Mawi

Mawi. The very mention of his name alone would invite a sudden fit of violent convulsive reaction from my whole body. And when he pops out on the TV screen, or on the various billboards along the highway, or in advertisements in the newspapers, I would instantly suffer from some kind of an allergic reaction while my stomach would churn copious amount of unknown chemicals together with last night’s meals ever ready to make their way up my oesophagus, pass my throat, into my mouth and out into the open air. And whenever he opens that stupid mouth of his, while holding the microphone, in an exercise which he and his crew of monkeys call “singing”, I would just wish that Wahap Patail would go bonkers and buy a gun and shoot him, right there, right then!

Ron Jeremy. A fat-arsed, ugly, balding and probably smelly-as-a-pig man with a 9-inch dick. He is proof that every man can get a fuck with beautiful sexy bitches! Never mind class. Put aside refinement. Just pure lustful sex. Unadulterated with passion and irrelevant matters like, well, love. That is Ron Jeremy. And if you all are wondering why I am talking about Ron Jeremy in an article about Mawi, well, here it is. Mawi, to me, is like Ron Jeremy! Minus the 9 inches, that is. A totally talentless, unrefined, uncultured, naïve boy, plucked from somewhere between Dumb City and Hopeless Town, thrust into the limelight by some kind of a media miracle in a freak show called Akademi Fantasia.

Yes, Akademi Fantasia. That circus where they group up young and predominantly Malay Malaysians for 3 months or so; video cam everything they do; teach them how to dance and sing and doll them up at night; parade them every week to the ever gullible public; have 3 senior has-beens who obviously suffer from severe lack of attention syndrome to humiliate them in full view of the public; and laugh all the way to the bank with millions of ringgit earned from charges made for every text message sent by the public in support of their chosen contestant. Yes, that show. And, oh, not to forget, the host of that show, a pondan-looking 45 year old with bleached skin in Armani suits! Excuse me, but I need to puke now.

You all must have guessed it by now. I hate Mawi. And that is H.A.T.E. in very capital letters! Why would I hate him, you may ask. I don’t even know him personally. And he had done absolutely nothing wrong, either to me or to others. And he had not designed all these things himself. He was just a media product. The lucky stars must have been smiling on him. He is now a big star earning big bucks. Oh yeah, probably it’s envy, huh?

Well, let me clarify myself. I don’t hate Mawi as a person. To me, Mawi encapsulates everything that is wrong with our society as a whole and particularly the Malays nowadays. Mawi is an example of Malaysia, and Malaysians, being ever too willing to be hoodwinked by emotions and to let themselves sucked into a vortex of media hype and perceived hipness and get lost in a maze of frenzied and almost hysterical celebrity-titis fed by absolute nothingness! Mawi is a definite example of us rewarding mediocrity above everything else that should matter the most. Things like talent, for example. Mawi is an example of corporate leeches and parasites feeding the blood off unsuspected, and most certainly naïve, nothing-better-to-do and stupid cable-TV citizenry. Mawi is proof that we value a face, an image, an illusion, a fantasy more than the inner realities of things, of matters, of life in itself. Mawi, is a monstrous monument of corporate and individual greed that somehow or other manage to invade us and our inner self and manifest itself into a raging desire to be in front, come what may, whichever way and whatever will.

I hate Mawi.