Since the last post about the stupidity of Jan Moir, much has happened to want to make me pen it down, but on retrospect, I decided it was too flippant, trivial or simply not earth-shaking enough to warrant a blog entry and thus continuation.
What happened at the supermarket, whilst waiting at the checkout fuelled the impetus to pen it down: my ears were assaulted by the whinging, nasal tones of the complaining Singapore woman. Turning, I was confronted by the sight of a middle-of-the-road girl loudly bemoaning the appearance of a pimple on (to her) her flawless complexion.
Now Singapore women are eternally whiny, their voices irking like a sheep in pain. This was no different. What struck me was her language. It would have made a pirate blush. Every second word was either an expletive, a curse or a word demeaning men, boys and other people, in that order. The gist of her running narrative, was a diatribe on how despite her looks and charm (!?!?!?!?), she fails to hook a boyfriend. The reasons for that should be obvious, though not to her.
While I will expound on the many charms of the Singapore woman in a later post, this young woman embodies the bad in her sex: lack of looks, charm and wit - need I add she was dressed like a tramp, was wheeling a trolley which consisted of her and her friends' oversized shoulder bags and one (count em' folks, ONE!!!) can of beer. But instead of looking within, she conveniently takes pot shots in blaming everyone else around her. Then acts surprised when potential boyfriends flee in the opposite direction. Along with everyone else.
Maybe she'll get it next time.
If at all.
Onward!
