just minishorts.

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?