Cos the Ching Chong Chup-Bowl don’t stop. No it never stops, riding off the flavour of the previous post, here’s a few snapshots of how the Choo Choo Ching Chong Chup-Bowl train just keeps on comin’ thru:
(Note: I can say Ching Chong cos I’m Ching Chong. If you have only the Ching or the Chong or neither, say it only if you like cigarette face burns & 3 fingers left on each hand in the morning. Ahhh the beauty of controversial racially inappropriate double standards – I’m onto it)
My dad baked a cake by mixing banana & tasty cheddar cheese together. He argued it was ‘cheesecake’ even though he used cheese meant for pizza. I was forced to eat it and then I gagged – not in a nightclub laneway ‘well I should keep on going cos the guy at the bar bought me a drink’ kind of way. But more in a ‘this is what a banana with a bacterial yeast infection tastes like’ kind of way. He might be trying to get this on the menu at Lucky Duck Chinese Restaurant. Keep on walking.
My dad plays ping pong every Sunday. He wears these shoes to Ping the Pong. I think my dad’s in a gang. And bright orange is their Wu Wong Tang gang bang colour. I need to look for chopsticks with p.i.m.p inscribed on the side with fake diamonds and hoes hiding in the rice storage bin to be sure. Meanwhile everyone beware. If you see and smell a Honda that’s using toilet freshener as car fragrance slowing rolling up beside you on the road – don’t try & be a hero when that ping pong bat points at you through the back window.
Dad bought this turbo massage chair. It’s compliance with health and safety standards is as questionable as the place of birth stated on his Australian passport. Sit in this chair for 20 minutes with the vibration settings on high and you’ll be circumcised – yes that includes you too ladies. It’s here to stay so I’ve decided I must de-sensitise myself to its power. To do this I will lay on it nightly … naked … face down …with a glass of wine … until it’s safe … hey don’t hate the player people, hate the manufacturer…
Dad installed this satellite on the roof. Communist Terrorist – Maybe. Gangster – Definitely. Check out the puffer vests below – rocked only by those feared in the hoods cos mum & dad are nothing but pure bad ass Chup-Bowl:
In our house, it’s not ‘Trouble’, it’s ‘Chup-bowl’ – I see you struggling to pronounce it. Ok, drop down to a squat, slip on some kung fu cloth shoes, aim a video camera at the TV, shoot whatever movie’s on (make sure your cousin’s forehead’s visible in the shot as he ducks down past). Now bark at any 7 year old child nearby to start dubbing & transcribing those subtitles (their small hands can work quicker than yours). Allow the method acting to transform your speech. Eventually ‘Trouble’ will become ‘Chub-ble’. And then slowly feel it chinky-ly transform into the desired ‘Chup-bowl’. This means the final stage of ethnic speech correction is complete.
So what’s Not Recommended for this edition? Home ‘Improvements’ like this:
This is the set up you’ll see in the toilet of my parent’s house. No it’s not a shelf for guests to rest their chopsticks while eating noodles in a cup on the can. It’s part of an elaborate hooked up contraption invented by the King of the Temple and Father of the Empress himself in his quest to be the master of water conservation. From what I can see, but have avoided finding out for sure (the less you know, the less of a reliable legal witness you’re considered), the electrical wire leads to a plug that operates some kind of motor that channels some murky liquid from a huge plastic garbage bin/bucket container in the back garden to a pipe. The murky liquid is pumped out of the container and travels through the pipe to flush the toilet whenever the button is pressed. The murky liquid is actually excess water collected from the washing machine every time a load of washing is done. Try this same set up at your own home & you’ll be asking for Chup-bowl. Get my dad to install it for you (with a hand written ‘Certificate of Safety’ spelt ‘Certifike of Siftte’ provided) and that Chup-bowl is Dup-bowl.
