Sunday, March 27, 2005

Don't Call Me Pokpok!

**It's all that, and uncontrollable bowel movement.

For the first time, I knew how it felt like to be "picked up" by a complete motherfucking stranger. Me and my group of friends went to one of the more promiscuous areas in Pasig because we wanted to know how it felt like to be a prostitute for the night. Nobody dared us to do so, and it was in no way, shape, or form a dirty fantasy. I did it because I wanted to know, and nobody's stopping me anyway. But before we got there, we went to the nearest 7-11 for cigarettes and pineapple juice. You know, nourishment.

Imagine me as a prostitute, and you're helping me big time. Hell, I can't even do it on my own. As a matter of fact, I don't think that I even dress the part well. I mean, I was there, and I had this simple white cotton shirt on and a pair of crisp jeans. I have a slight goatee, and the sleeve of my shirt was just enough to show half of my red tattoo. Take away the leather jacket and the harley, and I was more of a biker and less like a prostitute. However, that obviously didn't bother this guy in a red car who parked right in front of us and let the window down.

The least attractive of us was to play the pimp, and did he know what he was doing! My dear ugly bastard of a friend marched directly to this red car, and talked with the guy with the natural ease of a fuck buddy. I wasn't really impressed with this display of skillful pimping, and I made a mental note to warn him against watching all that Magandang Gabi Bayan and Imbestigador. I was watching him "do business" with that dude in the red car, and he got me to thinking. If there was a pimp school, he'd graduate "bugaw" cum laude.And after about three minutes of the "talk," he then returned with what has got to be the worst news of the hour.

"Momel, type ka nung nasa kotse. Gusto mo ba?"

I didn't need to say it, but my mouth was wide open in an unsightly gap that says "Whoa." Oh shit, I knew that I was here simply to know how it felt like to be a prostitute, but actually agreeing to THE act for ANY amount of money was simply out of the fucking question. Excuse the bad pun, but all I needed to know was how it FELT like, and there is no way that I'd further THE experience. For some reason, my heart just began pounding like a bad headache, and it took me a while to select the best cussword I can use. I guess I was never this off guard before, and I badly needed to foulmouth.

I was so shocked to notice that I can be, and that I am somebody's object of sexual attention. I am not unattractive, but somebody who's willing to pay to have sex with me is not the kind of validation I need. I don't remember giving anyone the finger that night, but I was anything BUT polite when I violently disagreed to the proposal. I do customer service by the nature of my job, but this was the kind of service that's on the other side of my equator. And I'm not being cute when I said "Putangina, hindi oi!" I just received more than what I bargained for. Turns out I bargained for something that's more like a bad joke in the first place.

It isn't funny to begin with.

Friday, March 18, 2005

A Finger to the Surgeon General

**Did you know that I went to the same memorial chapel twice in just three months? See, that's two deaths three months apart.

I was playing a video game at around 12:30 in the afternoon when Loida, our domestic friend from the province, barged in and delivered some piping bad news. "Patay na si Tito Boy!" Tito Boy was one of the more infamous characters in the neighborhood. He was, well, one of the least favorable role models around on account of he smoked a lot, he drank a lot, and his complexion was tainted by all that rum. Incidentally, he smelled like he was distilled. He never left home without a cigarette in one hand and then the other nineteen in the pack in his pocket. He was almost always walking in zigzags, and he was the universal poster boy for eau de Tanduay Rum. He was the perfect candidate for the so-called "sakit sa bopis," i.e. "sakit sa baga, sakit sa atay," but enough of the eulogy.

Just two days ago, he was sentenced to a maximum of thirty days under complete life support. See, he had an issue with his lungs, and the cancer has already corrupted just about half of it. What he had left was but half of what he was born with, and sources say, it wasn't even the size of his fists. Of his curled fists. Anyway, this wasn't something that's totally unexpected, I mean, he DID smoke too much. It was at least a pack of the cancer sticks in a day, and that was during the better part of his life. His smoking habit, at the height of his nicotine dependency, was the stuff legends are made of. It was at least three packs a day, and then there came a time when he'd wake up during the early hours of the morning just to get a cup of coffee and then two sticks. He was basically another fatality waiting to happen, and it happened around 12 in the afternoon. This afternoon.

It was when Loida added that "
kamamatay lang niya kaninang mga twelve," that I had this sudden urge to remain calm.

Remain calm with a cigarette, that is.

