Father and Son

Love Is A Fallacy

Cool was I and logical.

Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute, and astute — I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, as precise as a chemist’s scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And — think of it! I was only eighteen.

It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Bellows, my roommate at the university. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender yourself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it -- this, to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.

One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis

“Don’t move,” I said. “Don’t take a laxative. I’ll get a doctor.-”

“Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.

“Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my flight.

“I want a raccoon coat,” he wailed.

I perceived that his trouble was not physical, but mental.

“Why do you want a raccoon coat?”

“I should have known it,” he cried, pounding his temples. “I should have known they’d come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbooks, and now I can’t get a raccoon coat.”

“Can you mean,” I said incredulously, “that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?”

“All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where’ve you been?”

“In the library,” I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.

I leaped from the bed and paced the room.

“I’ve got to have a raccoon coat,” he said passionately. “I’ve got to!”

“Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weigh too much. They’re unsightly. They —”

“You don’t understand,” he interrupted impatiently. “It's the thing to do. Don't you want to be in the swim?”

“No,” I said truthfully.

“Well, I do," he declared. “I’d give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!”

My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear.

“Anything?” I asked, looking at him narrowly.

“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.

I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. I didn't have it exactly, but at least he had first rights on it.

I refer to his girl, Polly Espy. I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotion, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly ‘for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason. I was a freshman in law school. In a few years I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer’s career. The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.

Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt sure that time would supply the lack. She already had the makings.

Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table her manners were exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house — a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut — without even getting her fingers moist. Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.

“Petey,” I said, “are you in love with Polly Espy?"

“I think she’s a keen kid,” he replied, “but I don’t know if you’d call it love. Why?”

“Do you," I asked, “have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going steady or anything like that?”

“No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?”

“Is there,” I asked, “any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

I nodded with satisfaction.

“In other words,if you were out of the picture, the field would
be open. Is that right?”

“I guess so. What are you getting at?”

“Nothing, nothing,” I said innocently, and took my suitcase out of the closet.

“Where you going?" asked Petey.

“Home for the weekend.” I threw a few things into the bag.

“Listen,” he said, clutching my arm eagerly, “while you’re home, you couldn't get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?”

“I may do better than that,” I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.

“Look,” I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.

"Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face. “Holy Toledo!" he repeated fifteen or twenty times.

“Would you like it?” I asked.

“Oh, yes!” he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. “What do you want for it?”

“Your girl,” I said, mincing no words.

“Polly?” he said in a horrified whisper. “You want Polly?”


“That’s right.”

He flung the coat from him. “Never,” he said stoutly.

I shrugged. “Okay. If you don't want to be in the swim, I guess it’s your business.”

I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the comer of my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a tom man. First he looked at the coat with the expression of a waif at a bakery window. Then he tumed away and set his jaw resolutely. Then he looked back at the coat, with even more longing in his face. Then he turned away, but not so much resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning.

Finally he didn’t tum away at all; he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.

“It isn’t as though I was in love with Polly,” he said thickly. “Or going steady or anything like that."

“That’s right," I murmured.

“What’s Polly to me, or me to Polly?”

“Not a thing,” said I.

“It's just been a casual kick — just a few laughs, that’s all.”

“Try on the coat,” said I.

He complied. The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons.

“Fits fine,” he said happily.

I rose from my chair. “Is it a deal?” I asked, extending my hand.

He swallowed. “It’s a deal,” he said and shook my hand.

I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature of a survey; I wanted to find out just how much work I had to do to get her mind up to the standard I required. I took her first to dinner.

“Gee, that was a delish dinner,” she said as we left the restaurant. Then I took her to a movie. “Gee, that was a marvy movie,” she said as we left the theater. And then I took her home .“Gee, I had a sensaysh time,” she said as she bade me good night.

I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task.

This girl's lack of information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with information. First she had to be taught to think.

This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to Petey. But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.

I went about it, as in all things, systematically.

I gave her a course in logic. It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my finger-tips.

“Polly,” I said to her when I picked her up on our next date, “tonight we are going over the Knoll and talk.”