Look closely at the photo: Note the ultra-fine craftsmanship of the barely there wooden plank mounted on the wall. Appreciate the seamless entry of the electrical wire’s insertion through the plaster. Every time I flush the toilet I nervously hear the loud constipated choke of the rumbling motor outside (no doubt one of our neighbours has a motorised something that’s now mysteriously missing a motor). Every time mum does the washing I’m worried I’ll see her thermals again as scrunched up missiles shooting out the toilet hole into my face when I go to flush. So people of Australia and possibly some living in the other hemisphere, know this: If you see a saturated little girl with long black hair covered in foaming detergent clutching toilet paper while speedily rocketing through the sky with underwear at her ankles letting off sparks and smoke, it means my dad’s blown the shitter through the roof – it’s not an inventive firecracker experiment we’re trying for Chinese New Year.
For those who’ve been with me since last year you’d have noticed an absence – you see I’ve been on a hiatus, up in the mountains, living in a bamboo hut, playing the pan pipes, milking goats, milking monks, milking myself, snorting fertiliser and dancing for the crops. Some of this is true (everything to do with milking) but most of it’s bullshit as I’ve been nowhere near the mountains. Just away from the blog.
I wasn’t away finding myself – who needs to with the availability of cheap liquor, free flowing prescriptions and loyalty reward points at the local pharmacy (handy hint: don’t be picky with expiry dates – it’s not just liquor that gets better with age). It’s not the first time I’ve been absent for a prolonged period and it most likely won’t be the last (The Empress can be a scathing bitch but she never makes promises she can’t keep). But really, as the great distinguished scholars and philosophers in history have posed: Does it really even fucking matter? I write when I can. You read when you want – that’s our dance, that’s how we play it, roll it, give it, take it. That’s blog action, that’s human interaction – all of us removed and individual but intercepting sporadically in those moments when something brings us back to the same point – to either intertwine with or grossly repel one other – we’ll only really know which one when that time comes and it won’t be the same outcome every time.
So here we are right now at that same point as I break the seal I’ve had on this blog for the 1st post of 2011. Yippeee! Go fetch that shady prescription for uppers from Dr Woo Wang Wong and partaaay with me! Relax I’m not advocating abusing this or that or anything illicit, I’m just advocating thinking for yourself about what’s right for you as I’ve done for me. If you have beef with that then speak to my agent (which is me and I’m just going to tell you to fuck off). But I do want to thank the fine people of the blog’s readership for continuing to tune in during my unexplained absence (possibly to re-read some older posts looking for the point – good luck with that) and for enquiring about my long awaited ‘come-back’ (which should occur not long after my even more long awaited ‘come-down’). So I think I should try to make a point now:
When you’re back from being far away, when you’ve been off – off-line, off the phone, off all the guest lists for those get-togethers, off in that space in your mind not open for business to serve anyone else – you always know who the good people are when you return: the people who are strong in the knowledge of who they themselves are and therefore know it’s not always about them when you don’t materialise for a very long time. And those times do come people – you all know this and I’m sure you’ve all been there. Say the un-sayable and say, ‘here are the greatest secrets that nobody knows’ but only if you want to share. Share because you want to reveal but not because you feel you owe or are indebted or feel forced to appease and make that well worn and overused criticism of ‘not making the effort’ go away. ‘The effort’ is in people being able to look outside of themselves to respect that others handle themselves in their own way, in their own time.
You don’t need to see who takes the chance to fuck your boyfriend/girlfriend to know who’s real – just be inaccessible for awhile and see how your world reacts – watch the needy ego-centric scum rise to the surface crying for an explanation before you’ve even had a chance to adjust your eyes to the light. Those who command my respect don’t demand a justification. Those who demand a justification might want to ask why they need to have their balls licked as an apology for me not sucking them whole when I wasn’t in a place to be fucked with the gag.
If looking at the above pic makes you concerned, don’t worry – the cat’s ok, that’s premium beer he’s on. Only the best for my pussy.
You’ve read this blog. And no I’m not high when I write my posts (yes, been asked this – you know who you are). I’m just unconventional perhaps. I must be because all that’s ‘conventional’ is plain dead uncomfortable around me (yes, been shown this – you know who you are).
As a child I assumed my experiences growing up were ‘normal’. But judging by the outside world’s reaction to the adult finished product, I’m starting to suspect not.
