Just joking

I like to crack jokes. However, not many people actually understand the jokes I made. That's where the problem comes in.

The thing is, it is not hard to laugh at my jokes. They usually consists of two layers of meanings, one superficial and the other deeper. One can laugh at the superficial while failing to catch the deeper joke entirely. One may even just laugh at the way I crack the jokes, as opposed to the jokes themselves, deeper meaning or not since, as I have been told a couple of times, I do get pretty animated sometimes.

The problem with such jokes is that I'll never know if the person got the deeper meaning or merely the superficial one. I can only assume that she did, because there is no way she could laugh so heartily at the superficial layer. Then again, I can't be too sure.

The first hint that people just aren't getting the deeper jokes came when I was an undergraduate. I was "marveling" at the N** system of allowing students to take their tests in the Lecture theatre, which was such an awesomely stupid idea since everyone can just turn around and look at each other's script without even straining. I can even lean back slightly, and see the person's script behind me! I was so amazed that I told my friend that "Hey, we can compare our answers later, and we can even discuss quietly; no one will even see us!" We had a good laugh over that. Later when we were submitting our scripts, she spotted a mistake on my script, and told me about it. Then she was surprised that I didn't want to change the answer.

That's the problem apparently. Most people think that when I made any propositions, and I want to make it sound natural, I will just pass it off as a joke, but I still meant it beneath my joking exterior. That's not true however. The case above for example, was a joke in the sense that the system was so stupid that we can actually cheat, but it is also a deeper joke in the sense that I, one of the last persons to actually want to cheat, is actually the one who suggested cheating. The first layer is a sarcastic jab at the school; the second layer is a sarcastic jab at myself for being such a goody-two-shoes.

Naturally, if you don't know me well enough to be a goody-two-shoes, you wouldn't know the second layer of the joke. Or, if you don't know me well enough to know I always make layered jokes, you also won't know from the joke that I actually considered myself to be a goody-two-shoes.

Why do I want to make layered jokes then? Just stick to the simple ones you say. Well, for one, layered jokes are more fun. Any tom, dick or harry can do some piece of slapstick humor. It is only when you throw in some intellectual thinking into the joke, that you see the real fun of it. It is like a secret shared between the teller and his audience, all the more fun because it is unspoken yet perfectly understood. Douglas Adams once said this of Monty Python, that it made him realise "comedy was a medium in which extremely intelligent people could express things that simply couldn't be expressed any other way." That was the spirit of my jokes methink, or at least, I aim to have that spirit.

Again, the problem crops up; how many people would actually understand the intelligent jokes, or how many would bother to try? In my previous post, how many actually got the joke in the last two lines? And did I really mean it when I say that the electronic ordering system was stupid? You will be surprised at how many people actually didn't get it.

This problem creates some additional problems. Some people, owing to a misunderstanding of my jokes, or a failure to appreciate the deeper layer, think that I am egoistic (in fact usually when I am jokingly self-deprecating), callous (when I joke about leaving people who I care about in the lurch; I wouldn't joke about it if they were people I don't care about), or vulgar (I don't even want to imagine why). Which would explain why some people took an intense dislike to me, and some of the weird comments that I am really egoistic and like.

Maybe I ought to add a disclaimer each time I make a joke, to emphasize that it is just a joke. Something like "Hahaa, JUST JOKING."

In a perfect world, there is no need for such disclaimers. But apparently this is not that world.

Jokes with double meanings are double the fun, but it can get a little lonely in a world where no one understands them. Even something seems to be lost the minute I actually declare that "Hahaa, just joking." Something IS lost already the minute I wrote this post.

SME

Fans of Macdonald's breakfasts would know the agony of ordering the best meal on the breakfast menu: a Sausage McMuffin with egg meal.

For one, your tongue has no business twisting around seven syllables first thing in the morning. And if you take your time mouthing the words, chances are by the time you said "A sausage... McMuffin..." the cashier would have registered your order as a Sausage mcMuffin meal, which god knows is the worst meal on the menu, and woe be on you to try to retract that order.

The Macdonald's staff however have a way around that particular problem. They never had to shout across the restaurant first thing in the morning, "A sausage McMuffin with egg meal!", "Another sausage McMuffin with egg meal!", "Yet another sausage McMuffin with egg meal goddammit!" If they had, it would be obvious that god wouldn't patron Macdonald's very often. As it is, they shout this instead, "One SME, please!", "Another SME!" Or they would if the latest electronic ordering system had not been put in place, which is a stupid idea anyway--there is nothing like listening to the staff shouting one SME, two SMEs first thing in the morning.

The funny thing is, I had never dared to place that order instead. I know if I did, the Macdonalds staff would go "Huh? What SME? SMRT is to the left of Jurong Point. Please refer to the menu and place your order accordingly." Or they would if they had a Bachelor's degree in English at Cambridge. They would probably just go "Huh?" and look blankly at me. Then I would have to explain that I actually wanted "a Sausage McMuffin with egg meal", whereupon they would nod and shout across the restauarant "one SME, please!"

