Monday, October 20, 2014

Happy Deepavali...And We Are Only Getting Older.

The memory of the celebration called Deepavali festival, as it is called in Malaysia (some call it Diwali or festival of light or "let's think about threadmill walk later program") to me is not that all memorable as I enter middle age. In retrospect. I still have a little bit of future left. So, I better let it all out here, except the part where we were chased by angry geese during one of those open house visits.

Sure, as kids we had fun. We had blasts, literally, though I have no knowledge of anyone blowing off their thumb through fiery explosive malfunction, or lose their tooth due to certain multi-concentrated ball of grain (called kal-urundai, roughly translated as rounded stone).)

But as a kid, following the rituals of the so-called religion and practices, I must admit that I truly enjoyed the event, alongside my two brothers (later, another bloke, my best friend, joined as blood brother because, well, it must be a cosmic reason).

Our very early days of Deepavali, apart from some good food (we were very poor, we can afford only some good dishes and stuff on occasions like this) was to get to know our relatives, most of whom were as strange as Klingon to Captain James T. Kirk.

We used to visit our relatives on these occasions, rather than celebrate it ourselves. We have gracious ones, (my late uncle Ramasamy @Viswanathan, a demi-god) and some others, some great, some okay, some low-life blokes who appear right out of being dunk in a vat of cheap alcohol.

Early morning all of us would go to temple praying to god that I don't believe in, than come to to great breakfast I believe in. Alas, I have faith in great Indian-styled breakfast. Period. Even that, I indulge very rarely. I prefer Nasi Lemak or Mee Hoon Goreng with sambal on the side.

Then, there would be TV specials, many locally produced piss-pots mainly to exploit the given budget, and, possibly, by male producers, onto the female artistes. We were not interested. There were good old Tamil films that will always and still do get my attention. I am not ashamed of it, even if it has MGR (google that initials) in it.

To me, the best part of the whole festival actually takes place the night before Deepavali (like the night before Christmas, Mr. Tim Burton). All of the family members would gather in the prayer to the late family members of the family, especially my grandfather, one Mr. Shankaran Nair, whose name I adapted for my son.

There would be an offering of rice, chicken curry, vegetables, etc on banana leaf. In the years gone by, there would be a bottle of Guiness Stout (apparently, my grandpa's favourite drink), but due to political correctness, it has since been replaced with plain water (poor grandpa).

What follows is the usual prayer ritual (don't want to bore you on that, you can call me to find out more but you have to give me your Credit Card number), and then WHAMMO!

Sorry grandpa, but fun starts thereof. Dad would mix the whole rice, chicken pieces, vege, whatever curry, anything, into balls and give each of us one. It's what, I think, they serve in HEAVEN!

My Deepavali ends there. The next day is just visit to the temple in early morning, breakfast, expecting visitors, sneaking time to take a nap, watch more useless TV programs, nap again, and then thinking about when to go back (to wherever you think you belong to).

There you go. A very bad David Finch-esque ending for you. But what the heck, Happy Deepavali Everyone. After all, it only happens once in a year and we are ONLY getting older. Ta-daaa.....

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Rakesh, STFU.
I am going to be 41 soon, which means I am a lot older. I had issues with health…some involving a taboo-istic issue like alcoholism (Mom: kids stay away from that man…he is an alcoholic) and less pedestrian issue like being a Filmaholic (Very few will understand that).. And so be it. I may be a burden to some folks but I ain’t no murderer or a pick pocket, but my blog posts in the past can assure what I am addicted to movie flicks (Clue: it involves Celluloid).

What prompted me to write this is exactly the issue that I wanted all moms to warn about their kids: Alcoholism.

Is it bad? Is it terrible? Does it kill you like it did to Jim Morrison, Jimmi Hendrix, or any other uncles or aunties that succumbed to that evil, devilish concoction invented so that you stay away from day to day incoming evil dredges, week to week conformities; perhaps confronted by  monthly fears of looking at authorities sanctioned bills?

Who knows.

The recent passing away of Robin Williams still haunts me. The man was a great entertainer (I had to use the word “was”, sorry).. He was energy…someone should have tapped him just for that physics study alone…I mentioned this before, but please do a youtube on him…he is unstoppable. For those who are new to him recently, check out the Alladin cartoon, or ….goddamit anything else….he is everywhere.

