Don’t you hate it when uptight, hypocrite moralist blare their trumpets?

Or maybe that’s just my twisted mind.

A mother has been slammed for Tweeting about her drowned son.

When I first read the headlines, I myself was appalled. Typical of attention grabbing, sensationalist headlines, it reads: “Mother under fire for tweeting while son dies”.

Goodness me! I thought. Rather than Tweeting shouldn’t she be pulling her son out of the water?

As I read the news, it was revealed that the mother tweeted for prayers from her 5000 strong followers, while her son was being saved by paramedics. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that when paramedics are attending to someone, you shouldn’t be interfering, yes?

"Please pray like never before, my 2 yr old fell in the pool," Mrs Ross wrote at 6.12pm local time.

And the comment to that tweet:

"The first I thought when I saw the tweet was that it was very sad," Ms McGraw was quoted by the Daily Mail as saying.

"But then I thought, ‘Who would tweet that her son just drowned?’ I couldn’t believe it."

Uhm, let’s backtrack. She didn’t mentioned her son drowning, not directly anyway. She said he fell into the pool, and to pray for him. To me, that’s PG rated. This mother was distraught enough to ask 5000 people to pray, hoping that the power of 5000 could sway the decision of The Almighty. Who knows? Our hopes works in strange ways.

Was it insensitive of her to be tweeting while her son lay within inches of death (or maybe already are)? Maybe, but hey, welcome to Twitter!

Twitter annoys me more than Facebook, for obvious reason. One of my close classmates is an avid Tweet and he feels compelled to announce to the world minutiae detail of his life. Down to “it’s cold out today, but class will be warm. Reckon I should just wear wool?”

Egad capital E.

One tweet sounds, “Uh oh, Penguin just walked into class w/ murder on her face. If y’all don’t hear 4m me soon it means I’ve run out of V or chocs & she’s eaten me for lunch”

I wasn’t aware I was walking around with murder on my face until I read that tweet. Actually, it was more of a surprise at the concern my close study friends were paying to me that particular day, until I was agitated enough to ask them what’s up their derriere. I may be nicknamed Penguin but I do not appreciate being stared at like a zoo animal.

Then they mentioned the tweet, which was why they were being cautious around me, gauging my mood. Because as far as anyone who knows me already would know, I’m not a very good penguin once I’m angry!

At least I’m happy people know how to handle my anger, and now all his 30+ followers knows too.

Actually, I should thank him for the endless supplies of V and chocolates given to me for free throughout the semester. One only need to wave either one, or both of those to get my attention and curry my favours!

Ok. So maybe it’s a good thing after all.

Geez, am I talking from both sides of my face? Hmm…

Comfort is a boat on calm waters. The boat doesn’t rock, and we don’t make it. We refuse to take the oars and row because that will ripple the waters, which in turn rocks the boat and in turn lead the boat ashore.

That’s risky.

How do we know that we won’t tip the boat, and drown? How do we know that the shore is better than being in this boat?

The only way we know, is if we do it.

There are two primary choices in life; to accept conditions as they exist, or accept the responsibility for changing them.  (Denis Waitley)

What else can the boatman do? Should he wait until his youth pass by him, and take his energy with it? Does he wait for the wind to guide his boat, the waves to move it? How can he be sure that he likes where the wind and waves take him? He has the choice of going forward with his own oars—the tools already given to him—or ignore these tools and give up to the elements. The direction of that boat depends on his choice alone.

To control his path, or to settle?

Rowing could be hard at first—it takes energy. The rough wave can strike fear in even the bravest of men. The shore may hold unknown dangers.

Could, can, may. But “is”? Find out!

If you believe it will work out,  you’ll see opportunities.
If you believe it won’t,  you’ll see obstacles. (Dr. Wayne Dyer)

Fear of the unknown stops us from moving forward. But we forget Everyday is Unknown. We can plan, only God or the larger Being decides. If we can survive Everyday, we can survive Unknown for we live it throughout our lives. The difference with Everyday and Unknown is the clarity of it: Everyday is subtle while Unknown is glaring.

Just trust yourself,
then you will know how to live. (Goethe)

The beauty of being is the ability to survive. God, Nature and the Universe do not heap upon us that of which we cannot handle. They either challenge you and make you stronger, or outright kill you. If we have made it this far, a few hardship will not kill us. We are not created “just because” or by accident.

With hardship comes finding yourself. Your secret strength. Your dormant wisdom. Your hidden abilities. None of which you find in the face of comfort because by being comfortable you cease to seek, therefore you cease to understand.

