Don’t You Ever Dare Carry Your Own Backpack!

Even from the back, you look so adorable, son.

Letter to our darling son Wussy Wuss:

Our dearest Wussy darling,

You are famous!

Your picture is everywhere!

And our entire nation is waiting with bated breath for you to turn around and show your face but son, daddy and mummy suggest that you press on and proceed without flinching.

Keep those losers guessing son, and don’t you ever dare carry your own backpack!

For your future is bright, dear Wussy, and daddy and mummy, for your own sake, cannot bear to see you get hurt or injured by such trivial, menial tasks as carrying your own backpack, loaded full with fortifying goodness like ginseng, bak kwa, chicken essence and several cans of abalone for your midnight snack. (The can opener is in the side pocket on the left, darling son.)

An injury – a broken wrist (oops!) or a dislocated shoulder – might, we fear, prevent you from profiting from some very lucrative lobangs in your horizon, like being a member of parliament one day in the foreseeable future and getting 15k allowance a month in addition to your day job. (Moreover, persons who have reached the age of 50 years and retired as MPs and who have served in this capacity for not less than nine years may be granted a pension for the rest of their lives. So it is in your own best interest to live long and prosper.)

Son, remember to hold your head up high, you have been blessed and daddy and mummy have toiled long and hard so that you have no need to suffer. In fact, we are speaking with Louis Vuitton to custom-design a backpack to replace the silly green one that the army has issued you. We are even considering hiring Blangas to do national service for you, after all we’ve outsourced just about everything else to them. We are also petitioning the authorities to allow our maid to stay in camp with you. So hang in there ok? Things will be very fine soon.

All these we do for your own good, because daddy and mummy believe you have the potential to make it – even making it as a minister one day. They pay mega bucks to attract the best to join the government. Our prime minister’s pay is several times more than Obama’s and our ministers take home at least a million bucks a year we hear – and if you ever get to hold the highest office in the land, we think the pay is like 4 mil a year – not bad pocket change just for grinning at cameras and cutting ribbons and kissing babies huh? Now you know why daddy and mummy pamper you so much. It’s your – hopefully sybaritic – future that we are planning for. By the way, sacrifice for the nation and nobody will begrudge a single cent spent paying you but bully your citizens, treat them like doormats and chastise them as though they are idiots and they will vote you out. It’s a matter of time.

So dear Wussy, don’t worry about the flurry of criticisms around you – just treat that as noise, do not be traumatized by mere noise; keep your eyes focused on the potential prize ahead. Sticks and stones may break your bones (heaven forbid!) but harsh criticisms from Singapore’s boisterous online community cannot hurt you, son. You can only become that rare flower that will bloom in the winter of adversity, never mind even if your face may look like a cauliflower or even if you are an artificial flower made only of tin.

With oceans of love and lots of hugs and kisses,
Your ever-doting daddy & mummy.
Take care, our precious, cos we care. *kiss* *kiss*

PS – Don’t forget to eat your abalone. Daddy and mummy will get you caviar next time. As for those platoon mates of yours who are envious of your lifestyle and grumble that they can’t even afford bread, what the heck, let them eat cake lah!

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