But why does the man who chose to entertain everyone decided to put a goddam fullstop one day. Perplexing. Indubitably, missing the point to those who are not familiar with the lives of comics who makes others laugh while they cry (I know, Lenny Bruce always comes to your learned mind).

But anyway, nobody is reading this...And all these posts are for my son..again…in case I am moving to the other side

Son…be patient, be understanding…if you can’t handle it…buy Iced Lemon Tea….it worked when Accha was dating Amma.

Your girlfriends will be talking about issues…this and that….mother said this….father said that….You just take it easy. Sip the juice slowly, and do your best Marlon Brando impression (including scratching your chin) and say, “Aawllll will be fine,”

There is so much in this blog posts. All for you, from the time when I was courting your mom to the time where we are now.

Remember this junior (again, in Sean Connery voice ala Indiana Jones 3)….If it ish not for you mothersh family and my family, thish wouldn’t have happened. The greateshsht trrreassshure is not unity… ishhhh undershhhhtanding…)

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Robin Williams – You Still Keep Us Entertained.

For those who were born in the 1970’s and earlier, Robin Williams crept into our consciousness through this little sitcom called Mork and Mindy. It used to be a staple for us family way back then. Dad and mom used to laugh at his antics and we used to wonder why. Mork, by the way, is played by Williams – as an alien. His keyword or whatever, was, “Nanoo Nanoo!”.

And then he slowly moved into the film world, most notably, though the film was not quite recognised though it was directed by ace director Robert Altman, Popeye. Yes, the same Popeye the Sailor Man. It was not much of a success…but Williams moved on.

It is hard to pinpoint what made Williams a great actor or comedian. There are various sides to him.

The TV introduced a sitcom actor. The film introduced us a comedian. The stage, most importantly, and this is where most goddam stars, superstars fail, introduced us one of the greatest improvising stand-up comedians ever.

Yes, Williams comes in the same lineage of the greats of the past, such as my beloved Groucho Marx, and the others including ….I don’t know who. Groucho’s speed with wit, lividness and ability to attack you and at the same time can only be matched by Williams. And the latter is not an “insult” comic, mind you, He mimics us on our clumsiest days, worst scenarios, terrible behaviour and most foul moments that we don’t ever want to remember…but with laughs.

Forget the movies, check out his skits through the youtube videos. He is better than the movies when he is on stage, drinking one mineral bottle after another unleashing one wisecrack after another, deadpan lines following a previous sharper one, as well as smacking your face with verbal insult and make you laugh at the same time.

If you are too lazy, try the award ceremony presentations or when he actually accepts awards…you will remember it forever.

As they say, comedy is a mask worn by sad people who don’t want to share their pathos side simply because they are not selfish. Robin Williams, like many great entertainers, held behind his dark side, because he is a selfless entertainer. He drowns his dark side in alcohol for a long time (or drugs, but I don’t want to elaborate on that). Some of these traits, many won’t understand.

To live for others is to die a little everyday. Robin Williams didn’t. He was simply called to entertain a whole bunch of other souls up there, or below, or in the middle, or anywhere…simply because of the legacy he left behind.

Never forgotten. We all love you Mr. Williams. Be in peace, but don’t rest. You are still entertaining us through your work.  

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

 He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother. Happy Birthday Clinton Fernandez.

I am not quite sure that how old he is, but all I know is this: he is a hell of a singer and great keyboard (synthesizer) player. That makes him ageless. In my calculation, all fantastic singers are ageless. I still sing S.P. Bala song to my son...and apparently the man is over three quarter of a century old and I refuse to believe it. You can check that with my psychiatrist. (My personal ambition is to sing the same songs I sing to my son to Clinton’s audience, but that is a tall...fictional tale unfilmed).

When courting my wife, Linda Marina Fernandez, I had the opportunity to get to know him. I don’t know how to regard him. He was three....maybe four times bigger than Linda, and therefore, do I say my big-big brother in-law? Oh well, I am twice as big as my wife, so I believe he won’t be offended...unless which he can throw his synthesiser at me (after which I can repair and make it my own).
I, then, during weekends, brought my fiancée (yes, we progressed) to watch his performance.

And Holy Ravioli, this man got the voice of something that most Malaysians have never heard of. A brilliant mix of bluesy gruff, rock’n’roll fun, rhythm and blues cheesiness, leaning slightly on Metal (he doesn’t like Metal/Heavy Metal as I understand), preening, crooning, doodling, looking at the audience while he fingers (not in naughty way, you naughty buggers you) his keyboard the only way Bill Gates probably did in the 70s pre-Windows days.

