**And this here list tells you why.
1. You can buy, or hoard, all the cheap-ass books you want until you are cheap-ass broke. But hoarding books is awful stupid if you can't read. That's like collecting a lot of spandex underwear, and you're not even a wrestler.
2. You've always wanted to carve your niche in society. And you've always wanted to join the ranks of your social inspirations. Fortunately, some of your efforts did pay off. So you now have the bull cap worn sideways, the oversized jersey, zero individuality, and that funny swagger, but you can't be a jejemon yet if you can't read. If you can't read, then you can't text. And if you can't text, then how can you even hope to retard the reading that you have should have learned in the first place? W46 k~n6 +4n64 ph0w$zzZZ
3. You can't be an accomplished flying voter if you can't even read your cheat sheet, fool.
4. You will be missing out on some unnecessary gay venom published Friday evenings if you can't read. And, having said that, who the hell cares?
5. You cannot LIKE on Facebook if you cannot read your jejemon friends' status updates. Think about it. LIKES SAVES LIVES these days. And Jesus, oh Jesus, you will find out that Jesus H. Christ himself logs in to Facebook from time to time. Oh hell yes. And the Lord Savior will need your likes to advocate some very noble Christian cause like shooting abortionists on the head. Or Liking the faggots to their death. Via Facebook. For real, homo.
6. I'm sorry, what? You think I'm fucking with you? Well, if it isn't Him, then how come The Savior's holier than thou status updates include a picture of Him? Well? Anything? Answer that, bitch, while I poke the Lord. And I will PM Him, and I will ask Him NOT TO SAVE YOUR UNBELIEVING SOUL! And I will write in the Lord's sacred Wall, too:
Dear Jesus, please deny (insert your name here) of the salvation that You have promised your sheep. Please, oh please, let (insert your name here)'s soul burn in hell because that uncouth heathen think Your Facebook Account is unwashed blasphemy. Muahness from Pasig Cirehhh! Amen.
7. And what about this screenshot?
8. Oh yeah? YOU WILL TURN INTO A PILLAR OF SALT! AND YOU WILL BE FED TO LIONS! AND THESE LIONS WILL DEVOUR YOU WITH RELISH BECAUSE THEY ARE HUNGRY AND SODIUM DEFICIENT! YOUR SOUL WILL BURN IN HELL, YOU HOMO! Goddamnit, it infuriates me to find out that there are faithless fools out there who have the balls to deny Jesus of His Facebook account! THE PEARLY GATES WILL CLOSE ON YOU, MOTHERFUCKEEERRR!
9. Oh hell no, homo. It's three in the afternoon, and this kind of sun doesn't work well with your leathery, fifty-ish skin. Let's face facts, faggot. At your age, you don't want to look that tired AND smell like a heatstroke waiting to happen, right? Oh, I'm sorry, I was writing this on my way home, in an FX, and I saw this old fag sashaying along Julia Vargas. It was three in the afternoon, he didn't have an umbrella, so I had to write something. But insulting that unholy apparition calmed me. I'm good now. Sorry about the sudden bitch fit in caps, though. You know I'm a good Christian. You go, Jesus! Anyway, allow me to continue.
10. There's a lot of bookish nerds out there. Have something in common! They're mostly virgins, too, so I'd best be learning my alphabet now. However, I am not guaranteeing a date with a circumcised nerd. And "virgins" doesn't always mean "hella cute," okay?
11. www.jessicarulestheuniverse.com. Seriously, homo, that there is The Mistress. You are missing out.
12. You cannot be a largely ignored gay emo blogger if you cannot read. See, reading progresses to writing. And writing, given the determination or a lot of free time, progresses to blogging. Think about it. You're this gay emo kid who can now read and write. And you know you can use some loving. And a bath. Anyway, you decided to blog. And then your blogging progresses to... ignore #12. Just go to #11. Seriously, homo, that there is The Mistress.
13. You can use a book to ignore people. And I wrote about that, too. Click here.
See you homos next Friday. Muahness from Pasig Cirehhh!
**The Tagalog term "Babaeng Bakla" loosely translates to its English equivalent, which is "Fag Hag." Underscore loosely, and even then, I use the term with certain reservations. Maybe a definition is in order, so here:
Fag hag
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Fag hag is a gay slang phrase referring to a woman who either associates mostly or exclusively with gay and bisexual men, or has gay and bisexual men as close friends. The phrase originated in gay male culture in the United States and was historically an insult.[1] Some women who associate with gay men object to being called fag hags while others embrace the term.
**One of the people that I look up to admits to being more than a Fag Hag; she's a Haggot. And even then, she doesn't have that near-irritating quality that is becoming more and more pronounced among the Fag Hag's Filipina sisters. Anyway, having said that, I remembered I have a question to ask.
Say for instance you are a "Babaeng Bakla." You are no longer the ordinary tag-along Fag Hag. You have evolved. And you are now somewhat irritating. Again, you are a "Babaeng Bakla." Clear? Yes? Thank you.
