Paris Hilton Arrested in S.Africa for Drug Possession!!!

PORT ELIZABETH. Port Elizabeth police say they released Paris Hilton and withdrew drugs charges against her after a pet therapist explained to them that Hilton was an "over-bred show-dog with the intellect of a baked bean". Officers recalled that Hilton had soiled the newspaper in her cage and had even been too scared to purge the dinner they had force-fed her.

Weekend newspapers reported that Hilton, the offspring of famous Kentucky Derby winner Soggy Biscuit and a prizewinning Afghan hound called Dipstick 7, was arrested in Port Elizabeth with a friend for smoking marijuana at a World Cup match.

However, police quickly ascertained that Hilton did not have the mental capacity to understand that she had committed a crime.

"When we approached her she rolled on her back," explained arresting officer Pinkerton Mpofu. "That seemed to be her default pose for pretty much every interaction."

He said that she had been deloused and given an attractive floral collar before being led to the police pound, but added that officers had sensed a "profoundly retarded creature" and had taken pity and called animal psychologist Nina Wiener-Scratchensniff.

According to Wiener-Scratchensniff, Hilton was immediately identifiable as a "profoundly and tragically in-bred individual".

"You find these bitches in every pound,? she said. ?Glossy blonde fur, perfectly clipped claws, watery dead eyes without the slightest flicker of character in them, and a brain the size of a peanut."

She said she had urged the police to release Hilton at once, as she posed no danger to anyone but herself.

Meanwhile Hilton is reportedly "like totally awesome" after being reunited with friends and family, whom she described as "like totally aweseome", adding that while her stay in the pound had been "like totally scary", her South African trip had been "like totally awesome".

"It was totally a total misunderstanding,? she explained, while an aide attacked residual intra-intestinal fat deposits with an ultrasonic Fat-Blaster9000 machine.

"Kelli and Crissi were like, 'Hey, PH, let's like go to the soccer?', and I was like, 'Oh my God, what's soccer?' and they were like, 'It's a game?' and I was like, 'Oh my God I totally love games?' and they were like 'Oh really?' and I was like 'Totally?' and they were like 'No way?' and I was like 'Way?' and they were like, 'So do you wanna go see the soccer?' and I was like 'Oh my God, what?s soccer?' and they were like, 'It's a game?' and I was like?I don't remember what I was like because I like totally don't remember like what happened next.?

She said she was looking forward to returning home, although she conceded that she would need her private pilot to "do all that weird-ass map shit", as she had no idea where she was.

"He said Africa was like south-east of Beverley Hills, but I thought that was like Mexico and Iraq," she said.

"Oh well, boring!"




Satirical news adapted from: http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_id=139&art_id=iol127839348197H100

For real report, here it is.

A Beautiful DIsaster

I just realized, it's been quite awhile since I've written a new post. My lack of inspiration is probably in direct correlation with the extremely dry language I have to accustom myself with when writing a 3000 word essay. Hence, no creative thinking.

Oh yeah, and football.

I guess the only reason I'm writing this post is to buy time as I wait for the match between Espanyol and Paraguay. Btw, Argentina? Totally humiliated. 4-0. It wasn't a loss. It was total trashing.

Anyway, continuing on. This post is probably fodder material. You can read it, you can choose to ignore it. Your call.

Funny thing. As I was lying in bed the other day, thoughts kept swirling around in my head. No, they weren't hypotheses of the Universe's origin, nor were they quantum theories to elaborate upon the time-space continuum and the deliberation of anti-matter.

In fact, I was reminiscing about embarrassing moments I've experienced.

You know what's the funny part? I wasn't embarrassed then.

I remember, when I was... 15 maybe? My friends and I decided to hang out and watch a movie. Everything fine and dandy. *fyi, I still remember the lame shit movie we were FORCED to watch, because tickets for another MORE EXCITING movie was sold out. TREASURE ISLAND. OMG. 2.5 HOURS OF EXTREME TORTURE. That movie makes New Moon seem like a sweaty 10 minute make-out session. It was THAT BAD.*

Fashion is a weird organic contraption. Its evolution sprouts from the seed of creativity, eventually morphing into a briar bush of mortification, while fruits of dignity emerge just to be trampled and degraded back into the very soil which feeds its insensible growth.

