This Guy’s In Love With You – Torpe

Hindi muna ko magpapakaputa sa kaka-Ingles dahil masyadong sensitibo ang nais kong ipahayag ngayon. Sa tingin ko’y mas magiging natural ang labas ng himutok ko kapagka sinalita sa dayalektong nakagisnan, mas lumalabas ang tunay na nasasaloob, mas madrama ang bawat kataga.

Hayaan niyo muna kong magsenti-sentihan at isantabi muna ang mga malulutong na murang Kano at ang mga narsisistikong mga panulat ko. Ni hindi ko nga alam kung makakabalik pa ko sa identidad kong punumpuno ng pamimintas at pagpuna sa lipunang walang ginawa kundi palubhain pa lalo ang nakamamatay nang sakit ng kamangmangan at pagiging istupido. Wala ako sa mood ngayon para makipag-patintero sa mga hinayupak na lamang-loob ng lansangan sa parehong dahilan na wala rin akong kongkretong ideya kung papaano ko tatapusin ang blog post na ‘to. Ang bawat letra ay bunga lamang ng tuluy-tuloy na pagtipa ng mga daliring inuutusan ng nakaaangat kong utak na sa sobrang dami ng inilalabas na emosyon ay malimit na napapatid pa ang mga daliri sa hindi magkamayaw na pagsasatitik ng damdamin.

Malungkot ako. Mababaw lang siguro para sa iba pero mabigat pa rin para sakin. Malungkot ako dahil inlab ako ngayon. Malungkot ako dahil namemeligro na namang maging boplaks ang lahat-lahat para sa KANIYA, tulad ng kinahantungan ng unang date namin matapos ang mahabang panahon ng pag-iintay.

Walang kwentang date na puro palya ultimo pelikula. Unang una, banas na siya bago pa man kami pumasok ng sinehan sa kadahilang ang kasama naming chaperon (oo, may chaperon; ayaw NIYAng kami lang munang dalawa; malamang masyadong maaga para sa KANIYA) eh umeskapo na bago pa magsimula ang pelikula. Nadagdagan pa lalo ang asim sa muka NIYA dahil sa puke ng inang pelikulang walang ginawa kundi magpapansin sa run-on blurs at mga paulit-ulit na dialogue na mararanasan mo lang kapagka may sira at gasgas ang tape. Ano ang magagawa ko sa mga panahong ‘yon? Pinilit kong magpatawa, sinadya kong magpaka-Vhong Navarro dahil gusto kong maski papano eh mag-enjoy SIYA. Heck, ako ang nang-imbita. Natural lang na dapat may kahinatnang maganda para sa KANIYA ang pagpayag NIYAng sumamang lumabas sakin. Pero talaga sigurong wa epek ang pagiging funny man ko dahil puro pilit na ngiti lang ang pinakita NIYA. Kung meron mang hari ng sablay sa mga panahong yon, gusto kong isipin na ako lang ang prinsipe.

Ngayon hindi ko alam kung may pag-asa pa ko sa KANIYA maski na katiting, maski na kasingliit lang ng kakapiranggot na pototoy ng mga malilibog na Hapon. Papatusin ko na yon. Wag lang NIYAng sabihin ang mga katagang ayaw ko sanang marinig. Hindi ko na alam papano pa ko makakabawi, papano pa ko makakataktiks kung lahat na lang eh sumasalungat sakin, pati ata ang hinayupak na kapalaran. Hindi na epektibo ang pagtext at pagtawag sa Sun Cellular dahil hindi naman SIYA sumasagot. Ni ha ni ho, wala. Gusto kong isipin na dala lang yun ng sobrang pagod at pagka-busy sa work tulad ng sinabi NIYA sakin noon. Hindi rin ako makadalaw sa tinutuluyan NIYAng apartment dahil panay ang overtime NIYA, madalas umuuwi na SIYA ng mga bandang alas-diyes o alas-onse ng gabi. Sa mga ganung oras, pupwede sana kong tumawag. Pero nasabi na NIYA sakin minsan na sa mga ganung oras, dapla na SIYA sa kama, pagod na pagod sa maghapong trabaho.

Eh papano ang weekend? Ang weekend ay araw pa rin ng trabaho. Hindi ko alam kung gusto NIYAng yumaman agad (na kayang kaya ko namang gawin pag naging kami na…sana) pero oo, OT pa rin SIYA sa Sabado at Linggo. Ngayon, ang natitirang paraan na lang eh ang ihatid-sundo SIYA sa kaniyang pinagtatrabahuhan. Sunduin lang pala. Alas-sais ng umaga ang pasok ko at di ko kayang mag-aparisyon sa isa pang lugar nang sabay. Pero iniisip ko. Kapag ginawa ko to, iisipin naman NIYAng napakapresko ng pagmumuka ko para sunduin SIYA gayong hindi naman NIYA ko boypren. Mabuti sana kung regular na babae SIYA, ang kaso ibang klase kase SIYAng dilag – palaban sa buhay ngunit hindi maikakatwang kulob pa rin sa hulma ng mga babaeng pino kung kumilos at naisasabuhay ang tunay na kahulugan ng salitang Pilipina.

Hindi ko rin maintindihan ang sarili ko kung ba’t sa dinami-dami ng babaeng kahuhumalingan, sa KANIYA pa nalaglag ang boxer brip ko. Hindi naman sa pagmamayabang pero marami-rami rin ang nag-aabang sa akin. Oo, sa payat kong ito, nakatutuwang isipin na marami rin pala ang nagkakagusto sa katas ko akin. Siguro kasi cute ako. Hakhak! Wag ka nang kumontra. Post ko ‘to. Kaya nga mas lumalakas ang panata kong magpalaki ng katawan para mas makaakit pa ng mga tulad ni Eva Fonda. (Sa puntong ito, nais ko kayong i-update sa nakaraang post ko – napagdesisyunan ko nang bumili na lang ng sariling gamit at wag nang mag-gym. Mas may freedom ka sa pagwowork-out at maski na hubo’t hubad ka pang magbuhat ng dumbbell o di kaya’y mag-weights nang bumabalandra nang bonggang bongga ang tumbong mo eh walang mamamansin sa’yo.) Sila ang nag-aantay ng matamis kong “oo” pero heto ako, katulad nilang nag-aantay rin sa matamis na “oo” ng iba.

Tulad ng pamosong linya mula sa pelikula ng maangas na kapatid ni Bebe Gandanghari, na inilibing si Rustom Padilla nang sapilitan, “ayoko ‘tong nararamdaman ko.” Ayokong mainlab dahil madali akong maging gago kapag nainlab na ko. Kung ano ang kasalukuyang lebel ng pagkasinto-sinto ko, gawin mong to the nth power yun, ganun ako kapraning kapag naiinlab ako. Nakakaya kong gawin ang lahat at ang masaklap, ayaw ko man eh nagiging tulad ako ng mga tipikal na taong kinamumuhian ko, mga nilalang na iginuguhit ang buhay at kapalaran sa dikta ng lipunan at sa mga panuntunang ginawa rin lang ng kapwa nila tao para malimitihan ang kanilang pagkilos at pag-iisip. Ayokong mainlab dahil ayokong maging tulad nila, dahil alam kong sa bandang huli, ako rin lang ang masasaktan.

Pero ganun naman talaga. Nasabi ko na noon na kapag nagmahal ka ng isang tao, laging kalakip nun ang walang katiyakang sa bandang huli eh maaari kang masaktan. Gasgas na ang kasabihang kapag mahal mo ang isang tao, hayaan mo kung san siya mas magiging maligaya, malayo man siya sa’yo. Kung sakaling bumalik siya, iyo na siya. At kung sakali mang hindi, simula’t sapol eh hindi siya naging iyo. Ewan ko sa inyo pero para sakin, hindi mabenta ang kasabihang ‘to, para sakin katarantaduhan lamang at walang laman ang mga katagang tinuran.

Unang una, ipinapahiwatig na ang taong mahal mo ay isang bagay na dapat angkinin, isang panindang maaari mong bilhin ng kahit singkong duling. Kailanman, hindi naging ganun ang turing ko sa KANIYA. Masaya ako na naipapakita kong mahal ko SIYA at hindi ako humihingi ng kapalit, o sa mas masahol na pananalita, hindi ko pinagnasahan sa hinagap kong aangkinin ko siya. Kung meron akong ikinatutuwa sa mga pangyayaring eto sa buhay ko ngayon, yun yung bagay na nagkaroon ako ng pagkakataong magmahal at mahalin SIYA.

Hindi ko alam kung hanggang saan ‘to aabot. Tulad ng blog post na ‘to, wala akong palagay kung saan ‘to patungo. Sana nga parang mga canned good fairy tales na lang na ginagamit para bolahin ang mga bata. Sana nga maging kami at sa hinaharap ay maging kami nang panghabambuhay. Sana we will live happily ever after. Kapag nangyari yun, ako na yata ang pinakamagandang lalake sa mundo Kapag nangyari yun, magpapainom ako at iimbitahin ko kayong lahat – magsuka na ang gustong magsuka, magyakapan na ang gustong magyakapan, makipag-tutut na ang gustong makipag-tutut. Pero kung hindi man, matutuwa pa rin ako’t maski papano eh sinubukan kong mahalin NIYA ko.

