Saturday, August 31, 2019

Musings on the momentous date, August 31st...

The Nuclear Family in 2013

Every time August 31st rolls around I am reminded of two things. The more significant event of the two, of course, is my very first fuck.

At 14 or 15 I was still wearing stripes & checks
I mean, with a woman. A digression is necessary: you see, at 15 I had ventured, with a few classmates, to Singapore's infamous Bugis Street, where we had decided to collectively put paid to our virginity. The middle-aged hooker I engaged for my initiation into malehood looked fairly attractive in the low-wattage lighting, but when we removed our clothes I noticed she possessed a rudimentary penis. She seemed enthusiastic enough - and who wouldn't be delighted to get paid to fiddle around with a cute 15-year-old, unless they're compulsive virtue-signalers? The scientist in me took charge of the situation and decided that an experience is, after all, an experience.

Besides, I didn't have the nerve to demand my money back and couldn't afford to go shopping elsewhere. After some 20 minutes of awkward fumbling around I thanked "her" and got dressed. I didn't ask my friends if they had had a similar "initiation." We were all too embarrassed by the whole excursion and never spoke about it again.

Beloved mother of my two lovely girls
Coming back to my first fuck. For three whole years I had been courting a feisty, flirtatious femme two years my senior. We maintained an increasingly passionate and playful correspondence while she was at university and I was in New Jersey as an exchange student. Upon my return in early August 1968, she wrote and told me she would be in Singapore on a geography field trip and would be free on August 31st to meet me for a hot date.

Now why does Singapore feature so prominently in every erotic initiation I can recall? Could it be the Merlion Singapore has chosen as its national totem, which combines Leonine and Piscean qualities - masculine rationality (lion) with feminine intuition (dolphin)?

Soulful reunion in 2016
Well, the date August 31st will always symbolize a pivotal moment in my life, a rite of passage, when I not only experienced the exquisite pleasure of being fully plugged into the sacred feminine, the holy of holies, but also claimed my adulthood by becoming a father to my first daughter.

Which explains why my earlier plan to study filmmaking in UCLA, California, had to be scuttled. But 25 years down the line, my second daughter graduated summa cum laude from TCU, Texas, with a filmmaking degree. She also fulfilled my desire to marry a German and produce gorgeous babies, but that's another story.

So for me the 31st of August will always represent a major life initiation, totally unexpected but gratefully embraced. How could I not rejoice to be father of two exceptionally beautiful, honest, and accomplished women who have bestowed quintuple datukships on me?

All grown up, my beautiful girls & their amazing mama

Daughter #1 with her 2 sweeties
As for the other thing, national independence, I must confess I have been indelibly imprinted with the thoughts of Kurt Vonnegut who introduced me to Bokononism in his 1963 novel, Cat's Cradle, wherein he distinguished between two categories of social bonding: the Granfalloon and the Karass. (I suggest you read Gregory Macnamee's instructive essay "On Vonnegut's Karass vs. Granfalloon" for a fuller understanding of this important distinction.) If you can't be bothered to look it up, I shall attempt to paraphrase Vonnegut's definition of a Granfalloon - which is precisely what every nation-state, football club, old boys' association, or ethnic grouping actually is: an assembly of humans drawn together by a common delusion - that there is "strength in numbers" and that people can feel united through loyalty to some corporate brand name or logo.

A Karass, on the other hand, is what Vonnegut calls a true soul family, drawn together by natural affinities and a deep sense of kinship beyond appearances and ideological constructs.

Daughter #2 with her 3 sweeties
It goes without saying that I have never been fond of Granfalloons nor will I ever be. Therefore the thought of celebrating something as meaningless as a brand name (Malaysia, Indonesia, Singapore, Great Britain, America, Estonia, Afghanistan, Transylvania) and a corporate logo (Jalur Gemilang, Stars and Stripes or Union Jack) simply makes me chortle till I churn up some loose spittle or awaken a clump of mucus from its slumber.

Go ahead, folks, and wave those plastic flags. It really makes no difference to me if they are emblazoned with a giant M (for Mahathir, Mekdi or McDonald's), a cluster of stars, a few stripes, a maple leaf, a stylized axolotl, or a Mandelbrot Set. Corporations and corporate-states are essentially social engineering constructs, ant-colonies, beehives, designed to gather and accumulate energy (the sweet stuff) for those who commissioned and invested in the project. They may appear to be almighty, indomitable, and indestructibly totalitarian - until you catch a glimpse of colossal ruins such as you will find in Göbekli Tepe, Egypt, Rome, Cambodia, Peru. And here I am reminded of visionary historian William Irwin Thompson's classic observation:

"Civilizations, like the penis, rise and fall, and when the towers and battlements crumble into the earth, they return to the embrace of the Great Mother."

Antares Maitreya
31 August 2019




Friday, August 30, 2019

TIME TO COME CLEAN! (repost)



Reincarnational fragments – or, more accurately, aspects of my multidimensional Self - have been accumulating and reintegrating in my conscious memory since 1969. This isn’t a continuous process. Many years go by when I am not aware of or bothered by these furtive intimations of immortality.

