someone want to blog more than possibly encountering the spirit world, and perhaps even the possibility of being cursed dying a horrible death that wouldn't look out of place in Saw 2. I cite other personal reasons to return to blogging, another being the slim probability that if (if "touch wood" works, I'm all for slamming my hand into the closest wooden object for the next few minutes, at the risk of breaking my wrist) I do succumb to a Thai-horrible-little-girl-curse (to be explained later), perhaps you would too - just so you wouldn't feel left out.

Now I ventured into the musty, dusty depths of Bangkok five days ago, alongside the rugby team as well and as my dear sister and mother (to kick Thai backside and shop backsides off, respectively), and after a semi-eventful flight, where I exchanged stares/smiles with a cute girl on the plane, nothing else worth mentioning happened throughout the following four days, apart from my face getting sandpapered on a rocky pitch by a 120-kilo Thai monster, leaving the middle portion of my beautiful face now marred by scars (fear not my lady fans, it shall only last for a day longer or two).

However on the day before we left Thailand, when we played Vajiravut (Vaji-something anyway) College, as we slowed to a stop to honour some age-old national tune blared out from postively-rotting speakers, I noticed a strange little girl sitting on one of the steps of an old building (note this is an all boys school) swaying side to side like a pendulum to the music. I'm not joking in that she was bordering snakelike. This also marks one of the few times I'm being serious on my blog (actually more than a few but what the hell)... Several painstakingly slow, bladder-leakingly eerie moments later, the match resumed. I never saw her again...

Help?
TO THE BATMOBILE

"an indepth report"

2005-12-09T23:59:00.000+08:00

While listening to romanian dance music (the very addictive Chicken Little advertisement song, "Dragostea Din Tei") may not exactly be a conducive environment for conjuring enough literary garbage to justify the point of having a blog (a.k.a. I'm not too sure why I bother to mantain having a blog these days as I don't have anything to write about... Oh wait - I hardly ever do anyway), it does however, allow me to opportunity to show of my vastly improving dance skills... And I shall now present to you (with a little techno flourish) -

BUTLERMAN'S INDEPTH GUIDE OF WORST CASE SCENARIOS, which incidently might also come under the different heading of SHIT I'VE GOTTEN MYSELF INTO.

I'm going to let you all in on a little secret. Blogging no longer has the draw nor benefits that I desire anymore. There has been once upon a time, where I gladfully donned the helm, full body spandex and yellow, copyrights-blatantly-infringed-upon, logo of Butlerman to prostitute myself to the masses (hey, who wouldn't)... People cried out for my name in their sleep, and mothers grew increasing restless for their daughter's safety as I shed pounds into a sleeker, more crime-bustingly muscular body (it is, at the very least, a half truth, and all attempts to scorn my efforts slides off me like lubrication - a bad image, but nonetheless true)... Then people posted, replied, and called for medical experts to check on my mental state - and they actually seemed as if it was a pleasure to do so (since when is prodding someone with clinical thermometers, stethoscopes and weirdlyshaped erotica-resembling medical instruments not pleasureable?)...

Now, Butlerman is nothing more than what friends call me, and while it does lift the corners of our mouths (nothing a badly placed treatment of Botox couldn't do), it is apparent that the word is no longer synonymous with anything vaguely heroic or even positive, as I execute mistake after mistake with dire consequences (even on the rugby field, where people once feared and complimented my game, I receive nothing more than a sympathetic pat on my frail back)... The swagger is now a slouch, X-ray vision now nothing more than a couple of eyebags, mortality never seemed so real... The cover of invincibility has been blown, so give Butlerman a kick in the nuts while he's down while you can (god knows some people didn't hesitate... And while my mind begs me to utter her/their dreaded names, it serves me no purpose to do so... I'd rather forget about them or better yet, take it up diplomatically with them - I stress diplomatic).

