MY LIST

Inspired by My Name Is Earl, I now embark on a path of becoming a better man. My first step is to come up with a list of bad things that I did a long time ago which I deeply regret (though I have to admit it was kinda fun when I did it way back then). I don't know if I'll be able to make good for the wrongs I did. I probably won't. But I do at least get brownie points for my confessions, right?

Here's my list.



#1 Farted in a car, flat out denied it, then went on a rant about how fat people like myself are prejudiced and are always the first to get blamed for things like this.

#2 Copied answers from a girl during a Chinese test back in kindergarten, aced the test, made dad think I was a child genius and unashamedly claimed the rewards.

#3 Called a school prefect a fat pig... causing my whole class to go through detention.

#4 Peed into neighbour's potted plants.

#5 Cheated in cards on many occasions. Too many occasions.

#6 Hustled a friend into buying me lunch for a week by pretending I didn't know how to play carrom.

#7 Pretended to be gay to break up with a girl.

#8 Broke my baby sister's tricycle because I rode it down a flight of stairs then blamed it on the neighbour kid.

#9 Ate chicken skins off other people's fried chicken then denied it was me (though I probably will pay dearly for this later in life).

#10 Gave my Moral Ed teacher a couple of phonebooks for Teacher's Day, telling her she can sit on it while she's driving since she's too short to see out of her windscreen.

MY NEW CAREER IN EMMY ACCEPTANCE SPEECH WRITING

I watched the 58th Emmy Awards last night and as always, everytime I watch such award shows, I always imagined that it was me getting the award. I wouldn't care which category I'd win in. I wouldn't even mind if I had to share it with so many other people that by the time I got myself up the Emmy stage, the music would start playing and the gorgeous usher would be shooing me off backstage. Just want to win.

But it would be nice to have the Emmy all to myself though, me giving a kick ass acceptance speech... something along the line of "My Name Is Earl" producer and writer Greg Garcia's acceptance speech last night... where instead of thanking people, he actually said "no thank you" to people that annoyed him in the past.


Greg Garcia. Image from http://www.eonline.com/Features/Awards/Emmys2006/BestWorst/index11.html

Anyway, for me to actually win an Emmy is kind of a long shot. But I got to thinking... perhaps I can kick start a career in writing other people's Emmy acceptance speeches. I mean, they already have to worry about what to wear, what to say when interviewed by E! on the red carpet, how to best pose so that they don't end up looking like "a-deer-staring-at-a-truck's-headlights-seconds-before-it-gets-run-over" on the tabloids the next day... one lesser thing to worry about would be a godsend.

So here are a few of my draft acceptance speeches. Let me know if I have the chops to pursue a career in this new line of work...

MY EMMY ACCEPTANCE SPEECHES

Acceptance speech No. 1
"Thank you very much for this. First and foremost, I would like to thank the 8th Dynamic Infinity for granting me all this. I would also like to thank Tom... for showing me the true path... and for pulling the necessary strings that led me here. I am forever in your debt. This Emmy win means a lot to me... and hopefully this win will enlighten me and lead me to an evolutionary state to becoming a higher being. Thank you... live long and prosper."

Acceptance speech No. 2
"Oh god... I never expected to win this! It's not easy getting your big break in Hollywood. So I want to thank the guy who made it possible... my ex-pimp, Tricky Zizzle, for believing in me and giving me a job when I first came to LA, penniless and desperate. Thank you also for "hooking" me up *wink at camera* with the big producers, without which I would never get my big break. And finally, thank you also for letting me practice my acting while I'm doing my clients... you don't know how much that has helped me become the convincing actress I am today. Thank you Zizzy."

Acceptance speech No.3
"I have a long list of people that I want to thank but it is impossible to thank everyone within the alloted 30 secs. So here's what I'll do... I'll be taking a picture of myself with this baby *point to Emmy* and email blast it to every single one of you who have made this possible for me. And for those people didn't help make this possible and still got my thank you email, don't worry... it's no accident. It's my way of saying... neh ne neh-neh-neh...."

MY FIRST OPEN MIKE CONTRIBUTOR... GO FIGURE.

This entry is from boojahl (gob-log.blogspot.com) about his misadventures while trying to manoeuvre himself out of a train station while in a semi slumber state.

