My mind has been into a constant ride of turmoil and confusion these days.

“U told me u coming la, lupa ke?” Kak Lun texted me when I wondered how she had known that I would be coming to Singapore.

Hmm.

I forgot to take my Maybank card from the auto teller machine. Not once, but twice in a month.

Hmm. Hmm.

I forgot to collect a student’s exam answer script in the examination venue. That’s Cekmi who was once a meticulous manager for examination department.

Hmm. Hmm. Hmm.

This unforgiving absent-mindedness makes me doubt of my own judgment. But this self-doubt nevertheless has benefited others who are wicked enough to play around with my messed-up brain. My students, for example, like to take advantage of my fragile mind by not returning their homework since they know perfectly that I would totally forget about their homework the minute I come to the following class, chitchatting happily with them like a stupid clown until I feel that something is holding back inside my tired mind, that there are some vague clouds and shadows at the back of my fatigue mind, until a good student would spoil the class’ happy hours by pitying my poor condition and telling the truth, and I would say, “You naughty kids! Why didn’t you tell me you have homework to submit?” But it has always been too late. Who wants to submit an incomplete homework to an old forgetful lecturer? Maybe they are not at fault since I apparently have lost my wits to deal with their rather heartwarming cruelty.

With my housemate, Aye, I have to be extra careful when breaking some shocking news or telling him some hot stories I encounter in the college or while driving back home, because I am afraid that I have already broken the news few days before or that I have already narrated the details of the hot stories few hours earlier. Likewise, I am too afraid to ask him about his recent trip to Ipoh, because he might say it again: “I told you lah before!” And this would put me in a perplexing wonder of self-pity, deep embarrassment and severe helplessness which make me pray hard that I wouldn’t end up acting like a lunatic Dato’ Rahim Razali in Cinta, or a romantic empty-headed Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates.

What really happened to me? There must some feasible explanations for this detrimental state of my mental health. Looking at the gigantic waterfall streaming down to nowhere in Hulu Yam last Sunday has inspired me with a lot of wild guesses and theories about my dangerous mind falling down to obscurity.

Let’s start with seven.

One. Have I overloaded my mind with unnecessary stuff lately? I don’t think I have watched too much pornography that spins my mind with all the erotic XXX scenes and all that.

Two. Thesis? Could it be that my acute obsession with thesis writing has possibly erased the good part of my short-term memory?

Three. Is it due to my decision to quit smoking? Does it have to do with the resistance against nicotine that my mental system has secretly declared war with me, the pathetic decision-maker who is weak enough to remember where he parks his car in KLCC?

Four. Could it be due to my dietary system? Maybe I have not been eating well for the past few months that my mind started to retaliate. I was reading the Star last Sunday and was shocked to learn from a research finding that eating disorder could cause unusual moodiness, depression, confusion and forgetfulness. Well, these symptoms could almost define my psychological and physiological beings these days. But I refuse to admit this theory since I am sure I have eaten well despite my intense precaution with the amount of food intake. Or maybe I should eat more fats to fatten the mental capacity and space. Yes, maybe I need more space. Maybe another 200 gigabyte.

Five. Am I just too old to remember and relocate things at its right place? Everything seems to slip away. I am scared of thinking of the possibilities of mental diseases or something. But I am pretty sure that I am not as elderly and nyanyuk as my auntie in Kelantan who always forgets where she puts her money while it is always right there inside her classic bra and she also always gives duit raya to the same boy again and again until the boy is able to buy a real gun on his own that he will probably use later to threaten my auntie in case she gains back her memory and asks him back all the money she has lost.

Six. Has someone put me into a psychoanalytic treatment like what happened to Jim Carey and Kate Winslet in Eternal Sunshine of Spotless Mind? I don’t know.

Seven. Jimi has a theory. He said that I hardly listen to people and I am not that caring about what people say and feel. Maybe this mental delusion is the price that I have to pay for being negligent and insensitive towards other people’s life affairs.