Help me out people. Was it just me? I need to know:
Was it just me … who was forced to wear a traditional bright gold embroidered imperial style padded Chinese jacket for her grade 4 primary school photo, looking like some kind of under-aged warlord midget pimp amongst a bunch of Aussie kids in shorts and t-shirts?
Was it just me … who had a scheduled ear cleaning session with my father every month where he shone the blinding light from a lamp into my ear like the ear was being interrogated? And then with an actual ear cleaning stick (they exist – purchased from the Asian grocers, thin with a mini scoop at the end), attempt to dislodge and remove stubborn bits of ear wax which usually turned out to be actual parts of my inner ear?
Was it just me … who was told by her mother that I shot out of her one day while she was on the toilet and looked down to see something random floating in the bowl with a pair of eyes? Clearly the stalk in the sky explanation couldn’t convey my value as an addition to the family as much as this particular version of events.
Was it just me … who was forced to fast for 24 hours before we went to an all you can eat buffet restaurant in order to ‘build up the hunger’ and therefore get our money’s worth?
Was it just me … who was then restricted from picking non-protein items and potatoes from the all you can eat buffet because they wasted stomach space reserved for the ‘expensiveful’ offerings – ‘Why eat 3 bowl chips, eat 18kg prawn, we pay saaame pliiicce’.
Was it just me … who asked my mother for a perm to revamp my generic poker straight oriental hair? Only to be taken to the ‘local hairdresser’ of my aunty’s garage to be given a perm on purely just my fringe? (my ‘bangs’ for the North American crew). I wanted to go from chinky to kinky. I stayed chinky except now I had a new mini afro sprouting from my forehead. Where’s that can of Soul Glo when you really need it?
Was it just me who … was told by her father that 3 fried eggs piled on top of one another was called ‘quiche’, toast spread with ketchup was called ‘pizza’, and boiled lettuce with soya sauce was called ‘salad’. Assimilation is his middle name. Asian ‘fusion’ cuisine is his game.
But chill – perhaps it’s possible that despite it all (and oh there’s so much more … so so much more), it can be argued that I have ended up stable, demure and respectable. Always composed. Always refined. Never out of control. Never caught off guard. ‘Only god can judge me’ – Tupac Shakur.
When I started this blog I decided my ‘target audience’ should be the segment in society called: humans. That’s right, I really don’t give a fuck who wants to come and read this shit. You might be a millionaire reading with time to kill between stacking bills or you’re living a more casual cash-in hand lifestyle low on coin reading while sucking man stick for crazy crack and a biscuit. Whatever and whoever, just like with your local Community Legal Centre or the unmarked van with the blacked out windows parked in the laneway, Empress Evelyn welcomes all.
But some of you out there are some real Mayor of Freaky Town type mother fuckers. WordPress gives me a daily listing of the terms the peeps using the net have ‘searched’ for through search engines before somehow ending up at me, my picture, my posts etc whether meaning to or not. Brothers and Sisters, what the fuck?:
– ‘Tijuana Hooker’: That’s really offensive. I’m Chinese, not Mexican.
– ‘Cock Sucking Whores’: That’s really offensive. Who said I ever asked to be paid.
– ‘Chinese Person Waving’: Indeed, it’s me ‘waving away’ the money being paid.
– ‘Pheasant Puppets’: ?? Do I even mention this on my page anywhere? Interestingly, this search was made on the same day as the next one below, hopefully they’re not meant to be … ‘connected’ …
– ‘Anus’: I thought the picture I had up was of my face. Is it that bad?
– ‘Busty Asian’: Debatable. But it’s all relative. I reckon I could easily score a gig at Hooters – Shanghai branch only though.
– ‘Busty Fucks’, ‘Fuck Anus Women’ and ‘Fuck Bitch Friction’: I think I know what you’re after. I can arrange this.
– ‘Bush Pigs’: I think you’re after something like the above. But with fat hairy people. I can arrange this.
– ‘Armpits’: Why would you search for one kind of body part? With all the friction from the hardcore anus and bitch fucking going on, this must be some kind of ‘back up’ spot. Man that’s nasty people, you all gots no shame.