Sometimes a parallel life inserts itself into my immediate reality and I don’t know what it means or how to use it until much later. For instance, I came across the name Cthulhu in my teen years, chancing upon some paperback reprints of H.P. Lovecraft’s gothic tales of terror. At the time all Cthulhu represented to me was some indescribably hideous and scary monster from the subterranean depths of our collective unconscious, something you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.

Subsequently I read two stimulating novels by Colin Wilson (The Mind Parasites and Philosopher’s Stone) and there was further light shed on this Cthulhu character: Wilson acknowledged Lovecraft’s source material but painted a somewhat different portrait of this entity, the first God-King of Mu, whom he called Ktolo and described as a very lonely being that after aeons of absolute rule in this remote sector of the galaxy turned somewhat misanthropic and withdrew from mortal view. Within generations Ktolo had entered the realm of myth as The Ineffable and Terrifying Presence, the Nameless One All Souls Have To Face On Judgment Day, and so on.


In effect, Ktolo had become the Devourer of Souls, the Invisible God all men feared. He it was who installed the earliest machinery of remote government on this planet. It facilitated the smooth administration of Mu’s far-flung colonies and kept everything humming along in apparently orderly fashion. Greed and Fear, Carrot and Stick: the tried and tested Management Method still in use today, after all these hoary millennia.

Ktolo’s sad story might well have inspired the legend of the Beauty and the Beast, in that he had begun to regress to the point where he felt himself too grotesquely complex, too repugnant, too horribly indifferent to ever be loved. What became of Cthulhu-Ktolo? No one knows and no one dares speculate. We may assume that Ktolo got so bored with existence that he longed for death, a permanent end to it all. But, alas, dying is just as illusory and transient as being born: Ktolo found himself scattered over time in myriad incarnations, each with a built-in dread of regaining total recall, for that would only result in Ktolo finding himself trapped in his own ego for eternity.

We do know, from documentary evidence collected and translated by the enigmatic James Churchward, that after the long reign of Ktolo, one of his descendants rose to new heights of popularity as King Ahau of Mu (aka One Hunahpu). This was just before the destruction of Lemuria, circa 83,000 B.C.E.

It was after the March equinox, 1993, in Bundoora (an aboriginal burial site in Victoria, Australia, where once stood a prediluvian stone circle) that my memory of having been Ktolo reactivated. I realized then that even in my present incarnation I had retained the same consonants (KTL) in my 3D name, Kit Leee. For some reason, many people, even old friends, have insisted on addressing me as “Kitleee” instead of just “Kit.” Now I understood why!

The implications of my life as Ktolo only recently struck home, after I obtained a Skyview Astrochart from my friend Katharina Bless. My lifelong antagonism towards all forms of external authority (in other words, government, bureaucratic control mechanisms) suddenly made perfect sense. Who would know better how detrimental government was to true spirituality than the one who instituted it on this planet during the infancy of human civilization...

That's right, folks, I'm the bloody nincompoop who introduced bureaucracy to Earth!

And that’s not the end of it. I just finished reading a 730-page account of Sir Frank Swettenham’s career as a colonial agent in Malaya. He arrived as a fresh-faced cadet in 1871 and by 1883 had been appointed British Resident of Selangor. It took him another 12 years to become Resident-General of the Federated Malay States and another 6 to be made Governor of Singapore. Before he opted for early retirement in 1904, he was named High Commissioner of the Straits Settlements as well. In short, Sir Frank was perhaps the most ambitious and hardheaded imperialist that ever clawed his way to fame and fortune between the 19th and 20th centuries. 



And it was he who introduced the idea of “development and progress” to what was once a tropical sleepy hollow, more than 90% of which was covered with luxuriant jungle (today we’re lucky if there’s even 30% left). Indeed, Sir Frank Swettenham was the blithering idiot whose excellent but environmentally destructive work on behalf of Ego and Empire I’ve been battling to undo in the last 30 years.

Throughout his illustrious career in Malaya, Frank was known to support the political supremacy of the Malay chiefs and his final act, two months before he finally checked out at the overripe age of 96, was to write a strong letter of protest against the proposal of the Malayan Union which would have granted all ethnic groups full rights as citizens under the Union Jack. With the benefit of hindsight, this was perhaps a far better idea than leaving state affairs in the hands of unscrupulous pirate kings and scheming grand viziers.

Well, once again, I only have myself to blame because I was that pompous bastard (can’t recall how I stumbled upon this particular realization but I’ve known it since 1989).

As for other lives, other personae, there’s much I have to say – but not here, not now – takes too much work putting it all in words. Language itself tends towards linearity and can never satisfactorily express the nonlinearity of multidimensional experience. However, it CAN hint at interconnections and far-flung associations and inspire fairly instructive analogies and metaphors.

For now, let’s just say that I have no one to accuse of screwing up the world but various aspects of myself (including those directly involved with what has been recorded as the Anunnaki colonization of the planet about 440,000 earthyears ago).