But all these hypotheses fail to convince me with enough conviction. I hope my meeting with Kak Lun this weekend will inspire me one or two reasonable answers for Cekmi’s chronic and deadly condition of an important part of sanity called mind.

What’s eating my mind?

Labels: cekmi's nauseous worries

People call me Mr. Hellaluya Pit. Yes, I am an angel from Hell.

As a matter of fact, I am unofficially assigned by the Hell Ministry to be Cekmi’s guardian angel in the world. And what the hell have these people on earth been doing to Cekmi? As a respected guardian, I have to protect his well-beings on earth. Otherwise, I could easily send those troublemakers to Hell. By the way, do you guys know that Cekmi’s real name sounds like Hell Me? Funny, isn’t it? Be careful, because he could Hell You any time he wants.


The Bull-shitty World Management

“The formula for achieving success is simple: you should treat all disasters as if they were trivialities, but never treat a triviality as if it were a disaster” - Quentin Crisp

Thank you for the food-for-the-soul tip, Mr Crisp. But you can go to Hell. I can tell that Cekmi doubts your words, because he wonders how he would sleep at night with such trivialities that got him on his nerves. You should have some mercy over his shitty life because he has recently encountered a lot of administrative bullshits that have driven him crazy that people around him would easily notice his strange behaviours by curiously asking annoying varieties of are-you-okay questions or why-you-so-stressed-out inquiries. You don’t understand what I am talking about, do you? That’s because I live in Hell and I am using a hellish language.

Okay now, let’s take a deeper look at his pathetic worldly administration stories, both at his university and his college, which have indeed put his life in a great glorious shit these days. You are lucky to see him alive with that skeletal body he thought he was so good-looking but I don’t think so because I think he looks so sick and damned. People in hell are a lot healthier and fatter. Okay okay okay, you snoopy bloggers who can’t resist the smell of good stories, these are the damned stories.


The Damnation of the International Irate University

He went to his university recently to check on his postgraduate status. So he entered excitedly like a fairy into the office of Post-graduate Studies. A moment later, the fairy flew away, because he found out the most shocking revelation in his life. The dumb-looking man at the counter told him aloofly:

“Brother, you have been dismissed from the university.”

Pause.

I don’t have to tell you how he reacted, because you can guess already how a drama queen like Cekmi would react in such a dramatic moment. But I am going to tell you anyway.

Play.

Cekmi was downright traumatized the world seemed to stop for a while. The feelings were so heavy things seemed to move in a slow motion like some kinda action movie. He looked at the sloppy I-don’t-care-how-you-feel-right-now man at the counter, and he felt like saying all the vulgar words he learnt in life before smashing the head of that son-of-a-bitch at the counter with the biggest hammer in the world and slicing out his brain like what Sylar did in Heroes, but thanks to the imaginary lawless world, Cekmi wouldn’t say nor do those things because it was a real lawful world and he would only say all those imaginary words and do all those imaginary actions in his blog later. All he could mutter was a faint “What? Dismissed?”

After few revealing seconds, Cekmi laughed madly at the bastard decision the university had decided for him, because how could it not be funny when he was a nerd who had religiously followed all the rules and regulations of the university, and he had been right there around the university almost everyday, and he had submitted the thesis for approval, and he had brought all the best out of him to graduate, and everything had seemed so right and perfect, when suddenly a bloody man at the counter told him that he was dismissed? Cow shit.

The nutty people in the office later told Cekmi that he missed to fill in one form. Of all the reasons in the world, he was kicked out of the prestigious university because he forgot to fill in a form. A form. Ahah. Thanks. But, how in the name of Heavan would he know which form to fill or when to fill them or how to fill them when the forms are so overwhelming in number, and there is no clear instruction, like a checklist or something, to guide or ease the complicated procedures, and there is no one reminding him over the possibilities of his ignorance and dismissal through whatsoever channels of communication? Buffalo shit.

After few days, Cekmi was again an ACTIVE student. At last they did their damn job.