He da man. During my wedding reception way back then (Flinstone’s were already started screening, I believe), this man took on the task of accompanying his father, Mr. Herbert Fernandez, tackling the 50s era crooning (as a writer I am not supposed to use the same word “crooning” twice in the same article, we are supposed to be creative in coming up with synonyms...let me try again. Oh hell ___ with it).

Truth is, he he rocks and this is not current youth talk, we were already doing this in the 80s. During my wedding reception way back then, this man took on the task of accompanying his father, the amiable Mr.Herbert  Fernandez in the task of supplementing musical background to the latter’s crooning (again, crooning, dey Rakesh can you stop using the same goddam word again and again).

But it was a memorable occasion. Where one grandson of Shankaran Nair, marrying a Catholic girl, is privileged to have both brother-in-law to play music and father-in-law singing beautiful song in his own Yodelling style (do Wikipedia, for those who are not in the know). What else can you ask for?

They made our day. Especially Clinton who shares the same name of my cinematic hero Clint Eastwood (Yeah, real name is Clinton Eastwood). My beloved brother-in-law. This is for you. Happy birthday from yours truly, Linda and one small bloke by the name of Nevin Shankaran Kumar who, thanks to the goddamn genes, going to become a singer. Have a healthy long life brother.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Of moustache, machismo, masculinity and follicle overbearing-ness....

The title may baffle you, but I can assure you of this: when I thought of it, I felt that it should represent the best of what I had always loved about being masculine…often which I end up lying down on the floor whimpering why do blokes need that fat caterpillar-istic growth below their nose and above lips to look, err...manly.

I am reminded of this constant nagging sense, why a moustache (re:Why-a-duck…viaduct in an early Marx bros movie…oh, just Google will ya?)?. Why are men compelled to grow moustache and yet, diligently shave away any other follicles that sprout in the regions that does not concern the head, armpit, hands, legs…oh well, you get the picture…I don’t have to detail you everything else.

But a recent posting by a cousin of mine, Vimuna (my dad’s sister’s daughter) which showcased her parents, which was totally overshadowed by my uncle Balakrishan (her dad, of course) and his staggeringly imposing moustache that threatened to jump out and strangle you till you willingly give away few DVDs featuring actor Kamal Haasan who himself is known for his many roles that feature varieties of shapes and sizes of follicular achievements (in one film he just quit and bald himself).

The history of moustache started long time ago when the whole evolution process decided that living beings need a bunch of thread-like woolly thing covering the upper region of their lips for reasons only known to the creator or whoever it is that did the original PowerPoint slide presentation after dinosaurs kicked the bucket.

It was a big mystery to us kids. Both my brothers have had enough of watching our dad carefully shaving and snipping away excessive growth to make sure that what was there looked like a goddam slug resting peacefully after a hard day's work of sucking blood. They (my brothers, not the slugs) are now both clean shaven and leading a happy healthy life. In fact, I heard that once Accha (dad) had shaved the whole thing off and even a close friend didn’t recognise him. Since then, the tache became dad’s barcode (probably give him easy access in airports).

Worst part is, most of our uncles are equally, if not as threatening, in possession of hairy explosion you can’t remove your eyesights from when addressing them. Quite a number of them are bald or balding, but the brutal bristles are as imposing as an atomic mushroom explosion that you just want to keep an eye on so that you can jump overboard if it suddenly protrudes further and poke your eyeballs.

But, apart from these snide remarks, I have long harboured the feeling to have one of those facial brutality myself. Yes, I wanted a Frank Zappa moustache, or Kamal Haasan (70s) or U2’s The Edge (Pop album) downward pointing but fiery growth that makes others think that they shouldn’t trifle with you unless they have a shaving blade handy.

Oh yes, I have experimented dear readers, any styles of moustache…except the Charlie Chaplin one where it may not be appropriate as it might remind you of a brutal dictator...with a comical broad-stroke brush below the nose. Unfortunately, after I got married with all those experimentation, all I got from my wife was an “ewww!!!” as if I had stuck a shell-less snail above my lips. Since then, I always kept it at Bob De Niro’s mild spurt ala Heat, one of my favourite 90s flick. (note that the co-star, Pacino is always exploding furiously…which I believe came from the instruction for him not to have any such growth…).

