the frivolous chatter that is Looooofy

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

The Them

There's no fighting them. Not in this day and age.

But I'll fight what I can. I won't conform.

"Moral excellence comes about as a result of habit. We become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts." - Aristotle


Monday, June 05, 2006

every step you take...every move you make..

Is there such a thing as free press?

When manupilators have deep pockets and powers like that of a Kryptonian immigrant. When their Prof. X like influence runs deep into the wallets of their Jew counterparts. When votes must be won and when intentions are less then admirable.

When the truth will shock.

When the fight for democracy is but an idealistic dream.

Recent findings and investigations in the US has unraveled many successful attempts, by the Bush Administration, to manupilate the country (and eventually, the world) by serving to the viewers, tainted news and by tainted news, you know I actually mean fake news.

Maybe it could be a coincidence-and I'm sure it's but a mere coincidence and it couldn't possibly be true right? I mean, c'mon, what are they? evil?- that out of the 77 stations found guilty of this 'news fraud', 23 of them are affiliated with the Jew-owned Walt Disney Co.

Call me paranoid or anti-semetic. I'll call myself wise.

Below is an excerpt from an online news site known as

Congress: Investigate and Outlaw Payola Pundits

Secretly paying journalists to promote particular points of view is unacceptable, unethical and illegal. First, there was "payola pundit" Armstrong Williams. Now we learn about two other columnists - Maggie Gallagher and Michael McManus - who signed contracts to promote the president's "marriage initiative." This is probably just the tip of the iceberg.

I ask you again, to what extend do their powers corrupt the things we know? And I do agree that this is probably just the tip of the iceberg.

The next time you read the news, know that there's a possibility that you are being lied too. Next time you eat a bar of any Nestle product, know that kids were bought at $30/life to be slaves in factories that produce that creamy, cocoa filled delight. The next time you drink a can of coke, know that people were assasinated to keep Coca Cola attainable at every convinence shop in the world.

It pays to know.


There's a Jew in everyone of you

It seems there is no end to their rule. There is no one they can't buy. There's no one that can't be convinced.

We rule the world, mother fucker, so join us or get on the next space ship out of this planet and just so you know, we own the space ship, the space programme and the planet you are going to land on, it's owned by someone we know (no, we don't own it yet. It won't be as profitable as compared to 10 years from now so we'll just let one of our brothers to run it first. In 10 years time, of course, we'll buy it out. No! Not for our own profit. It's for the good of our stockholders. Provided they go Shalom! and break bread).

You can't spell M-E-D-I-A without including the alphabets J-E-W.

So this is the life of an average human being, i suppose. You've just got home from a hard hitting day at work. It was a rat/paper/money/fame/success chase, as per normal, so fuck it, you're going to put off that book and watch some television.

Let's see, what's on tonight. Hmmmmm....ohhhhh! Let's dwell in the imperfection of the human race, blend it with a little greed and vanity, fuel it with depression (and anti depressents, of course), augmentation and you get *drum roll* The Grotesque aka The Swan! Alright! Sounds like I'm gonna be preoccupied tonight! Let's give me a reason to feel better in the morning, television!

*switches on the cyclops*

Hmmm.....New Nike shoes. Oooooooh, yea! I'm going to get me one of those!

*subliminal messages sent out. Project Fuck-The-World-Over-Because-I-Hated-Robin-Hood-As-A-Kid Begins!*

Need to make a decision? Well, you have come to the right place! We have all the information you need in the world, or shall I say, the Only information you need! Don't listen to anyone else because IF there is anyone else in the world, their Satanic. Or worst still, Pagan!

You want news? Here! Have a complimentry issue of Times. Unworthy? Then how about an issue of Newsweek? Still not enough? Well then have a copy of U.S. News & World Report.

Hmmmm....Not a reading kind-of-guy?

Well, you can always get the news from our "reliable" and "unprejuiced" CNN, Fox and CNBC news channels where our partisan newcasters will tell you how the Iraqi civilians that were killed were actually undercover, plain clothes Iraqi Commandos and how our brave, sharp and patriotic soldiers managed to spot them first, before they could get hold of a gun and validate the Rules of Engagement. Go Team America!

Hungry? Have a free box of Kellogs! On the house! But bring your own milk, bowl and spoon. What am I? A saint?

Well, if you haven't decided, take your mind of life. Live vicarously through our television shows and our movies. We'll give you an all access pass to any one of our sister companies. Not sure which are affiliated to us 'We-bulldoze-over-the-houses-of-the-Palistines-using-
bulldozers-bought-for-us-by-Caterpillar-so-we-can -get-these-Muslims-out-of-"our"-country' folks? Well, it's the ones you know best. I mean, doesn't Mickey Mouse look completely harmless? I should know. I designed it myself.

