i Am BoRed...

Bala oh Bala,

kenaper engko camtu

camner aku tak camtu

aku ditimpa bala

bala oh bala

kenaper engko timper Bala

camner aku tak timpa Bala

Bala carik aku

Bala oh Bala

kenaper ko carik bala

bukan aku yang carik bala

bala yang ikut aku

bala oh bala

kenaper plak engko ikut Bala

camner aku tak ikut Bala

Bala suker panggil aku

Bala oh Bala

mengaper engko sker panggil bala

bukan aku sker panggil bala

orang panggil aku Bala

Orang oh orang

kenaper ko sker panggil Bala

camner kiter tak panggil Bala

itu dah memang namer dier

memang namer dier

memang namer dier...

A Junkie Hooker

(Subtitle: Meditations upon empathising in harbouring ambitions of being a junkie hooker for at least twenty thousandth of a microsecond)

If there was anybody who came closer to more than a microsecond of harbouring any ambitions of being a junky hooker, that person might be me. It's crazy, I know, but thankfully, the fever passed as quickly as it gripped me. Before, I had any chance to act out that seemingly insane sort of ambition, which would rank up there with mass murderers and the guy who has to clean the cages in the zoo, it left, as if driven from me like a bad spirit exorcised from the depths of my soul. Despite its terribly limited time with me, I managed to glance some insight into such a lifestyle.

If there was one attractive feature of such a lifestyle it is its sheer simplicity, in essence. Screw people for money. Buy and use drugs. There you go. A complete and total lifestyle in eight words. You cannot get any simpler than that. Of course there is the attendant necessities such as rest, preserving one's physical condition appropriately to be able to carry out such a lifestyle, place to stay, etc. But simplicity in what it is you are all about. Drugs and sex. And by drugs, I mean the hardcore, addictive stuff like heroin. The burn out rate however, I imagine, would be pretty damn quick. Thing about the cake and eating it and then wanting to keep it all applies there.

And this is simple compared to say a typical Malay middle class local graduate who had to borrow money for his tertiary education (okay the last part is fiction). Quickly find a job so that he can pay off his loan, and establish himself by looking for a place to settle down (if he is not staying with his parents, or even if he is, he will soon), get a set of workable wheels, there's his social, familial and love interests to occupy his hours of leisure aside from his own interests. And suddenly things get complicated. He has many things to juggle. Comparing this to the junkie hooker's lifestyle, we see how the latter triumphs the former in terms of simplicity and, as a friend of mine one's described those things, in putting down no 'anchors'.

But the junkie hooker's ultra-simple lifestyle pays the price of limitedness. That choice is one which is very hard to unmake in one sense, and in another, that he will never feel or experience many other things in life other than drugs and sex and the limited range of emotions that lifestyle can only foster (pun intended). And that's what that middle class lifestyle that is progressing would allow, the possibility of the full range and depths of human emotions and possibilities. There is now room for travel, literature, laughter, companionship, for a healthy sort of love to blossom just as they will disappointment, tears and sadness. The point is that there is wealth of experience to be enjoyed and should be.

The horror then of that lifestyle is that a whole world of possibilities and existences is reduced, if not utterly annihilated, to sex, money and drugs, and even that not for very long. There would be little life left in that style. It is the death before death. But I can see how some people who need to escape so far away from everything and simplify their lifestyle so ruthlessly. Sometimes the world gets too great for them and there is no other way. They run, they hide. They simplify. I feel sorry and sad for them now instead of a sense of disgust which I may perhaps feel if confronted with them in real life.

Removes fishnet stockings and thick colourful make up from face.

Say, uh, anybody got a joint or something?

Chapati Moments: Androo & Maya

Androo reaches out for his soap. As he blinks the shampoo foam off his eyes, he looks at his soap before using it. He sighs in exasperation. Somebody has been using his soap again. Those are not his pubes, deeply encrusted into his green Palmolive soap. How many times does he have to tell his housemates not to use his soap?? Looks like he will have to forgo the luxury of using soap from now on and convert to shower gel. He shudders - as a Catholic might shudder at the thought of becoming a Protestant. It's just too pleb to use shower gel, he thinks to himself, under some misguided notion that he is some sort of patrician.

He flings the soap away in a tantrum and uses his hair shampoo instead to wash his body. He cringes at the thought of doing something he considers even remotely plebby. He must look for alternative accommodation. Just yesterday one of his housemates left some horrid skid marks in the toilet bowl and didn't have the decency to clean it up. He misses his mother's clean pristine house. You would never find skid marks in any of her bathroom toilets! He misses his father's mutton vindaloo. What he does not miss though is his wife Maya. This is the main reason he continues studying, adding one degree after another. To avoid spending time at home with Maya.

There is nothing wrong with Maya. In fact, she is very pleasing to the eye. Maya comes from a very well to do family. Her father made his money in the early 80's from securing the contract to supply plastic flowers to Government offices during the time plastic flowers were in vogue. Later, he artfully reinvented himself as some sort of indoor landscape artist, convincing the Government that they needed a "garden atmosphere" within their office premises. The rest, as we say, is history. If you walk into any Government building these days, you will be greeted by an array of garish multi coloured plastic flowers. Should you be attending any meetings at their boardrooms, you would be forgiven for being distracted by the mini lake gardens at the center of the room. Yes, right smack at the center lies an entire garden of plastic flowers on the carpeted floor. Maya's father has somehow convinced the Government that having a meeting around a mini garden would encourage and facilitate an amicable conclusion to all negotiations. So that's how he made his money. Fortunately for us, his daughter has better taste than him. Unfortunately though for Maya, she was married off to the son of a successful restauranteur. Androo is her husband's name. Skinny, pale and short. Fancies himself as some sort of intellectual and human rights activist. Incredibly finicky, his hair parted perfectly at the center and smoothed down with the aid of brylcream. Yes, the chap with the aversion for skid marks in the loo. He lines the inner bowl of the toilet with lots of loo paper so that the water in it would not splash back at him when his poo torpedoes in. I'm sorry, I was just amusing myself with words containing double Os. Compared with his butt ugly hairy parents, who could easily be mistaken for Big Foot's relatives, he is relatively OK looking with a certain boyish geeky charm. Most people who have met the family, wonder if there had been some mistake at the hospital when Androo was born and like any decent Tamil movie plot, he would later be reunited with his real parents just when he is about to die from gunshot wounds - shot by his long lost twin brother whilst embroiled in a love triangle. So far, nothing of that sort is happening yet and Androo is still studying for his PhD. So for all intents and purposes, we shall have to assume that he really is the son of Uncle Veloo and Aunty Roopah. And the husband of Maya.

