How did he get elected?

That’s what we non-Americans keep asking as we gape, incredulous, at the odious orchestrations of the Orange Oddball. 

Seriously boorish behaviour verging on the bizarre has become de rigueurand normalised into acceptability.

If He thinks He deserves the Nobel Peace Prize, then, By God,  He Does! 

But he does not get it and complains, in writing, to his Norwegian counterpart. And suggests that because he’s been wronged, the US should take over Greenland – a part of Denmark for 270 years – because He thinks It’s A Good Idea! 

Good Grief!

You would think the ambulances, and the quiet men with the white coats and serious eyes would have arrived by now but, no, it’s just another day in this White House. 

Americans have tended to mythologise their Presidents. George Washington “could not” tell a lie while “Honest Abe” Lincoln was a straight shooter who kept his word. 

You could trust Franklin Roosevelt to get you out of a Depression while the buck always stopped with Harry Truman.

But what was history to make of His Orangeness? 

He could not tell the truth. Nor could he keep his word. But he could be trusted to get you into a Depression and, boy, did he know where the buck stopped! 

The buck didn’t just stop at his purse; it vanished inside as did the gold, the diamonds and the cryptocurrency.

Nor was it done by stealth, subterfuge or secrecy. On the contrary, the corruption was done openly, transparently and quite cheerfully. You might say the dishonesty was blatant as if to demonstrate to the American people that enriching oneself in office was not just the way forward, it was the only way . 

Watching from Shanghai, Jho Low was moved to tears and immediately composed a haiku in praise of Dumpy Don. 

The man’s an original, that’s for sure. 

Donald John Trump just goes ahead and does whatever he likes. He does not seem to care about what people might think. Example: he continues to insist that he won the last election, has shown no contrition over the deadly January, 2021 attacks on the US Capitol, and has pardoned all its criminal offenders since. 

His casual acts of cruelty  are legion, from cutting state-sponsored medical aid to areas that supported him, to interrupting a female reporter who asked a question: “Quiet, quiet Piggy!”

The man seems to have no qualms about inciting violence, actually encouraging police brutality against immigrants in a recent address to New York police. 

And he has a sadistic streak, calling for the “immediate” deportation of 800,000 people  brought to the United States through no fault of their own and who knew no other country other than the U.S. 

That, said the Guardian, “reflects more than just the savage act of a white nationalist.”

All this from a man who sees nothing wrong with accepting expensive gifts from world leaders: a plane from Qatar and, just recently, a gold brick from the Saudis. 

When Joe Biden was in power, the Republicans, referring to Hunter Biden’s businesses,  used to make fun of the “Biden crime family. ” 

Months into Trump’s first year, a senior Republican was asked about Mr Trump’s family and their escapades. 

“At least, he’s doing it openly,” retorted the politician. “He’s not skulking and trying to hide anything.” 

ENDS

Emunicipality had been feeling out of sorts for a while.

For one thing, he was a bit of a pedant and felt his name wasn’t grammatically coherent. If it were, it would be A Municipality. 

It didn’t matter, of course. Actually, it was wholly irrelevant and his owners called him Pal anyway.

The long name? Well, Pal was an emu and his farmer-owners being practical folks, didn’t fuss over classifications – they had other fish to fry.   

They named him Emunicipality. The pun was mildly emusing but Pal was appalled. He suddenly grasped that being an emu wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. 

Worse, he was a Buddhist and rabidly opposed the taking of any life, particularly his own. 

He had only recently twigged on to the peril awaiting him. A cynical pig named Francis Bacon had found out what bacon really meant and realised he was heading into a hambush. And because Pal was a pal, he’d informed  him.  

Pal wished he hadn’t. What’s a neurotic emu to do? 

Sheriff’s Deputy John Keisler was the first to receive a call of the breakout. An agitated voice from Cooper’s Farm agitatedly told him that an emu had busted the joint and flown the coop. 

“Coop,” opined Mr Keisler clearly. “What we have here is a crime. It’s as plain as the nose on your face”   

As he was speaking to the farmer, Keisler was clear. The sheriff’s deputy, one of Florida’s finest with 26 years under his paunch-straining belt, was precise. 

Actually, he was clear about most things including remaining a sheriff’s deputy for the foreseeable future. They lived longer: the Gospel according to Clapton had been very specific about that.  