There will be times in this boatman’s life where comfort is welcomed. However, no comfort are fully appreciated until one has experienced discomfort first. Comfort without discomfort are taken for granted and abused.

Let the waters settle.
You will see stars and moon mirrored in your being. (Rumi)

How would you know the stars and moon are good, if you have not experienced missing them during the daylight? Most importantly, how can you let the waters settle without it being rippled first?

Can we understand the value of a diamond, without knowing the value of a rock to compare it with? We know a million is more valuable than a dollar, because we understand the value of a dollar first. The lesser must be understood and acknowledge before the greater is visible.

When you have to make a choice and don’t make it, that is in itself a choice.  (William James)

There’s an old boatman who did not want to rock the boat, so he let the elements take him. He is comfortable, but he constantly look back and wondered: what if?

Perhaps his life now is suited, is the best for him…but he’ll never know it himself because he has never tried another path. He is one of the What Ifs and If Onlys, constantly questioning himself because he did not answer it when the question arrived at a time he had the energy to explore it.

Constantly thinking of it but never tried it in his youth, constantly thinking of it but too late to do it in his old age.

Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable. (Sydney J. Harris)

Would we rather be proud of where we took our boat, or will we dwell endlessly on where our boat took us?

I wish us all happy rowing.

Greetings, everyone! I come in peace…roar!

Oops, wrong words for the wrong audience. Pardon moi!

I’m Chompers, and I’m filling in for Mummy today because she is feeling too lazy too tired to write. Either that, or she is still traumatize by the manuscript that she has been asked to proofread.

A story for another time.

So here I am, Mummy’s trusted servant fill-in writer.

I miss this guy. In case you guys are wondering, this is my friend Jógvan. How cool is that name?

He’s from the Faroese Island, and he’s travelling the world with a mission. His purpose is to represent love and prayers from all his hosts, bringing it with him to Vienna. As in Vienna a strong and brave little girl. Not Vienna the place. [Read Vienna’s story here]

Jógvan has been staying at various interesting places and hosted by many kind people. He sure have a lot to tell of his adventures and we’ve stayed up til very late talking about it. A good thing we don’t have bedtime to go to school, I guess!

When Jógvan was here, Mummy and Daddy took him to Ephraim Island because Mummy loves the scenery there. It’s not a real island per se, it’s a developing residential area. However, there is a small spot to the left of the bridge, where they have a little beach thing going on. Mummy is secretly harbouring wishes to live there one day.

(Uhm, Chompers…it’s not so secret anymore now that you’ve mentioned it on the blog…)

Oh! Sorry, mum!

On the background is the Ephraim Island bridge.

A beach pose is a must, of course. So here are a few rocky pictures.

No mum, I’m not referring to your photography skills!

Noticed the oysters at the edge of the rock, on the second pic.

Yes! Oysters! Mummy nearly stepped into one of these before, until Daddy warned her that they’re razor sharp.

Should have seen Daddy’s incredulous face when Mummy exclaimed, “Oysters! I thought they were mushrooms!” Hahahahahaha!

Yes, Mummy is still very much a city girl. *grin*

However, all good things must come to an end, so last Monday Jógvan and I said our goodbyes. He is on his way to Bridget in NSW, before finally heading to Vienna in Boonah.

We enjoyed Jógvan’s visit so much, and it was a lot of fun listening to his travels. Mummy think the vid Neyst are genius for coming up with it, and here’s thanks to their efforts and to their willingness to let us host him.

Our prayers are with Vienna, always!

I’ve always had difficulties explaining my mixed blood, even in my own home country. So imagine that difficulties magnified tenfold in a foreign land. Even Hero grapple to understand it in the beginning.

I find it the most difficult to explain my race to my American friends than to Australian friends, though. I have a feeling it stems from the fact that every American are “American”. To explain this: the differences are that you have Irish-American, African-American, Jewish-American and so on. But in a nutshell, everyone proclaim themselves American no matter what they heritage.

But in Malaysia, that is not the case. When people ask you what you are, you don’t say ‘Malaysian’. You mention your race.

I’ve had a lot of interesting discussions with people about my own heritage, some funny and some enlightening. But this one today was by far the funniest. And no, she’s not blonde.

Friend: So like, you’re Malay, right?

Me: *Indignant* NO!

