Dramatis Personae and Femme Fatale in Micro-Orgasm (Part I)

Hush. Do you hear it? Listen carefully now, there is a tete-a-tete going on. Somewhere on planet Earth. A place called Singapore. Let us listen in for a moment.

Gall A: (in tube with cleavage exposed, prolly after breast augmentation) Aiyo. Look at that watch! So beri nice! Must buy. I will ask Daniel buy for me...

Gall B: Ya! Nice hor! Expensive leh. Wo pei fu ni! (stares stupidly like a bimb)

I am not sure what is wrong with the womenfolk here. But something is amiss - and I think it is their brains. The things (or rather vacuous things) they chat about. The materialism they hanker after. The disconnect in their yak. The high-pitch intonation.

It is like pontianak has embraced their breasts and squeezed them so hard, they asphyxiate and oxy-haemoglobin cannot reach their gray matter enough to resusitate their thinking.

They think they are too clever or intuitve and see so many things which are not even there. It is strictly speaking figments of their imagination. Loving to make mountains out of a mole hill, it is characteristic of the womenfolk to exaggerate a problem.

There is no divide between young and old sometimes. Older folks squeeze their bums into tight jeans one size too small, mini-skirts and try to compete in navel exposition. Worse, many have had their faces pulled taut and that all too ghastly dead-pan look pokes itself out of what was once a woman.

I remember being shown a really large room once for a seminar whereupon I requested for a microphone. A Fat-Ass flatly refused at first citing small number of participants. She had the equally meagre brains to equate the need for amplification with people and not the room's size.

No man would mind a woman who is strong and vocal. But what matters most is what is being articulated and if it is sensible. That is the crux.

Try talking to people here and you can instantly sense that what you say is obviously not getting across. Some are bad listeners and they seem to have a mental block somewhere which prevents them from hearing you. I think it is called their own "radio channel" where they only want to hear what they want to hear.

I have had a femme espionager sent my home by my femme boss to check on my living. She probably wanted to know what goes on. This femme fatale checks every corner of my residence and passes her unwarranted comments on what she thinks should be done up. That mother fucking cunthole.

Then there was this boss' son who is born with a silver spoon thrust up his anus. All he has to do upon graduation was sit around at the office and watch what others do. He is even given the key to a Bayerish Motoren Werke and zooms around town while we slog at our work like beavers.

He certainly has good fashion sense sporting expensive watches and garb.

------------------------------------End of Part I----------------------------