You are a "Babaeng Bakla." And then, for argument's sake, imagine that we took away your "Bakla" influence. We took away the same "Bakla" that serves as your reference for comic material and relief. We took away the same "Bakla" with the penis and the infectious personality. Maybe your "Bakla" choked to death or something corny like that. Whatever. Erotic asphyxiation? Whatever. Maybe he committed suicide by masturbation. Whatever. Or he got dog-locked, and they cannot pry out that dismembered cock from his butt, and he died from the infection. Whatever. But we took him away. And then, this part here is of paramount importance, we Deprive you of a replacement "Bakla." Forever.
More Hoarding: I have purchased three more books after the Encyclopedia of Bad Taste. My makeshift bookshelf now includes When Do Fish Sleep (Chapters and Pages, 05/05/2013, P60, Hardbound), I Saw Da Sign: 100 Funny Pinoy Signages (Powerbooks Megamall, 05/06/2013, P150, Paperback), and The Best of Chico, Delamar, and Gino's the Morning Rush Top 10, Book 2 (Powerbooks Megamall, 05/06/2013, P195, Paperback). It is getting serious. Meanwhile, the Powerbooks outlet in Megamall has this darling copy of The Best of Archie Volume 2. It's a steal at P399, even criminal, and I suppose I can own a copy. Nevermind that I now have a reading backlog; it is P399, and it's Archie Andrews. Volume 2, baby.
Oh, and yes, it will be Mother's Day on the 12th. That's this coming Sunday. So you go on ahead and be a good homo; give your Ma the coronation she deserves. Hop to it faggot. Anyway, I love you so much Mommy!
My next post will include Jesus. I have completed the draft, but I suppose I need to post this first on account of the Mother's Day reference. Also, those links up there redirect to one of my other posts; you might want to check those if you feel like it. And, while you're at it, here's a Mom post.
I'll see you homos next Friday.
**I can write about another compulsive behavior, but that can give you poor vision, sore arms, a decrease in your sperm count, and, in extreme cases, bleeding palms. So let me write about books instead. I bought me White Trash Etiquette (P60), Jewish as a Second Language (P60), and Monty Python's Complete Waste of Time (P60) last Sunday.
Chapters and Pages is this obscure, second-hand bookstore which is located in front of a Watson's outlet at the ground floor of the Robinson's Galleria. It's one employee, that smiling and friendly Grace, takes care of the cash box, the inventory, and the over all organization of the merchandise. It has four uniform shelves about four feet high and twenty feet long, and there is two feet in between each shelf. It has one large bin for Buy One Take One books, mostly hardbound, and those run for a hundred pesos (roughly two and a half dollars) for two books.
Chapters and Pages doesn't have any walls with which to secure it's perimeter. This means anybody can just snatch a book, club Grace on the head with a formidable hardbound until she's unconscious, and walk in stride for discretion. That Grace, poor Grace, can't do nothing about it. Meanwhile, the mall guards are usually being mall guards, which is elsewhere, most of the time. Unless, of course, they're being their notoriously incompetent selves and are tending to a lot of pointless frisking.
But I get my sanctuary's lack of security. I mean, think about it. What nerd will steal a used book?
Update1: I bought another book about five days after. I got me The Encyclopedia of Bad Taste, hardbound with the jacket intact, at P120. I noticed the words "Bad Taste" in this delicious purple font screaming like a homo on the cover, and I knew that I have to own this book. I mean, what is P120 for a reckless nerd? This encyclopedia is reference material for "America's Favorite, Flashiest, and Funniest Cultural Extremes." I may or may not read it from end to end. But that's not the problem. The real situation is that I'm hoarding again. And writing about this near-compulsive behaviour doesn't help me none. Hoarding is still hoarding regardless of how you look at it.
However, if you were cross eyed, and you looked at hoarding, then it will be something like this:
HoardingHoarding
Update2: This Encyclopedia of Bad Taste has full color pictures of nude men (page 235), big boobs (pages 235, 236, 237), articles about perky nuns, novelty wrestling, and Liberace. It's all that and more for a dirt cheap P120. Honestly, that there is a steal. And I didn't have to club that smiling and friendly Grace on the head with it.
Update3: The reason why this post has updates is because I wrote this first on 04/28/2013. On a notebook.
Update4: With the things are picking up, as far as my posting frequency goes, I suppose I can commit to updating this blog on a weekly basis. For real, homo. Please expect an update every Friday evening. Muahness from Pasig Cirehhh.
**This post is about time, really, and the title has got nothing to do with the content. Nope, nothing at all. Not even spit. That absolutely irrelevant title, however, was mighty amusing. It once issued from one of my funny friends, Alvin, it registered, and I just had to use it somewhere. And there you have it.
**Meanwhile, on a more personal note, I was actually excited to post this list.
1. If you're a dude, never mind if you're a gay dude or a lady dude, hell, let me rephrase that. Labels are confusing. Okay, say for instance you have a biological dick, and you're done pissing, or urinating, or peeing, whatever. And you're still shaking it after five seconds, then dude, you're playing with it. And, chances are, you're playing with it in public. Five seconds tops. Perv.