Sad to say, thorns of social pressure were embedded in my epidermis, while I wallowed in the hallowed hell of fashion's vegetative state.

Super tight body hugging T-shirt and bell-bottom jeans. Both brown in color. Need I say more?

The worse part is, I THOUGHT I looked DA BOMB. I thought I was sexaaaay, hot, the epitome of fabulosity.

Was I dead wrong.

As I swayed my hips to the beat of mall music, head tilted up, shoulders squared, strutting around like a cock on steroids, I basked in the gaze of strangers. Strangers who, wouldn't give me the time of day on any other given day. Strangers who gave me wide-eyed stares which I mistook for admiration and lust.

*Laugh out loud*

I looked the fool, my dear readers.

Yet it seemed such a good idea at the time. In fact, it seemed... right.

It goes to show that, our actions at present are an expression and indication of our grasp upon our current reality. Clearly, I was pretty out of my 'reality' then. In fact, I think I was high on something...

Oh yeah. High on the presumptous assumption that the world loved me, and ONLY ME.

Gullible, yes. Fallible only if I had much to lose.
I didn't.

I learned an important lesson that night. One which others have taken like fish to water, but to me it's like the tentative steps of a newborn inhaling fresh air, free of its mother's womb.
















Don't EVER wear tight bell-bottom jeans.

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Who You Are

Dr. Suess is a literary genius, and some of his quotes have hit home in the struggles of my life.



" Sometimes the questions and complicated, and the answers simple "




" You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep, because reality is finally better than your dreams "



" Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind "

-Dr. Suess
US Author & Illustrator (1904 - 1991)

Ushering

Today I attended my cousin's wedding dinner. As a close relative I had to help out and usher and seat guests. All in all, I had a fun time meeting and greeting.

Truth be told, I'm not going to delve any further into the whole wedding. I'm just out to rant, and this post is specifically designed to accommodate my mindless anger sans irritation.

As an usher, I was given a stack of paper filled with names to sort out which guest is seated at which table. Then I was to direct them to their seats when they came to the front desk and registered.

Easy, right?

Well, it obviously did NOT help that the guest's names were all screwed up, since some people were listed down as families, hence going by 'Mr. & Mrs. So-and-so', meaning that whatever GRANDMOTHER names they were coming up with were NOT A MATCH in the list UNLESS they said the name of the family patriarch.

To make matters worse, random people were listed as Mr and Ms. respectively, totally SCREWING UP the alphabetical system.

Therefore, when someone mentions their name, I have to:

1. Check the alphabetical list for their name.

2. Not there? Check the family names under 'Mr and Mrs blah blah blah'

3. STILL not there? Then check the random individuals under Mr and Ms.

4. In desperation, check the list of Datos, Datins, Drs and Profs. (Honestly, THIS too messed up the system)



To cut things short, there was this bunch of expensive-looking elderly ladies that walked in, and I was supposed to show them to their seats. There was no match for their Mandarin names, so they came up with a plethora of English names which, I guess, was how the hosts, my cousins and her parents, know them by.

From the steps above, it is evident that for every name they come up with, I have PAGES to look through. Their impatient yammering and constant grabbing for the list did NOT HELP AT ALL too. In the end, I apologized and told them I couldn't find their name.

Then my cousin's sister came to help out. She promptly looked through the list and found the lady's name.

The stupid expiring yak had the gall to turn to me, and with an imperious lilt, tyrannically declared:

'See, I TOLD you it was inside!'

Okay woman, obviously there's something you don't understand. For one, I did NOT say your name wasn't inside. I TOLD YOU I COULDN'T FIND IT. And another. While you were unable to shut your gaping trap, I was looking through hundreds of names just to find, maybe in vain hope, that I could catch a glimpse of one of the FIVE names you mentioned, UNDER DIFFERENT CATEGORIES.

THAT'S why I asked my cousin sister for help. Geddit?

But that wasn't the brunt of it. As she was walking away, she told my cousin sister 'THIS BOY IS NOT VERY GOOD.'

Excuse me?

Not very good?

Not very good IN WHAT WAY?

