Every Thursday morning I wake up to a different girl, and it’s no different today. It’s now six in the morning and I’m feeling pretty sore from all that lovemaking last night with her whom first name already slipped my mind. Anyway, I decided to take the time to pen down my thoughts (a poem in fact, you guys are in luck today) before she wakes up. I guess there’ll be some moments of awkwardness later on when she awakes and I go “Morning, Natalie? No, I mean Samantha. Wait, it must be…”, by then, it’s about time her palm said hi (and bye) to my cheek. Nevertheless, a morning of awkwardness is always better than a night of loneliness.

Screw whatever happens later with what’s-her-name, here’s the poem I was talking about:

Tell me what can you want?

You’ve got it all.

Things are real in a handshake.

Rest my bones these days in a different way.

Cherish the change; it may not stay.

I remember your dress,

Like dreams when you wake with a sudden start.

You’re beside me in the dark,

Wrapped in my arms.

Love is being entranced in a glance,

To muster up courage when you’re flustered,

To stumble on the words you prepare.

Don’t worry about the money that went down the drain

Because the best things in life are free.

**Courtesy of Ed Westwick

The Sunday Times, page 11, everybody. It an article on the declining birth rates in Singapore and it involves the dating agencies. Let me copy and paste it for you fine people.

WHAT THEY WANT IN A PARTNER

The Sunday Times spoke to 10 dating agencies about the qualities that men and women look for in their other halves and, boy, Singaporeans sure are fussy.

AGE

HE: Men want women aged between 25 and 32. Reason? Most are concerned about having children.

SHE: Women prefer older males. Some do not mind dating those who are two or three years younger.

LOOKS

HE: Men go for those who are slim and have big eyes, long hair, long legs and big breasts- but who are not bimbos. Celebrities like Jolin Tsai, Felicia Chin and Fiona Xie are benchmarks.

SHE: Women prefer men who are taller than them, are not balding, dress well and have pleasant faces.

CHARACTER
HE: She should be gentle, demure and sometimes submissive. She should be “well-behaved”. Smoking and tattoos are taboo.

SHE: He must be confident, humorous, family-oriented and able to look after a family. He must be easy to talk to.

CAREER/FINANCES

HE: She can be successful but not more so than him. For example, she must not have a higher degree or salary. Some want women with careers linked to good looks, like air stewardesses.

SHE: He must have a stable job and earn at least $50,000 a year. Some want men with glamour jobs like pilots.

Now, for my thoughts. First reaction- what the f*ck? Singaporean men and women are both dumbf*cks, I tell you. Tattoos are taboo, but Jolin Tsai is their benchmark? Don’t they know she has multiple tattoos on her body, including my initials on her inner thigh? And they want to date pilots? Pardon me, but why the f*ck do pilots need to join dating agencies for in the first place? Their flying badge is like the ultimate pussy-magnet, and all they have to do is step into a pub straight after work in their shirts and ties and everything- landing a threesome would be nothing more than a stroll in the park.

So, let’s start on the ladies first. They prefer old males (totally understandable-the faster he kicks the bucket, the earlier they inherit his estate and bank deposits); but they don’t mind dating those a few years younger than them (perhaps the rich first husband didn’t die that quickly, and when they finally do, these ladies are well into their forties, and hence, cash-rich and can afford a couple of younger toy boys). In terms of looks, they prefer men who are taller than them (that is no problem at all, since most Singaporean women are like 1.50m and below) and have pleasant faces (there is a reason why you are at the dating agency in the first place, and you know beggars can’t be choosers).

Them women like men who are easy to talk to (yeah, like after “a hard day’s work” at the office with the secretary, we will doze off right away in bed and then we will definitely be easier to talk to). Lastly, for career, those women who registered themselves at these dating agencies must be Liverpool fans- if they think they can find a pilot AT A DATING AGENCY, then they must surely think that Liverpool is going to win the EPL in their lifetime. And pigs can fly. And I am Usain Bolt.

Now, for the equally dumb Singaporean guys who visit dating agencies. See, I am a Singaporean guy too, but I’m not dumb. I would rather go to a pub/club, pop a couple of those date-rape pills in the girl’s drinks, and drag her by the hair to my car and hump the sh*t out of her drunk ass. That’s how you do it, brothers, dating agencies? What the f*ck? Anyway, these guys must be deluded Liverpool fans as well, for they walk into a dating agency and use Felicia Chin and Fiona Xie as benchmarks. What the f*ck? If I am a lady, and I look like one of them F sisters, what the f*ck do I need a dating agency for? I just walk into a pub and I can find guys queuing up to let me test-drive their Z4. So, please, grow a brain- you are never going to find Felicia or Fiona at a dating agency, and Liverpool sure as hell isn’t going to win nothing for the rest of your miserable life.

