Cher, you think you're so damn good issit?

Teachers, listen up.

You now have a new role to be formalised into your job: Let students HATE you.

Basically, forget about being popular and well-liked by students.

Let them destroy your morale. Let them embarrass you. Let them smear glue on your seat. And let them give you a heart attack and nearly kill you.
 All those, I've done. And I'm glad I did them.

I used to love hating teachers -- because as a teen, I had nothing better to do with my life.

When I was 14, my school welcomed a batch of trainee teachers. Oooo, great. Fresh victims. Welcome to Hotel California.

I made one teacher tear in class by calling her names just because she looked like a Muppets character (30 marks). I bought fart spray and secretly aimed at another, just because she was fierce to us (60 marks). I was even brazen enough to cover glue on yet another teacher's chair (70 marks) just because she didn't give us breaks in between lessons.

In upper secondary, my trouble-making went from pranks to downright defiance and hooligan-like.

I'd challenge teachers and question their intelligence. Huh, cher, you teach English one leh. How come you don't know this word?! Cher, if you so clever you go and be doctor lah. Come and teach Physics for what?

Once, I led a mutiny in class, against an unpopular teacher. On my cue, my very cooperative classmates leaned on our desks and slept through most part of the lesson.

Testing my teachers' patience became an everyday affair.

One of them was a discipline mistress who was determined to put me in my place. We both put up a good show of brinkmanship -- I test her, she disciplines. She softens her stance, I test her again. She presses on.

Finally, there was the unforgettable experience when I nearly gave my teacher a heart attack and killed her in class.

Mrs Y was a very kind hearted teacher who takes pains to ensure we understand her subject. She's a dedicated teacher -- despite her weak health, she will still come to school so that we won't miss lessons.

But instead of appreciating her, I made her so upset one day, that she chided me until she hyperventilated.

It was no joke.

She turned pale and had to sit to collect herself. I swear the frail-looking Mrs Y looked like she could collapse in front of us any time.

My classmates were so shocked that one of them sprinted to the general office for help.

Our vice-principal rushed to our class and naturally, had to ask how this happened.

At that point, Mrs Y spoke.

"It wasn't his fault... it's just that I'm weak," she spoke up for me, in slow, deliberate breaths.

I felt like a scumbag there and then. I swear I will push me off the chair and punch the freaking daylights out of me, if I could timetravel to that fateful day.

I am certainly not proud of myself at all.

In fact, I'm ashamed. But that doesn't mean I forget what I've done to teachers.

My secondary-one teacher Ms C once told me matter-of-factly that it's students like me that kill their careers and passion for teaching.

I'm writing this today because it is not easy for teachers to do their job these days.

Gone are the days when teachers can pull our ears as if to yank them out of place (Miss Chong Chieh Eng, P1-3, Mei Chin Primary School). Or pinch our nipples so hard that we yell apologies (Mr Henry Bartholemew, P5, Mei Chin Primary School). Or take a ruler and randomly hit our palms just because we weren't paying attention (Madam Ang Bee See, P6, Mei Chin Primary School).

These days, teachers not only face replicas of students like me. they also have politicking within the common room and complaints from parents to deal with.

They have to worry about idiots filming them in class and posting unflattering footage on YouTube. They have to mind their words when scolding students (no more phrases of "crafty rats", please). And they can't even make the cut to discipline their student's designer hairstyles. 

But please, don't give up.

You will be unpopular. And you will be hated.

In retrospect, my years of pranks and defiance have made me respectful and mindful to others' feelings.

And I am humbled because these lessons are taught to me by the very teachers whom I bullied in school.

Despite my cruel nature, they didn't give up on me.

So teachers, let students hate you. Because eventually, they will learn to love you.

I'm not rude, thank you very much.

I'm a courtesy lion, hear me roar.

Or watch me claw at your eyes and puncture the vision out of them. Or feel my molars sink into your fat cheek and tear out a bloody chunk of it.

Sorry for the graphic description, but that's what happens when we try to tame a lion and suppress its macabre nature.

I mean, think about it.

Of all animals, we have to use the King of the Forest as courtesy ambassador.

How's the poor fella going to face his relatives in the zoo?

First, we rob him of his pride. Then we make him take up various compromising positions: His jaws unnaturally curved upwards to form a smile. His paws propped outwards for a ready embrace. Worst of all, he's sometimes made to bend forward like a cooked prawn, his mane hidden in a helmet as he apologises for noisy, inconveniencing construction work.

Poor fella. And we wonder why he's a principal cast member in The Wizard Of Oz.

I'm not saying our Singapore's courtesy campaign is useless. I, for one, benefited from it -- I was the proud recipient of the Singha Courtesy Award in Mei Chin Primary School, when I was in Primary 2.