Maya, Maya, Maya. Beautiful Maya. Soft, cultured, delicate on the outside. Deep, spiritual, intelligent with a hidden penchant for mischief and mirth on the inside and a passion yet undiscovered and unawakened. None of these qualities are seen or appreciated by the person she married or the family she married into. They only see her status and her parents' wealth.

Fortunately for Maya and unfortunately for the Veloo family, Maya has made friends with Uncle Veloo's incorrigible niece Letchoomi ... yes our luscious Letchoomi ... and her best friend, the sensuous, smouldering Sosya. These 2 provide endless entertainment for our dear Maya who has to live vicariously through them, fantasising that it is her who is having all that fun instead of being stuck in a dull, listless, loveless marriage to a man-boy whom she and her friends call "Mr Missionary".

Maya, Letchoomi and Sosya are in a newly opened Italian restaurant, not too far away from Uncle Veloo's restaurant. The girls have escaped there to have a giggle away from Aunty Roopah's watchful gaze. Sosya is asking Maya if there is any improvement in her husband's love making or is he still stuck at the missionary position for the last 7 months since they got married. Maya sighs, yes, he is still Mr Missionary - making love with the lights off, under the covers of the thick duvet, hardly touching her except in a perfunctory manner. Maya tried to go down on him, as advised by her 2 helpful friends, but he froze in shock and was catatonic for the next 30 minutes. It was useless. She felt useless and unwanted. Like an empty porcelain vase. Beautiful to look at, admired from afar but no one dares to touch the precious porcelain vase for fear it may break. Its place is on a pedestal. It is not entitled to have any feelings, any emotions, any desires - its function is only to be there to be admired. And such is Maya's position. Androo just forces himself to have sex with her in order to fulfil his duty as his parents expect them to produce children. By now Maya has resigned herself to accepting the fact that she is an object to be admired and not desired. That she herself possesses no desires of her own. That she is cold and lacks passion and that's why her husband finds her unappealing. Even her lecherous father in law looks at her only with deference in his eyes and not lust. She has seen the way he looks at Sosya and Letchoomi but ... with her... sigh, is she that cold?

Maya is asking her friends whether perhaps they could help seduce her husband and teach him how to make love properly. This is indeed a desperate request by a wife. And yet how many desperate wives are out there who wish that someone would tutor their husbands on how to be a better lover? And why can't these women teach their husbands how to please them, you may ask. There are many reasons and many taboos on this subject. Firstly, the wife cannot seem more experienced than the husband. Secondly, having to teach him to do something which he should already know is a turn off. Most importantly, he will lose face and that will surely kill the passion, if there is any, between husband and wife. The wife does not want to play the role of a traffic cop (Polis Di Raja Malaysia) directing the husband where to go. The problem with most men is that they "make love" to all women using the same blueprint. What works for one woman, what turns one woman on, should turn all other women on as well. I'm afraid it doesn't work that way chaps. You need to wipe the slate clean and start afresh - like you are touching a woman for the first time and discovering something totally new and wonderful. The key is in the touch. But men are so performance based these days, they focus on size, length of time, stamina etc they equate themselves to a car. How fast and how long can I go? is their main concern. And women add on to this fallacy by faking it all the time - to preserve the relationship, to secure an insecure man. Then there is also the type of women who just lie there like a log, thinking that consent to enter ie coitus is the sole contribution required on their part to the act of making love. So they deserve what they get.

Maya's friends have resorted to spying on her husband without her knowledge to get to the root of the problem. They now reveal to her what they discovered about Mr Missionary. "I'm afraid I've found out what's wrong with your husband" says Sosya, holding Maya's hand, looking at her in concern. Oh dear, Maya thought to herself, he is gay ... Brokeback Mountain. Every woman who is rejected by a man harbours a suspicion that he is gay. Otherwise they will just have to face facts and admit that he is just not that into them. Sosya continues "He likes stick insects." Maya frowns, puzzled. Letchoomi explains "He's a modeliser. He likes tall, very very thin, flat chested women with a boyish figure - so he's just 2 steps away from being gay .... he could be in denial, so he goes for women who resembles young boys."