“Oo, terrif," she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would go far to find another so agreeable.

We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly.

“What are we going to talk about?” she asked.

“Logic.”

She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it.

“Magnif,” she said.

“Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight.”

“Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.

I winced but went bravely on. “First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter.”

“By all means,” she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.

“Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise.”

“I agree,” said Polly earnestly. “I mean exercise is wonderful. I mean it builds the body and everything.”

“Polly,” I said gently, “the argument is a fallacy. Exercise is good is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people. Otherwise you have committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?"

“No,” she confessed. “But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!”

“It will be better if you stop tugging at my sleeve,” I told her, and when she desisted, I continued. “Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can’t speak French. I can’t speak French. Petey Bellows can’t speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French.”

“Really?” said Polly, amazed. “Nobody?”

I hid my exasperation. “Polly, it’s a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion.

“Know any more fallacies?” she asked breathlessly. “This is more fun than dancing even."

I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere.

Still, I am nothing if not persistent. I continued. “Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let's not take Bill on our picnic. Every time we take him out with us, it rains.”

“I know somebody just like that,” she exclaimed. “A girl back home -- Eula Becker, her name is. It never fails. Every single time we take her on a picnic —"

“Polly,” I said sharply, “it’s a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn’t cause the rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker.

“I'll never do it again," she promised contritely. “Are you mad at me?”

I sighed. “No, Polly, I’m not mad.” “Then tell me some more fallacies.” I consulted my watch. “I think we'd better call it a night. I’ll take you home now, and you go over all the things you’ve learned. We'll have another session tomorrow night.”

I deposited her at the girls’ dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a perfectly terrif evening, and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet.

For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure. The girl simply had a logic-proof head. But then I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening; I might as well waste another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind a few embers still smoldered.

Maybe somehow I could fan them into a flame. Admittedly, it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it one more try.

Seated under the oak the next evening, I said, “Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam.”

She quivered with delight.

“Listen closely,” I said. “A man applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his qualifications are, he replies that he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal in the cellar, and winter is coming.”

A tear rolled down each of Polly’s pink cheeks. “Oh, this is awful, awful,” she sobbed.

“Yes, it’s awful,” I agreed, “but it’s no argument. The man never answered the boss’s question about his qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss’s sympathy. He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam.

Do you understand?” '

“Have you got a handkerchief?” she blubbered.

I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes.

“Next,” l said in a carefully controlled tone, “we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examinations. After all, surgeons have X-rays to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to guide them during a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a house. Why, then, shouldn’t students be allowed to look at their textbooks during an examination?"

“There now,” she said enthusiastically, “is the most marvy idea I’ve heard in years.”

“Polly,” I said testily, “the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren’t taking a test to see how much they have learned, but students are. The situations are altogether different, and you can’t make an analogy between them.”

“I still think it’s a good idea," said Polly.

"Nuts," I muttered. Doggedly I pressed on.

“Next we’ll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact.”

“Sounds yummy,” was Polly’s reaction.

“Listen: If Madam Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about radium.”

“True, true.” said Polly, nodding her head. “Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. l mean he fractures me.”

“If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,” I said coldly, “l would like to point out that the statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madam Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can’t start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable conclusions from it.”

“They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures,” said Polly. “I hardly ever see him any more.”

One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. “The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well.”

“How cute!" she gurgled.

“Two men are having a debate. The first one goes up and says, ‘My opponent is a notorious liar. You can’t believe a word that he is going to say: Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What's wrong?”

I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly a glimmer of intelligence — the first I had seen — came into her eyes.

“It’s not fair,” she said with indignation. “It’s not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?”

“Right!” I cried exultantly. “One hundred per cent right. It’s not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start...Polly, I’m proud of you.”

“Pshaw,” she murmured, blushing with pleasure.

“You see, my dear, these things aren't so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think — examine — evaluate. Come now, let's review everything we have learned.”

“Fire away,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.

Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, I began a long, patient review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without letup. It was like digging a tunnel. At first everything was work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would. But I persisted.

I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.

