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Friday, January 28, 2005

Going to start a revolution from my bed...

As noted in a previous post, this mainframe is about to be rebooted. However, instead of consigning this soapbox on the internet into the arid wasteland of google archives, the management of BerukBoy Incorporated has decided to retweak this blogger interface and redefine the goals and objectives of MummyKnowsBest. Estimated Time of Completion: [ 20 days ].

As I've mentioned before, the BerukBoy is Legion for We are Many.

And now, a word from the former incarnation of the BerukBoy:

Dawg, like the song says, it wasn't me. I'd have put a selection of text from the Great Gatsby 'stead of the Scarlett Pimperwhatever. And yes, dood, I've read the book. I even read ketchup labels when I'm bored, remember.

That said, hackers are a tight circle. Piss one of us off, and you pretty much piss all of us. And remember, hackers and crackers are whole worlds apart. Like the difference between a kept woman and a whore, if I recall the metaphor you had used, bai.

I still admire and like you, bai. And your suspicions were right, I've also pitied you. Now the pity overweighs all the other sentiment I have for you. Just return my dad's digital camera with the tapes, especially that which contains scenes of Zulie's engagement ceremony. For the time being, I am too busy with my own affairs and have no interest in involving myself in yours anymore. Any observation I make is from a distance and with much aloof indifference.

Watch Michael Keaton in My Life. That's the way to go, bai. This world is wretched and as a result, even the purest of us become as wretched. Like the stone that fell from heaven and became black because of the sins of Mankind, guy. Let go and Let God. Nafs, Nafsu and Nafas come from the same root arabic letters: nun, fa, sin. Life is breath, breath is lust, lust is life. Even the Gautama figured that one out.

So long as there is a desire to live, you will. You're only one foot in, my friend. Live or die, that's up to you.

That said, all I'm interested in is my dad's digicam. Fed Ex it, Poslaju it, courier it, whatever. Have your PA drop it off to my PA. Just get it done. For the comfort of my soul and yours. Itu barang orang, bai. Benda lain aku boleh halalkan. Tapi barang orang aku tak boleh, beb.

And that's all I have to say on the subject.

Note to all poseurs and wannabes, the BerukBoy is a project of < Team Seraphim>. That means this blog is opensource freeware status, feebs. Don't be a loser fucktard. Hack responsibly. Shalom.

Saturday, January 08, 2005

In the end, he was a mystery even to himself...

When I started this blog, it was merely to find someone. Barang pengeras, as the Malays would say. And now the deed is done. Maybe I'll purge this blog and start anew. Maybe I won't even bother and start living my own life instead of living it for others. I've had so many names I can't even keep track: Tenser, Deus Ex Machina, Kai Tai Gwai, el Loco Diablo, Gabriel, Sham, Darius, Xerxes...

Too many.

In the end, he was a mystery even to himself. From the novella Secret Window, Secret Garden.

The eyes of God is watching. That's a line from the Great Gatsby, and it was a reference to T.S. Elliot's epic poem, the Wasteland.

And all the plans of Mice and Men were brought to naught. Is this how the world ends? With a whimper, and not a bang?

Of Mice and Men. Good book. Maksud yang tersirat tu dalam, bang.

Transmission over. The Matrix is rebooting in 03:10:54.

Wal Asri

Been hacking up blood and phlegm all night. Went to Damansara Specialist yesterday and I was told a surface vessel burst from intense heat in my throat. Running a slight fever and I've got a migraine you wouldn't believe. My doc wanted me to be warded overnight for observation but I told him I had it under control. Just needed to soak in a tub for a bit, bring my body temperature down.

My brother, the Derrow, had always lived under my shadow. Wherever he went, they would say "aren't you so-and-so's brother?". He was a sweet kid when he was little. I guess being treated like a non-person but merely an extension of someone else can mess with your mind a bit.

Due to a genetic quirk I happened to inherit from my mother's side of the family, I can only think in pictures. So, when I was younger, instead of writing thank-you notes to my grandparents for a prezzie I received on my birthday, I would draw them a storyboard. A crude version of the sort we used in advertising but it was a storyboard nonetheless.

My brother could draw too. When I was 12, I quit drawing completely. Why should I steal someone else's thunder? That's one of the first things you learn when you're a first-born kid with younger siblings. Besides, I could write pretty well. Descriptive writing is what they call my style. It's like vivid images are trying to escape out of these tightly justified paragraphs. Like a bird within a cage trying to burst free.