Sigh, this is too grey for Maya. She likes things in black & white. Either he is gay or not. This is complicated. "How did you find out?" she asks. "He is dating last year's Miss Tofu International." replies Sosya. "I hear she's shortlisted for this year's Miss Soya Bean Universe" Letchoomi chips in helpfully. She can be Miss World Tumeric for all Maya cares. Her husband finds other women more attractive than her. She is shattered. She cannot evoke even an ounce of passion in him and he finds a woman who looks and feels like an ironing board much more desirable. Letchoomi and Sosya sees Maya's crestfallen face "Gosh, we're sorry. We didn't know you would take it so badly. We didn't know you like him that much."
"Well he is my husband"
"Yes we know dear, we attended your wedding. Are you even attracted to him?" Letchoomi asks.
"He is my husband" Maya repeats.
"We've been through this just now. We know he is your husband but do you like him? Are you attracted to him? Does he turn you on?"
Such painful questions which a wife must inevitably answer truthfully to herself. No, no, no... Yet the answers still point back an accusing finger at her - as the reason for the failure. The inability to evoke passion and to feel passion. She thought married couples reach this stage - of having perfunctory sex - after 10 years of marriage. Hers was a non starter to begin with.
What Maya doesn't realise is that Androo had a traumatic experience when he was 5 years old. One night, he was awakened by the sound of his mother howling like an animal in pain. He rushed to his parents room carrying his little blue teddy in one hand. Their door was slightly ajar so little Androo steps in. What he saw that night would remain etched in his memory for the rest of his life. His mother was on the floor, on all fours, starkers (totally nude). There was some kind of leather collar round her thick sweaty neck and a leather leash attached to it. His very hairy father was starkers too, mounting her from behind like a beast from hell, holding the other end of the leash. It was a grisly sight indeed. She was emitting this god awful guttural sound. Androo was transfixed in horror. Not knowing whether his mother needed rescuing. Not knowing whether it really is his mother. Not knowing whether they really are his parents.
So that, my good people, is why he likes to date androgenous women. In fact, he would prefer to date androids if he could find any. His only reason for having sex with these women is to dispel any gay rumours as he is quite a homophobic. Maya is too much a woman. She has lots of curves and is very soft to touch. It puts him off. He dates models so that other men will envy him. Other short men may compensate by driving a red Ferrari and in the old days, they would invade other countries kill Jews en masse to prove their manhood. These days the only shortie allowed to invade other countries and kill people en masse (this time its the Muslims) is President Bush. Androo resorts to dating models to compensate for his perceived lack of physical allure . There are other things he does which we may not quite comprehend. He was brought up a Hindu and was taught that eating beef is a big no no. Yet he purposely goes to a pub and orders roast beef and yorkshire pudding. In doing so he hopes to prove 2 things - that he is anglophile and that he is not bound by what he perceives are archaic rules. That he has the freedom to practise his religion as he sees fit. He doesn't even enjoy eating beef. Androo's Muslim best friend Oosman would order roast suckling pig at a Chinese restaurant and they would both consume it with great gusto - just to show that they are not shackled by useless rules and regulations. They organise a "buka puasa" (breaking of fast) event during Ramadan and only serve wine to the guests. This is their freedom of religion. In their quest to impress their western friends and to be more white than the whites, to convince them that they are "moderates" and "liberals", they have forgotten to respect their own people. Would I as a Muslim enter a Hindu temple with my shoes on? No, out of respect to the Hindus, I would take off my shoes before I enter. Would a Christian walk into a mosque with his shoes on? No, he would take his shoes off first. So why does a Muslim not respect his fellow Muslims during Ramadan? Why serve wine for buka puasa? You are just showing the westerners whom you want to impress so much, your lack of respect for your chosen religion and your people. Would you serve beef to a Hindu? You may think - aah, but that's his choice whether he wants to eat it or not. But your would also realise that it would be offensive to him, so you wouldn't do it - out of respect for him and his religion. But Androo and Oosman do not see it that way. It is their constitutional right to interpret their religion as they choose to. I'm all for that but before you exercise this right, take heed first that you do not ride roughshod over other people's beliefs and feelings. It is just a matter of courtesy. On one side your have the "fundamentalists" (a much maligned term) and the "extremists" wanting to impose their brand of religion and values on other people, on the other side you have Androo, Oosman and his pals promulgating total freedom of choice. Hell, I would like to be given the choice and freedom of bonking up against the frangipani tree at a public park like Charles and Camilla without worrying about a squad of voyeurs from Pejabat Ugama (Religious Department) rushing out from a nearby bush with their video cam to arrest me. I just want that choice but given that choice, I probably won't act on it because I would take into consideration that my actions would shock the delicate sensibilities of the pakcik & makcik (uncle & aunty) & their children having a nasi lemak picnic nearby. Out of respect and courtesy for them, I would not do it. These 2 opposite polars must find some means of meeting each other halfway and respecting each other's rights. In the words of the great master, Jalaludin Rumi - between Moses and Pharoah ... the Red Sea.

Sigh, lets move on back to Maya. A more palatable topic. Maya does not realise the complex and confused nature of her husband. But then, it is not up to her to unravel his dementia when he cannot even admit to himself that he has a problem in order to address it and to heal it. Whilst her friends are talking, she found herself staring at the chef. The Italian chef. He must be in his forties, she thought to herself. She is mesmerised by his strong hands as he chops the vegetables. Her eyes travel to his shoulders - he is built like a rugby player. Finally, as though he felt her eyes on him, he looks up, his brown eyes staring into her brown eyes. Time stood still. Maya forgets to breath. She is spellbound. He is captivated. Letchoomi and Sosya are intrigued - they stand up in unison, excusing themselves in a hurry to go to the bathroom. Maya and the Italian chef's eyes remain locked. He strides towards her, still maintaining eye contact, and says to her "I want to make love to you." Maya's head reels in shock. So many questions she wants to ask him. So many questions she should ask him but all she managed to say was "Now?" The chemistry between them was intense and overpowering. She doesn't know how long they stood there staring at each other. She doesn't know when Letchoomi and Sosya left the restaurant. She has a vague recollection of him locking the door after they left. She remembers him whispering into her ear "Open your mouth" which she instantly obeyed. She remembers him cracking open a raw egg and sliding the cool raw egg into her mouth, telling her not to break the yolk. She remembers him sliding his warm tongue into her mouth and gently pushing the egg yolk into his mouth without breaking it. They continue passing the egg between them in this slow sensous manner, until finally, the yolk breaks into both their mouths, merging them in that beautiful moment. The moment of Maya's awakening.