Anyway, November is supposedly the month for all blokes to grow moustache even if they look like midget cousin of Fu Manchu (something to do with testicular cancer awareness, I believe…but shouldn’t the growth be…oh…never mind). Can’t wait, because I want to do this!!!! Take that wifey!!!! 

Monday, March 31, 2014

Two Popular Superstition Explained and Analysed.

(This might be turned into sequels if the article is successful in generating fantastic results in the worldwide box-office. Or at least RM3.00 to buy me two boxes of raisins which I live on these days).

Superstition has been part and parcel of our lives, or in most cases, those with pathetic miserable lives because we tend to cling on these beliefs like the stubborn phlegm reaching out for our upper lips even after we had just blown our nose. Especially picturesque if you have it draped on thick porn-star moustache. You are welcome.

But I have always had fascination towards the origin of these superstitious beliefs because, let’s face it, no matter how forward thinking you are, you still tend to be irrational when indulging certain actions.

For example, how many of us are preconditioned to stab the lift button repeatedly like Norman Bates in the seminal study on complex human behaviour titled Psycho even if we had already initiated it (the stabbing, not watching the movie) and the goddam lift is already coming down. Does multiple finger-poking (Kung Fu ala Three Stooges) of the incredulous button forcefully motivate the moving metal box to rush to our aid, while ignoring users from other floors who are probably indulging in severe act of intimacy with the lift button themselves even using non-human extensions like hammer or a tiny feline?

Anyway, let us examine some of the popular superstitions and I shall give the actual reason for their existence, and re-evaluate them. For example:
 Throwing pinch of salt over the shoulder.


It is for good luck they say. For a simple symbolic reason of talking away the sour part of life and retain the more savoury part. It is like taking away all the computer graphic imagery scenes off the movie Avatar and…oh wait….

The real reason

Here it is: you are cooking for the first time for someone, and your girl friend, boy friend, spouse, neighbour, colleagues, in-laws or political candidate on his or her rounds begging for vote approach you from behind to appraise your superior culinary expertise which mostly consist of dropping instant noodle onto a boiling pot.
In order to even out the situation so that you can be alone with your pots and utensils without unfavourable intrusion, you need to have a jar or a bottle of salt on standby. I shall reveal how.
As soon as an irrelevant personage who fancies himself or herself a vastly knowledgeable person makes an unwelcomed entry into the kitchen the following scene should ensue, as I imagined it:

Visitor: So, you are cooking eh?
You: Yes, I am. I wanted to butcher an African bison, but I misplaced the cleaver.
Visitor: Misplaced your cleavage eh? Hmm…err…what are you cooking now?
You: Stuff.
Visitor: Aha, I spot a sachet of curry flavoured powder there. You see_
You: (toss salt over the shoulder)
Visitor: (runs away, palms over the eyes) Aieeee…me eyes…me eyes…how am I going to, henceforth, watch the English Premier League sponsored by Tiger beer or is it Carlsberg? The horror, the horror, the horror…Brando, Coppola, Apocalypse Now, 1978.
So, you know why now. Of course, these sort of precautions should be taken with…err a pinch of salt. It might be me behind you.


In the movie Donnie Brasco, Al “hoohah!” Pacino teaches Johnny  “the pirate named after a bird” Depp to cook. And in the beginning of the session, Pacino throws not a pinch, but a “punch” of salt. It was beguiling to Depp and us the audience as he repeatedly asked whether it was a “pinch” to which Al “YELLS for no reason” Pacino corrects and affirms that it is a “punch”. Maybe Pacino did that subconsciously to excise the ghost of Marlon Brando, not the swelt “Stella!” Brando, but the latter day Marlon “Jabba the Hut” Brando. (Any writing with the mention of Brando more than once is worth the writer’s salt…okay, no more “salt”)

2.     Don’t let a black cat cross you.

I love cat and I find this superstition infuriating. Get it? In-Fur-riating. Haha. Well…er-hum…
Coming back to the superstition, apparently black cat brings you bad luck, no thanks to its association with witches and a fantastically eerie short story by early 19th century gothic/horror/alcoholic/possible murderer writer Edgar Allan Poe, which was titled, though the reason is unclear due to the unabashed subtlety, The Black Cat.