I couldn't read until I was 6. From age 3 onwards I would lug around heavy books (mostly encyclopedias with big bright pictures in them) and study them intensely even though the words had no meaning to me. When asked what I was reading by a family member, I would proceed to concoct a wonderful story based on the colour of the cover. I learned to read in 2 days just before classes started for primary school standard one. I don't recall much of what happened but I know that it was just me and my dad and a lot of pain. I didn't need the physical pain, to be quite honest. It was the disappointment that came with the blows that spurred me to learn how to read. Until today, I still don't read properly. The internal filter within me is flawed or enhanced, depending on how you look at it.

I think in pictures but for the love of my brother I choose to write my thoughts out instead.

When I was 9, my father got sick and tired of my brother and I feuding so he handed us both switches and told us to tear into each other. I did it for about 2 minutes before I tired of seeing the blood and welts on my brother's body. He whacked me for about a good 12 minutes. My paternal grandmother and my mother stood onlooking, horrified. I could take a beating. I always could. It's love that ends up doing you in, like John Coffee said in the Green Mile. "He killts them with love, boss. It was love that killts them".

When I was 23, my brother was going through his angry young man phase. It culminated with him hammering my head with a CPU casing one day because I was tying up the phone line trying to download something. My only thought at the time was, "shit, I hope the download went through". Got my uncle to throw him in jail for a day to cool off.

Could I have taken him? That's neither here nor there, is it? I love him more than life itself. He's my brother. And this is what older brothers do. Mengalah. Give in. Pretend you're dumber and weaker than you are to make number 2 look good. Because you can take it. Your ego isn't as fragile. You were and are the firstborn child.

But the firstborn must always know never let his siblings know until they're ready to accept the truth. Reveal it not to harm but to be of benefit. I write this not to speak to my brother but to another.

We are but mirrors to each other. The more enlightened a man's soul is, the clearer the image he reflects. That is why there are men (oftentimes called pirs or walis) who make others weep for they see both the filth within their own soul and the potential for greatness, for ridhwan.

What does ridhwan mean? I take it to mean God is pleased. When you eat, He is pleased, so the food is pleasing to you. When you sleep, He is pleased, and the sleep is pleasing to you. The mark of God, similar to that worn by the biblical Cain but not with the same intent.

Who is student? Who is teacher? Does it really matter?

There are those who call me Gabriel in this current incarnation of reality. In Judeo-Christian lore, Gabriel is the angel of the lost, who walks the darkness with a candle, bringing those who stray back to the path. His sign is that of the lilly. In Islamic theosophical thought, Gabriel (or Jibrael) is the Messenger of God, who brings enlightenment (Nur) to Mankind.

For I was a treasure waiting to be found and I created Mankind to discover me.

Do not be like the Imam and the whore. Do not say, but be.

People often misunderstand why I play chess because I play it so horribly. I play chess not to win but to pass the time.

But these are all stories, bai. Hanya kiasan. The answer to the question is what is the question?

Wake up O ye who slumbers. Demi Masa, sesungguhnya manusia itu dalam kerugian...

What we hate in others is often what we hate in ourselves.

A lie cannot be the truth. That is Zoroastrian thinking, my friend.

And that is all I have to say on this subject.

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum viditur

Pathos. In gist, Latin for "You make me sad".

You know what makes me sad? When I catch someone with their pants down and I happen to point out the fact and they snap at me and go "What are you talking about? I MEANT to wear my pants this way. Better breeze for my john-johns. You're the idiot, ha ha ha". Hrmph.

Pathos.

That said, senor BerukBoy would love to play today but as stated in a previous post he is busy working for the Man making money to pay for kittie food, his upcoming wedding and to help prop up his -ex because Generalissimo El Busho is basically ruining America's economy. Thanks a bunch, Karl Rove, and a sincere thank you very much, Bush-voters of 'Merika. Yup, his policies don't affect anyone else but 'Merikans so why should we (the rest of the world) give a rat's ass, eh?

Pathos.

Talking about the -ex, I remember when they launched the CableOne DSL service in Mississippi. One of the few guys who had it was this guy named Brian Folse who happened to work in the same Kinko's as Meagan. Tried it a couple of times. Sweet. Had it up in Washington when me and Meagan moved up there as well but we decided to get Verizon because (a) it was cheaper and (b) it came with the apartment.

Maybe I should just go work for Mimos or something. Nah.

And for the love of Jeebus, please don't use reply with the lame "I'm a (faux)registered Democrat and I'm shocked at how much you liberals hate America". Try working for $5.15/hour and living on Ramens and Kelloggs Special K (sans milk) for half a year and see how much you like Compassionate Conservatism, asswipe.

Why do I even bother?

Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum viditur.