Yes, the atrocious misbehavior of covert agencies like Mossad, MI6 and the CIA stems from my own fear of being dethroned, of losing control. The megalomania of industrial tycoons like Bill Gates, Jr (a majority shareholder in Monsanto, the most evil enterprise on earth) is a spinoff of my own deepest, darkest desire to be the Sole Star in the firmament, the Only Living Deity (and a jealous one, to boot, who will tolerate no graven images lest they present my likeness in an unfavorable light).

So what does one do in view of this terribly incriminating self-knowledge? For a start, laugh and forgive oneself one’s apparent trespasses and stupidities. Next, to acknowledge that there is ultimately no one “out there” causing all these problems: it’s only bits of oneself that have yet to be brought safely home and celebrated as prodigal sons and daughters of our own limitless being. Why curse our experiential vehicles when they break down? We designed them and we must own up to minor design flaws, all of which can easily be rectified as soon as we learn to outgrow being embarrassed by our own excesses and oversights. Hey, Mr Hyde, you can’t hide forever...

By Chiron’s grace, may I be wholly reintegrated and healed, so that henceforth and ever after all will know peace, unity, harmony, perfect joy, and endless bounty.

The Entity Currently Going By The User ID:
ANTARES
~^@^~


[Written 9 January 2003, revised 12 February 2012 & 20 August 2015 & reposted 13 September 2016]

Wednesday, August 28, 2019

Combing through the tangle of my thoughts as another Gregorian year rolls in (updated)


I don’t recall a time when the forces of polarization have been stronger on this earth. Nor do I recall a time in my life when I have felt more unsure of every idea I once held close to my heart as absolute truth.

Let me backtrack a little to the Solstice of 21 December 2012. The date itself had since the Harmonic Convergence of August 1987 become a planetary meme signifying the transition between two zodiacal ages, Pisces and Aquarius, and the beginning of a glorious new evolutionary spiral - even if some mistakenly interpreted it as another “end of the world” scenario (although it has certainly proved to be the end of the world as we knew it, at least for those of us born in the 20th century).

Well, on 21 December 2012 I was struck with a severe pain in my lower back (later diagnosed as a mild case of spondylitis) and found myself lying in bed, attended by three healing angels. Just being able to get out of bed and stand straight, not to mention walk around without my whole body twisting up in agony, was all I could focus on. Fortunately the pain eased up and within a couple of days I began to feel more myself.

Heiko & Selina Niedermeyer
On 30 December, I had a long conversation with two healer-counselor friends (Heiko and Selina Niedermeyer) who invited me to usher in 2013 with them. I booked them for a 2-hour healing session on 4 January 2013 and the rest of the year was dedicated to fixing my backache – first with acupuncture, then with a dozen chiropractic sessions, and finally with a series of structural reintegration manipulations (based on Ida Rolf’s deep tissue massage techniques) conducted by another healing angel named Michelle Ch’ng. All in all, I spent close to RM10,000 just so I could stand and walk properly.

That was the bad news. The good news was that I had the money to pay for healing myself physically as well as metaphysically – because my parents’ house was finally sold in late 2013 and my share of the proceeds, though modest by most standards, was more cash in the piggy than I had seen in my entire life. It was fantastic to feel financially comfortable, for the first time ever, and in a position to be generous with others. But four years down the line, less than half of that windfall remains, because it has been all outflow with hardly any cash income.

Chennai-based nadi leaf reader Mr Kumar
So here we are in December 2017 and there is a gnawing feeling that I shall have to consider finding ways of generating funds in 2018. True, a nadi leaf reader I saw in March 2014 informed me that owing to positive karma I will “never have financial problems, forever”… mind you, he didn’t say I’d be rich, just free from lack, which is good enough for me.

It has certainly been a crazy helter-skelter ride in the last five years. I call it the Time Compression Effect where everything can change in a heartbeat – what more from day to day or month to month.

Anwar hugs his wife before being hauled off
to Sungai Buloh Prison, 10 February 2015
For Malaysia the year 2015 started ominously with the imprisonment of Opposition Leader Anwar Ibrahim on 10 February. A few months later the RM52-billion 1MDB debacle – billed as the most audacious case of kleptocracy in history – erupted on the international news - and only the totally apathetic, completely blind or utterly corrupt could deny that we were saddled with a crooked finance minister who also conveniently happens to be the crime (not prime) minister. What is most startling, though, is that nobody has been forced to resign – except dissidents and whistleblowers – while outspoken Opposition leaders, commentators and journalists have been harassed, intimidated, arrested and dragged through the kangaroo courts.*

The year before, on 7 March 2014, Anwar’s January 2012 acquittal by a high court judge had been overturned by the Court of Appeal. There would likely have been massive street protests – but for the mysterious disappearance of Flight MH370 just six hours after the judges pronounced Anwar guilty. Instead of mammoth rallies demanding justice for the Opposition Leader, Malaysians were glued to laptop and TV screens, waiting for a breakthrough in the fruitless search for the missing Boeing 777 with 239 on board (many are convinced its autopilot system was remotely taken over and the plane hijacked to Diego Garcia; while some psychics maintain that Flight MH370 went through a portal into a different dimension). A few months later, another horrendous “accident” involving the national airline MAS – when Flight MH17 from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur was blown out of the sky as collateral damage in the murkiest of spy-versus-spy maneuvers.