That said, Singaporean men are stupid but sensible- they don’t want them old ladies with saggy boobs (as they worry about their childbearing abilities). I totally agree- after twenty-five, those ovaries, they start to get all bad. By the time they hit thirty, it’s like renewing the COE of your antique car for the third time. Moreover, which guy likes a vagina whose walls are like caked with semen from a hundred different men? So, yeah, the younger the better, but definitely not as young as Gary Glitter’s idea of ‘young’.

Looks-wise, Singaporean guys have pretty unrealistic expectations. Slim, long hair and legs, big eyes and boobs, plus not a bimbo? That has got to be a new species of women they are talking about here- how can you describe all the qualities of a bimbo, yet at the end, tell me you don’t want a bimbo! It’s like me telling you I want to date a woman who is delusional, but I don’t want her to be a Liverpool fan. Come on, how can a Liverpool fan not be delusional? Anyway, in the first place, most Singaporean women are short, do not have long legs and lack big breasts; if they do, they definitely do not need to go to a dating agency, I assure you- you can find them at the dance floor of Phuture every single night.

And Singaporean men want their women gentle, demure and submissive- it sounds like they are looking for a pet dog more than anything else. I am one who believes in equality- if the woman wants to slog it out in the working world and bring home the dough, I say why not? Just let them be- as long as they remember to bring home a couple of cans of beer to go with my late-night soccer-watching sessions. Last but no least, the career of a woman they want is highly impractical- the last place you will find air stewardesses is at a dating agency. And I certainly don’t mind my wife earning more than me, so long as it pays the bills, you know what I mean?

So, all in all, I conclude that Singaporeans men and women who go to dating agencies have a room temperature IQ and definitely need to register themselves with a neurologist rather than a dating agency. Well, I have been very tempted to list down what I myself look for in my future wife, but I have resisted that for the time being as I feel that right now, I am in no frame of mind to draw up such a list. I am enjoying every minute of singlehood, and discussing Van Gogh with Russian chicks whom I barely know definitely beats all the money baby bonuses can offer.

Anyway, check out my blog in ten years’ time for more information on THAT list- it would be a more appropriate time.

There’s currently a blackout at my place. What the f*ck. I just cycled home (yes, I’m a Chris Hoy wannabe these days, but more on that in the summary of my summer entry) after giving K-Fad tuition, and there was darkness. Well, the light-sticks I ‘borrowed’ from SAF finally came to good use- I placed one in the toilet, another outside to lend some light to the rabbit and one beside my laptop as I am typing now. Thank God my laptop runs on external battery, if not I would be left with absolutely nothing to do (I can’t even read!), save for maybe playing Snake on my mobile phone. Well, this blackout actually helped me to appreciate little things I have taken for granted in efficient Singapore- for instance, electricity is just a flick of a switch away, and the significance of the internet in my life. On the other hand, I somehow find this slight inconvenience kind of refreshing actually. This bathing in the dark and eating my supper without knowing what it’s fish or chicken I’m sticking in my mouth thing totally reminds me of my days in Lakiun, and it sure as hell brings back many fond memories (especially the light-sticks).

In Brunei, we signallers are sometimes situated in the middle of vast acres of jungle, with just a tent, a couple of jerry cans of water and our signal sets. Our only source of light at night is from our light-sticks, the display panel of our signal sets or a fire we started. There, in the middle of the jungle (where we will be for around three to five nights), you get to enjoy twelve hours of complete darkness. Usually, there will be an officer or a specialist with me, so it’s just the two of us, lying in our hammocks after dinner, staring at the Orion’s Belt, chatting about life till one of us fall asleep first. The time I had there may be hard, and I may have suffered more than I ever will had I chose to remain in Singapore for my National Service, but never once did I ever regret going to Lakiun. And it’s nights like those in the middle of nowhere that will stay with me forever. Those nights, money can never ever buy, and nothing can ever replace. You may find this rather peculiar, because for all of my player-ish ways, I am one who enjoys solitude, and I enjoy it thoroughly.