Somebody died of smoking-induced cancer just thirty minutes ago, and I was with a cigarette in between my lips. Of course you'd understand how I received the news with much apprehension, but I was ironically seeking comfort in something that killed someone just thirty minutes ago. It's not something that I did on purpose. I never did like the guy, but I'm not spiting or mocking his memory with a cigarette between my lips. I'm doing that out of habit. See, I smoke with an unbridled lack of discipline. And I am aware of the detriments that my chosen vice is capable of inducing, but I don't hate the surgeon general not one bit for he has been very consistent with his warnings.

Tobacco companies try to be discreet with their health warnings, hopefully attempting to wash their hands clean of this bad habit that's making them millions of dollars in profit. So what they do is they print out surgeon general warnings on each pack of cigarette, effectuating a propaganda that defeats the point of smoking in the first place. I'm not buying cigarettes to be reminded of how unhealthy they are in the first place.

I know that cigarette smoking is dangerous to your health, smoking is harmful to children and pregnant women, and smoking kills, but do I care? It's probably out of my mind as soon as that first stick fresh out of the pack hits my lips, and is compeletely forgotten after the second one. And then there's another warning on my second pack, but these words of advice goes out in smokes in this viciously nonterminating cycle.

But am I even threatened, let alone intimidated by such horror stories, however factual? What is it with us smokers; we are well aware of the different malignancies introduced by this habit, and yet we still find ourselves taking a drag on that Marlboro Lights.

Arsenic makes for a healthy lunch, and smoking is good for the lungs. A reliable source once told me that there are about four hundred different chemicals slash poisons in a single cigarette stick. Some of these chemicals include ammonia (used as a household cleaning agent), acetone (nail polish remover), naphthalene (mothballs), methanol (rocket fuel), phenol (disinfectant), hydrogen cyanide, toluene (industrial solvent), and of course, pesticides. Of course I was slightly taken aback by the realization that I was smoking mothballs all along, but then it doesn't stop there. The list goes on to include those used in embalming fluids like arsenic and formaldehyde.

Call me paranoid, but something tells me to kick the habit altogether. But the thing is, I can never seem to get off of this smoking thing, or I'm almost always with a cigarette in between my lips. I reckon that I can always quit later, and when "later" happens to be a little too late, then I might as well go to hell with the poison of my choice.

I have always tried to lessen the sticks I've been consuming, or rather puffing on, hoping that I will be able to gradually kick the habit in the long run, but hell no. The more I promise to refrain from smoking, the more difficult it becomes.

There was a time when I tried to, excuse my French, "quit" the habit altogether. The plan was to gradually decrease the number of cigarettes I've been smoking in a day until it concludes in smoking zero cigarettes at all. It all went well in the beginning. I mean, I had no problem going from ten sticks a day, to eight sticks in three days. And then six sticks a few days after that. It was going so well that in just two weeks, I was very happy with my five stick a day quota. But then, somebody invited me to get shitfaced over a couple of beers, and then I was back to doing twelve sticks in no time at all.

I know what the possible advantages are if I was to completely refrain from embracing the habit altogether, but it seems that quitting's a welcome change that can always take place after the last stick. A person sentenced to death always has his last wish, but to us smokers, it's the last stick. Ironically enough, the last stick is a symbolism for change that'll never happen anyway, for there's bound to be another one in three hours. And then three hours after that, or maybe after a full meal, or while taking a dump, whichever comes first.

I've grown so used to smoking at any given time that swearing on the last stick becomes swearing on the last pack, until the strength of resolve has conceded into an addiction that kills. In the long run, the promise to refrain from smoking becomes a promise to refrain from smoking "too much."

Honestly, all this talk about smoking is making me much too tense. Has anyone seen my lighter?

Monday, March 07, 2005

Here's a List of My Posted Articles According to Categories

**This used to be in my sidebar

My Better Work

Here's a quick list of some of my more inspired posts. Not that the rest of them posts are any less inspired, no sir, its just that these happened to gag the most comments. So there.

My Gay Posts

What's a gay guy's blog without gay write ups? No tips for the perfect blowjob, though. Like I said, I'm mostly harmless.

My Horror Movie Reviews

These are more of a personal project than silly fillers since I love horror movies as much as I love to write. It's a perfect marriage on the ideal blog.

My Posts on Blogging

I have a Page Rank of 3, but I don't get it. I managed to learn me a whole heaven about blogging, and here's pretty much everything.

Call Centers

I used to be a telemarketer. And I was most thoroughly inspired by the work and the call center agents I'm with. Here's to us. BTW, I'm now doing technical support as some sort of penance.

