We, The Citizens...  is a column written by a different Singaporean every week, reflecting their lives in the democratic society (based on justice and equality) in which we live!

11 June 2001

CHOE BOH LAN, 45, Member of Parliament for Bukit Gorblok (Hong Kan Group Representation Constituency

It was a very exciting Meet The People Session today (my weekly clinic where I meet my constituents to listen and help out where I can).

There was a group of women who had come to complain about the rise in the number of R(A) movies and the corrupting effect this might have on our youth.

Conversely, there was a group of elderly gentlemen who had come to ask the government to allow more R(A) films as their doctor had recommended watching them to complement their prescribed course of Viagra.

Now, as a Member of Parliament, we are often asked to deal with competing interests between constituents.  And the skill comes in mediating between the two, perhaps trying to allow the rival groups to appreciate each others' side of things.

So I suggested that the two groups meet for a frank exchange of views in the hope of arriving at a solution.

However, the exchange was a bit more vigorous than I expected.  The disagreement got so heated that it eventually broke out into physical violence, with the women beating and scratching the old men.  I had to call in the officers from the police post to separate them.

Some might say it was a disaster, but I disagree.  Even despite the brouhaha, it was most constructive.

After all, the women actually got the chance to vent their anger at the exact kind of persons who support the indecent material they are so opposed to.

The elderly men seem to agree that the exchange was beneficial.  In fact, they asked whether it could be done on a regular basis, and whether the women could do it with whips and dressed in high heels and fishnet stockings the next time.  One of them even said that it was such an invigorating session that he might not need R(A) films after all! Or viagra for that matter!

It's days like this that I know I made the right decision running.  I mean, I had a good, stable job as a CEO of a multinational - why would I want to muddy myself in the mundane affairs of heartlanders?

But it's proved to be extremely rewarding.  Especially in terms of tax breaks.  Being an MP opens my eyes to a lot of opportunities to make these tax write-off donations while simultaneously promoting the company's brand.  

Running for MP has turned out to be the cheapest and easiest PR programme around.  And I don't have to deal with those pretentious ad agency executives any more!

Of course, some days can be pretty rough. Like the time I shook hands with this fishmonger and cleaned my hands with some wet tissues afterwards.  I was rapidly accused of being 'atas'.  

Luckily, quick thinking saved the day.  I told everyone that I wasn't cleaning my hands at all - I was merely transferring his essence onto the tissue so that I could preserve that moment for posterity.  I still have that tissue framed on my constituency office wall.  And you know? That fishmonger still comes every week to check it out!

Many people imagine that the life of an MP is very grand and powerful.  But actually, it's very mundane. You have to pay a lot of attention to seemingly small things.

Like there's this bunch of website managers in my constituency who run this humour website that sometimes pokes fun at the government.  Harmless? I'm not sure. You see, the average person is only secure when they know their fate is in the hands of at least a demi-god (there is only one god in our firmament, after all). And humour makes people see that the powerful are only human.  Now where would this country be if people saw us as human?  I shudder.

So I'm keeping an eye on these clowns. (Not personally, of course.  The ISD is very helpful.)

Oops! Out of time! Have to dash off to buy some chapstick.  There's a constituency baby contest tomorrow, you see.  Lots of kissing to be done.

There's a lot of kissing in an MP's job. From the very top to the very bottom.

If you want to write for We, The Citizens..., please email: thecock@talkingcock.com 

Hao Xuesheng, gifted student at Stamford Institution Independent Secondary School

Woke up this morning at 6.00 am, and as usual, was filled with the urge to study.

So like I do every day, I propped my science textbook up against the bathroom cabinet as I brushed my teeth.

Occurred to me that because of this, I haven't seen my face in the past two years.

Intend to write a letter to the Ministry of Education urging them to print pictures of students in the margins of all textbooks so that this doesn't happen to future generations.

It's great to be a gifted kid, because you think of innovative solutions like this.

Ahmad drove me to school again today.

Reflected on the multi-racial society in which we live, and the progress of Malays in our society.

Isn't our country wonderful, that Ahmad gets to drive a luxury car everyday?

Clearly, we are a prosperous nation.

School was typical: Got top marks in Maths again. Most GEP kids are great in maths.  

It's because we're intellectually gifted, you see.  The maths problems are just so easy to us. 

I wonder why other kids find it tough? Well, they have only themselves to blame! It's all so easy to become intellectually gifted at maths! 

Just hire tuition teachers.  

They must be cheap, because Daddy got me one for every subject.

Sometimes I think we're gifted because we have tuition teachers.  

After all, despite what the school teaches us or says they want to teach us, we're ultimately graded on the basis of standardised tests, and it's the tuition teachers who drill us for that.  