Let’s keep this sombre mood here, and please allow me to tell you more about someone who was of great importance to me when I was in Brunei. His one-year death anniversary was last Saturday actually, and I really miss him. You see, in Brunei, we signallers are attached to a team of instructors for a period of six to twelve months initially to learn the ropes before we are promoted to other “less strenuous” stuff (paperwork aka carrying/licking balls). So, I was attached to Staff-Sergeant Liew Chee Hou. We had our intimate moments together and they shall remain between me and him (and f*ck no, it’s not some Brokeback Mountain sh*t , I assure you). But let me tell you about this one incident which really sticks out in my mind.

We were on a recovery mission as one soldier from the training Commando battalion had cut himself accidentally with his jack-knife and his bleeding refused to stop. I remember vividly I was just tugging into my dinner when the call came to prepare to move out, and of course I was pissed, and I was thinking, the pride of the Singapore Armed Forces cutting himself with his own blade, what a huge jackass. So, we moved out with SSG Liew and two other officers. We crossed the river and moved up the slope of the tallest peak in Brunei (that jackass was stuck somewhere in between and his jackass GPS was working so we weren’t sure of his coordinates). It was slightly before eight.

It was pitch black, and it was my first time trekking in the jungle at night-what you cannot see, you can only imagine, and although Phuture is pretty dimly lit as well, frankly, I was not in the kind of mood to think of girls, dancing or alcohol. More than three hours later, the weight of the signal set began to wear me down, and under the thick canopy, we were unable to receive anything from base camp and the injured jackass. The officers decided to detour a little and find some clearing to establish communications with both parties. It was almost one in the morning before we got to a river, THE river actually- I will never forget that beautiful sight.

There we were, four of us, each resting on one of the huge stones as the sound of the gushing water filled the night. The moon was bright and reflected on the river water- for the first time that night, I could see my own boots without my torchlight. I set out my antenna with one hand, my Marlboro Lights in the other and finally the signal was strong. There were both bad news and good news- the coordinates given to us by the jackass was woefully off, but his bleeding had stopped (finally, he ran out of blood, that piece of sh*t). So, we continued resting our tired limbs for another good fifteen minutes before we headed back to camp. But till these days, I will never forget that night. The night I spent smoking with three man by a river under the Bruneian moon, and one of them was Staff-Sergeant Liew Chee Hou- gone from out sights, but never from out hearts.

**Anyway, the modem’s down, but I’ll post this up first thing in the morning.

I wasn’t really planning on blogging, but, my God, Liverpool’s matches are boring (except for Reina of course, who is trying his best to concede a goal). Like I have always said, football matches involving Liverpool are a medical breakthrough- it f*cking cures insomnia. So, it is a rainy Saturday night, I am all alone with my laptop and my emotions (what else?), so, you kind of know what to expect next.

I was out with Les, XP and Nala (formerly known as Delun) and for once, the theme of the evening was not Miss Y (aka the current love of my life). The centre of discussion turned out to be another girl who used to be the love of my life- you’ve guessed it, SY. I mean, not in my wildest dream would I have thought that one of my (thousands of) ex would be a matter of interest for my guy friends. Then again, like I have said in my last entry, I have got absolutely nothing to hide- she is but a phase of my life. But I am simply amazed by Les’s power of memory- he even remembered how SY and I met, certain rumours that went on in school about us and stuff. It was like a Q & A session and Nala was there doing the asking and Les was trying his best to make me look like Edison Chen version 2.1 while XP’s his usual self laughing at the kiss-and-tell stories. It certainly made their night, I suppose.

So, how exactly did SY and I meet? Circle the correct answer:

1) Les introduced me to SY (who happened to be in the same class as Les) and later, he was like telling me her dad’s a SIA pilot and if I got her pregnant, I can f*ck care with my A’ levels and stay in her penthouse in Pasir Ris counting money.

2) I was working out in the school’s gym one day and SY was like so impressed with my Hulk Hogan biceps that we started making on the gym bench there and then. And the rest, like they say, was history.

3) Or the more convenient “we met at Phuture, I was drunk, the E was running riot in my head, the nearest 7-11 ran out of condoms, SY was sticking her tongue down my throat, my dick was disobedient etc……”.

4) Les was f*cking with me when he told me SY was like the most perfect girl ever- and nothing bad would come out of a relationship with her. Or so I bought into his evil ploy.