Life in the Third World

There are some things you just can't love in this effing third world country I'm in. Here's some of them. Everything else, well, they're just so positively charming.

Lists and Soups

It's a delectable list of random nothingness served to pleasure your varying appetites.Includes my hot Hate List, Blog Rules, and my impromptu Soups. Enjoy!


You know how it's like when you have this sudden burst of insight, and you have no one to tell it to because its just too stupid for speech? Yeah, this is why I write in the first place.


I'm the same both online and offline, but I'm mostly more inappropriate in front of a computer. Here's how I am when I'm borderline well-behaved.


Sometimes, when I'm about to run out of things tos write about, I turn to what I'm holding in my right hand for inspiration. I'm referring to a cigarette.

Ben Tumbling

I sometimes channel the spirit of this college girl with a knack for social climbing and insults. I call him Ben. Verily, the poor man's valley girl in all the proper respects.

Sunday, March 06, 2005

Beautiful Blissful Bumming

**Or Living the Brown Trash Life

If you thought I was exercising the bad habit of procrastination with religious fervor, you're almost there. See, I have been very diligent with the following thoughts and addictions. I was too preoccupied with nonsense, it's hardly even good for me. But it kept me dangerously entertained.

1.Oh sweet merciful Jesus, I don't know why I'm so eager in having another one. Another tattoo, I mean. Is it the pain that comes along with this beautiful piece of skin art? Needles breaking into your skin at the rate of 5 per second is a lovely kind of pain, the likes of which I would never have imagined had I not the nerve to succumb to my desire to impress. Which leads me to why I had one in the first place. Basically everybody asks the same question, why did you have it in the first place. That of course follows the annoying question if it's real to begin with. Well, my common rebuttal to the same inquiries basically begin with "gusto ko lang," and ends with a period. I mean, what is there to explain?

For some reason, it has always been something that I wanted. My first tattoo was a chinese character, stands for the word "Passion." And I had it on the understanding that if I couldn't have passion in my body, then I might as well have it on my skin. Either way, I might as well start believing that I am passionate after the beautiful ink starts becoming permanent.

2.One of the reasons why I wasn't able to write as much as I used to was that I have my hands full. Full on my PS2 analog controller, that is. See, I have discovered the most wonderful turn-based strategy RPG ever, and it's what eating me as of the late. The late nights, that is, and all I'm thinking of these past few weeks are character stats and transmigrations, ranks, level ups, and legendary swords. It might be greek to some of you all, but to those of us well versed in the language of role playing games, it might as well be one of the most interesting adventures in a dvd. In case you're wondering, this particular addiction's called Disgaea, published by Nippon, and I'm looking forward to burning another 125 hours or so.

Here's something interesting: Did you know that addiction to video games is a factual ground for divorce in the states? That's something I gathered from a friend who works in Vegas, and though there were no statistics present upon disclosure, who gives head anyway? Bottomline is, video games are an addiction that are factual grounds for divorce. And it happens.

3.And I've started returning to my happy hell in San Nicolas, Pasig, the most endearing SnB pool hall. I have been so busy with work these past few months, hell maybe even years, that I realized I've been missing out on some very good people that I'm growing up with. But then, they're not the reason why I resigned in the first place. See, if this gave you the impression that I'm too much of a friend to give up my source of income just to hang around, you're dead wrong. You know I'm just too sexy for my hat for that since it's the other way around. Resigning from the ridiculously lucrative job of telemarketing simply gave me more time to catch up with some of the finest people around. Maybe not to any of you, but then, you wouldn't know anyway. You were never around these past four years to know better.

Recently, I'm trying to juggle my sweet time in between video games, pool, and a tattoo obsession. And I'm also trying to update this blog from time to time, and then work on stuff here and there. Like maybe get a new job or something. Don't get me wrong, I mean, I still entertain thoughts of getting fresh in a new working environment, but brown trash like myself tend to confuse my priorities with one another. Do I call in to have a tattoo scheduled, or do I call potential employers and ask about job openings? Do I level up a character, or do I further polish my resume? Basically, they both sound the same to me, but the question regarding which appears to be more entertaining is an entirely different matter altogether. I'm not saying that going out and finding a job isn't a delightful past time, but it's something that needs to be done, a strict reinforcement of the line "acting your age." Hell, it's not even proper to compare the pros and cons of these independent efforts; there is always the general "right" thing to consider. But who gives a fuck?

Thing is, I'm thinking more like a bum and less like a well-meaning individual. Hell, I'm burning the midnight oil in between playing video games and going to the pool hall. What other validation do I need?


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