I might be making the wrong analogy, but

Being with him is liking smoking in the bathroom. Most especially when you're in a home that's almost totally smoke-free. Granted, you're threatening the air they breathe with the second hand smoke, but man !, it feels so good when you're taking a shit.

You wanna know where this "a-ha! moment" took place?

Make a wild guess.

Ow!
Kami Na
19 Hours With the FuBu
Blog Soup #6: Tattoos, Ebonics, and Making Expandable Posts in Blogger

Beggars Can't Be Choosers Part 1: We Were Pool Players First

**I'm writing this as a very subjective pool player verging dangerously in between waaay-too-pissed-to-even-fake-flattery and too-headstrong-to-practice-eloquence.

Ronnie Alcano won the world pool championship early this November 2006. One commentator mentioned that the Philippines was the Pool Capital of Asia.It was never that publicized. An accomplishment of global proportions wasn't that publicized. I mean, compared to this one Filipino dude who outpunched this other Mexican loser (one for team spirit), Ronnie Alcano's victory shrivelled like a nutsack in December.

Manny Pacquiao defeated Erik Morales two weeks following Alcano's world title in a humiliating match that sealed Morales' fate easy on the third round. This, in turn, released a floodgate of incoming endorsements and unnecessary worship which included plans for his very own statue to stand along Baywalk.

And much like a certain testicular abnormality, it's just as unequal.

I, for one, am not looking forward to it, but he will have his own monument real soon.

It is excessive. And I guess that's the nearest we can get to being true to form. See, an over-the-top display like this relieves us of the practicality that a country as poor as ours should be practicing.

Manny Pacquiao was awarded the Order of Lakandula (Champion for Life) July 2006. The legendary Efren "Bata" Reyes followed suit October of 2006. True, both champions share the same honor, but the Magician is just recently basking in the fields of glory which has been Pacman's teritorry four months earlier.

Funny thing is that he was championing the Philippine flag waaaay before Pacquiao started trying his first mouthpiece on.

What's up with that?

They Thought I Was Trying to be Funny

I'm happy as a dickhead, but to go out of her way and be more particular warms my heart.

I liked the review. I give it a

Oh, she was referring to my Cats in Hampers post.

http://italk2much.com/

Throwing Cats in Hampers

I just discovered yet another fun fun way to kill time.

No, it doesn't have lotion, a hard on, and a great plenty of horniness. But It has kittens, a big cat carrier that looks like a hamper, and a great plenty of accuracy. It's called Throwing Cats in Hampers.

Not that I hate cats or anything, they just get so annoying with all that movement that causes your data cables to go retarded. I've never been that disrupted when I'm online. I'm telling you, these furred spawns of satan are really cramping my cool. My monitor shuts off with not as much as an error message, and then you hear all this shuffling behind your computer tower. It's the same shuffling sound that I hear a few seconds before my speakers get disconnected. Its the same sound that causes the power in my CPU to go out. And its always been the same kittens causing that shuffling.

Then I saw this cat carrier or basket this one time, and then I just started throwing these kittens in. I grabbed one kitten, held it at the back of the neck, aimed real well, or at least I hoped I did, and then I threw it in. Yeah, it's like basketball, only you use kittens instead of a ball. And yeah, the same physics apply. That includes the part where the ball bounces off the basket, twice, before going in.

I'm telling you, righteous indignation has never been so, uhm, athletic.

What's a quick change artist?

So here's the act



Nice, huh? That's quick change artistry for you, or drop down clothing to be more specific. A completely worthless skill regardless of the practice involved. But it still makes for good entertainment just the same.

They change clothes just like, snap snap, just like that in this talent show where them talents, like germs beneath a microscope, get to be scrutinized by judges, usually three, licensed by, I dunno, the University of Contest Judges.

Now, what's not changing, and I think ought to, is this formula for picking the judges for any talent show. Theres two males, one of which maintains a doubtful sexual orientation, and then one female inserted for convenience.

But it's almost always three. The female's the voice of reason, and then the two males get to pick between the smart assing unfunny, but altogether polite, hick or the smart assing cruel hick. But there's almost always one asshole. Not exactly by default, but by preference anyway most especially when he's this publicity whore who's willing to try anything just to get famous. It worked for Simon Cowell, so why shouldn't it work for him. Right?

The drama's with the third judge; he gets to pass the final judgment most especially when the first two votes aren't exactly unanimous.

American Idol's got Simon Cowell already, and I think they should stop following suit and try to be original. Yes, bloody shitfaced asshats are everywhere, and I'm not patronizing Cowell or anything, but haven't we had enough of the same lame crop of Cowell wannabe assholes?

If anything should change, then I think that's it.

But if they can't change that, then we need more Paula Abduls. Of course, trashing them talent shows once and for all doesn't sound half bad either.

Wicked Ocular Trauma

So I didn't post anything about Halloween. Big deal. I'm obsessively morbid by default anyway, so a Halloween post would be freaking Mortal Kombat overkill.

Halloween's a personal guilty pleasure; I admit to liking the Halloween spirit more than I do Christmas. But this was before Katrina de Castro and her hollow pumpkin started hosting them Magandang Gabi Bayan Halloween Specials.

I like to get scared. Honestly I do. But I'm not referring to the robbery-or-rape-at-knife-point kind of scared, or the bad-news-from-my-doctor kind of scared, or the I-might-lose-my-job kind of scared, or the my-boyfriend's-cheating-on-me kind of scared. What I mean is, I like to get scared at a leisurely pace.

Think movies. Think Scare TV specials. Think horror stories slash urban legends stretched in ten different versions. Once you get your freak on trembling in that wavelength, understand that every other kind of scared just fuck-ugly sucks. Katrina de Castro trying to scare a pantload of shit off of you just fuck ugly sucks.

I love horror movies like I love sex, and you'd imagine a taboo of gangbanging orgasms this last Hallow's Eve. Sexual Frustration, however, was this pantload of shit which involved Ramon Revilla Sr, a plastic toy bat headdress, legions of badly costumed demonic minions, and glow light anting-antings (amulets) flashing in their cheapness. Yes Momel, You Are Watching "Ang Mahiwagang Daigdig ni Elias Paniki." Wow. Scary.

Excuse me while I try my second Cartwheel of Uninhibited Happiness.

Anyway...

I said I am obsessively morbid by default, and that's meant to be a confession rather than a turn off.

I was about six years old during the first time I was three feet away from a, bad pun alert, live corpse. She was this rape victim in her twenties, I think. But what I remember with striking clarity were these black ants trickling out of her dead greying lips, her mouth formed in a half open gape as she allowed life to escape around five hours earlier.


That was a lingering memory towards which I have no real objection.

Blog soup #7: Whatever Happened to Jhezper Driedfish, Immortality, and the Meaning of Life in Ebay

A post about hiatuses. Understand this is a wake up call. We do have a life.Define the word hiatus. Maybe I don't need to. I mean, those five properly arranged words "we do have a life" appropriately ends the discussion. You know this craze got you good if you don't mind documenting whatever blog-able encounter or thought you might have encountered with obsessive fervor.

Jessica Zafra calls it "cannibalizing her own life for material."

Succinct, yes, right on the dot; we do have offline lives too. So it doesn't matter if they're in for the temporary high; bloggers who haven't been posting for months now have all the right to do so.

Anyway, did you know that they're selling the meaning of life in Ebay? