Posted by MyLaowai on Wednesday, July 13, 2016
#Chexit: China out of the South China Sea
I guess you can’t just pick and choose which international agreements you have to honour, eh?
Posted by MyLaowai on Saturday, June 25, 2016
Got so much money you don’t know how to spend it? Yeah, I know. It’s tough. I mean to say, there are only so many times you can have your Aston detailed before the shine blinds you. And frankly, I’m a bit over bathing in champagne. Which is why I was so delighted to be introduced to a new book, priced at a level that ensures you can afford it, and your coolies cannot. Read about it here:
I’ve read this, and it’s my considered and very important opinion that you should, too. At the very least, it’ll give you something to do while you’re waiting for the champagne bath to fill. Again.
Posted by MyLaowai on Saturday, June 4, 2016
Posted by MyLaowai on Friday, April 1, 2016
What Country are YOU?
Unsure where your boundaries lie? Separatists giving you a bad day? Lacking identity in a world plunged into ethnic crisis? If so, perhaps YOU need to take the Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test to find out which country you are. The Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test is the only method endorsed by the United Nations guaranteed to inform confused nations on their official diplomatically recognised title. Just read some of the following endorsements:
“For years I thought I was just the 51st state of America, but after taking the Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test I actually realised I wasn’t!”
“I used to be a sad, overweight, depressed Yugoslavian Republic, but thanks to the Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test, I dumped my allied nations and became a size 10!”
– Bosnia Herzegovina.
“I was so overjoyed when the Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test told me that my population were God’s Chosen People that I went out and attacked the Lebanon!”
So grab your pencils, repress your minorities, and get ready to find out what country are YOU! *
(* The Sinocidal Patented Nationality Test is not responsible for any resulting civil wars, foreign invasions, or attacks from Godzilla)
Question One: How do you allow your citizens to top-up their mobile phones?
A: A simple and easy to use combination of customer accounts, top-up cards, and access points in most convenience stores across the nation.
B: A similar combination of customer accounts and top-up cards, but with the added bonus of making it virtually impossible to add money to your phone once you are outside the city where you registered your phone. So, if some poor resident from Qingdao has to go to Shanghai for two weeks to renew his passport, he’ll find his phone is practically useless because he can’t buy the correct cards and the only suggestion he gets from the staff in China fucking Mobile is “Make sure you have enough money on your phone for your time outside your city.” Well, guess what? I had plenty of money on my wax-covered telephone, but because you charge double for making or receiving any calls once you step one foot outside of your respective city, that money drains away like the happiness in my heart drained away when I first set foot in this country.
C: Your citizens don’t have telephones; they prefer to communicate via magic crystals and flying griffin couriers.
Question Two: How do your citizens pay their electricity bills?
A: Most people pay through direct debit accounts, though other options like paying by cheque or ready cash over the counter are also acceptable for elderly citizens.
B: Have a completely different system for every single city and town within your boundaries, so that there is never any way a mortal person could get too comfortable. In one certain city, implement a system where you can only pay by bankbook and refuse actual money even when it is waved beneath a teller’s nose. However, create the computer system so badly that it breaks down for about three months continuously, thus preventing anybody from paying their electricity bill even if they want to. Do absolutely nothing for three months to get the system back online, but continue to refuse customer’s ready cash and pleas for clemency. Hopefully this will result in a situation where somebody is unable to pay his bill for months, goes to Shanghai for two weeks to renew his passport, and comes back to find his power cut off. The fucking cunts.
C: The only electricity in your country is contained within a magical lamppost that shows the way to a gateway leading towards the World of Man.
Question Three: How do your people keep warm?
A: Radiators, central heating, warm insulation, double glazing, and cups of tea. Except for students, who prefer to do their coursework in launderettes and save the heating money for cans of cider and tobacco paper.