The Nightmare of the International Irritating College

Back at his workplace, the disaster was almost synonymous with Cekmi. He left the administration in his college a year ago. He felt that he was so lucky and happy for leaving all the nonsensical stuff generated by the never-ending madness in the college management. But the management has never left him alone. As long as he is paid by the college, he would be forever stuck in the worst nightmare.

Labels: cekmi's beastly grumbles

“Dream” By Mohamed Osman

Cekmi and His Silly Passport Dream

The day I would be getting my passport was the day I felt so significantly liberated, because I would be finally released from a prison (not that I hated my country so much, I loved it), and I thought a passport was not just a travel document issued by a national government that identified the passport holder as a national of the issuing country, and a passport was not just another piece of document produced by the country’s immigration office, because with a decent passport, I would be civilly granted the holy pass to cross the holy port, giving me the vast opportunities in life, to see the wonders of the world, to become part of the concoction of the human race, to make the experiences shown on Travel-and-Living channel look possible, and to make me a proud citizen of the world.

And all these privileges come to life after thirty years of my small-scale life.

Can you believe that? What a shame. My friends have been doing it long long long time ago, traveling and all that jazz. Thinking that I had never been out of the Peninsular Malaysia for more than thirty years made me feel so uncivilized and uncultured, for my sister had been to Cairo when she was 19, for Adle had been to the Great Wall of China after he graduated from the university, and Taufik had been to the UK after his SPM, and all of them had that passport, but me. Goddamit. Now that I was so old and passportless, this revelation suffocated me for I was afraid of the dread possibility that, what if I would never get the chance to see the world, or what if I would never get to see the globe, would I die passportlessly?

Fuckin’ no.



Gimme That Damn Passport

So I took a leave and woke up very early that very morning, getting to the Wangsa Maju Immigration Office as early as 7.30 a.m., only to be greeted by a short and plump lady at the parking lot, asking me peevishly “Got a passport-sized photo young man?” I told her off for I got my own photos already, readily-prepared weeks ago. But this lady wouldn’t give up easily I could practically kick her ass.

“Can I see you photos young man? The immigrations officers are very strict. They can reject your photos, you know? Can I see?” Okay you blood sucker, take a fuckin’ look at my photos, I am sure they are very clear and shiny you could see your own fat ass in them.

I got rid of the busybody lady, bye bye. As I was walking to the immigration office, I felt like I was a foreigner in my own country. The office is located at Wisma Rampai, the old building that scared me to death. It was so third-worldly I thought I was in an Indian movie surrounded by angry gangsters with parangs in their sweaty hands and all that. The awfully-designed building looked so frighteningly worn out and abandoned. The whole place looked so cruel, which was probably due to the everyday brutal immigration affairs. Photo shops were lining up, and there they were, the worm ladies, just like the lady whom I just met, who worked for these shops, roaming wildly like cheap third-class whores around the areas in the parking lots and all the spaces they could fit their fat asses in, looking for potential customers who were stupid enough not to prepare their passport-sized photos before coming here and were thereafter doomed into the big asshole ladies.

When I reached the office entrance, there were six well-mannered civilians lining up. I joined the queue. The office would be open in 30 minutes. I waited patiently, thinking of the documents needed for the passport application. A copy of I.C. Checked. A copy of Birth Certificate. Checked. Three passport-sized photos. Checked. Fuck those ugly photo ladies. An application form. Checked. Phew! I hope the process wouldn’t take a day. My friend assured me the other day that I would get the passport by afternoon. I was hoping that I would not go through another administrative bullshit, when a Chinese man joined the queue behind me.

“Get a passport?” he said, smiling at me.
“Yes, first time.”
“Wei, did you download that application form?”
“Yes. Why? Cannot ar?”
“Cannnnoooooot! You see, they want only one-page form. See. You got two pages. They will reject. I also download. I really not satisfied, why they provide the form online when the form is useless. I complained oredi. Shit.”
I was a bit distracted with this latest information, and asked, “So what to do now?”
“Get a new original form from that lady. There!”