Sa ngayon, hayaan niyo munang magpakasiraulo ako sa pagkainlab sa KANIYA. Sobrang inlab na nakakaya kong mag-taguan pung sa Dangwa (salamat kay Rai para sa mental sketch) na hindi ko pa napupuntahan sa tanang buhay ko kundi ko pinagtiyagaang ikutin ang kahabaan ng UST at magkandawala-wala sa mga hinayupak na kalye para maghanap ng yellow roses dahil kanina, nakita ko sa Internet na ang ibig sabihin pala ng yellow roses ay “Please love me too.” Todong pagkainlab na nakakaya kong magmukang tanga at magbitbit ng isang dosenang bulaklak na dinaig pa ang putang namumutiktik sa kolorete ang muka at pumuputok ang labi sa sobrang kapal ng lipstick.

Di bale na kung pagpawisan man ako ng gabalde at magmukang kagagaling lang sa pagtitikol pagligo habang inihahatid ang mga pulang rosas sa apartment nila. (Naging pula dahil ubos na raw ang dilaw na mga rosas; gusto kong magwala at sabihing gawan nila ng paraan, kung pwedeng kulayan ng yellow gawin nila, pero napag-isip-isip kong pwede nila kong isalvage anumang oras dahil hindi ako tagarun kaya’t nanahimik na lang ako.) Di bale na kung di miminsang biruin man akong sayang ang mga bulaklak dahil basted din lang ang kahihinatnan ko ayon sa mga tambay sa lugar nilang walang pangarap sa buhay kundi magpalaki ng titi at magpabigat ng mga betlogs, na wala namang maipapakain sa mga magiging asawa kundi mga titi nilang inutil. Di bale na ang lahat-lahat dahil ito ang tinatawag nilang pag-ibig at inaamin kong isa ako sa mga milyun-milyong taong naulol ng puke ng inang pag-ibig na ‘to.

Mahal ko SIYA eh; kebs kung magmuka ‘kong tanga!

Smoke for the Vaginismus-Afflicted Bitch from Hell and Mirrors for the Narcissistic, Angst-ridden Bastard That is Me

I cannot, for the love of gawd, fathom why this country is reeking of flagrant bitches and stupid assholes to the point that you’d rather they die moaning heart attack while doing the meat shindig. Coming in close second would be wishing they get afflicted with a severe case of vaginismus or penile shrinkage. That will shut their cum-filled senseless, pathetic orifices.

So, yes, I am ranting yet again because these patheity-personified creatures give me more than enough reason to vent out R18 invectives. Allow me to roll out the rundown:

A few days ago, I took the PVP Bus Liner bus to go home after yet another SSDD at my call whoring job. I was alone because, Essie and Binchee, my teammates who take the same route and the same PUV, had another hour to slave away and wait for some clusterfuck call overseas before they get to logout of their AVAYA phones; I, on the other hand, was one hour early as my shift started at 7AM whereas theirs began at 8AM. Sweet!

I had one of the entire three-person-accommodating seats to myself and yes, Essie and Binchee, I will not lie in telling you that I was half-delighted to own the seat alone. No standing up to get some coins out of the pocket because the seat can hardly give us comfort, no unnecessary elbowing to squish ourselves in, no sigh of relief and/or aghast pfft for miraculously fitting three fine specimens of human in the bus couch. Kidding.

On second thought, I think I missed the mundane what’s ups and what nots we share to while away the traffic time. All those schlong talks and wondering over whether Jessica, indeed, owns that Zafra Motor Works we always pass by, all the Coffee Bun-flavored dialogues I covet a bit. A bit. Let not the slight showing of liking for human interaction be stretched. I am an introvert after all. Haha!

So I spread my legs apart like I am about to whip out my above-average dick to do some wanking and read one of Neil Gaiman’s incredible hort stories while relishing the bacteria-smooching bus airconditioning. Gawd, this guy really knows his stuff; every time I read one of his works I can’t help but be dumbfounded over the engaging quirkiness of his narratives, thereby posing helplessly like a drooling retard waiting for a shit-dipped fly rest in his wide-open mouth. Someday, I’m going to be a Gaiman myself, oh yes, read my fuck-me-Freddy lips!

It is in this Gaiman-adulating stance that I find myself getting fucked up yet again by a tortuous episode borne out of the Reality TV douchebag blurs for just at my back are three descendants of the Blairbitch clan happily munching over sex and penis measurement diatribes. You would think that the bus being a public form of transportation, people inside it would find the decorum and shame to keep their pathetic I-am-the-apple-of-the-fuckin’-universe’s-eyes talks well within themselves, careful not to disturb their nearby seatmates. I, for one, do not care whether you screwed your neighbor’s wife last night and felt manly over her confession that your schlong was far more superior than her husband’s pototoy. To each his own and trifling things like this do not excite me at all.

But, then again, it would be a different story when, in a voice that sounds like you eat megaphones for breakfast, someone blares forth how many dicks she has nonchalantly permitted to log in and log out (my apologies for incorporating call center terms..lol!) of her stinking orifice to half of the bus passengers aboard. Here was this promiscuous woman (I suspect she was in her early twenties judging by her voice and her use of “ampotah” and “tangina” repeatedly) who found there’s nothing wrong with broadcasting her sex life escapades to the general public, by the by laughing like a mad hyena along with her two equally-pathetic bozo friends – one laughing the loudest among the three without any trace of disapproval or shame, like she can never have side stitch because she has all the love handles this Belo-conscious society could offer; and the other giggling hard like Betty Boop just the same, to think that he is a man with that masculine bass voice (or is really a he?).

I would not have minded them had they kept their stupid fits to themselves alone but no, whether I liked it or not, I had to be dragged to the entire sexcapade hysteria because of their reverberating dialogues, thereby making me a  reluctant eavesdropper of sorts. Here’s the transcribed Sex 101 of the perverted retards of the Blairbitch clan:

Girl Number 1: Ang sakit ng keps ko. Ahahaha!
Girl Number 2: Ahahaha! Baka nasobrahan mo.
Pa-girl Number 3: Oo nga. Baka di ka na makalakad niyan pauwi. Ahahaha!
Girl Number 1: Tangina! Uulitin pa namin ni Rey mamaya. Ahahaha!
Girl Number 2: Ahahahaha! Akala ko ba meron ka ngayon?
Girl Number 1:  Gaga! Oo naman no. Yun nga ang mas masarap. Yung mamasa-masa. Ahahaha!
Pa-girl Number 3: Ahahaha! Di ba kayo nagsasawa?
Girl Number 1: Tangina kasi. Ang liit ng kaniya. Bitin. Hindi katulad nung kay Carl. Ahahaha!
Girl Number 2: Maliit lang yung kaniya? Ano ba yan! Ahahaha!
Girl Number 1: Sabi ko nga nung isang araw “O ayan, ayaw naman. Wag na.” Tas yun na pala yun. “Ay, yan na ba yun?” Kakapiranggot. Ampotah! Ahahaha!
Pa-girl Number 3: Ahahaha!
Girl Number 1: Tas sabi pa niya, gusto niya raw magka-baby sakin. Panong magkaka-baby ako, eh hindi nga umaabot sa loob. Tangina. Ahahaha!
Girl Number 2: Ahahaha! Ano ba yan. Di ba ang laki ng katawan nun?
Girl Number 1: Oo nga. Nag-gi-gym kasi kaya ganun. Maliit. Ahahahaha!
Pa-girl Number 3: Ahahahaha! Eh bat gusto mo pa rin siya?
Girl Number 1: Kasi ano siya, iba siya eh. Pag niyayakap niya ko, alam mo yung may something. Basta.
Girl Number 2: Eh si James?
Girl Number 1: Ah si James, ano naman yun. Yung kaniya mataba. Ahahaha!
Girl Number 2: Ahahahaha! Talaga? Gano kataba?
Girl Number 1: Oo. Ano siya, mataba na di naman kalakihan. Normal lang. Yun. Matabang normal lang. Ahahaha!
Pa-girl Number 3: Eh yung kay Rey, maliit na payat? Ahahahaha!
Girl Number 1: Tangina! Kung pwede nga lang hilain ko eh. Ahahaha!
Girl Number 2: Ahahahaha!
Girl Number 1: Uy, ano ba yan. Ang ingay-ingay naman natin. Panay titi pa pinag-uusapan natin. Ahahaha!
Girl Number 2: Ahahahaha!
Pa-girl Number 3: Ahahahaha!

So now, tell me, how in the fuckin’ world can you engrossingly peruse over a story of a young man doing a boring clerical job who for some unknown reason, wakes up one morning vomiting a puke consisting of an unchewed dog paw and little fingers presumably of a small child among others?  I couldn’t. And while I was contemplating over transferring to another fuckarow-free zone, I happened to finally have arrived at my destination. I stood up, tuck Neil Gaiman’s Smoke and Mirrors in my black Girbaud shoe bag, and alighted from the bus without looking at the three A-holes from Third world hell.