*Subliminal Messages, Stop.*

Goddamn! I didn't know you could put implants there! God, I love this country.

He who owns the media, owns the world. Go Guerrilla!

Remember the movie Dawn of the Dead and remember how it didn't make sense to you?

It is my wretched duty to inform you that you've been zombified.

We all have.

So have I.

Can we chose to be ignorant any longer?

Support Nothing


Sunday, June 04, 2006

Start spreading the news, I'm leaving today

Ladies and Gentlemen, I've seem to have dragged myself into a predicament. Well, it isn't a predicament per se but still it would definitely needs a reassesment on what I would consider wise, and unwise and predicaments like these aren't entirely unavoidable, that's for damn sure. I knew it, I knew it, and I say again, I knew it. It was, to me, as inevitable as nightfall.

The solution is simple though; abstinence from what (who) intoxicates me in this particular manner.

I should have known better, I really, really should have.

It's like already tearing a ligament, and still join the "Fittest man on Earth" competition.
It's like going on that drive (knowing that the next petrol station is like 40 kilometers away) when running on empty.
It's like satisfying that whiskey craving when your diabetic.
It's like wearing that singlet when you have a hairy (as fuck!) armpit (and B.O.).

It's like falling in love knowing that you've falling into the abyss.

So this is Looooofy now. His predicament has left him in a world of pain (and when it get's cold, it hurts his nails to even cough), his stuck in the middle of no where (no petrol, no station and no one in sight), he's breaking down (slowly, limb by limb, having to sacrifice a hand or a leg just to feel the sugar rush of a whiskey coke slide down his throat like a kid on a slide, that rainy day), he's keeping away from everyone (it's either he fucks off where he won't be judged or stays long enough for him to get smelled) and he's floating, somewhere between the gutter and the stars (because that's what falling for someone does to you sometimes).

Against my better judgement, I face reality with my afro and my smile, reality in my right hand, options in my left, I clapped my hands to the beat of the song I wanted to hear but what I heard was something I hate (like raggaeton!) but I guess, I have to roll with it, don't I?

Or do I?

Do I leave this place (
za-ze-bab, Gasoleee-na za-ze-bab, Gasoleee-na) or do I stay here and just dance to this awful music (Excuse me, Bartender. One more drink. Could you make it strong cause I don't need to think).

Hand me my coat and my hat, please. I'll take my leave. It's not that I don't like this place, on the contrary, I do, but I would love to be here as much as I would love to be in the spine of a book. Being stuck in an unrelenting avalanche leaves you with motion sickness if you house an inability to roll with it, as my Mooks T-Shirt proclaims.

I'll see you in the next life when we're both cats.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

The Epihany

It's new! It's fresh! And it's bound to sell like hotcakes to the insatiable parents, leaders of this vulture society!

*drum roll*

It's Human Genetic Engineering!

*rowdy cheers from the crowd*

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are proud to introduce this profound step in Technology. Now, you won't have to worry about how your kids will turn out! Now, you can plan for it!

*crowd goes WILD*

Now, ladies and gentlemen, settle down. I hope you don't have the tendecy to be fickle because you can only fuck up this kid's life once. And from the get go! HAHA

*crowd laughs obediently*

Think about it, ladies and gentlemen, get that girl, get that white kid, get that big dick, get rid of that misfit, get that 6/6 eye sight, get that straight hair, get that fake genes.

*The crowd ponders, seemingly, as a distinct smile is seen on all their faces*

What is God, ladies and gentlemen? Who is God? I have the answer right here and I'll tell you myself.

Sign these papers, and YOU ARE GOD, ladies and gentlemen!

*the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire!*

I was unimpressed. I raised my hand. I went unnoticed for 7 minutes. "God" pointed to me and asked, "Yes, kind, Sir? How could I be of service to you?".

"Well, you could, so kindly, just address a few queries, to rest my doubts", I smiled, tipped my hat and clear my throat.

"Shoot!", with brimming confidence, he said.

What apt words he chose.

"Indeed. Sir, we could choose to have changes made to us, but we might also be making the choice for our children if the changes are carried through to the germline. Do we have that right, and how far should we take our ability?" asked I, noticing the face of "God" change, His perpetual smile giving in to gravity. "Conversely, is it responsible and ethically acceptable to leave the potentials of our children to the chance effects of the "genetic lottery", if we obtain the technological capacity to make positive changes?", I continued. no stopping me now. At the corner of my eye, I noticed men in suits whispering into their translucent mouth pieces, and listening hard to the "voices" in their heads. Die by the gun, i decided. "If genetic engineering became the way of the future, would people whose parents could not afford to genetically 'modify' them while still in an embryo, have a chance of achieving with high standards compared to the people who were 'modified' to be perfect?", I was having a ball. "God" was sweating. The crowd started to get rowdy, but not in the way that they were earlier. Someone just shouted some racist remark my way. I just smiled. People. Hah!

