just minishorts.

Once upon a time, in a cottage in the woods, there were three bears, a mama bear, a papa bear and a baby bear.

One fine afternoon, Mama Bear made porridge for the whole family. Then, since the porridge was still too hot to eat, the whole family went out for a walk.

While they were out, Goldilocks, that well-known Fairytale-land vamp with the 'I'm so gorgeous' attitude, long golden curls and legs that went on forever, came skipping to the door of their little cottage in the woods. She knocked on the door but no one came to answer her. So like the little bitch that she was, she opened the door and walked straight in.

The first thing she saw was the steaming bowls of porridge on the dining table. 'Oh, how nice, there's food for me already,' she said. Then, kicking off her heels, she walked over and hovered her D-sized tits over the bowls.

The first bowl she tried without permission was Papa Bear's porridge. Too hot. Then, she tried Mama Bear's porridge, but it was too lumpy.

And then, she taste Baby Bear's porridge, and it was just right! And she stood there in that ugly vampy pose, resting that bowl against her tits, and ate it all up.

Then she decided to go to the living room to watch some ASTRO. First she went to the biggest chair (obviously Papa Bear's). It was too hard. Then she sat on Mama Bear's chair. It was too soft. Finally, she sat in Baby Bear's chair, and it was just……

'CRACK!'

OK. So it was not just right. Goldilocks cussed, 'You fucking piece of good-for-nothing wooden chops,' and she kicked, 'Take that! Urh! Urh!'

She kicked at the broken remnants so many times until she felt tired and yawned. 'Time for bed!' she crooned, and headed straight to the family bedroom.

There were (you know already) three beds in the bedroom. Goldilocks tried Papa Bear's bed. It was too hard. Then she went to Mama Bear's bed. It was too soft. Finally, she lay in Baby Bear's bed and it was just right. Covering the quilt covers around her, she soon felt sound asleep.

So finally, the three bears came home (Mama Bear remembered that she didn't lock the door). They went into the dining room first.

'Somebody's been eating my porridge,' said Papa Bear.
'Somebody's been eating my porridge too,' said Mama Bear.
'Somebody's been eating my porridge, and he ate it all up!' cried Baby Bear, well, he almost cried.

They next went to check on the living room.

'Somebody's been sitting in my chair,' said Papa Bear.
'Somebody's been sitting in my chair too,' said Mama Bear.
'Somebody's been sitting in my chair, and it's gone. All gone! He broke it!' cried Baby Bear, well, this time, got tears rolling down his hairy cheek.

They had to check the next room, the bedroom.

'Somebody's been sleeping in my bed,' said Papa Bear.
'Somebody's been sleeping in my bed too,' said Mama Bear.
'Somebody's been sleeping in my bed, and, and,' cried Baby Bear. 'Oh. I know who she is.'

Baby's parents stared at him.

'You know this intruder?'
'Yeah,' said Baby Bear, by now his tears had dried up. He went to the sleeping girl, and shook her up. 'Eh wake up wake up. My parents are here.'

Goldilocks sat up with a shock. She saw the three bears and finally she said, 'Oh hello Uncle, hello Auntie!'

Papa Bear begged, 'WHO ARE YOU?'

Goldilocks was about to say something, when Baby Bear held her hands and interrupted, 'Urm, Papa, Mama…'

'Please tell me something happy,' Mama Bear said.

'I was going to tell you, this is Goldilocks,' said Baby Bear, helping Goldilocks out of bed. They were (believe this, its true) holding hands. 'She's my girlfriend.'

At the horror of this, Mama Bear went insane and burst into a gazillion million pieces, literally. Her husband, the big fat old Papa Bear, had a horrid heart attack and died in the horrible shock of this– this– blasphemy.

Baby Bear's soft cuddly fur was wet from the ooey-gooey sticky remnants of his mothers remains, and the lovers decided to leave the crime scene before someone found them.

Too late. Someone was already waiting at the main door just as they were about to leave. Looking vaguely familiar, this chick had legs that went longer than Goldilocks', and hair as black as soot. Eyes were almond shaped, but more importantly, she had a kick-ass attitude.

It was the Raksha Demon, the top cop West of Fairytale-land. She had been searching for vampy pretend-to-be-dumb blondes like Goldilocks, and now that she had found her, the search was finally over.

' Up to no good again, and what have you done this time?' snarled Raksha, eyes narrowed to a slit at the sight of the drenched-in-blood teddy (bear).