TALKING ELAVATORS - BE POLITE

This morning, I was on the North East Line train on my way home after my night shift. I haven't done a night shift since 2004, which meant an exhausted me was left sleeping throughout the ride, eyes reduced to a slit, saliva flakes drying up at the corner of my mouth and booger almost dried up in the air-conditioned train to chunks of stretchy tiny dough.



Upon arrival at my station in Punggol, I took the lift from the platform level to the main level. But something peculiar happened the moment I stepped into the lift... a voice suddenly boomed from above! So naturally I looked up, eyes and ears suddenly alert.

The voice was subtle yet carried enough presence. It summoned, "Going up?". Seriously guys, the voice asked me a question. It certainly doesn't sound like telling me 'Going up' but rather ASKING me, 'Going Up?'.

How the hell am I supposed to answer? What if I decided NOT to answer, will the lift still bring me up? Whatever happened to just pressing the button?

I did not dare to take the risk, so I answered politely, "Oh yes, please. Thank you."

The next time you take the train and decide against taking the stairs or escalator, take note.

Prepare to be bemused...and yes, be polite.

Ed's note:

To boojahl - Do not be afraid of technology. Technology is inevitable. One day, not only our elevators will speak to us... our cars, our ovens, our fridge, our tv... everything will start speaking to us, like Kitt in the Knight Rider series. Way cool.


image from http://www.knightriderarchive.com/

Who knows... perhaps even our toilets would speak to us. Though I agree that would be a tad disconcerting, especially if it were to say something like "Sir, for the last time, please stay off the chilli... the air freshener is working on overdrive as it is and this is the 11th time you have used me tonight. It's not like you are paying me overtime..."

To the station masters on the North East Line - Stick to Muzak. You've scared enough early morning commuters as it is...

OPEN MIKE AT BIG TALK COMEDY CLUB

I'm opening up this blog to all the funny people out there. Anyone's welcome to contribute ideas, jokes, rants, ramblings, interesting observations, gripes, frustrations, naked pictures of themselves... anything. As long as it is funny.

Now... you'd be asking me - How on earth would I be able to pull off an Open Mike Night on my blog when...

1. This isn't an ACTUAL Comedy Club

2. The number of traffic to this blog is pathetic

3. I don't even own a bloody mike

Well, this blog isn't called Big Talk for nothing. There's an old Asian saying: "If you can't do big things, then think big. If you can't think big, then dream big. And if you can't even do that, then talk big." (Well, actually I made up that saying up there but hey... you kinda bought it, didn't you?)

And this is why I'm inviting people to make big talk about anything that they feel is funny. You won't get paid (like I said before... fledgling blog... have to keep costs low...) but you will get recognition from... erm... say about... 10 people who visit my site daily so that's not too bad, right?

If you're swayed by my impressive, tug-at-your-heartstrings sales pitch up there (I know... I'm good...), do drop your posts to bigfooz@gmail.com.

TOP TEN SIGNS THE GUARDPOST YOU'RE AT IS HAUNTED

10. The nickname given to the guardpost is Hell's Gate

9. The officer beside you gets deployed to cleaning the choked up toilets in the jail cells and he says, "Phew"

8. You get deployed to the guardpost and your colleagues hum the Twilight Zone theme song

7. Instead of normal ammo, they issue you with silver bullets

6. Instead of the standard issue boots, they allow you to wear running shoes

5. Instead of dropping you off at your post, they drop you in the middle of the road and tell you to walk the rest of the way there

4. You see a tour bus parked beside your post... and it belonged to "Mr Midnight Haunted Tours & Travels"

3. You arrive at your post and you find holy water, a cross, all the holy books and chinese talismans in a glass case with the words "BREAK GLASS IN CASE OF EMERGENCY"

2. You open the cabinet labelled "Communication Equipment" in your post and you find an Ouija Board

1. Stephen King called... wants to interview you after your shift ends

CAN DOGS SEE GHOSTS?

Is the myth about dogs being able to see ghosts true? For the longest time, the only dog I know which could see ghosts was Scooby... though in Scooby's case it was really just people masquerading as ghosts so that doesn't count.

But after last night... I begin to think there may be some truth to that myth...