It is like a special code word, something that is unique to the Macdonald's staff. Coming from a patron, it wouldn't make any sense, but it would if it were coming from another Macdonald's staff. It is like if you were riding on one of the SMRT trains, and an aunty, who moments ago had mulishly squeezed in through the train doors just as it was opening, turned to you and said, "Do you have Being? " You would go "Huh?", or think that she is asking if you are a Beng, even though it is perfectly clear English and even though half of the Philosophy department would agree that it is perfectly non-rubbish.

So it is with a kind of philosophical respect that I avoid using "SME" with the Macdonald's staff. Let them have their own special way of speaking I'd say; if the Continentals can do it, why not them?

There is however, one particular thing which I am wondering at. I mentioned earlier that the Sausage McMuffin meal is the worst on the menu. Which is rather a pity, because I have never seen anyone ordering it. Why is it a pity however?

Well the reason is rather simple. Suppose one had said "One Sausage McMuffin meal, please." What then would the Macdonald's staff shout across the restaurant?

"One SM, please!"

Gladly, around the back, please.

Fly — previously published in my old blog

Born in the dark alleys, amidst heaps of rotting refuse, this is no ordinary fly. On the day it was born, an incandescent white dove had glided overhead, portending a great fly in the wait. Its mother had decided on the spot that its going to be named after the auspicious dove, but had been unable to convey her decision since she was immediately eaten up by the auspicious bird.

The fly is, naturally, unaware of its mother's misfortune, nor of its own name. It had earned its own name in its own right; having lived a total of 2 months, it is already one of the most experienced fly around.

The fly has one abnormality; it is born with a squint: the left eye tends to wander. That is to say, while other flies see a thousand images reflected in their thousands facets of both eyes, this fly sees double that. It might have accounted for its longevity, it might not.

Altogether, it is a humble fly. It has no illusions about the future; one day is as good as any, so long as it could roll about in the dumps every nightfall, and perform the dance with some females every now and then. That has on occasions, led to no small embarrassment--til now, he couldn't quite figure out how to tell the females from the males. The only consolation being the rest of the community similarly in the state of confusion.

Suddenly something jolts it out its reverie. Whirling quickly towards the origin of the smell, its myriads of small eyes zooms in on a plate of prawns lying innocently on a table. The smell of the thing overwhelmed its head, and it made a beeline for it.

A slight change in the air pressure is all the warning it got. Flipping itself desperately, it somersaults in two tight loops, the extra momentum carrying it narrowly beyond the path of a black fly swat passing through the strip of air it occupied a moment ago.

There is a slight pause. As though the owner of the fly swat is surprised at the miss.

Then the air erupts in a flurry of blows, coming in from all directions, seeking to squash the fly in its ever tightening range. The fly clamps down on its teeth, dodging the millions of swipes it sees, slipping through the gaps in between the strokes. It is a matter of life and death, literally.

An orange coloured fly swat joins in the fray, and the air is practically humming with death. But still, it has not lived its life thus far for nought: every feint is quickly seen through, every killing stroke carefully averted.

Abruptly, a pair of chopsticks weaves in amidst the wild swipes of the two flyswats, and would have crushed the fly between its metal vises had it not seen it coming head on, so silent it has been. As it is, the chopsticks only missed its left antenna by mere nano-inches. A martial arts exponent, it thought, judging from the efficient way it reaches in from afar and withdrawing just as fast to allow for the swinging of the swats.

The split second it is distracted, it finds itself being pursued in the horizontal path of the black swat. Cursing itself inwardly, it tries to angle off left before climbing. It soon realises its mistake when the orange swat swerves with frightening speed in midstroke to meet the black swat with the full intention of catching it in between.

With a desperation it is coming to feel, it flattens its wings and banks sharply, plunging downwards, spiralling furiously between the two rapidly narrowing swats. It clears the fatal runway at the last instant before the two swats rams into each other; spiralling brings it face to face with the two hideous swats screaming past its face that set its teeth chattering with the sheer force of it just before they clamped shut.

For a moment, it could see bits and pieces of the previous victims that had fallen under the twin weapons; appendages and abdomens frozen forever in the cracks and folds of the swats.

More by instinct than anything, it kicks with all its strength at the two swats just as it clears them, adding to the air impact, propelling it even further from the swats, thus barely avoiding the chopsticks as it snaps at the spot it has vacated split seconds earlier.

Wings almost a blur, it flings itself away from the table. A dozens rubber bands followed it, dashing themselves against the wall with a loud smack when they missed.

Escaped! The fly exults in triumph. It could hear the exclamations of the hairless apes in the distance. "No fly have escaped my swat for years!" "THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE! IT GOT PAST MY CHOPSTICKS!"

So much for the martial arts exponents, the fly thought smugly, that wasn't too hard...

WHAM!

A toddler lifts one of its pudgy foot, exposing the half flatten fly.

"Where did it go?!?"

"Quick, find it!"

Drawing breath is a mighty effort, but the fly grits its teeth, resolutely keeping its eyes closed. It has been through situations like this, as long as it keeps its cool, recovery is not a problem, playing dead is only...