Apparently, if a goddam black cat crosses you, you are in for a bad luck. Like finding out that you girl-friend has been cheating on you, telling you that she is out to get a manicure more than once a day when she is actually a superhero saving the world. That backstabbing dung beetle. I mean, we blokes are smart enough to know that women get their manicure once a day five times a week right? Right?

The real reason
Actually it is so simple that I slapped myself silly for not even realising it in the first place. But of course, it also made me realise this, my self-inflicted full-palmed facial encounter can be inconsolably agonising.
There is a perfect good reason why a cat would want to face risk of being splattered by your poorly maintained sneakers, simply because there is a vermin around – a rat. Perhaps you brought the goddam rodent with you no thanks to your own possession of certain bodily odour that invites the snivelling creatures which has a pair of arse bigger than its head. And as the cat rushes to save you from the buck-toothed plague carrying terror, you are unable to see the former due to its natural blend with shadow during moments of poor lighting (when the world is lighted by either cinematographers Gordon Willis or the budget version, P.C. Sriram) only to have you crush the feline’s back.


We all know how black cats are indubitably associated with witches (played by Susan Sarandon and the delectable Michelle Pfeifer [dear, she was into me before I met you, but I dumped her after she played Catwoman, I have enough cats in my life]). It will earn the wicked member of the fair sex’s ire if you were to step on their cats. They want the cat to be perfect condition before it is lowered into a boiling cauldron.

Yikes, the end…
Well, I have to stop for now because this piece has hit over thousand words and that is a no-no in blogs where most folks lose interest right after they read the first word because in another tab of the browser someone has posted something in the Facebook walls about a lost cat with crushed back.

I shall be back with more superstitions explained, and you may even want me to do research on other popular pantang as we say it here in Malaysia. You can mail a US$1 trillion check to me as it can be used to do my research as well as balance the world budget from a secret lair I am intending to establish in the moon where there will be no salt or black cats, or salted black cats. 

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

MH370: Arise leaders, commenters and jesters.

My sentiments exactly. Shuttup eccles!
The MH370 saga has ended, well not exactly. The announcement was made that all the contact from the plane was lost at the Indian Ocean, the southern Corridor closer to Australia to be precise. Even, then, I’d say that it was too early to make an announcement. Not when we have too many bankrupt comedians on hand looking for easy material.
As mentioned earlier, I had quoted Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, through his creation, Sherlock Holmes, “Never theorise in advance of data”. In this case, the announcement was made in absence of pure concrete, conclusive data, as the physical proof of the wreckage itself was not found. But I suppose,  pressure from several quarters forced those responsible to make that dreadful announcement.

As mentioned (again, in my earlier blog post), at times like this, slimes rise from a stirred pond. In this case, some are showing their displeasure with the way the government handled the whole thing, turning it into their usual anti-ruling government venomous spitting match (sometimes they spit upwards, and you know where it comes back to).

The worst was the family, friends and displeased Chinese nationals who demonstrated in front of the Malaysian Embassy in China. They seemed to be pretty free to do so. Try that to their own government, and you will probably never hear of them again. Remember, the dissident and the tank? Or the infant ran over by a vehicle in China, which invited curious onlookers who seemed to be as interested as watching a blind musician making a living? Of course, we need not be reminded that China’s human rights record is as sterling as last year’s home frozen pork chop.

And to see citizens of last big nation, which is still hanging on to their socialist ideology like a Tom Cruise on top of the Bhurj, venting their anger at Malaysian embassy akin to a bullied child of a family throwing stones at the third house down the road simply the owner does car pooling with the kid’s abusive dad.

What is even more troubling is the fact that our own Malaysians spewing venom at the Malaysian authorities involved with the tragedy, for holding out vital information. In Tamizh, there is an expression, “vachukkuttA vanjakam pannurom (roughly translated as, ‘what is there to give when we have none’)”. What the Prime Minister, the acting Transport Minister (yes, temporary, not permanent, and he shed tears fer gad’s sake), the CEO of Malaysian Airlines and the director from Department of Civil Aviation, had was evidence as flimsy as a China doll’s costume (actually someone big who was videotaped cavorting with one of these eminent members of the said “fleshy” profession was displeased himself with the way the government was handling the aircraft issue. Maybe he lost his favourite “doll”).