You may be wondering - did they have sex? Did the breaking of the yolk signify climax? And I am telling you that Maya made love and was made love to for the first time in her life. Yes, there is a difference between sex and making love, between lust and love. How many of us are fortunate enough to experience true love making - with just a caress of the eyes, a finger trailing up your arm, a warm breath behind your ear, a gentle kiss delicately placed on your wrist? Sadly, not many of us can distinguish the difference between lust and love. Between passion and need. It is rare indeed to look across a room and stare into the eyes of a person whom you have never met before and instantly, at that moment, know that this is the man you want, the man you want to be with for the rest of your life, the man who blurs the distinction between lust and love, merging them into an act of sheer and utter bliss. A man who torments you to near madness by giving you unbearable pleasure. Have you ever met such a person in your life? Have you ever been so divinely blessed in your life? Have you ever been so intoxicated?

The Indecent Online Proposal

There are times when even the most vigorous and extreme exercise of one's imagination cannot better those moments fashioned unplanned in real life. The best fiction therefore sometimes comes from history. Despite my rather intense hetrosexuality and frequent declarations of it, ever since I was in secondary school, I have been chatted up by homosexual men.

My first chat up happened in my teens when I was at Tower Records at Picadilly Circus in London one summer wearing one of those short short pants that I liked to wear with my big ass geeky glasses that almost took up half my head. Anyway, I was flipping through some compact discs in a rack somewhere when a tall thin smiling mat salleh approached me with a look of fascination about him. After pretending a while to browse the CDs near me, he turned to me and told me that I wore a beautiful set of glasses. Perhaps things may have been different if I shared his opinion but I was convinced my glasses were ugly and geeky. Naturally when confronted with this completely opposite apprisal of my glasses, I knew he was bullshitting me although at that time I did not quite understand why. We talked for a while about my glasses and he asked me where I was from, where I studied until I felt he seemed a little too interested in me. It wasn't in anything he said but more form the way he felt. The almost imperceptible forward lean, the smile that strained at the edges and eyes that seemd a little too bright. I made my excuse and left him to wander the store until I later met my parents and told them all about that man rounding of my account with my impressions of him. My mother, always one to give her opinion straight up, smiled and explained to me that he was gay and was probably trying to chat me up. And that was my first direct encounter.

My later ones were not terribly interesting or notable until the latest one. This for me has got to be one of the ultimate chat ups as far as I'm concerned. It happened one evening when I was finishing up some work in the office when I was added as a contact by someone named 'GAY' on Skype. So it was completely unexpected and though one can expect to get chatted up in a chatroom, in my experience it is quite rare for me to be called upon to chat with someone out of the blue. And one thing I have to admire about him is his persistence. Normally when I tell a guy that I'm a guy online, that pretty much ends the conversation. And let me also state that I am not in favour of publishing chat histories, but the sheer novelty and hilarity value of this conversation far outweighs the prejudice to the guy who chat me up who anyway remains gay. No part of the conversation has been edited for maximum reading pleasure. I have also taken the liberty of translating those portions where I feel translation is needed literally to better understand the converastion for anybody who doesn't understand Malay.

[17:39:20] GAY says: i

[17:39:37] Daef says: i

[17:39:46] GAY says: aku ini gay (i am gay)

[17:39:53] GAY says: pandai isap (clever suck)

[17:40:01] Daef says: oh... you bukan awek lah (oh... you not a chicklah)

[17:40:07] GAY says: bukan (no)

[17:40:13] GAY says: saya pandai isap (I good at sucking)

[17:40:15] Daef says: oh, not interested

[17:40:35] GAY says: oktakkan x nak try (okay, cannot be don't want to try)

[17:40:36] GAY says: sedap (taste good/tasty)

[17:40:52] Daef says: tahu sedap tapi dari laki not my thang dude (I know its good but from a guy, not my thang dude)

[18:05:50] GAY says: try ler sekali (try ler once)

[18:06:09] Daef says: tak naklah (don't want lah)

[18:06:14] Daef says: just not into guy and guy action

[18:06:21] Daef says: I'm a pussy lover

[18:06:25] GAY says: kesianler sama aku (take pity on me ler)

[18:06:32] GAY says: betul aku pandai isap (really, i suck good)

[18:06:42] Daef says: kalau you pandai sangat takde hal cari orang lain kan? (if you are so good at sucking then you should not have any problems finding someone else)

[18:07:02] GAY says: susah nak cari orang (it's hard to find people)

[18:07:21] Daef says: lah... betul ke ni (lah... true or not)

[18:07:31] Daef says: nampak engkau tu ada 1199 contact (looks like you have 1199 contacts)

[18:07:39] Daef says: mesti ada sorang tu nak u hisap kan dia (sure got someone there who will want to suck you)

[18:08:24] GAY says: betul (true)

[18:08:29] GAY says: takada seorang pun (not one person)

[18:08:58] Daef says: sorry lah dude... kalau u awek, i dah memang sudi terima tawaran hebat tu (sorry lah dude ... if you are a chick, I will definitely accept your great offer)

[18:09:09] Daef says: tapi… (but)

[18:09:48] GAY says: kesianler kat aku (take pity on me)

[18:09:56] GAY says: saya lama juga tak isap (I have not sucked in a long time)

[18:10:06] GAY says: takkan x ada hati (cannot have no heart)

[18:10:17] GAY says: tolong ler (help ler)

[18:10:29] GAY says: sekaliler (once only)

[18:13:09] GAY says: apa dia (what is it?)

