Where can I stab myself in the ears?

It was back in July when I have to accompany my mom to a small ex-army meeting. My late father was an ex-army before he decided to take off and joined the community-project inspired by our second prime minister, which now I think proved to be a success. Since my sister won't give up her sewing routine, I have no option but to sacrify my world cup game.

Mak Andak, my mom was one hell of a talkative lady. Especially when my family members do the driving. Worried that the driver fall asleep, she says.

There in the car was another ex army, Pak Usop. He used to be an ambulance driver at our so-called-clinic before appeal to live here, in the same community as us. He even got an already furnished house on a one acre land for a minimum hundred and fifty ringgit. Per month. Lucky he is.

So the drive was a bit thunderous I could say. Much of the talking, rounding back to the head of the ex-army association, Hussin. Pak Usop seems to enjoy himself disputing the wealthiness of this Hussin guy. All because he's formerly just an unknown chef in the army who turns out to be one of the influential guy in our community. Just.

"Tak payah la Mak Andak, saya kenal sangat Hussin tu. Kalau betul usaha dia, takde nak dapat rumah macam banglo tu. Hussin tu kalau tidak menipu, memang tak sah. Kita same melayu ni Mak Andak, kita boleh pikir la benda benda macam tu."

So that's how Malay suppose to think, huh? Well done then, comrade.

Or maybe he's right since the meeting was nothing but another political instrument with the theme of "See Mr. YB, we weren't just talking, we do our work" well placed on it oversized banner. Yeah. The YB was there and so were the other ex-army. And the food. But the meeting, wasn't.

They, at least right about the food thingy. Nasi beriyani gam and satay kambing. No, I don't give that a fuckin chance.

Heh.