Just to shut everyone up, I farted. It was a long, good one. I bet there would have been green mist emitted from my ass, had anyone looked hard enough. Take that, bitches!

"Sir, is it ethical to experiment on embryos that have yet to be born? And have you even considered how would genetic engineering be used to revolutionize warfare? And who decides which changes will be made?" I asked. I waited for a response.

"Well............are you a journalist? From which paper do you come from?" asked "God".

"No, I'm not a journalist. Even if I was, this isn't job related. I'm just a concerened citizen. Citizen of humanity. Could you please answer my last question, Sir : Who decides which changes will be made?", I posted again. "God" hesistated to response.

It was time.

"Very well", I said, taking a device out of my hand, "I'll answer the question for you". I raised that device to my chest level, which is above the shoulder for most people, and pushed the button while I said "I decide, mother fucker", and I smiled, my oh, so sweet, smiled that has landed me in bed several times before.

"God" looked scared. He had his arms to his head, thinking that I was going to blow that place up. He must have thought that I was a suicide bomber. Psycho. As soon as he realized that I was probably some deluded activist and that I didn't blow up the place to bits, he called on the gaurds on me.

"Get that freak out of here!", he shouted.

I carried on smiling as the gaurds threw me out. I got my ass kicked around abit, a few punches here and there, before they threw me to the ground. I got up, smiled, and thanked them for their kind hospitality.

I got into the car and got the fuck out of there. At around the time I was thanking the gaurds, "God" received a call from the headquaters of his operation. It was his Boss, who I can only imagine be called "Bigger God", detailing some bad news.

"Steve, our main labratory was just bombed. We are thinking terrorists but it could very well be activists or the Pagan society, whatever. They left a message. It read 'If you can play God, so can I'."

"It was signed 'Looooofy Looooofy Loo' "

The inevitable

We've all talked alot about it in the last year. Exchanging views, opinions and even forecasts and purviews. The emotions, the excitement, the well wishes.

For the past half year, all we've been doing is crawl towards the date. Always seemingly at the back of my head, all I've done for the past couple of months has been in preparation to the date.

The date.

The date.

Funny how a mere odd sequence of numbers could take control of ones' life so drastically. It's like owning a Lamboghini.

So the inevitable is approaching. 2 weeks from today, on the 19th, I'll board that plane, strap in, seats upright, food tray docked, no smoking, no electronic devices, no arab extremists, no explosives, no sharp objects, , no bombs, no mentioning the word bomb, no praying to Allah, no claustophobia, tea not coffee, wine not juice, fish not chicken, yes I'll have the papers, could I have a blanket, maybe an extra pillow?, 8 hours later, the temperature in Melbourne is 2 degrees celsius.

This was coming, always was. It's like Armageddon. The end of what we know. Away from this vulture society and this disgustingly elites education system. Where I won't be judged. Anywhere, but dear old Singapore.

To my friends and loved ones,

This past 22 years of my life has been a roller coaster ride, among other things (see: party, fucking ball, 22 year LSD trip, story, adventure, lesson, jail sentence) and I would not have been Looooofy have I not met you. All of you have been my mother, my father, my brother, my sister, my mentors, my martyrs, my God, my religion, my ultimate belief, my saviours, my heroes, my keepers and my angels and to thank you in words would be unjust.

It's as ineffable as me.

I wish, in a pocket friends kind of way, that I could pack each and every one of you into an island the size of a palm, and whiz you away with me. Together, we will begin to rule and educate misplaced souls and corrupted minds and lay the guideline to humanity.

But realistically, only I have been given this opportunity to leave this "democratic" state for democracy.

19th of June, I will drop a tear, not because I am sad to leave (on the contrary!), but to show you all how much I appreciate your existence.

Three cheers to Looooofy!

Life is not about where you end up. Life is about who you've met along the way.


Thursday, June 01, 2006

Tag! You're it, apparently...

So this is news to me.

Once you've been tagged, you have to write a blog with 6 weird facts/things/habits about yourself, saying who tagged you. In the end you need to choose the 5 people to be tagged and list their names. No tag backs.

so be it...

1) I'm a man of faith or rather, I'm a man who has faith but only in Karma and Myself (and the "Karma & Myself" team).

2) I deprecate suicide bombings but I most certainly approve of terrorism and I must commend terrorists. (fuck you ISD. arrest me if you will. I know my rights as a citizen of a democratic nation but prove me wrong, big brother).