There is much on my mind, ranging from the death of an OM teamates father (It shames me that I cannot call him my friend, for I know I have not justified being one to him) to the my perpetual pauper state. None of it is pretty, or wholesome (nothing erotic, a fact which may garner a few gasps and raised eyebrows) and it shames me all the more... I enter now into a phase where every superhero/wannabe stows his uniform in an alleyway rubbish bin and walks away, and it gets increasingly obvious that it is time for me to do a little superhuman soul-searching, to rediscover what went wrong where and when (alliteration!), and while it might be easier for me to get run over by a truck and forget all of this, or just delve into a burning house to save a grandmother to gain some false sense of courage and self-worth, I cannot, through sheer lack of courage, and let's face it - it's easier to write it out then do it in reality, and this minor detail I overlooked has been a feature since the very beginning of this blog.

I hope you found some part of this entry vaguely interesting, or at least informative (to demand that you derive some comedy value from this would be presumptious) because I am losing a war I am ill-equipped to fight...

Perhaps for the one final time (I certainly hope not)
TO THE BATMOBILE

another trick up my sleeve...

2005-11-27T19:47:00.000+08:00

Witness my creation and be amused. Very amused... It tastes nearly as nice as it is colourful, and healthy enough for me to eat it (though I have one hand on the phone to dial 995 if heart pains do occur even as I type this).

Willing to be hired to cook the above dish, extra charge if I'm requested to wear a pink fluffy bikini (A popular demand or so I'm told. It was two nights ago!).

By day a chef, by night a caped crusader...
This thus marks the shortest post ever! Though through sheer effort of cooking and the actual file size of the photo, I demand to be forgiven.
TO THE BATMOBILE

speak english or die!

2005-11-27T12:47:00.000+08:00

It just occured to me as I entered totheBatmobile for about the 15th time this hour (why, to clock up all those visitor counts of course! On the topic of this, I'm feeling extremely pleased to find out after much mathematical workings that more than THREE PEOPLE visit my blog - One step closer to my plans of world domination.) that I can't actually understand my last post. In every attempt to sound that teensy bit more intellectual, I have forsaken all semblance of grammatical structure et cetera et cetera...

Of course, as a role model and idol of many young Singaporeans out there, I have thus agreed (with a nod of approval of the government) to make a public apology, and mention a word or two about the Speak Good English campaign. I thus quote "You do not have to use big words to speak good english". So the next time you even bother to think about using the word "Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis" (Which is a lung condition suffered by miners, or so they say.), STOP, clap your hands twice, shout "PAP" and communicate via monosyllabic grunts for the rest of your life (say with one sound words can?)

I shall now proceed to buy ingredients as I intend to cook myself dinner tonight - Asparagus, ham and chilli pasta. Wellwishes and prayers are accepted.

TO THE BATMOBILE

oh the heartache...

2005-11-26T17:21:00.000+08:00

When I woke up tonight
I said I'm gonna make somebody love me
I’m gonna make somebody love me
And now I know, now I know, now I know
I know that it's you
You’re lucky, lucky, you're so lucky

Well do ya, do ya, do ya wanna 2x
Wanna go where I never let you before

Well do ya, do ya, do ya wanna 2x
Wanna go off what I never let you before

Well he's a friend and he's so proud of ya
He's a friend and I knew him before ya
Oh yeah

Well he's a friend and we're so proud of ya
Your famous friend well I blew him before ya
Oh yeah

Well do ya, do ya, do ya wanna 2x
Wanna go where I never let you before

Here we are at the transmission party
I love your friends
They're all so arty
Oh yeah

When I woke up tonight
I said I'm gonna make somebody love me
I’m honna make somebody love me
And now I know, now I know, now I know
I know that it's you
You’re lucky, lucky, you're so lucky

Well do ya, do ya, do ya wanna 2x
Wanna go off what I never let you before

Lucky, lucky, you're so lucky 6x

Yeah

Do you want to by Franz Ferdinand, which incidentally does have certain parallels with my life. Unfortunately enough, it never does seem to work out does it and it damn well certainly didn't come thursday night a la Fling, despite it being a tad enjoyable. Dancing the night away with babes (if my part of it was actually considered dancing... I believe I'm treading on dangerous grounds here by labelling them babes, attached as they are etc etc - Luck never goes my way anyway), boisterous singing, and the carefully scheduled and religiously following through of getting booze from the local 7-Eleven.

