Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Milhouse was modelled after a Chinaman, or my name isn't Dirkus Wilfred Lawrence Edmund Fung III, esq.

I challenge you to look at him and tell me he's not Chinese. In a related topic, my full name isn't Dirkus Wilfred Lawrence Edmund Fung III, esq., but that's just a coincidence and should not be corelated to any arguments offered in this post regardless of claims made before, during, henceforth, hereinafter, thusly, or any other temporal incidence throughout this post. In fact, forget that I said anything in the first place. Milhouse is Chinese. End of story. Go about your business. Move along.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Because Hong Kong isn't crowded enough as it is.

The great controversial club boycott... and the natural repercussions thereof.

I am fully aware that the growing vast majority of young and getting-old-but-clinging-to-youth-as-much-as-cougarly-possible people have chosen to participate in dance club and dance club activities over other alternatives. I am also aware that society dictates that this is not only a social norm and requirement, but also that it is "cool". "Cool" of course may be defined as something that looks really good and therefore must be good. I am also fully aware that those who fail to amalgamate to this system are henceforth regarded as "not cool" or "losers", a nomenclature generally adopted by the club going public. Finally, I am also aware that I will be required to go to clubs many times over the remainder of my life despite my natural dislike towards them.

The truth is, I don't understand anything about clubs. I don't understand the scene, I don't understand the music, I don't understand the people, and I don't understand the point. Why someone would pay a considerable amount of money JUST TO GET INTO A PLACE is already beyond me. I have walls and a floor at my local bar and they don't charge me anything! Even my house has walls and a floor, only my floor is cleaner and my walls aren't pink. Cover is awful and a sign that people are stupid. Secondly, why are people so concerned over the "crowd"? It's not like there is any interaction between strangers in a club... in fact quite the opposite.

As a social hotspot, I think it is quite ironic that clubs are the most anti-social places on the planet. I think the majority of club-going males can be confined to the following four common groups:

1) Les Miserables: Why is it that a lot of single guys in a club look like they want to kick the crap out of me? I haven't done anything! It's a place of fun isn't it? Why do they look so angry? Why did they pay cover and buy over-priced drinks to stay angry? Are they angry about the cost of cover and drinks? And, if so, then why do they come back? I'm angry for being there, but that's because I think clubs are dumb. Les Miserables like clubs, they just look angry. It's only a matter of time until I smudge someone's shoe and I get an elbow in the neck.

2) The Philosophers: Who are these depressed people who stand around depressed? Why do they look like they are performing complex mathematical equations in their heads at all times? Why do they look as though they are waiting for someone, especially since in reality there is noone expected to arrive? These people are even more sad then Les Miserables. They seem to want to be doing something, only "thinking" is preventing them from leaving their corners of wonderment.

3) The Needy: Oh, woe are these poor boyfriends who were tricked into clubbing by their girlfriends! There is no reason for them to be there. There is clearly nothing appealing present for them, and so the only salvation they may earn is by clinging to their girls for dear life. Never deviate. Never separate. When the girl goes to the bathroom they are cast into a blackhole, a schism of solitude that may only be remedied by instantaneous and unexplainable spontaneous death. They cannot venture. They dare not venture. Focus on their girl. Only on the girl. Never... leave... the... girl...

4) The Weasels: Hark, these predators of the club scene! Slinking in between the sweaty bodies of semi-clad club goers praying on the innocent! They are the biggest liars of all! They go to clubs, pretend they like it, and they are SOOOOO convincing that everyone else is lured into an acceptance of their lie. These nefarious scoundrels are on a never ending mission to find all the things that I hate in the women of the club scene. And, the sad part is, most times they find it.

Yes, that's right, the women are not much better. There are also four types of women who regularly attend clubs:

1) The Pointless: These are the women who need a man, who are convinced that since clubs are social hotspots then it must logically be the best place to meet a man, who would never ever ever under any circumstance talk to a man at a club, who attend regular clubs with fairly regular frequency to obtain absolutely no real practical goal whatsoever. They dance, they nurse drinks, and they tell themselves that it is fun because they believe that it should be fun. But, in the end, they're miserable that they aren't there with a guy.

2) The Jiggy: Some girls are actually interested in dancing, believe it or not! Unfortunately, they're not that interested in things like cover, over-priced drinks, and leering sketchy creeps. However, in the face of a socialite monopoly, these people go to clubs to try to get the need to dance out of their systems. And while they often do reach this and other objectives, and while they come out feeling as though they had fun, it should be noted that it is most commonly achieved with less than moderate efficiency.