WHAM WHAM WHAM

The toddler bends to examine the gooey remains of the fly, fascinated at how the insides of the fly possess a distinctly different colour from the fly itself.

The search for the fly continued, but the apes never found it.

Left lying desolately in a corner, the grave of a legend never to be found again remained unmarked, all alone.

Debate -- previously published in my old blog

Note: This is just for fun, if you are that kind that would scream Blasphemy everytime anything supernatural is mentioned, you best not read on. Its just for fun yah, and I am not poking fun at any religion.

At a Philosophy conference, a highly sophisticated debate on the existence of god is going on. For the benefit of the larger non-philosophically inclined audience out there, the actual debate is translated into easy to understand language, leaving out the technical terms.

Philosopher A: God exist because...

Philosopher B injected: God doesn't exist.

A : He does.

B: Doesn't.

A: Does!

B: Doesn't!!!

A banged on the table for effect, knocking over his glass of water in the process, and screamed back: DOES!!!!!!!

B did exactly the same thing, though cleverly exchanging the 'does' with a 'doesn't', which was regarded as a very neat move by the seated audience who gave him an ovation.

A composed himself visibly after having obviously lost the first round of debate, cleared his throat and started again: God exist because...

B: ...doesn't.

A ignored him and continued: because the Bible says so.

B jumped to his feet, and was pushed back into his seat by his colleagues for his trouble, but shot back anyway: And why should we trust the Bible?

A: Because the Bible is based on the words of God.

B: and?

A: and the words of God are always true.

B: So you are saying God says he exist, so he exist???

A: yes!!!

God appeared with a poof in the middle of the conference room, and interrupted: NOW I DON'T THINK I SAID THAT EXACTLY; I AM NOT EVEN SURE I EXIST.

Jaws around the room began dropping onto the floor, much to the consternation of the janitors who had to sweep up after the debate.

A jumped to his feet and exclaimed: Ah ha! The final and crushing proof! By His very appearance!

B: wait a minute! How do we even know he is He? This is a philosophical debate for heaven's sake, the last thing we need is the real thing! We need theoretical proofs! We refuse to believe in anything even if it is there, unless you can write it down in paper for us to read!

A: hmm, yah. prove that you are God first.

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO?

A: like turn this table into solid gold?

He turned the table into solid gold.

LIKE THIS?

B: Can you turn him into a pig? (points at A)

A: Why you... ! Why do you.... oink oink oink oink.. want to turn me into.... Whats everybody laughing at?

LIKE THIS?

B: how about creating a rock that you cant lift?

He created a rock that he cant lift.

LIKE THIS?

B: Ah ha! so you are conceding that there is something that you cant do afterall! You cant lift the rock, so you are not omnipotent!

OH, YOU WANT ME TO LIFT THAT ROCK?

He went and lift that rock.

B: Then you didnt create a rock that you cant lift in the first place! You are still not omnipotent!

OK DUDE.

He created a bigger rock.

I CAN'T LIFT THAT NOW.

B: Not omnipotent!

YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, I AM A DYNAMIC GOD. WHEN YOU ASKED ME TO CREATE THAT ROCK, I CAN'T LIFT IT, BUT WHEN YOU ASK ME TO LIFT IT, I CAN. GET IT?

A: But God is not supposed to be dynamic...

LOOK, SMART ASS. WHO'S THE GOD HERE, YOU OR ME?

B: But if God is dynamic, then nothing in the world would be static. What about moral laws? Rights and wrongs. They would be totally dynamic as well then?

WHAT MAKES YOU THINK THEY ARE NOT?

B: What makes you think they are?

COS I CREATED THEM.

B: and how would I know that?

THATS MY POINT, YOU DON'T. SO I FORGIVE YOU, AMEN.

A: Wait a minute. Just now when you appeared, you said you don't even know if you yourself exist.

YUP, THATS CORRECT, OLD BOY.

A: Do you know about Descartes?

ARE YOU DOUBTING MY ALL-KNOWING ASPECT NOW?

A: eh... no. thats just a perfunctory question.

I KNOW.

A: err.... ok nvm. Back to Descartes, you cant don't know that if you exist.

WHY?

A: Do you doubt that you exist?

THATS WHAT I AM SAYING.

A: But the very act of doubting reaffirms a mind. You doubt, you can think, therefore you exist.

NEGATIVE.

A: huh?

HOW DO YOU KNOW I CAN DOUBT? YOU ARE NOT ME.

A: well, you just said you can, didnt you?

AH HA! YOU THINK I SAID I CAN DOUBT, BUT HOW CAN YOU BE SURE I AM NOT MERELY PART OF YOUR IMAGINATION?

A: well... are you then?

NO.

A: So you can doubt, and exist?

HOW DO YOU KNOW IF WHAT I JUST TOLD YOU IS NOT PART OF YOUR IMAGINATION?

A: well...

SO I DON'T KNOW IF I EXIST.

A (feebly): but you can know...

CHUCK THAT LINE OF THOUGHT ALREADY.