(Note of warning to anyone reading this: Never make the mistake of assuming the Malaysian you’re speaking to is Malay. Malaysian is a nationality that all Malaysian are proud to carry and defend, Malay is a particular race. To non-Malays, being called Malay can be very unflattering, to put it mildly. Yes, even if we love our Malay friends. There are differences.)

Friend: No? So like, what are you? I thought you were Malaysian.

Me: Yes I am. But my mum is (mum’s race) and my dad is (dad’s race).

Friend: Oh, so you’re like…an immigrant?

Me: Uhm, no. I’m an immigrant here. I’m a Malaysian in my own country.

Friend: But you’re not Malay? How does that works?

Me: Malay is a race. Malaysian is a nationality. If you ask me what nationality I am, I’ll say Malaysian. If you ask me what I am, I’m assuming you’re asking me my race, which is NOT Malay.

Friend: But, you’re Malaysian citizen, right?

Me: Yes. *sigh*

Friend: I still don’t get it…

Me: It’s like your Red Indian.

Friend: You’re Malaysian Red Indian?

Me: NO SILLY. I mean, how you guys have Native Americans in your country. You have Sioux and Mohicans and Mohawk and Cherokee…you know. They’re all Americans but they are different sort of subrace again and so on. That is sort of like how we ae.

Friend: Oh, that is so cool! So you guys are like the Red Indians of Malaysia (Didn’t I just said no?!?) so you guys do those cool stuffs like totems and stuffs?

Me: ….I give up.

As a direct result of my non-existent social life last semester, lots of late nights and insurmountable amount of money invested in energy drinks, I hereforth happily announce that I have managed to score myself two High Distinctions (means I scored between 85%-100%) and 1 credit (I don’t want to talk about this blotch in my record!).

I thought I should reward myself.

This is where I’m heading on November 28th:

Ringside, no less.

I can’t wait! I missed Evolution 18 because it was in Melbourne and because it was right in the middle of exam week. I was so bummed that week but I think my anger translated into harder work. Haha!

P.S: No one, and I mean no one seems to believe me when I say I love this sport. The same way no one believes that I don’t drink and smoke! They assume I don’t drink most times because I’m the designated driver but the truth is I couldn’t care much about alcohol unless they taste really sour. I really don’t drink or smoke!

I’m sorry if you came here and expect to read something…I don’t really have much to offer these days.

Studies and work have been keeping me on my toes. I thank God that created whoever it is that came up with the idea to put caffeine into yummy energy drinks. Without it, I’m cuckoo.

It’s not that I don’t want to blog, it’s more like I have nothing much to blog about nowadays. Unless you want to hear how I jump out of bed, make myself breakfast and pack Hero’s lunch, and then get out of the house to spend time in campus to read another huge bulk of ‘scholarly articles’. And then come home to make dinner, and crash out for the night. And then I repeat that about 5 times a week, varying it with work duties.

Yeah, riveting stuffs! I’m sure you want to read all about it but out of modesty and humbleness I will not do so.

Heh. Yeah right.

I promise I’ll still come around and visit everyone!

Man, can’t wait for the holidays….

My grandma will be buried today, though I’m not sure when. It’s not a good feeling not being there to say goodbye for the last time, but I’ll honour her memory by paying her back with success.

Thank you to everyone who have sent their condolences through comments (thanks Shinta, Amiey and zeL). Thank you for your condolences through email, especially those of you who are seas and continents away. Thank you to everyone who sacrificed 50c of their phone credits to send me a text messages, and may you know now I spent $30 credits on a single day replying to all of you! Stella was first…her text message was so immediate, within the few minutes that I submitted my post, I was so surprised! But thank you, Sister.

I had to delete some of my text messages today because my phone had a meltdown on me. ‘Phone memory is full, please close some applications’, it warns me. And you know why? I counted as I deleted the messages this morning, and 67 of y’all love me enough to send me your condolences.

SIXTY SEVEN!

And that’s only in text messages.

If not for the sombre nature of the ocassion, I’d have felt like a rock star. (I warned you about my eternal optimism, didn’t I?)

Thank you for your messages, for your prayers, for your advices and for your profession of undying love and loyalty. Y’all make me feel like an army general. Now, we shall march and invade Swiss and their chocolate technology!

Times like this makes me feel that I am blessed. Even though God took something away from me and my family, God have always given plentiful back.

In another year, her and Grandpa should see me on my way to world domination. Or something like that. Grandpa might have a thing or two to say about my method though!