3) The Draggers: These women are dangerous! They are the black holes, the voids in which unwary men get sucked in to. They lure men into clubs under any pretext available, and they try their best to pass their club-loving values on to any persons available. But the values don't take! But you don't have a choice! Take it or be damned, is the choice! So we take it! We paid the cover, we need a drink, and we have a girl present, so how could we not have fun? It must be fun! Yaaaay! We're having fun! Or are we...? I say nay.

4) The Whooooooores: Yaaaaaagh! The worst of the worst! These women reak of booze and able "naval officers" (think men at sea), and they vulture on the unsuspecting! Be warned, me hearties, of these yaar wenches! This be one pirate's booty that ye don't want to be seekin'!!!!

Besides the facts that clubs are hot, sticky, stuff, anti-social, over priced, and generally play garbage music, I think it's time that I stand up for myself and put my foot down. And sure, I may not be invited to as many functions and sure, many people will get REALLY REALLY pissed at me, but hey! At least I'll be keepin' it real.

Exerpt from a regular club conversation:

Guy: "Hi!"
Girl: "What?"
Guy: "What?"
Girl: "What?"
Guy: "What?"
Girl: "Yeah, me too!"

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Typical Standard Asian People

They're the world's most fearsome Asian team (They're not at all hip!)
They're heroes in a Hong Kong and they're clean (Hey - get a grip!)
When the after-school tutors attack
These Asian boys don't cut 'em no slack!
Typical Standard Asian People
Typical Standard Asian People
Genetics forced them to be Asian teens (It's a radical stat!)
Leon Zhang leads,
Donny Chow does machines (Piano too, Jack!)
Raffi Waung is quiet and prude (Give him a break!)
Michael Yu-Hong is a study dude (Study!)
Typical Standard Asian People
Typical Standard Asian People
Typical Standard Asian People
Heroes in a half-yen
Asian power!

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Can you pick out Robert in the photo? Neither can his mother.

Korean machination is eroding the white collar workforce.

It feels like yesterday when my friend Robert Ho and I were sitting in our local bar, The Chow Fan and Firkin, celebrating his brand new job opportunity. For Robert, this was a big deal. But for me and the rest of his friends, this was an even greater deal. Robert was employed at last, hired by a billion dollar Korean multi-national software company, after months of struggle and failure.

The journey had not been easy for Robert. Despite all his skills and accolades, Robert stumbled early and often during the interview process. He was very good at the initial hello, the welcome handshake, and the please take a seat. But that is where it ended. The conclusion of Robert's interviews were never pretty. It was almost as though he waited until the most critical moments, jumped on the interviewers' desk, dropped his pants, and boldly relieved himself haphazardly with a sheepish grin on his face. How he was able to obtain this position, noone knows. It is quietly surmised that someone went in his place. Koreans can't tell Chinese people apart any more than white people can, apparently.

Robert could best be described as 'one of a kind'. It's almost as if he were not Chinese at all... he had several black qualities, like his fondness for hip hop and basketball, several white qualities, like not being able to rap or jump... he's almost like an oreo cookie trapped in a miniature Shreddies box with a hologram of a ping pong champion as the toy surprise. And it was for these qualities that we love him, and what would make him an excellent addition to any workforce.

I received a photo of Robert by e-mail. He claims that he is doing "satisfactory". I asked him how his new job was going and he replied that they were operating under "moderate levels of efficiency". I asked him if he was going to visit and he informed me that it would only come by "if it was determined to be both practical and financially feasible given the current economy." The majority of his e-mail was copy and pasted from a template, and follow-up e-mails were almost identical. He spoke briefly of profits, expansion, team ethics, and a need to cut down on words in e-mails. He was even so efficient that he virus scanned his e-mail attachments before sending to me so that I wouldn't have to.

The most amazing part was the photo. Finding Robert was like finding Waldo, only Waldo was lost somewhere in India and the map you were given was of Mexico as described by a rabid Helen Keller. The photo illustrated row after row of cubicle with a sea of pale-faced asian clones standing in quiet attention. They all wore white shirts, tucked in neatly to black pants. They all wore thick framed black glasses. Their hair was parted to the left. Down, and to the left. Down, and to the left. Down. And to the left. And none of them smiled. None. Apparently, this photo was taken during 'recreation time'. 5 mins a day. They get more breaks, you know, including "exercise time" (organized training video, mandatory, 10 mins/day), "recharging time" (single serving noodle bowl, mandatory, 25 mins/day), and "exodus time" (white mechanized porcelain toilet, mandatory, 2 sessions of 3 mins each/day).