He then proceed to disappear with another poof, taking the solid gold table with him, sending the academic papers resting peacefully on it a moment ago flying into the air.

Questions

A list of important questions which I am preoccupied with these days:

1. What thesis topic?

2. If two events A and B each individually determine a third event, why do we need event B, given that event A exists?

3. Should I do a PhD? Or should I get a job in Singapore?

4. Who do I like?

5. Who loves me?

6. Am I smart? Or was I merely lucky thus far?

Words are all I have

I have never subscribed to the view that “a picture is worth a thousand words.” To me, that seems plainly wrong. To describe a picture in words never serves to capture the essence of it--not the barest outline. What you have before you, a painting, when described, is merely an elaborate name which you have just given to it, a baptism of sorts, but never accurate. Taken in isolation, the description just given would never have evoked in another person the picture which you saw.

That, some would say, is exactly what the phrase meant, that the picture is much more than words can do. But that in itself is a mistake, for to compare pictures with words is to assume they have at least some grounds of comparison, when they are in fact, as different as possibly can be.

Yet that is not to say words are inferior to pictures. In certain ways, words are markedly superior in producing images in the mind of which the greatest painters could not hope to emulate. For the painters, for all their creative geniuses, could only show their audience a single image; different interpretations to be sure, but nonetheless a single image. Words could do better; a certain description of a single scene could produce in its readers completely different images, not to mention having its own myriad of interpretations at the same time. In the world of words, sight and sound come together to form a tapestry of life, a moving 3 dimensional, real time successions of colorful events with you at the center of all, a silent observer of events as they play out in full color and vibrancy all around you.

A simple description like “It was a dreary day, full of smog and gloom, as I sat crowded in a morning bus, watching the pavement crept by” is both simple and rich at the same time, hinting at images beyond what it described, of the other vehicles crowding the road producing the dreaded smog; of the rush of the morning as students and commuters crowding each other in the morning bus, each hoping for more speed than the laden vehicle could give. One could imagine the oppressive feeling of being in that bus, and the underlying mood of the author, which is at once interspersed amongst the imageries conjured up in one’s mind. All these, needless to say, cannot be captured in the entirety by a 2-dimensional canvas, not even in a moving theatre of holographic images.

Kaisen Maki!

I was at Jurong Point today with my sis, shopping for some takeaway sushi. Then I spotted this.



A closer look



OMG, "Kaisen Maki"? People actually eat this? I don't know whether to feel honored or afraid. If you don't know why, I'm not going to tell you. haha

Latest update: I realised that "Kaisen Maki" could actually be a typo for "Kaizen Maki" which is a sushi described as made with "eel, flying fish roe, cucumber and melon with wasabi." Not a surprising typo since I took the photo on the 24th of Aug, whereas the packaging shows it "was" packed on the 25th.

chinese

I happened to catch a snatch of chinese news today on the tv, and it was reporting on some singer who held a concert somewhere, who apparently performed exceedingly well. What caught my attention however was how the reporter described the performance as hauntingly beautiful which made all the audience, this is the interesting part, "听出耳油."

Which meant, literally, that some yellow fluid is dripping out of your ears.

Now that's one really disturbing image. Imagine you are seated in a posh concert hall, with few hundred people all dressed to the nines, all holding their breath to a hauntingly beautiful melody. And suddenly, as the melody reaches its crescendo, you feel something wet creeping down your auditory canal. And you slowly realized, that out of the ears of the mesmerized audience, something yellow is dripping out slowly, staining velvet coats and bare shoulders in a persistent stream...

Bleagh.

Well it is only a metaphor I guess, but one couldn't help feeling that it is a rather crass one. Certainly not one to inspire the feeling of beauty when applied to any piece of music. Not unless it's a music designed to magically clean out your ear canal.

Change

"Calvin: Know what I pray for?
Hobbes: What?
Calvin: The strength to change what I can, the inability to accept what I can't, and the incapacity to tell the difference."--Bill Waterson

Slack

Sometimes it seems that life is about being happy. And if being happy involves doing nothing much other than slacking around, doing things that we like, or not thinking about unhappy thoughts, then we ought to be doing exactly that.

The trick however, is being able to slack around, doing things that we like, and not think about unhappy thoughts. One got to make a living after all, even if living is about being happy, you need food at the very least to carry on doing that. And if you try to earn your bread, in all possibilities the three important things outlined above are going to be quickly crowded out of your life. What then?

The balance seems to be somewhere between getting a job with no life and getting a life with no bread; we want a job that gives money, but minimal or no work is required. Is there such a job? Yes, being an academic. Or more specifically, being a philosophy academic. Other areas of academia like the social sciences does an admirable job of not doing any real work under the pretense of "research", but philosophy carries it to the extremes, where the only "research" involves racking your brains for a viable thesis topic. You don't even need to survey pesky undergraduates, or run babies through a lab maze. You don't even need to get out of bed.