TO THE BATMOBILE

a little bit of slap and tickle

2005-11-21T20:18:00.000+08:00

Oiled like a greek god of war, gleaming under candlelight like a prized trophy, I was slowly kneaded into submission by a masseur (I questioned his sexuality later on as his hands slipped further down my back and worked their way towards my unguarded buttocks). While he promised to "go easy", his attempts to seperate my every single (and "well-defined" - An adjective I never hesitate to throw in) muscle from their corresponding bone soon gave me reason to suspect otherwise. Siglap Centre has never before heard such pain-filled screams of terror before, not at 11.30 in the morning.

Incapacitated by alcohol, 48 hours without sleep, and drugged by the overpowering stench of perfumed candles and herbal rubbish, I may have looked like a promising target to my would-be rapist. That was, until back flip into scissor kick a la Bruce Lee (and not Sammo Hung) connected with his jaw in a move I dubbed "Drunken Bull Counter Fox's Advances". Unfortunately enough, we exist in a world based on well-worked theories of physics and motion, where boys in puberty shouldn't go around partaking in superhero activities or pretending to be capable of gravity defying karate maneoveurs, and all I achieved was jiggle in a futile motion, further emphasising my buttock's increased vulnerablity.

Emerging smelling of grapeseed oil, and perfume, muscles aching (and I suspect, torn beyond repair), violated, but still standing with virginity intact, I thus staggered home where I collapsed a weeping wreck on my bed. Or just collapsed on my bed in dead exhaustion. Even as we speak now, I don my cape, mask, black spandex and formfitting chestpiece, ready to leap out of my window into the endless night (and the 18 storeys of freefall below. Hang on - I'll take the lift). Take a hint from my steely resolve in my eyes, its payback time (minimum fine being the price of the massage plus surcharge for emotional damage)!

TO THE BATMOBILE

war wounds!

2005-11-16T22:46:00.000+08:00

Mouth agape, eyes unfocused and fingers curled into rigid claws, Butlerman is once again pretending he's playing the guitar...

Dumdumdedededumdumdumdumdum... Scar tissue that I wished you saw... Sarcastic mister know it all!

And just as this particular guitaring maestro rears his head, nostrils flaring, he forgets the rest of the lyrics and more or less gives up altogether. The above mentioned lyrics do however, play a certain instrumental (pun intended and otherwise) part in this gutwrenchingly exciting (in otherwords, less dull than usual) episode of totheBatmobile! (Yet another attempt to revive the feeble comicbook allusion this blog endeavours to achieve, which failed after the first couple of entries.)

Having just played the UWC under-whatever team (it ended prematurely due to lightning) today, and been on the receiving end of a pair of metal-studded boots, someone's knee and leaving half my forehead smeared on the distant corner of the pitch after having a couple of UWC's less daintier players drag me across it, this blog is nother other than an opportunity to flaunt my distinct manliness and flex my well-toned, lean, muscled frame (and my wide variety of stretch marks, hell, I am a stretch mark - note: this is an exaggeration and you need not shun me for the rest of your life).

While less-than-friendly blows were exchanged on the pitch (I admit to having resorted to a few underhand gropes, grabs and punches when the referee wasn't looking), I was pleasanly surprised to not have my hand broken in the post match ritual of hand clasping, back patting and cries of "Well done, mate!" and/or "Good match hor?" and felt my face blushing underneath the mass of stud marks when they were questioning my lack of appearance at the national tryouts. (I however, maintain I had a subpar performance. No really, I'm not just saying that to garner pity or words of positive affirmation. Really really - and wipe that knowing grin of your face)

I shall now retire gently to bed somewhat earlier than usual, in order to adjust my head posture into a seemingly human and upright position (propping it up with well-place sticks if need be). Any kind words of consolation, ill-deserved compliments and "sucking up" are still welcome with open arms, though a decent massage would not be misplaced.

TO THE BATMOBILE

birthdays, bling, booze, beauties.