'We… uh… we… uh…'
'Aren't you splattered in that, what's that? Ketchup?'

Raksha placed her finger onto Baby Bear's wet furry face, and tested the liquid against her palm.

'It's blood.'
'…'
'By Golliwog's ears, you've killed your parents!' screamed Raksha, whopping out handcuffs in two sizes (one for Baby Bear, he's got bigger handspaws, believe this). 'And you Goldilocks, must be the perpetrator of this hideous crime. I'm going to detain the two of you now and rest assured, you'll spend a very very long time away from society, if not condemned to the chair!'

Baby was silent as he was cuffed. Goldilocks, however, was disciplined in the martial arts, and with a swift leg-kicking action, Raksha was sent flying out of the door. Quickly, Goldilocks tried to uncuff her lover, who by now, was peeing in between his legs (and these were both wobbly, like jelly).

The next moment was completely unexpected.

'Looking for this, are you?'

The lovers looked up. The Raksha Demon had expanded, she was now twice the size of the entire house, and hovering about 3 feet above the ground. In her hands was a tiny key, the key to the cuffs.

'You DEMON!' shouted Goldilocks. 'What in Fairytale-land's name have they done to the police force, you're not even human.'

'Honey, this is Fairytale-land. If you can date a Teddy Bear, then I can be a demon,' boomed the gigantic she-cop. 'Although, I'm not too sure if Baby Bear still wants you after he realizes what you really are.'

At this, Raksha snapped her fingers. Goldilocks's skirts went up, ala-Marilyn. She screamed. Raksha snapped her fingers again. Goldilocks's panties went down and she screamed frantically. There was another layer of panties inside. Raksha snapped her fingers again and again, and again, and there were layers and layers and layers…

Until the final snap, and the final layer went down.

'You're, you're not Goldilocks!' muttered Baby Bear.

Goldilocks still screamed, her voice by now had turned hoarser, and less feminine at that.

'You're, you're not even a girl!' Baby Bear could hardly say the words clearly. 'You're, you're a pondan!'

So shocked was the bear to see this revelation, he gagged and choked, and in a dollop of his mother's blood (that dripped into his wind tracts), he died a very shocked death, although I'm still not too entirely sure the shock was of fear, of disgust or of heartbreak.

As for Goldilocks, well, what else could she he she (oh-fuck-it whatever it is) do, but to obediently follow the Demon back to the dungeons of Fairytale-land's Alcatraz.

The End

Completely fictitious, as usual.

I suspect I know why RotiBoy is called such, but their breads don’t look like boys at all. I think originally, they wanted to make Gingerbread Boys, but well….

The story goes that in its initial stages, one of its bakers (who was an old unmarried woman and had a craving for children) had nothing better to do than to make a bread that looked like a boy, she gave it two black Smarties for the eyes, and raisins for buttons. She used some icing cream for the eyebrows, and squeezed sugared red colouring for its mouth. She even layered some chocolate cream across its ‘hands’ just to make it look as if the ‘boy’ was wearing some clothes, and by the time she was done, the piece of bread looked nothing like a man. It still looked like a piece of flat bread.

Then she put him in the oven, hoping to tan the bread a little. The timer ticked, and when it rang, there came a loud banging from within.

‘Let me out! Let me out!’

The woman was spooked. ‘What in the devil’s name?’ she cried.

The oven door popped open, and lo-and-behold, it was… it was… a piece of flat bread that looked like a man-wannabe, standing at the door.

Of course she fainted, you would too, if you baked some creature that knew how to say ‘let me out let me out’. Presently, the poor little half-man, half-bread creature hovered over the woman, and cried out in agony, ‘Oh you stupid, stupid old baker. You made me without an equipment!’

He stared at his spongy flesh (if ‘flesh’ were the word to describe him) and looked down to his legs. My, my, he was no boy at all without his little twanger.

‘Now look what you’ve done, I’ve to find my brother,’ sobbed the RotiBoy. With that, he stormed out of the door.

Poor RotiBoy, he didn’t realize that he was actually baked to be eaten, and of course you know how it is when you walk past any RotiBoy outlet, the wonderful aroma of the coffee-cream covered bread is just ooh-la-la so enticing. Outside the baker’s cottage was a very hungry stray dog, and on seeing the appearance of the bread, it said,

‘Stop, little RotiBoy. I want to eat you!’