In respect of her memory I’m going on hiatus for a week. So here’s wishing everyone a good week ahead and remember, cherish the ones you love now because you never know when God decides to claim them back.

Sorry for the silence folks, but it’s getting busier at my end of the world right now.

We are feeling the recession so I’m putting in more hours at work and squirreling away money. Not that it’s gonna do much different since a huge bulk of it will go to my fees next semester but hey, what can one do, eh?

Will be back when I can.

P.S: This post was written and posted by email (good ol WordPress!) so the paragraphs won’t be justified. Too bad for that! Will have to figure that one out. I know, I know…me and my justified-OCD.

To whometh it mayeth concerneth,

I would like to implore thee to use thy senses.

Just because I blog does not mean I’m a qualified, bone fide writer (my split personality will beg to differ, however).

I do not have formal writer’s training. My forays into writings are limited to those pretentious essays I write in high school that my teachers seem to like. The more pretentious, the better. Layman terms are a no-no. The closest I come to a writing instructor is my mother who hovers around me brandishing sticks and flog me everytime I start my sentences with “and”, “but” and “or”.

Heh. I kid. She doesn’t brandish sticks around. She doesn’t flog me. But she will disown me just because I started this sentence with a but. Or else. (And ha ha to you, Mum!)

My point here is…just because I write on an electronic journal and left it open for literary, grammatical and whateverya analysis and criticism, I don’t consider myself a literary person.

Therefore, I DO NOT WANT TO READ OR REVIEW YOUR STUPID POEM(S).

Yes. You read right.

The next person who asked me to read and comment on their poem will be cursed to fleas of a thousand camels and itch of a thousand centuries.

What were you thinking? “Ooooh! Ooooh, look at this piece of melodramatic, romantic shit I’ve written! Oooooh! It is so proufoundly deep! Ooooh, I MUST have someone else read it and tell me how sensitive and poetic I am!”

I don’t care much about poem. That was the subject I most despised in both English and Malay language class. My literature diet while growing up, some being poems (thanks for an English teacher mother) I was lucky enough I knew what those major poem by major poets are trying to say in between the lines but heck, I despised beating around the bush in any form and manner. It may have something to do with my straightforward attitude. If I think you’re a fuckhead, I say you’re a fuckhead. I do not beat around the bush and say “thou art intercourse head and thou I disliketh”.

Hang on, that was a little bit straightforward wasn’t it? Let’s try another one:

“thou head is of that unholy activity (unless thee are married)

that bringeth the joy of lives—babies

yet, not in the joyous sense.”

Say WHAT?

Of course, the experience of having an English teacher mother, the phrase “meter! Meter! Flow! Flow!” coming out of her whenever my English teacher send me home with a poem homework. Oh, how I despise it. All I wanted to do was finish my homework and be done with the stupid drudgery of thinking of something that should be tugging heartstrings! I despised it even more when my English teachers, all of them without fail, ooh and aaahed at my poems and proceeded to make an example of it, telling the whole class “this is how a poem should feel!” The shame of that whole thing, man. I tell you. My respect for the teachers just shoots down the drain. Nay, wait…more like…

the drain…it crumbles…

leaving no room for any thing to shoot down it.

It just…crumbles.

Oh.

Dark days.

Dark days.

Say WHAT again?

I do not entirely hate poem I suppose. There have been a few that I like but there are far and few in between. If I have to like poems, I like them to be funny, tongue in cheek or sarcastic.

Poems in greeting cards I can stand because this is greeting cards and they shouldn’t say “thank God he’s dead and now we can get on with our lives!”. In this case we can beat around the bush and go “the living may grieve but life goes on knowing he’s in a better place”. Not if he’s a mobster or Saddam Hussein. Imagine Saddam’s family getting a card like that. “Oh, pretty sure he’s in a better place.” Wanna bet on it? Does he like the 17 frigid virgins he finds up there, who can do nothing cos they know nothing cos they’re virgins? Yeah! A fat lot of good that did him! I’m pretty sure he’d much prefer 17 professional escorts who’d at least know their way around his disco stick.

But ehem, that’s beside the point.

So the thing here is, most likely I’m going to think your poem sucks. Whether or not it does. Most likely, it does suck and just because I love and care about you doesn’t mean I’m going to wax lyrical about your poetic abilities if you write sucky poems. I dislike poems. And if you start writing poems that attempts to stir the emotions, I’d hate you even more. I don’t care if the person in your poem is contemplating suicide! I don’t care if your poem is about a shoe that is about to be thrown out! I don’t care if your poem is written by a stray dog! Stray dogs don’t write poems! Shoes don’t write poems! YOU DO AND YOU SUCK!