On second thought, I’m curious about the bitch’s puzzled reaction if I instead looked back before alighting from the vehicle, unzipped my fly, whipped out my above-average schlong and slapped it on her face saying, “Miss, stop whining over your boyfriend’s short dick. You could have this instead.” LOL!

Postscript:

Speaking of dicks and R18 taboos, you might find this Jessica Zafra post amusing. Haha!

How It Actually Feels To Be in Deep Shit and Still Come Out Stinkingly Mirthful (A Movie Review of Slumdog Millionaire)

I have been addicted to movies lately and the friggin’ thought of becoming a movie critic who’d rather spot the ugly, imperfect technicalities than digest the film as a scapegoat for life’s sickening shits is making me cringe. Suddenly, I am reminded by Jessica Zafra and her obsession over Roger Federer and everything tennis, stinking sweat and all!

Perhaps the reinvigorated drive over love for the rolling film is anchored by my desire to weed out the B-listed bluff that could potentially ruin my next movie date with HER. I would have to admit the first date didn’t go rather well as we had to watch the last full show of one hideous suspense thriller, which went into the habit of cutting on and off, the image in the big screen becoming blurry in several instances, the characters speaking garbled lines like how some Wowowee deejay scratches the rolling film to produce that annoying screeching sound, thereby making the horror flick a put-on mirthful encounter instead. I would like to think I’ve learned my lesson albeit at the expense of my own pogi points. So that gives me the right to articulate a crisp R18 invective. Here goes my triple exclamation point-laden barrage:

Fuck that Haunting of Molly Suck-My-Moist-Clit Bitch from Hell movie!!! You fuckin’ ruined my first date and your fuckin’ flick poster deceived me to fuckin’ toss in my 300 bucks!!! Fuck the director and all the fuckin’ actors!!! Fuck you all, you double douchebag clusterfucks!!!

Now, give me a few minutes to breathe and compose myself.

So yes, my loyal three readers, I am spurting out another movie review yadda yadda in the hopes that the next time I take the cinema lounge with HER, we are spared from sitting through a lame plot teeming with characters from hell and scripts so badly written you’d rather make your own three-minute sex video for the Bluetooth masses. This time around, I watched a Bollywood-flavored movie and surprisingly, I found it quite good really. For a cynical, angst-ridden bastard who almost always looks at shot glasses half-empty rather than half-full, this is saying something.

Having reviewed the much ballyhooed Benjamin Button as clearly just a lame Forrest Gump copycat, I felt vindicated to hear that the Brad-Cate tandem lost to some obscure third-world actors (I don’t know, is India still considered Third World?) for the Golden Globes plum. For such rare occurrence when A-list actors in an A-list movie get ditched by unknown brown-skinned thespians, I become doubtful and ask: Is democracy really reverberating in America or are the Awards people just following through the current Ch-ch-change fad that is Barack Obama? Whatever the reason may be, the director who likewise gave us the engagingly neurotic Trainspotting and the hauntingly raw 28 Days Later deserves to be lauded for crafting such a fine film opus, an ingenuous cross and compromise of brutality and beauty, of sorrows and laughters, of suspended disbeliefs and leap of faiths.

Here’s the reel deal: We have Jamal, an 18-year-old Indian errand boy of sorts in a call center, hurled into an unusual territory as a player of the hugely popular game show “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” after a string of adventures and misadventures. He is on the verge of answering the final question to get the 20M rupees and the illiterate, teenage dirtbag that he is, he becomes suspected of cheating his way to the final round and is consequently arrested by the police.

Director Danny Boyle douches us with early drama as we witness how Jamal gets tortured by the fat lard policeman and hereon, Jamal takes us to his exhilarating life journey, filled to the brim of moving characters and rowdy panache, a distinct trademark of Bollywood movies. As he is interrogated by the police for unbelievably answering all the questions correctly, even using only one lifeline for a very simple interrogative that even a grade schooler can surely answer, the young protagonist harks back to bits and pieces of his early childhood in a series of flashbacks that apparently does not make you dizzy and nauseous but rather, makes you giddy and mirthful instead.

Suddenly, what you see isn’t exactly India and its squalor but rather, our very own Pinoy poverty, with its fetid entrails of Payatas children and blind beggars and collapsible shacks and everyday shit cakes, complete with fuckin’ flies to boot. You wonder whether the plot was really set in Mumbai, India or here in our frenzied Tondo, Manila. That I was able to relate in spite of mostly subtitled character clashes (the fresh, brilliant subtitle pop ups were really cool, by the way; I liked that they were placed strategically in all parts of the screen, instead of the stereotypical bottom-of-the-screen position) only proves how universally relevant the movie really is.

This is what a movie should strive for – people watching the flick not really because it has A-list, pedicured and spoiled Hollywood stars in the title role or because it is helmed by some contemporary toast-of-the-town director or because it is being produced by a big-budgeted film outfit but rather, because they get what the film is trying to convey and they see themselves in it, or at the very least, because they are entertained by it.

If there’s one part of the movie that I find endearingly wicked and hilariously awful, it would have to be the seven-year-old Jamal stuck in a queer dilemma that requires an immediate decision.  Stuck inside a cramped Third World toilet (the kind of primitive toilet, usually found in far-flung provinces, where shit goes straight into a hapless body of water, no flushing needed) courtesy of his mischievous brother, Jamal had to decide how to get out of the four-walled wooden cubicle real quick to get the autograph of his favorite Indian action star. Pinching his nose and raising his other picture-carrying hand to save the Bollywood star’s picture from poop splotches, he thinks of the unthinkable and drowns himself in deep shit to get out of the crap booth. The result is an insanely comedic wonder of a running rascal covered entirely with slimy, stinking shit save the picture-carrying hand and waddling his way to the crowd to get the much sought-after autograph.

Maybe it just had the perfect timing. I don’t know. At a time when the entire human race is grappling over some worldwide recession and a Holocaust-inspired wars in the Middle East, people are definitely eager for some goodie-goodie I-will-survive flicks, affirming the message that in spite of you wallowing in deep shit, literally or otherwise, life can still be beautiful.  But this I have to tell you: If you’re planning on a movie date with someone significant and build up pogi points over it, you might want to consider this pauper-gone-prince romantic fairy tale as a suave tool to swerve your arms at her hips, plant a kiss, and for the diabolical maniacs brimming with pirated DVD porn libido, end up in 7th heaven fornication at a nearby SOGO motel.

That’s, of course, after the credits begin to roll. You want to get your money’s worth, right?

To Gym or Not To Gym: That is the Question

Okay, so I’ve been in semi-hiatus from blogging for a week now. Not that three of my loyal readers – me, my dog, and my narcissistic, angst-ridden alter-ego – would care. But really, the past seven days or so have been one heck of a whirlwind romance that I didn’t even notice I’ve been departing away from my other true love – fornication writing, that is.

Suffice it to say I’ve been freakin’ busy for the last couple of days sending Shakespearean flitting of romance to HER (more of this in upcoming posts) that I forgot to wank my willie pollute the Internet bandwidth with my idiosyncratic thoughts. Gawd, I miss this – the writing, not the wanking you fucked up pervert. And before I knew it, the Mr. Procrastinator in me has risen from the graves and I become harassed with a clusterfuck of backlogs upon backlogs, making me a piece of cheap hyperventilating smartass of sorts.

So yes, devirginized Virginia, I am still halfway through reading Neil Gaiman’s Smoke and Mirrors (the short stories are so orgiastically good I am tempted to write one in the next few days or so), still feel sleepy whenever I attempt to peruse the dizzying prose of Garcia-Marquez’s Love in The Time of Cholera, still stuck in a mediocre Level One Armor for my Monster Hunster 2 character, still blurry in composing my thoughts for a My Favorite Book Contest in a national daily (I’ve been a  winner once; I’d like to get five thousand grand NBS GC’s and glorify my name in print again. Haha!), still possessing an above-average schlong still not finished in transferring my mobile contacts to my new Nokia phone, still not weeded out and reorganized the MP3 songs I’ve downloaded to my PSP, and still haven’t realized my over-delayed desire to hit the gym and get that buff body every gay and girl in town swoons for. Whew!

I would like to emphasize on the last piece of to-do as I badly need to equip this courting, romantically sappy cheese ball that is me with well-built muscles and defined pecs and abs. Nope, not the kind of OA pectoral contours Arnold Schwarzenegger is famous for and which you want to run away from for fears that the gargantuan piece of flesh bursting with violet veins and acacia roots might explode on you any moment. Rather, the sort of muscle build-up that will have every gay and sugar mama salivate over your hunk-of-a-body and get your number to lick away your Samsonian strength the impression of sturdiness and strength and dependability on you.

You see, according to studies, women in general gravitate towards men whose shoulders are broad and whose body frame are as close as our uncircumcised primeval forefathers, never mind if they’re hideous like the newborn Benjamin Button. The thin are deemed weak and perishable while the strong, mesomorphic builds are accorded the feminine fancy. This roots back to the Ice Age when our ancestors had to hunt for food and thus, the need to be equipped with a Gold’s Gym body and a fuel-powered stamina and dexterity. Suddenly, I am reminded of that Kenshin Hemura arch-nemesis credo about how the “strong shall live and the weak shall perish.”