I'm currently serving my Reservist Duty guarding the coastline in the godforsaken area called Tuas, which is located far out into the uninhabited fringes of this tiny island.

There's nothing there... except for my Post and a family of 5 stray dogs... the mother I've named Itchy Mama and her 4 puppies are Scratchy, Sparky, Scooby and Scrappy.

Itchy Mama and her brood will usually bark at the sight of anything passing by (usually it is the occasional Bangladeshi construction worker walking back to their dormitory). This is all good, because it saves me the trouble of having to try to spot in the pitch black darkness for intruders or smugglers within the vicinity.

But every now and then, when the night is still and eerily silent... the dogs would suddenly awaken from their light slumber and start barking... at nothing. Honestly, I don't want to read too much into these things. But there is something about their barking and their body movement that strikes me as... odd.

They'll start with a couple of frantic barks, with them looking out at a distance. The dogs would then back up slightly, as if avoiding something that is moving closer and closer to them. By now their barks would be reduced to a howl or even a whimper. As they back up, their eyes will still be intently staring at something, their head moving slowly, as if seeing something walk by.

Do they really have the "third eye"...? If they do, it'd give new meaning to the phrase "seeing eye dogs".

MY 100th VISITOR!

Today, at around 1pm Singapore time, I got my 100th visitor to my blog. I know it isn't much, but it is a personal milestone for me nonetheless. I mean, to be viewed 100 times by people even though the site contains no naked pictures... of women or myself (don't balk at that notion... you may not think it ain't sexy but like I said, gay bears all over the world think I'm hot stuff)... is to me, a personal achievement.

To the 100th visitor to my blog, thank you. If I knew who you were, I'd throw confetti and give you balloons... and I'd give you a whole year's unlimited supply of... good thoughts. That's basically it. If it were up to me I'd give you a free trip to Vegas but this is a fledgling blog and we have no sponsors so we have to keep our costs low... I hope you understand.

Hopefully by the 1000th visitor... things will start looking up. *fingers crossed*

EXASPERATED... AND IN NEED OF ENLIGHTENMENT

Image courtesy of http://www.esquire.com/

You would think that after living 32 years of my life surrounded by women (by that I meant I live with my mother and three sisters.... not that I live in a harem of beautiful women. That's a different story... for a different website), I would have figured out the female species - their thoughts, their motivations, their state of mind and how they communicate.

But I recently realized that... I don't. Not a clue.

Now... I hope the women who read the above don't go on a rant and get into a gender debate about who's truly at fault or why men can't understand simple things or start illustrating to me the subtle differences between constant repetitive reminders and nagging. That's not my intention... (though I wouldn't mind the increase in traffic to my blog due to this heated debate... even if it is from irate women).

My intention here is to seek enlightenment. I was given the cold shoulder since last week by the women in my family and I still have no clue as to why that is. After 32 years, I realize that all my efforts in trying to figure women out (which I thought was finally bearing some irrefutable, concrete answers) has come to a naught.

Thing is, I'm pretty sure it was my fault. Problem is... I don't know what I did wrong. Women expect men to pick up subtle cues they're giving out and figure out what we did wrong by ourselves. The sad thing is... we can't. We can figure out how to fly (after a few botched attempts by Icarus and the other dumbasses over the centuries), we can figure out how to put our asses into outer space... heck, men could even figure out how to build huge stone pyramids and great walls without heavy machinery and precision equipment.

But tell us to figure out what we did wrong is like asking Mr Bush to show us where the weapons of mass destruction are in Iraq... we won't have a clue. And what's worse than not having a clue? It is THINKING we have a clue, taking action based on what we think is right then realizing that we got it all wrong.

So all I'm asking is for women to tell me exactly what they're angry about. That's all. You can leave me a post-it, fax it to my office, email it to me and even text me a message to my mobile. Whether if it is something I did wrong... or if it is that time of the month and you don't feel like talking... or even if it's because they hate the unruly, stubbled look that I'm keeping (eventhough I think it makes me look ruggedly handsome)... all I ask is for you to let me know what's inside your head.

Enlighten me. Please.