2. If you find yourself looking at a complete stranger for more than three seconds, then, chances are, you are interested in what you're looking at. Or you are captivated. Or amused. Or aroused. Or he/she is just so bitching ugly that you're still registering the specie of this human shaped deformity. And you can't find the right insult to get started. Don't be hating, you mean motherfucker.
3. Say for instance you have a biological dick. And you're still trying to pee for more than thirty seconds now. And no piss is being ejected. And there's a burning sensation down your nether regions. And some pus, too. Then you owe your urologist a visit. Get to it.
4. If you haven't been menstruating for nearly a month now, and you are beginning to worry because you're just sixteen, and you're now scared shit because you cannot be pregnant at such a tender and promising age. And you're a boy. Then, chances are, you are not pregnant. What you are, however, is a tripping homo.
5. Say for instance you have a biological dick. And you were supposed to get hard twenty minutes ago. You are now horny as hell, but nothing is happening as far as your dick goes. Then, chances are... hahaha, hell, this is just rich. You go ahead and finish this. Or maybe you can't. Hahaha.
6. Personally, I've had premature ejaculations that had better timing that that corny bitch and her tired "Hinde! Hinde!" spiel. This is a reference to comic timing, and why a lot of those hardcore Vice Ganda wannabes don't get it.
7. Let me tell you a story. I was sitting on this bus this one time. And I was seated next to, oh sweet mother of Christ, that fine piece of man Carl Guevarra. Anyway, it was a hell of a bumpy ride. And then Carl Guevarra turns to me, his handsome face pleading and hopeful, and says, "Oh Momel! I have this real big problem with motion sickness! And the only proven remedy is a good blowjob. Do you think you can help?" And I said no.
8. That wet dream up there, number 7, never really happened.
9. Say for instance you have a biological dick. And you are not number 5 up there. Anyway, it's just two minutes, and you already came... Or ejaculated... Or climaxed... And it's just two minutes, then... hahahaha! Hahahaha! Two fucking minutes?! Hahahaha! For real?! Hahahahaha! Lousy fuck.
10. If you're this guy, and she hasn't fainted yet after five minutes, then you can try administering a stronger rape drug. Or you can lose the cap and the hood so that she can see your real face. Haha, if I'm such a dick then why are you still reading me?
If you were on the 20th floor of the Galleria Holiday Inn, and you jumped out of your hotel room twenty floors down to your death by massive impact, then it's a sure bet that we will be looking at your unsightly, mangled remains as it lay undisturbed near our smoking area. That's how close we are to the Galleria Holiday Inn.
So I was at work this one time, and I decided to take a break from my kinky night job. I was on the night shift, and it was three in the morning. I was enjoying a cigarette when this woman, in her thirties, I suppose, called out my attention. I decided that she was asking for directions, because she was shouting "Puwede pong magtanong/ Can I ask you a question?" from a distance. That distance was a good eight or nine feet away from my smoking coolness.
That's how it usually is in the third world. It's usually for directions when a total stranger addresses you with that familiar, high pitched urgency. Unless, of course, they want to know if you are interested in having a "good time." "Good time, ser?" No, they don't think that you look a little on the down side and can use some cheering up. They think that they need to get you some pussy. Or a mouthful of cock. Whatever. A "good time" is street talk for a sexual solicitation. And it should not be confused with actual good will because that is exactly what a six-year old child will believe. And you are not six years old.
And besides, there is no way in this God forsaken outsourcing third world that That bitch was soliciting me for sex. Oh madre de dios hell no. I could smell my homo from your side of the internet.
Anyway, she was maybe five foot four, scrawny, had a mess of long, thin hair, and she was wearing what appears to be matching office garbage. It was three in the morning, and there was very little light with which to support my judgment, so I could be wrong. It might not look as masterfully tailored in broad daylight. Again, I could be wrong. But I doubt it.
She approached me, and she was about three feet away from me when she started reading from this piece of paper in her right hand. And she asked me, loudly, "Alam niyo po kung saan yung Gallery Holiday I-N-N/ Do you know where the Gallery Holiday I-N-N is?" Yes, she spelled it out, and I'm not kidding. Her face was smiling and visibly clueless; it was some absolutely hilarious shit. But it didn't sound right, clarifications are in order, so I puffed me a good one, and I asked, "Ah, baka yung Galleria Holiday Inn/ Do you mean the Galleria Holiday Inn?" She briefly consulted that piece of paper she was holding in her right hand, looked back at me dismissively, and she said, "Hindi po. Yung Gallery Holiday I-N-N po/ No, the Gallery Holiday I-N-N."
Obviously, she was referring to the Galleria Holiday Inn, but her insistent emphasis on the spelling was just beyond me. So I told her "Ay hindi ko alam yan/ I have no idea." And I gave her a practiced smile, which is the facial equivalent of " leave me alone, stupid," and I lit another cigarette to drive the message home.