5) It’s karma- what goes around come around. Need I say more?

In all honesty, I REALLY do not recall how we met, but I do remember Les’s timeline that it was sometime after I got my Mohawk haircut (here). If that were the case, then I would have brought it upon myself while trying to impersonate a certain famous English footballer. And I thought girls never give a sh*t about guy’s hairstyle. And oh, Les was also saying, there was like this huge rumour going on in school that SY and I had sex in one of the school’s classroom. Like Benitez on Barry, I would like to state here that I have no comment.

Okay, we did make out in one of the classrooms once (who the f*ck hasn’t?)-we were young and we were in love, but we DID NOT have sex in school. That’s because I misplaced my condom. No, I’m kidding. I mean, it’s not like we didn’t have sex before in public places, but it’s our own f*cking junior college, we would have been expelled. I admit we were crazily in love, but we certainly were not crazy.

But on a more serious note (LOL myself as I typed the word ‘serious’, like having sex in school isn’t serious enough), SY has been on my mind a number of times this past holidays. I am beginning to think that I really am not going to enter into a relationship for a long, long time to come. I think what happened between SY and I probably made my mind up- I am simply not willing to give to anyone unconditionally anymore. I see attractive girls on the street giving me the electrifying-my-eyes look, and I’m like “it’s a f*cking trap, GuangHui, don’t you f*cking walk into it again”. And then I see attractive girls on the street giving me the I’m-too-good-for you turn of the head, and I’m like “yeah, lady, in three years’ time, after your second child, I wouldn’t even look at you if you strip naked in front of me”. That thought would usually be followed by an image of Britney’s Spears’ ass and then giving myself an approving pat on the back. Is that a case of venustraphobia or purely just commitmentphobia (half-wits click here)?

Well, I just want to end things here by saying that although I know I had undoubtedly taken away certain assumptions SY had on love, I am pretty sure she too had robbed me of my appetite for love.

I guess we’re evens after all.

I did not blog for a whole month, and when I finally do, it’s two entries in the space of twenty-four hours. All right, after the last entry which was kind of tongue-in-cheek and player-ish, let’s get a little more serious here. By the way, my female friends (and a couple of gay ones) have been telling me they like the ‘emo’ me. They find my entries totally appealing when I pour my hearts out and let my emotions loose. And most of the time, it involves this girl called Miss Y. Which brings me to my next point- why still Miss Y (copyright Delun)?

You see, she is more than just a girl in my class. She is a symbol, an icon which allows my readers to relate and perhaps dream a little- be it letting themselves be her (sad, lonely girl trapped in a relationship with a fat ass who loves donuts while secretly having the hots for this tall, dark, handsome guy from her Sociology class); or letting themselves be me (tall, dark, handsome guy having this gigantic crush on this girl from his Sociology class whom he knows nothing about). Like they say, love is magical- only if you don’t know what a total b*tch she actually is. So, let Miss Y be magic. Let her be my muse. Let her exist only on this blog.

So, I have been pretty busy this past month with the usual stuff- friends, soccer, hanging out, movies, laptop, Olympics, club, binge-drink, sleep around, pregnancy test kits (I could go on, but we’ll be here all day). Let’s talk about two television series that totally captured my imagination- and no, it’s not some lame channel 8 slapstick love comedy drama serial.

Let’s start with this show called Gossip Girl (here and here). I caught the whole season one (eighteen episodes) in like three days (anyway, season two debuts 1^st September, together with Prison Break). I shan’t go into the details in case I bore the crap out of you, but I do admit I find it kind of astonishing that I am actually attracted to such a bimbo-ic show. I mean, Gossip Girl is totally different from my usual Prison Break or Heroes. It’s more like the O.C. meet Sex and the City. In short, it revolves a around a group of rich little kids from high society in New York who go to school together. There’s sex, drugs, parents issue and of course, relationship problems (but of course).

For about a week, I fell totally in love with this character Serena van der Woodsen played by the lovable Blake Lively. She has THE looks (tall, long hair) and THE character (complicated bad-girl-turns-good). Like always, bad girls attract boys and bad boys attract girls- it’s never-ending, I tell you. So, she had her issues- she was drunk, she slept with her best friend’s boyfriend, she ran away in guilt and now, she’s back to make it all up to them. By the way, the best friend’s boyfriend I was talking about, he’s f*cking cute (here and here)- I would totally do him in a second if I’m gay.