TOP TEN SIGNS YOU ARE HEADED FOR A BREAK-UP

10. She seems to have more than her fair share of headaches in bed

9. You realize that your name in her mobile has been changed to “A%&HOLE”

8. You find embarrassing pictures of yourself posted in her blog under the subject heading - "My Loser Boyfriend"

7. Her answering machine's pre-recorded message is changed to "This is Jane and I'm not home now. And if you see my loser boyfriend, tell him to return my bloody keys"

6. You forget your anniversary... and she’s ok with it

5. She is the one who forgets the anniversary

4. You friends tell you they saw her personal ad on LoveMatch.com.

3. You call her and you hear Barry White playing in the background...

2. She doesn’t throw a fit when you say you want to go to Hooters with the boys

1. She is the one who wants to go to Hooters... alone.

DRIVEN NUTS - DRIVING PET PEEVES

Everyone has pet peeves when it comes to driving. Tailgaters, road-hoggers, people who honk incessantly and drivers who do not give way to you when even though you've been desperately signaling for a lane change in the last minute... you know, those people who like to tease you by giving you the impression that you can go ahead and just when you make your move, they speed up and shut you down... just like the many of the women I've met back in the day.

Sure... those kind of things would piss anyone. But below are some of my personal pet peeves.

Serangoon... Land Where The Jaywalkers Roam Free!

For those of you unfamiliar with Singapore, Serangoon, also known as Little India, is located in the central part of Singapore and it is really just a main road connected to a network of single lane 5 foot driveways and lots of traffic lights... and it is jam-packed with jaywalkers.

And this isn't your run-of-the-mill, amateur jaywalkers. No... these guys are pros. Normal jaywalkers would look left and right and left again before cross a junction quickly. These pro jaywalkers... they don’t care about cars. They believe they have the right of way on the roads.

These brazen individuals adopt a "dei-i-don't-give-shit-if-a-truck-is-bloody-approaching-i'm-still-gonna-cross-this-bloody-road-because-the-flower-shop-I-want-to-go-to-is-just-bloody-opposite-and-I-don't-want-to-walk-10-more-bloody-metres-to-go-to-the-bloody-pedestrain-crossing".

And you can't scare these jaywalkers either. They see you speeding up and they'll slow down. They know you won't hit them. They know you will slow down, even stop your cars to let them cross at their own leisurely pace. And they're right. How do they know?

For one thing... they know it's going to be a bitch having to clean the bloodstains from the windscreen should you end up knocking them down. For another... if you do end up killing someone on the road, forget the legal implications... and imagine the kind of lousy karma you'll have to live with for the rest of your next life.

I mean, having your driving licence suspended or revoked for reckless driving is nothing compared to having to live your next life as a dung beetle...

The jaywalkers know this, thus why they are kings in Serangoon. And this is why driving around Serangoon is a pet peeve...

Beemers... Divas Of The Road

I drive a Hyundai. It's not flashy, it's not particularly fast or responsive and the gas mileage isn't something I'd shout about. But it has served me well, considering the price I paid for it. And even without the frills, it is still gives me a pretty nice ride.

But not when I’m on a highway driving beside, or worse, in front of a BMW. It's because BMWs tend to be faster and more responsive, their drivers have this impatient, diva-ish attitudes on the roads. You know... the "move-away-biatch-you're-breathing-my-air" kind of attitude.

It's not that I have beemer-envy but just because they have Active Steering and xDrive for that "sheer driving pleasure" doesn't mean they can act like a diva on the red carpet and expect the traffic to part and expect us to clear the road for them when we see them coming. And just because my car may take slightly longer to accelerate from 0 to 60km/h doesn't give them the right to tailgate and coerce us "lesser" cars off the lane.

This "get-off-my-lane-you-slow-biatch-or-I'll-cut-you-in-half-you-dig?" attitude on the road really isn't necessary. The black girl diva attitude really won't help you get anywhere faster, xDrive or no xDrive. Just look at Whitney Houston.

Anyway, why can't we all get along? Regardless of whether we're German, Swede, French, Japanese, Korean or even Malaysian... can't we all just cut everyone a little slack on the roads and get along?

But the fact is, we can't. Some cars bully you because they're blessed with superior technological ingenuity or some cars drive real slow on purpose to piss the hell out of those cars blessed with superior technological ingenuity, perhaps due to beemer-envy (not me though...).