The haughty bread boy said, ‘I have run away from the baker’s cottage, and I can run away from you. And I have more important things to do.’

The stray dog tried to chase the bread, but being hungry for too many days, had no strength to run fast at all. The RotiBoy laughed, ‘Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the famous RotiBoy!’

Next, he passed a very fat pig, who also kenot tahan the nice smell wafting from the boy. It said, ‘Stop little RotiBoy. I want to eat you!’

RotiBoy said, ‘I have run away from the baker’s cottage, I have run away from an ugly stray dog, and I sure can run away from you. Plus, I have more important things to do.’

The pig tried to chase the bread, but he was too fat to run at all. The RotiBoy laughed, ‘Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the famous RotiBoy!’

The RotiBoy decided the best place to go to get his important mission done was to go to the nearest hospital (where they do transplants as well as add-ons), but he met a lot of hungry animals on the way. And boy, did the news spread about a RotiBoy who was on the run, and crying out all the way, ‘Run, run, as fast as you can, etc., etc.’

So happens that Eyeris, a slightly odd journalist addicted to Nescafe, who spends his spare time playing with toys and pretending Miranda Otto gives a damn, heard the haughty shouts of the RotiBoy. He knew that other nosey newsmen would also want the scoop about this phenomenal running bread that wanted a dick, and he quickly thought of a plan to get to the news first. He decided to run to the hospital, before the RotiBoy could reach the place. There, he waited.

Soon he saw it, the RotiBoy. ‘Eh,’ said Eyeris. ‘Not very big also.’

Well of course, the RotiBoy was merely the size of three palms. Sure enough, looking like a strange man-wannabe, the RotiBoy was running as fast as he could to the hospital. When he came nearer to Eyeris, he said, ‘You want to eat me don’t you, well you can’t? Because I’m going to make myself a man!’

‘Oh no,’ said Eyeris, trying hard to suppress his hunger (the RotiBoy smelt nice mah). ‘I’m here to help.’

‘Help?’
‘Yeah. I heard you wanted something.’

The RotiBoy stopped. Then he started to bawl tearlessly (he had no tearducts). ‘I want to be a man! But that stupid baker didn’t give me an equipment.’

‘Fret not. I know where you can get an equipment,’ said Eyeris.
‘You do? You know a good doctor here?’

Eyeris was getting very hungry by now, the RotiBoy’s aroma was simply irresistable. But he held back, and he said, ‘Boy, you’re a bread. You don’t get transplants from hospitals, you need someone to bake you your little twanger.’

‘Oh?’
‘Yes, oh.’
‘But where am I to find a baker?’
‘Come, I’ve my eye-on-everything. I’ll try to find you the best baker in town, but you’re to come to my office first.’
‘OK. Will the wait be long?’
‘Well, probably a mug of Nescafe will do.’
‘Oh, you’ll make me a mug of coffee?’
‘Yup, while you wait for me to look for your baker-saviour.’

The stupid RotiBoy was so desperate to become a man, he agreed.

‘So how?’
‘How? Just jump onto my back, and I’ll take you back to my office. Then people won’t eat you too.’
‘Okay.’

The journey to the office was quick, Assunta Hospital, is not very far from that famous newspaper press, you see. When they arrived, Eyeris said politely (by this time he was very, very hungry, because having a RotiBoy on your back will make your knees weak from all the aroma of freshly baked coffee bun), ‘Come, have a seat on my desk, I’ll make you a mug of Nescafe. In the meantime, you can surf my blog too.’

And then the odd journalist went to the pantry to make a mug of Nescafe, kurang manis, extra hot. By the time he came back with the steaming mug of caffeinated beverage, the RotiBoy was very engrossed in Eyeris's blog.

‘Wah very good man, your blog,’ said RotiBoy.
‘Thank you. Here’s your mug.’
‘I want to start a blog too.’
‘Come, click here, it will take you to a recording of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Blogging Universe. There, you will learn how to make a blog.’
‘OK. Later can? The Nescafe smells nice.’

Eyeris grinned slightly.

‘How do I drink this?’ asked the stupid RotiBoy.
‘Well, you dunk your hand into it.’
‘Oh dear, my hand is too short,’ said the stupid RotiBoy again.
‘Come, let me help you.’

And with that, Eyeris took the RotiBoy’s hand, and dunked it into the coffee. Then he stuffed the hand into his mouth.