I think we should replace all the regular teachers with tuition teachers.  I mean, why waste time? Let's just focus on what counts!

They say the GEP was set up so we faster kids don't get held back. 

But I must admit, I feel held back even with the GEP. I guess I'm really light years ahead.

Maybe to slow things down, I'll ask my tuition teachers not to teach me so far ahead of my school, and also to ease up on the drilling a bit. 

As it is, I can pass the 'O' Levels, but Dad said I should do it next year instead. 

He said, "What's the rush? Enjoy your childhood. Anyway, you're already taking your SATs."

When Ahmad drove me back from school, I saw some kids running around in a field, kicking a spherical object.  

It saddened me to think that even though they appeared to be my age, they were indulging in such primitive hobbies. 

I mean, why aren't they splitting atoms like we GEP kids? 

Surely their parents can afford particle accelerators too!

But I guess this is why we're gifted and they're not.  

Sad, but true.

If you want to write for We, The Citizens..., please email: thecock@talkingcock.com 

TODAY'S CITIZEN:
Chuay Pek Lang, Sarong Party Girl

So bad, you know!

I just read in the Straits Times, got some chao ang mor journalist write that all these Asian women are flirting with ang mor men and tempting them away from their wives and children!

That's not true! The ang mor men are also tempting me, what.

It's two-way temptation.  

I'm tempting them away from their frumpy wives with their water-retaining ankles, while they are tempting me away from typical stoner Singapore men with their boring lifestyles.

I also think it's very unfair to call Asian women who prefer ang mor men 'sarong party girls'.  I mean, we rarely wear sarongs.  It covers up too much.

People always ask me why I only want to date ang mor men.

It's because ang mor men treat their women with so much more respect than Asian men do.  

Asian men are only interested in having us so that we can have children and form a family.  Asian men see us only as wives. In their eyes, we are these boring, quiet, obedient and meek mice. 

Whereas what the ang mor men see are sexy, long-haired, provocatively-dressed sirens. 

In other words, unlike Asian men, they see us as individuals and not stereotypes.

That's why I'm doing whatever it takes to snag an ang mor - dressing sexily, getting tanned within an inch of skin cancer, growing long, straight hair.  

I'm doing it so that I can retain my dignity and respect!

And why go out with Asian men? They always eventually have affairs with prostitutes in some foreign country, leaving their poor wives behind. Ang mor men are not like that at all!

Some more Asian men are not as socially sophisticated as ang mor men.

For example, when I'm at a bar, I can approach an ang mor man, even a stranger, anytime and they will chat with me, buy me drinks. So pleasant!

Whereas these Asian men are downright unpleasant - always coming up and trying to chat and buy me drinks. I mean, they're complete strangers! What do they think I am? The sleazeballs!

My favourite place to meet ang mor men is Boat Quay. 

I think there is something magical and romantic there, right next to the water.

One of my ang mor boyfriends also believes it's some sort of magical tradition for Asian women and ang mor men to meet by the waterside.

He said that on every pier in every Asian country, there are always Asian women there waiting to meet ang mor men! Isn't that nice?

Which is why when people call me racist for preferring ang mor men, I always disagree.

Racist is when you think of another race as inferior, whereas I think of another race as superior. 

Some more, there's proof that ang mors are genetically superior to Asian men.

I mean look at chap cheng babies. So nice looking, with big, round eyes. Not like Asian babies with their slitty, chicken eyes.

So how can I possibly be racist? These people, ah, all talk cock.

If you want to write for We, The Citizens..., please email: thecock@talkingcock.com 

TODAY'S CITIZEN:
Seah Poh Chua, Newspaper Columnist

Woke up this morning to the sound of my brain thinking. 

Damn it! I forgot to shut it off again last night.  Now my workday will be ruined - I just can't function at work if I'm thinking.

It's been happening a lot lately, so I'm concerned.

The other day, my editor said to me, "Poh Chua... you're thinking again."

"Just report the facts. No opinions, remember!" he said, wagging his finger at me. "We only want reporters, not journalists!"

"But surely even pure relation of objective fact can't help but be coloured by subjective observation?" I said, surprising myself at my outburst.

My editor shook his head ruefully.

"Bloody postmodernists," he sighed. "You're doing it again! What do they teach you nowadays in university? Some more you're an ISD scholar! You should know better!"

He put his arm on my shoulder and said, "Frankly, I'm worried about you."

I replied, "Why? And my name's not Frank Lee. It's Seah Poh Chua."

"Sense of humour," he noted grimly. "That's a bad sign."

He ushered me into his office and took out a black binder.

"These are clippings of your old columns," he said, flipping the pages. "Some of them are classics.  We even make the newcomers memorize them."