Aftermath of the 1 October 2017 Massacre in Las Vegas
So instead of a planet-wide epiphany, we are witnessing bewildering events of an apocalyptic nature, orchestrated by hidden hands. And it has been so since 11 September 2001 – relentlessly so – as reported by the establishment media.

A few glimpses of light do issue from alternative media via the internet - and are immediately dismissed as “fake news” by those who have traditionally scripted events on the world stage. It’s almost as if humans are now divided into Bluepillers and Redpillers - not just Leftwingers and Rightwingers as we used to be, or Liberals and Conservatives.

Indeed, the incredibly intense years since 2012 appear to be a single continuum of dramatic, often abrupt and violent, change. I can’t even confine myself to writing about what transpired in 2017 without referencing 2016 and the tumultuous preceding years. 2016 certainly stands out on so many levels: apart from being the hottest year recorded in recent memory, when a whole slew of celebrities checked out, it was also the year of Brexit (UK’s referendum on whether to stay or leave the EU) and Trump’s unexpected electoral victory.

In 2016 I found myself diverging from the views of almost everyone I know on a broad spectrum of issues - from political correctness and vaccinations to tolerating virulent belief systems disguised as religion. I was secretly pleased about the way the Brexit vote went, even though I knew it would create massive confusion and distress for a great many who were happy to be able to live and work freely all over the European Union. Brexit was a spanner in the works for the globalist totalitarian vision of the New World Order cabal; it paved the way for further fragmentation and decentralized power - very good news indeed when those who would wield absolute power over others are hideously disconnected from their own hearts and feel nothing but contempt for Mother Earth.

Anti-Monsanto poster by Benjamin Karis-Nix
All my adult life I have seen myself as essentially a liberal person with progressive ideas about everything. Although not a US citizen, I have long favored the Democrats over the Republicans. In hindsight my views were influenced by the Zionist-Khazarian-owned “liberal” media (including Hollywood) and the “well-educated” company I kept. I had been impressed by Bill Clinton’s easy charm and intelligence as a presidential figure and saw Hillary as a tenacious street-savvy politician (but that was during the early days of the internet and few of us had access to alternative journalism, so we really had no idea what nasty things public figures got up to in private).

Barack Obama’s entry into the White House seemed to be a harbinger of a happier new era – but it didn’t take long for me to notice he was really just a fabulous orator who got the job because he looked suave and urbane in a custom-tailored suit. Long before his term ended it was obvious that Obama was a hardcore status-quoist with no intentions to rock the neoliberal crony-capitalist boat or turn on his deep state sponsors. For a start, Obama failed to launch a proper enquiry into the outrageous 9/11 black ops (which launched the spurious and perpetual “war on terror”). He promised to shut down Guantanamo Bay but didn’t.

Then he allowed state secretary Hillary Clinton to launch a massive black op against the Gaddafi regime in Libya and authorized countless drone attacks on civilians in Afghanistan. He allowed the CIA and Mossad to fund, arm and train mercenaries under the Daesh-Islamic Caliphate flag in an insidious attempt to destabilize the Assad regime in Syria, resulting in horrendous atrocities and the death of countless thousands, triggering mass migrations on a catastrophic scale. He even closed an eye to a cocaine syndicate operated by Hezbollah. The last straw was his active participation in the staged assassination of CIA operative Osama bin Laden. In retrospect the only laudable act of Obama’s entire presidency was his pardoning of army whistleblower Chelsea Manning just before he left the White House (even though her freedom proved shortlived).


As the US presidential race heated up and everyone’s favorite candidate Bernie Sanders quickly got nudged out by Hillary Rodham Clinton, amid reports of electoral rigging in the primaries, I began to pay more attention to narratives that were deliberately being omitted by the mainstream media. Dozens of YouTube channels were sprouting overnight, featuring young and plugged-in citizen journalists and political commentators who seemed to have their fingers on the post-2012 pulse of things. They were discussing important issues – such as endemic corruption within the machinery of government, congressmen and senators on the payroll of banks and giant corporations that influenced policies through professional lobbyists, rogue elements in the CIA and FBI, involved in a long list of black ops  - from the assassinations of the Kennedy brothers (JFK and RFK), Martin Luther King, and John Lennon to false flag events like the Oklahoma City bombing and 9/11, not to mention apparently random acts of senseless violence involving demented (or mind-controlled) shooters, suicide bombers and jihadi drivers mowing down pedestrians.

