The Da Vinci Cod

Ever so wished I had a Da Vinci Cod, a slathering piece of hard, oily, fatty fish, to hit the living daylights out of the freaking caucasian prostitute (I think she is one) sitting in front of me during the Da Vinci Code.

She had to slam her Uranus-sized asses down the seat and, as the seat allowed partial reclining, the edge of the plastic seat back smacked right into my shins.

So what if she's a freaking ang moh? Any woman who cannot behave herself in public is actually no different from a loud-mouthed prostitute. At least if Pretty Woman was crude, she was, well, pretty. What is she?

Old like anything. So what if she is dragging a man and another woman, both caucasian? Threesomes are not uncommon in their culture.

Well, what would I do if I had a rock hard frozen hammer of cod? *Evil grin!* What do you think? Shouldn't the question be "What wouldN'T I do if I had a rock hard frozen hammer of cod?"

I'll probably not try to knock the living daylights out of the prostitute. Hey, it's the night duh! I was watching the Da Vinci Code, which started screening at 9.15 pm. So whacking her is out of the question.

I had a huge cup of Root Beer with me during the screening. I could have attempted to spill some on her. Well, accidents do happen, and it would also be nice if I could just pour the drink down her frizzly hair. But I thought better of using my $2.10 drink in such a low-grade manner, no matter I'm dealing with a low down life form. The drink had more dignity than that.

I was super duper tempted to kick the back of her seat and shake her bon-bons and boo-boobs a little. But I hadn't the leverage to do that. The chatty Indian couple snacking on chips did not make finding an additional toe hold any easier. So, lest I want to do a backward somersaut arising from the reaction from kicking of her 2 Uranuses, I'd better think of something else.

Halfway through the show, she rocked her seat and hit into my shin again. I really regretted eating up all the bread with the curried potato fillings. Perchance those would make interesting projectiles. Ah, it only dawned upon me that I should have opened a packet of my kaya bread and apply some of it on the buttered frizzy toast. Darn! Hindsight is 20-20, but hindsight is more often than not, too late.

Suddenly, she raised her hands and placed them behind the man and the other woman's shoulders. I should have found some way of bruising them, but then again, the difficulty of finding a place to launch an attack stopped me.

So, a Da Vinci cod would have helped. I'd be able to throw it at her as a spear or dump it on her seat before she sat down. The cold frozen mega-cigar might have made her jump up and as luck might have it, she may fall forward, down a row of seats and her dress might fall down.

I'll then pick up my Da Vinci cod. Don't imagine - I'll probably not try to shove it up her you know where. That's for sure. I doubt salmon and cod smell well when put together.

Technology Genius

Dee claimed that he was the technical expert at home and in the office. He never gave up any chance to brag about his latest technical acquisition, be it a handphone, a laptop, a printer, a mouse, you name it, he says he has it.

Dee's favourite haunt was Funan Centre.

It used to be Sim Lim Square but a spate of crackdowns on illegal software shops at Sim Lim Square has dented its reputation a little and Dee would never ever be caught being associated with pirated software.

To him, it was nothing but the best. Or nothing.

He had just spent a day at Funan today. He haggled over prices for phones and laptops. He bragged about the latest technological advances in the US and in Europe and belittled the shopkeepers for not having the latest products in their shops.

"Import them! You think we cannot afford?" Dee taunted them.

The shopkeepers are used to Dee. This guy, they feel, seemed to know everything about the latest. He comes often to check prices, look and try out merchandise, but he hardly bought anything there.

Yet, the next time he visited the shop, he could be seen holding on to the very item that he tried out but didn't buy. He was also not beneath bragging about the cut throat prices that he acquired those items.

Dee may be a technological gimmick maverick.

Yet, Dee has a little secret. Beneath his shiny surface, he's a pathetic excuse for a man. He is entirely not able to understand or use most of the everyday stuff for his life. Today, he was caught with his hands in the vertical hand dryer. He left them in there for the longest time. Yet his hands didn't dry up.

Actually, to use the vertical hand dryer, users insert their wet hands into the device and slowly raise their outstretched hands and let the horizontal stream of high pressure wind sweep the water off the hand. The usual drying takes about 10 seconds.

Stared at by an irate toilet user, Dee stood for another 15 seconds (he was already at the dryer since the toilet user went in) and then walked out with his hands still wet.

When will you smack him?

Dee's husband pushed the pram into the pretty crowded food court. He tried to get through the seats and to an empty table. Few knew that the brat in the pram was already old enough to walk by himself. Yet, he preferred to be pushed in the pram and let his father try to navigate the unwieldly pram through the snaky path between the chairs.

The stupid man knocked into my chair and I straightened my back. Thinking that his brat of a son had kicked me, the henpecked husband chided the child and warned him not to kick anyone.

Upon hearing that, I shot him a deadly look and moved my chair a little to let the retarded duo pass.

The hopeless man walked towards an empty table and soon, Dee, several months' pregnant, moved towards the table. Brat tried to get out of the pram and hoist himself up on the seats.

Turning to take a look at him, I realised that brat was almost 4 or 5. Brat. Bastard.

Then when I looked at Mr Henpecked and Dee, it dawned upon me that the poor man had no choice.

He had chosen a firebrand and needs to live with her. He has also produced a little tyrant with her.

She's carry another tyrant, I suppose. In my mind, the images of the production machine in Alien flashed past. I shuddered as I watched at the brat trying to sit and get off the seat.

Dee sighed inwardly at the sight of her ill-behaved son and her hopeless man whom she felt had not done a proper job of bringing the young boy up. But how could anyone who could not behave himself be expected to teach another to behave?

But Dee never took a look at herself. She was about the most caring and dutiful wife there can ever be. Or so she thought. In the world's eyes, Dee is the embodiment of tyranny, a temperamental bitch.

Hubby asked Dee what she wanted for dinner, only to be howled to get whatever he wanted to eat. I suppose Dee would want to keep the final word to criticise whatever food her hubby bought.

The dutiful husband walked towards the food stalls and disappeared in the crowd. Alone with Dee, brat begins his antics. He climbed onto the bench and tried to balance himself on the thing, dirtying it with his oily shoe soles.

"Sit down!" Dee's shrilly shout pierced through the din of the food centre.

Brat tried something else. He sat down and tried to get off the bench and run away.

"You better get right up or I'll smack you!" Dee shouted again. Brat was finding it hard to get off the bench as he was not tall enough for his feet to reach the ground.

He then turned around and rested on his knee caps, hoping to do a quick drop, only to have Dee tug on his shirt.

"When we go back, you are going to get it." Just about the most commonly heard threat that any parent would use.

Hardly a second of peace passed by before the brat tried to climb onto the table again. Halfway through, he aborted the attempt and tried to get off again to look for his father.

Hubby came back with a piping hot bowl of fish soup. Brat tried to push in only to be sternly ticked off by Dee.

"It's hot. Sit down before I smack you."

Looking on, I've decided I've quite had enough. I've craned my neck in anticipation for the lovely tight slap of flesh together. I've forgotten the taste of my food, lost all interest in the food, just to wait for the lovely sound of a brat being smacked.

I'm not sick in the mind but I really, really want to see some discipline being meted out.

When will Dee smack him?

I never got to see it because I've decided to take my leave.

After all, watching the antics of a dysfunctional family is like watching a long drawn drama serial without a satisfactory conclusion. As I walked out, I yearned to hear the smack or a scream or some cries.

I was disappointed.

IQ and Car Size

Ever wondered how these two are INVERSELY proportional?