2005-11-15T21:51:00.000+08:00

As a good majority of you already know (the thought of which leaves a warm fuzzy feeling in my stomach, alongside the burning sensation that was the curry I had for dinner), my birthday had recently passed on the 8th of November. A handful of my friends (well - I think they are) have probably misplaced their presents/cards/brains come the eve of my birthday but all is forgiven (well more or less. See you in hell suckers!)...

After a night of beer, birthday bling (I recieved a hefty nigger-ish medallion of a spinning wheel, batteries not included from my dear friends in some minute resemblence to theBatmobile's wheel I suppose), bulging bellies after dinner at Marche, and a distinct lack of beauties, I decided a night or two's worth of reflection was well in order to see what I have actually achieved these extremely short 12 months.

Though most people know as well as I do that I haven't particularly accomplished anything worthy of mention as of this year, apart from purchase a pair of shoes, ruin another, virtually render all hopes of a relationship impossible (oh lets face the facts - I had a zero chance anyway...) and as of yesterday, I have lost 14kgs! (I'd carry on into a boisterous laugh as my cheeks would no longer jiggle along in merriment). The lattermost fact, in fact is rather shocking, as my quick mental calculations (with some reliance on my handy computer calculator) revealed that if I carried on with such drastic weight loss, despite my overwhelmingly trim figure and good looks, I may very well disappear of this Earth in a couple of years. Well and truly shocking. I ordered a pizza soon after...

I shall save my 15-16 resolutions in the next log, as for now, I believe spending 4 hours muling over a single blog post has been bad enough, and my medallion needs polishing...

TO THE BATMOBILE

dama u adam?

2005-11-05T23:11:00.000+08:00

While my title make not make full sense to everyone who reads it off the bat, certain intellectuals may realise what significance of such a title means. It is a palindrome! However more gifted intellectuals would realise it is a very badly done palindrome, and the profound genius (only me) actually understands it is nothing more than a feeble effort at satisfying Blogger's increasingly exasperating demands for a title.

I shall thus quote a man of prestige and stature to start off my second post in just as many days (Originality fails me in my hour of need), none other than the great Ozzy Osbourne - "I'm just a dreamer... I dream my life away" from his wellknown classic "Dreamer"... Why so? That being because I have yet again experienced a moment of higher transcendence - a moment of purity and bliss - a dream. To be more exact, a nightmare of some sorts (oxymoron I know but hell I'm rushing through this while still attempting to sound learned).

This particular dream is not any less surreal than my highly enjoyable act of infidelity with a swedish beauty. This one took place in the midst of an unknown jungle on a seemingly deserted island with shadowy inhabitants. Yes, I must have fallen asleep recalling the last episode of "Lost" in the back of my expansive mind. On an island no bigger than the compound of my condominium and conveniently forested such that there were systematic square plots of land laid out (I'm not joking), the fact that the hopelessly stranded (composing me and many people I know) were in perpetual fear of the unknown ones left me in particular disbelief when I woke up.

This disbelief was heightened by the fact, that someone, a total figment of my imagination, called Adam (He didn't reveal his name but he looked like an Adam), ended up making out with well, the girl... of my dreams (it sounds weird when I put it this way. If the girl I thus refer to, you know who you are, so ever stumbles across this, know that it was a dream, albeit a very strange one) at which point I awoke, startled, sweaty and having a deepfelt feeling to kill the first Adam (hell, the first person!) I came across.

This could either mean two things - 1) I watch too much TV before bedtime, or 2) Someone called Adam is going to hurt me (either physically or emotionally according to some crackpot theory I furiously researched on the Internet). He almost already accomplished that. Must be quite some guy. *&!@#!&...

Come to think of it, he did look like an "Albert" or "A...."
TO THE BATMOBILE

the mystery that is the opposite sex...

2005-11-02T12:08:00.000+08:00

Women...

Having just had a myriad of experiences (nothing explicit, mind you. Well - bar one) with women of all sorts within the last month and a half, I thought that it would be the decent thing to do to bare my (hopefully well-valued) thoughts about them. To keep conflict down to a minimum (and hopefully turn a few daggers from my back), I shall refrain from revealing their identities.