[18:13:20] GAY says: saya mau offline (i want offline)

[18:13:24] Daef says: aku kesian memang... dan ada hati tapi i memang tak suka lah (I pity you really... and I have a heart but I don't like it)

[18:13:25] Daef says: sorilah

[18:13:31] Daef says: guys just not my thing

[18:13:43] Daef says: kalau i tahu, i bagi tau (If i know [find somone], I let you know)

[18:14:48] GAY says: u jangan tengok aku ini guy (you don't look at me as a guy)

[18:15:02] GAY says: u ingat rasa orang isapler (you think of who want to suck you)

[18:15:04] Daef says: takleh lah... porno laki ngan laki pun i tak tahan (cannot lah... guy on guy porn also I cannot take)

[18:15:12] GAY says: kesian ler kat aku (take pity on me ler)

[18:15:23] Daef says: bukan tak kesian dude, memang kesian tapi takleh tolonglah (not that I don't pity you dude, I really do but I cannot help)

[18:15:29] GAY says: u bagi i isap je, cukup (you let me suck only, enough)

[18:15:37] Daef says: sorry man

[18:15:46] GAY says: kalau kau ada hati memang u , tolong aku (if you had a heart, you would help me)

[18:15:48] Daef says: kalau nak sangat, guna lah pisang besar ke (if you need it so much, use a big banana lah)

[18:15:57] Daef says: aku ada konek dan hati beb but not for you (I got a cock and heart babe but not for you)

[18:16:02] GAY says: aku cakap serius (I speak seriously)

[18:16:06] GAY says: ok bye (Asshole! Give you free blow also don't want!)

Chapati Moments: Uncle Veloo's Den of Disrepute

**Caution: this posting should be read only by those above the age of 55 under the supervision of a U.S. military officer.**

Uncle Veloo is in his den of disrepute. His dungeon of depravity. He is the only person allowed to enter his den. It is at the basement of his restaurant.

This is where Uncle Veloo goes to indulge in his deepest, darkest, most depraved fantasies. This is where he goes to commit the act of Oo-nani. Actually the correct spelling is "Onani" but I like to give in to my unnatural preoccupation with double Os. Contrary to popular belief, Onani is not a Japanese folk dance. This seemingly sweet and innocent sounding word is in fact a Malay word describing the act of "whipping the willy" or "slapping the salami". Those of you who still don't get it, let me explain in a non food related and a less delicate manner - this is where Uncle Veloo goes to jerk off. Vous comprenez? If you still don't understand it, please go away and read something else more useful. I recommend "Is there life in Mars" written by Tom Cruise under the auspices of the Church of Scientology.

At the far end of the den lies his pièce de résistance, his ultimate instrument of pleasure - his Bang Olufsen 42" plasma telly with its kick-ass surround sound system.

Uncle Veloo is comfortably ensconced in his favourite Ligne Roset couch in front of his instrument of pleasure. This is where he would stroke Mootoo to the heights of ecstasy, indulging in his most decadent, debauched fantasies whilst watching ... no, no,.. people..., not the latest Indian porn movie "Pappadam Pooshpa and Her Hot Pussy Galore", with music by Akon complete with a rap collaboration with Snoop Dog. Indian porn movies are not quite Uncle Veloo's cuppa Massala tea. Those sort of movies are for woosies. Uncle Veloo goes for the really serious hard core stuff.

In the dark, dank corner of his den, Uncle Veloo wanks off whilst watching ... (brace yourself) ... CNN. To him, it is better than watching any porn movie. There is sooo much depravity in it and people complain about MTV. MTV is nothing compared to CNN. CNN is the real stuff - made for real men like him. Total machismo. The Alpha male. He loves to watch the Americans on CNN fuck the world, advertise it on CNN and get away with it scot free.

He sees the latest American adventure, the invasion of Iraq, as nothing more than a sex expedition by the United States military forces to carry out their most depraved, disgusting, diabolical sexual fantasies. Never has there been a more depraved, degenerate, barbaric, debauched, malevolent creature as the United States military and their Coalition forces, turning Iraq into a veritable Sodom & Gomorrah (no pun intended to the late Saddam). Where else can these diaboliques carry out their most heinous sexual escapades and get away with it without even a rap on the knuckles ... buggering 6 year old boys whilst their mates cheer them on and film the entire sordid despicable episode? How Uncle Veloo wish he could get his hands on those videos. How Uncle Veloo wish that he could join the Americans in their sexpedition in Iraq. He has turned his den into a mini Abu Ghraib. He has folders & folders of pictures of prisoners being tortured by the American soldiers. Naked prisoners smeared with faeces. Oh... these Americans, they really know how to enjoy themselves. Only they know and share his deep passion for the act of domination and submission. Only they know the pleasure derived from subjugating defenseless people. The pleasure of terrorising women and children. Letchoomi thinks that he fantasises about deflowering young virgins - she is way off the mark. That is the very tip of the iceberg. It is about subjugation, dominance and power. One cannot blame Letchoomi for her miscalculations, her exposure is only to MTV. She does not watch CNN and therefore cannot fathom the depths of his perversion. Only members of the U.S. Army and Coalition Forces can understand it. It is beyond you & I. We do not have the capacity to sink to such low levels to comprehend this kind of sickness.

Uncle Veloo is avidly watching CNN to catch a glimpse of his heroes Dick Cheney and George Bush. Dick & Bush - such apt names for the world's ultimate porn stars. "We Fuck the World" is their motto and "Big Guns" their first porn production. Oomigosh... Uncle Veloo sits up, erect in attention on his red Ligne Roset couch, gobstruck - his fantasy dreamgirl is on the screen - all 42" of it - he is almost in tears, emotional at the sight of the woman who has shared all his wet dreams. The sexiest woman alive. He has an entire scrapbook filled with newspaper & magazine cuttings of her. He concentrates intensely as she speaks, following the movement of those luscious full lips, he imagines those sexy lips encircling Mootoo, coaxing him into submission. This woman is his ultimate dream. He imagines her in Halle Berry style tight black PVC catsuit, standing on his naked trembling body in her red six inch pointed stilettos, digging a sharp stiletto into his nipple, sinking into his flesh, drawing blood ... whilst shouting obscenities at him, using a long dressage whip to whip Mootoo as he screams in agony and begs for mercy.