So yes, given the chance to pick between an emaciated Piolo Pascual reborn within a Palito frame and a Marc Nelson bod cropped onto the face of say, that Master Shooli sidekick whose pouting lips are jeezuzchrist way out of fuckin’ proportions, majority of the female population would pick the latter over the former. Throw in the abundantly growing gay demographics and you will get a whopping full force tongue wagging over the shrimp. The rationale behind this is supposedly, the better built are better equipped to provide food and sustenance to their families and therefore qualify as a better provider than the thin-framed. Heck, some even stretch the advantage as far as citing men with bodies to die for can shoot cum-juice to as far as Aparri while the match stick men are only capable of one-time spurts.

An assumption that I object to not really because I am well-hung and can orgasm a cum trajectory reaching the moon’s craters horizontally-challenged myself but more so because it purports the idea that men oozing with machismo are the only ones who have the right to fuck gorgeous women. For one, in becoming a good provider, the criterion does not rest only on how big a man’s muscles are; it depends largely on how industrious and willing and responsible he is towards that family obligation. How could a buffed guy be even worthy of a pretty lass’s adulation if all he cares about are only scratching his idle balls and getting laid by some hot porn star chick?

But then again, we live in a society of pretensions and stereotypes, where everything is measured by yardsticks and where everyone is looked upon as commodities. While I would not want to succumb to this petty generalization, I would want to think being healthy has its advantages. Right now, I can’t think of anything but to make me a replica of HER knight in shining armor. The plus pogi points would definitely hasten her giving me the much sought after, long-awaited YES! Think about that – a man with blade-sharp wit and above-average schlong looks finally leveling up to some Wu Chun body frame. I think of what I could do and it seems the possibilities are endless.

I am aware most guys hitting the gym are really girls in disguise. Several times I have been told these men who enlarge their triceps and biceps by going to a thickly-populated den teeming with barbells and dumb bells don a body-building faux pas. In truth, these Brokeback guys hit the gym to find their Heath Ledgers and Jake Gyllenhaals using the muscle-flexing as an ill-fated decoy to ogle at fine specimens of their own masculine bloodlines. Bleech! The thought makes me puke. And heck, what of the infamous penis length shortening that weightlifters purportedly will suffer from?

So now I ask you. Given my current frame (proudly shirtless and all..haha!), which I have unabashedly posted (shame on you, Lio Loco!) on the upper left hand side, and weighing the pros and cons — plus thousand pogi points to HER versus minus thousand pint cum juice dehydration because of gays and matrona (LOL!) — should I or should I not hit the gym?

Run for Your Schlongs and *Keps, The Biblical Armageddon is Coming!

There’s something about this recent cold temperature that sends the freakin’ shivers down my spine. Not the kind of shivers that you experience when you finally French-kiss your virginity goodbye but rather, the kind that emanates only from the gloomiest of your pseudo-Nostradamus’ sixth sense.

Last night, I had to turn off the electric fan because I had a hard time getting a hard on was curiously feeling the bite of the cold weather in spite of the thick wool blanket that I wrapped my naked body with. The past few days have been pure torture most especially during early mornings when I have to drag my ass to the bathroom to whip my birdie take a bath. (Oh, did I already tell you I have long kissed nocturnal shift goodbye and am now enjoying the life of an early bird yuppie? I’m keeping my fingers crossed this new schedule would last until I file my resignation letter come May perhaps.) It has been quite an unrelenting chore that I wished would go away for the simple reason that the water from the faucet is giving me a headache.  

For a lad that used to live the fuck-me-Freddy life up there in Baguio, temperature melt downs should be pretty easy to come by. Last year, I used to trudge Session Road’s psychedelic path in penis-shrinking eight degrees with nary an ounce of recoil or retreat. There I was, a bag of early teen bones, wrapped in the thickest of ukay ukay jackets for magnified volume, plodding the road with foggy breaths and pinkish cheeks in the hopes of bumping through some anemic Kimchi boobs and bouncy  Igorot butts.  Heck, I’ve been used to freezing dips of below 10 degrees Celsius up there that I could run naked in the boondocks without even succumbing to the slightest trace of trembling. Or maybe not. Haha!

 But seriously, this cold weather that is blanketing the entire cosmopolitan Manila is giving me the creeps. For chrissake, this is friggin’ Manila and with its entrails full of combustion and Third-world pollution, not to mention the halitosis-reeking CO2’s its inhabitants vomit every second, don’t you think it’s odd to feel this chill at a time when the month for steamy sex and torrid kissing is fast approaching? Whatever happened to Manila’s sweltering heat and why is it suddenly being replaced by such creepy frost, slithering to our naked navels every night and even during early morning’s like how lovers caress their partners’ belly buttons prior to hardcore fornication? Lol!

 I am aware that our ever reliable Philippine Atmospheric, Geophysical and Astronomical Services Administration (Pagasa), which, by the way, has never failed to elicit mocking laughter in me for its accuracy of clusterfuck weather forecasts, already explained that “the unusually frigid weather was due to the cold front caused by the northeast monsoon, which brought with it the Arctic winds from Siberia’s frozen wastelands.” Fuckin’ Arctic what? Whatever gibberish this Pagasa might be hoaxing about, the verbiage still sounds like a stupid plot for some B-listed Flood sequel boo-boo to me.

Which leads me to entertain my gloomy, pathetic thoughts of world abomination, the kind of contemplation that you plot when you’re too bored and you hold on to your promise to become celibate for only a piteous week, apparently: Is the world, teeming with vapid stupid souls at that, at its ultimate end?

The telltale signs are showing and as I’ve pointed out in my previous post, all the evidences are conniving to lead us in one, sickening truth – this fucked up macrocosm is just a few ticks away from destruction.  And while year after year, different versions of the Apocalypse have been harked out to threaten the brainless twits to commit suicide, and year after year, these clusterfuck bozos survive the guillotine and even surprisingly increase their useless tribe, the idea that civilization will soon come to a chaotic conclusion has never faltered. Mark your calendars, folks, for if my feeling-horny crystal balls finally hit the G-spot, the next popularly predicted date for the apocalyse is in 2012, “on the basis that this year signifies the end of the Mayan calendar,” whatever that is.

So in the tradition of Quiapo clairvoyants who are as blind as you and me are when it comes to seeing our fucked up future, here then is my to-do list before my soul gets consumed and thrown into the pits of apocalyptic catastrophe:

•  Traipse the altar and get married, hopefully, to HER, eventually scioning a bunch of intelligent, cute kids sans the angst-ridden mantra. I think this is every sane man’s ultimate dream - to settle down eventually and relish the thoughts of coming home dead-tired from work with a beautiful wife and giddy, little rascals to take away the job stress. Life can be sweet, indeed!

• Write the Great Filipino Novel that would put the Third-world Philippines in the first-class literary map. Fine, I am a frustrated writer and as I’ve promised myself before, once I’m done with all the fucked up obligations, I will devote my time to honing this craft and hopefully publish my own book. To quote one of my favorite authors, “if you want to be remembered, you gotta pen your own book! It’s always the ruddy book!” And yes, I’m willing to settle for a cheap How-to-Have-Multiple-Orgasms guide book author.

• Possess a wealth that would be just right to feed my would-be family and still give them their little whims and fancy. Whoever said that it’s not all about money must be a fucked up nomad or is a hapless beggar gang-raped in the streets of Taft Avenue because really, folks, you can’t live without money. Oh shut up and don’t lecture me with your inedible love and hope and honesty abstracts! That won’t make me budge.

• Plant a tree. A famous Chinese saying tells that to be a complete man, one must sire a child, write a book, and plant a tree. Notice that all three are in my check list. I’m keeping my fingers crossed I will eventually be able to put a tick on the three Chinese proverb pre-requisites. Otherwise, there’s always my being a narcissistic, angst-ridden bastard in orgiastic moans recluse as a consolation and a fallback. Haha!

• Take more than the normal dose of sweet-leapin’-jeezuz coitus every day. Self-explanatory.

I know. That’s one tough list. But I was never born a defeatist; I am determined and I will be able to achieve this checklist in due time, come hell or high water.  Which leads me, inevitably, to believing the Armageddon deadline of 2012 will be moved to 2050. In the meantime, though, I need to figure out how to get  a  (*cough cough*) hard on real quick while jumping mad like a princely frog under the cold-pricking tap waters of the shower.

 *keps - plural of kep, shortened term for kepyas; a colloquial term in vernacular for vagina

Off-topic:

I would like to send my appreciation to a teammate-slash-newfound comrade of sorts (I’ve just recently learned we oddly share a lot of commonalities) who has lent her Neil Gaiman’s Smoke and Mirrors without any reservation and/or hesitation to a narcissistic, angst-ridden bastard that is me. The book has been one of a slew of titles I’ve been meaning to get hands on but too quarter-pounder Chinese to buy a copy of. The author, on the other hand, has been one of the story tellers I place up there in the literary Valhalla’s, along the ranks of Stephen King and JRR Tolkien and Roald Dahl and  Lio Loco JK Rowling and, as what Binchee has slyly pointed out, that verily makes me a certified Neil Gaimaniac. Gaimaniac? Sounds like I am one diabolical rapist always in the hunt for cunts and orgasms. Lol!