He pointed to a lady, the same asshole lady I met a few minutes ago! I felt so mad, rushed toward the fucked-up lady, asking her about the application form. She said, “If you want me to write for you, two ringgit! You can get the form inside the office too. One ringgit.” Goddammit. I paid two ringgit to the kicking-ass lady, not letting her to write for me. I joined the queue again, grumbling to the Chinese man: “Why did she take two ringgit for a single piece of form and, for god’s sake, for a writing service!? Hello! As if I cannot write.” The Chinese man smiled.

The office opened exactly at 8.00 p.m. I got my lucky number.



Citizen of the World

1007.

It was my lucky James-Bond number again! I was not sure whether it was a pure coincidence or my consecutive lucky fate. This is exactly my staff number in the college and this was also exactly the once-upon-a-time winning number for a lucky draw contest and this was exactly exactly the wait-for-your-turn number I got in the EPF office recently. What a good omen. Indeed it was. I was really lucky that day. The immigration processes ran smoothly I couldn’t believe that I finally got my much-anticipated passport within only 30 minutes. Fantabulous. The officers were unbelievably friendlier than I had thought they would be, unlike those foolish ladies working like hell in the administrative hell in UIA. The lady officers in the immigration office were so surprisingly hospitable and charming. They even asked me the none-of-your-business questions: which part of Kelantan I was born; where I wanted to go after getting the passport; did you know I was born in Kelantan too? Fine, at least they didn’t hassle me with the thesis details, which if they did, they would be definitely damned like those makan-gaji-buta ladies in UIA.

Paid RM300 plus RM2 for a maroon passport cover, I held my 32-page passport with pride and prejudice. Why does a citizen of the world need an artificial passport when he is born with a natural passport to be part of the world? Oh, what in the name of heavan was I babbling about, when I desperately needed right now was a physical passport with 32 pages that last for five years, given that I would not go around the globe in 80 days and use up all the pages, which would drag me here again and apply for a new three-hundred-ringgit passport, since renewal is no longer allowed.

And there I was again in the immigration office at 8.30 a.m. on the 22nd of June 2007, holding a Malaysian passport smilingly. A passport. The passport. Cekmi’s passport. It was extremely thrilling to repeat the word. Passport. Hey, look at me world! Miss World! Mawi World! Star World! World Trade Centre! World Health Organisation! I just got myself a passport! Yo yo… Listen to this mantra:

“These are to request and require in the name of the Supreme Head of Malaysia all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance, and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.”

Welcome to the world Cekmi.





Footnotes: 10 Passport Trivias

Do you know that…

1. A passport came to existence to support the concept of a nation-state system propagated after the First World War, thus ending the Islamic Ummah of Ottoman Empire where a passport was previously irrelevant for a Muslim who was by Islamic law a World Citizen (I learnt this from my history professor at the university, which information is not acknowledged in the Wikipedia, the internet free encyclopedia)

2. The term ‘passport’ does not originate from sea ports, but from medieval documents required to pass through the gate (‘porte’) of city walls.

3. Biometric passports were first introduced in 1998 in Malaysia, not in the USA nor in the UK (Malaysia truly Asia!).

4. Hong Kong and Macau have their own passports, separate from the People’s Republic of China.

5. Malaysia does not accept Israeli passports, except with written permission from the Malaysian government (interesting, huh?).

6. Many Muslim countries do accept Israeli passports including Bahrain, Egypt, Jordan, Mauritania, Morocco, Tunisia, Indonesia, Turkey, and former Soviet republics with Muslim majority: Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan (Kelantan?).

7. Many countries allow travel without passport, including the citizens of the Gulf Cooperation Council countries (Kuwait, United Arab Emirates, Qatar, Oman, Bahrain, and Saudi Arabia)

8. The pope in the Vatican is always given the privilege of ‘Passport No.1’, which is reissued with the same number for every successive pontiff.

9. The British monarch does not have a passport because British passports are issued in the monarch’s name.

10. Wesley Snipes was detained at Johannesburg International Airport for allegedly trying to pass through the airport with a fake South African passport.