He imagines her crouching over his face, urinating on it, forcing his mouth open with the butt of her whip, the warm yellow liquid splattering on his face, some trickling into his open mouth, the salty warm liquid flowing down his throat - just as the American soldiers urinate on their Iraqi prisoners in Abu Ghraib. Aaah, such joy, he cries out in pain & pleasure. No, it is not Angelina Jolie whose lips he imagines around Mootoo, crouching over his face and pissing on him as the United States are pissing on the rest of the world, it is none other than ... Condoleeza Rice...

Whilst mere mortals jerk off to pictures of Anna Nicole Smith (dead or alive) and Pam Anderson in their Penthouse/Playboy magazines, Uncle Veloo jerks off to pictures of Condoleeza Rice in Jane's Defence and Time Magazine. He loves her cold hard beauty, her harsh sadistic cruelty turns him on. He fantasises her on all fours, doing the bidding of her white masters, Dick & Bush, whilst they urge her on "Take it all in bitch". How he admires them. These are people who have legalised torture in their country and get away with it. These are people who coerce other people to submit to the United Nations and yet they themselves refuse to submit to the jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court and therefore avoid being held accountable for all the atrocities they have committed around the world. These are the people who breach every provision in the Geneva Conventions with impunity. They have managed to seduce Britain and Australia to be their ever-ready and ever-willing perennial butt boys with Blair & John Howard perfecting the art of rimming George Bush. If you don't understand what "rimming" means, please go to Frangipani on Friday nite and politely ask one of their patrons to demonstrate on you. It would be considerate to wash first before you go there.

Yes, yes, yes, aaah... Uncle Veloo loooves CNN. There is so sooo much filth in it corrupting our minds, why worry about MTV messing up our kids' minds? Uncle Veloo lies on his bright red Ligne Roset couch, totally subjugated and humiliated, utterly spent, utterly exhausted, utterly satisfied, still hearing Condoleeza Rice screaming obscenities at him:
"America the Benevolent! We bring freedom & democracy to the World." she screams over & over again to the background music of Boney M's "By the Rivers of Babylon" in her tight black PVC catsuit and her red pointed stilettos.

Are you feeling sick to the gut right now? Has Uncle Veloo's fantasies made you nauseous? Do you think I am facetious, making light of a serious matter? Have I pushed your boundaries of tolerance, of acceptable behaviour, of acceptable writing? Have I made you sick and ashamed to read this piece of smut? Where do you draw the line in your level of tolerance on acceptable behaviour? Have I not convinced you that Uncle Veloo and his family are entitled to their freedom of expression, freedom to exploit their sexual fantasies at whatever cost? No? I have not? Shame on me. I have not managed to do what CNN and the United States government and the likes of Rupert Murdoch have so easily managed to do with their manipulation of the world's minds. The constant filth filtering through your TV screens and your mass media, pushing your boundaries daily to accept the brutality exercised by the United States on a group of defenseless people, pilfering their countries' assets, immersing us in their cesspool of debauchery and we find this acceptable. "Many governments torture clandestinely, but Bush's administration is the only government to claim the power to abuse detainees as a matter of official policy" said Kenneth Roth of the Human Rights Watch in the Financial Times. And we find this acceptable behaviour. Is it acceptable that the United States is shoving their brand of democracy up the world's arse?

Likewise, I am stuffing Chapati Moments down your throats. If I do not succeed in drawing you within, to examine your levels of tolerance and acceptance on what you read and what you watch on telly then I have failed. What is acceptable human behaviour to you? Ask yourselves this. Then switch on the news and realise the obscene lies being thrown at you on a daily basis, fucking up your mind.

Wake up and smell the Massala tea.

Chapati Moments: Uncle Veloo's Vindaloo

Uncle Veloo has a restaurant up Boogaloo Street which serves the best mutton vindaloo in the country. Today, Uncle Veloo has a visitor. His niece Letchoomi.

They are in the kitchen. Letchoomi is learning about the restaurant business, hoping one day that Uncle Veloo will pass on his chain of restaurants to her. Not that Uncle Veloo has no children of his own - he has 6 sons and 1 very precious granddaughter, Anjooli. Letchoomi is undaunted. She has her little ways to get what she wants. She learnt this when she was 14. A luscious 14 year old if ever there was one in our town. Quite the Lolita our Letchoomi was. Her first target was her stepfather whom she calls "Mr Buttons" to her friends - based on the size of his lil' knob. It was so small it looked like a button she swears to her friends at school. Perhaps its deformed she thought when she first saw it. After all, Mr Buttons was based in Iraq when those bloody Americans first attacked Iraq 15 years ago. It must be from drinking the water contaminated with depleted uranium. Poor Mr Buttons... she had to muster as much enthusiasm as she could when she was with him even though she could hardly feel anything. When he left her room, she had to finish the job herself with the school flute. Just as well she was a member of the school orchestra. She has fond memories of the school flute. It was unfortunate that she had to return it to the school when she left the orchestra.

And how did a 14 year old learn the art of seducing men? you may ask. She watched a lot of MTV. All those hot chicks in tight pink hot pants with half their apple butts sticking out whilst gyrating and rubbing themselves up against some black geezer in an all pink velvet suit, his neck weighed down by the chunky bling blings with the obligatory large diamond encrusted dollar sign pendant.

Yes, little luscious Letchoomi shuttled straight from childhood to womanhood, by passing being an average teenager altogether. Now at 18, she is the luscious, lascivious, licentious, lubricious Letchoomi - the curse of the double-O family. Let us now move on from my unhealthy obsession with the "L" word. Uncle Veloo is not quite the libertine but there are spurts of libidinous activity spattered indiscriminately in his otherwise dull vindaloo life. (As you can see, I'm still trying to wean myself off the "L" word).