Five grueling nights this took, but it was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think. My job was done. She was worthy of me at last. She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for my many mansions, a suitable mother for my well- heeled children.

It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the contrary.

Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect women he had fashioned, so I loved mine. I decided to acquaint her with my feelings at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.

“Polly,” I said when next we sat beneath our oak, “tonight we will not discuss fallacies.”

“Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.

“My dear," I said, favouring her with a smile, “we have now spent five evenings together. We have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well matched.”

“Hasty Generalization,” said Polly brightly.

“I beg your pardon," said I.

“Hasty Generalization,” she repeated.

“How mn you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?”

I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had leamed her lessons well.

“My dear,” I said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, “five dates is plenty. After all, you don't have to eat a whole cake to know that it's good."

“False Analogy,” said Polly promptly. “I’m not a cake. I'm a girl."

I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously the best approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper words. Then I began:

"Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, and the moon and the stars and the constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”

There, I thought that ought to do it.

“Ad Misericordiam," said Polly.

I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat. Frantically, I fought back the tide of panic surging through me. At all costs I had to keep cool.

“Well, Polly,” I said, forcing a smile, “you certainly have learned your fallacies.”

"You're dam right,” she said with a vigorous nod.

“And who taught them to you, Polly?”

“You did.”

“That's right. So you do owe me something, don't you, my dear? If I hadn't come along you never would have learned about fallacies."

“Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said instantly.

I dashed perspiration from my brow.

“Polly,” I croaked, “you mustn't take all these things so literally. I mean this is just class room stuff. You know that the things you learn in school don't have anything to do with life.”

“Dicto Sirnpliciter,” she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.

That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. “Will you or will you not go steady with me?"

“I will not," she replied.

“Why not?" I demanded. "

“Because this afternoon I promised Petey Bellows that I would go steady with him.

I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after he shook my hand!

“The rat!" I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf.

“You can’t go with him, Polly. He’s a liar. He's a cheat. He's a rat."

“Poisoning the Well," said Polly, “and stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too.”

With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice.

“All right," I said. “You're a logician. Let's look at this thing logically. How could you" choose Petey Bellows over me? Look at me —- a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at Petey — a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who'll neyer know where his next meal is coming from. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Bellows?”

“I certainly can,” declared Polly. “He’s got a raccoon coat.”

The end.

Types of Singapore Rain

They say Eskimos have 50 words for snow. Perhaps we in Sg, who see a lot of rain in a year, should have a large vocab for rain. And since it is SG50, we might build on it and have 50 words for our national wetness experience (NWP).