I glanced at the titles. These were some of my best work:

"This stuff is brilliant, absolutely the stuff that this paper prides itself on," said my editor. "What's going on, Poh Chua?"

"I don't know what's happening," I replied. "Maybe it's my exposure to all the other newspapers, wire services and TV stations from whom we cull our international news..."

"I was afraid of that," said my editor. "The dark side is getting even to you! You must resist! Remember, if you step out of line, you'll get struck by lightning!" 

"Of course... I know... it's just... just their opinion..." I murmured.

"Good girl..." he smiled, only to break into a scowl when I then said, "But how come they can have opinions and we can't?"

After a long pause, my editor said, "I think you have a severe thinking problem. At first, I was just going to suggest that you join Academics Anonymous, a support group which helps intellectuals rejoin acceptable Singapore society. But now I see you need more help than that."

Then he handed me a pamphlet. Which is what I'm looking at now.

And having read it, I see it's the best course of action. Some of my colleagues have already undergone it, and they're doing fine.

Some more I hear the company will actually subsidize it. And the government will also give free SingTel shares.

So I've decided: tomorrow, I check into SGH for a lobotomy.

I feel good about the decision. It makes so much sense. Why didn't I think of it earlier?

Whoops! That's probably because earlier, I didn't think at all. But soon, I won't have to anymore. And happy days will be here again!

© http://www.TalkingCock.com 2001. All rights reserved. 
(If you're circulating this story by email to your friends, please include this attribution.  It's only polite, leh!)

TODAY'S CITIZEN:
Mohd. Melambung bin Kopi, 29, a teh tarik stallholder at Madam Road Hawker Centre

Some people ask me if I have dreams.

If I want anything more out of life than sitting in my little stall, throwing hot drinks from one aluminium cup to another.

I tell them, I may be a simple Mat, but yes, I do have dreams.

Most people imagine that my dreams would involve my teh tarik, kopi alia or even bandung, suddenly becoming wildly popular.

Then I will earn enough money to maybe buy over the stall next to mine, so that I can sell more drinks.

Maybe hire an assistant to toss the hot drinks while I man the cash register.

Being able to afford some medical insurance to cover the third degree scalding injuries I suffer at least once a year.

In time, maybe I will have saved enough to buy over a small coffee shop.

That way, I can not only derive revenues from the sale of drinks, but also collecting rent from, say, a roti prata or mee goreng seller.

In time, I can even upgrade. Renovate the coffee shop, turning it into a café or gourmet bistro.

No longer will it be Mat Bung's Kopi Korner. Instead, it will be "Starbung's".

My teh tarik will no longer be simple hot tea tossed from one cup to another.

It will be "tehpuccino", thrown mechanically between two Italian-made decanters to create optimum aeration.

And the bandung will not just be evaporated milk mixed with rose syrup.  

It will actually be a fine blend of fragrant rose petals, crushed under the tender feet of Malay maidens, and fresh, creamy milk, squeezed from the tender teats of Malay maidens. I mean, cows. Though maidens would probably sell better... Hmm. But, whatever.

Anyway, I would also force out my hawker tenants, and outsource the food.

A roti john, would be a "croque monsieur sans fromage", sold at $8.95, and served in fine porcelain.

A prata telur would be a "frittata d'Inde", priced at $13.75, and delivered to the table with a tiny ramekin of curry.

And I would also sell t-shirts and other merchandise embossed with my "Starbung's" logo.

Soon, I would have a branch. Then a chain.  Then I would franchise the operations, eventually listing on the stock exchange.

Then I would begin acquiring other businesses that would fit the strategic interests of the parent holding company.

Then, somewhere along the line, I will either be charged with some corporate offence, and then ousted as CEO. 

And then the stocks of Starbungs would plunge, and I would find myself saddled with debt while every bank treats me like some pariah.

And then I will realise I was happier sitting in my little stall, throwing hot drinks from one aluminium cup to another.

So, no, that's not how my dreams go at all.

My dreams are a lot simpler, as befits a simple Mat like myself.

I dream of one day "accidentally" spilling hot teh onto the pants of the arrogant bastards who keep asking me whether I have dreams, provided it's theirs.

But if that never happens, it's okay.

I can still spit into his kopi.

TODAY'S CITIZEN:
Mr. Ho Sah Mun, 55, HDB Parking Warden

At 0800 hours this morning, after a hurried breakfast of cold coffee and a greasy stick of eu char kway, I reported for duty at HQ.

At the punch-in desk, I nodded in brief, silent respect to the roster of good wardens who've made the supreme sacrifice for their job

No greater love hath man for his country than to willingly sacrifice one's sense of sympathy for the common man.