B: For starters, completely disregard everybody who lives in the south. Everybody knows that the south is warmer than the north, so why bother providing heating facilities anywhere, despite the fact that for the last 5000 years winters below the Yangtze have all dipped below zero. So when a poor guy is stuck on a friend’s floor in Shanghai for two weeks waiting for a new passport (and the reason why he is forced to stay on the floor is because you have a policy of not allowing people to check into hotels or fly back to their towns of residence while they might be temporarily without identification), he’ll be so cunting cold that his balls contract deep into his body and begin to poke out of his anus. And the north? Well, you’re not for one moment going to allow your citizens the freedom of controlling their own heating, so you decide when they can and cannot be warm. Except they won’t be warm anyway, because when your corrupt engineers come round to check the boilers, they deliberately don’t fix them properly so you have to call them round again and pay them more money. Is it any wonder why most people choose to walk around looking like the bastard son of the Michelin Man and the Pillsbury Dough Boy?
C: It has been difficult to keep warm since the wintry curse of the White Witch, but most beavers build fires from the wood they collect.
Question Four: What happens when a burglary occurs in your land?
A: The unfortunate victims would contact the police, and claim the losses from their insurance if they possessed any.
B: Encourage your inept police force to investigate the recent series of robberies, not by tracking down the criminals and bringing them to justice, but by sticking a notice up on the front door of every compound asking residents to report any foreigners who might be living in the area unregistered. Not only does this ensure local residents automatically connect the recent break-ins to any unlucky foreigners living in the vicinity, but it also ensures that any foreigners returning from a two-week passport application in Shanghai are greeted by screaming neighbours banging on their door and a pointless few hours down the police station whilst they check my documentation. Add to this the alarm when the police discover that the foreigner’s passport number has now changed, and you’ve got a fairly typical example of the needless and crippling bureaucratic nightmare which consists of so much of my life right now.
C: The beloved King Aslan would be asked to sacrifice himself for your sins on an ancient stone table.
Question Five: If one of your citizens is in a foreign country and needs a new passport, what do they do?
A: Spend more than two soul-destroying weeks shivering on a friend’s floor in Shanghai because the whole process does not take seven days like you advertised on your consulate’s website.
B: God only knows. Probably something involving agreeing to be anally buggered for thirty uninterrupted years and sacrificing your first born to a portrait of Karl Marx.
C: Passports are unnecessary because most travel is conducted through magical wardrobes and pictures of boats hanging in the bedrooms of upper-middle-class Victorian children.
How did you do?
Mostly A’s: You are the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Your favourite colour is blue and you enjoy making model aircraft at the weekends. Basically, you’re not such a bad guy, though you could probably improve your image by nailing the popular tit-model Jordan to a wooden cross and sealing it within a coffin filled with broken glass.
Mostly B’s: You are the People’s Republic of China. Your favourite colour is student blood red and you enjoy sushi at weekends. In order to increase your economic development, it is strongly recommended that you vacuum seal anybody connected to the financial, communication, legal, medical and political professions into a 27 kilometre high nuclear dildo and fire it into the sun.
Mostly C’s: You are the magical land of Narnia. You don’t actually exist except in the head of a crusty Victorian academic from the late 1800s who was possibly gay.
Mostly D’s: You’re doing the wrong quiz mate. Either that or you’re Belgium.
Posted by MyLaowai on Tuesday, March 1, 2016
Knocking one out in the Middle Kingdom… and the aftermath
Oh, hello there Reader (you’ll have to imagine that I’m sat behind a large oak desk and that I’m turning towards you as I put down my trusty pipe), I’m glad you came. You see, I’ve been asked by my dear fellow Sinocidal members to say a few words about my days as a writer in China. In the next few paragraphs I’m going to dazzle you with secret irony, disseminate essential information, let you in on a bit of the secrecy behind those draped media curtains, and even use two or three of Sinocidal’s Five Hardy Jokes. In short, you’re going to have a ruddy good time. Or are you? Or ARE you? OR ARE YOU? No, not really, no.
And if this all sounds a bit self-indulgent: you’re right. However, I’m contractually obliged to be dead by the end of this article, so indulge me.