– ‘Large Rusty Sign’: Yes, if any part of your body is getting largely rusty, it’s a sign to ease up on all that back up armpit fucking …
Sorry if all your items weren’t on my site as promised by your search engines. Empress Ev hopes you eventually hit on what you were seeking for. And also that your credit card payments weren’t rejected. And also that your wife didn’t walk in while your pants were undone – as you squatted over your keyboard … So now you all know, it’s rock hard cock work trying to maintain a respectable fucking blog without getting some odd traffic from questionable searches for no damn big black double ended dildo horny Asian twins easy and ready kind of reason at all.
Hey crew – it’s been awhile, I’m not going to act like I was just here yesterday. What happened? Life happens. Things happen, things get fucked up and then you’re caught up not necessarily where you want to be. But I’m here now and it feels fucking great to be in a space that’s all mine, like I’m drinking, dancing, laughing and fucking upside down all at the same time – how’s that for some No Bull?!
It’s been an intense 12 months as I’ve been living intensely, struggling to decide which direction to go towards, contemplating the crossroads, serving eviction notices to the bull-shit and engaging people in a dialogue about how we make the decisions that we do. As I said in a previous post, Never Will Be Still (https://empressevelyn.wordpress.com/2010/09/03/never-will-be-still/ – click it son – no shame in cross-pollination promotion), sometimes we all feel really far out and we need a certain something to pull us way back in. If you don’t get this, then leave now and head back to the meth lab of your mother’s laundry room for your next hit. This is real talk and even the strongest and level-headed of us all have stood under the decent of dark clouds wondering how the fuck to rise above. The answer and ultimate way to live is by intuition – that wave of knowing and awareness that you feel in your guts, prostate, heart, colon, whatever. But for some reason, when all these things are firing signs, shots, and omens towards one targeted clear direction, answer and solution – we somehow manage to brew up some kind of convoluted toxic concoction of a rationale or notion and go towards the completely opposite direction.
And just like the end-result of any convoluted concoction i.e. like mixing ice-cream with oyster sauce (hey, it was suggested that the salty-ness would complement the creamy-ness) all you end up with is a distasteful combo of heart wrenching regret, vile tastes in your mouth and possibly 3 days of flaming diarrhoea (so I’ve heard). Here’s a news feed of the past 3 months: someone I know got burnt by a ‘close friend’ real bad, even though she always suspected this ‘friend’ had been sabotaging her behind her back for years. But she stayed loyal hoping for the best. But yesterday she found out the deepest betrayal had been done and the dissemination of her deepest secrets was complete. Someone else went out of his way for his employer, living by his strong work ethic, he did duties beyond the call of duty. But when judgement day again came for recognition, he simply wasn’t recognised. It’d happened many times before but he forced himself to tell himself that recognition was coming eventually. But the real him had known way back in time that he had a better chance of getting his menstrual period every month than a promotion.
And now here’s one from me: I got the high marks in high school, did the prestigious University degrees, got the coveted job prospects and took the secure respectable job. My job’s so secure I could shit on every desk in the office and still not get fired. Management would just send me to some therapy session to complete the ‘Why I need to shit on desks to feel accepted’ self development course. As I crossed the hazy line from young adulthood into real adulthood I thought living like a robot was the right way even though doing so just kept on making me feel restless, sick, apathetic, manic … and well, wrong. I told myself that enduring ‘wrong’ meant that I was strong. As isn’t this what life is meant to be – linear and routine? I thought over time I’d blend into it, ease into it. I thought I was Noble by doing the ‘right’ thing. But Nobility had no place residing inside a fuckwit who was Self Deluded. Nobility has nothing to do with living in the absence of recognising the truth. Don’t start sending me Prozac people, it’s all good. I never claimed to be the prophet. But when I started this blog I committed to being sincere by writing what I know we’re all thinking, but very often just simply could not say. So here’s what I say:
The signs are there, the warnings are exposed for the taking … so fucking take it and own it. Don’t read into a ‘good’ in people and in things that are unwritten and non-existent. There’s no dignity in claiming you only wanted to try and see the best in people and find the good in futile pursuits. Because when you failed to find it, all you saw were tears as you cried crouched like a little bytch in a dark corner. Own the truth that has been presented to you early on, fuck the fuckers a new fuck hole and walk away never looking back. No Bull. Be Noble. Cull the pest species. Only then do you walk as the noble one and live with true dignity.