What I'm saying is, the people behind this Courtesy Lion campaign only got it half right.

Yes, it's a great idea to iconise the lion in a nationwide campaign. It's also a brilliant concept to teach kids about humility. "Ah Boy, you see? If Uncle Lion -- the mighty, mighty Lion -- can rip his balls apart and swallow his pride to be courteous, so can you, okay?"

But what has years of the courtesy campaign done to us? Can we truly say we're a nation of skipping Mary Poppins?

Do we feel so innately happy that we skip our way to the bus interchange every morning? Or break out into a cheery song and dance as we try to squeeze our way amid throngs of crowd during an MRT breakdown? Do we find ourselves twirling around blithely merry kids or spring up flowers to surprise their equally happy moms?

No, no, no and NO.

While we're not innately rude as a people, we aren't naturally happy.

In fact, to be naturally happy, we need to be natural: Let's not pretend that the only way to deal with one another is to be pretty and nice.

And here's where the Courtesy Lion campaigners must get the other half right: We must be polite whenever we can, but when politeness doesn't get us what we want, we revert to our lion nature.

I can say this with authority because 90 per cent of the time, I'm pleasant and polite.

Here's an example of how patient I am, whenever I receive cold calls from people who seem to determine I am so poor that I need a loan within the next five minutes of my life.

Caller: Hello, good afterrrrrnoon, may I speak to misterrrrr Lyong-Why-Keet?

Me: Yes, speaking.

Caller: Good afterrrrrnoon, Mr Lyong. This is (insert foreign-sounding name here), and I am calling from (insert company name here). The reason I am calling is (insert five long reasons here).

Me: So sorry to stop you there... I don't think I need a loan/spa package/gym tryout/insurance/curry puff/crayons (insert whatever freebies/baits here).

Caller: Oh, but mister LYONG (insert you-don't-know-what-you're-missing tone here), this is (insert super grand reason here).

Me: Yes, I understand, but I don't want to take up your time because I'm not interested. But thanks for calling!

Caller: Misterrrr Lyong, would you like to (insert reasons found on page five of manual)?

Me: No, thank you. Thanks for calling. Have a good day!

And mind you, I'm not making this up. I know it is tough to make cold calls, and these poor people have a quota to meet. Most of the time, the conversation ends well -- I don't offend anyone, and they know I'm not interested in their products.

You see, my mom has brought me up to be pleasant and polite to people around me. But the great thing about my mom is, she's flexible.

As I grew older, she tweaked my upbringing. You must be nice to people. Even if they aren't nice to you, you must still make an effort to be nice. And if they're still nasty, then you should be twice as nasty.

Sad, but true.

Case in point.

Years ago, I made a trip to Genting Highlands, and had requested for a non-smoking room.

When I checked in that day, I was told to leave my bags in a smoking room first, as the non-smoking one wasn't ready.

By the time I got back, the receptionist told me nonchalantly that there was no non-smoking room for me.

So I put on my best courtesy lion smile (paws propped outwards for a ready embrace, if need be), and asked very, very politely for it, saying that I was earlier promised a room.

"No more," the receptionist looked me in the eye and said with conviction.

"Do you think you can try please? I'm really allergic to the smell of cigarettes."

My friendly receptionist then proceeded to fiddle with her computer, then again looked at me nonchalantly and said "no more."

Okay, Wai Kit. Time for plan B: Cue feral lion.

Instead of kicking up a hissy fit, I took an intentional deep breath, and leaned forward slowly.

In a deliberately, menacing low tone, I said "I do not want to shout at you. So I want you to go get your manager, so that I can direct my unhappiness to. I want to speak to your manager. Now..."

And I made sure I enunciated every single word.

Our receptionist scrambled out of her seat (probably to check if she had peed in her panty) and returned cheerily. "Oh, sir, we found a room for you!"

It's a very unfortunate example, but Mummy is right. First, we try to be polite. But if we don't get fair reciprocation, we go on the offensive.

I'm not advocating that we should all claw at one another if we don't get what we want.

But here's what needs to be communicated in the campaign.

Be polite -- or else.

Since, throughout the years, we haven't exactly made progress where courtesy is concerned, it's high time we're reminded that there are consequences for not being pleasant and polite.

Roar.

My fart will go on

If I like you enough, you'd know.

And if I love you, then there's no way you'll miss it.

Unless there's something wrong with your nose.

Yes, take a deep breath. When I get really comfortable with you, I'll fart with abandon. And I maintain that there's nothing wrong with that.

I mean, you fart, I fart, everyone farts so there's nothing wrong with it.

Then again, if it's a case of you fart, I fart, and everyone farts AT THE SAME TIME, then it's a different story. It'd be the end of the story.

