Archive for the ‘Snippets’ Category

The Price of Freedom, of Belief, of Religion, of Tuhan

Believe in God, you say, Assraf? Well, Allahuakbar!

One of these days, we’ll stretch out that mamak’s neck on the same chopping block (below) — in the name of his Allah. After that queue up his entire family in front of it, wives #1, #2, #3 and #4, uncles, aunties, boys, girls, everybody. Why? For exercising the Malaysian constitution and the Rukun Negara, for the belief in God. They chose the wrong God.

You see, when the Rukun Negara says, ‘KEPERCAYAAN KEPADA TUHAN’, it meant the ISIS one. Assraf had acted unconstitutional and seditious. Guilty as charged!

Assraf, go fuck your Allah.

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To save time and effort, perhaps it’s better just to shoot Assraf’s entire family (so many wives, so many kids), one bullet to each head. Faster and more efficient that way. Allahuakbar! For venue: A Negri Sembilan oil palm estate (below) at the back of Dusuki’s house.

Merdeka! Freedom!

Think this is all a joke? There’ll will be rivers of blood and you, Assraf, won’t find that funny. And all for what? To obey the law? The Constitution? How about for the sake of your motherfucking Allah?

Import your Allah, pay its import price: Get it? Bodoh pukimamak.

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Everything that could be found inside a vagina had been found.

overheard, apparently, in the US Patent Office



On Joyce Maynard:

The Personal-Essay Boom Is Over,” declared the headline of a much-circulated article on The New Yorker’s website earlier this year. It was the “God Is Dead” of the Jezebel generation, reporting that the craze for essays with titles like “My Gynecologist Found a Ball of Cat Hair in My Vagina”—a story by a writer named Michelle Barrow that became a fleeting sensation in 2015—had come to an end. To borrow a late-19th-century saying about the United States patent office, everything that could be found inside a vagina had been found.

Let young essayists find hope in the life and letters of Joyce Maynard, who has withstood market corrections to the personal-essay economy for 50 years, ever since her first one appeared in Seventeen magazine when she herself was 14. She is the Joyce Carol Oates of women’s confessional essays, firing them off in such rapid succession that she will probably begin and finish one in the time it takes you to read this paragraph. Her subject is herself, and although she has but one life to live, she is never short of material, because she reads and rereads her own story according to market demands. Teach a woman to describe a ball of cat hair, and she will sell an essay. Teach her to regard that ball of cat hair as an illustrative example of a handful of recurring themes, and she will sell essays for a lifetime.

The Boomers are getting old now; we know this because there’s a Fidelity ad that plays “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” and Joyce Maynard has started to appear in the AARP magazine. Her new book, The Best of Us, is about a topic of interest to this aging demographic: widowhood. In her late 50s, she met a man online and they married. Tragically, he was soon diagnosed with cancer; he died three years after the wedding. It was a cruel thing to happen, a wretched turn of luck.

Just as she dropped the depth charge of her mother’s quasi-incest into an early chapter of At Home in the World yet expected readers to stay focused on the fact that J. D. Salinger was a bad boyfriend, The Best of Us tucks a whopper into an opening chapter. At age 55, her children grown, Maynard had “missed being a parent as much as a person crossing the desert misses water.” So she sent away for a CD-rom from an international adoption agency, liked what she saw at an Ethiopian orphanage, and traveled to Africa to adopt two sisters: “They were ravenous for meat. ‘I love you I love you I love you,’ they told me.” But she soon tired of the responsibility. After 14 months, she drove them across the country and handed them off to a different family, and they were adopted a second time.

So there, on page 56, she loses the crowd. When she describes meeting her future husband just six months later and having the time of her life with him—traveling, eating, sleeping in the nude, throwing a wedding rapturously covered by The New York Times—the reader is back with those little girls she impulsively adopted and then abandoned. Always, Maynard wants our sympathies. “Of all the losses I’d known, this had been the worst,” she tells us about relinquishing the girls, a few pages before going on to describe her new beau’s silver Porsche Boxster.

And so yet again, we leave the girl writer where we found her, in the pages of her endless testimony, burbling it all up, the stream of experience unmediated by any meaning beyond itself. If Saint Augustine was the father of the autobiography as a form of confession, Maynard is one of the mothers of the “My Gynecologist Found a Ball of Cat Hair in My Vagina” genre. “When I got two cats, I knew their fur was going to get everywhere,” that essay begins, its writer surely aware that never since the beginning of time has there been anybody just like her.



On Karl Ove Knausgaard:

Here is the opening sentence of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s meditation on beds.:

With its four legs and its flat, soft surface, the bed gently accommodates one of our most basic needs: it is good to lie down in bed, and it is good to sleep in them through the night.