In many ways, my thinking is affected by this ancient chinese philosopher Chuangzi. If you read his works, you will understand what I mean--he advocates not doing anything that might put you under undue stress or unhappiness, or indeed doing anything at all. In an early chapter of his book Chuangzi, he speaks of the Weiqi master who died young due to brilliance, and the zitherist who vomitted blood over his art. Later on, he speaks approvingly of the tree which has a crooked trunk and soft wood which is totally incapable of fashioning into anything, whereas the nice and straight hardwood due to its excellent quality, gets chopped down very early in its career precisely for those qualities.

My calligraphy teacher once advised me that Chuangzi is not a good read for young people. The young should be full of drive and ambitions; they should want things they couldn't achieve and do things that are severely stupid. Chuangzi teaches the exact opposite. I kinda agree with him now. Such a lifestyle tend to drag into monotony, and it seems way too early to be concentrating on putting one foot after another to live your life out.

That said, I have ambitions enough for ten people (judging from the ambitions some people around me has), so I haven't really been following what Chuangzi says to the word. I do however slack a lot. That's following the spirt of the word isn't it? Though that probably isn't a good idea, much better had it been the other way round right?

Or not, probably better if I had been able to throw Chuangzi entirely. On the other hand, if I had, I wouldn't be able to enjoy life, doing the things that I like, slack a bit, and not think about unhappy things. Maybe I'm good the way I am. haha

Weekends only

Last night was wonderful, but for the movie. And even the movie was great, just that the seating wasn't: we were in the front row of the theatre and right smack in the center. We had to crane our necks almost 90deg to watch the show, and I could feel a headache coming on even while they were showing the trailers.

That said, The Dark Knight is nonetheless a great show. It's just that I couldn't remember much of it since my brain was continually drained of its juices while watching it. Watch it for The Joker though.

Phd

Stole this from the PHD comic, so if you find it interesting, do visit the site itself (and hopefully by this exhortation, the author wouldn't sue me for stealing his comic). http://www.phdcomics.com/





The horrifying truth behind my career move. Or rather, my "non-career" move.

Stand up for yourself

I was at the gym today, doing my lats pull-down, while behind me was a kid, around 18-19 years old, stretching in preparation, I think, for the barbell press machine. This was when suddenly, a stocky man of around 40+ rushed into the gyming area with his bag and everything, threw his towel on the barbell press machine, and rushed off back to the locker area to deposit his bag. He certainly took his time after the act of “chopping” the machine, for he even went to the toilet and sauntered about the gym.

When he returned to the machine, the kid approached him and asked if he can share the machine by taking turns. The stocky bastard refused by saying, ” I am only just starting my sets.” And the stupid kid just stood there and took it. In the end, the kid waited for nearly 30mins, doing nothing much, while the stocky bastard strutted around the gym with his chest out doing one set of exercise here and another there, taking his time chatting with his gym friends, returning only occasionally to use the barbell press, all the while leaving his towel on it to prevent the kid from using.

What’s the use of going to gym if you cannot even stand up for yourself; you are just inviting people to step all over you. The kid should have stopped the man immediately when he was trying to put his towel on the machine saying “Sorry, I am using this machine. And no, you couldn’t share it even if you asked, which you didn’t, because you are such a bastard.” At the very least, the kid could have insisted on sharing, explaining that he was there first.

That’s the problem with Singaporeans nowadays. They have no manners, and they dare not stand up for themselves. If your toes got stepped on in the MRT, you would keep quiet and pretend that you didn’t mind that at all. No one would bother to apologise. And you would pretend that you didn’t mind that either. If some retard blew his stinking cigarette smoke in your face, you would just pretend to enjoy it until he left and you glare menacingly at his back.

In this world, justice only exists if you enforce it. Waiting for divine retribution? Do you think God is going to kick his ass in heaven just because he has no manners? Or perhaps you think retribution comes in more intangible form, like a guilty conscience. Some assholes simply don't have that; they can lead their whole lives out happily cutting queues, happily barfing on your bag, and going around happily beating people up. You can console yourself thinking that these bad actions surely will have repercussions for them in the long run, but it is just going to be pathetic wishful thinking on your part.

Sports injuries

Newly acquired:

1. Left jaw. Got punched in the jaw today in exchange for a punch in the chest. Not a particularly clever exchange.

2. Left knee. Not sure if injured from too much karate or gym.

Old, and healing injuries:

3. Right index finger. Injured while blocking a kick.

4. Right pinky. Injured when my fist and my opponent's fist meet.

Old, and not healing well injuries:

5. Right thumb. Injured while doing finger push-ups for fun. Constantly aggravated while punching.

6. Right big toe. Injured from slipping on opponent's sweat. Really evil, that.

Assorted injuries:

7. There was a bruise on my chest from being repeatedly slammed by a japanese sensei. It's gone now.

8. Abrasions and blisters everywhere on my feet.

Heaven and Hell

An assassin working for an evil feudal lord in ancient times had a wildly successful career getting rid of his lord's enemies, until his lord was assassinated by some other assassin, thus ending the evil reign and his particularly lucrative job. Following the reign of peace brought on by the death of the evil feudal lord, the assassin was sorely out of job, and lacking other skills, he became a farmer and led his life out farming on some desolate plot of dirt.