Fart of the Day

You know what I keep telling my studio sheeple? Details, brada, it's all in the details. Sure, idiots love saying "God is in the details" (I'm not talking about you lah, Vern, I'm talking about my idjit former Marx-quoting Plebe AD who needs to learn that parroting smart soundbytes just makes you a goddamn parrot and not part of the so-called intelligentsia sheeples) but I'd like to see 'em put their money where their mouth is.

That said, irony is dead[link]. Buddy, all ya' had to do was click on the Hero Gives Up Everything To Defend His Country[link] or put some thought about it and figure out on your lonesome that Pat Tillman[link] and Pathim Tili Al-Aman sound suspiciously familiar... ah, I give up. What the hell would I know?

Maybe I should have forewarned everyone with a SATIRE header. Wait, I did[link]. Yeesh.

Thanks for the Fart of the Day, Anonymous.

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

SATIRE: Patriot or Terrorist?

HERO GIVES UP EVERYTHING TO DEFEND HIS COUNTRY

A Glorious Profile in Courage and Selflessness

IRAQI JIHAD NEWS SERVICE--Pathim Tili Al-Aman has a life any Iraqi would envy. He is 28 and holds both a M.B.A. and a Ph.D from the prestigious Cairo University. Until a month ago, he ran the futures desk at the new Baghdad Stock Exchange, a gig that yielded a salary over $400,000 a year. He shares a sprawling luxury apartment, furnished with rare cacti and Babylonian artifacts he acquired a year ago and which enjoys a panoramic view of Baghdad from the Tigris to the Green Zone and back again, with four wives and eight sons. His second wife Nadia, famous as the prettiest girl in their upscale Mansoor neighborhood, still turns heads from behind her abaya as she zips past local checkpoints in one of the couple's three new Mercedes.

"Pathim has a bright future. He can do whatever he wants," says Kamal Abbas, a childhood friend. "Not only is he a brilliant businessman, fashion model, and mathematician, he's the most promising football [soccer] player this country has ever produced." He was offered a 3.6 million dinar, three-year contract to play for the Karkh sports club. He's a hard worker, a devoted family man and an award-winning chef. Everyone who meets him describes him as a stunningly handsome, virile, hard-driving man with a deeply thoughtful, intellectual streak. Though Tili Al-Aman describes himself as a "lapsed Sunni," Shiite spiritual leader Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani relies upon his encyclopedic knowledge of Islamic legal history to settle intractable ecclesiastical controversies and to settle conflicts between warring tribal factions.

But that's all in the past. Pathim has enlisted in the Jama'at al-Tawhid wal Jihad, known since October as Al Qaeda in Iraq. He will soon report as an ordinary grunt insurgent to a remote camp in southeastern Kurdistan to learn basic guerilla warfare tactics from agents of Ansar al-Islam. He will receive $70 a month to cover food, plus $500 for every coalition soldier he kills. Like any other resistance fighter, he will supply his own Kalashnikov rifle and rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

Under normal circumstances, Tili Al-Aman could look forward to a life of luxury and glamor, his future assured. Instead he has chosen the harder but more satisfying path of sacrifice and hardship. And with thousands of anti-coalition soldiers already martyred, there's a real chance he could leave his family fatherless and destitute.

"People ask 'Why would a guy give up everything to plant roadside bombs in the trash?'," said Sheikh Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, chief JTJ commander. "The answer is, he's a leader. He doesn't want some other man doing his fighting for him."

"Sure, I'm successful. And I could make a lot of money playing football. But none of that seemed important after we were attacked on 3-25," said Tili Al-Aman, referring to the start of the 2003 American invasion. "My grandfather died defending the nation from Britain in 1941. My father fought alongside il-Za'im to depose the puppet Hashemite monarchy in 1958. What have I done?"

While many of his peers wallow in self-indulgence, Pathim Tili Al-Aman is a genuine patriot, selfless and disciplined, a man whose band of brothers is his top priority. "We are at war," he says. "Wars need leaders. And that's what I am, a leader."

This is the cry of the pure at heart, naturally repugnant to the liberal kubba-nibbling cultural elitists who smile and wave at passing troops of the forces of imperialist American oppression. Such effete poindexters see no irony in mocking the men whose resistance protects their right to issue such utterances, without whom they would probably die screaming in a torture chamber at Gitmo or Abu Ghraib.

Consider Malik Morali, the comedian-documentarian who derides Tili Al-Aman's heroism as "another ignorant raghead willing to get shot up like Swiss cheese on the off chance his I.E.D. will cost a Hummer a flat tire... stoo-pid. Or Fariz Farez, a "pundit" whose newspaper serves the U.S. puppet Allawi. "Risking your life for a bunch of Koran-thumping woman haters and oil-stealing Baathist thugs hardly makes you a hero," sneered Farez in his syndicated column. "It makes you a sap."