On 8 November 2016, much to my own surprise, I found myself rooting for Donald J. Trump who represents a wild card, a political amateur – as opposed to Hillary Clinton who stands for the deeply-entrenched cynicism, corruption, hypocrisy and bloodthirsty cruelty that has long been associated with the traditional power structure. All the well-known political pundits were convinced HRC would be a shoo-in. When Trump was sworn in as the 45th US president, I knew the geopolitical world had shattered into fragments and would never be the same again.


But was The Donald really going to “drain the swamp” (with a little bit of help from the Marines and the “White Hat Alliance”) as he promised, and put the Bush and Clinton crime families in jail? Would he really reopen the 9/11 investigation and let the truth finally see the light of day? It seemed an impossible undertaking – the rot had set in so deep at all levels. Most folks continue to be distracted by trivia, judging by their posts on Instagram and Facebook, and when they do have a strong opinion about anything, it is more often than not influenced by leftwing neoliberal (read Khazarian mafia) media like CNN, MSNBC, ABC, the Huffington Post or the New York Times - or any number of trendy online magazines like BuzzFeed which specialize in launching trendy memes into cyberspace via Facebook. To the “well-informed” and intelligent but unwittingly brainwashed majority, Donald Trump is a just a hideous joke - and the Clintons and Obamas far more “reasonable” leadership choices. How little they know about what’s been going on right below their noses and under their feet!

I suppose if millions of humans over the last few thousand years have allowed their children to be indoctrinated by predator priests with questionable ideas like “virgin birth” and “72 virgins in paradise” (why this obsession with virginity, I wonder?)… believing that governments are in power “to serve the people”… religious and educational institutions exist “to serve God” and “impart knowledge” to the masses… and that royal bloodlines are actually “noble”… well, that explains why they have no problems at all with their own cognitive dissonance.

On a more personal level (I tend to be transpersonal by default), 2017 hasn’t been much fun, despite many magical encounters, unforgettable moments, minor miracles, and a great deal for which to be thankful. The year began with a massive shock when my only begotten son Ahau Ben stood up, blacked out, and fell with a loud splat on the floor, breaking his humerus. I assure you, it wasn’t at all funny to spend New Year’s Day taking him to the district hospital where there is no orthopedic unit. Long story short, it was a wake-up call for me as well as Mary Maguire (Ahau’s surrogate mum and our next-door neighbor since 2008). We spent the greater part of 2017 fretting about Ahau’s erratic brain chemistry which seemed to trigger absence seizures (resembling epileptic fits) and seeing him in a cast month after month after month.

In mid-January we took Ahau to see a neurologist at Universiti Malaya Specialist Center (UMSC) who prescribed 200-mg carpamezapine daily, to which Ahau responded instantly and favorably. He has been fine since – although in July he gave us another fright when he went into convulsions for a good 20 minutes, running a high fever. Mary brought his temperature down with an ice-pack and, to our relief, he broke out in chicken pox the next morning. So it was brought on by the onset of chicken pox – thankfully not another seizure!**

Rehman Rashid (1955-2017)
2017 was also a year I lost a few friends – whether through physical or emotional death. Most prominent among these was my old friend the celebrated author Rehman Rashid who suffered a heart attack in Rawang while out on his titanium bicycle and ended up in a 4-month coma (because it took two whole hours to get him to the Coronary Care Unit of Selayang Hospital, which resulted in brain damage from oxygen deprivation, even though Rawang is technically only 15 minutes from the hospital).

Rehman and I had since the new millennium drifted apart and were reduced to exchanging pleasantries at supermarket checkout counters, even though we lived in the same small town. I saw him as a great soul and a brilliant mind whose patriarchal ego, alas, all-too-often undermined his own need for emotional intimacy and warm friendship. Finally his heart gave way around dawn on 3 June 2017 and it must have been a tremendous release and a relief for him, as well as for his mother Rosna and brother Rafique who had been commuting daily to the hospital since January 26th. Rehman’s passing felt like the loss of a brother, albeit an estranged one, but at least it left no bitter aftertaste – only a poignant sense that it was a death mourned by an entire nation, for Rehman Rashid was a brilliant thinker, storyteller and patriot of the first magnitude.

Far more painful and distressing losses occurred in 2017 when two witchy goddess embodiments I had long loved and cherished succumbed to possession by parasitic entities, turned paranoid, and abruptly disconnected from me, hurling noxious abuse. The first psychic attack occurred during the Hari Raya period; the second before the year ended. Emotional aftershocks are still being felt that undermine my faith in the reliability and permanency of love itself.

Well, this overview could go on another thousand words or more – but I’m beginning to realize I haven’t quite managed to comb through the chaotic tangle of my thoughts despite my best efforts. I’m left with the feeling that I have outgrown all belief systems and let go of most personal expectations. I shall accept and process whatever comes my way with minimal fuss and performance anxiety – because in 2018 I have no pre-established standards to live up to, and no self-image I must defend or protect.

Bring on the tidal wave of change!

1 January 2018

An0maly the YouTube Jesus explains why he became a Trump supporter...



