Forget Ukraine or Gaza. The most savage, unhinged warfare erupts daily in Malaysian parking lots. This isn’t transportation—it’s  vehicular sociopathy  disguised as necessity. We don’t park; we conquer, sabotage, and hoard spaces like dragons guarding gold, armed with nothing but entitlement and hazard lights that scream:  “My convenience trumps your existence.” *  Witness the tactics:  The Double-Park Jihad : Blocking three cars because  “nak beli makan 5 minit je!”  while your victim melts in a metal box under the hot sun. The Spot Guard : Standing in an empty bay like Gollum over the Ring, frantically waving off other drivers while your spouse circles the block for 20 minutes. The Kamikaze Reverse : Accelerating backward like a possessed tank, ignoring honks, children, or physics— your  need for a space near the mamak voids all human rights. The VIP Park : Mercedes squatting over  two  bays because “my paint is expensive” (but your di...

If there is a Nobel Prize for driving without signalling, Malaysians would win it hands down—no competition, no second place, no need for a recount. In fact, if there were an Olympics for lane-cutting without indicators, we’d have more gold medals than badminton. Forget about producing world-class engineers or scholars; our greatest contribution to humanity might just be normalising the art of swerving left or right without a flicker of that tiny, neglected stick beside the steering wheel. Yes, the indicator—the poor, lonely limb of the vehicle—ignored, abandoned, left to gather dust as if its sole purpose was to decorate the steering column. Somewhere in Malaysia right now, a motorist is probably thinking, “Why use signal? My car is already handsome enough.” Backward thinking at its finest: a caveman logic applied to a modern machine. The truth is, failing to use indicators is not just rude—it’s selfish. It’s the driving equivalent of farting in an elevator and pretending it wasn’t yo...

Let’s drop the pretence. Let’s strip away the polite fiction, the mind-numbing legalese, and the nauseatingly patriotic slogans that echo from ministries to mamaks. The single greatest, most existential threat to the Federal Constitution of Malaysia is not some shadowy foreign power, not an external ideology, and certainly not the average Malaysian citizen. It is the very class of people who, with greasy palms and forked tongues, swore a sacred oath to protect it: our politicians. They are not public servants; they are a parasitic infestation in the machinery of state, systematically gnawing at the foundational beams of our nation for personal gain, political survival, and the perpetuation of their own privilege. The Constitution isn’t their guiding star; it’s an inconvenient obstacle to be circumvented, twisted, or simply ignored when it suits their grubby purposes. Look at the evidence, laid out not in conspiracy theories but in the glaring, daylight robbery of our principles. The Co...

Another weekend, another patrol of the great uncivilized outdoors—this time courtesy of the campers who treat a two-car site as a personal highway hub for their three-four bloody SUV's or caravans. The campground becomes a traffic nightmare not because of nature’s whim but because a handful of people ignore the simplest of rules: if your vehicle doesn’t fit, you don’t fit. It’s not rocket science; it’s common sense, and it’s high time it was treated as such. Let’s be blunt: when you roll up with more wheels than the site can logically accommodate, you are not marking a bold cultural shift in camping; you’re obstructing a road, hogging a turnout, and turning a shared space into a private parking lot. The sight of three, four, even five vehicles at a two-vehicle site is less “adventure-ready” and more “traffic management disaster.” The lane becomes a bottleneck; neighbors’ access to their own rigs becomes a game of Tetris with metal shapes that refuse to be rearranged. And for what? ...

There is a certain breed of camper who deserves not a tent, not a cabin, but a permanent campsite in the Ninth Circle of Hell: the late-night check-in crowd. You’ve heard them, you’ve cursed them, you’ve fantasized about zip-tying their cooler shut. They roll in at ungodly hours, headlights blazing like alien abductions, car doors slamming like gunfire, and voices carrying across the campground as if auditioning for a Broadway musical called The Inconsiderates. Here’s the tragicomic part: they’re always woefully unprepared. No batteries in their flashlight? Of course. Tent poles missing? Naturally. Screaming kids in tow because who doesn’t love a midnight meltdown symphony? Predictable. They bumble through the gravel, shrieking about lost mallets, while the rest of us lay in our thin nylon coffins wondering if this is how wars start. And the gall—the gall! These backward-minded buffoons act like they’ve just discovered camping, when in reality they’ve just discovered how selfishness ec...