Light misty rain - Powder Rain
Big drop rain - Birdshit Rain
Really big drop rain - Kenna-wallop Rain
Long sleet rain - Chopstick Rain
Got sun also rain - Kenna-sai Rain
Just-washed-car rain - *&%$# Rain
No-more--dry-clothes-to-wear rain - Sibeh-sian Rain
Got thunder no rain - Opposition Party Rain
Got sound got water rain - PAP Rain
Got downpour got flood rain - PAP-panic Rain
Got downpour no umbrella rain - Kenna-stuck Rain
Heavy downpour got pail rain - Kampung Rain
Heavy downpour got soap rain - Kiasu-bathday Rain
Sudden downpour and stop rain - Vending Machine Rain
Street wet but no downpour rain - Buat-gu-you (Butter Bread) Rain
Street half-dry-half wet rain - Sure-get-headache Rain
Can't-see-neighbor-house rain - Monsoon Rain
Can-see-neighbor-a-bit rain - Bath-curtain Rain
Can-see-neighbor-waving rain - You-forgot-to-bring-in-your-clothes Rain
Orchard Road flooding rain - LV-freebie Rain
Bird-flying-in-the-rain rain - Sibeh-sudden Rain
Children-playing-in-the-rain rain - Happy-like-bird Rain
Many thunder-small rain rain - OMG Rain
Car alarm go-off rain - Wah-piang-I-don't-want-to-die Rain
Like pour water rain - Pour Water Rain
Big-small-big-small rain - 4-D Rain
Rain-on-your-funeral rain - You-die-too-early Rain
Rain-at-your-doorstep rain - Sibeh-suay Rain
Rain outside MRT rain - Shud-have-brought-umbrella Rain
Whole Sg sky dark-piffle rain - Long-life Rain
Piffle rain with wind rain - Feel-shiok Rain
Piffle rain with strong wind rain - Shampoo Girl Rain
Wild wind-wild rain rain - Tree-fall-down Rain
Howling rain - Woo-woo Rain
Window slamming rain - Bang-bang Rain
Dog-scared rain - Got-ghost-meh Rain
Got rainbow rain - Rainbow Rain (better than Kenna-sai Rain)
Whistling rain - Time-to-dig-your-ear Rain
Sticky rain - Time-to-bathe Rain
White rain - Code-10 aka Brylcreem Rain
300-dot per inch rain - Inkjet Rain
600-dot per inch rain - Laserjet Rain
1200-dot per inch rain - Bio-Hazard Cleansing Rain
3200-dot per inch rain - Scuba Gear Rain
NDP rain - LKY Challenge Rain
Share umbrella rain - Precious Moment Rain
Raindrops-keep-falling-on-your-head rain - Musical Rain
Swirling, dancing rain - Chinese 7-month Rain
In labour-screaming in pain rain - Cantonese 60s-drama Rain
Cool weather rain - Time-to-koonz Rain
....
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Note: Other notable rains familiar to National Service boys:
Morning sun-afternoon rain rain - Brunei Rain (also known as World-is-changing Rain to locals)
A few days of Brunei Rain - No Underwear Rain
Piffle rain - Shiok Refreshing Rain

Sudden downpour - WTF Everything-all-wet Rain

Night thunderstorm rain - No Morning 5BX Rain (aka Chance-to-sleep-in Rain) 

Got thunder no rain rain - Cat-1- or Cat-2-huh? Rain

Got thunder got rain - Back-to-Training Shed Rain
Downpour rain - Training Cancelled Rain

Middleweight rain - Time-to-scrub-armour-tank Rain

Lightweight rain - You-are-all-bloody-guniang Rain
...

...

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Chee Mah Hoy - an Ali Baba & 40 Thieves retelling...

A retelling of the famous tale quickly inspired by this pix of belacan shrimp paste. ;-)

Chee Mah Hoy! - an Ali Baba tale

- by TC Lai, 20 May 2015

Ali Baba was a lad who had a thing for curly toed shoes. He was also fond of dark eyeliners the kind often worn by Jack Sparrow, a famous pirate. Of these customs, Ali Baba's father was most upset. "Why is my son so chibye fay one?" he would lament, throwing an adjective commonly heard in the local pasar malam. Being a traditionalist, he couldn't understand the trendy habits of the young - nor their youthful need for identity. In his days, kids would just yearn to own their very own camel, that's all. But these days, kids want to win Arabian Idol and be popular with the girls in all kinds of ways. Doing tattoos or even dying their hair in weird colors. Or be a slouchy guy with floppy hair like that Berber boy and mouthing "Baby, baby ooh..." from every conceivable street corner.

One day, Ali Baba decided to go to his favourite man-cave to practise his vocals. The cave was pretty large and had a hole at one end to allow for echoes to fade most elegantly. This suited Ali Baba very well and he could sing songs with a vibrating and emotive timbre, not unlike Elvis whose influence traveled farther than his own passport ever did. Yes, Elvis was a homebody. His sandals never caught the sands of Arabia; only pet shit on the lawns of Graceland.

Suddenly, during a lengthy pause between notes, Ali Baba heard some noises coming from an adjoining cave. At first he thought it was a pair of wayward lovers engaging in some pre-nup bedroom rehearsals. The it was like two camels plotting an escape. But it turned out to be some forty guys having a post-mission debrief. They were gathered around a table laden with jugs of wine and plates of roasted meat. "No-See-Sky pork!" "Wu jia pi jiu!" they shouted. Ali Baba had the faintest idea of what they were saying. 

No see sky pork? What the...