Thank Allah we have more men like Tili Al-Aman, who are willing to fight and even die for our freedom, than cowards like Morali.

UPDATE: Al Qaeda will honor fallen mujahid Pathim Tili Al-Aman, killed in combat defending Fallujah. A $1,000 martyrdom remittance will be paid to each of his widows. Tili Al-Aman was lauded in a special Internet videotape recorded by Sheikh Osama bin Laden for intentionally drawing infidel fire after he was struck by a bullet, allowing his comrades to escape their safehouse. "He gave up millions of dinars to join the resistance," noted bin Laden. "Anyone who doubts that he's an Iraqi hero is a traitor." Sheikh al-Zarqawi has posthumously awarded Tili Al-Aman the Silver Crescent for his final act of bravery.

FURTHER UPDATE: Al Qaeda in Iraq has issued a terse statement indicating that Pathim Tili Al-Aman, the young businessman and budding soccer star lionized as a national hero who joined the insurgency to fight American terrorism, actually died from "friendly fire," having been shot by a fellow jihadi. Asked whether Tili Al-Aman's Silver Crescent award would be revoked, Sheikh al-Zarqawi reminded Iraqis that he remains "a national hero whom every patriotic young man should emulate."

COPYRIGHT 2004 TED RALL

Friday, December 24, 2004

Digi, please tell your people to play nice...

As I'd mentioned in a previous post, things are a bit hectic this week. I barely have time to scan through the blogs and forums I used to visit quite regularly (have my browser set on automatic 10 minute refreshes, that's how much of an OCD I am... and yes, I know Thunderbird can link to RSS but I just found that out on Tuesday because I've been mad busy, read my archives whydontcha).

Sheeple, contrary to popular opinion, I am not Batman. This is my Xmas wish this year: for all ignant idjits to take a break during the holiday season and to disturb my peace and goodwill only AFTER the New Year. I promise, the BerukBoy can come out and play then.

And then I have to go and read this. Yeesh.

The BerukBoy reaches over to the shelf and dusts off the can of verbal whup-ass.

Cannot control your peons, is it? Puh-leaze. Digi, this is, quite frankly, embarressing. Malu beb. Solve the frickin' problem, jangan pi buat masalah lain pulak. Recorded? Archived? Dood, it's quite obvious that you don't even know about something as basic as IP tracking. You wanna play? Come here. I'll even cancel my Xmas dinner tonight with Zule's folks just to play with you. Want to talk lawyers? I have seven.

As my good friend Willie of the US Marine Corps used to tell me, "shut yo' mouth, son, you'll let all the flies in".

Go'n and read my post on HP. Digi, same advice applies to you. Your sheeple are your frontline PR/Brand Execs/Whatever. If it says Digi, it doesn't matter if the guy is just some dude selling your services in some roadshow in a backwater province somewhere. He represents Digi. Digi is responsible. Amender nak lepas tangan ni? I mean, if you guys don't care about losing market share, that's hunky dory with me. Cheap doesn't cut it anymore, guys. Value-added services. That's the mantra you should be chanting. Ni belum lagi Jeff Ooi masuk campur. Abis, sure masuk front page Utusan Malaysia. Amender.

Amender nick hang Celco? Ura ura Celcom ke? Digi, your guy just basically admitted that Celcom is doing something right. It got his attention, didn't it? What, second-choice could now be 019 'stead of 016? Ooh. Big things.

Jangan marah ye, kalau marah kena jual.

Live in the solution, don't dwell on the problem. And for God's sake, don't go creating new ones.

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

The Dream of a Thousand Cats

Have you ever had a dream, Neo, that you were so sure was real. What if you were unable to wake from that dream. How would you know the difference between the dream world and the real world?

What is the truth? What is reality? What is the meaning of life (42)?

The Dream of a Thousand Cats. That's the shit. I'm with you 150% tai lo.



Consensual Reality, beb. All rivers lead to the Ocean (that Is and Always will Be). Zoroastrian ramblings: the Dreaming God. Ahura Mazda and Ahriman (the Truth and the Lie) are one and the same but NOT.

But as one Ikan Besau told me the other day, "notice that the rivers never touch the Ocean? It's mentioned in the Quran. Think about that, bai". That's deep shit, dood.

Dalam taman ada teman
dalam teman ada kawan
dalam kawan ada aku
dalam aku ada Dia
dalam Dia ada segalanya.

But what the fuck do I know? I'm just a goddamned chimp yang suka melalak ditengah jalan, mengacau ketenteraman orang yang lalu-lintas. Don't pay any attention to my ramblings. Return to your slumber, O Sleeper, and dream of things that are pleasant (and some that are not).