Along her road to redemption, this high society girl met this boy next door and fell heads over heels in love with his down-to-earth personality (which is not unlike mine). They dated and everything, but they did it the modest way (his way)- a simple movie and dinner followed by a walk home (no fancy parties with caviar and champagne and making out drunk in the limousine). They were totally smitten with each other, and then inevitably, he found out about her unpleasant past and he could not accept her keeping it from him. He knew what sort of a girl she was, but he thought she had come clean at the start of the relationship, but apparently, every girl has her little secrets.

This really got me thinking. I mean, the one whom you are holding hands with right now, f*ck me, but who knows? They may have had an abortion a couple of years back or they may have talked their ex into having an abortion before. Come on, our words and actions from the past are not stored in chat logs and the history folder. So, does that thought haunt you? Like seriously, what would you do if that actually happens? For me, I can accept anything- as long as you tell me before things get serious. I would very much prefer to know what sort of an environment I am sticking my dick into, to put it bluntly. I’m pretty cool when it comes to telling the truth- I know I have my past, but I wouldn’t hide anything from you now, would I? But remember- everyone has his/her secrets. The truth depends on what you choose to believe (google Memento for more details), like they say- what you don’t know cannot hurt you……

Now, for the second show, it’s a whole lot deeper and a whole lot more interesting. Californication (here and here), anyone? While I came to know of GG from Xiaxue’s blog, Californication was introduced to me by none other than Ivan (no nickname here, couldn’t think of any). He just kind of told me it contained partial nudity and was shown primetime in America, and I was like, what’s new? Over there, every other day you can find a celebrity photographed without her panties on or having a nipple slip live on national television. So, I was bored one afternoon and I decided to check out some boobs. And guess what? I caught all twelve episodes of season one in like half a day.

And no, it’s not the nudity that drew me to the show, you dirty-minded wankers. It’s the issues they discussed that intrigued me. See, it’s about this washed-up forty-year-old writer who divorced his wife and shares custody of their only daughter. He now wants his ex-wife back, and their daughter tries her best to help them patch up. The humour’s dry and witty, and oh, did I tell you that he uses his charm and fame to sleep with a different girl every night? And oh, did you know that one of the girls he slept with is the daughter of the man whom his ex-wife is soon going to marry? Yeah, it’s that f*cked up- see, I told you.

Well, the struggles he had when he was younger and the problems with his ex-wife are so real and insightful, it made me realise that love is so much more than just ‘I love you forever’, some passionate sex and holding each other’s hand watching the sunset by the beach. There are issues in all relationships, and there is no such thing as the perfect girl- just the one you can’t live without. And I thought David Duchovny portrayed his character rather well. He’s like this player lost in this sea of pussies, and he finally realises that the things that matter most to him isn’t his books or his fame or the money or the free sex- it’s his daughter and the love of his life he lost along the way. All these sleeping around gets me him nowhere and it is only twelve episodes so there really isn’t any credible ending for the first season. Anyway, season two will be back on 28^th September- remember to catch it via web-streaming on some free China website.

Okay, I shall end my entry with this wonderful quote from him- for me, there are always tons of lovemaking, but no real love. The  endless parade of ladies continues, but the emptiness within remains.

Another ladies’ night of loneliness beckons.

First things first, I would like to apologise to all my fans out there who have been logging in to read my blog religiously this whole time. The view-count statistics does not lie, and of course, the whole time, my dear friends have been constantly enquiring about my absence in the blogging fraternity, and more specifically, asking about a certain Miss Y (more on that later). So, why have I not been blogging? Well, it’s a long story. Okay, to keep it short, I met this Russian chick at MOS one beautiful evening, who shared my interest in paintings (I’m a huge van Gogh fan, you didn’t know?). So, we proceeded to her rented apartment to continue our conversation on the Impressionism era over some coffee. Then I told her I was an avid blogger and she asked to see my blog. She was mightily impressed by the number of entries I put up each week (she had equally impeccable taste in art, men and blogs), so she dared me to stop blogging for a month, in return she would let me use her for my figure drawings. What else could I have said, my friend? You should never deny a lady the opportunity to strip naked for the sake of art.

Which kind of brings me here, one month later. Tons of sh*t had happened, and I had a million thoughts to blog about. Every night I go to bed with my thoughts and it stabbed at my heart when I couldn’t share my valuable insight with you good people, but I assure you in the coming months I will let you in. So, let not waste any more time and talk about the name that’s on everyone’s lips- and no, it’s not Michael Phelps.