Koreans are reknown for their research and development in the field of automation. Robotics and mechanization is second to none in Korea except for maybe Japan and the USSR's Evgeny Project (terminated in 1987 after the prototype was damaged by President Mikhail Gorbachev in drinking competition). Truly, they have achieved maximum efficiency in their places of business. I fear my friend Robert is gone forever, replaced only by an employee number, a pension, accumulated unused vacation time, and a small grey cubicle. It's not up to me to judge though, of course. So long as the corporation tells him he's happy, that's good enough for me.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

The woman on the left may have been cute if she wasn't technically a man. C'mon, don't pretend that you knew it was a dude! We were all fooled equally!

Pray tell me, what is worse? Two weeks of something bad, or a lifetime of something badder?

So I return here after a night of tension and animosity based on a fact that I maintain to hold true despite the overwhelming odds that are challenging me. I can't help it that I hold the opinion that I do, nor can I help it that it is the correct one based on my opinion of my opinion. In fact, I don't think there is anything more right then the correctness of my opinion and the falseness of those opinions expressed by my dissenters, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, in regards to the matters prevalent to tonight's discussion and directly relevant to both social and cultural standards of living. I'm wagging my finger in your direction, you jerks, and don't pretend as though you don't know what I'm talking about.

You know what? You know what? Why should I speak to you, the ignorant, members of a class who simply can't comprehend the sincere absurdity of all that you speak of, of all that you stand for. My carefully crafted arguments will fall upon your cemented deaf ears, lost forever in your sea of obsession. No, my friend, no, I pose not my query to you, the undeserving, but rather to the huddled masses of Dirk Fung fandom whom may glance at this site and offer praise and encouragement to my valour. Yes, friends, I call on you to deal the decisive blow to the hordes of barbarians what would smite all that was good and true in the world.

So what? So I dated a really beastly girl 10 years ago who was built like an american steer and who had orifices the size of planetary craters! So what if she ruined two weeks of a perfectly good summer? I was young! I was naive! I was foolish! But, the point of the matter and really, if you think about it, the point of every matter, is that I came to recognize my error and systematically proceeded to both ruin and break up with her in proper simultaneous fashion. I was wrong! I admit it! I admit it now, and I admitted it then! And with that error comes the burden of responsibility that I carry across my shoulders to this day. And I carry it... with the pride that I repented. Repentence is a good thing. Time heals all wounds.

But you! You! And by you, I mean those whom what did challenge me this eve, not you loyal Dirk Fung viewers... you dare to tell me that my crime is worse than yours? You dare? Well, my friends, you will soon see that it is not I who is wrong, it is you! It is not I whose soul is tainted ever more, it is you! It is not I who has spent the most compound time in shame, unclean, degenerated by a notion so obtuse that it boggles my psyche how you could be so ill affected.

The fact of the matter is: you listen to Savage Garden. You listened to Savage Garden 10 years ago, and you listen to Savage Garden now. You like Savage Garden. You even know some of the words to their songs. And yet, my friends, and yet, you continue to express this emotion despite the fact that you are strong proud heterosexual males of average height and respectable social stature. How can you do such a thing? Clearly you must realize that this is nothing to be proud of, much less something worth discussing or publicizing on an external scale! How can you still like them? How could you ever have liked them? Can you not see the error of your ways??!?

The question I pose to my loyal readers is this: which is worse, in the grand scheme of things? Two weeks dating a loud and irritating female bear (and ruing said dating afterwards a.k.a. recognizing the errors of my ways!!!) or listening to Savage Garden (continuosly to this date without feeling any remorse or shame whatsoever). There really is no competition. Clearly, the universe agrees with me. For whom, of the male race, would knowingly and openly admit to liking Savage Garden? There are none of us save you, my antagonists, and this does gone done bury your wear and devastate your arguments.

I may have been wrong in the past, I'll give you that. But I made amends. You choose to continue to live in a bed of malarkey, a bed that you not only made and sleep in but also one which you hand picked the duvet cover for and embroidered a pink heart in yourself! You know I'm right, don't pretend I'm not! And, even if you won't concede victory to me, I know that I still have the satisfaction of the support of everyone else in the world.

And besides... you may live a life of lies and villainy. But in the end, your soul will cry for justice. When that day comes, I will be there to burn your Savage Garden merchandise, my friends. I will burn it all.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Opposable thumbs are an unfortunate requirement for the successful implementation and completion of this activity and other similar types of juvenile roguery. Please consult this handy diagram to ensure that you develop proper form and technique, as well as avoid any unnecessary personal injury.

The whimsically perilous pitfalls of a world going atomic.

In a world where peace is a luxury that many nations can not afford, the common philosophy has evolved to either get strong or get lost. Many countries have found the need to build up large stockpiles of weapons under the pretext of a hope that they'll never need them, and yet still harbor a secret desire that someone will provide them a pretty good excuse to push the pretty large flashing red buttons. And, when small arms and vehicles don't do the trick, some nations choose to aim for the ultimate devastation: they go atomic.