Maybe they had been keeping pigs in the cave (as Muslims they were forbidden to eat pork and such. Not to mention the consumption of alcohol). In Arabian, "wujiapijiu" sounded like a fierce swear word, and so Ali Baba decided that these guys weren't exactly school teachers doing cosplay whilst on a summer retreat.

Creeping closer, he counted 40 brigands standing in front of 40 jars. What were those jars for he didn't know. Only that some of those brigands were either standing in them or without.

"Tonight we celebrate," the chief brigand said. "We managed to ship out 40 jars of 'the stuff' to Singapore, with no one the wiser!" 

'The stuff' was no other than "belacan shrimp" - a potent spice swooned over by ladies in sarong kebayas in Singapore and Malacca... And some say Penang!

But in fact, no BS was ever transacted. It's all a ruse to launder money and to fence off robbed goods. It's one reason why the sarong kebaya-clad ladies in Singapore and Malacca (and some say Penang) were often so well decked in pearls, silver and gold all the time.

Now, as the night wore deep punctuated by the hoots of three insomniac owls, the 40 brigands slowly drank themselves to stupor and unconsciousness. If an earthquake and tsunami were to happen right there and then, it would be largely ignored and 40 less-than-holy-souls would surely drown.

Ali Baba surveyed the scene before him and caught sight of the gold and silver (and pearl) valuables and decided they were better off on him than whomever they were destined for. Also, such accoutrements would be a plus on his Arabian Idol run-up. No one would suspect that they were real given the flourish of costume jewelry on very episode of AI.  He'd just tell any inquisitive sod that it's all costume jewelry anyways! The rest of the treasures he'd would sell and use the money earned to produce his very own album. He would also need to hire ghost songwriters. Ali Baba was good at posing, not actual work. He was honest about that aspect of himself as.his mind conjured up a young image of his dad in poofed oily hair and turned up collar. Wanker! he cursed. 

As he was dreaming away, out of the shadows stepped Morgiana, Ali Baba's maid. "My, my, that's some treasure," she said, not without explicit greed. In her mind, she's already envisioning a life free of domestic duties, perhaps setting up a chain of food joints selling authentic Cantonese soups: a skill she had picked up from working as an "oy yung" or foreign domestic helper in HK for over 10 years.

Of course, she had also picked up skills in squirreling away employer valuables and how charcoal could be of life terminating use outside of cooking. And of course, the ancient Chinese art of pickling.

"Let's dump them in the jars and seal them up," she said, not without glee this time. The gleam in her eyes shining deadly with intent.

Ali Baba, accustomed to deferring to his maid almost daily, duly obliged.

When all the jars were sealed, Morgiana made sure the cave was airtight and heaped a pile of charcoal ready for lighting. This would undoubtedly ensure that all 40 of the brigands would suffocate and die.

At last, when the fire was roaring, she stood at the cave entrance and uttered "Close Sesame!" Miraculously, a boulder rolled into place sealing the cave real tight. From behind that, a huge (and probably indentured) Arabian Ghost crab scuttered away, knowing that its days of rock-rolling was finally over. Working for the brigands wasn't exactly a sweet deal. They were a crabby bunch most times.

Morgiana and Ali Baba could only stand in awe of the crab's size. "That would make many bowls of crab porridge!" said Morgiana, who knew HKongers liked their crab porridge. In Sg, she had heard that they liked their crab beehoon. Not the maids, the employers.

With the riches moved to Ali Baba's man-cave, Morgiana and Ali Baba set about plotting their futures. 1) An entertainer with his voice; 2) The other - an entertainer with her soup spoon. As last heard, Morgiana is still calling the shots on Ali's career. And as an inside joke, she made Ali name his first album "Chee Mah Hoy!" to the annoyance of an American Idol judge called Simon.

The end.

Note: Chee mah hoy is Cantonese for "Open Sesame!"; oy yung is Cantonese for "outisde help", i.e. foreign domestic helper (FDH); wujiapijiu is a Chinese table wine.

Steamboat-Steamship

I said this empty steamboat pot reminded me of River Valley swimming pool during its end days. Someone asked me to satirize it and this is the result.