Labels: cekmi's shining limelight

Haha. So much for the fear.

Okay, one of the research questions was to investigate the potential sources of language anxiety. To do this, I selected 20 first-year Malay students of my own college, whom I approached and interviewed individually. The responses were unforgettably overwhelming.

The interview session, I suppose, was one of the most interesting and enjoyable stages in my research, due to the fact that I managed to get the voluntary responses from the ‘lucky’ students. They were in fact more than willing to share their feelings and anxieties quite openly. And they didn’t mind me snapping their pictures after the interviews. How ‘anonymous’! Look at some of these cheerful faces:

Oh, they were holding their tokens of appreciation that I gave after the interviews – e.g. lollipops! They were not really expensive, but I suppose, lollipops symbolize love and warmth, that hopefully could ease their level of anxieties. And of course, they are cute, aren't they?

Now, back to the findings. I found out that personal and interpersonal anxieties were the most common sources of anxiety cited by the students, making up 70% of the responses. These sources include, among others:

Fear of negative social evaluation
Fear of failure
Perceived proficiency
Communication apprehension
Competitiveness

Clueless? All right then. To see these fear factors more clearly, let us explore into one of those exclusive interviews. (The following interview was conducted in Malay and loosely translated into English).

Date : March 6, 2007
Time : 2.00 – 2.15 p.m.
Venue : International Islamic College, Kuala Lumpur

R: Researcher
S: Student


R: Are you afraid of learning English language?
S: Yes. I am really afraid.
R: Why?
S: I am afraid that what I say will be misunderstood by others.
R: How does it happen?
S: Whenever the lecturer asks me to present in class, I will feel so nervous. I don’t know how to organise my ideas in English.
R: Are you afraid that you do not understand what other people say in English?
S: Not really. I just feel nervous when I want to speak.
R: Have you avoided a situation that requires you to use English?
S: Yes. I used to skip English classes. I just pretend that I am sick. Whenever I see my English lecturer, I will avoid her. I am scared that I couldn’t answer her questions in English. I am really scared.
R: Is your English very poor?
S: Yes. Very poor. My lecturer said that my English is okay. But I think it is very poor. I am not confident when using English.
R: Are you afraid of being laughed at?
S: Yes. I will feel so embarrassed. I always wonder why my lecturer does not ask other smarter students. I am so scared when my lecturer asks me something in class.
R: Do you like learning environment where there is no one to judge you?
S: No. I want to learn English. But I don’t like being humiliated in class. Sometimes, the teacher makes me feel that I am always at fault.
R: Do you like learning English with your friends?
S: Yes, I do. There will be lots of ideas. I don’t mind studying with them.
R: Is there any competition among you and your friends?
S: Sometimes, we compare our results. When I get low marks, I feel so down. In last mid-term exam, I thought I could get higher marks, but I didn’t score. All my efforts seemed useless.
R: Does it worry you when you are asked to read aloud in class?
S: Yes. When my lecturer asks me to read aloud, I am worried that I will make mistakes in pronunciation. People will laugh at me when I make mistakes.
R: Are you afraid of your final exam grades?
S: Yes. Everything must be answered in English. I am so poor in grammar. I am not sure how to write. I just could not accept the fact that I am still weak in English.
R: Does it worry you that the class is conducted in English?
S: Yes. I am so afraid to respond to my lecturer.
R: Have you ever thought of failure?
S: Yes. In fact, I am thinking about it all the time. I am so scared that I will fail this paper. I couldn’t accept this failure. I don’t feel like doing it again. I used to cry thinking about this.
R: Is learning English very important for you?
S: Yes. It is important for my future employment.
R: Are you afraid of making mistakes in English?
S: Yes. I am afraid of making mistakes in English. I am not supposed to make mistakes. It is not right. For me, I must be correct all the time. Otherwise, people will laugh at me.
R: How do see your progress in your English class?
S: I think my English level remains the same. It has not improved at all. I am not satisfied with this. I am so disappointed with my marks.
R: Are you close with your lecturer?
S: Yes. I always ask her in class. She recognizes me by name. She always asks me to read aloud. My friends usually laugh at me, but she understands my problem. She never laughs at my mistakes. She is so sporting.
R: Is she important in your learning?
S: Yes, very much. She can correct my mistakes and teach me more about grammar. It can be embarrassing sometimes, but it is okay because I can learn something. If I study alone, I would never know if I make any error.
R: Does anxiety affect your language learning?
S: Yes.
R: What do you do to reduce this anxiety?
S: During an oral presentation, for example, I just pretend that there is no one in the class. I want to see only my lecturer’s face. If someone asks me a question, I imagine that the question comes from my lecturer’s mouth.
R: Do your parents support your studies?
S: Yes. They encourage me to study harder especially English course. I used to learn English with my brothers and sisters.
R: What can the college do to improve this situation?
S: There should be a campaign that can motivate students to speak English more confidently.
R: What else should you do?
S: I should read more and try to speak English with my friends.