___________

*Less than six months after I wrote this, the entirely corrupt Barisan Nasional regime was overthrown in a shocking electoral defeat that occurred on 9 May 2018. Malaysia is now sailing in unchartered political waters with a new federal government for the first time since 1957... and thus far it certainly appears that the "nightmare of history" isn't quite over for a vast number of us (especially when it involves people's addiction to cultural imprints, religious beliefs and calcified traditions designed to disempower and enslave rather than enlighten and liberate)!

**Ahau has been stable since he began taking carbamezapine and in early 2018 his dosage was reduced by half, and later to alternate days.


[First posted 1 January 2018, reposted 8 December 2018]

Monday, August 26, 2019

Where Malaysia is headed (Part 1) [Originally posted April 2009]


Somebody pointedly asked a few days ago: WHERE IS MALAYSIA HEADING? My response is: if Umno/BN continue to hog the political stage (not to mention the public purse and the police force), we're headed straight for unmitigated disaster.

Rather than waste more energy whacking those scaly-skinned troglodytes (or tempurung dwellers) who cling like overfed, bloated ticks to power, I decided to start jotting down my thoughts on where I'd like to see this country headed.

It's going to be a many-layered, multidimensional, non-linear exercise in visionary thinking and there's no way I can cover sufficient ground with just one blogpost. So I'll make this the first of a series, to be written and uploaded as and when inspiration strikes. In between I shall be posting other material, including other people's work, whenever I stumble upon something that says more or less what's on my mind.

The most essential human quality that's grotesquely lacking in Malaysia (indeed, the whole world) appears to be HONESTY.

We would like our public servants to be honest - whether they happen to be a minister, an office clerk, or just a police constable. But how honest are we? I mean, really...

I have dear friends who are for the most part truly decent folk and as honest as humanly possible - yet they conceal trivial things from their parents.

One, for instance, has never smoked in front of his parents - though he's been a regular smoker for more than 40 years. Other friends never once revealed their own sexual preferences to their parents for fear of shocking them. So the old folks died wondering why their offspring never reproduced.

A few other friends confessed that their parents don't know they're actually cohabiting with their boyfriends. I had a friend once who dated a guy for five years before finding out the fellow was already married with 3 or 4 kids. She immediately ditched him and married a man of dubious character who already had two or three other wives - but that's a whole different story.


I've made a lifelong study of why humans become dishonest and the conclusion I've reached is extremely straightforward:

Humans lie mostly to avoid punishment - or to save others from pain.

The only way we can unlearn this deeply ingrained survival mechanism is to disinvent the punitive god who punishes the disobedient (or mutinous) and rewards the docile (or hypocritical).

Imagine, instead, a completely simpatico deity who's more like a trusted confidant(e). One who is totally aware of your little quirks and shortcomings - and loves you all the same without harsh judgment. Such an intimate friend can be relied upon to stick with you through thick and thin. However, if you abuse this trust by doing something terribly stupid and shortsighted - let's say you cheat this dear friend or tell ugly untruths about him or her - the only consequence would be the loss, temporary or permanent, of your cherished friendship, and that would be punishment enough.

There are specific instances when being honest is countersurvival and universal laws are supended: for instance, if you're traveling in a train and bandits come aboard to rob the passengers. You wouldn't be labeled "dishonest" if you failed to hand over the diamonds hidden inside your boots. Nor would you be required to reveal to the bandits that you just saw your traveling companion stuff a thick wad of currency notes inside her brassiere.


In effect, the more accommodating our fellow humans become, the more likely we are to become truly honest.

Here are some imaginary scenarios that graphically illustrate the tremendous benefits of rejecting and disabling the punitive deity program hardwired in our DNA from countless generations of hand-me-down erroneous data.

Let's say your 16-year-old daughter goes to a friend's birthday party. She's supposed to come home before midnight but doesn't show up till way past two in the morning. As a worried father, the programmed response would be to interrogate her sternly and demand to know where she has been and what she has been doing and with whom. What if your daughter is innately honest and simply says: "I know I was supposed to get back at midnight, dad, I'm sorry to be so late. But I met a really goodlooking guy named Joe, he's about 20, and he suggested I go for a drive in his new car. We had such a great time talking and looking at the stars from the hilltop, neither of us remembered to look at our watches. Suddenly it was 2:00AM and he drove like the wind to deliver me safely back to my doorstep. He told me to apologize to my parents on his behalf for bringing me home so late, and he would really like to take me out again next Friday."

An enlightened father would take a deep breath, sigh, and smile. He might mutter: "Well, you got me really worried, you know. Next time you do something like this, at least send me an SMS before turning off your cellphone!" It's always a shock to realize your baby has grown up, and is ready to do adult things.

However, an unenlightened father would slap his daughter around and threaten her with the wrath of god, thereby forcing her to become a compulsive liar and a sneak. You can bet your last dollar all the lying politicians in our midst had fathers who were in the habit of slapping, caning or humiliating them for every minor transgression.

Let's see how problems easily resolve themselves as soon as HONESTY is brought to bear on the issue...

The biggest problem I can think of right now is that Malaysia is saddled with a crime minister instead of a prime minister.