Well, you learn something every day.

Actually you do, if you are very young, or at least you are meant to. For this is one of Knausgaard’s letters to his unborn daughter, and he’s written one book for each season, 20 letters per month, for her to be able to see the world, or for Knausgaard to see it again, anew. It is a mission freighted with honourable intent.

He writes on subjects that are dear to an infant’s heart: beds (as we have seen), but also daguerreotypes, Flaubert, thermos flasks, August Sander (you may well ask. German photographer, very good, not well known over here). Also: wasps, labia, lice, teeth, and the sun. Among others. You get the idea. Anything he fancies, really.

For some people it is difficult to find the right tone when speaking to children. On the one hand, they resent being talked down to. On the other, you have to make allowances for their smaller frame of reference. Knausgaard, it has to be said, manages, for the adult reader at least, to get things exactly wrong, quite a lot of the time. (The adult reader is the one he needs to worry about because children, even the ones who have made it out of the womb, do not have £16.99, or the Norwegian equivalent, to spend on books like this and, besides, have other claims on their attention.)

So when we read, in his essay on chewing gum, that it usually comes in two forms, either as small pillow-shaped pellets or as flat oblong sticks, we may feel a certain impatience. The child, on the other hand, may be mystified by an airy reference to Montaigne, Shakespeare and Cervantes (who are mentioned because it was during their time that the last war was fought in Sweden, which is where Knausgaard lives).

That said, there are many times when the book is rather charming, and he does succeed in making us look at things a little differently. Wasps, for instance, like miniature Fabergé eggs, or knights dressed for battle. I may have scoffed at his description of the bed, but when he imagines transparent walls, and being able to see everyone else flat out on them, then yes, maybe that is a little spooky.

Then again, for every observation like that you get another one like this:

The mouth is where the sense of taste is located. This is where it is determined whether something tastes good or bad, sour or sweet, salt or bitter. The mouth is also the place where food is mashed together.

I really don’t have the heart to quote any more, even the bit in this passage where he gets to Aristotle. Let me instead add an aperçu of my own, in Knausgaardian style. The brain is where the sense of intelligence is located. This is where it is determined whether a book is worth reading or not, boring or interesting, irritating or illuminating. I have used mine and made my decision.



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“We live here and now. Everything before and in other places is past and mostly forgotten”.

“What could – what should be done, with all the time that lies ahead of us? Open and unshaped, feather light in its freedom and lead-heavy in its uncertainty? Is it a wish, dreamlike and nostalgic, to stand once again at that point in life, and be able to take a completely different direction to the one which has made us who we are?”

“We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there. We travel to ourselves when we go to a place though we have covered a stretch of our life, no matter how brief it may have been. But by traveling to ourselves we must confront our own loneliness. And isn’t it so everything we do is done out of fear of loneliness? Isn’t that why we renounce all the things we will regret at the end of our lives?”

“When dictatorship is a fact, revolution is a duty”.

“Is it ultimately a question of self-image that determining idea one has made for oneself of what has to be accomplished and experienced so that one can approve the life one has lived? If this is the case, the fear of death might be described as the fear of not been able to become whom one planned to be. If the certainty befalls us that it will never be achieved… this homeness, you suddenly don’t know how to live the time, that can no longer be part of a whole life”.

“The real director of life is accident, a director full of cruelty compassion and bewitching charm.”

“The decisive moments of life, when its direction changes forever, are not always marked by large and shown dramatics. In truth, the dramatic moments of a life determining experience, are often unbelievable low key. When it unfolds its revolutionary effects and insures that a  life is revealed in a brand new light, it does that silently. And in this wonderful silence resides its special nobility.”

“In youth, we live as if we were immortal, knowledge of mortality dances around us like a brittle paper ribbon that barely touches our skin. When, in life does that change? When does the ribbon tighten, until finally it strangles us?” — Amadeu de Prado


秋天了吗  我回来了 五天到

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新的证据,纳吉拉扎 Najib Razak,Low Taek Jho (Jho Low) 刘特佐,使用1MDB欺骗 IPIC


纳吉拉扎和刘特佐和 1MDB的欺诈行为早在2007年6月就开始了而不是2009年。 他们的主要联系人是阿拉伯人。 今天是中国人。详情点击证据参考 沙捞越报告Sarawak Report .
















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How is Jho Low Anglophile — and Racist

For proof he is honorary White, he badly wanted a White woman, went to White Wharton for credentials, gave her a White boat trip for impression, gave her loads of White diamonds (pink for Rosmah though)…

then … shocking Sarawak Report news! She goes off and marry someone else…. Poor Jhoey.