In the way that I'm not getting paid? In the way that I don't work as a receptionist for a living? Or maybe it's the way that I am A FAMILY MEMBER OF THE BRIDE OF THE WEDDING YOU'RE BLOODY ATTENDING, AND ALL I'M TRYING TO DO IS HELP EASE THE CROWD SURGE.

You tell me, bitch. Not very good in WHAT?

Henceforth, the moral of the story: Please treat the ushers at wedding receptions nicely, because they ARE BLARDY FAMILY MEMBERS OF THE BRIDE/ GROOM. We're not here to please you because our livelihoods depend on your sad tips.

We're just there because we value our familial relationships.

Geddit, bitch?

I Need To Poison My Wife

A friend of mine sent me this joke via e-mail, and I found it pretty funny. Enjoy! :)

A nice, calm and respectable man went into the pharmacy, right up to the
pharmacist, looked straight into her eyes, and said, "I would like to
buy some cyanide.."

The pharmacist asked, "Why in the world do you need cyanide?"

The man replied, "I need it to poison my wife."

The pharmacist's eyes got big and she exclaimed, "Lord have mercy!


I can't give you cyanide to kill your wife! That's against the law!


I'll lose my license! They'll throw both of us in jail! All kinds
of bad things will happen. Absolutely not! You CANNOT have any
cyanide!"

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture of his wife in
bed with the pharmacist's husband .

The pharmacist looked at the picture and replied, "Well now. That's
different. You didn't tell me you had a prescription.

Anger - Who Hurts More?

LOL, How apt that I have an earlier post with the same title.

Bad moods are horrible. They place me in a zone of silence. I don't feel like talking, I don't feel like interacting. Not because I'm angry at the people around me, I'm just... not in the mood (no pun intended).

Someone once asked me, " Are you angry at me?"

You know, unless you murdered my aunt's cousin's grandmother's brother's second son's niece's (twice removed) mother-in-law, or ate the cup of yoghurt I was saving for my after-supper dessert, I can't possibly be mad at anyone who asks me that question.

It just shows me you care. How sweet.

And I can't fault that.

So my standard answer is 'No'. And I mean it.

You know, at times we may get angry at another person. We hurt them, either intentionally or unintentionally. We leave lasting impressions, scars that linger to remind them of the abuse. We're haunted by the ghost of our callousness, an undercut handed over in the form of reckless behavior.

But when we think it through... was it really worth it?

Was proving that point so important, was winning the fight everything?

Did you leave the battle lightly scratched, but overcome with the immensity of your actions, the gut-wrenching hold of guilt?

Confrontation is worthless if hurting another only hurts yourself. Revenge is a double-edged sword of a nail-laden hilt.

The pain ultimately falls on you.




I agree. I was slightly harsh with my language, and it was totally unnecessary. The issue was petty, inconsequential even.

Friendship is thrown around as a term nowadays, heavy in emotions, but lacking in meaning. True friends - the ones that will be at your side when adversity is faced, are hard to find. And I think that you may just be a true friend. *btw, please don't prove me wrong*

In hindsight, I shouldn't have done what I did. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to you for all the hurt I've caused. The scars may be there, but hopefully the salve of forgiveness is able to take the edge off the sting.

Sorry.

Being Mortal

As one who is young, we often think of ourselves as infallible beings, built of rock and stone, with a heart encased in pure gold.

Perhaps it's because as humans, we are programmed to be dualists; To believe that the spirit and body are entities capable of divine centrifugation; That there exists a life transcending material.

Our notion of imperishability probably stems from that belief of an immortality that outlives our time as mortals, lending us the naive courage to live at the spite of death.

Of course, taking out biology at face point, we are all but expiring creatures infesting a planet in the vast galaxy. And to magnify what is already minuscule, each of us are living on borrowed time, in vessels as fragile as an intricate ivory lattice, sheathed in soft flesh, permeated by warm blood.

All wounds bleed; All pain hurt.

All misgivings pierced into a beating heart will eventually halt its rhythmical struggle.

We will die. Our bodies will rot; Cadavers bearing the memories of a life once existed.



We will cease to remain,
When our gold-encased heart suffocates under the weight of its own armor.