reduced and recycled

After the ball-banging gusto with which our former Prime Minister administered verbal justice, our erstwhile friends from UMNO retreated to PWTC to lick wounds and share backslaps. Oh, the commiseration, the massive reaction and bulbous, apoplectic rage. Not a few whispers were heard amongst the gathered masses, the contents of which I will imagine for you, dear reader: “Why doesn’t he just die?” Badawi, faced by the direst challenge to his unruffled calm and elegant silence yet, must be all a-sweaty and a little non-plussed. Our brave leader, an unwitting party to this sudden drama, must have felt besieged; his replies stuttered, his words missed the mark, and his slow, blinking eyes matched his stupefied expression. (Captured in full glory by NST!)

Within days, if not minutes, the lovely, portly ladies of Wanita UMNO are laying scarves and whatnot at Badawi’s feet, declaring unswerving loyalty and undying support! Ministers, who’d normally kill for press-time, found ample opportunity in NST’s gratuitous advertorial for Badawi. A little snippet here, a little snippet there, you can hardly escape the drool! “UMNO! BADAWI!” they must’ve screamed, while giving each other sidelong glances. Oh, to suffer the praise of fickle friends! But Badawi, slow of speech and grave of expression, must have accepted the largesse of his many friends with equanimity, magnanimous and nodding in acknowledgement of his supreme right to rule over his fellow UMNO-ites. There must be a lesson here, somewhere, but it escapes him (as most things do).

But never fear, the NST leads the assault, mascot that it is for journalistic integrity: throw in a few snide asides about tight-fisted leadership and absolve ministers of their sins by asserting they were put there by the ex-PM himself. And then, stage manage your own TV1 sandiwara for the benefit of the masses: call in known enemies, other affectionate old men and clueless ministers, print a few pleas and entreaties from such notaries and wrap things up with a sexed up headline or two. Guaranteed to work! What, issues? What issues!

Imagine how Samy Vellu must feel. I can just imagine my bald, portly friend adjusting wig and wiping brow listening to his ex-Post-Colonial master getting his knickers in a bunch. Ahh! That’s the Mahathir he knows! Fiery, troublesome, and looking ready to launch an all-out assault on the MRR2 failure! (Maybe!) I bet he’s got his ammunition in reserve, our Samy Vellu; any day now, he’s going to organize press conferences to decry the government’s lack of interest in the Indian community! A brilliant move, since no one gives two hoots about the Indian community! Add a little spice, make a little curry and put the blame squarely on Sothinathan (since he’s within reach)! It’s worked before, I bet he’s thinking. Dei, macha, your turn will come, lah.

Edit: Orh, eh, I better put this disclaimer hor. Ever since visits from some gov.my fella and some nyc.gov fella, I feel I must - on pain of being a real-life ISA detainee - mention here that I’m as serious about the shit above as I’m serious about lollipops and candy-floss, hor: a bit only!