‘Dear me!’ cried the RotiBoy. ‘I am a quarter gone!’

‘You don’t taste so good dunked in Nescafe lah,’ said Eyeris, munching away.

‘Oh dear, I’m half gone!’ The next second, he said, ‘My goodness gracious, I’m three quarters gone!’

And after that, the little RotiBoy never said anything anymore.

Add-on: Eyeris couldn’t drink his coffee either. It was too oily by then. RotiBoy’s AREN’T meant to be dunked in Nescafes. So he lodged a complaint, told RotiBoy about the impractical mold they had made, and that is why, the famous coffee-buns with the delicious aroma now look like the lumps that you now know. Selling for RM1.50 each, they’re really worth EVERY bite!

Sit down, be honest, if you be somewhat like me, tell me in the face that you don't give a damn about comments.

'I. Don't. Bother. People comment or not also I don't care,' you say.

Minishorts says, 'Up yours lah. Don't bullshit in my face.'

Come on, come on, if you REALLY REALLY don't give a damn then take out the commenting links lah. There's a 'switch commenting off' function in every other more reliable CMS that I know and by golly, it sure will work. But the truth of the matter is, you bother, you care, and you give a damn and you damn hell love it when people click click click and say some mindless shit.

OK. Now that that's out of my system, I shall talk about idiots, who go on other people's commenting systems to promote their own sites

For several weeks, my blogging-partners-in-crime have known about my growing detest for the new clan of what I term the blog-leeches, idiotic mindless fucks who just stampede their way into the blogosphere and completely ruin my idealistic dream of blogtopia. Bad enough that they have taken away any possible hope of sparkle in this burgeoning nation, they have to go infest OTHER people's blogs by clicking on the commenting link to say something completely, completely mindless like

'I agree with you. I have blogged about this before.

(Insert some link here.)'

WTF? Why you have no confidence whatsoever in yourself that you have to be so damn free to copy and paste your own link and advertise it in another person's commenting system? Why so low? Why so useless? You know that's a more discreet way of advertising on another person's site, well, in my blog for example, there's this field called the 'URI' where you can actually key in your blog add, and I promise you I will click on it. The very despicable act of pasting another link claiming out in so many words, 'Wah you post good hoh, I also talk about this before, but nobody commented, come come everybody who's reading this post all go there and see what I have to say' just pushes you down to the very very lowest recesses of the blogging pit.

Yeap, unfortunately, I am truly your nightmare come true, and as much as the reality of publishing at the click of your fingertips excites me, it also brings out the worst side of me. It's true, it's true. I am your elitist queen. Blogging used to be nice. Blogging used to be fun. Then suddenly, every tramp and his dog has found out about this wonderful thing, and they have come into this world, saying what they want to say. And by golly, look at the plastic junk that we have to face. Where are the gems? Where are the gems I ask you?

These days there hardly are any.

Well, this is why not everyone can write a book, as much as they try to believe that there's a writer in them. If you don't have it, you don't have it. And GOD is fair, you just can't be good at everything, so don't be so smart-ass and go around trying to change the things. Now shoo, if you're going to promote your site in MY site, find someone who's more forgiving. I'm your elitist and I deserve to be hated. And don't come back because I don't like you also.

My regulars are becoming puzzled with the apparent change in me. If you didn't read this already, maybe another set of paragraphs will amuse you further.

Thank you for being regular, sorry for disappointing. I never professed to be made of sugar and spice and everything nice, but what I can promise to be, is different and ever changing. But what I cannot promise to do, is to make you happy. Trust me, I am happy. Only happy people are carefree enough to say the crap things I've been saying in my blog lately.

My regulars also said that they don't like the bedtime stories. They say that they're too vulgar.

I agree. Some ARE vulgar. But I also know that kids do not come in here, and I hope you're aware that I'm no longer under 18 and innocently wide-eyed. I DO crack dirty jokes at mamak-tables, my friends can attest to that, and I have always been a dirty-minded loud-mouth who can associate every possible thing to something 'vulgar'. I used to memorize the elements of the periodic table with some stupid vulgar tongue twister and associate several literary theories with some obscure act of love-making. That's how I've been able to look so seemingly clever. I CREATE IMAGES and make them memorable. And also, currently, the jobsheet of writing stories for seven-year-olds is seriously making me quite stiff and my poor mind has no where else to go except here.

My regulars also said that they don't read so much about my life anymore.