Allow me to take on for a moment the role of God (I've had lots of practice and it comes natural to me). One morning, the crime minister gets up after a sleepless night in a cold sweat and decides to pray to me. Because I can sense he is sincere in pleading for some sound advice, I decide to manifest in human form in his bedroom.

The crime minister is stunned. "Dear G-g-g-god," he stutters. "Forgive me, please forgive me for never having actually believed in you... till NOW!"

"It's okay, Pink Lips, you aren't the only one!" I chuckle benignly, patting him on his bald pate. "If I had a dollar for every human who only pretends to believe in me, I'd be billionaire several times over. Not that I'd know what to do with all that cash."

The crime minister is silent and contrite. Obviously, he's unaccustomed to conversing with God.

"So... what's the problem, kiddo?" I enquire gently, though I already know what's troubling the poor rascal.

"I-I-I... I've been a very b=b-b-bad boy," he begins. "Done so many terrible things. I know I'm not f-f-f-fit to be leader of this country...."

"Well, it's a good start you're admitting to this. Where's that witchy wife of yours?"

"Oh, er... she's... she's in the bathroom.... stomach upset... be out in a minute, I think."

"Well, let's wait for her," I suggest, "since the worst of your really serious problems began when you met and mated with her."

The crime minister's wife emerges from the bathroom and screams.

"Who the hell is that?" she quizzes her trembling spouse more in anger than in shock.

"Er... er... you won't believe this, honey... but it's God... it's really God! I asked for help... but didn't expect him to show up so soon!"

"We don't need his help!" the witchy wife shrieks. "Tell him to leave at once or we'll get Khalid to deal with him!"

"I don't know how he can live with someone as uncouth as you," I say quietly.

"Listen, you!" the witch shrills, approaching me with her chubby arms akimbo.

"Shut the fuck up, bitch, and plonk your fat arse on the bed... right now!" I order.


Her eyes widen in horror and for a moment she is struck dumb. Whimpering audibly, she obeys, casting an anxious glance at her husband who, at this moment, does not at all resemble a real crime minister. Indeed, he looks just like a fat choir boy who's been caught wanking behind the altar.

[to be continued... first posted 12 April 2009, reposted 12 April 2013]

Sunday, August 25, 2019

All The Best Limericks Are Lewd (revisited)

Abraham was a wily old Jew
Who kept company with the Chosen Few
By forswearing sin
And his own foreskin
He proceeded the whole world to screw



It was a limerick that got me my first job as a junior copywriter. I had just turned 20 and was living with my parents in the house where I was born. I knew it was time to leave the family nest and learn to stand on my own feet - so when a friend mentioned that an ad agency in KL was looking for new blood, I immediately wrote to them. A few days later I received a test in the mail and was asked to compose a limerick; then write a news report about it, followed by an editorial. This was the limerick I came up with (of course I had to keep it clean):

A grand gourmand named Gus
Decided to devour a bus
But as he began to chew
He said, "Oh no, this won't do,
The passengers are making a fuss!"



Needless to say I got the job and soon found myself turning into a professional wordsmith, churning out readable text by the column inch. It didn't take long for me to realize I wasn't cut out to be a hack. Within 18 months I quit, after winning $5,000 in a slogan writing competition for Hall's cough drops, and began a checkered career as a freelancer and creative consultant. I continued to compose the occasional limerick - but somehow they were never quite lewd enough...



A fair mädchen was having her lüncheon
In a very chic cafe in München
Well, I got bold and told her
That I wanted to hold her
"Ja ja," she said and we got engaged pretty sünchen

As clean limericks go, this one ranks as an all-time winner (unfortunately I didn't write it and I don't know who did): 

A wonderful bird is the pelican;
His beak can hold more than his belican.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week,
Though I’m damned if I know how the helican!

But enough of clean limericks! Bring on the best and lewdest ones I have collected over the years. I must mention here that some of the dirtiest limericks ever written came from Isaac Asimov, acclaimed writer of sciencefiction novels. Here are a couple I like:

Said an ovum one night to a sperm,
"You're a very attractive young germ.
Come join me, my sweet,
Let our nuclei meet
And in nine months we'll both come to term."

------------------------------


"We refuse," said two men from Australia,
"Bestiality this saturnalia.
For now, we bethink us,
The ornithorhynchus
Is our down-under type of Mammalia."

And I have a gut feeling we owe this classic to Asimov:

The astronomer's crime was heinous:
"We mustn't let convention restrain us;
Though I've made a career
Out of Venus, my dear,
I'm tempted to switch to Uranus."


Let's open the floodgates of debauchery and prurience, shall we? But first, a limerick defining what limericks are really about...

The Limerick's furtive and mean, 
To be kept under close quarantine, 
Or she'll sneak to the slums, 
Where she promptly becomes 
Disorderly, drunk and obscene!

It's almost impossible to trace limericks back to their source. The memorable ones tend to get circulated and recirculated over time till they end up attributed to Anonymous (presumably an obscure Greek lyricist). Here's the rest of my collection to date:

There once was a girl from Ealing,
Who said she had no sexual feeling.
Until a cynic named Boris,
Touched her clitoris,
And they’re still scraping her off the ceiling.