He’d seen escaped pigs, cows, even a skunk once. But this was the first animal, Keisler, an officer at the St John’s County Sheriff’s Department, wasn’t sure how to pronounce.   

An emu isn’t your average pet. It can grow up to six-feet in height and, with proper diet, can weigh as much as 60 kg. 

It’s also reputed to have a nasty temper and, apparently, knows how to kick. When pressed, it can also achieve speeds of up to 30 miles an hour. 

The intrepid Keisler attempted to secure the beast  but the large bird sneered at all his commands. For good measure, it attempted to cause him grievous bodily harm, kicking him several times and trying to use its large talons.

Finally, it fled on foot. Its flight was logged by the sheriff’s department as “reckless.”

Not to be outdone, Keisler ended up lassoing the emu and then using his handcuffs to secure its legs. It was the first time Florida’s finest had ever cuffed a bird.

“It was fowl, but at least it wasn’t a four-letter bird,” reflected  the demure deputy. 

Needless to say, Emunicipality was not just defiant, he was unrepentant. “There was fight all right but no flight, that was the rub,” brooded the Shakespeare-loving bird sadly.

But he was also a philosopher. “We wing some, we lose some.” 

It might have been the problem. Emus are flightless birds. 

Unlike Florida’s  most famous son who didn’t know the meaning of either word, the state dispensed both justice and mercy in the case of Florida vs Emunicipality. The emu was not injured and was returned to its owner.

In addition, “all criminal charges against said emu were dropped,” the police declared.

ENDS

King Tut was famous for being the only royal burial found intact in modern times. 

That was the extent of his fame unless you included PG Wodehouse’s conclusion that two Tut’s were better than none. It explains why “Tut-Tut” is not unlike “Tsk-Tsk” in being understood as polite  disapproval.

I digress, however. The singular Tut tried to stop ageing and thought he could retard the process  through mummification. 

He couldn’t.

Even so, the idea has persisted.  Even great minds like Rodney Dangerfield have asked their doctors the eternal question: “How do I stop ageing Doc?”  

In Mr Dangerfield’s case, he was handed a gun. 

Perspectives change over time. My nephews generally regard us with pity, wondering how we endured the period B.I.   How on earth did we keep busy in those pre-Internet days?

We did pretty nicely, thank you. The only thing was life got  lived slowly. Certainly, compared to the present day, it seems that life, when I was a teenager, was pretty much in slow-mo.

I was in Lower Six when we got a phone line to the house and finally got a phone. 

That was in 1973 when everything was easier. Your boss couldn’t get to you like they can now with mobile phones and e-mail.

I remember writing real letters to my girlfriend and using the post – now disparaged as snail-mail. 

Entertainment was analog and the television had very few channels. I mean, Sensurround was an event.

The lack of diversion  made many readers among my generation. I mean, libraries were actually used and not just for swotting before exams. My friends and I actually borrowed books for entertainment. 

Does this happen now? There seems to be no need for it with the Internet and the digital age – Google, social media, streaming services and e-books – making it all but redundant. Still, books appear irreplaceable. 

Will some “dinosaur” trends return? Bell bottom trousers, maybe but smoking indoors is unlikely to ever make a comeback.

Dr Mahathir is also unlikely to make a comeback: most people his age were dead at the present time. But there had been advantages to his great age, he reflected. When he was young, for example, history wasn’t taught at school.

Now he is frequently called upon to dispense advice. Which he does, counselling young people to maintain only a small circle of friends. 

The ex-doctor’s advice is grounded in sound law: three out of four murders are committed by people who know the victim.   

As old age becomes the norm, things begin to change. More and more, we listen to people who don’t talk much. 

And, sadly, an affair of the heart in old age is generally a bypass. 

Woody Allen put it starkly: “You can live to be a hundred if you give up all the things that made you want to live to be hundred.” 

I think he’s right. If one gives up booze, bacon and sex, life goes by so slowly that  it feels like one’s living longer. 

Is there sex in old age? Listen to George Burns, 90: “At my age, sex is trying to shoot pool with a rope.”  

But at the end of the day, there is this: Old age isn’t that bad when you consider the alternative.