Understandably so, there are several consequences waiting in store for me once this goes public, the least of all being a very stern tongue lashing (or furious MSN blocking - nothing one cannot get used to). But when a girl tells you she hopes to never stop talking to you, and proceeds to block and purge you from her life the following week, guys like me get vaguely amused. Honestly speaking, I solemnly swear upon Butlerman's sacred name, I have only never been lied to, when the conversation matter gets serious, once. Though the fact I'm absolute shite at telling apart such matters may have influenced that statistic... Just maybe...

I shall end this prematurely both to appease my raging mother, and to limit the amount of trouble I might get myself into provided I carry on. (This is suspect to future editing, provided I see the need to get myself tortured by a female activist lynch mob - every man's daydream).

(------Edit-------)

So I'm back, and with no remedy to this frustratingly ball-wracking (I swear it is that bad) writer's block, and no less replenished after getting threats by my enraged my mother to "break my legs if I don't turn that f**king thing off". Well - really... (Cue for the guys to sigh "Women...")

If anything, the infamous ACS(I) Concentration Camp is now over, and I confess it was alot more fun than what school normally was, and it did provide sufficient excuse for my otherwise pathetic lack of social activity. Ladies beware, the sirens have been sounded - the beast is out! Butlerman is back in town!

(Who am I kidding - I ought to be the one hiding. Women...)
TO THE BATMOBILE

oh woe...

2005-10-22T23:23:00.000+08:00

It has been two weeks since the end of your exams. Two mindless, pointless, (relatively sober) frantic weeks of attempting to accomplish something "fun" (a.k.a. two weeks of your daily life - or it may be just me).

ONLY a couple of weeks and I find myself back in the position I so detest, slouched over a Starbucks table (and inadvertebly getting yet another coffee stain on my shirt) in Parkway Parade, nursing an empty cup of Berried Treasure which I picked up from the bin on the way
there, whining over the complete uselessness of knowing how reactive magnesium is compared to something-ium.

Barely ten hours ago, I was stretched out fully on the rooftop of Takashimaya, eyebrows well groomed "at my sister's insistence" I would be quick to proclaim, though admittedly in recent weeks I was beginning to wonder where half my forehead was going, where my eyes were drinking in the ambience of the evening Orchard Road scene and I found myself enjoying the somewhat pleasant company (pride dictates that I cannot admit more than thatl).

But with literally a little under 140 hours of study to come within the next 2 weeks, I was desperate to enjoy what little I could before I was thrown ruthlessly into Hell to suffer the lashings of Math and Chemistry. My parents realised this as well, and hence my attempts at enjoyment were shortlived and they kicked me out the house prematurely to "get some studying done" (twenty questions from my Chemistry Ten Year Series in a couple of hours work does not constitute "some" I'm quite sure). I confess the sight of my father, chest hairs bristling, moustache (I love the way "moustache" rolls off the tongue - readers be aware I mean the word "moustache") aflame, grating out the ultimatum to pass or face brutal torture/scolding/a brief rubdown with his coarse body-hairs.

If I go into any further detail of what trouble I'd get myself into if woe betide I fail my re-exams, or get shunted out of the GEP, it might be labelled Pornographic. I shall desist to continue and retreat back to my sanctity of my (disgustingly colourful) bed to utter my final prayers and softly weep gentle tears (the horror of lack of writer's block!) to garner some deity's pity though I fear even divine intervention may be too weak for a cause such as this.

"Please don't let my feet fail me now..."
(provided the day comes where there is need to run with much haste towards the paradise that is Norway to meet my scandinavian sweetheart)
TO THE BATMOBILE

wonderland?