** interview ends **

Now tell me honestly dear readers, are you afraid of English language? Come and be one of my subjects.

Labels: cekmi's linguistic fever

Labels: cekmi's stupid acts

So why did I smoke in the first place?

Hmm. Another good cepu emas question. Before I answer it, let’s take a look at these facts.
1. About half of Malaysian men smoke.
2. Every day, about 50 teenagers below the age of 18 start smoking.
3. Studies show about 30% of adolescent boys smoke.
4. Smoking rates are highest in rural Kelantan and lowest in urban Penang and Sarawak.
(Source: http://www.quitspeed.com/)

Okay, these findings could well explain about my initial exploration into the smoking dreamland. But, here is the actual story of my smoking life.

The Beginning

It began when I was 18 years old. Sweet 18. As a fresh SPM leaver, it was a high time for inquisitive experimentations and fun-searching. It was the moment when I started to visualize the pleasure of smoking. It had nothing to do with peer pressure. As a matter of fact, no one influenced me. I was alone at home when the hazardous smoke started to colonize my bodily territories. To make it worse, I stole my auntie’s cigarettes. Ah, what a haram start.

Ohok! Ohok! Ohok!

Clichéd start. My body knew that it was poisonous so it rejected the smoke pretty harshly. But smoking was good. Goooooood. I agree that, ever since then, I smoked to fit in with the social settings – my ever stylish smoking friends. However, those cigarettes possessed more mystical power than any other paranormal devices – they were nostalgically addictive. For all the money, time and energy wasted, I kept on smoking because I felt good most of the time. Whenever I smoked, it was like going back to a beautiful unfounded place. Of course, I would never find this unfounded place because, if I had gotten closer to it, I would have possibly died of a critical lung cancer.

My point here, the way I see it now, smoking is more than just putting those damned cigarettes and sucking the delusional smoke. There are some queer reasons for many people to keep filling in their bodies with tar, nicotine and carbon monoxide. There are multi-layered explanations for the progress of this Marlboro Country.

In Kelantan, it is quintessentially political. I still remember that when I was young, I used to see this bizarre cacophony during a general election.

“Nah, take these three cartons of Dunhill’s. Khijo bbena deh! (work harder okay!),” my father, a branch leader, said to a group of young and old men working dutifully for him at night at one of the party's headquarters.
The tired men scampered into the maroon boxes, smoked religiously, smiled and said to my father: “Thank you Ustaz. Allahu akbar!”

Yes, for many people, smoking is part of smart strategies to attain a place in a society. My cousin, who was a genius mathematics teacher, was not a smoker, but he had to pretend that he was one of them. I knew his little secret – he drew a little puff into his mouth and exhaled immediately, without inhaling the smoke into his lung. He was playing it safe. While trying very hard to establish the accepted image that he was part of the smoking community, he managed to protect his health. Although he possibly knew that smoking was haram, he couldn’t simply say to those villagers the much desired: “Stop smoking, you stupid folks! It is fucking haram!” Oh, no no no. That would be politically incorrect. So he ended up protecting the classic act – smoking involuntarily and safely. How brilliant!