ENDS  

I woke up at around 7 this morning, then told myself it was too early for any sane person to wake up on Boxing Day.

Even Boxing agreed and he knew it was right: it was his day after all.  

Sooner or later, I will quit procrastinating. At least, at some point next year. 

It’s best to treat the coming year along the lines of “keep it simple, stupid.” I’ll just try and get some laughs amid the complicated hopes I have wrapped up in the remaining ribbons and mistletoe of 2025. 

From that point of view, we’re unique: no one ever regards the January 1^stwith indifference. It is the point from which we all date our time and count what’s left. 

When I was growing up,  the new year, certainly the Western concept of  New Year’s Eve, wasn’t taken seriously in the slightest. 

As ostensible Hindus, there were, instead, oil baths ( an abomination created chiefly by the manufacturers of gingelly oil desirous of higher profit) and a meat-less diet. 

Apparently, abstaining from meat on January 1^st somehow made you a better and more caring person. 

I didn’t subscribe to the notion that an angry bull would leave you alone if you were vegetarian. 

When I was a teenager, I therefore attempted, unsuccessfully as it turned out, to convince my parents of the fundamental fallacy underpinning the vegetarian diet. I said that vegetarians were what they were not so much because they loved animals but because they hated plants. 

My father laughed but my mother wasn’t amused. She’d been staunchly vegetarian since childhood and even shuddered at the thought of eggs. Yet, bless her heart, she would cook, and superbly at that, chicken and mutton dishes for all five of her  children. 

Growing up in a small place like Seremban made you wonder what it was like growing up in a big city like Kuala Lumpur. Because you just assumed that it was somehow more exciting in the big cities. 

I know better now. My sister stays in Seremban and it’s pretty clear who made the better choice.

Now that I’m in KL I feel like Homer Simpson: I’m out of the rut and back in the groove. 

Meanwhile, back in the rut, there are rarely traffic jams in Seremban.  Furthermore, its roads are better, almost Singapore-like, with no pot-holes in sight. 

Some explanation may be in order. If some of you think I dwell primarily in the past, that’s because most of my life has been there. 

As we get older, it becomes clear that there are many opinions on any single subject. 

Take time. To most of us, there’s never enough of it. Or, as Malcolm Forbes observed, “There is never enough time unless you’re serving it.” 

The advent of a new year is also a time for reflection but I’ve noticed that people take refuge behind cynicism. 

One philosopher was unrepentant in his definition of life, “a sexually transmitted disease.” 

Then there’s George Bernard Shaw: “There are two tragedies in life: One is not to get your heart’s desire, the other is to get it.”  

But sometimes there is pleasure derived from hearing absurd  statements from seemingly smart people. Take this, from writer and essayist Samuel Johnson: “It’s better to live rich than die rich.”  

Ultimately, however, approaching the new year should make us all more accommodating. Or as the French say “life’s too short to stuff a mushroom.” Actor Richard Jeri put it more pointedly: “The way I see life, is like we’re all flying on the Hindenburg…why fight over the window seats?”

As we teeter on the remnants of the old year, let us welcome the new one: Cheers to 2026 and another chance for us to get it right. 

Happy New Year, people. 

ENDS 

Raisa came back on Tuesday which completed the picture. You could say we’re ready for C-day. 

We humans need a little reassurance from time to time. Life’s hard enough as it is. At best, it’s a gamble with terrible odds: no one gets out alive. And, just when you think it’s safe to get back on the road and you’re finally on the right track, wham, you’re hit by a truck. 

But there’s hope. The Good Lord never gives you more than you can handle and, occasionally, He throws in a sweetener. 

This is it. 

It’s that season of the year, the time you feel optimistic, even hopeful, for no reason at all. OK, I lied: there’s basis. It’s the most wonderful time for a beer. 

The origins of this particular belief is grounded in basic Newtonian logic. There’s a day coming and it engenders a particular response ergo we have Claus and Effect. 

It has that  effect on people. We went to Pavilion in downtown Kay-El the other day and those guys can put on a show. 

You entered an extravaganza of excess, of Christmastide run amuck. Gaily decorated Christmas trees were ascending the stairs while crystal ropes reflecting a thousand points of light streamed down from the ceiling. 

Draped in electric candles, baubles and crepe, the scene was a riot in silver and gold and red and green. A mistle-toast to the holiday season. Yule be in my heart and then some.