Food Rating

We often give food rating of 0 -10. Here's my take on what it means.

Star Wars Sushi Princess

From this:

...to this:

No-See-Sky Charsiew

Gorgeous charsiew, isn't it? Made from bujiantian (不见天 ,
 'see no sky' meat, i.e. armpit of a pig where there's
a layer of glassy fat over the lean meat.)

Adventures of Legolas and Tauriel 2

When The Hobbit meets Hokkien/Teochew opera. ;-)

Translation: "Ng zai chway..." - Don't know looking for what 'gu lan' (Gollum, 'gu lan' means bull penis, a crude reference meaning WTF). I hear already not happy (offended).
"Che kai si..." - What is this? Hair gold face pale pale looking like woman like that." 

Tausuan and Mu Lan

Tausuan, sister of Tauriel, sister of Tauhuay....

The Tau Triplet Sisters

Never suspected, right? Tauriel has sisters. ;-)

Lego & Tau

Tauriel finds out Legolas might be secretly dating her sister, Tauhuay (which is Hokkien for soyabean curd, a dessert.)

Busting the Chilli Myth

There's a Cantonese saying: Chilli so hot, it will make you fly. Probably a tongue in cheek reference to fanning around looking for water. ("Lak tho fei hei")

Sambal Chilli Bandolier

Now, wouldn't this be a hot seller at MFA embassies around the globe??? ;-)

Star Wars Kueh

From a picture of layered kueh comes this: ;-) (modified from previous version!)

The original photo.

Singapore Natural History of Makan Museum

Celebrating the opening of Singapore's Lee Kong Chian Natural History Museum today. ;-)

(Can you name the layers of food strata? ;-)

Valley of Ya Kun

Understanding The Singapore Story 6

Hong Kong's pan-democratic lawmakers can learn from Lee Kuan Yew
- by Tony Kwok

SURPRISINGLY, our pan-democratic legislators in Hong Kong have been largely silent about the death of Mr Lee Kuan Yew. In the past, they often looked down on the Singapore political system, criticising its "fake elections", "lack of press freedom", "one-party rule" and "dictatorship". I believe they are wise not to comment on this occasion, as they would have been given a big slap on the face by the people of Singapore.

Whether the system of government is good should best be judged by the people of a country, not by outsiders or scholars. The fact that the people of Singapore flocked to queue for hours, in unbearable heat or intolerably heavy rain, just to pay their last respects to Mr Lee demonstrated public endorsement of the founder of the Republic and the political system he created.

I believe there are plenty of lessons Hong Kong's pan-democratic legislators can learn from Mr Lee.

Firstly, Mr Lee received his university education in the Western world, similar to many of our pro-democracy legislators. Certainly, Mr Lee outshone all of them in terms of academic achievement. He knew the Western system well, including its faults. So while Mr Lee chose to follow the common law system in Singapore, he was not keen to take the system on in its entirety. For example, the country adopted a system of fused professions, making no distinction between barristers and solicitors, thus reducing unnecessary legal costs. Mr Lee also did away with the funny wigs worn in court.

He must have noticed at the time of his study that British police forces had a serious corruption problem. Under him, Singapore's Corrupt Practices Investigation Bureau became a model for the rest of the world to follow. Hong Kong was able to learn from it the proper way to fight corruption. Mr Lee also limited a person's "right of silence", making the interview of suspects by law enforcement officers much more effective.

No doubt our pro-democracy legislators would have taken the entire Western system, values and culture, on board, believing that the Western system offers the only genuine kind of democracy. Should they not learn to distinguish what is good or bad for our unique environment, instead of blindly following others?

Secondly, in his 2013 book, One Man's View Of The World, Mr Lee had high praise for China's achievements and the ability of the Chinese leaders. He predicted that China would continue to prosper and become one of the two most powerful nations in the world. Indeed, in the past, he pushed for policy in Singapore to take advantage of China's economic prosperity. He wanted the Chinese language to be widely taught in Singapore schools. He was one of the first leaders to recognise China's potential and pushed for partnerships with it, including setting up an industrial park in Suzhou.