Gaya. Mutu. Keunggulan.

The Ending

I tried to quit smoking few times, but it was to no avail. At times, I felt lost. Was it nicotine? Maybe. Then, I decided to stop smoking again 29 days ago. No one influenced me - I made the decision by myself ( just like when I decided to explore into the wonders of smoke 12 years ago). I was extremely determined this time around. I kept saying to myself that I was really going to make it real. Apparently, as a practising Muslim, I have to obey to what had been declared by the respected Ulama – Smoking is Haram (unlawful) in Islam. Nonetheless, this was not the chief reason for my decision to quit smoking.

I was thinking, if I could get rid of those tempting foods in my dietary struggle, why couldn’t I just resist the harmless stick of cigarettes? And I am aging. So, why should I keep damaging my body? It is the time to shift the paradigm. It is enough. Enough is enough. It is time to say to those cigarettes: “No! Been there! Done that! Thank you and Good Night babe!”

There’s another eerie justification. I refuse to die so early. Dawned with realization, I have lately been so conscious of my future life, as if I have just been given new eyes and a new perspective of life. And I don’t want to miss the opportunities to see the world when life is about to begin.

Whatever the reasons, there could never be anyone on this earth who would agree that smoking is good for health. Those who agree are either bored to death or working for the tobacco companies, taking other people’s lives all the way to the bank.

So, why do people keep smoking? Because they are living in denial. Death? No way, they won’t get me.

Good dog.

Labels: cekmi's true colours

I have four stories for you.


I

It was past midnight. X has been driving a car non-stop from KL to Kelantan. And he has been smoking non-stop from KL to Kelantan.
“Why are you smoking buddy?” his non-smoker friend asked him.
“It keeps me awake. I feel good.”
“But why? Aren’t you afraid of death?”
“Do you see that heavy-loaded truck?”
“Yes?”
“I could hit that truck if I don’t smoke.”
“Okay, I understand. Keep smoking.”
“And we could as well die if the driver of that truck decides to bang into us. And that would send both of us into the seventh heavan.”
“Point taken. Smoking does not kill. The truck does.”

Both of them have survived that long night.
The non-smoker, has.
The smoker too, hASS.


II

The Tobacco Man is counting his profits.

Well well well, I could make a lot of money in 30 years, the Tobacco Man says.

Can I have a deal with you, death?


III

Larissa Putnam is an ex-smoker. She is thankful to Eric:

“If I would have known how easy it was to quit smoking, I would have done it years ago. It is unbelievable how brainwashed I was during all these years. You have to try it to believe it - I'm so glad I did. Thanks a lot Eric, and congratulations!”

Eric Eraly is the author of Easy to Quit Smoking Method. Take a careful listen at his conspiracy theory:

“The main reason people fail to quit smoking (and why it took almost 23 years of smoking for me to learn this) is that from the time we were little children we have been lied to, and literally programmed by the powerful tobacco and pharmaceutical industries as well as the media to believe that we are heavily addicted and cannot quit. Between having you keep smoking, and, keep quitting, they have a vested interest in keeping you as a dying, sorry I mean paying, customer.”


IV

Yahoo Messenger chat between two desperate creatures.

Akumasihsunti: Are you smoking?
Jantanpower: Why? You don’t like smokers, ke?
Akumasihsunti: No, I like them. Well, I ‘smoke’ too. You know…
Jantanpower: You naughty bitch!
Akumasihsunti: Hehe. I think smokers are very sexy.
Jantanpower: Really?
Akumasihsunti: Oh yes. You must smell great. Especially kissing.
Jantanpower: Rileks lah beb… (Just relax, darling)
Akumasihsunti: Hihi... Er, can I ask you something, cik abang?
Jantanpower: What is it, cik adik?
Akumasihsunti: Is smoking haram?
Jantanpower: Is sex haram?
Akumasihsunti: LOL.

P.S. I quit smoking 27 days ago.

Labels: cekmi's disorienting rumbles