Yesterday, Jhoey emailed Miranda then it was leaked, deliberate of course, first to White Reuters:

Miranda, are your reading this: I want my diamonds back! Start with the one on your ears! That wedding photo.

After all that I have done for you!! You never loved me. You only wanted … diamonds. You used me. How low (sic) can you get? What do you take me for? A Chinaman? You heartless bitch!!!

I’ll fix you! And that Evan boy also!! I have connections!!!


Miranda replies the same afternoon:

What do you mean, fix? Yes, you are a Chinaman, and a sick one. I never asked for the diamonds. You were just stupid. A stupid and sick Chinaman. Go back to Malaisia.


That’s Anglophile racism; they like all things and anything White. Anglophile…

  • like Najib Razak (itu omputih Saudi are ‘authentic‘),
  • like Riza Aziz (Mwhahahaha $$$$ in USD please),
  • like Baginda Razak (Oxford, my home! My refuge!),
  • like Hannah Yeoh (I live for a White god),
  • like Shay Adora (poor baby, laundered at the age of 6 days)
  • like Sumisha Naidu (aiyaa, why you don’t like Watsons ah?),
  • like Charles Santiago (itu Chinaman semua tipu, omputih lebih honest),
  • like Dennis Ignatius (me, too, I got White woman — with Jesus thrown in!)….
  • like the whole of Tanah Malaiyoo… Podah


Yellow Boy, White Girl

White and white societies (both Arabian and Western; it used to be England only) become the defining standard — the ultimate benchmark — for everything, everything in Malaysia especially morality, law, justice, governance, god, progress, wealth, even love (Jho Low), getting a fuck (Baginda Razak, Ahirudin Attan), eating (Jamil Baharom), art and music (Francis Yeoh), where to holiday (Rosmah, New York), do business (Riza Aziz, New York), go to school (Hannah Yeoh, Australia), and giving a name (Shay Adora); collectively the value system. Loyalty to country becomes loyalty to these sets of value system.

Najib Razak and Jho Low, both simultaneously personify and epitomize this value system.

Najib, on the one hand, with his liberalism gone berserk, now eating its own tail, so that he has to look to yet another white society, the Saudis, for salvation. Jhoey; and he is not a Chinaman although motherfuckers like Kadir Jasin would label him so, because these Malaiyoo racists (raised in a diet of Mahathirism) can then claim, ‘Look this is what the Chinese do in Tanah Melayu; they steal from us.’ ‘Us’ being the Malaiyoos. The Chinaman is last person to splurge the way Jhoey does, even if the money is not his. Instead, he is the classic Anglophile, raised and trained in Malaysia, seeking acceptance from and into Western society. To do that he even resort to flipping his name around so that he would, at least, sound English, exactly the way Dennis Ignatius like to be heard and appreciated.

They are the Anglophiles, some below. The list is only a portion of the thousands. The trouble is this, these few thousands, big and small, are the ones who set the national agenda. Small wonder, the country is so fucked today.




Pig shuib, above.



You sendiri tengok: The blacker the Indian, the whiter the name.




The Magnificent 賈鵬芳 Jia Pengfang

长相思 The Longing


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Dear P…


Title reads in English: 1MDB Audit Report


This is the main part of the message from P D:

Thank you SO much for sharing this information! I’m working on translating some 1MDB papers and this is proving incredibly helpful. Would you have any of the other chapters available in English to read, so as to get a more complete overview of the audit?



Short answer, No.

Nor, so it appears, anybody else. Sarawak Report (SR), which should be accessible from your side, has the the entire report (above) by Malaysia’s Jabatan Audit Negara (National Audit Department) in its original Malay. (Note that the Audit Report is classified Confidential — ‘Rahsia’ in Malay — so that possession of it is liable to criminal prosecution — in Malaysia.) SR had promised (promises, promises, promises…) to translate the whole thing but looks like Clare Brown hadn’t gone round to it. Or, had given up.

Here is a suggestion: go to SR. Download the Report’s eight chapters, copy then paste them on Google Translate. That way, you at least get a gist of what’s in those Malay papers.

This reply is also made public in the hope that some reader might have the English translations of the Department’s report or part thereof. If so, kindly assist and point us to them, online of course. For that purpose, the Comments section has been activated: naturally, the origin source of your information will be kept confidential.

For those in Malaysia, SR’s mirror site is: http://ec2-52-77-145-248.ap-southeast-1.compute.amazonaws.com/

Hope this helps.


end of reply



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