Who else but our dear Miss Y? She is a legend around here, but sad to say, she is but an elusive dream for me. She is still stuck with Donut-Boy and it breaks my heart every time I picture her feeding him some of that donuts. But once again, I have been proven right- no girl is perfect, and THE ONE does not exist. Not for me, not for you, not for anyone. According to my reliable sources, she is quite a pain in the ass in person. I mean, she already tops my list in the looks, height and hair department, what are the odds of she having the personality I desire? And quite rightly so. It’s a new school term, and those naive little freshmen are there for the taking. Anyway, it’s been almost a year now, and it’s about time I move on. But no worries, I will still be seeing her in school and I promise you she would still be the first face I look for when I step into any lecture hall, and she would still be a feature on this blog. Miss Y, Miss Y, Miss Y……

So, the most pressing topic is out of the way, and I have a million other things to tell you! Where do I start? Let’s stay on the one topic making the news- the Olympics. Thanks to web-streaming technology and my laptop (and the school holidays), this has got to be the Olympics I followed the most. From Phelps to Nadal to the Dream Team, I never let any one of them out of my sight. And there had been hardly any surprises- the bullet from Baltimore wrote himself into the history books at Beijing; Nadal took gold and number one ranking from Federer; and the USA basketball team has swept all before them so far.

But something happened a couple of days ago that broke my heart- and no, it’s not China A team beating China B team in the women’s table-tennis final (it’s a hot debate). It was this Chinese athlete– Liu Xiang. I was waiting to catch his heats live, but instead I saw him kicking out at a dressing room door (ala Billy Gallas) and then withdrawing from the race. The faces of the tens of thousands of fans in the stadium said it all. I mean, I totally feel for him. Four years in waiting, buckets of sweat, hours of training daily, the first and probably the last Olympics in China for the next hundred years, the world watching, the great Chinese hope on the track, and his foot failed him. It’s like Megan Fox told William Hung she would let him bang her in a week’s time, and when that big day comes, Megan is in her see-through thong lying in bed for William, he walks in, and he couldn’t get an erection- his dick failed him. How brutal life can be.

Now, let’s talk about Singapore’s silver medal at the Olympics. Let put the political correctness and ‘nationalism’ to one side and be practical about this- the three women are not Singaporeans. Define Singaporeans- place of birth, or the decision of some official from the Immigration Authorities? How can you be so sure they will settle down in Singapore and not go back to their motherland? Anyone remember the name Egmar Goncalves? We gave him citizenship so that he could wear our colours on the pitch. Guess what? After he was no longer in the national team, he decided to return to Brazil for good. What makes you think those three women would be any different? The cynic in me says they are all doing if for the $750,000- there is no chance they could ever make as much if they were to play anywhere else in this world. If in ten years’ time, they go back to China and start their families, wouldn’t it have been better to use the $750,000 as an ERP offset package? Anyway, I reckon none of them would have known how to sing “Majulah Singapura” had the China table-tennis stars all did a Liu Xiang- they can’t even do an interview in English, what chances have they got at Malay? So, it was a blessing in disguise we finished second as we were spared the humiliation.

And my last point concerns the National Day Rally by our Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong, his Majesty. Once again, he is giving out more of our money, which kind of made me agree with most of what he had to say, other than the foreign talent issue (read above paragraph for more). However, the main focal point of his Majesty’s speech was the greying population in Singapore and the decreasing number of babies. Hey, it’s not like I’m not contributing. I work so hard at giving tuition, where the hell do you think my 1.5K pay goes to? The kid whose name I do not know and mother whose face I barely recognise, that’s where it goes to. See, like Barry and Benitez, the baby and me, it’s so not my fault. I was drunk, Vitamin E was wrecking havoc in my head, the nearest 7-11 ran out of condoms, she was sticking her tongue down my throat, my dick was disobedient. Plus that b*tch comes from a strict Evangelical Christian family who is totally against abortion. See, it’s not my fault.

So, your Majesty Lee, listen to me when I say f*ck it with all those baby bonuses and paternity leave sh*t. Trust me- you just need to ban the sale of condoms, lower the drinking age to UK levels and hand out religion bonuses to anyone who becomes a Christian. By the way, I was told you were already looking for your successor.

Well, look no further, your Majesty.