And this is why driving around, or god forbid, in front of, a BMV is a pet peeve...

My father

What has my father got to do with my driving pet peeves? Well, a lot... especially when you let him drive.

My father can drive. In fact, he's a great driver. How could he not when he spent a good part of his youth working as a driving instructor? But of late, he's developed a condition, which makes it a torture whenever I let him drive - it's called Antitrafficlightitis. It's a rare condition where my dad would be averse to... traffic lights.

Yes, averse to traffic lights. These lights would drive him nuts. My father treats lights like his late in-laws - the lesser he sees of them, the better. Even if he's just driving to the next neighbourhood, he'll take the highway there. Seriously. You can argue till the cows come home with this man... telling him that it'll take him 10 mins if we use the normal roads and 30 mins if he took the highway because of the long, unnecessary detour... it still wouldn't matter. He would still take the highway.

I don't know what brought about this condition. Maybe it is the fact that he's getting older and knowing full well that the sand on his hourglass of life is slowly trickling down makes him feel like he shouldn't be wasting on anymore time waiting at the traffic lights. Maybe he just loves the feel of the free open road and not having to stop for anyone. Maybe he's driven in Serangoon...? I don't know...

But I do know that when he drives, he tends to take the longest route possible just to escape the traffic lights. And whenever he chooses the longest route possible, it inevitably makes my Hyundai guzzle up petrol like a Hummer. But this is really of no concern of his.

In fact, the way he uses petrol, it is like as if he is some long lost relative to the Saudi royalty. "What... you angry because I used up half a tank of gas to get to the next neighbourhood? What is a half tank of gas? A drop in the well, you fool!". If he was wearing white gloves I'm pretty sure he's going to take them off and smack me in the face with them.

I can't imagine him driving a cab... his clients driven to a frenzy, pointing frantically at where they wanted to go and my dad just shaking his head, saying, "Yes ma'am, I know you just live right there but I can't take that road. There are lights there. What I will do is take the highway and take the next exit and you'll be home in another... erm... 30 mins. In the meantime, get yourself comfortable. And stop tapping your finger on my shoulder..."

But I can't say anything. He's my father. And it IS a condition... so I can't discriminate against that. Thus I just grin and bear it. And that is why my father is one of my driving pet peeves too (well, technically it's a non-driving pet peeve, but a pet peeve nonetheless).

Anyone else got a unique driving pet peeve to share? Write to me at bigfooz@gmail.com and see it posted here.

DRUNKS ARE MORON

Tonight I had to endure a train ride home smelling the sour stench of some lousy drunk's puke. I apologize for sounding so bitter but when you had to endure a 45 minute train ride smelling the contents of someone else's stomach in a confined environment with no roll-down windows, you'd be in a foul mood too.

So to the dumbass who made my train ride earlier a nauseating one, he's a few pointers for you to indicate when you've had a tad too much alcohol...

YOU KNOW YOU HAD TOO MUCH ALCOHOL...

When you can sterilize wounds by sneezing onto it

When your drool evaporates the moment it leaves the corner in your mouth

When you take a crap and your shit comes out sterilized

When you exhale, people think there's an Irish pub nearby

When you cough, chunks of pate drenched in alcohol comes out. And you've never had pate...

When you puke out the chocolate coffee cake you had earlier and out comes tiramisu.

When your pee can be bottled and sold as paint stripper

When you can't hold your puke in while you're on the bloody train...

WIMPIFIED SUPERHEROES

*picture courtesy of Universal Pictures/Marvel http://www.thehulk.com

There was a re-run of the movie HULK on TV earlier and knowing what I know now... I suddenly realize why Ang Lee was a shoo-in when it came to directing Brokeback Mountain. I mean, no disrespect to Ang Lee... he's a brilliant director with a great artistic mind... but if he could make a 400 pound muscle bound tank crushing angry beast emote with such conviction, making a movie about two macho gay cowboys is a walk in the park.

But I digress... the real reason as to what I wanted to talk about today is something more serious. It is the systematic wimpification (there's no such word... but it eloquently illustrates my point) of our beloved superheroes by Hollywood. I don't know if it is one of those brilliant story ideas (i.e. giving a superhero depth through emotion) that was severely overplayed or if it is a conspiracy by movie executives to rake in the chick dollars because a SNAG superhero appeals more to them than the he-man women haters.