He greatly admired Hong Kong's competitive advantage of being the gateway to the mainland. Yet our pan-democratic legislators oppose every single move by the SAR government to build economic links with China.

Third, when he was conferred an honorary doctorate by Chinese University in 2000, he said in his speech that the only way Hong Kong should and could develop its political and electoral system was to follow the Chinese Constitution and the Basic Law. These were truly the words of a wise man 15 years ago. Had the Hong Kong pan-democratic camp taken his advice, there would not have been such a deadlock and Occupy Central would not have happened.

If Mr Lee were the chairman of the Democratic Party or Civic Party today, how would he have acted?

I am sure he would persuade his party to accept the currently proposed electoral reform package. He would have no problems with, say, a rule of getting the minimum 5 to 10 per cent vote required before seeking the endorsement of the nominating committee.

He would study the make-up of the nominating committee and come to the conclusion that many of the very decent representatives there need not follow the orders of Beijing. He would then use his persuasive powers and charisma to lobby their support. If he could demonstrate his genuine desire to serve the best interests of Hong Kong, he should have no problems securing the support of the majority of these groups.

At the same time, he would call for public support. If he is prepared to openly pledge his loyalty to Beijing, it is not inconceivable that Beijing would give him its blessing, even if he comes from the pro-democracy camp. In any event, if he had overwhelming public support, it would be difficult for the 1,200 decent members of the nominating committee to arbitrarily vote him out.

Those close to Mr Lee said he was not one for idealism. He was truly practical and not stubborn; he would change his mind if he was convinced it was in Singapore's best interests. I hope the pan-democratic camp can learn from his political wisdom.

It is absurd that the pan-democrats would vote down the reform proposal simply because it was not the most ideal one on offer; and, as a result, prefer the old system of letting the selection committee, instead of the people, elect the next Chief Executive.

The sad thing is that the Hong Kong pan-democratic camp does not have anyone with the brains or foresight anywhere close to that of Mr Lee Kuan Yew.

The writer is former deputy commissioner of the Independent Commission against Corruption.

This article was first published in the South China Morning Post.

Back From the Grave 1 - The TNP News

April 11 2015 cover page

'LKY' responds to recent issue on Watson stores selling vibrators.

To: Minister, Ministry of Birthpower

Dear sir,

I am writing from the grave as there is an issue that deeply moves me. Instead of making love to a proper man, women, I understand (from those Watson flyers folks burn to me during this current Qing Ming) are shedding their inhibitions over a battery operated stick. How can this be? It is highly wasteful and makes no economic sense.

Let me explain.

Already, our majority menfolk are working themselves to the bone, leaving precious little energy for whatever boning they are supposed to do, to ensure the survival of our species. What's the point of me having worked so hard, never finding time to even "baobao" my son Loon that he now laments that I was not touchy-feely enough?

I don't want our Singaporean men to be like me, lose that 'touchy-feely' instinct because of dedication to work or country.

And this mechanical device - a vibrator - will distance men even further from their womenfolk. What if these ladies find the device more satisfying, and then forever forgo intimacy with their significant other?

Already Swe Sey has confided in me that he often times shed tears because his wife has gone over to The Dark Side, that is, hiding herself in the storeroom doing the dastardly deed. 

Sir, I ask you, is this right? Should Swe Sey be asked to cry some more? Already he is such a sensitive sod. No. He needs peace of mind to function at the PMO.

Now, what shall we do?

Should we ban it outright as we did with the chewing gum? Is it as obnoxious as that? Will the women jam preloved vibrators in lift doors to stop them from closing? Will they hurl the sticks from HDB floors in moments of orgasmic abandonment? Will they litter park benches with it?

I think not.

Let's be practical and think how we can kill two birds with one stone, like in Operation Cold Store.

Let's call this Operation Turn-on.

What we can do is use this occasion to bring men and women together.

