Malay
My name is Pak Loh
Hi there, assalamualaikum!
What’s up my Malay brothers? Oops, I meant Malaysian of course! Oh, my name? Obdolloh Achmad Betawi. YEAH it’s a MOUTHFUL I knowww! Don’t you just hate people with long names you can’t pronounce. Hey, tell you what, you go on ahead and call me Pak Loh. Robyn Brant from Kelang says it means “Uncle”. So yeah, I’m kind of the generic brother your daddy/mommy never told you about.
That Brant fellow’s quite a rambler, let me tell you. He was asking me just the other day if I regretted being pushed out. ME? I? I am the BAPAK er… BAPAK MALAYSIA kurun ke-21! Seriously.
Then there’s that cunt, Chindra Mousaphar, who tells people I was weak, and reluctant. I sure wasn’t weak nor reluctant when I rammed it up yours, eh Muzaffar? Eh? Eh?
I hate all you media people and ISIS-political-expert-wannabes. Cunts, that what you are. Arrrr!
Of course, we can’t forget what Mister Ebrahim told me in August after “winning” (I don’t call 31,195 out of 47,000 a win: 66% is a C grade in school terms and my dad whipped me good if I couldn’t even manage a B!) Permitong Peuh. What the fuck does he mean when he says that I “must take heed of the sentiments and the call of Malaysians”. As far as I’m concerned, all that Malaysians ever call for is more money and less working days. Sentiments? You know what Malaysians get sentimental about? Nasi cuntsy lemak and teh fucking tarik. Not human rights reform or social equality.
Seriously. I hope Jeennye’s ready to give head tonight cause I’m feeling like sheet.
Assalamualaikum and Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri! Maaf Zahir dan Batin! Malaysia Boleh!
You, Malaysian
You Malaysians live despicably in an age where each Merdeka is heralded as a new dawn.
You are all open-minded, you are all modern, you are all progressive, you are all righteously appalled at your country’s perceived moral and social decline. You are all courageously, relentlessly unique in the face of insurmountable odds; you are stalwarts for change and clamourers of justice.
We cannot stand for the sightless images you deliver to our minds.
You are all “intelligent”, and you wallow in the boastful pride of your children’s manufactured intelligence: your Enfagrow kids of mere months speak eloquently to repeat copied wisdoms. They are but parrots. How easily you are amused!
You are all “different”, and you lay claim to genteel affection for your arts and your literature. You cannot remember, can you, if your play was not reality?
We are today, the Butcher of Kuala Lumpur, itself a name we deride, yet we could not ignore a name that is at once discreet yet telling of our intention.
Who we will be tomorrow, as much as who we were yesterday is not our decision.
For the present, this is who we are.
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