When he died, the assassin arrived at the gates of Heaven. Nonplussed, he went up to the gatekeeper who was standing behind a podium twenty feet high.

"Excuse me. Has there been a mistake of some sort? I don't think I'm supposed to be here."

The gatekeeper looked up from the huge tome he was bending over, and flashed the assassin a wry smile. "You are worried that you arrived before the gates of Heaven?"

"Well, yes. I don't want to get my hopes high, you know? I mean, there's no way I can be going to Heaven, and I think I'd rather go straight to Hell, instead of lurking around in Heaven for a while before they realize there's a mistake and kick me out. It'll be a double torture."

"If that's the way you would have it," said the gatekeeper. "Your name, please?"

The assassin told him.

The gatekeeper consulted the huge tome briefly, leafing through it with inhuman speed, before finally looking up. "Well it appears all in order. You are due for Heaven, and not too soon too."

Taken aback, though not too unpleasantly so, the assassin was lost for words for a moment.

"And it appears that you have done quite a lot of good too. A well deserved stay for you I must say."

"What?" the assassin blurted out. "Did you know that I was an assassin for an evil feudal lord? I kill people to earn my keep!"

"Yes," the gatekeeper agreed, "an assassin for an evil feudal lord who killed many good people all intent on plotting against the feudal lord.

"Good life." added the gatekeeper.

"What?"

"Very good life in fact."

"Look," the assassin persevered, "Are you saying I am going into Heaven for killing all these good people? Is this some kind of a joke?"

"No, god, no! " The gatekeeper was taken aback by the suggestion.

"Good, I thought that was rather implausible too..."

"In Heaven, we don't joke about such things. You are precisely going into Heaven for killing all these good people."

"What?"

"Let me put it into perspective for you. You have," explained the gatekeeper, "sent a commendable number of people into Heaven. Heaven, as you know it and as advertised, is a place of unlimited or infinite goodness, where only good people reside. By sending people into Heaven, these people get to enjoy an infinity of goodness and happiness. By extension, since you are the one who sent them here, you have generated an infinite amount of goodness and happiness in this world. There is no greater good than that a mortal can achieve. You are, metaphorically speaking, the Charon of Heaven."

A metaphor in bad taste too, thought the assassin. But he was not to be put off.

"You know, that sounds very philosophical and deep to me, and I kind of like it since the outcome of all that is I get to go to Heaven. But seriously speaking, if you ask me, it sounds like bullshit to me, if you don't mind."

"Had you not sent those good people to Heaven when you did," continued the gatekeeper, pretending that the assassin hadn't spoken, "the good people would have continued plotting against your evil feudal lord, and we have very good statistical data that they might eventually succeed in the absence of assassination attempts made on their lives, and replace the evil feudal lord with their own rule, whereupon it is highly probable that they will do heinous acts of the most unspeakable sort. These good people would hence be unable to qualify for Heaven, which is the place for only good people.

"In fact," the gatekeeper continued in conspiratorial tones, "these good people are rather grateful to you for sending them here. I hear they drink an occasional toast to you."

Whatever, thought the assassin, I'm not going to refuse the cake that's dropped into my hands. Particularly not against such a rubbish argument.

"Enjoy your stay," said the gatekeeper, "and don't worry about it. Worrying is outlawed in Heaven." The gatekeeper winked, tapping against a sign which says "Worrying is outlawed in Heaven."

The assassin turned to go, then suddenly stopped. He approached the gatekeeper again, who was beginning to find him an annoyance.

"Where's the other assassin? I've always wanted to meet him, you know? I don't even know who did it."

"Who are you referring to?" asked the gatekeeper.

"The other assassin who killed my evil feudal lord, who ended the evil reign and my job. He's something, I give him that. He must be here somewhere, right?"

"Oh that guy." said the gatekeeper. "He's in Hell."

"What?" exclaimed the assassin. "What did he do?"

"Apparently he sent some evil feudal lord into Hell. Since Hell, as you know it and as advertised, is a place of infinite badness and unhappiness..."

"You know what? I think just screw this. Where're the stairs?"

"What?"

"I said, where're the stairs. I'm going down."

Bugs

There is a dead dragonfly in my room.

Which is weird, considering how dragonflies haven't been seen in my area for the past 5 years. Nor the past 6 years. Or the past 8 years. Actually it has never been seen in my area, and now there's one dead in my room.

What is really weird, is that not too long ago, yifeng gave me a handicraft dragonfly from vietnam, and it is currently sitting on top of my bookshelf. Which is where the real dragonfly lay dead at the foot of, as if it died in the last-ditch attempt to reach my wooden dragonfly. Poor fool. I wonder if it really thought my wooden dragonfly is alive.

Now it lay dead under my bed. I have no idea if I should sweep it away with a broom, or just let it be. It looked so elegant, and fragile--sweeping it away seems a sacrilege, much less dumping it into a dustbin.