At 0830, I embarked upon my security detail armed with standard issue ordnance: the URA .45 automated parking summons dispenser and official umbrella.

It's a rough beat that I cover, and I come into contact with all sorts of deadbeats and scum. This job really doesn't inspire a lot of hope in humanity.

Take the couple of punks I encountered this morning at the lot in Block 49.  As usual, I turned up a bit early to ensure I got offenders right on the minute, rather than give them any extra few minutes.

My watch, which is synchronized to exact 1711 speaking clock time, showed that it was 0850 hrs.

But I waited till they had walked away several metres from the car before I checked their dashboard.  And guess what? These two clowns had torn the coupon for 0900 hrs.

This was a clear case of coupon overstatement and an offence under the Parking Places Act or its subsidiary legislation, no mistake about that.

The kind of lowdown things people will do to save 45 cents! I wasn't going to let these perps get away with crime.

So I took out my trusty URA .45 and immediately started punching in the details of their summons and printing them out.

At this point, the perps had noticed me.  They had this look of horror on their face as they turned back to walk towards me and their cars.

"Why are you saman-ing us?" one of them had the temerity to ask.  I could smell their fear. "We put ku-poon one, what!"

I informed them of their offence, but they started to protest and swear at me in Hokkien.

At this point, I simply smiled at them and said: "I know what you're thinking. Did I overstate ten minutes or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I've kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a URA .45 automated parking summons dispenser, the most powerful handheld machine in the world, and would easily haul you to night court for a several hundred dollar fine, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do you, punk?"

That kind of put an end to the debate.  They simply stood there stunned, after which they looked at each other, rotating their index fingers around their temples.  Clearly, this gesture showed I had made them think about the severity of their offence.

The rest of the day was pretty routine: the usual mix of overstayers, incomplete tearing off of tabs, and failure to display coupons prominently on dashboards.

Important work, I know, but you'd be surprised at the lack of support we get from the general population.  

I mean, they just don't understand that every $0.45 is needed by the government in order to fund important public facilities like spanking new government buildings.

But hey, that's not my concern. I don't make the laws. I just enforce them. And I'm damned good at what I do. Employee of the month three times this year, with the unbroken record of number of night parking summonses in a single week.

Can't help but feel proud when I think of that.

TODAY'S CITIZEN:
Cheow Poo See, 41, full-time Chinese tuition teacher (translated from Mandarin)

Got a new student today.

Father very rich. But then, wealth is relative. (Like all my relatives, who are wealthier than I am.)

Just like my students' parents too, come to think of it. I wouldn't be able to afford me.

The new student thought that "buxi laoshi" (tuition teacher) meant "teachers are pussies" and kept making meowing sounds and scratching actions at me the whole day.

I told the little bastard if he didn't stop it, I would spay him.

Bloody banana children! It's amazing how these kids are considered Chinese at all!

They watch all ang-mor TV, read all ang-mor books.  They are deprived of so much exposure to their ethnic heritage.

Decided to expand his appreciation of traditional Chinese culture, by employing traditional Chinese teaching methods.

So I got him to put his hands out, palms down, and then place cups of boiling tea on them.

So he couldn't use his hands to remove them. 

And when he tried to use his teeth and mouth to remove them, I'd smack him on the head with a slipper and stick chopsticks up his nose.

Well, it always works for gongfu teachers in Jackie Chan movies.  

Think I should use it for my other students as well. Maybe I can even use that drunken mantis eye-gouging thing. Cool.

Respect! That's what I don't get very much off in this job.

Every one seems to think that with my degree, I should be a "real" teacher, working in some school.

Yeah, right. And wake up at shit hours, and do spastic admin things the whole day long, working for some bastard principal, and come back on weekends to do some crappy ECA with a bunch of kids who'd rather be shoplifting down Orchard Road.

No way! 

With tuition, I can get up at noon, have a big breakfast and a quick wank, and then go off to the kid's home, where I can raid the little creep's fridge. 

Then while I set him 10 year series, I can do the maid, and if I'm lucky, his sister. (If I'm not lucky, his grandmother.)

But the best part of the job is being paid cash. Take that, Mr. IRAS!

And come on, education is a farce. 

The MOE pretends it gives its kids real education, and then decides their lives with standard tests.  

It's like telling the kids they need to do X to survive, then evaluate them according to Y. 

But why should I complain? That's my bread and butter.  I tell my friends I do so much drilling, I should be an oil-rigger.

The new kid's gifted. I'll say. I wish I were born with his father's income too. Best genes money can buy.

That way I could have afforded someone like me when I was in school, and then gotten good scores and maybe a better job.

But hey, which other job pays you cash?

Life is good.

Now where did I put that 10 year series?