It was so over the top, I found myself grinning.  People were taking selfies against the backdrop and there were pop-up shops doing a brisk trade. 

OK, it’s crass commercialism of the highest order but, boy, does it know how to put on wings! The shops are decked out in ruby red and evergreen hues which gives it warmth and makes it inviting.   

I didn’t know much about Christmas until I met Rebecca in university 48 years ago. 

What I realised immediately was that the whole thing – the season, its essence– gave her great joy.

Very much later, I saw the same joy in my daughter’s eyes when she woke up on Christmas mornings. It was quite a sight to behold and enough to make your heart swell. 

I only converted to Catholicism 29 years after marriage but have participated enthusiastically in all Christmases since we tied the knot. 

It isn’t unusual: I know many non-Christian families who put up trees and give and receive presents among themselves. That’s the Christmas spirit right there. 

As they say during Christmas dinners: “It’s your presents that’s important.” 

OK, that was a joke but you don’t have to be Christian to grasp that Christmas is an occasion where love and family are at its centerpiece.  Or as Charles Schultz, the creator of Peanuts put it, “It’s not what’s under the Christmas tree that matters, it’s who’s around it.” 

At its core, it’s a state of mind: of peace and goodwill to all and to see the best in everyone. 

And then the season will weave its magic spell over the world and cast everything in a softer and more beautiful light.

Merry Christmas everyone. 

ENDS

When he was 24, Paul Simon wrote Old Friends, a hauntingly beautiful song, a line of which went: how terribly strange to be 70. 

When you’re so young, seventy is a light-year away. Simon’s 84: it must be surreal listening to the song now. 

Age brings perspective. 

I think looking 60 is great – only because I’m rubbing shoulders with 70.

I’m just thankful I only have to grow old once: I don’t think I could do it twice.

The problem with the process is that it’s been sanitised to make it more palatable, as if ironing out its wrinkles would magically make the slow disintegration of body and, sometimes, mind wholesome and natural. 

It’s why we have thinkers like Oliver Wendell Holmes rhapsodising about being “70 years young.” Then there’s this moron who warbled about youth being “the gift of nature, but age is a work of art.” 

Maybe to Picasso, sketching an elderly fisherman bronzed by the sun and too much wine. Bah, humbug to the rest of us. 

I think the poet Yeats knew where it was at: “The older I grow, the more I distrust the familiar doctrine that age brings wisdom.” 

Joan Rivers was more succinct: “Age sucks!” It’s just a step away from loose skin, dribbling and senility. 

To be sure, it can be a state of mind. I mean, if you are reasonably healthy, then it only matters if you are cheese. In Dr Mahathir’s case, he only realised he was geriatric when the candles on his cake resembled a prairie fire. 

There are certain things about getting old that the young will never grasp…until they get there. 

Example: there was this Netflix series The Kaminsky Method. Starring Michael Douglas and Alan Arkin, it was a portrait of ageing masculinity and friendship between two men.

My friends all loved it but it left the younger generation – my daughter, my nephews and nieces – cold. Apparently, there’s an unending generation gap. 

I suppose that’s why they call the younger generation a group that’s alike in many disrespects. 

This “getting old” business is sneaky too: like a fog, it creeps up on you. There you are, just minding your business and, wham, you’re 40.

I was incredulous and not a little outraged when that happened. OK, the outrage stemmed from the fact that it was my birthday but it was also Lent and I was off the booze.

Once you’re over the forties, you’d be surprised how rapidly everything speeds up. Suddenly everything’s in fast forward mode and you’ve officially hit Life In The Fast Lane.  

This does not mean what it does in the West – partying and living it up. It simply means you’ve entered life’s merry-go-round and it’s up to you to keep it merry. 

At least as merry as a man in his late 60s can shape it. Either way, the alternative isn’t worth dwelling on. 

Don’t get me wrong. There are some benefits. I get discounts on rail and bus tickets. Some girl actually offered me her seat on the Aerotrain the other day. Of course, I took it: you never can tell.

There are other benefits. Have you noticed that the older we get, the fewer things seem worth waiting in line for? 

Nor do we have to worry about avoiding temptation. At my age, it avoids me like the plague.  