I understand honestly that one can’t be conclusive with these mere bits and scraps of information that can hardly be put together into one big dinosaur exhibit. But the social media users are not used to this. Gone are the days when it takes time to solve mysteries. We are used to daily/weekly one hour TV series (including advertisements and trailers) of mysteries solved thanks to poor acting, horrific script, conveniently placed clues, and lots of choppy editing that makes the investigators more intelligent than Holmes, Dupin, Spade, Marlowe and Father Brown combined (look it up, don’t be lazy) when they are about as efficient as monkey with a wooden banana.

It is not that easy in real life. I banged into a car, almost a month ago, and the things I have to go through the same day, waiting for tow truck, to the police station, waiting for turn, writing report, going to the Sergeant’s office to get the copy of the report, getting the insurance people in took time…and I am still waiting for them to do my car. And it is just a simple road vehicle accident.

This is a goddam aircraft, with more than 100 passengers and crews in it, and its range would have given Marco Polo multiple orgasms, though the passer byes would have just sat and watched, if old Marc’s aircraft crash landed on the Great Wall. There wouldn’t have been pasta, anyway.

Still, the airlines record safety will still be the best among all the modes of transportation. Road vehicles kill more people in the world than Stalin did back then (oh wait, I need to confirm that). We have aircraft crashes here and there, and if there were no terrorism involved, then it was mainly because of matters that were completely out of the pilot and his or her crews’ hands. To put the blame on the government of the day is, how do I put it, a convenient way of swimming ones way into the deepest vestige of a human refuse treatment plant and prove that you are the brightest person in this side of the hemisphere. But such analogical practices are normal in Malaysia anyway, just look at the opposition political parties. Not to mention their supporters.

A lot of fingers are pointed (index finger, the rest are pointing elsewhere, duh) at the Prime Minister. Najib is Malaysia’s prime minister and he has made as much effort to help with the situation as he can, and, in the meantime, he has to deal with the rest of the Malaysian; deal with those residing out of this country who are still yearning for Nasi Lemak, Mee Goreng and finding themselves filling up too many forms too often, and face some red necks who can’t tell Asians apart from Africans; deal with illegal immigrants wanting to come to this country (apparently there are, maybe they don’t read our alternative media wonderful portrayal of this country, poor blokes and gals); dealing with own country people, most of whom as trustworthy as a tarantula babysitting a butterfly; and in the middle of it all, deal with half-wit critics, poor man’s experts, toilet cleaner’s Einstein, and ungrateful citizens whose lineage can be traced back to the regions where poor treatment of the regular folks - not to mention the astute observation of the class and caste system - were a norm.

Death is certain. Tomorrow I can be crossing the road texting to someone about how frustrated I am with the acting Transport Minister who was not manly enough….crunch, I am under a steam roller. We have all lost many loved ones, some in terrible way like my cousin who was murdered and ran over a car. He didn’t deserve it. So many does not deserve these sorts of demises, but life goes on. Pointing fingers will not bring the deads back, which is not entirely an issue if you considered Hitler or Kim Kardashian (crap, she is still alive). If one is not happy with the government of the day, do what he or she can to in most civil possible way to change that government or influence the members to behave the way one wants them to behave. It is not an easy process, because truth is, many may not agree with you. Living in your own cocoon (social media) pleasing your cohorts (“like” clickers), bursting out your freedom of expression through keyboard clicks (that’s how pathetic technology have made us) gets as much exposure as a wounded bear in a cave in Antarctica.  

So far, I have not heard from the real heroes, those who face the media everyday taking in questions, sometimes really ridiculous questions, those involved in the search team, both in and off the field, bitching about the Malaysian government. Maybe the media like CNN which is as credible as my grandfather’s recounting of his rip-roaring adventure with Robinson Crusoe.

Rambling that I am with this post, the main aim was to salute those involved helping to shed some light to this tragedy, from the people in the sea, right up to the authorities and leaders who try their best to give the most credible, verifiable information available. It’s tough to the family of those who are lost. We should give them a break, as even the media was asked not to disturb these grieving folks.  

In the meantime, those who still bitch about the government and its inefficiency will continue to do so until they find something else to unleash their liquid refuse on. That is what their miserable life seemed to be about, as far as their online presence is concerned. Soon, I’d landing a full time job (I am unemployed now, how do you think I have time to write these long ramblings), and I feel sorry that I will have very little time to be entertained by these Internet court jesters. In the meantime, show me more of your brilliant deductions, analysis, commentaries and criticisms; I have coke and popcorn ready.

Useless Knowledge

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