But one thing I do know... this is no accident. It happened too many times... it happened to The Hulk, The X-Men and most recently, Superman Returns. I mean, the Hulk was a big ball of emotional torment half of the time, Cyclops went all weepy in The Last Stand and Superman used his superpowers to, of all things, stalk his ex-girlfriend... spying through her walls, listening in to her conversations... someone pass me the krytonite-laced restraining order, please?

Even Wolverine, who oozed machismo with his devil-may-care aloofness in the first two instalments of the X-Men, fell prey to the sappy, smells-like-a-chick-flick moments within the screenplay when he was made to cry out after sticking his adamantium claws into her gut (which brings me to another question... why kill Jean? They had a bloody cure, Mr Ratner! But again... I digress)

So is this the trend that we are supposed to expect from Hollywood? Because I really cannot bear to see these superheroes... these men of steel with great power and responsibility with whom were once idolised turn into inconfident, needy, does-my-butt-look-big-in-these-tights type of superheroes.


* picture coutesy of Columbia Pictures/Marvel http://www.sonypictures.com/movies/spiderman3/site/

I do have big hopes with the upcoming third instalment of Spiderman (the graphite grey Spiderman/Venom suit is sublime...). And Batman Begins also did not disappoint. Let's all just hope and pray that the sequel for Batman Begins will be as interesting as the first... and that they don't revisit the nippled Batsuit idea. Ever.

TOP TEN SIGNS IT'S TIME TO FIND A NEW JOB

10. When your new namecards arrive, the designation is correct but has someone else's name

9. They re-arranged the structure of the office space... and forgot your cubicle

8. The cleaning lady leaves empty cartons by your desks and shakes her head in pity everytime she sees you walk by

7. Your desk calendar has the words "LAST DAY" scribbled at the end of the month... and it's not by you.

6. Whenever a meeting ends, your colleagues walk up to you and say, "All the best, keep in touch yar?"

5. You get moved to the basement office... which really is just a broom closet.

4. In the broom closet, you found party supplies and a banner that says "FAREWELL BIGFOOZ"

3. You pick up your office phone and the voice on the other end says, "You're still here?!"

2. In your performance report, your boss writes, "What performance?"

1. Your screensaver has a scrolling marquee that says, "You're Fired".

If you liked the above, then send me to New York. How? Figure something out. Please?

40 YEARS HARD LABOUR

My friend Maria recently wrote to me to express how peeved she is with her job. It’s not a unique problem... we've seen similar exaggerated scenarios illustrated in the Dilbert strips.

Dealing with a boss that a spouts a plethora of vague and at times conflicting instructions and objectives which she in turn has to execute without question, having to endure the emotional abuse of being made to feel like a reject amongst equals by her boss for not getting on with the program and also not being able to relish that feeling of satisfaction with a job well done because her boss belittles all of her achievements.

And to further complicate matters, there is this persistent screaming in her head... her inner voice... telling her that she can do so much more than this and that she should be be doing something more worthwhile with her life.

Sound familiar?

I empathize with her situation because I feel the exact same way at times. And I'm sure I'm not the only one. A friend once remarked that "work's shit these days... you either keep at it or jump ship and land straight into a new pile of familiar crap" (he is not a lot of things, my friend... but what he can do is make a bleak situation sound much worse... it's his gift).

And it was when I was taking a crap myself and thinking of what he said that I suddenly had this revelation... many of us do not realize this or we choose to ignore it but the truth is, the work environment is very similar and, at times, much more brutal than prison. Yes, prison.

You would be surprised but I'm telling you, work and prison is eerily similar.

- You are confined to a tiny space which you will inadvertently dress up with stuff from home or pictures of your wife, girlfriend, children... a valiant but misguided attempt at trying to make a cold, unfeeling environment, exude some warmth.

- You subconsciously become paranoid with the politics around you. You don't know whom you can trust. You watch your back because you never know if there's someone out there with a dagger and may want to stick it in your back

- You make sure you don't make any false step lest you end up getting your ass screwed.