A few years ago I used to work for Hangzhou’s premier English language toilet paper: In Touch Zhejiang. IT, as nobody affectionately referred to it, was a wonderful and worthy read; full of fascinating articles that didn’t scratch one’s arse too much as you wiped shit all over them. However, during the period that I worked for In Touch, the magazine committed many gross and unforgivable crimes and, quite frankly, resembled the NEFARIOUS HANDIWORK OF HE WHO WALKS BACKWARDS. “Why do you say that then?” asks Reader Stuart N Hardy of Yuhuan District, Taizhou. Well Stuart, it’s simple. That magazine was responsible for more than its fair share of errors and wrongs.
Now, I’m not talking about little errors which any of us could commit unintentionally – the slaughter of millions of Chinese during a Great Leap Forward, say – I’m talking about major crimes up there on the same level as Superman IV: The Quest for Peace. Grammatical errors, appalling examples of Chinglish in leading articles, any article containing sentences beginning with “In Chinese peoples’ eyes…” or “With a history of five thousand years…” And far too many pages devoted to luring naïve businessmen into investing x amount of dollars into y Special Economic Zone of z county. But hey! That’s all part of the fun when you work for a Sinister Evil Mega-National Organisation! As any fule kno.
To quell my unease over the rotten rubbish I had written during my sentence on my magazine, I decided to make sure that my last ever article was going to see me leaving the magazine with a bang. Here, for your viewing pleasure, is that article:
Knocking one out in the Middle Kingdom
I enjoy my job about as much as a paedophile loves the onset of puberty, so to spice things up I sometimes turn my phone off and disappear for a few days. Many of these days are solely spent leisuring in the gentlemanly fashion: partaking of the pleasures of one’s own company. Normally I reserve these 24 hand shandy drinking marathons for the weekend; Palm Sundays were created by God for his hardworking creation to enjoy a day of wrist, but uncontrollable needs brought the vinegar strokes on this Wednesday.
I went to nearby Penglai to visit a friend, and her being A) Chinese, and B) A girl, the evening meant back in the hotel room by 8.30 rather than haggling for Chivas with some spiky haired tosspot of a barman. 8.30? Good grief, what is a man supposed to do stuck in a remote hotel room at 8.30? Back home, Heartbeat would only just be starting. I could have rang the hotel’s “masseur” service, but quite frankly I’m much cheaper and I’ve probably given more handjobs than most of the girls employed at the Haidu Hotel (handjobs to myself I mean, of course).
It was then I found myself in a position (ha! position!) that I haven’t been forced into since the dark days of my first arrival in China. I had no whacking material. Back home, by various means, I have managed to gather quite a considerable amount of pornographic DVDs and magazines, from Golden Showers to Double Vaginal Double Anals. Hell, the only reason I bought a computer was so that I could go online and see “Dutch girls with big boobs must be punished”. Yet suddenly, here I was gland in hand in the middle of Communist China without a single Jazz Mag or internet connection to help me out. I tried to close my eyes and do a thinky wank of my girlfriend, but thinky wanks are never as good as looky wanks, are they? My only option was CCTV: at best there might be some kind of variety performance with ethnic minority girls in khaki miniskirts, but unfortunately no. All I could find were flabby men in crinkled white shirts talking about One Country Two Systems. Normally that would do the trick, but not tonight. Finally, I found the only image of a young woman within 37 stations: the newsreader on CCTV9. Trying my best to filter out the sound of her horrible robotic English I proceeded to tug away at my old man; but it was no use. The complete and utter bollocks coming out of her mouth, and her serious buttoned-up business shirt, were turning me more off than on. It was then I took the only available option. I pressed the mute button and held up my elbow just below her face so that the crack in my arm made it look like she had some cleavage. After three minutes of this shameless act of self abuse, I had shot millions of never-to-be-born babies onto the Andrex Runway already prepared on my lower belly, and was ready for a good night’s sleep.
Without a doubt, that was probably the worst, the most miserable wank I have ever done in my life. Although some other things which I wanked over during my first few days in China come pretty close:
An illustration of a lady on a shampoo bottle.