2005-10-11T19:42:00.000+08:00

Ah dreams... The stuff of fairytales, peaceful meadows, sheep and a couple of horses. As my nights become increasingly troubled as of late (further elaborated later on, no doubt) I cannot quite place my finger onto what is causing such disturbances. Examination stress comes to mind, although my meals (prepared by yours truly as of late) might just clinch it. Consuming peanut butter & cheese sandwiches or strawberry jam and banana slices with the odd dashing of ground coffee beans (what am I - Starbucks? My dear mother makes the coffee, not me...) would be classified under gastronomical oddities.

While "strange" is objective, when your last conscious memory was staring at diagrams of the human digestive system while Three Door Down's "Here Without You" plays in the background, and suddenly you find yourself on a train bound for Amsterdam with the only other people in your immediate surroundings being black leather-clad men (the leather, not the men), you would find it a touch surreal.

I didn't. Between a desperately needed revision of Biology and what seemed to be a train bound for a Scandinavian "Village People" reunion, I'd take my chances with Boy George and boyfriends. I'm sure you would too.

Thankfully enough, some higher power must exist in dreams as well, for as we pulled into the next stop, the doors opened in a hiss of steam and out of the mists stepped a demure looking beauty, gothic attire and all. While her choice of clothes (and everyone around me) was a cause for concern (hold the "Village People" thought, things were starting to look at little more hardcore than I thought), her bright blue eyes met my Biology-induced bloodshot vision, and joyous echoes of seraphims sounded in the air, only to be accompanied by a rendition of Meatloaf's "Bat out of Hell". (I swear by my soul that this is nothing but the truth. It is nothing but a dream after all - life is cruel like that...)

As it turned out, I found out I was on my way to meet my father's colleague - he worked in a Norwegian company - and spend a night partying in Amsterdam (Pardon, me? Sin? Never!) or something along those lines. Somewhere along the way, I lost the plot, and to my great fortune, the girl and I (I neglected to mention she was running away from home), found ourselves shivering, without shelter in a bus shelter in the harsh harsh world of Amsterdam. Though admittedly I have never been anywhere near the place, nor have I any idea what it's like apart from a few books worth of knowledge and a vivid imagination of pink neon lights, a building that looked very much like Harrod's, prostitutes (the day that I cease to dream about prostitutes would be one to remember I tell you. Mind you, this variety is closer associated with the Homo Erectus - no pun intended, than you and me) and lots of snow.

And as she turned her face towards mine (and didn't flinch! That's a first), and we huddled together for warmth, she breathed into my ear in her sweet delectable accent "I l-" and I was rudely awakened to reality by my dog chewing on my left big toe. I have never come so close to killing the bastard before.

Heart aching once more, and I turn my head to the general direction of the north-west (and hopefully Amsterdam), I gaze forlornly at the stars above, thinking "I ought to be studying Literature now", and so I shall. But first, a concoction of raisins, peanut butter and maybe a spoonful more of coffe beans slapped in between two slices of bread ought to do the trick. Wish me luck - for Literature and tonight.

Until then, my scandinavian sweetheart!
TO THE BATMOBILE

my way on the highway!

2005-10-04T21:58:00.000+08:00

"You think you're special, you do
I can see it in your eyes
I can see it when you laugh at me
Look down on me
And walk around on me.

Just one more fight
About your leadership
And I will straight up
Leave your shit
Cause I've had enough of this
And now I'm pissed - yeah.

This time I'm a let it all come out
This time I'm a stand up and shout
I'm a do things my way, it's my way
My way or the highway.

Just one more fight
About a lot of things
And I will give up
Everything
To be on my own again
Free again - yeah.

This time I'm a let it all come out
This time I'm a stand up and shout
I'm a do things my way, it's my way
My way or the highway.

Some day you'll see things my way
Cause you never know
No you never know
When you're gonna go.

Just one more fight
And I'll be history
Yes I will straight up
Leave your shit
And you'll be the one who's left
Missing me.

This time I'm a let it all come out
This time I'm a stand up and shout
I'm a do things my way, it's my way
My way or the highway.

Some day you'll see things my way
Cause you never know
No you never know
When you're gonna go."

My Way - Limp Bizkit
OOOOLD SKOOOL.

TO THE BATMOBILE

kicking up a storm?

