Mustafa’s Macho Masala

So after The Vagina Monologues on Saturday we headed to Little India. We wandered down the main thoroughfare and found ourselves on Desker Road, where some of our number insisted on seeing the back alley “sights”. It was quite significantly more sordid than Geylang, and was one of the rare situations where even I felt uncomfortable. After dinner we eventually ended up in the wondrous temple of consumerism that is Mustafa Centre. While staggering through the food section, I found these Indian instant noodles and bought them in a fit of endearment.

indian instant noodles

I had the Macho Masala this morning. It was pretty spicy, but I was man enough for it.

Gulp Friction

I usually have my nose in a book while I’m on the bus, but today on the number 12 I looked up in absolute boredom from Garden State (you know how some authors channel all their great writing into their first book and their following books are never as good? Well, Rick Moody isn’t one of those authors) somewhere just past Kallang MRT and noticed a classy establishment named “BJ Massage”.

Tourist Twat

They entered the hip new restaurant in the centre of town with fresh tans and designer sunglasses, the picture of a happy young white couple on holiday in the tropics. His T-shirt read “VAGINAMATE”. I guess she likes her men crass.

Modern Mofo

The graffiti on the back of the bus seat read: FAX YOUR MOTHER.

Non Sequitur

His hair was classic 60something/Chinese/male, Brylcreemed to the contours of his head like brittle plastic. He was walking with a little girl in school uniform, possibly his daughter but more probably his grand-daughter. Her pink vinyl Barbie schoolbag hung from his shoulder, and her Tare Panda waterbottle was slung across his torso. His T-shirt had raglan sleeves. It read “Funky Monkey”.