Trying to catch the 0.000000001 millisecond on a Chinese Oil of Ulay advert when the woman looks naked.
A CCTV documentary about the Zhuang minority women of Guangxi Province.
My own drawing of a naked woman.
Standing in front of the mirror naked with a pair of breasts drawn on my chest in black marker pen.
So readers, if there are any of you, what is the crappest thing YOU’VE ever masturbated over in China? The best answer will receive a roll of toilet paper and a signed photograph of the late Hattie Jacques.
Was the article well received? Did the fun-loving expat masses of Hangzhou write in and thank me for daring to write something other than vile propaganda in their English magazine? Can The Fonz jump the shark? The answer to the first two questions was a definite NO. Three hotels withdrew their advertising from the magazine immediately, the editor was given a final warning, and the In Touch mailbox received letters for the first time ever demanding that the “sociopath” who had written the offending article should never be allowed to write again (little did they know I was already 500 miles from Hangzhou and had no intention of ever working for the Chinese media ever again). Sure enough, the next issue saw a return to translated articles about strawberry picking in Yuyao and messages from the mayor of Quzhou welcoming foreign businessmen to invest in his city.
In my opinion, anything was better than the insipid and uncomfortable propaganda that In Touch repeatedly published, and I did try to make a valid and subtle point in my infamous article that something is deeply wrong in a country where it is easier to sleep with a prostitute than it is to masturbate. Perhaps I was wrong, I really don’t know. That’s why I want to hear the opinions of all Sinocidally minded folk out there, and hopefully hear them say that I was right.
Was it a harmless and flippant article that just wanted to give a government mouthpiece a kick up the arse, or was it (as one American woman wrote in and said) “a vile piece of filth written by somebody who clearly has mental problems”?
What do you think?
(And in a further twist of fate, The Fonz’s jet skis break at the critical moment, and his limp body is torn apart by sharks. Oh, the irony of it all.)
Posted by MyLaowai on Friday, February 12, 2016
Best wishes to you, Mister Chairman, and to your lovely wife as well.
Posted by MyLaowai on Tuesday, February 2, 2016
5000 years of hurting the feelings of the Chinese people
Posted by MyLaowai on Monday, February 1, 2016
Food for thought…
There are two basic ways of ordering food in China. Try and guess which one I normally opt for.
1. Enter restaurant. Listen to 16 waitresses shout “欢迎光临” down your ear.
2. Despite the fact that you have entered the restaurant by yourself, and there is nobody else near the establishment for another 15 miles, the waitress asks if you want a table for one.
3. Follow waitress to table. Wait five minutes while the waitress clears the mass of bones, spit, foetuses, lost scrolls, blood, and monkey claws from the table with an oily rag.
4. Place tissue paper on chair and sit down. Of the 27 waitresses who gather round your table, tell 26 of them to go away.
5. Within 0.00000000001 millisecond of sitting down, the waitress is hovering behind impatiently.
6. In impeccable Mandarin, ask for a menu. Repeat angrily when waitress giggles, looks away, and shouts to her colleagues that she doesn’t understand English.
7. Tell waitress you don’t want the most expensive items she is pointing to on the menu.
8. Tell the waitress to bring you a beer while waiting. When it arrives, send it back and ask for a cold one.
9. When the waitress asks if you would like to drink the beer opened or unopened, ask her to open it.
10. Choose meal.
11. Choose different meal when told they don’t have it.
12. Repeat stages 10 and 11 about three times.
13. Finally choose something they have and ask them not to put any egg in it.
14. Relax. All the time, a million Chinese peasants are staring at you, spitting, and muttering: “laowailaowailaowailaowailaowai”.
15. After 20 minutes ask what is happening with your meal.
16. After another 20 minutes receive meal, then send it back because it has egg in it.
17. Seven days after you entered the place, finally receive meal.
18. Pick out the stones and pubic hair.
20. Halfway through your food, have your meal disturbed by the manager insisting on sitting down next to you and asking where you are from and if foreigners eat pork as well.