And now back in the kitchen with Letchoomi, Uncle Veloo is watching Letchoomi intensely, the heat of the afternoon mingled with the mutton vindaloo he consumed for lunch causing a slow burning sensation to seep to his loins. He feels Mootoo stirring in his pants. Mootoo, is the affectionate pet name given to his crown jewels by his wife. "My little Mootoo", she would purr lovingly before she takes him into her mouth claiming he tastes of her favourite mutton vindaloo. Letchoomi does not realise she has a formidable task ahead, wresting Uncle Veloo's affections from his deceptively dull looking wife.

Letchoomi continues kneading the dough, leaning forward, bending over slightly above the dough, pretending to be oblivious to Uncle Veloo's enraptured gaze. She has chosen her attire for the day carefully. A traditional saree. You may think that it is pretty inconvenient to wear a saree when one is planning to spend a day helping out in the kitchen of a busy restaurant. But Letchoomi has studied her prey well. This is a man who fantasises about deflowering a young village vestal virgin. The saree depicts her as a girl with traditional values and yet, it has many advantages. Wear a saree blouse which is a little too tight and tie your saree skirt a little too low below your navel ... et voila, you have the desired effect of portraying innocence & naivety and yet, at the same time, exuding a strong sensual appeal.

Uncle Veloo's eyes follows the drop of sweat trickling down Letchoomi's neck, tracing its way down the cinnamon tinged skin of her bosom and finding its way into the deep cleavage at the center. A sigh escapes Uncle Veloo - how clever a drop of water can be, he thinks to himself. His eyes then dart to a sudden flash of pink. In her vigorous act of kneading, her hot pink bra strap peeks out of the striking lime green tight saree blouse. Letchoomi leans further forward over the dough. Uncle Veloo can now catch a glimpse of the hot pink lace. He feels a sudden stab of irrational jealousy against this offensive material. How can such a delicate inconsequential piece of material be entrusted with such an enviable task? To spend the entire day encasing and cupping the luscious breasts of his Letchoomi. Yes, he had decided at that moment, to make Letchoomi his.

His eyes take note of the damp patch slowly spreading out on the underarm of Letchoomi's tight lime green saree blouse. Uncle Veloo likes a woman with a sweaty armpit. He breathes in deeply, wondering what it would smell like if he buried his nose into that damp patch. He imagines it to be similar to the smell of chopped garlic thrown into a pan of hot ghee as it is just turning brown. Yes, that would be perfect he sighed.

Little Mootoo is little no more. Straining within the confines of Uncle Veloo's used-to-be-white Crocodile briefs which now morphs into a cruel prison - Mootoo's very own Guantanamo Bay. Uncle Veloo's own sharp voice abruptly breaks the silence of the hot lazy afternoon, startling himself from his reverie. He commands Letchoomi to take herself to the room upstairs to change into something more comfortable for kitchen work - claiming that her saree might catch fire from the nearby stove if she was careless.

Letchoomi quickly obeys her uncle's command, hiding a smile. She runs up the stairs flushed with excitement. Playing the game of seduced village vestal virgin is rather exciting. It takes skill to perfect it and our Letchoomi has perfected it to an art for she has played this role many times. She would be the dream actress of any Tamil movie director with her long dark tresses tied in a plait and her charcoal eyes framed by those thick dark lashes.

She unravels her burnt orange saree and was in the midst of unbuttoning her lime green saree blouse when Uncle Veloo burst into the room, driven by his lust, driven by Mootoo who has now taken over his thinking process. He rips off the lime green blouse, hesitates slightly before throwing the garment to the floor. He was half tempted to smother his face into the wet underarm patch of the garment but one must not linger on trifles when one is about to deflower a virgin. He glares at the offending hot pink lace material still guarding her breasts protectively. He barks orders for her to remove them. You may wonder at his lack of finesse in the art of seducing a young virgin. But Uncle Veloo understands only too well that one must take charge like a commander of troops in these situations. To ply her open with gentle words and caresses would put her in a dilemma - forcing her to take responsibility for her actions and thereafter deal with her ensuing guilt and shame that she has succumbed to temptation. It is best to dominate and let her feel that she had no choice in the matter. This is a very dangerous game to play as there is a thin line between this act of domination & submission and rape. Uncle Veloo could sense from the way Letchoomi's pupils were dilated that she was excited, that she welcomed him, that there is consent...

He quickly removes his shirt and pants, leaving his Pagoda singlet and Crocodile briefs, which by the way, he has been wearing for the past 3 days, only turning the briefs inside out when it got too damp yesterday afternoon. He pushes Letchoomi onto the nearby bed and hovers over her, commanding her to look at him as he peels off his Crocodile briefs.

Oh what joy Mootoo felt, released from the filthy confines of his own Guantanamo Bay, no longer a suspected Al Qaeda member. But wait, what is happening to him ?? .... Mootoo screams in horror, the silent scream of one who has no voice of his own to be heard but we can nevertheless hear his awful screams in our thoughts and shudder at its horror. Uncle Veloo has taken the role of Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Sassaman, the evil commander of the U.S. Army Fourth Infantry Divisions 1-8 battalion who is well known for having his Iraqi prisoners wrapped up tightly in barbed wire. The engorged Mootoo is now tightly wrapped in rubber sheath. "Made in Malaysia" says the torn golden foil wrapper thrown carelessly on the floor. Mootoo is screaming for Amnesty International to bombard Uncle Veloo with letters demanding his immediate release. What kind of man conquers his vestal village virgin in protective gear??? he screams at the injustice.