And there are the occasional fillips. In two weeks, I have to attend the birthday of an old friend. Old is the operative word here: he’s as old as some trees in Taman Negara. And, occasionally, he addresses me as “you young whipper-snapper.”  

It is during those moments when I am in my element. 

ENDS

Smith to witness: “You mean he was as drunk as a judge.”

Judge (interrupting): “You mean as drunk as a lord.”

Smith: “Yes, My Lord.”  

It’s a little known fact that raccoons are partial to their tipple of choice.

This explains why when the American state of Virginia outlawed the sale of alcohol to animals, the enactment was greeted by a resounding chorus of booze from a committee of raccoons set up to study the matter. 

The committee was outraged that they hadn’t been consulted. They were doubly outraged because, unlike humans, they weren’t xenophobic. 

They actually liked humans especially Stephen Stills and his pals, one Crosby and Nash. The trio had a song, Love The Wine You’re With, that especially resonated with the alcoholic bandits. 

Also, humans had a tendency to leave trash around which suited the raccoons just fine. 

It’s time to get on with our story which revolves around a grizzled old raccoon. He was from Virginia and, with a nod to  The Beatles, let’s call him Rocky.

Now Rocky had been part of that outraged committee and he was still brooding over the unfairness of the state legislation. 

In the glory days, he’d sampled all brands of beer. Now he was older Budweiser and his kind was suddenly being cut off from the ambrosia, the wellspring of cheer itself. 

He’d been doing what all raccoons do, which was foraging about for food under the cover of darkness. Rocky had been scrambling around on a roof of something when he became aware of a piercing crack. 

The raccoon froze. It was as if the past, the present and the future had all congregated together in this one spot. In fact, you might say it was tense. 

The next second, the ground was giving way under his feet and the old raccoon was tumbling, turning in turmoil, until he hit the ground. He thought he heard glass breaking, bottles smashing… and all the lights went out. 

When Rocky came to, he was in an unfamiliar place with a  strong smell that he recognised. 

He’d fallen into a liquor store and he was inhaling the aroma emanating from smashed bottles.

He liked what he sniffed.

Alcohol consumption is abundant in the natural world and occurs in nearly every natural ecosystem where animals consume sweet fruit and nectar – stuff that easily ferments into alcohol.  

More to the point, scientists have recently discovered raccoons living in close proximity to humans begin exhibiting signs of domestication – shorter snouts and curlier tails. 

In Rocky’s case, it had also morphed into a taste for the finer things in life like a predilection for Laphroaig 10, a smoky blended single malt whiskey that regularly knocked the socks off (former Health Minister) Ling Liong Sik in times of yore. 

Rocky thought he’d died and gone to Heaven. Everywhere he looked, there was a single malt: a Glenfiddich here, a Glenmorangie there, a Laphroaig everywhere. 

He came, he saw and he conquered. That is to say, he tasted, he imbibed, he got smashed. 

Which brings us to last Saturday, when an employee opening Joe’s Finest Liquors  was startled by smashed liquor bottles and a trail that led to the bathroom where he discovered a drunk, sleeping and spreadeagled raccoon. 

The masked miscreant shook off his stupor after a few hours of sleep. For his part, Rocky seemed none the worse for wear and even tried to purloin a few whiskey bottles to take home. The attempt was firmly rebuffed by Joe himself who felt he’d lost enough.

It just showed that the raccoon had never been drunk at all because he fitted Ogden Nash’s definition of not being soused. 

“He is not drunk, who from the floor, can rise and stand and shout for more.” 

ENDS

Crime does not pay…..as well as politics.

It appears that justice has been served. 

Or has it?

On Tuesday, Kuala Lumpur’s High Court ordered the sister of fugitive businessman Jho “Felonious” Low and his shyster sidekick Eric Tan to pay US$2.8 billion (RM11.6 billion) to 1Malaysia Development Bhd (1MDB) over “tainted proceeds” that belonged to the sovereign wealth fund.

“The evidence before this court indicates an elaborate fraud,”  Justice Mahajan Mohd Taib said. 

Apparently, the prosecution had very credible evidence. “Their evidence stands unchallenged,” said the Judge. 

That’s because it wasn’t. Nor did the duo even show because everyone knew they were guilty as sin.   