So again, to dear Crispy Rai, my heartfelt gratitude.

I won 2.45 Million Euros and I’m Donating Them to Effin’ Charity of Stupidity

Over the week, I have been notified by three people via email regarding some things that I should be supposedly joyous about.

Mr. Erwin Broek, whose name reminds me of fagottry man-to-man action in Brokeback Mountain, told me that my “email address attached to a Ticket Number: 6400213 has won an Award Sum of 1,000,000.00 (One Million euro) inn the Sponsor Lotterij Email Sweepstakes program which was held on the 5th of January 2009” and that I should “please contact the claim officer through the below given contact information.” Oddly similar to Mr. Brokeback’s letter is Mrs. Berg Lucy’s that told me I “have won the Sum of (1,000,000:00 Euro only) in our Netherlands Postcode Loterij E-Mail Prize Program” and was advised to contact 031-616-939-667, wherever that fuckin’ phone number connects to, to claim my prize. Mrs. Patricia Mellor, on the other hand, was rather creative and did not pattern her letter to the other two’s form of “loterij” gimmickry by telling me that I have “emerged a winner of a winner of Four Hundred and Fifty Thousand Euros(€ 450,000.00) from Uplift National Award Promotion”.

If I am a stupid clusterfuck who is so gullible to believe in whatever he hears, watches, and reads, then I should be two-million-and-four-hundred-fifty-thousand-euro richer just this week alone. And if I should do the Math and convert the currency that kicked dollar’s ass to Philippine peso at the current exchange rate of 1 EUR=63.55 PHP, then I should be endowed with at least approximately 155 million pesos. That’s on top of the five-digit salary I slave out for every month.

Under normal circumstances, and by normal I mean playing out the psyche of a stereotypical common “tao”, I would have surely jumped out of sheer ecstasy and would have even ejaculated pre-cum juice at the slightest cognition of the huge money I will be getting. Once I get the moolah, I would have bought my very own mansion that will have Manny Pacquiao’s domain to shame and would have splurged on a hot Lamborghini Diablo to bait more sexy vixens for a dusk-till-dawn uninterrupted coitus action. I would have slapped hot poster girls with my throbbing dick thick bundles of cash and hire them for escort service, week after week changing them – from Cristine Reyes to Angel Locsin to Marian Rivera to Katrina Halili and heck, even to Megan Fox – like I am just changing my wardrobe. Predictably, if I am, indeed, a brown-skinned bozo, I would have used some of the money to start a business and donate a hefty sum as tithe to the Church that added nothing to my holistic growth except only to reiterate how I am inches from sinking into the lavas of hell for being a friggin’ sinner. If you’re lucky and you’re my friend, I will give you Maureen Larrazabal and Gwen Garci (yes, both of them) in one steamy night for free. That’s your payback for being a loyal lapdog to me.

But then again, I am not a stupid clusterfuck. I am skeptical with the things I encounter every day and I strain the senseless and sensible first before I put them into my memory bank. Why should I be giddy over email notices that I won in three different lottery tickets when, in fact, I haven’t even joined any since gawd-knows-when. I suck at number games and I am not good at taking chances; why the heck should I bother to spend my hard-earned cash for some 6/42 lottery, of which the probability of me winning would be one in effin’ 50 million people? I’d rather buy a Trust condom McFlurry sundae than pray to some inexistent Valhalla’s to let me win in the fucked up contest of probabilities and improbabilities.

Suddenly, you realize that yes, indeed, humanity is at the brink of extinction. The world is a few ticks away from the biblical Armageddon and the signs are showing. People becoming more and more stupid by the minute. Pathetic twits being extorted to desperate measures of foolishness. Victims unscrupulously taken advantage of by cunning creatures of Hell. Now my ingenious proposal to rid the world of these useless creatures of society is justified. The world will be a better place to live in without them, I tell you.

Which leads me to asking, how exactly did Mr. Erwin Broek and Mrs. Berg Lucy and Mrs. Patricia Mellor know that I would want to fly over their place (I suspect they’re from some Scandinavian country as given away by the currency and groping English grammar and their noticeable use of “loterij” to describe a contest where prizes are given or distributed) and get my non-existent 2.45M euros? And why, oh fuckin’ why, am I being tormented with such pathetic, desperate scams when I cannot recall any clusterfuck website that I’ve entered my email address willingly in? Being a respectable, sleep-deprived ISP Tech Support Associate, I would like to think that I have the appropriate knowledge to combat these vile, ill-disguised promotions reeking with too much stupidity, careful enough not to sign up to some Trojan-packed sites for a fucked up newsletter of sorts. I guess the answer will remain a mystery for now. In the meantime, I need to clear my inbox of such atrocious idiocy and send these three unassuming emails to the pits of fuck-me-Freddy SPAM-dom in just a click of a mouse.

And for the love of gawd, Mr. Broek, Mrs Lucy and Mrs. Mellor, please brush up your English grammar and do yourselves a favor – just in case you did become successful in fooling someone of such pathetic proofs of imbecilic tendencies, go find some cheap motel and film your very own threesome sex video. You’ll become rich quicker using that strategy instead.

And by the way, it’s lottery not loterij, you effin’ morons.

Yes, You Could Be a 70-Year-Old Wrinkle and Still Enjoy Brothel Sex (A Movie Review of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button)

The problem with the much-ballyhooed Metro Manila Film Festival is that it insults the Pinoy demographic ’s intellect. Year after friggin’ year, producers churn out a steady supply of recycled plot of laugh-out-loud comedy scripts that border from pointblank idiocy to box-office-tested mushiness. You check the list of this year’s offering and suddenly, you understand why  the movie industry is ailing like an AIDS victim. Save perhaps a few films  (heck, is Baler, this year’s MMFF Best Picture even worth watching, anyway?), this year’s lineup seems to offer a formulaic comedy structure that contributes nothing to the moviegoers’ consciousness, or at the most, to the Filipino society’s identity, except give at least two hours of shallow delirium and hilarity. If this is representative of the Philippines’ movie quality, then I’d rather stab the movie industry to death. What’s next, Putangina Niyong Lahat? Sheesh.

So yes, instead of spending close to a hundred bucks and becoming more stupid sitting over some cheap hilarity parade, I retreated to watching a downloaded DVD ripped screener copy of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. (Fine, the copy is pirated, I am a DVD pirate. But tell me someone who does not subscribe to Quiapo’s milieu of Muslim Dibidi’s and I will tell you who you are. You’re from Mars, you effin’ clusterfuck!) The movie, being starred by two of Hollywood’s much sought after, A-list actors notwithstanding, is one flick that is worth the ticket and popcorn box (unless it’s being moved, I am aware its showing in the country will be this 18^th). Out of the blue, you wonder why our movies, in spite of the Filipino race’s sheer ingenuity and creativeness, pale in comparison with the F. Scott Fitzgerald short story adaptation.

While I will have to admit that this will not make the cut of My Favorite Movies criterion (I am a sucker for blood and gore. Ha!), the film still very well delivers an eye candy palette of beautiful imagery that overshadows the story of a man born as a baby with 70-year-old wrinkles who curiously ages backwards. At the onset of the movie where you are delighted to a Warner Brothers logo of falling button mirage, the Fincher flick would like to promise you a colorful story which, by the title alone, would be so curious indeed you’re convinced it won’t happen in real life. So you hold on to your seat, become mesmerized by a queer fable, and get out of the movie house afterwards to sleep after being read tonight’s fairy tale from the 18^th century.

The movie is told first, from an ailing, prosthetics-made up Cate Blanchett’s point of view, the story’s Daisy after whom Benjamin Button has taken a puppy love liking that later on, will blossom to a decaying, tragic love story. Daisy is dying and while she awaits Death’s arrival, the almost impossibly audible 80-year-old asks her daughter to read from a diary – her father’s, Benjamin Button’s, actually – that will make up the movie’s almost three hour running. Suddenly, this scene will give you a familiar déjà vu and then you remember Titanic’s Rose’s retelling of her tragic love story with the pauper Jack.

From hereon, the narrator shifts to Benjamin Button’s point of view and you are regaled by a story of a baby that will remind you of Voldemort’s shrunken form who is abandoned by his vile father , not only because his wife dies giving birth to the unlucky child but more so because of his son’s unacceptable, hideous facial features. Baby Boy more repugnant than Hellboy is adapted by a big-hearted Black American to the protestation of the Negro lover and here we see Brad Pitt in his various digitally-mechanized forms, from the wrinkled seven-year-old with the voice of a grouchy adult diaper-laden old man to a fortyish folk finally of just the right age to fornicate with the normal fortyish Daisy to even a Botox-treated Brad Pitt in his acne-confused teens.