As a peace loving person myself, excluding my fondness for boxing, american football, midget wrestling, cock fighting, Jerry Springer, African politics, the opening scene in Erin Brokovich when she gets hit by a car (if they looped that scene for 2 hours it would be my all time favorite movie), marital relations, rush hour traffic, feudal Mongolia, and Rosie O'Donnell fighting for gay rights outside on a really hot day, I have to say that I oppose the notion of violence in all its forms. Especially, there was never a time that I could think of when I could ever have given my support for an incident going atomic. Save one. There was only one instance in my long life in which I could not help but agree that going atomic was the only thing that had saved the day.

His name was Justin Wong and it was his coming-of-age birthday. To celebrate, we decided to take him to our local Men's Entertainment Centre (not unlike yet highly identical to a strip club) so that he may see all the wonderous pairs of things that he had missed out on throughout his entire life up to this point. Seeing as how he was shy, it became my mission to get him on stage. Ruin 'em early, I always say.

Well, to make a long story short, we got him on stage. 15 mins and $20 later, he was no more than a contented battle-scarred wreck of manflesh lying on the stage floor. The lady of the evening, who was both efficiently proportioned and whom represented the elevated levels of temperature variety, gave our good friend a jolly good beating. This included a whipping, a boobying, a riding of him like a horse, a tying, a dragging of him around like a dog on a leash, some facial thong slappage, some pole action, and some unnecessary yet highly amusing hair pulling. However, the coup de gras came at the very end.

Reaching her hands into his pants, the audience gasped in anticipation. What would become of this? We do not live in Amsterdam, so surely this was going to be uniquely asian, filthy, and marvellous. Her hands firmly gripping his boxers, she began to tug... hard at first, and then very hard afterwards. Onwards and upwards she pulled, her naked muscles bursting with will and determination. Poor Justin, his hands tied behind his back, could do nothing but assume a foetal position and cry. She kept pulling and he kept screaming, and so did we.

It was at this point that I found myself desiring satisfaction on a nuclear scale. And I mean nuclear as in big, like the bomb, not small like the stupid animal and plant cells that I had to memorize in Biology class. I wanted this incident to go atomic. And I got my wish.

It was magical. It was like reading about legends of lore, of dragons and chivalry, of the impossible, only to open one's eyes and see that it was real. I thought it was a theoretical impossibility. I thought it was structurally infeasible. I thought it was a myth, an urban tale meant to frighten nerds and younger siblings. But nay, I say, nay. It was true. It was real. It was happening. And it was beautiful.

On July 9th at approximately 11:48pm, the wedgie went atomic and the whole bar exploded. And my world was never the same again.

Monday, July 10, 2006

Pissing off my penguin is a much needed advancement to my website.

Now you too can annoy the heck out of my pet penguin, Mr. Kung Pao! Left-click on him until he ends up in the drink, then invite him back up and knock him in again. It's the false hope that keeps him cautiously optimistic, kinda poetic in a naive sort of way.

This photo makes me happy for so many reasons.

The glorious return of the headbutt to modern antagonism!

Oh, kaloo kalay, o' what a joyous day! I have always been a huge supporter of the headbutt, but it seemed to be on the decline over the past several decades. To date, there is almost no proper defence to a well-timed headbutt. Who expects someone to throw a head in their chest? No one! It's brilliant!

For years I have been ranting and raving about the headbutt, but due to its unpopularity I have also had to share my heart with the sucker punch. The sucker punch is great, especially when followed up with a kick-em-while-they're-down kick to the ribs. In the end though, all of these things can be prevented. A sucker punch can be protected by helmet. Elbows and knees can block cheap shots to the ribs. But the headbutt! Who sees it coming? Who throws a headbutt? Geniuses! Geniuses, all of them!

I never would have guessed that the biggest ad for the headbutt would come in the International stage during the World Cup Finals. Zidane couldn't have done a better job had he stood next to a montage of headbutts, looked at the camera, smiled, and said "Headbutts... works for me." Product placement indeed! Holy smack! I was so proud, I cried and cried after I saw it.

My only concern is that Zidane's endorsement may have worked too well... with the headbutt back in fashion, it may become a fashionable trend... you know, Hilfiger head braces, Prada chin straps, Louis Vitton ice packs. People will abuse the headbutt until it isn't cool anymore, and then they'll move on to the next best move. I'm just proud that I was there from the beginning... I am the original headbutt fan.

And worse comes to worse, I'll go back to the sucker punch.



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