So don't recoil at the thought of my farting, because it's something very close to my, erm, heart.

Having said that, I stress that I do have nimble muscle control.  I can fart in staccatos if I want, and I can hold the fart in when necessary, trust me.

For me, most of my happy memories involve farts.

Once, I was in a bus with a few friends in Australia when a girl friend of mine quietly let one pass her gantry. We realised it seconds later, only when we started convulsing and nearly frothing from the mouth.

I three days never shit already, my girl friend confessed sheepishly, in between fits of giggling and gagging.

Then, there was the time when I stayed overnight at a friend's place. The three of us were chatting in his bed when I merrily farted under the blanket. It wasn't until one of them lifted the blanket that the smell drifted out as if we were under chemical warfare attack.

Instinctively, the two of them took cover -- by springing off the bed as if it were on fire. And we had such a good time guffawing non-stop for the next 15 minutes.

Till this day, we look back fondly at that memory.

In NS, I met my kryptonite.
I had one squad mate who'd employ a most disturbing method to deal with peoples' farts -- he'd comically take in deep, desperate breaths while others ran for cover.

Again, those were such happy memories.  

Which is why I'm writing this today.

I know it's not a palatable topic, but let me pooooot it this way - so hear me out.

I am glad I have friends with whom I can share the gaseous state of my dinner.

And if you're one of those, you'd have been through thick and thin with me, depending on what I ate.

Nothing beats being able to let it rip like there's no tomorrow, while you're in the comfort of your friends' company.

I feel so accepted.

To me, this is freedom of expression.

Granted, not everyone likes to play the gassing game like I do.

But it's the same principle nevertheless.

In my case, it's being able to fart freely around friends (and not fear about being attacked).

In yours, it could come in various forms: Being comfortable enough to dance like you're having fits in a club (and not worry about friends discreetly retreating from you on the dance floor).

Or feeling confident enough to heck it and hit those high notes at the KTV (regardless much your friends will squirm at it).

And most importantly, being able to make an honest opinion heard (and not worry about being judged by your friends).

If you have such friends, tie them up and don't let them go. These are keepers.

So friends who've smelled my farts, be assured. My fart will go on.

When I'm 34, you're invited to my funeral

Life is one big cycle.

When I die, I imagine I'd see light at the end of a tunnel, and instinctively move towards it.

Just like how on August 4, 1979, I saw light at the end of a tunnel, and instinctively moved towards it.

And since life and death are intertwined, I thought it would be interesting to mark my birthday next year, like I would a funeral.

I'm not saying people will celebrate at my funeral -- I hope I have no such evil friends.

I'm just thinking... birthdays will be so much more fun (and meaningful) if they were treated like funerals.

Die-die will come

Have you ever made grand plans for a party, only to learn that one or more of your friends have something crop up at the very last minute?

Well, excuses no more, if you treat your party like a funeral. People actually make time to attend these sombre events regardless how busy they are. So yes, I can expect full attendance.
  

Theme players

It's tough to get people to stick to a fashion or colour theme for a party. You send an invite, state in plain English to attend that party in smart casual. Or black tie. Or specify a colour code to stick to.

In the end, you find you're the only idiot who sticks to that theme.


With funeral-like birthday parties, you can be assured guests will respect dress codes. Nobody attends funerals dressed for the mardi gras (unless they're one of the funeral band members).

Present perfect

I'm not materialistic but imagine the sort of gifts you get if you organise funeral-like birthday parties. For one, people will pass the hat around to give you cash.

Plus, you can potentially receive uber expensive gifts, such as sports cars, mansions, Rolex watches and even a pair of domestic helpers!

Wishful thinking

Don't get me wrong when I say this, but we really need to be more creative when we wish friends on their birthdays.


But if you're invited to a funeral-like birthday party, you would probably have to crack your head to say something original about the funeral-birthday boy/girl. Which is good, because this way, people are forced so think of nice -- and sincere -- things to say.

I'd imagine my guests would say things like:

Oh, Wai Kit... he loved to fart -- that's quite, you know, common.

Wai Kit and I had been such great friends. And here's what I really love about him... (tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock).

On your marquee 

I've always wanted such a huge birthday bash that, to accommodate all my guests, I'd have to set up a marquee. And I might get just that, if I plan my birthday like a wake, leading up to a funeral.

Last, caution

Last but not least, the reason I think funeral-themed birthday parties is a great idea is, it reminds us to treasure all that we have.


We should mark the passing of every year with a celebration of what we've achieved thus far.

And while we want to look forward to another great year -- or many, many years -- to come, we should also not forget to treat each day as if it were our last.

That way, we might learn to live our lives with more gratitude, as well as celebrate and appreciate the simple joys that surround us, and which we sometimes fail to see.