That included both of them which was why they hadn’t shown up in the first place. 

In short, it was meaningless where justice was concerned. 

Jho Low et al had a good laugh over the entire proceedings going on in Malaysia. The fat fraud had already been convicted in absentia by the Malaysian courts. Now it was only proper that his sister and his sidekick should follow suit. 

Justice should prevail, he reflected soberly. And he thought the whole “in absentia” stuff was swell. 

It affirmed his guilt but he remained free to do whatever he pleased.  

It included, but wasn’t limited to, fraud. Strictly speaking, though, Felonious’ crime wasn’t fraud. Given its scale, it was more like Grand Theft National if you really thought about it. 

Jibsworth aka former Premier Najib Razak and Fatso had stolen over US$4.5 billion (RM18.63 billion) from 1MDB, a sovereign wealth fund that they had set up to expressly defraud.   

Malaysian taxpayers are still paying off its debt. 

Let’s face it. Jibsworth has gotten off lightly so far. Despite his crime and his standing at the time of said theft, his original sentence of 12 years has been halved which means he may be released as early as 2026. 

Not only that. He’s applied for house arrest – unprecedented in this country – and that case is being heard as early as December 22.

It appears that when you’ve been a former premier, all sorts of new precedents appear. 

It does not seem to apply to former deputy premiers though: witness Anwar Ibrahim’s treatment during the tenures of both Dr Mahathir and Jibsworth.

There’s one fly in the ointment. That’s the MAIN verdict Jibsworth must be bracing himself for which is set for December 26. 

This is the result of the case against Najib regarding the entire 1MDB  scheme: the trial dragged on for almost two years. 

The previous 12-year sentence revolved around the theft of over  RM40 million from a 1MDB subsidiary. 

You could  say Jibsworth’s troubles aren’t over yet. Not by a long sentence…I mean, chalk.  

Digesting all this as thoughtfully as he might caviar, Felonious came to the same conclusion he’d  arrived at every time he thought of his former mentor: better him than me!

Felonious knew he had most things covered. He had no fear of hell and he thanked God he was an atheist.  

Better still, he was Rich with Other People’s Money and he could still look himself in the mirror. 

And if he occasionally stumbled over the truth, he was still able to pick himself up and continue. 

So long as he wasn’t anywhere near Malaysia. 

ENDS

Erica Jong is an American novelist whose 1974 bestseller Fear of Flying vividly captured the challenges faced by a Jewish poet living alone in New York City during the 1970s. 

Mirelle E is less well known. Even so, her book detailing the  challenges faced by an aspiring French chef struggling with a morbid fear of hot oil won plaudits. Fear of Frying went on to become a literary  smash.

Literary, yes. Culinary, not so much: an  irrational fear of hot oil can thwart the best intentions for boeuf bourguignon.

Most people have some minor phobias. The most common is social phobia or a fear of social interaction. 

Other common fears are those associated with snakes, heights, spiders and public speaking. 

I found out I had a phobia of using bridges over busy highways. I have no problem with bridges over water but for some inexplicable reason, the thought of having traffic moving under my feet gives me the heebie-jeebies. 

Solution: I avoid them like the plague and cross the street at the traffic lights instead. 

In China, this can be a challenge as an intersection can have as much as 10 lanes. Walking mighty fast is the prescribed way to go.

But some fears are really way out there, as weird as Al Yankovich.

There is Anatidaephobia which is an irrational fear of being watched by a duck.

Say you are an inordinate fancier of duck, preferably roasted in Peking. And then say you were walking in Central Park and become aware you are the subject of an intense, malevolent scrutiny: it usually comes from the duck pond. 

This is when strong men afflicted with Anatidaephobia head for the hills. 

There is a particular phobia that’s only associated with the leaders of Singapore. It’s called chidephobia and is characterised by an irrational,  obsessive, and deeply suspicious fear of chewing gum. The mere sight of someone chewing gum or it Just-Being-There can trigger consequences like a blanket ban.

Then there’s Cenosillicaphobia which is a fear of an empty beer glass. This is an honest-to-goodness anxiety, a vox-populi fear if you like, especially if said  “people” are patrons of a nearby pub.