Recently I've chosen to be more private. The more I grow up, the more I feel this need to keep my life apart from the blog. Besides, you never had the right to the window scene either. Previously it was a privilege. It will always be that. When I feel like it I will talk about my life.

It's only 9 am and I have another eight hours to go. If I get bored I'll do another story. Who wants to be plugged?

Today, children, we shall all learn a famous song. 'I've been working on the railroad'. My kindergarten teacher taught me this song over 20 years ago and until today, it is still very very famous! Remember to sing it loudly and clearly!

I've been working on the railroad
All the livelong day
I've been working on the railroad
Just to pass the time away

Can't you hear the whistle blowing
Rise up so early in the morn
Can't you hear the captain shouting
Dinah, blow your my horn

Dinah, won't you blow
Dinah, won't you blow
Dinah, won't you blow your my horn
Dinah, won't you blow
Dinah, won't you blow
Dinah, won't you blow your my horn

Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah
Someone's in the kitchen I know
Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah
Strumming on the old banjo, and singing

Fie, fi, fiddly i o
Fie, fi, fiddly i o
Fie, fi, fiddly i o
Strumming on the old banjo

See, I told you it was a very nice song. Now you can sing it in bed to your girlfriend (and pretend that her name is Dinah).

Add on: I realized that some may not have heard this song before. Apologies. Here's a link to the mp3 as sung in a-cappella. It's only part of the song, but it's the only sung-to mp3 I can find. And they way they sing it makes it even funnier.

Gosh, the number of posts related to blogs these days. Well it seems as if we're running out of topics, but experience tells me this is but a recurring cycle. Anyway, I'm jumping on the bandwagon and going to show you why I'm still one of the grand-old-dames of the Malaysian blogosphere. (Perasan sikit here, don't mind me.) Am too lazy to compose a new piece so I'm recycling one that I wrote two years ago.

You know how you have your regular blog-visits to this and that homey-domains? How you walk in eager to find out what's happening in this and that person's life at the moment? How you are greeted with exuberance, anger, joy, excitement… cascades of emotional outbursts, page after page, day after day that you walk into that very private yet so public, almost oxymoronic site that reveals so much, yet so little about that person who chooses to be the entire real self, or not-so-real self… depending on how you really want to look at it?

You get addicted to these people. You read about their lives and you laugh, sometimes you cry. You form an affinity with strangers who are no longer strangers, as the more you read, the more you seem to know these people. You read the excerpts that seem to spill blood, sweat and sometimes, yes, even vomit, and you think, 'Good Lord, what on earth is this person talking about?' but most of the time you go, 'He/she's amazing,' as you see the words flow, line after line, the liquidity of the fluency.

If you own a blog, like I do, you'll get the racy fan-comments. Like 'I love your site!', or 'This is amazing!' and your heart flips happily… you get frequent visitors who come back day after day to read what's going on in your life. Soon you'll find that writing that blog does not become something that you do for yourself entirely, no matter how much you convince yourself that it is. It becomes a kind of a duty to yourself, and your readers… you want people to know you're okay. Or if you write pseudo-fictitious posts, you make it a point to drag your ass to the computer and start typing some crap.

And then there are the bad times, for all the good times. You get spammed! By bots promoting porn sites. By people who come in leaving private guestbook messages tell you, 'I'm glad you're fine now,' but not having the guts to tell you in person even though they possess knowledge of how to contact you in real life in all manners possible. You get insulted by people who say that you write bad English *when they don't even know that this particular blogger just so happens to one of the people who has reviewed many of the MUET exam guidebooks in the country as part of her job*. You get people who either intentionally, or unintentionally test your patience with what you consider accusations and insults. Most of the time it's unintentional, I hope.

But most of all, you get addicted to both writing and reading the blogs. You form a relationship with the blogosphere; something that I think has become a living organism of sorts. You know that in this evolutionary and revolutionary thing, there's birth, growth, death and well, several re-births. You visit sites that go on hiatus, either temporary or permanent, and you pray for the owners, hoping that you'll see them return to the society of bloggers again. You pray so earnestly, that you make it a point to leave their links on your blogroll, and you visit the empty sites at least weekly, if only to see a sign of their return.

Mostly, I'm talking about Malaysia. Include the world, and you'll know we're worthy of a pseudo-UN membership… if only to have our voices heard, and our rights protected.

Welcome to Blogger-nation.