Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Something Is Wrong With This Picture (Contains Language)

I need to get something off my chest, and I'm not talking about an under-filled bra.

1. Dad gets to work a half-day today thanks to Michael Schumacher and Nico Rosberg of the Petronas racing team. As you know, the F1 carnival has come to town and everyone who's anyone will be begging for tickets to the paddock. It will be like a giant car show, only you don't get to sit in the car, honk the horn, wrestle the steering wheel and test the suspension.

What does his [North American] high commission have to do with two Europeans driving for a Malaysian outfit? Nothing, expect that the roads around their building and the general area will be closed from 2-7 p.m. today for some race demo thing, so they've been advised to leave early.

I remember dad mentioning how the route has been newly tarred to provide a smooth driving surface. We don't want to be known as the country whose potholed capital city killed two competitive drivers, do we?

2. I thought I was jaded as far as Malaysian "punctuality" goes, but even I cringed when Robert Rainford had to wait 1.5 hours to serve his painstakingly prepped barbecue stuff. It's okay to be horrendously late for a gala dinner as long as you're a "dignitary". I'm not a fan of barbecue, but I felt sorry just looking at his disheartened mug on the TV screen.

For shame, you as-yet-unidentified "VIP" (the minister of tourism, really?). If the proles, bourgeoisie and hoi polloi can arrive on time, early even, without the assistance of outriders, then what's your excuse?

I missed the first 15 minutes of the show, which was filmed in June 09, so I didn't see how six (6!) of X number of chefs wound up going AWOL on the big day. I know when that happens though, you're definitely in Malaysia and it doesn't bode well for the rest of your day.

3. Watching E! News makes me hate myself. The presenters chortle about the latest celebrity sex scandal (tape/mistress/mistress on tape) and in the next breath, squeal about how disgusting it was to hear that Lady Gaga asked Boy George to sign her v-a-g-i-n-a (he declined because he didn't have a pen).

In fact, they work themselves into a state of near-apoplexy trying not to say the word, settling instead for clever euphemisms like "nasty bits", "down there", "hoo-ha" (what the fuck, are you in grade school?) and (my un-favorite) "vajayjay".

I feel like Joseph Conrad's savage. How can you gleefully report who's having sex with whom and yet shrink away from pronouncing anatomic terms correctly? That is some serious fucked up bullshit.

1 comment:

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