An absolutely ridiculous fear is aibohphobia which is a fear of palindromes. A palindrome is, of course, a word or phrase that reads the same forwards or backwards. Examples would be “racecar”; “Dammit, I’m mad” or, “Able was I ere I saw Elba.”

Ironically, “aibohphobia” is also a palindrome. This revelation is generally sufficient to send said sufferer screaming into the night. 

Arachibutyrophobia has those afflicted fearful of having peanut butter stuck to the roof of their mouths. They should be given a public flogging and banned from eating the stuff. 

I’m convinced my wife has some sort of nomophobia which is a fear of being without a mobile phone. People with pogonophobia should never, ever travel to Afghanistan. The condition describes a fear of beards.  

Meanwhile, the Trumpinator has a fear of bad hair days followed by funerals.

It came to light after the recent passing of former US Vice-President Dick Cheney. The President wasn’t invited to the former Republican’s  funeral. Since he feared funerals anyway, it was no skin of the presidential nose but he couldn’t help himself. 

“Dick Cheney who was a loser and a terrible person will be lucky to get a thousand people at his funeral,” the Donald posted on Truth Social. “My funeral will draw MILLIONS.” 

Insisting that his demise would attract a record turnout, the President concluded: “Every day, people say to me, “Sir, I can’t wait for that day to come.” 

ENDS

A little stupidity can go a long way 

I’ve mixed feelings about artificial intelligence. 

It’s a tad too succinct for my taste. 

Example: a friend asked ChatGPT: Who is Dr Rebecca Sta Maria’s husband? Its reply was terse: “A Malaysian Indian.” No bells, no whistles.  I mean, really!

Not the best answer, I don’t think. 

Anyway, I asked it today: “Did the Romans really  learn shipbuilding from the Malays? 

Its reply was swift: No.  

And it paused meaningfully as if it wanted to add, “Duh!” 

I think artificial intelligence is no match for natural stupidity. And, as if to prove my point, there’s  Islamic University Professor Dr Solehah Yaacob who, in an academic treatise, claimed the ancient Romans learnt shipbuilding from the Malays. “We taught them everything they knew,” quoth the nutty professor. 

History indicates that Rome already had a formidable navy 264 years before Jesus. Meanwhile, there is no mention of a Malay Navy let alone a shipbuilding industry. 

There doesn’t seem to have been one 1,800  years later either: old Alfonso sailed up the Malacca River to claim its port in the name of Portugal’s King Manuel against little  opposition. 

Indeed, Solehah’s original premise attracted criticism from her peers who wished she would concentrate on more important matters like the position of bomohs in Malaysian society. 

Did Solehah balk?

Not by the hairs on her chinny-chin-chin. 

In a Facebook post that all but spluttered, the angry academic and self-styled  thought expert stood by her theory, which she said was “developed through extensive study of classical Arabic sources.”

“My hypothesis concerning the achievements of the Malays and the borrowings of the Romans may be right or wrong. However, in both our academic and Islamic traditions, we are taught to respect differing opinions,” she wrote.

It was a crafty dig at her detractors. The thought-expert was pointing out that her critics were wrong, if not unkind, to criticise her research if it was flawed because  she stood ready to  accept all “differing” views. 

“Unlike the Europeans, who were largely continental, the Malays were a maritime civilisation… I firmly believe that the Malays were among the first peoples in human civilisation to develop the art of shipbuilding.”

Malaysia has never displayed any indigenous shipbuilding capability, certainly not once since independence in 1957. The awkward academic does not consider the point relevant.

Among Asian countries, South Korea and Japan stand out as two countries that make vessels of intelligent design. China, however, is the most prolific. 

The lecturer has had a history of controversy. She once asserted that the Malays could fly: she did not cite any airline. 

She’s also cited The Onion as a research source. It’s anything but: The Onionis a US-based satirical read although its editors must have been delighted by its Solehah-induced elevation. 

The indignant Solehah now says she’s the victim of a “media lynching.”

Even her university has distanced itself from her remarks, saying it regrets her actions, “which have tarnished our reputation.” More ominously, it’s launched an internal investigation into the matter. 

The abrasive academic had the last word though, “I sincerely hope that all forms of slander, insult, disinformation, and ridicule will come to an end,” she concluded.

So do we and there’s a moral here. 

Talking cock can, and sometimes will, come back to haunt you. 

ENDS