Of course, in prison, the latter two scenarios get more literal... a lot more literal. But at least in prison, you'd know who'd want to screw your ass, e.g. the mean looking meathead who'd pucker his lips at you every time you walk by... no surprise since he hasn't had a conjugal visit in months. At work, it's a little more difficult to tell...

And whether you like it or not, you will have to sign on to this and work for at least 20 to 40 years (with no early release for good behaviour). I mean, unless you have a trust fund or you are, as Warren Buffet once said, part of the "Lucky Sperm Club" (i.e. people born into wealth like children of business tycoons, millionaire movie stars, sultans of oil rich countries...), by the time you finish school, you will have to work till at least you're 50 in order to pay the bills, life a decent life and be a good, contributing member of society.

And we wonder why we get so depressed with work sometimes...

Why has it become as such? Why has work become so depressing? Why are we now labelled as the poor little rich nation whose citizens can't find happiness? David Marshall, our first Chief Minister, once lamented in an interview that "The law is no longer a vocation, it is a business. Everything is geared to business!" (for the full interview, kindly go to http://thinkhappiness.blogspot.com/2006/08/meeting-david-marshall-in-1994.html)

And that is unfortunately true. Not just in law but everywhere. Irrespective of where you are working at, we sometimes no longer find happiness in what we do because what we do has no significant contribution (except that of monetary rewards) to ourselves… let alone our fellow man. We do because we are told to do it or because we have been doing it and must continue to do it or because we were given a number to hit and hit that number we must, at all cost.

Everything today is about topline, bottomline, return of investments, net profit... and you are inadvertently reduced to becoming a headcount. You're now just a number (see, the prison references just keep coming up...). You're no longer known by your name. These days, if you're lucky, you're the hard working Executive at Operations or if you're unlucky, the fourth employee in a department that can make do with three men or you're a $40,000 per annum employee that could be easily replaced by a $25,000 per annum rookie and save the department's bottomline.

Of course, not all companies are like that. But with the pressures of competing in a globalized economy, answering to shareholders, ensuring that margins grow and the books are kept in the black, many companies do, at times inadvertently, adopt a pragmatic but emotionally detached approach when dealing with the employees.

The question that begs answering now is... how can we be happy should we be trapped in such a bleak environment? I'm no psychiatrist and I have no answers. Going back to the prison reference, I guess you can always opt for… the Great Escape - leave the company and take up a new, more meaningful but less financially rewarding vocation in life or take a sabbatical to figure out your direction in life or even take the path less travelled and do things your parents would never approve of... like taking up a career as a professional tap dancer at children's birthdays or… I don’t know… train to become a professional wrestler perhaps.

Or, as my friend said, you can " jump ship and land straight into a new pile of familiar crap". Just pray that there's not as much crap to deal with in the new place... and as a precaution, just make sure there are no sex-starved meatheads lurking in the corners.

SEND BIGFOOZ TO WATCH LETTERMAN LIVE IN NY CAMPAIGN

I'm starting this campaign which I hope, in time, will eventually see me off to New York to see the Late Show with David Letterman live at the Ed Sullivan Theatre. How are you going to help me achieve this? Tell you what... surprise me.

Till that happens, I will do my version of the TOP TEN (for those of you unfamiliar with this, you can visit David Letterman's TOP TEN site at http://www.cbs.com/latenight/lateshow/top_ten/)

Since we are still in the National Day mood here, this week's topic will be:

TOP TEN SIGNS THEY SPENT LESS ON FIREWORKS THIS YEAR

10. You find a box of sparklers in your goodie bag with the words "just in case you were expecting more"

9. You find an usually high number of christmas lights where the fireworks are supposed to be

8. The only coloured fireworks they had... was grey.

7. You find yourself coated in toxic sulphuric ash after the fireworks display

6. The Civil Defence hazardous chemicals team suddenly sound the alarm and evacuates everyone

5. The roads around the fireworks display are not jammed with stationary cars

4. The fireworks were launched from the artillery gun used for the 21-Gun Presidential Salute

3. The fireworks smelled like burnt cow poo

2. Instead of a loud bang, all you hear is "pffssstt...."

1. They bought chinese firecrackers instead

Pronunciation 101

Pronounciation... let's admit it, we all, at one time or another, get stumped over the pronounciation of certain words.

