Friday, December 02, 2016

Schedule a Colostomy and Save a Friend!

**This goes out to them perpetually pissed off sort of people whose disposition, come hell or high water, are always in direct proportion to the kind of things they have stuck up their ass. I'm sure you know somebody like him.

There's this person I've known for close to five years now, and, thankfully, we're not friends. I see him almost every day, and what little pleasantries we've exchanged are limited to a word count of five. I never talk to him if I can help it on account of he's almost always frowning, and he could be, for all I know, biologically engineered to breathe fire. That smirk on his face works as good as a fingerprint -- it's the best identification he's got. I'm not stretching the truth when I tell you that I rarely see him smile. It's as if his face repels cheer and sunshine and all that creamy goodness, and it appears like he doesn't mind being a wet blanket towards everybody else's high spirits.

This dish rag, because he's got the personality of one, is pushing 40 now. Or at least he looks like it with the way he's always frowning. So there's just absolutely no point in teaching old sour dogs new cheerful tricks. Like smiling and stuff.

I'm not going to size him up, at least not any more, or decipher his corrosive psychological code because there's no real objective behind such a frustrating undertaking. Let's leave that to expensive shrinks who are getting paid for their intestinal fortitude. Or to them idle self-serving dipshits who think they're smart enough to unravel everybody else's behavioral patterns and then post their observations as Facebook shout outs. I mentioned Mr. Anthrope here (as opposed to Ms. Anthrope, which sounds like Misanthrope, which means "world hater" -- get it?) because you probably know somebody, maybe a far removed family member who lives in the same house, or an ex-friend who got kicked off the Emo-bandwagon because he was taking things a tad too seriously, anybody with a severely toxic disposition. And you don't know what to do with them. At least anything humane.

And so allow me to hazard several suggestions.

1. Imagine a self-restraining order in your head, like a uranium-green neon Post It that says "Keep the Fuck Away!" when you're within ten feet of said Toxic Person. And because it will be in your head, make sure it's very accessible for future recall. Maybe tuck that next to that mental file cabinet that's labelled "Favorite Masturbatory Fantasies," and leave that as it is. Do this if you got luck and you;re not in speaking terms with said Toxic Person. Or at least you used to be.

2. Stop talking to him. Delete him from your Facebook network. Remove his number from your cellphone, so that you reply with a "Who you?" the next time he sends you a message. Just cut him off completely, and pray well that he gets the hint.

3. Be as equally cheerful as he is toxic and become the more irritating of the two of you. Show all your teeth when you smile at him (which will be every ten to twenty minutes), always talk in rising pitches, high five until it's an involuntary reflex, and small talk like you breathe unnecessary banter. Become so thoroughly irritating to him that he cuts you off first, and then congratulate yourself.

4. Drug his coffee with 3,000 mg of the strongest over the counter laxative. Or whatever dosage that's potent enough to make him shit a five pound brick. Studies show that grumpy people more or less have something stuck up their ass, and I'm hoping that this exercise in conditioning bowel movement works like a charm. If it doesn't, and he's still no more cheerful after that nuclear shit, then tell yourself that at least you tried. And find wisdom in these two words - Shit happens.

5. Find yourself a good proctologist and schedule a colostomy. Maybe, just maybe, two ass holes will do him good.

Friday, November 25, 2016

I Am Now Quitting Blogging

I know you all might think that this is too sudden. But I've thought about this, really, and it is with inconsolable regret that I cry out this announcement:

I am now prepared to completely discontinue this blog. And I have just signed up for a bigger house.

Of course I'm pulling your legs right after your boxers, my Dearly Beloved. This is my house, and there's no leaving. My updates, as of the late, are borderline postponed, however, because I am imagining that I am in love. 

Friday, November 18, 2016

Hard Talked

I was told, just recently, that the reason I never get a good man is because I am easy to get. And you know what, My Dearly Beloved, something tells me that I should agree with this straight talking rock and roll tattooed friend. The past few assholes I've dated should be testimony enough. God damn it, I am easy to get, and I should make the right improvements.

What happened last week? I was rightful tired of dating yet another wrong man.

Friday, November 04, 2016


You see, My Dearly Beloved, Section 7, which is the criminal charge that was filed against him, which is what I'll be referring to him now, Section 7 has been recently released from his incarceration, and I'm celebrating plenty now, because I get to sleep better after more than seven weeks. 


Friday, October 28, 2016

I Don't Do Trick or Treat

**I posted this in 2011, and it's still wildly relevant today. 

**Not enough Halloween fun to go around that we have to borrow some other country's crap?

None of the people I knew growing up had to do trick or treat. We were so decidedly quasi-ghetto that my Halloweens were trips to the cemetery where we would make balls out of candle wax drippings. I know its primitive, and it sure as hell hurt, but it kept us entertained until it hurt some more. Then we'd whine our grown ups to take us home. We'd whine with wonderful industry if we happened to be in the cemetery on a Saturday afternoon because we can't afford to miss Noli de Castro hosting the all too creepy Magandang Gabi Bayan Halloween special.

Them 80's were a fucking good time to do Halloween. Halloween's mostly a laid back affair where we'd get high on mostly primitive shit that in no remote way resembled what other countries did on that same day. We're mostly cool with our wax balls and our scary TV shows. But we were largely original with our celebration, basic but original, and we kept to our own like what our parents did. Fast forward to twenty years later, and the whole celebration started getting different. Its not the transgendered kind of different, nor is it the receding hairline kind of different. It's more of the irrelevant kind of different because our kids are doing Trick or Treat now.

Now let me give you the reassuring claim that when I'm wrong, then I'm most definitely certainly wrong, and I think Filipino kids dressing up to do trick or treat is so wrong its borderline stupid. I admit I'm all in for the aesthetics. Cute is cute, no contest, but its the whole idea that bugs me. What kind of rice are we eating these days that gave us the idea its okay for our Filipino kids to go Trick or Treating? Are we becoming so Americanized that we have to dress up our kids for candies like what they're doing? Do we even know why we're doing it? Have we finally run out of third-world things to do on Halloween? Or for the rest of the year for that matter? Because if we are, then there's no reason why we should stop with Halloween. We might as well do Thanksgiving, and we'll do it not for any cultural significance, most definitely not for the Indians, not for shit, but for the poultry. And why shouldn't we? We're already dressing our kids up like little brown devils to ask for candy, we might as well go overtime with all this cultural social climbing and do Thanksgiving. Halloween for the candy, Thanksgiving for the turkey. But we should learn how to stuff that Andok's chicken this early on.

All in all, this trick or treating business among our kids, our Filipino kids, has got to be a singularly conceited affair that makes no sense in this third world country. Truth is, we all probably grew up in the same dark ages where our Halloweens were identified with candle wax balls and ghost stories on TV. But I never grew this unnecessary inclination to dress up my nieces or nephews as ghosts, goblins, hookers, or sperm bank tellers just for treats. I wouldn't know how to make sense of it all. Kids are terribly inquisitive little devils by default, and I know one of them will ask me WHY THE HELL am I wasting good money on cheap-ass costumes that make gay dipshits of them.

I really wouldn't know what to say to that. I'll just teach them how to make the baddest candle wax ball instead.


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