2005-10-02T23:27:00.000+08:00

(Edit: I'm losing my title-naming ingenuity - I really am)

Kung-fu fighting, na-nana-nana-na-na-na! Faster than lightninng...

Hut! Hyah! Fut! Fanchoy! Voila! (Insert oriental-sounding grunts of exertion and/or hokkien expletives at own discretion)

After suffering terribly at the hands of my math tutor and an early morning session of gruelling Social Studies revision, I deviated to several local (legal - I hasten to add) video-rental and sales proprietors to attempt to relieve stress by borrowing several favourite films (namely 'The Dangerous Lives of the Altar Boys', 'Lock Stock & Two Smoking Barrels', 'Pirates of the Carribean'). In one of the more obscure (and borderline legal) shops, I stumbled across a secret cache of weird kungfu films (when are they never) assembled since the beginning of the 1970's right till this very day (though admittedly, the numbers of dwindling... Shame really). It was also at this point which I realised my search for a cheap, affordable version of 'Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels' was in vain, and ululating in great dismay, I threw my hands up in despair, only succeeding in banging myself on the forehead with copies of "Karate Kid" (I remember thinking in some obscure corner of my underused brain that my situation was exceedingly unfair...)

Of course, we all already know what's going to happen in kungfu films, don't we...
1) Numerous fights will ensue between the protaganist (Jackie Chen, Bruce Li, and other such spinoffs manufactured in a remote location in China) and hordes of thugs (if you call 4 foot tall Chinese guys in eyesplitting 70's "pimptastic" suits thugs).
And of course, the all important lesson,
2) A concoction of handsprings and somersaults makes you bulletproof (do not try this at home).
Despite his terrible acting and performance, you still have to feel a tinge of sympathy for our hero because...
3) The chinese dude never gets the girl (anything that violates China's one-child policy is a strict no-no!)

Badly produced, D-grade movies aside (all of which seem to be named "Dragon/Fists/Revenge/Rise of the Phoenix/Fire/Fists/Fury/Dragon/Bruce), I shall now proceed back to my intense sessions of pure, unadulterated, hardcore Social Studies action before pausing for an hour or two (maybe three or four) session of ENGLISH PREMIER LEAGUE action.

TO THE BATMOBILE

hitting the books (and consequently everything else..)

2005-09-17T22:55:00.000+08:00

*Edit : I took about 2 weeks to slave over this. Despite this not being the best post ever, any kind words of encouragement/monetary compensation/sexual favours (pardon?) will not be amiss*

After spending the majority of Friday afternoon despairing (and drooling spastically) over my "Advanced Mathematics for Experts", my sympathetic (and disbelieving) mother and sister invited me along on one of their weekly night forages into the unchartered territories of Mustafa's. Having lost control of my jaw, I managed to splutter an ungainly "yes!" and tossed my book into a corner, where it landed with gutwrenching splat.

Being a virgin to the "Mustafa experience", I followed with an innocent wide-eyed and slackjawed expression (partially due to the fact I have not sufficiently recovered from the trauma of several hours worth of trigonometry), though once properly introduced to the (extremely cheap) perfume section, my legs, through no will of my own, slowly inexorably drew closer to the aisle - it was there which I thought I had stumbled upon a secret underground network of drug-snorting Thai tourists.

A loud exclaimation of "The F**K?" drew the attention of half a dozen spandex-clad Thai men, each of them with a bottle of Chanel perfume halfway up their left and/or right nostril. Startled, and suddenly extremely fearful for my virginity, I backtracked several steps all the while executing flawless bows and attempted to appease them by swearing fealty unto the "Village People" (they seemed to be the sort who'd like to belt out a perversion of "YMCA" while stripping half drunk), before turning around and breaking into a full sprint to sweet, heterosexual normality.

After having written this, and quite set to publish this post, I realised with a certain amount of dread, that it is highly probable within the next 5 minutes for men in white laboratory coats to storm through my front door, and drag me away for the publication of seemingly racial abuse over the Internet (I have always claimed I spare no race nor religion the lash of my sharp wit!). Do not get me wrong, I still, and forever will detest people who have no respect for a particular race or religion (or me for that matter).