3) I'm planning my own terrorist attack on Singapore though it won't really be a terrorist attack, despite what the news might tell you. My plan is to somehow feed a little bit of LSD to each and every Singaporean. Maybe then, we would be more aesthetic (instead of merely seeming aesthetic, for a change) and that would ultimately spark a chain reaction. Considered it my form of feng shui. Shoo! away the ignorance (choy ah! choy ah!) Shoo! away apathy (choy ah! choy ah!) Shoo! away the inhumanness (choy ah! choy ah!) Shoo! away the fear (choy ah! choy ah!) Shoo away the zealousness (to things priced at 1%-100% cheaper than how it usually is) (choy ah! choy ah!) Shoo! away the stupidity (choy ah! choy ah!) and most importantly, Shoo! away the Singaporeanness (choy ah! choy ah!)

4) I believe that in my previous life, I was a cat. A fat cat. Brown. And cuddly. I go "miew!" and give the cat equivalent to a smile in the face of any adversary.

5) I love for my back and head to be scratched. (Hence, proving the previous point to be, at least possibly, true!) And I think I know what started this...this...this addiction. You know back in primary school when we obidiently sat through assembly, and you would whisper into your partner's (back then, partners were different. Now-a-days, the term partner is usually accompanied with sex) ear, "eh, guess what alphabet I'm writing on your back". Remember that? I bet you do, don't you? And you would run a finger (No, I'm not trying to get anyone aroused) across his/her back, with that 'I'm-cleverer-than-you' grin on your face, and make an 'a', putting more pressure as you "write" the stem to make it seem like a "d" and on the receiving end, should that partner be me, I can't give 2 fucks to just what it is you're writing. I'm just having the time of my life and I am DEFINITELY expriencing the adolescent equivelant to an orgasmic 30 seconds and insatiable ol' Looooofy would go, "P!", which would validate my partner's 'I'm-cleverer-than-you' grin and insatiable ol' him/her just loves to gloat so he/she goes "haha. your head! Feel properly ah" (we didn't know much words bacn then, did we?) and he/she, therefore, prolongs his/her pridefilled minutes by turning that 'I'm-cleverer-than-you' grin into a full smile. That kind of scratch. It's still more orgasmic than most sex that I've had.

6) I believe that I'm a mild schizophrenic. One half is actually the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler and the other is the reincarnation of Confucius. Collectively (and conviniently), they call me Looooofy.

Ok, is it just me or are the fonts a little, peculiar?

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

The 2nd Coming

Blogging to me, or so it has repeatedly presented itself to me, has always been a one night stand (not that I've ever had a one night stand so I'm merely emulating the morning after) - an extremely short affair. The kind of one night stands that you have after 6 years of sexual abstinence which would inevitably result in a one minute stand rather than a one night stand, unless of course you have been practicing tantric sex religiously during your sexual abstinence.

I come here, I create a blog spot, and I REALLY create a blog spot meaning I consider my nick and put effort in choosing the colours of my page and the what nots most over zealous virgin bloggers do when they create a new blog spot, and the blog would only be home to one miserable entry. Some might argue that it was merely half an entry, even.

But this time? No...This time it's different. I mean, I've always wanted a blog. No like how a kid always wanted a pet but more in the sense that, I've always considered this to be a productive way of putting forth certain sentiments. To express rather than to stifle. See but the thing always was my lack of time, not effort. So then I decide to go old school. The classic journal. Me bestest mate. But me and journals, sheesh!, that's another issue.

I love writing, I really do. I mean, I guess if I don't by now, I would have to come to love it because for those who don't already know, I intend to be a writer (of sorts). But the thing is with me and journals, why we never work out, is...

I hate my handwriting...

I despise it, I really do. It makes me feel like puking. It's grostesque, it's repulsive, it's simply disgusting. I leave myself in awe (like a depressive "oh, what the fuck?" kind of awe. Like if you were to walk in on your husband of 15 years going down on his gay lover, awe) when I TRY to read what I've just wrote. I would seriously give Robert Langdon a run for his money had I simply wrote "I killed the mother fucker! It was me! I'm as guilty as the fat guy who farted in the lift! It was ME! Looooofy!" on plain canvas.

It's bad, it really is...

My absolute loathe towards my handwriting has taught everything I wrote, and I mean everything, to have an adverse affect on me. Thank God (gods, diety, Oh Supreme One, Hugh Hefner) that poets didn't have handwriting as hideous as mine for the most beautiful of poems would fall obscure to the aesthetic eyes of appreciators. So I can't stand my journal. I hate it.

The writer who hates his own handwriting. That's fresh, innit? What's next? A cat that doesn't like the taste of it's own ass? What will the world come to?

So this time, I've pledged, to be different. To be vigorous and integrous to this blog.