-----------------------------------------


There was a young fellow from Kent,
Whose prick was so long that it bent,
To save himself trouble,
He put it in double,
And instead of coming he went.

---------------------------------------



A lesbian girl from Khartoum
Took a gay young man up to her room. 
At the start of the night 
She said "Let's get this right. 
Who does what? And with which? And to whom?"


-----------------------------------------


There was an old bishop from Buckingham 
Who spoke of young girls and of fucking 'em 
But a bishop from Wales 
Took the wind from his sails 
When he spoke of young boys and of sucking 'em







From the crypt of the Church of St. Giles 
Came a scream that carried for miles 
Said the Vicar, "Good Gracious, 
Has Brother Ignatius 
Forgotten the Bishop has piles?"

-----------------------------------------


There once was a man from Peru 
Who fell asleep in his canoe 
As he dreamt of Venus 
he played with his penis 
And woke up with a handful of goo.

---------------------------------------------


There was a young woman from Yale 
Who offered her body for sale 
For the sake of the blind 
She had her behind 
Tattooed with her prices in Braille

--------------------------------------------



There was a young fellow from Leeds,
Who swallowed a package of seeds.
Great tufts of grass,
Sprouted out of his ass,
And his balls were all covered with weeds.


-------------------------------------------


There was a young man from Lynn,
Whose prick was the size of a pin.
Said his girl with a laugh,
As she fondled his staff,
“This won’t be much of a sin.”


---------------------------------------------


There was a young lady from Maine,
Who enjoyed copulating on a train.
Not once, I maintain,
But again and again,
And again and again and again.


------------------------------------------


There was a young actress from Crewe, 
Who remarked as the vicar withdrew, 
The Bishop was quicker 
and thicker and slicker, 
And two inches longer than you.

-------------------------------------------------

There was a young plumber from Lee 
who was plumbing his girl with great glee, 
she said,  "Stop your plumbing, 
I think someone's coming..." 
Said the plumber, still plumbing, "It's me!"

-------------------------------------------------

A kinky young girl from Coleshill, 
Tried a dynamite stick for a thrill, 
They found her vagina 
in North Carolina, 
and bits of her tits in Brazil.

-------------------------------------------------

There was a young man from Pitlocherie, 
making love to his girl in the rockery, 
she said, "Look you've cum 
all over my bum, 
This isn't a shag, it's a mockery."

-------------------------------------------------

There was a young lassie from Morton, 
who had one long tit and one short'un, 
on top of all that 
a great hairy twat, 
and a fart like a six fifty Norton.

----------------------------------------

There was a young man from Harrow 
who had one as big as a marrow. 
He said to his tart, 
"Try this for a start. 
My balls are outside on a barrow."

------------------------------------

There was a young girl from Hitchin, 
who was scratching her crotch in the kitchen. 
Her mother said "Rose, 
It's crabs, I suppose." 
She said "Bollocks, get on with your stitchin'."

-----------------------------------------

There was a young girl from Devizes, 
who had tits of different sizes. 
One was quite small, 
almost nothing at all, 
But the other was big and won prizes.

--------------------------------------

There once was a young man from Brighton,
Who said to a young lass, “You’re a tight’un!”
She said, “Listen, Hon,
You’re in the wrong one.
There’s plenty of room in the right one.”

------------------------------------

A lady while dining at Crewe,
Found an elephant’s dong in her stew,
Said the waiter, “Don’t shout,
Or wave it about,
Or the others will all want one too!”

--------------------------------------

There was a young woman of Croft,
Who played with herself in a loft,
Having reasoned that candles,
Could never cause scandals,
Besides which they did not go soft.

----------------------------------------

There was a young woman named Sally, 
who loved an occasional dally, 
she sat on the lap
of a well endowed chap, 
Crying, "Gee, Dick, you're right up my alley!"

----------------------------------

There was a young gaucho named Bruno 
Who said "If there is one thing I do know, 
A woman is fine, 
a donkey divine, 
But the llama is numero uno."

---------------------------------------

There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose schlong was so long he could sucket
He said with a grin
Wiping spunk off his chin
"If my ear were a cunt I could fucket!"



Nantucket seems to have inspired more than its fair share of limericks, not all of them lewd - but they do merit a passing mention, if only for their literary value:

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his cash in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.

This soon spawned a sequel...

But he followed the pair to Pawtucket,
The man and the girl with the bucket;
And he said to the man,
He was welcome to Nan,
But as for the bucket, Pawtucket.

What better way to end this post than with a mathematical limerick composed by Leigh Mercer (1893-1977) who came up with this poetic equation:

Translated into plain English it reads:

A dozen, a gross, and a score
Plus three times the square root of four
Divided by seven
Plus five times eleven
Is nine squared and not a bit more.


[First posted 26 April 2017, reposted 18 September 2018 & 31 March 2019]