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I want to express a sincere thank you to everyone who contacted me directly about this post. I’ve received many texts, emails, Facebook msgs and calls regarding the content since I put it up and I appreciate the choice to not express thoughts and feedback through comments publically in this instance. Turning yourself inside out to put a message out is risky – I know this.
I was told many times over the post was really confronting. Good. Some said it made them feel uncomfortable. Good. As I said, I’m no prophet – I’m just a person like you wanting to start a dialogue so we can start saying the un-sayable – whether it’s between you and me, you and someone else or you with yourself – E xx
‘The Greatest Show on Earth’ is often used to describe and sell some kind of flashy grand Big Top circus show. I often use the concept of a circus in attempts to explain and provide insights into the inner workings of my family. And indeed this comparison is extremely harsh and unfair – to the circus. Because even the circus as a commercial enterprise has some manner of standards; restrictions on its performances regarding the extent to which the audience should be shocked and baffled. In fact this is the case with any kind of performance – whether it’s in the movies, on television or up on stage in the theatre. Even fucked up feral material like people shitting on each other or people trying to hump animals, vegetables, dwarfs etc has classifications to enable degrees of choice and control with what you see & hear.
There’s no communal cross-shitting or pet pumping going on in my family (that can be proved) but I wish that sometimes I could just be pre-warned about their relentless show-time antics – so I can at least prepare to cover my ears, close my eyes, change the channel, boycott the theatre or just fucking get the entire show banned (and the ‘cast’ deported) altogether. The family’s a recurring theme in my blog – because the family’s an unavoidable theme in my life. And I’m arguing that it’s also one in yours whether you currently choose to have anything to do with them or not. I’m an adult now but there remain things both said and done by them that still continue to unsettle the fuck out of me, behaviours and choices that won’t cease to confuse and unhinge me making me go ape shit crazy whether they’re near or far:
Episode 1: There’s been a long running feud between my mum and her younger sister in China. It started a few years ago after my mum’s last visit to see members of her WuTang clan back in the motherland. One moment they’re all close like some fucking ching chong version of Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen and then they abruptly morphed into each other’s public enemy number one. What trouble brewed in the province? Who the fuck knows? I don’t want to know (just like I don’t want to know why cash is so strictly enforced as the primary method of payment in the Chinese community). All I know is that it went from them addressing each other on the phone traditionally according to Chinese custom, ‘Greetings elder sister/ Greetings younger sister, how is you?’ to behind the scenes references by my aunt of my mum as ‘that cock sucking fat slum hag in Australia’ (a loose translation has been applied here, but the overall sentiment is the same). But then my aunt arrives in Australia recently for a visit and they chat, giggle and cook their way through the month of September. They were making happy good time wok stir fry music together without addressing to anyone, and I suspect even to each other, the insignificant side matter of their 3 year term of resentment and estrangement.
They don’t trust each other and it’s likely they thought nothing of talking shit about each other behind closed doors … even while living under the same roof. But as the bystander watching their reunion and the farcical insincerity of it all, the ‘scene’ made me feel sick because it all seemed way too familiar – because it hit me then that this same show has been played out before way too many other times from the core to amongst the most far reaching branches of my extended family. It’s a show that’s been staged continuously amongst various family members throughout the past like some mass money making Broadway hit. And it’s most likely being played out right now somewhere in the present as I write and later on, as you read. There’s too many multi layered secrets, criss-crossing claimed loyalties, and corrupt versions of re-written history and face-saving cover-ups to ever really know the details of the what, why and how of who’s playing and hustling on who. I don’t get the plot but I do know this: there’s a large cast with a variety of different actors and many of them were born with the same surname. It’s the way it goes – it’s the Greatest Fucking Show on Earth, everyone acting their fucking flat arses off.
‘What the fuck was that?’ Indeed. Stay tuned, the above is just a scratch on one patch of the mind’s surface. Like with all 1st episodes of any show, not everything is clear and not all questions are answered.
