My two younger siblings… don’t get along. My sister and brother bicker like cats and dogs. And they both never pass up an opportunity to screw each other over.

It’s Chinese New Year, and the entire family is at the Reunion Dinner. Traditionally, during this time, the older relatives will give Ang Pao, or red envelopes filled with money, to the children.

Given the sheer number of relatives we have — many of whom are fairly rich and generous — we individually rake in at least a thousand bucks in cash from the Ang Pao every year.

Naturally, given the risks of children carrying around huge sums of cash, our parents insist that until we are teenagers, we three siblings must immediately pass the cash to them and that they’ll deposit the corresponding amount of money into our bank accounts. (And even after I was thirteen, I kept passing the money for deposit until I was seventeen.)

But of course, as an eleven-year-old boy, my brother perceives this as his parents essentially “stealing” his “hard-earned” money and hiding it away, only giving out a pittance for his allowance. Never mind that [Brother] will waste it all buying trading cards if we do actually give it to him.

Anywho, we’re at the Reunion Dinner, and my siblings and I rake in the cash, as usual.

My brother is desperately hiding it from our parents, clutching his Ang Pao like babies, refusing to even let go of them to pick up cutlery.

Sister: “Hey, how about I hold onto your Ang Pao for you? I’ve got a handbag.”

Brother: “No! You’re just going to give it to Mommy!”

That’s a fair suspicion. [Sister] has done that trick at least thrice before, patiently waiting as the party drags on and [Brother] tires out, before surreptitiously handing the money to Mom while he’s dozing in the car.

Sister: “She won’t take it. She can’t take it from me. I’m already over eighteen.”

Brother: “No! You’re still going to give it to Mommy anyway!”

Sister: “I’ll pinky promise you.”

Brother: “No!”

Sister: “All right, I promise that if I ever give those Ang Pao to Mommy, I’ll give you my PC.”

Now, [Brother] perks up. [Sister] has just splurged a huge chunk of her savings on a custom-built, top-of-the-line gaming PC. It’s the envy of the entire family, especially [Brother], who has coveted one for years.

Naturally, I smell something fishy, and it’s not the seafood we’re eating. And from the looks of the rest of the family, they smell it, too. As I previously said, neither of my younger siblings will pass on an opportunity to screw each other over. So, everyone, including [Brother] himself, knows that the person who wants to steal [Brother]’s cash the most in the entire party is [Sister].

But at the same time, say what you will about [Sister], for all that she’s devious, mercenary, and backbiting, everyone knows that she keeps her promises — doubly so if there’s collateral involved, and triply so if the collateral is something like her PC.

Brother: *Sticks out his pinky* “Okay.”

They shake on it, and [Brother] hands over his Ang Pao.

Sister: *To Dad* “Here’s [Brother]’s Ang Pao money. Please put it in the bank for him.” *Hands them over*

Brother: “What?!”

Sister: *Grinning triumphantly* “I promised never to give your money to Mommy. You never said anything about Daddy.”

The entire family burst out laughing as [Brother] spluttered incoherently in rage.

I’ve just bought a new gaming PC. My brother’s best friend builds custom PCs and built the PC for me. He’s helping me (someone completely hopeless at IT) install the thing.

My brother has just made a mistake in the assembly process. He bolted on one of the monitor arms backward, necessitating a disassembly.

Brother: “G**d*** it. Why am I so stupid?”

And with perfect timing, my partially-built but still functional PC chimes up.

Cortana: “To answer that question, I need access to the Internet. Please connect me to Wi-Fi and ask again.”

Brother: “F*** you!”

[Best Friend] and I bend over in laughter.

Brother: *Sighs* “What has my life come to that even computers are sassing me now?”

Yishun is essentially the Florida of Singapore. A whole load of weird and scary things happen there compared to the rest of the country. As such, Yishun has racked up a somewhat negative reputation. Some of the more superstitious Singaporeans have even started calling the place cursed or haunted, including quite a few of my Army buddies.

My younger brother is an aspiring writer. I’m reading his latest manuscript.

Me: “So, the plot is essentially that the SAF [Singapore Armed Forces] has a unit of wizards that act as a rapid-response strike force to fight against ghost pirates and demons in the Straits of Malacca.”

Brother: “Uh-huh.”

Me: “And they’re garrisoned in a fictional ‘Yishun Camp’.”

Brother: “Yup.”

There’s a long pause.

Me: “I’d buy that. A couple hundred wizards camping out in Yishun would explain a lot about the place.”

I live in a condominium that has a pool and playground downstairs. It’s pretty communal. All the kids know one another, partially because well over half of them go to the same primary school down the road.

We also have a bunch of security guards — rent-a-cops essentially. I’m not exactly sure why the HOA keeps them around given Singapore’s nonexistent crime rate. Still, they enforce the rules in our condo.

For better or for worse, my family is very familiar and friendly with the guards. This is half because we’ve been living there for fifteen years and counting, and half because my younger brother is the biggest troublemaker on the block. He got skateboarding banned after he nearly ran over a three-year-old, and was responsible for — or at least involved in — a considerable amount of the mischief and bad behaviour the local boys got up to.

As such, it’s not the first time that the security guards have come knocking.

Me: “Hi, [Guard]. What’s the problem?”

Guard: “I’ve got complaints from two mothers downstairs about your brother flashing a butterfly knife and threatening their kids with it.”

Me: *Long sigh* “Seriously?”

Guard: “We take a very serious stance about weapons on the premises. I’m afraid that we might have to get the police involved. Knives like that should be illegal in Singapore, I believe.”

Me: “It’s a toy. He watched some movie or another and got really obsessed with getting a butterfly knife toy of his own. I don’t know why our parents agreed to get him one.”

Guard: “A toy? Can I see it?”

I dig it up and pass it to him.

Guard: *Examining it* “The things they make these days.” *Passes it back* “The blade is metal and rather sharp. I’m afraid, toy or not, I’m going to have to ban it from downstairs.”

Me: “No problem. I’ll relay this to my parents. Sorry again for the trouble.”

As promised, I tell my parents.

Dad: *In a confrontational tone* “Who are those parents? They obviously are overreacting. It’s a toy.”

Me: “Toy or no, it looks real, and that scares people.”

Dad: *Dismissively* “People are all so scared these days. It’s not a big deal.”

I could tell by his tone that he’d tuned me out and I wouldn’t be winning that argument. Instead, I got Mom to get a certain wonderfully weird idea into Dad’s thick skull; maybe, just maybe, mothers don’t like having sharp metal objects pointed at their very young children.

He conceded and agreed to drop the issue, but I still heard him grumbling about “wimpy parents being overprotective” and “teaching their kids to be sissies” quite frequently.

I’m a kindergarten teacher in Singapore. My class of five-year-olds is doing an activity where they tell their dream job and why they want to do that job.

We get the usuals: astronauts, movie stars, and racecar drivers…

Girl: “When I grow up I want to become the Prime Minister of Singapore.”

Me: “Ah, that’s a nice dream. Why?”

Girl: “My daddy says that our Prime Minister is the number-one highest-paid politician in the world. He earns more than number two, three, four, and five combined. That’s why I want to be the Prime Minister. I want to earn all that money and become rich.”

Me: “So, it’s just for the money.”

Girl: “Isn’t that the whole point of being a politician?”

Coworker: “She’s not wrong about that.”

Me: “Yeah, at least she’s honest about it.”