21. Ask to pay the bill, then tell them to check again after they give you the wrong bill.
22. Pay for meal. Waitress asks if you have the correct change which you do not. Wait another 15 minutes as she goes down the street to find change.
23. Leave when 16 waitresses shout “谢谢光临” at you. Waitress 17 will shout “Bye bye!” instead and everybody will find it hilarious.
24. Burn the place down. Then shit through the eye of a needle for two days afterwards.
25. Point 25? There is none.
1. Walk into McDonalds/KFC.
2. Point at what you want.
3. Eat and get the hell out.
Posted by MyLaowai on Friday, January 1, 2016
A Day in the Life of Dashan
It is a crisp May morning and the bright Canadian sunlight streams in through Dashan’s bedroom window. As the Chairman Mao alarm clock strikes seven o’clock, the words to The East is Red blare out, and still retain the same impeccable tones that Dashan uttered on the day he recorded that song.
Dashan awakes and surveys his bedroom. Photographs of himself shaking hands with vice-presidents of various Chinese enterprises adorn the walls in between posters of the times he has dyed his hair blonde and played Matteo Ricci, Edgar Snow, Nazis in Tibet, and other great figures on CCTV. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaps out of of bed and faces the mirror for his morning exercises.
“Ma, maaaa, maa, MA!” In pitch perfect Chinese, he repeats the four tones (the fifth neutral tone being beneath his contempt) again and again, safe in the knowledge that he hasn’t said a single one wrong. Then he takes one last look in the mirror, tells himself in Mandarin that he is the greatest, slips himself a wink, and heads off to the bathroom to brush his teeth with Darkie toothpaste.
Fifteen minutes later and Dashan, looking splendid in his authentic Republican-era gown, is in the dining room with a surly looking Dashan Junior. Breakfast conversations are always awkward affairs in the Rowswell household, and today is no exception. Dashan Junior tries his best to concentrate on his Captain Crunch cereal and ignore his father’s embarrasing attempts at small-talk.
“So…” begins Dashan, “You got English class at school today?”
Dashan Junior grunts in the affirmative.
“Well if you have, don’t forget your Dad’s trusty old Little Star Electronic Dictionary! Just the thing to push those grades up-up!” Dashan exclaims with a sunny grin.
Silently putting down his spoon, Dashan Junior gets up, makes his way across the table, and looks his dad firmly in the eye. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he spits in his father’s eye and slaps him harshly across the face.
“I’ve told you a million times already – never talk to me ever again. Understand?” And with that, Dashan Junior grabs his bag and heads out the door.
Alone, a single droplet of his son’s green mucus dribbling down his still sore cheek, Dashan sighs and ponders what he will do with his life today. The piles of unsold Little Star electronic dictionaries stacked around the kitchen remind him that fame hasn’t brought total success to Toronto’s finest. Although he lives comfortably enough from the money earned from the few TV shows he occasionally travels to China for, the rest of his life is a dull and empty void. China proved impossible to live in after hitting the bigtime (he shudders while remembering a particular incident involving a Shenyang shopping centre, 50,000 socially inept university students, and the never-ending cry of “Can you use chopsticks yet?”), but Canada has not proven to be ideal either. So far, Mark’s fellow Canadians have been unappreciative of his efforts in learning standard Mandarin and representing the world’s largest Communist Party, and the empty months in between CCTV gigs have become drawn-out and mundane.
Yet Mark Rowswell never became the mighty Dashan with that kind of attitude. With a new determined strength of spirit, he stands up and heads out onto the sophisticated streets of Toronto in order to prove himself. Perhaps, he wonders, I might even be able to siphon some money off the Canadian government that was originally intended to be used in order to prevent Quebecois separatist movements. Again.
Dashan chooses not to head down to the Chinatown on Spadina Street. He realised long ago that the Happy Canada Lucky Dragon Restaurant was not interested in a white-skinned Chinese-speaking hospitality manager. While he ponders where to go, he stops at a cigarette kiosk and asks for a packet of Zhongnanhai.
