Death on an Afternoon: Part 5

Then the air thickened, the lights flickered, a number of heads turned as a flock of attention-grabbing, good-looking, aesthetically-superior humanoids glided through. They seemed as if they just leapt out of the covers of Vogue and GQ.

I suddenly felt like a repulsive platypus amidst a drove of graceful swans. Two members of the “gorgeous-ness squad” caught me looking at them and flashed me the you-can-never-look-as-good-as-me stare, I spontaneously turned into mud.

Consoling myself, I began chanting my mantra: “Had God made me gwapo, I would’ve been perfect. But no one’s perfect, so He instead stuffed a little extra gray matter to compensate for the lack of aesthetic appeal.”

Then, a group of old Indian women, the “dot” kind, not the “feather” kind of Indians, walked past me. Wearing the traditional Sari, they looked so beautiful despite the age. One even looked like Aishwarya Rai (the supermodel). A 350-pound Aishwarya Rai, that is.

The world suddenly turned black-and-white. I spotted a couple ever so publicly displayed their affections, smacking every five seconds. Get a room people! I almost screamed. Tightly clinging on to each other, they reminded me of two leeches sucking each other dry.

Or were they just conjoined twins? Perhaps not, the lady was Caucasian, while the guy was … well … overcooked. (What do you call “tutong” in English? No, not overcooked or burnt rice. A trivia I always forget.) I wondered what they’re offsprings would be like. Dalmatians?

(to be concluded…)