If you want constructive criticism I beg of thee, please find someone who would care to read it. Please find someone with poetic-messiah-complex to review it. Do not ask a Mad Penguin Who Think She Is The Awesomest And Therefore Should Not Be Subjected To Such Drudgery to review it.

And don’t get offended when after all that, after pestering me with comments on your poem, that I don’t comment.

Because do that again and I vow to the Olympus of high heavens I shall destroy thy muse and make thee feel like an intercourse head. Or that activity in which joy is made but without joy or whatever.

Erm…say what?

Yours in poetic instability a.k.a Peace out, Yo!

Disturbedeth Waddlingeth Madeth Penguineth

Buckeroomama have been kind enough to award me the Zombie Chicken award.

Yes, you read right. Zombie. Chicken.

Basically this awards means that I’m one of the people that she’ll not stop reading even if there are an army of Zombie Chicken attacking her. Now, she doesn’t think of me in this whole situation i.e them zombie chickens can track my IP and who I am from my post, and then proceed to attack me. Nooo, not once have she thought about my safety in her quest to read my irate rants.

That being said, I am so honoured to be awarded this award. I now question her sanity on reading me at all. What have I done to this woman? I pat myself for this.

Thank you, Buckeroomama! And please, finish reading before those Cluckity Monsters attack you. Please.

In the spirit of Zombie Chicken award, I would like to bring your attention to another Clucky business before I give away my Zombie Chicken award.

Collect your good karma, consider giving away a chicken. Yes! A chicken!

Good ‘ol Genesis brought my attention to this charity in this post just as I came into massive inheritance. Her timing is perfect. For more information, check out the Mayan Family Chicken Program

My short version of this: to effectively provide for a Mayan family in need, 10 chickens are needed per family. These 10 chickens plus feeding and other chicken-rearing related activities will cost a one-off $35 donation per family. If you break it down, that comes to $3.50 per chicken. With those 10 chickens, they can sustain themselves with the eggs, or meat from the chicken. They can sell the eggs. They can eat the meat. So many possibilities!

We all have heard the phrase “Give a man a fish; you have fed him for today.  Teach a man to fish; and you will have fed him for a lifetime”. This works in the same way, except with chicken! I doubt you can lure chicken with a bait at the end of a fishing rod anyway.

The Mad Penguin have gone cluckity buck buck! and have donated the equivalent of 2 chickens last night. I’m pledging 10 chickens before the end of this year. I’m going to try to do it bit by bit til I have donated the full $35 amount needed for a family. We pray all my 10 chickens at the end of this exercise will not turn into Zombie Chickens. Now, I’m not sure if the Mayan family will be thankful for that. Hmm…

And now *drumroll* for the nomination.

Yes, I’m being sneaky because I nominate at the end of my post, so that you’re forced to read about the Clucks for Bucks but hey, I’m misleading you in the name of charity. You can’t hate me. Nya nya nya nya nya.

The Tao of Zombie Chicken Award:
”The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all…"

First up is Genesis from ExpatMom. This award goes to her for being the original cluck cluck what’s with her educating us all about the chicken bus and pointing out those Cluck for Buck program Yes, I would so brave zombie chickens to read her.

Secondly, the award goes to Stella because she is one of my soul sisters and no zombie chicken would come in between me and updates from her blog. Tough luck, chickens!

Thirdly, goes to Stereomanic. He’s a newbie in this blogging world so be kind to him will ya? He discusses issues and voice his opinion on them, some of which I might not agree but many of which I nod and go “hell yeah!”. So for gutsy-ness, ability to put them in coherent words I give him a zombie chicken.

Fourth, Unfinished Business Part II because I like the unfinality of the blog title. Haha. I kid. Aren’t I funny! I crack myself up sometimes. Yeah. I’ll read her in between hacking zombie chickens. Her writing borders between factual whimsical (I really don’t know how else to explain this) and look at the blog, it is so tidy! My mild OCD approves very highly.

Fifth, Tina of The Creative Nerd. Now that she has a second laptop, maybe more post would come our way *hinthint*. She a fellow bookworm and a lot of my readings last year was through her recommendations. Here you go Tina, take them chickens away from me!

This concludes my very long post concerning chickens. If you still need more chickens, feel free to find out why the chickens cross the road here and here.

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