“Never heard of them, we only sell Marlboros and Camels,” says the gruff guy behind the counter.
“Oh, yes, I forgot that they only sell them in China,” smiles Dashan. Then, rather desperately, he adds “That’s where I live you know! I’m a big star there!”
“That must be very nice for you,” sighs the cigarette seller.
“Anyway, must be going, zaijian! Ooops, I must have been in China for too long, I mean goodbye!” Dashan grins and skips away.
“Who was that?” asks another customer.
“It’s that fucking Mark Rowswell again,” spits the cigarette seller, “He’s been saying the same thing every day for the last three years.”
Pleased at his display at the cigarette kiosk, Dashan decides to follow his success at the food court in the basement of the Eaton Shopping Centre on Yonge Street. On his way, he spots a couple of Oriental appearance walking past, and nearly collapses in excitement when he sees the lady catching his eye and approaching him. Unfortunately, they only want to know the way to the CN Tower, and not ask for his autograph. Undeterred, Dashan heads on.
A fairly large crowd is gathered outside the Singapore Sam’s stall in the Eaton Centre Food Court. Using the skills he learned in Beijing, Dashan slips into the crowd and pushes his way to the way to the front. He spots a young teenager about to order beef noodles, and stops her before she can do so.
“Hey there!” shouts Dashan amiably to the bemused teenager, who looks like she is about to shout for the police. “I see you’re about to order the beef noodles! In China, they are known as niu rou mian, or rather: cow meat noodles. However, in China, the main meat is pork, although chick…”
“Please go away and don’t hurt me,” cries the girl, “You can take my money but just go!”
“…China has a history of 5000 years, and the language reflects that. Ru xiang sui su is a saying meaning when in Rome…”
“Please… please, leave me alone.”
“Hangzhou meanwhile is known for it’s beautiful West Lake, and Suzhou for it’s many…”
“THAT’S ENOUGH ROWSWELL! NOW GET OUT!”
The burly manager of Singapore Sam’s has finally spotted the disturbance Dashan has been causing, and emerges from behind the counter with a substantially large meat cleaver. As Dashan runs away, the manager picks up a pile of leaflets left behind, and throws them at Dashan’s head.
“AND TAKE YOUR ELECTRONIC DICTIONARY LEAFLETS WITH YOU!”
It has been an exhausting day. After the trials and tribulations of the cruel Canadian day, Dashan has returned to the comfort of his propaganda decorated bedroom, and weeps beneath his embroidered cushions of Tiananmen Square. Only here, beneath the cheap certificates proclaiming him to be one of the “Ten Most Friendliest Foreigners in Beijing Haidian District: 1991″, does he feel any of the respect so rightfully deserved to him. Don’t these people understand how well he speaks Mandarin? He didn’t run all the way to China and became a star so that he could be treated the same way as the bigger boys used to treat him at school! The fucking laowai bastards!
Dashan considers watching his favourite film Red Dawn again on DVD to cheer himself up, but is interrupted by the welcome sound of Mrs. Dashan returning home. At last: a friendly face. The Dashans darken the lights, slip off their clothes, and play a little romantic music. However, something is wrong…
Dashan whimpers disappointingly. “It’s no good honey, I just can’t…”
“What’s wrong cutie?” Asks Mrs Dashan in a sweet voice. “Do you need me to get out the hand pump and the CO2 cartridges again?”
Dashan shakes his head. “No. I need more than that. You know what I need.”
“NO! You promised me that last time would be the last time! It’s not normal Mark!”
“PLEASE baby, do it for me,” pleads Dashan.
With a sigh of defeat, Mrs Dashan grunts in agreement and reaches down to the special box kept beneath the Rowswell family bed. Five minutes later, Dashan – dressed in a monkey costume with a hole cut away around the ringpiece – is being fucked up the arse by Mrs Dashan with a seven inch strap-on dildo and a rubber mask of Hu Jintao. Nearby, Dashan’s personal recording of The East is Red blares out again from the Chairman Mao alarm clock.
Mark has never been so happy.