Talking about bugs reminds me of the dream I had last night. I have really strange dreams these days. Dreams which involves you randomly teleporting from one place to another aren't the strange ones; what is strange are the ones which almost seem to make sense, but not quite, and you have absolutely no idea what brought them on. Like finding yourself in a study group of five, and a maths professor assigning to you a thick book of maths questions to be finished by group effort.

Which is when I find myself staring at a container (a pencil box?) with a HUGE caterpillar crawling slowly at the bottom of it. My fellow (maths) group mates were freaking out slightly from it, so I reached in, freaking out a little myself, to haul it out. But before I touched it, or rather the paper it was crawling on, suddenly I was beset on by a cloud of little bright red ladybugs, flung on me from all sides, possibly by my group mates. I couldn't tell, all I can see were the little red ladybugs which were landing on me everywhere, humming slightly. Strangely, I wasn't as freaked out by the ladybugs as I was by the giant caterpillar, though I did run about trying to fend them off.

I have no idea what that dream meant, nor how I come to dream of it. Guess it's a absolutely meaningless dream. Just like this post.

rain

It's raining now. It hasn't been raining for a really long time lately, especially this particular kind of rain. It's a kind of mindless kind of splattering rain, not at all like the downpours that fall with a vengeance, nor like the spluttering rain like an engine about to die on you. This is a rain that says "I don't care" as it falls lazily, with sleepy thunder rumbling in the distance, so dense that it could form a curtain obscuring your vision of the distant hills.

This rain reminds me of the time when I was in NS, when we were still in Signals. When I was in NS, we would occasionally get deployed for exercise in our signal vehicles, subjected to the whims of the division commander. There was once I got deployed to Amakeng, which is a restricted army exercise area just beside the Amakeng old folks home. The rain that was falling then is exactly the same kind that is falling now: lazy with a statement.

An interesting side note, my officer told me the restriction on the army area isn't exactly that rigorously being enforced apparently. When we were driving into the area, I could see some villagers looking people waiting before the gate in the rain, waiting for us to open the gate and drive in. When we did open the gate, they walked passed our whole convoy of army vehicles, passed us who were all carrying rifles across our backs and with bayonets on our waists, and walked nonchalently into the restricted army area, disappearing before long into the bushes and trees. My officer told me that these are farmers who grew vegetables inside the restricted area, and they are apparently going to openly harvest them now that we opened the gate. How's that for guts huh? We obviously can't just shoot them, so we studiously ignored them.

Amakeng is really like some rural area, perhaps the last surviving countryside left here. There are even lots of fruit trees scattered around, growing wild. After we set up our vehicles and comms, sometimes we would roam the area looking for durians. We did find some, and they were good, not like the lousy small durians found in Pulau ubin. One of us even plucked a papaya, which unfortunately caused him to sign a lot of extras when he picked it and left in his vehicle, forgotten till it rotted and stank the whole place up.

However, when it is raining like it is now, we weren't able to go booty hunting. For normal army units, raining means a chance of lightning, and if Cat. 1 is sounded, all exercise would be off for fear of lightning strikes. For us signal units, it means hurry up set up your vehicle, put up the 10 stories high antenna and establish communications before you get fucked or struck by lightning, whichever is first.

And establishing communications in the rain is especially hard, if not impossible. For my vehicle, it's worse. My radio sets date back to WW2, and at the best of times, only bloody single-mindedness allowed me to establish comms after hours of tuning and adjusting the antenna. When it is raining like it is now, getting the radio sets to work is like praying for a miracle, which involve alternatingly tuning the radio and going out into the rain to shake the antenna like an idiot trying to get struck by lightning.

Finally after several hours when the comms are established, the rain would disappear, leaving us to steam slightly in our wet clothes under the hot sun. It is entirely more likely that, however, we managed to establish the comms only because the rain is gone.

Bitches and bastards

Today I was going to have my lunch at the Jurong Point food court when I noticed the woman just in front of me in the queue at the food stall has an arm in a splint. She's middle aged or more, with that singaporean auntie look, and she was hogging the front of the stall, moving to and fro inspecting the utensils, and what-nots. When her food was ready, she paid up slowly, and inspected her receipt with deep concentration, frowning at it slightly even though she could probably see quite well. She's not that old, as you might have thought from the description I provided, but she moved with the speed of my grandmother. It is obvious that her slowness is due to slow wits, rather than the injured arm.

Then she tried to leave with her tray of food, trying with obvious effort to rest most of the weight of the tray on her good hand while the other balances the tray from the side. It is also obvious that she can't make it beyond two steps. So I stopped her and offered to carry her tray to her table.

She directed me to a table some distance away. The table isn't empty. Someone, dressed in long sleeves shirt and looking like a yuppie is sitting at the table, punching leisurely at his handphone whilst waiting. He didn't even look up as a stranger, me, set his mom's food beside him. At least, I think she is his mom. (I observed them later; the aunty was chatting lightly, with the guy looking slightly bored. An almost sure mom-son sign.) The fucker just went on punching on his handphone, almost like food service is common at the food court.

