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.