First, may I suggest we make it mandatory for Operationally Ready (ORD) men to carry a vibrator always. It will have a pager function set to vibration mode. Anytime their loved ones page them, they are allowed to respond like in Reservist Recall mode, report back immediately. 

Given the nature of the call, they have only 20-, 30-, and 40-minute windows to respond. As most women know, any interval after 40 mins is asking laundry in the sun not to dry up! We must encourage our men folk to respond as quickly as possible so their women remain in "the mood" and not decide to turn on the telly to catch the lastest K-drama. Or worse, retreat into the storeroom to rearrange stuff. We men know once they do that, any baby-making desire is as dead as dust on the floor. Or sucked out of life by the vacuum cleaner.

The vibration mode of the stick will serve as a kind of Palovian trigger to these men. Either they service their womenfolk quickly or stand to lose to a battery operated stick. How disgraceful is that? That cantretiregracefully Mahathir will laugh and say we Singaporeans "tak boleh" and offer to add Tongkat Ali to our water from Johor, Najib not withstanding.

Given time, our menfolk's reaction to the vibrator recall alert (VRA) will become reflexive. I am sure our womenfolk would love that! After that, I think our menfolk will be happier and more productive (after a 20-minute nap, that is). I have come to know satisfying a woman can be exhausting!

However, our womenfolk will be banned from buying such vibrators outright  for themselves. - Not even an electric toothbrush.

They will have to buy with their menfolk as Main Stick Owners or MSO (there's another acronym for you!) Their menfolk will guard it with their lives at all times, much like how they did with their M16 during NS. 

Once our menfolk respond with the paging stick, I believe their darlings will prefer the real thing. If not, the device can buy them time to "Majulah Singapura" or "marilah bersama-sama", haha. (See, I also have a sense of humor!)

And should such sticks spoil, they can bring to Singtel, Starhub, M1 or any 7-11 outlet to get it replaced. I am sure Watson will want to do their national-duty bit. And folks with Passion Card can get a further 10% discount. I like the 'passion' in the PA Card name. Check with Swe Sey (he is PA VP) how we can leverage upon this very suitable keyword in this Operation Turn-on. He might even have some idea on how to make it better.

Given our past bad PR from banning things, I'd advise that we do not ban this device outright. If we deploy it in this operational manner, I am sure every couple in Singapore will be very happy. Perhaps our Baby Bonuses will find renewed interest! 

To end, let me reiterate the seriousness of this situation: If our womenfolk find more pleasure in a vibrating stick, the future of Singapore will be at stake. Already, we have serious manpower problems in the service and maintenance trades. One day, we might not even have folks picking up used cardboard! 

And if our womenfolk should shun our men, who or what will they find solace in? Computer games? Work? Adult sex dolls? Other men? Oh my!

As usual, let's nip this problem in the bud so our menfolk can go back and nip theirs in the.... Never mind. Don't worry about me. I am happily reunited with my darling wife Chu. We are now finding time to do the things I had not given priority to. I urge our menfolk to do the same.

Note to Swe Sey: Please check the user demographics of this vibrating stick. If graduate women are using it more, we must act without delay. If majority are O-Level, then we place quota. Those with PSLE never mind; they are the ones got sense to get married and have kids! 

Yours truly,

Always thinking about Singapore, your mega-servant,

LKY

Note: All resemblances to actual persons or institutions are purely coincidental and fictitious. Do enjoy the humor for what it is. ;-)

The Misgiving Tree

The Hunger Games

Pictorial joke from a stick of chicken yakitori. ;-)

Tiger's Plight

Tiger, tiger burning bright

Serially, serially cheated on his wife

Came back strong

But back was weak

Adapted his game

Making several tweaks

All in vain

As back came the pain

But he played some more

Sadly no more Tiger's roar

Sunk he has into the pits

Now suffering from the dreadful yips

Or so said Hank

The man who kept Tiger at No.1 rank

For so long, till the confession came

Then the Tiger became rather tame

Tiger, Tiger yearning bright

When oh when will he get it right? - by TC Lai

I'm So Lonely...

A cartoon as a result of cooking that: ;-) (Kim (and song) from Team America (2004 movie))