Russian names for example (hearing the commentators struggling with this during the gymnastics segment of the Olympics is always fun)... or words with kitsch spellings from "hip brand managers" for otherwise simple, pronouncable words...

And English.

I don't understand why English is at times not spelt phonetically - with their unfathomable rules like the silent "e" and silent "p" and whatever letter medieval wordsmiths could magically silence within a word.

I mean, if you want the letter to remain silent then don't include it in the word. It's not like the letter is going to take offence because it's the least utilized word in a Scrabble game. Plus, the creator of Scrabble, a genius of a man he is... had created a brilliant rule to manage the egos of these "rarely" used letters by allotting them with higher points. So no ruffled feathers there...

Another pet peeve on the topic of pronounciation is how personalities on mass media like television journalists and radio hosts blatantly ignore the proper pronounciations for certain countries.

For example, people in America and many parts of the world now call the country that Saddam Hussin once ruled over as "Ai-Rack" when it really should be "Ee-raak". Whose fault is it? Well, who knows. It can be anyone from a Middle East translator who misheard and mispronounced it during a UN summit 50 years ago or perhaps a staff in the Oval Office who is dyslexic but never diagnosed.

Anyway... what happened in the age of British Imperialism, when Mumbai was turned to Bombay and Beijing into Peking, is happening again today and as an Asian I find that sad. Mumbai and Beijing is no longer written and pronounced in its bastardized form today but it did take them over a century to remedy this. Let's just hope it doesn't take as long for Iraq...

Speaking of Beijing, I watched a segment from CCTV (a news network in China) and witnessed something really weird . The reporter, who is obviously Chinese, continuously pronounced Beijing as "Bay-jeeng" with a slight pause between the two syllabus (like his Western counterparts from CNN) instead of the proper Chinese pronounciation, which is "Pbei-jing" without much pause between the two syllabus.

You may say toe-may-toe, toe-maa-toe but I felt that if a Chinese reporter doesn't make an effort to show how the cities in his country should be pronounced, then who will?

Well, perhaps you may find me anal for bringing all this up. But I dare you to tell that to me when I start pronouncing Texas as "Text-Ass"...

Blogging... Cheaper Than Therapy

My friends have always encouraged me to start a blog but I've always been apprehensive about all this blogging business. It's hard not to... too many blogs, too little substance.

There are the occasional gems - some that provoke you re-think the status quo while others are really good for a laugh. But there are also an innumerable number of absolutely mind numbing posts from people who really have no idea how their writing has a euthanasia-like effect on unsuspecting readers.

These people go on and on about the most mundane of issues... some, for example, fishing for comments on whether the faux feather hat they just bought looks absolutely darling on their petite little head while others boorishly shove down their less than polite opinions about people who buy faux feather hats (presumably because they were expecting a tickle fetishist's blog but instead stumbled onto a vain, middle aged lady rambling about her stupid hat she just bought to wear for the races).

So why the change of heart? Well for one thing, I'm too much of a cheap bastard to part with my hard earned money to a qualified psychiatrist. I mean, all I'm going to do is just vent my ass off for 1 hour while seated seated on a sofa, albeit a comfy one.

So if I'm gonna vent, I might as well do it here (my chair's no sofa but it's still kinda comfy as far as office chairs go) where I know my deepest darkest secrets, from my peeves to my eccentric views (which some may erroneously consider as being a tad off-kilter) will forever remain secret due the anonymity that comes with posting your stuff online.

Unless if I decide to open my big fat mouth and reveal my identity because the draw of being in the limelight and receiving my 15 minutes of fame is just too much to suppress...

And with that, here I am. Another blog side by side with the millions of others out there. I can't promise that my blog will be all that thought provoking and it may not even be funny.

But one thing I do promise you is that I am going to be venting my ass off from hereon forth. From life in general to other things that you normally won't be thinking about (like the similarities between a astronaut and someone who is holding in a big load of crap and is deperately seeking a toilet to release his puckered anus from its misery - oh yes, there are similarities. which I will reveal in good time, little grasshopper).

I think this is the beginning of something really beautiful...

And by the way, I don't mean to be rude ma'am but the faux feathers does make your head look kinda fat.