As always, a loud public declaration of "F**k it" (Butlerman's favoured method of solving his problems) would do the trick, and pass me a bottle of Boss in Motion au de toilette, it's time to get high...

"It would really suck to lose to a bunch of Negroes"
Team White Trash (I might have gotten it wrong somewhere) of the Amazing Race Season 400.
(Suddenly, Butlerman's previously discarded opinions of divine influence on the weather over America makes much more sense...)
TO THE BATMOBILE

here to save the day!

2005-09-12T18:11:00.000+08:00

This is a day to remember. A moment in history to rival that of the day when M.J. turned white (so it did not happen instantaneously, but neither did this transformation).

This would mark the very first serious post on this archive of ranting (I can hear the grumbles already. "Butlerman - Serious? What the hell was he thinking!" Yes people, I do get serious occasionally. I even managed to keep a straight face when I typed that out).

As with most things I do, I shall still cheat. The following is the lyrics of a relatively new, and one of my favourite songs.

Coldplay - Fix You

When you try your best but you don't succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

And high up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

Tears stream down your face
when you lose something you cannot replace
Tears stream down your face
And I

Tears stream down your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Tears stream down your face
And I

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

TO THE BATMOBILE

dressed to kill...

2005-09-10T23:11:00.000+08:00

With much debate going on regarding the increasing trend of metrosexual males versus the decline of traditional Rambo-like icons of physique, it has managed to provoke and generate thoughts within my head to spark off another hours worth of writing (that and because I found nothing else to do on a lonely Friday evening).

It is at this point which I would clearly like to state that us Superheroes tend to be an exotic blend of both, with the clear exceptions of age-old icons of Superman and such, who go about doing their daily business looking nothing unlike swollen blue condoms.

Futile excuses made (and firmly unbelieved by the masses), I thus confess to having the occasional indulgence in narcissistic activity, such as the inherent urge to make growls and flex each time I pass by a mirror (or sexy ladies). I however, have to bear the unnecessary consequence of sweeping up the broken glass shards and/or dispose of her corpse in the most unseemly fashion.

Much to my consternation, this deep-set mentality of mine has led to greater peril for myself, where I nearly ended up being run over by a couple of petrol carriers after admiring myself in the sideview mirror on an SBS bus. Actually, all I did was trip over an old ah mah or two, and give the nearby post box a few raps with my forehead. Some awkward moments later, I found myself face down on the ground, with a poor lady's sandal within licking reach of my tongue, in one of those "how-the-fuck-did-this-happen" moments (you know, the ones that usually occur when you get your examination results back/find yourself lost in Woodlands with the only clear recent memory of yourself screaming aloud "One more glass" and all vision going black. I have yet to experience the latter, but I shall not speak too soon), and slowly gaining awareness of the cars slowing down to sneak glances at my obscene fetal position (I solemnly swear I heard an auntie whisper to her 4-year old son 'If you ever become like that ah, don't come home"). Crawling back to my feet, giving myself a dust down and a little curtsey to my newfound audience, I strode off purposely into the sunset, and making a small heartfelt vow never to give a SBS bus a second glance, nor lick a sandal.

I shall now deviate to a topic of great importance to myself, and as faithful followers of Butlerman's worthless rantings can attest to, it always is about the same thing. That being my unending devotion and worship of the Devil. Alternatively, it could be known as my more recent (unsuccessful, as always) adventures trying to woo the girl of my dreams. (I state this all down here for everyone's viewing pleasure because I have utter faith/ 40% sure that she would never read this, as much as I want her to understand my intricate fiendishly clever attempts at showing my affection and general affability), where within the last few days (recent enough to be newsworthy), she actually initiated conversation with me, which gave my heart a good old jumpstart to say the least, despite my best attempts to purge her life of all nightmares of myself (I tried that with all unwillingness possible). I state this with a certain amount of pride (hope notwithstanding) because I am nothing more then a number in the gazillion of her admirers.

The plot thickens.

TO THE BATMOBILE