Kelab UMNO

    When the lights changed color, the stickman across the street from me glowed bright white and started walking; the cars and the trucks halted, snarling; the junction froze, the Red Sea separated by a pre-programmed Moses; the pedestrians walked safely across the street to the other side, their lives were no more interrupted by the Order of the System, no longer chased off of the streets. Prompted by the blinking lights, like goats we crossed; the Shepherd, our Guide to Safety, a three-eyed ogre.

    Halfway on the zebra, I noticed in the corner of my eyes a fellow club member in his new secondhand car, a swanky ride, my friend; it was the Pimp in his red Subaru of some recent model, perhaps of two or three years ago. Noticing me noticing him in his most beloved booty, the Pimp flashed his eyebrows at me --quick and high, very pimp-like; thus, the nickname— acknowledging, and I returned his gay favor in kind.

    What’s up wanker?

    What’s up Buddha?

    That is how we greet each other: with insults so profane, it’s damning funny.

    The club email said the annual meeting was going to be held at 3:00 in the dining area of Dinkydome, “the usual table, next to the air gas station, so that we can get as many soda refills”, but considering that nobody really gives a serious shit about being on-time, 3:00 translated into Malay time is roughly 3:15 if the weather is sweltering hot and your thunder thighs are chafing, 3:25 if you are riding the Metro bus to come to the meeting, 3:05 if you are actually the guy who set the meeting time (why 3:00 o’clock on a Saturday, you dope?), and 3:40 if you wish to make a grand entrance, hollering as you enter, “What’s happening, guys! Petang ni main bola, yok?”

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