In The City

In the city. On weekdays, streets turn into gigantic parking lots twice a day; and nothing short of a fuming mess on weekends. Tension builds by the minute as traffic police redirect vehicles at junctions that don’t require any attention. The honker is the average Joe’s police escort siren as they squeeze into 6 inches of a bus and a side walk. 1 plus 1 equals 3 and 3 equals 5 as you navigate with astronautical accuracy through 5 lanes of vehicles on a 3 lane road that bottle necks into 2 lanes. A fender-bender is never your fault whatever way you look at it because every single driver on the road is stupid. Truck drivers are Gods, bus drivers are druggies and motorcyclist are the little dots on a Pac-man game. Upgrading your car is more important than a Rm5 meal cause the car gets you “booty”. So imagine how urgent it must be when a revved up Fairlady is squeezing in and out of traffic, flashing and honking on your tailpipe at 10 o’clock in the evening.

In the city. You party all night to relax after a full week of hard work. Mondays are a drag. Tuesdays are date nights. Wednesdays and Thursdays are Lady’s Night; when both liquor and women are supposedly free. On Fridays and Saturdays, you load yourself with alcohol to the brink of poisoning while pumping smog down you lungs because you can live forever; getting so trashed that you cannot walk 20 feet to your car but you can drive 20 kilometres home. Cops spoil the fun while accidents are caused by other stupid drivers who think they can drive after high consumption of liquor. Sundays are for quality time with the wife and kids, running errands and portraying good citizenship, and all the while recovering from a hangover from drinks you did not have the night before.

In the city. Hormones are an ever rising commodity even when the stock market crashes. Sex is an aftertaste from partying if it’s with someone who wears Oakley’s sunglasses, Giorgio Armani jeans and drives nothing short of a 2-year old Honda Accord with 15 hundred dollar sport rims for starters. Sex is a horrible and morally distasteful act if you wake up in a stranger’s rented room and realise that you had hit the town with your boyfriend last night. Your best buddy’s lover is always a potential scandal; just ensure that you fuck him where it’s most likely for the “innocent” party to walk in. A one night stand is getting drunk and going home with a “mat-salleh”. An affair is fucking a rich old man who pays your bills. A relationship is fucking the same person more than once and not getting paid. Going out with an average Joe is for one who is young dumb and full of cum. Going out with a guy whose father is a rich tycoon is a free ticket for luxury. Going out with the tycoon himself is preparation to settle down. Going out with a rich “mat-salleh” makes you elite. No classification for guys cause they fuck anything on 2 legs and stilettos.
Every woman aspires to be Paris Hilton, Jessica Simpson or any other sluttishly clothed white-trash-female-sex-bomb. A guy gawking at your tits as they bob around through your transparent tank top while you pump away on the podium is a dirty minded sex fiend. The guy not drooling at your front-end bumpers must certainly be gay. Women at night clubs are not sluts. They don’t fuck just anybody, only strangers who buy them loads of whiskey.

In the city. The line between Metro-sexuality and Homo-sexuality is becoming a blur as Transsexuals become more appealing as guys come to terms with their feminine side; ladies dress to kill for other ladies; and the lady selling you the latest in Paris Hilton’s must have perfumes is not a woman. Once again, guys fuck anything on 2 legs and stilettos.

In the city. Love is the refined art of buying the most extravagant gift your credit card can afford you. Valentine’s Day is the day restaurants get to charge you extra for visiting them. You don’t spend Rm50 for a bouquet of flowers all year rounds because love is roses at 50 a pop on Feb 14. Chocolates are a poor man’s gift to a woman unless it is followed on with a diamond necklace. The wine list is for style because neither of you know the difference between a Merlot and a Pinot Noir.

In the city. A General Relations Office (GRO) is a good job to meet highly successful businessmen. Clubs pay them to spend time with customers and coax them to spend on liquor; customers pay them for their time and an excuse to spend on liquor. GROs are not prostitutes, however they are willing to give you a blowjob at Rm80 and fuck you for nothing less than Rm150. This is called Value Added Service.

In the city. Lifestyle magazines are informative and books are for boring nerds. Conversations are only seen over the Short-Messaging-Service (SMS) or online messenger software. You meet new people through social community websites where you can display the 1191 friends you have but do not keep in touch with.

In the city. Individuality is the art of being noticed. You can be yourself and yet never truly be you. You can be yourself by being like others. Be you but never show the real you cause you never know who you can trust.
Indians are African Americans who have never lived in the States, aspire to be the next Tupac and think the Chicago Bulls and L.A. Lakers are Hip-Hop gangs. Chinese are Chinese still; only this year they are Koreans. Two years back they were Japanese and before that they were Hongkies. I think next year they are going on Hindis. Malays; well, they listen to Indonesian music and live in the eighties rock era. A motorbike is great for picking up chics, a Proton means “married and responsible” and a family van says you are important. Anything more than that means you are rich. Punjabis are a powerful people in the nation because they all know the richest man in Malaysia, the biggest gangster in Brickfields and are all related to the most powerful lawyer in the country. The Ex-pats have it best: Earn in Pounds, spend in Ringgit and everybody wants to know you.

In the city. Candy can be spelt Candi, Candie, Candii or simply replace the “C” with a ‘K’. Soon Q4nd13 will be the accepted version. A formal email from an executive today would go something like this “D meetin wif d MD wil b Monday 9am @ d confrnc rm. Pls hv ur reports rdy n spell chk. Dun b l8. C4nd13”

In the city. A place where one can shop aimlessly for things the idiot box told you to buy because you could not live without; or that if you wanted to be as successful as Donald Trump or Angelina Jolie, you’d never leave home without it; or that if you wanted to look like a supermodel such as Tyra Banks or Haeley Berry, you’d just die if you did not have it. A shopping mall is a trophy for every growing city; two makes your city worth mentioning in a conversation; three or more means it’s a weekend destination. A city tour in K.L. is never complete without Suria KLCC, Mid-Valley or The Curve on the list.

In the city. Every major fashion apparel company pays advertising agencies millions every year to get ads, billboards and a hundred other ways of throwing their names at you. Then stupid consumers spend at least that same amount every week at malls and boutiques to do the same thing for them cause your chances of picking a woman increases with more expensive branding. Everybody walks around town wearing Rm2000 outfits flashing its individual brands as a declaration of independence. Don’t be surprise if a total fashion misfit introduces himself to you think your name must certainly be Valentino.
“Hi my is Adam. I’m wearing an Armani shirt, Dockers pant, Calvin Klien briefs and Nike shoes.”

“Nice to meet you Adam Armani Dockers Calvin Klien Nike. That’s a very long name. I’m simply Victor.”