Whilst this battle between Uncle Veloo and Mootoo ensues for a few seconds, Letchoomi reaches down and surreptitiously removes her own protective gear and drops it carefully onto the floor. It is that time of the month for her. You may think this is most unfortunate for her but our Letchoomi has planned this with the precision of a CIA agent embarking on a covert operation. Uncle Veloo will expect to see blood and blood he will see.

Without much ado, Uncle Veloo plunges the still protesting Mootoo into Letchoomi. Letchoomi lets out the desired whimper of fear and pain (all an adept act of pretense on her part). She found difficulty concentrating on her role in the game as she is distracted by Uncle Veloo's frayed Pagoda singlet which has seen better days. (Mootoo is also not quite enjoying his role in his deep sea diving outfit.) There are several holes in the Pagoda singlet where Uncle Veloo's thick unruly chest hair has managed to spring out of, struggling to escape. Imprisoned without a fair trial. These rebellious insurgents who have sprung out of Uncle Veloo's Pagoda singlet are creating havoc on Letchoomi's delicate cinnamon tinged skin, acting like an abrasive loofah, causing her skin to burn. Letchoomi notices that the singlet is mouldy green at his underarms. What kind of wife would let her husband walk around clad in such filth she wondered. Why can't Auntie Roopah wash her husband's undergarments properly or throw them away before they deteriorate to such dismal conditions, cultivating a funghi plantation on their own accord. There is just too much anarchy going on, she thinks to herself, on Uncle Veloo's complicated body - presenting a whole continent by itself, full of rebellious inhabitants.

Indeed, what kind of woman is Auntie Roopah, you wonder. She is the sturdy, strong, dependable type of woman. Strong and reliable. Yes she sounds like an advert for Standard Chartered Bank. She is the kind of person you would send to your borders to defend your country should a skirmish occur with a neighbouring country. You would feel safe with Auntie Roopah guarding your borders. She is the glue which binds the family together. Not the weak, easily distracted Uncle Veloo whose only love is his grand daughter Anjooli and his mutton vindaloo - not particularly in that order of priority.

The whole deflowering process did not last very long. There is no reason to linger. One cannot evoke pleasure from the recently deflowered. It is an act of dominance and submission. Uncle Veloo's "Shock & Awe" treatment specially reserved for vestal village virgins (if he could find any!). Yes, Uncle Veloo watches too much CNN. He should be dragged to the town square and flogged in public. But one suspects that he might enjoy that too much. He rolls off the bed, still in his Pagoda singlet, carrying its own horticultural lifeform, to head for the bathroom. He steps on something warm and moist. He looks down at his right foot. All he could make out is something partly white, mostly covered with blood, its limp white tail visible from the other side of his foot. Uncle Veloo lifts his foot in horror, not wanting to look down at the squashed object as he rushes to the bathroom to wash the blood off his body and his foot.

Back in the kitchen, Uncle Veloo is in the midst of cooking mutton vindaloo. Cooking is the only thing that can calm his nerves. Uncle Veloo is racked with guilt and full of remorse. How is he going to tell little Anjooli that he has stepped on, squashed and killed her pet white mouse, General Noosh???

Meanwhile, in the room upstairs, Letchoomi picks up the squashed bloodied object off the floor by its tail and flushes it down the loo. Her game is up, she thinks to herself. Uncle Veloo has discovered her farce.

Uncle Veloo had stepped on and squashed her earlier discarded .... super tampon...

Chapati Moments: Sneak Preview

He heaved and grunted and clutched her body. He kissed her fervently but in the midst of it, a burp escaped his mouth. She could almost tell what he had for dinner.

Sosya ignored it as she moved her body provocatively. Lim groaned in pleasure. The sheets were soaked with his sweat. The fat on his body wobbled. Sosya thought she was going to bounce off his stomach. At one perilous instant she clutched wildly at his repellently porcine body for fear of being thrown off the bed. Luckily, or rather unluckily, he rolled to the side - pinning her under him as he laboriously heaved his corpulent white buttocks up and down. In a moment he ejaculated. At the same time he farted. He rolled off Sosya and fell asleep almost instantly ... snoring loudly.

Sosya looked decidedly flattened. She sat up. The room reeked of sweat, sex and flatulence. She looked at the snoring fat whale in disgust. His skin was as pallid as that of a steamed chicken's. His penis had shrivelled to flaccid insignificance. His fat body rippled as he snored. Another fart escaped him. This time the stench was unbearable. She ran to the bathroom and retched violently.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. She's beautiful and sexy. She's also intelligent - she knows what she wants and she gets it. She plays on men's weaknesses. She is charming, captivating and entertaining. She is also well-read and thus can manage a conversation on just about anything. But most importantly, she is extremely good in bed. She trades her body for money, jewellery, cars and favours. Lim is her latest victim though it seems as if she is his latest victim. His bedroom habits are repugnant. His body seems to be full of wind all the time. He has a perverse mind. How perverse can a fat whale be, you may ask. Well, every time he sees her, he makes her leave a pair of soiled knickers behind - preferably one with brown skid marks - if you catch my drift (well, you asked ok!). Every now and then he will bury his bulbous nose into these soiled knickers and breathe in this delectable fragrance to his heart's content - an acquired taste, mind you - something like blue cheese, either you love it or you hate it.

Lim's wife is in fact secretly relieved that he finds her sexually boring. Alice Lim could almost feel pity towards Lim's string of mistresses. A diamond trinket here and there is not worth having to spend five minutes with that vile oaf.

Sosya fastened the clasp of the diamond bracelet, payment for the day's service. She took one last glance at Lim before she left the room of a well known hotel which she likes to call the Shag-me La. It is at moments like these that she wistfully regrets giving up law practice. What started out as an innocent dalliance with her pupil master led her down this road of debauchery. She grew addicted to this lifestyle after being showered with expensive gifts. But like law practice, as long as one is self employed, one has a choice in one's choice of clients...