Benjamin grows up and, at a snail’s pace, improves on his physical appearance, leaving behind his mundane Black American-reared childhood and his first love with a young Cate Blanchett to explore the world and taste what exactly does life has to offer him. Young Daisy demands equally-young but old-looking Benjamin to send her post cards from all over the world and from this point forward, you know the narrative is destined to become one tragic love story. I gasp at how exactly this beautiful young Daisy, naïve and quite easily a virgin still, could fall in love with a creased, ugly seventyish-looking man and I become perplexed. Then again, your subconscious shoves up your ass the friggin’ truth that this is, indeed, just an Aesop fairy tale. For chrissake, it won’t happen in real life.

While Benjamin becomes a tugboat crew and becomes charmed over new interesting places, Daisy also molds her life to become a regal ballet dancer, stunning and graceful at that. Curiously, you can’t seem to take Cate Blanchett out of her TLOTR’s Lady Galadriel mold and wonder how such an Elvin deity will soon have sex with the shrunken Lord Voldemort clone wrapped in blankets as described in Book 7. You wonder, where have all the chemistry gone? And are Brad and Cate screen-compatible at all?

Throughout the course of the movie, we get to meet quirky characters who will largely make an influence on young-slash-old Benjamin Button’s take on life’s trivialities as love and death and time and waiting. We have the fucked up pastor of some pseudo-religion from Gomorrah believing to have divine powers to make crippled Benjamin walk again who later on becomes an irony of his own belief after staggering to heart attack death. We have the Negro boyfriend of Benjamin’s foster mother, Queenie, who recites some Shakespearean lines in an odd Black American accent. We have a British English-speaking tugboat captain drunkard who christens the seventeen-year-old Benjamin’s virginity (again, you must remember that Button looks like an old folk at this point) with some cheap brothel sex, dumbfounded how a 70-year-old man could live just fiddling with his own sausage and not dipping it to some hot sauce pan (the captain, after all, is Irish). We have the elegant woman whom he falls in love to while far away from his Daisy and who teaches Benjamin how to indulge adultery with some sophisticated caviar.

As the movie reaches its innuendo, director Fincher expects the moviegoers to sigh and become sappy with Benjamin and Daisy finally meeting up in their forties and now becoming compatible to a goodie goodie unconventional, dusk-till-dawn fornication. Eventually, as the premise dictates, the age clash will arise, and while Daisy matures and ages as a wine, Benjamin crawls down to an age of freckles and young masturbation overdose. The ending is poignant as it tells a love story so tragic emotions will surely run high in its closing. Young Daisy finally withers to a shrunken grannie nursing a diaper-laden baby Benjamin and she tells the audience how she felt Baby Benjamin knew her and the love that they shared as he closed his eyes to final goodbye.

Sappy and sentimental, indeed, but for a narcissistic, angst-ridden bastard in orgiastic rmoans recluse, it was too overdosed with pictures of unnecessary cinematography. For a movie that wants to tell the value of time, of life being temporal, I find it too odd for it to dwell extravagantly on extending the flick run with redundant ironies.

Benjamin Button tells us, “Mamma always said, Life is like a ticking clock — you never know when it’s gonna stop.” And then a line like that rings into your ears. Suddenly, you remember Forrest Gump and its “Life’s like a box of chocolate” gem. It’s a curious case, indeed, how such much-touted Oscar frontrunner seems to borrow much from a well-revered film classic.

Update:

Just read Jessica Zafra’s blog and apparently we share the same sentiments. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is reeking with copy-paste Forrest Gump rehash. Bleech! Run, Benjamin, Run. Harhar!

You Only Have Zero Pesos in Your Account. Please Reload a New Yadda Yadda Clusterfuck Shit!

I tried to experiment last New Year’s Eve. I didn’t text the people I know until I got a half-meant, forwarded New Year greeting from them (Of course, SHE was the exception to the rule! Gawd knows how much I’d love HER texts to fill my gawddamn inbox.); just so I could prove I am still the narcissistic, angst-ridden bastard that they value and can’t afford to lose. Ha! So yes, I am still valuable apparently.

 Along with this conspicuously increasing, shameless claim to self-importance is my sudden decision to change cellphone numbers. Yes, I am a Sun SIM user right now and that’s all because of HER. My maternal folk and my sister back home in the province might be wondering why all of a sudden I have been dead in their inboxes; the crazy, idiosyncratic gang might have been clueless as well why all of a sudden I’ve become incognito for the past few days. Heck, even I, myself, am baffled by the quick resolution to switch mobile networks.

 I digress: I have always been a Smart user since time immemorial not really because I liked the network but more so because most of my contacts are apparently cheap bitches and bastards who can’t get enough of unlimited texting and more recently, AllTXT 100’s. For chrissake, the available cellphone networks currently monopolizing the market today are all fuckin’ mediocre. You go to the US and you wonder how those freakin’ bozos get to have the best deals when here we are; people who go gaga over someone’s vomiting Muzta n? Eat knb? text in a country touted as the texting capital of the world; contenting ourselves with cheap, Third world service. Where in the world do you see a network signal so weak you’d rather trump on your cellphone out of too much frustration instead? Or a text you sent a few hours ago would travel through time warp shit and arrive at the recipient’s inbox after two friggin’ afterlife cycles? And I’m not even starting on their lousy fucked up customer service. I should know; I work for one of America’s largest telecommunications company.

 So yes, I own a Smart and, just because my bitchy, loyal Globe user sister bugged me to buy one, a Globe primarily because my freakin’ friends’ numbers cannot be consolidated into just one network. Two SIMs would rather be sufficient, why bother to buy another one, you might ask. Well, here’s the compendium (Sheesh! I’m guilty of molesting a big word over and over again after just knowing what it exactly means; COMPENDIUM is that current big word.):

 You are very well aware that on the eve of the New Year, SHE has finally texted me, wishing me well as I usher Year 2009 in, right? While I would not like to emphasize that I felt Nirvana to the nth level at HER sudden, unexpected gesture, even half-finishing that night’s media noche after my taste buds got devirginized mercilessly by Johnnie Walker (fine, I can’t get HER out of my head these days), I had to immediately reciprocate the special Happy New Year greeting before SHE gets a deluge of other recycled New Year text forwards. I needed to call HER, and ask HER how SHE’s doing, and how exactly SHE’s celebrating the New Year, and keep the conversation going by just keeping on talking and uttering insignificant yadda yadda’s.

 SHE texted me with HER Globe number so I went down the apartment and headed straight to the nearest sari-sari store for a hundred peso load for my Globe number as well. This is saying something since as I’ve mentioned in my previous post, I do not let go of my hard-earned moolah that easy. Again, my runaway father is half-Chinese and I have inherited more than the usual dose of his friggin’ cheap thriftiness, I guess.

 So I clambered up our abode hole giddy and excited to 236-call HER and finally satiate my yearning for HER voice. Apparently, though, I forgot where the fuck did I stash my gawddamn Globe SIM and while it is already loaded with enough call minutes, I cannot, for the love of gawd, call HER yet. Suddenly, I am reminded yet again of my clusterfuck case of alarming superiority-turned-stupidity. Calming down, I asked my sister back home if she saw the gawddamn SIM and what do you know, fucked up of all fucked up’s, yes, my gawddamn Globe SIM was apparently left back home!

 Thus explains my sudden switching to Sun for in the absence of calling HER via Globe, SHE still apparently has her Sun SIM as back up. So yes, I am in a happy state right now, in answer to some fucked up nakikipagkaibigan-slash-stalker’s cryptic question. I am happy because sans the usual friend quotes that I regularly receive everyday with my Smart number, I get to talk with the woman who is currently giving me weakening bouts of Shakespearean flittings of romance every day.

 As in all other networks, Sun is mediocre. But given my current plight, and choosing between the lesser of three evils (four, if you’re counting the new Red Mobile network), I can tolerate Sun’s erring flaws with only just a little crabbiness. To end this post, I’d like to share the odd text exchange snippets that I had with the aforementioned nakikipagkaibigan-slash-stalker. Read between the lines and notice how crabbily narcissistic and angst-ridden bastard I really am. Ha!

Nakikipagkaibigan-slash-Stalker: Hi!
Me: *no reply*
Nakikipagkaibigan-slash-Stalker: *forwards a mushy love quote*
SMe: *still not budging*
Starting to become anoying Nakikipagkaibigan-slash-Stalker: *forwards a love quote double the mushiness yet again*
Beginning to become crabbily obnoxious Me: *texts back a just-for-the-heck-of-it-I-am-currently-unlimited-so-might-as-well-maximize-my-effin’-load’s-worth Hello*
Asshole Nakikipagkaibigan-slash-Stalker: Musta ka?
Smartass Me: Ok lng. Kw, musta k?
A: Ok dn lang. Msya kb?
S: Oo, msya aq. Kw, msaya kb?
A: Oo nmn. Ano ginagawa mo? 
S: Nagtetext. D obvious no? Ahahaha! (you must understand I had to add the pseudo-laughter so as not to sound too intimidating..haha!)
A: Tlga ah. Musta work mo?
S: *becomes curious on the texter’s identity; how the hell does s/he know that I work?* Dayoff.
A: Ah. Pwd makipakybgan?
S: Ang OA mo nmn. Nagmamaang-maangan k pa. Mkkpgkbgan k eh klala mo nmn aq. Ahahaha!
A: Ang sungit mo nman.
S: Hnd aq mbait sa mga taong di nagppkilala nang maaus. Mas lalo aqng suplado s mga taong nagkukunwaring d aq klala. Ahahaha!
A: Mgppaklala n nga aq.Mxado kang hayblad.
S: Ahahaha! Ppano nmn aq naging high blood? May high blood bng tumatawa  hbang nagttxt? Ahahaha!
A: Cool. Cguro gwapo ka.
S: Hnd aq gwapo. Hnd rn aq panget. Cute lng. Ahahahaha!
A: Cute? Cnong my sbi?
S: Di mo n klngang mlaman kung cno ngsbng cute aq. Ala nmn aqng obligaxun saung sbhin kung cno un. Ahahahaha!
A: *changes the topic* Anong bansa ang may kpansanan?
S: Bt skn mo tnatnong? Aq b teacher mo? Ahahaha!
A: Hehe. Eh di Cuba. *sends another lame text joke*
S: *gets bored with the lame text chat*
A: Ndi mo alm un no? Ahahahaha! Alam mo b ang mga alamat?
S: Tapos n q nian nung elementary. Bt di mo itanong sa teacher mo? Ahahahaha!