I had the urge to grab his collar and shake some sense into him, asking him why the fuck he didn't buy food for his mom, who has her arm in a splint and nearly just spewed her food all over the floor. In the end a stranger has to carry her food which she obviously couldn't handle, and the dressed to the nines son didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed.

The aunty thanked me profusely with another slow-witted look on her face, but I wasn't impressed. It's as much her own fault for producing such a son, and she didn't even look faintly embarrassed by her son's behavior.

Sometimes I really wonder. There are people who look smart, dress well and speak well, but deep within them seems to be devoid of any moral core. These yuppies, and I have seen any number of them, have something seriously lacking in their upbringing. Maybe that's what you get if you spend most of your time deciding what clothes to wear, which cologne to use, and going to facial and spa every other day. Just yesterday I saw a girl on the train, dressed in such a way that a blind man would look twice, seated at the corner seat, staring at a pregnant woman who got in just after the girl sat down. I saw the considering look in the girl's eyes, directed at the pregnant woman's belly, but after a moment, apparently dismissed the woman from her mind. No one else got up to offer a seat either. A thorough bitch. I for one didn't look twice at her.

Vegetarians

Philosophy is the only discipline I know of which has so profoundly and seditiously affected its practitioners' daily lives; of the graduate and undergraduate students in my department, four are vegetarians, two other eat only fish other than vegetables, and this is only out of a grand total of 20+ people in the whole department. And that's not counting my professor who is also a vegetarian.

The interesting thing is, none of them are vegetarians for religious reasons. They cite ethical issues to do with the preparation of meat, the very idea of slaughtering animals just for food, the pain visited on the animals in killing them; the very last reason is also the reason why some only eat fish, since there has been studies done to show that fish don't in fact feel pain. Maybe they can't even understand the concept of death--they don't have a fish brain for nothing.

And I have, at least, seriously considered going vegetarian before. But I love my meat too much, and giving in to irrationality, resolved not to think too much about what I am eating. Besides, I have yet to come up with a satisfying argument for myself for not eating meat, given the fact that many species of animals, including man, are naturally evolved to eat and digest meat. But above all, I have a very practical reason not to go vegetarian: my mum would scream and throw me out of the house, refusing to even cook rice for me if I dare to breathe a word of "vegetarian". And then my dad would follow me into going vegetarian, whereupon my mum will scream and drag me back to claw the hell out of me, forcing me to recant. For the sake of avoiding a family tragedy, I refuse to think anymore about going vegetarian.

So, my friends, if you are thinking that eating vegetarian might be a good lifestyle choice for you, leave me a message, or give me a call--I have altogether five pure vegetarians and two not so pure vegetarians for you to choose from, though one of them should be pretty tough due to age.

Subconscious mirroring

We all do unconscious mirroring, sometimes, to some degree. Some self-help books on imaging, office politics, or interviews recommend doing that in order to build better relationships with your friends, your colleagues and sucking up to your bosses. The general lines to go about doing it is to copy your target's little gestures, leaning back in your seat as he does, crossing your arms if he crosses, breathe to the same rhythm, and pretending to accidentally step in another pile of poo if he did so too.

The danger is that your target might notice your mirroring, and instead of forming a subconscious liking for you, he might be put off, or worse, think that you are mocking him. Hence it is vital, according to the experts, that you keep your mirroring gestures small, natural and entirely unnoticeable. At least to the conscious eye.

However, for the uninitiated, we don't really need to try all that hard. Friends mirror each other whenever they sit and talk, or walk alongside each other. We relax when the others slag visibly in their chairs, lean forward if he does so while talking, and generally walk to the same pace with the same swagger. (This brings us to an interesting observation: if a friend leans back away from you when you lean forward, you have a very clear signal that he/she isn't being very comfortable around you.)

All this is very fine and good, since we want our friends to be comfortable around us, and like us to say the least. However, things can get a little annoying when strangers start to mirror you, also subconsciously. Behold the pedestrian on the sidewalk who obviously was torn between two directions, and just as you were passing him, he would miraculously, and usually to his own surprise too, choose the direction which you are walking in, and walk shoulders to shoulders to you, in tandem, two people crowding a sideway which is empty for miles.

Or the obnoxious smelling man on the train, who seems to lean onto you with every lurch of the train, giving off a smell which only in the best of moods you would call "homely"; each time you lean forward ever so surreptitiously in your seat to escape the smell, he would lean forward after a minute's lag time, totally unconscious that he is doing so simply because his subconscious saw you doing it at the edge of his vision. And if you get up early the moment the train doors closed on the stop before yours, to escape the stench, he would get up early too, ambling along the train corridor after you with that vacant eyed look. All the while his subconscious is spinning up stories why he needed to lean forward due to a creak in the back, or why he needed to get up early due to the crowd in the train. He didn't follow me anymore after we got off the train; I hired someone to take him out.

To the people who know, subconscious mirroring by strangers are irritating, especially since you cannot stop them from mirroring you short of stripping yourself naked and start dancing in the train. Now you know too, being my readers, and I shall gladden my heart with knowing that henceforth I will not be the only one being irritated by subconscious mirroring by strangers.