 *Asshole Nakikipagkibigan-slash-Stalker gets intimidated by Smartass Me and shies away. Lame text chat ends.*

 Off-topic:

 Browsing through my regular blog reads, I have stumbled upon Kua Badoodle’s reply on my comment regarding his Yearender post. I am a sucker of Kwentong Barbero’s quirky, laugh-out-loud stories borne straight out of wicked reality TV celluloid and I will not lie in telling you that I was freakin’ elated to read the two-liner reply from the man that I find worthy of blogging adulation. By his posts alone, you can verily tell this guy has gone through a lot of fucked up life’s shit and crappiness and withstood them all, emerging as a mythical bastard demigod from Hades’ hell in the process. Younger version of the mythical Badoodles? Ha! Grind your guts to death clusterfuck spiteful bozos!

lio loco: hapi new year din sau kua badoodz at sa bebemo at sa magiging bebe baby mo. natutuwa ako at nakilala ko ang blog mo ngaung taon nang di sinasadya. salamat sa inspirasyon, makukulit na kuwento, at libreng hagalpak. sa uulitin etong year of the ox.

When Self-Proclaimed Superiority is Alarmingly Mutating to Stereotypical Stupidity

I always thought that I was never born stupid, or if it ’s something that you decide on, that I never chose to be stupid.

 Given the useless statistics of almost 6.7 billion morons currently managing boring lives, five soon-to-be suckers laid out into this macrocosm every 3 seconds, and an estimated nine billion ignoramuses manning this shitty hell by 2050, I have always believed that I am one diabolical genius lined up in the exceptional genes of Vincent Van Gogh or Albert Einstein or J.D. Salinger or heck, even gawd-tell-me-my-genes-trace-back-to-the-lineage-of-this-Renaissance-man Leonardo da Vinci.

Spare me the pfft and aghast facial contortions. That I studied always ahead of my class for almost 16 years (two in pre-elem, six in elementary, four in high school, and almost five in college) should be enough proof of my sheer one-of-a-kindness. Yes, I am arrogant, a fuckin’ piece of narcissistic angst-ridden bastard whose superiority can never be found in the commonplace. But my claim to self-importance is something that is not unfounded. My pride has basis. Now, if you find it too hard to accept this assertion because you think you’re far more superior than me, then by all means, close this tab and go fuck your neighbor’s wife’s wet cunt instead.

Okay, so you’re still reading. Shall we go on then?

When I was in high school, I have never mingled too much with my classmates because they reek of too much mundaneness and stereotypes. If I speak to them just so I could kill the fuck-me-Freddy school time, I find myself queasy and vomit-ready. I don’t know about you but when I was in high school, I always wished for a far worthier class discussions and seatmates. Something whose conversations do not only border on last night’s recycled tearjerkers in primetime TV or on his/her clusterfuck I-am-the-center-of-the-solar-system litanies. It was odd because at that time, I’d rather read cozily at home and meet quirky, eccentric people in the pages of engaging tomes than spend the time inside a claustrophobic four-walled box out of friggin’ boredom.

Fine, so I am an introverted freak. But before you shove that clichéd No man is an island shit up my ass, I would like to tell you that I have friends, a select few who can tolerate my arrogance and bastardly ways. I am hard to please and I rarely give applause to anyone except myself, save of course if you really deserve it. I may look wholly ordinary but deep down inside I have a Dexter monster lurking within, ready to devour pathetic, worthless twits. If you’re one of them, better scramble and run; because I can be sleepless 24 hours straight with intellectual discourses but I can doze off right away with senseless, pointless discussions.  Would you even believe that my quirkiness even reached a point when I had my everyday conversations with my friends in English, all in its bloody US accent, just because I liked the sound of myself in American twang? Haha! Superiority overdose, I tell you.

Wait, have I already mentioned that I used to go to school back then almost always at least 20 to 30 minutes late? I mean, the whole class can go on with the day’s topics without me and I can still cope with the subject matter with only a book and sans a frothing high school teacher at that. I rarely participate in class discussions and I recite in front of the class only when called upon by the freakin’ teacher. I hate bearing with the pseudo-teacher’s style of rereading the book’s contents and passing it to the class as if it was his own and we should thank him for being a friggin’ priced asset. Fuck that style of teaching. And double fuck the teachers that subscribe to it. They deserve nothing less than being annihilated in the clusterfuck hell oven.

Of course my innate self-proclaimed superiority never died down when I went to college. This was the time when I thought I had more right and authority to ridicule the cardboard box people who think they’re too indispensable in the ancient college bureaucracy. I had more courage to berate most of my college instructors since their freakin’ salary is basically coming from the pockets of the enrolled students, this fuck-me-Freddy narcissistic bastard included.

My claim to infamous superiority and angst-ridden bastardness reached its boiling point when an instructor (I refuse to call her a professor up to this day) got irked and threatened to file a lawsuit against me for publishing a student’s comment in our college paper. The student aforementioned only vented out what exactly he felt at that time, saying in gist that he was not learning anything useful in his subject under the teaching tutelage of the mad instructor, considering that he’s paying thousands of pesos for that subject alone and that the subject is, in fact, one of the subjects soon-to-be hurled in the CPA Board Exams.

I was the school editor, I treated the comment well within the right to freedom of expression, and I published his statement in the feedbacks section. The instructor, on the other hand, found the statement defamatory, saying that it ridiculed her I-don’t-fuckin’-care-how-many-years of teaching and her supposed good stature in the university. I consulted a lawyer with my equally self-proclaimed superior (haha!) PolSci friends and was advised to just shrug the fuck-me-Freddy lawsuit off my system. The case was inexistent. Nada. Nil. Of course it is not permissible, or at the slightest thought of possibility, it will take years for a case of libel to be proven valid. The famed Philippine Star columnist Art Borjal called Cory an imp cowering under her bed while sieges and mass protestations attacked the Malacañang Palace left and right and the fuming Yellow Prexy filed a libel case against the opinion writing avant garde. But even while one of my favorite columnists is now lying six feet under, the libel case has never been proven. Ha! Eat shit douche bag academe bitch!

That was an all-time high for me, personally; one that highlighted my college life’s growing bastardly ways; not only because she called me names, even dragging my personal life to tell one and all that I am a good-for-nothing, pretending smartass with an acerbic pen (Tell me then, how can you call someone a worthy professor if, being hurled with lazy teacher-from-hell moniker, that person resorts to vile propaganda tactics instead of matter-of-factly discussions?) but also because she threw the white flag first in the end. Yes, we kissed and made up and the hatchet was buried but I still felt triumphant for I stood my ground, remained with my side of the story, and posed superiority with all the rigmarole.

So where is this fucked up grandstanding going, I hear you asking. Well, screw you for not being patient enough. I’m going there. But then again, if patience is a virtue, then I’m not also a virtuous man. So I guess I deserve a crisp fuck you to myself as well. All is fair in love and R18 profanities. Anyway, here’s the compendium of my self-proclaimed superiority going down the drains:

Of course I’ve already told you in the last post that I was a moron for going to work on January 1 with the wrong jeepney, stupid enough not to even notice that the PUV was not coursing the familiar City Hall-Taft-Buendia route. Fuckin’ stupid me, huh? Well, just recently, I had the clusterfuck rewind of dumbass stupidity once again.

There I was, in the middle of humming Eraserhead’s Hard to Believe (Fuck, the song was so me I swear that I suspect the cryptic band was thinking of me when they were writing the song. Haha!), spotting early morning chicks pass by, when all of a sudden, I realized there was no wallet bulging in the right pocket of my baggy pants. Oh-fuckin’-jeezuzchrist! Why am I trying to live out the blendered prototype of Ed, Edd, and Eddy?

So I felt my pockets again, tugged the compartments inside and out, but still found no black Girbaud cache within. Frantic, I even thought I got pickpocketed and immediately scanned the faces of the suspicious passengers. And then it occurred to me that just that morning, I was ridding my wallet of receipts and assorted bills and condom wrappers, er…I mean, and all other accumulated trash and left it on the bed while I rushed to brush my teeth. Stupid, stupid me!

It’s a good thing I had some left pennies in my pockets at that time and used them to pay for fare from España to Pedro Gil. Now, the next friggin’ problem was where to get the money to hitch a ride from Taft to Buendia and from Buendia to Makati. I guess there was this bit of good soul still left within me for in spite of the narcissistic, angst-ridden bastardly ways eating up my system and in the middle of thinking about posing for early cheap sex for gays and matronas, along came Binchee – my ever-reliable teammate to the rescue!

So I’m cutting the long crap and suffice it to say that I got to my work on time courtesy of Binchee. Oh, and thanks to his hundred bucks, I managed to spend lunch at a Ministop convenience store, crabbily passing out my alarmingly increasing stupidity with some cheap mashed rice and a friggin’ piece of too-much-bread-crumbed chicken.

I have a feeling 2009 is really not my year. This early, it’s already lashing me with my newfound stupidity. Gawd knows what else is in store for me in the coming days, months. Oh fuck-me-Freddy clusterfuck, I am now cringing at the thought! Dear gawd, I would like to compromise: I’m willing to halve my narcissistic, angst-ridden bastardly ways over the next few days. Just please don’t swap my self-proclaimed superiority with stereotypical stupidity. 

So What If Dora’s Crying? I Had a Bad First Day of 2009 So The Hell I Care!

Okay, so I’m going to start this New Year with reinvigorated ranting. Again. Ha! So much about my consternation to at least mellow down my friggin’ diabolical angst and bastardly wicked ways this Year 2009. I guess there are some things that just stick with you like shit no matter how hard you try to get rid of them. This angst-ridden idiosyncrasy, I think that’s one on my personal list.

So I ushered New Year in by being late at work for two gawddamn minutes. Jeezuzchrist! Always the same fault, committing the same mistake over and over again. Fine, I’m guilty. Shoot me. Somehow it reminds me of the high schooler Lio who thinks he’s of aristocratic descent, finds nothing wrong coming to school at a time when the Filipino teacher is already 30 minutes through frothing a boring lecture to the class, and sits on his armchair like nothing just happened in spite of the accusing stares of forty souls and one stuttering drone.  Yes, my effin’ art of narcissistic bastardness goes way, way back in my formative years. Well, it’s a habit. And old habits die hard, if at all.

Anyway, the thing is, I was again late for work and that’s no thanks to my newfound stupidity. Because I was rushing to go to work, I just flagged a jeepney and got on without even bothering to read the destination signage. It does not help that you go to work feeling like a bad case of last night’s liquor overdose, pretty much like finding yourself naked with your Hey Jay best friend’s hands on top of your tits after last night’s drinking session. Kidding about the Parokya parody.

Allow  me to digress: Last night, I spent the second New Year celebration away from my family. Of course, when tough times like these happen, you seek the only refuge available – cold beer bottles and smokin’ hot pulutan to boot. This time around, though, I spent the night trying to feel like a grown man with the company of Tatay (my friend’s father; I’ve had the liberty to call him Tatay since he has become a father figure to me ever since my dad did a Houdini) and his fuckin’ big mouth high school batch mate. That night also saw me swigging a bottle of Black Label and a Fundador brandy follow-up for the first time.

I started downing half-glasses of Johnnie Walker without any chaser and found its taste rather bland and effin’ awful. You must understand my taste buds are accustomed to youthful flavors of Red Horse Beer and GSM Blue and introducing these whiskey and brandy all in one sitting is such a task I have to get used to. The brandy I can tolerate as I have been acquainted with other boring brands out there by uncles and friends but the whiskey, oh fuck-me-Freddy, the whiskey melts in your mouth and then goes deep down in your gullet before finally proceeding to attack your innards with that distinct acerbic twinge.  Bleech! Fine, I was trying too hard to be a full-blown caricature of a fat-assed old drunkard and I admit it, it had me caught off-guard. Fuck, I never even thought the Black Label was such a strong spirit that I even gulped half a glass in one go during my first swig!

It’s a good thing I had a fine specimen for distraction. In between cringing over the clusterfuck drink for old, bearding men and pseudo-laughing over Tatay’s guest’s yadda yadda yadda monopoly, I was rather euphoric for finally hearing HER voice over the phone after so long a time. Yes, fuckin’ grind your guts to death, SHE has finally texted me and shared a long lost string of what’s ups and what-nots. I better not go into details, though, as I am aware I know some readers (yes, I am  talking about you dear Essie-Chan, haha!) who will tease me ‘till kingdom come regarding this blooming love affair. Better not nip the bud.

Moving on, meeting Johnnie Walker last night cost me to wake up late, procrastinate (another old habit that can’t seem to die) over preparing to go to work and unfortunately, miss the common sense to check where the fuck is the PUJ’s destination. Still having the fuck-me-Freddy hangover, I was not even able to realize early on that the jeepney was not following the City Hall-Taft-Buendia route. I alighted from the vehicle cursing some crisp R18 invectives under my breath (“Oh Screw yourself, Lio, you fucked up piece of stupid slob!”) and hailed a cab to reach my work destination.

At this point, I thought Bad Luck Bastard was already running out of tricks up its sleeves. I thought wrong, of course. For after hopping in the friggin’ dysfunctional elevator, which would very well qualify as a rotting museum artifact, by the way, more like a piece of useless chunk of metal rather than a well-designed people-carrying lift, I was greeted by a piece of news that will have my facial bone structure in painful lockjaw later on.

I will not tell you the particulars as I fear doing so will cost my job and my effin’ five-digit salary but let me give you a rundown of the situation real quick:

As you are very well aware, I work as a Technical Support Representative for some cable ISP in the US. Now it happens that on the eve of December 31 (US time), its contract with one of its major cable programming channel provider will expire and along with the expiration is the inevitable demise of some premium channels that most of the ISP’s customers regularly watch. You can only imagine then the outrage that struck the subscribers upon learning that come past midnight, no thanks to the Cable Programming Channel Provider’s propaganda (the Programmer chose to blatantly tell the public that the ISP is dropping the channels instead of opting to just negotiate with the ISP in closed doors, far from media lime lights), they can never go gaga over some overrated clusterfuck adulated buffoons in one music channel or that their children won’t be able to be entertained by some friggin’ brown-skinned Spanish-speaking imp every morning. Effin’ retards, I’d say.

So the looming channel blackout had us take a deluge of mostly irate callers threatening to cancel and move to other cable operators, as if doing  so would change the fucked up situation. There I was, nursing a liquor hangover, feeling familiar goose bumps and kneading weak knees, becoming some freakin’ shock absorber of mad callers who never fail to whine over life’s petty pleasures. Calls upon calls, I have time and again explained to these stupid suckers who can’t seem to get the gist of the story that dear greedy ISP is currently negotiating with equally greedy Channel Provider earnestly, honestly, and fairly and we hope we are able to reach an agreement yadda yadda yadda. Fuck, now I know how it is to become a broken record from hell.  If I could only get my hand over to their end, I would have surely banged the fuckin’ phone to the bozos’ heads, hammering the freakin’ telephony machine ‘till their gawddamn  cranial flesh comes out of their gawddamn ignoramus skulls. That’s one perfect sight fit for a Dexter billing. Geez, the serial killer in me is making me a monster again. I mean, for chrissake, I am speaking using their native tongue; how hard was it to digest the fact that we can’t do anything else but to wait till the two different sides of the same greedy coin meet a common ground and connive in making poor fools out of them, thereby squeezing their pockets dry of godly kachings?

But wait, there’s more. You think our misery, the hapless incarcerated call center whores in that building, would end there, huh? Not about so for amidst the mad scramble of taking hundreds upon hundreds of clusterfuck calls, the selfless Work Force Management, gawd bless his saintly soul, that call center authority who manages and decides how many fuckin’ calls will we take in a particular day, thought we were breezing the gawddamn chore through with ease and carefree whistle and consequently, had the nerve to tell us after-call breather was not necessary. Sweet, this effin’ double douche bag faggot from Dante’s seven stages of hell.  So sweet, in fact, that methinks he deserves to be well-revered in a deity altar devoid of sperm-filled balls and shaven of his pubic hair and castrated of his useless penis.

I do not subscribe to the cliché “All’s well that ends well.” I believe if you committed something wrong, in spite of you righting it, it does not erase the fact that you’ve still done a bad thing. You have sex with your paramour, your wife catches you, you ask for forgiveness, she forgives you, but that does not take away the effin’ truth that you still got laid in some cheap motel by your lover.  This is the reason why I cannot fathom what gawddamn gimmickry both of the greedy clustefucks were playing at when after we have tormented our ear drums with redundant whining in American accent, the Cable Programmer and the ISP decided to kiss and make up, as if nothing ever happened. After we’ve reluctantly and grudgingly bore with all the complains crap, it turned out that the two different sides of the same greedy coin have reached a win-win agreement that will squeeze, in the most cunning way, the moolahs out of the pathetic suckers after all.

Somebody get me a knife. I need to cut a throat.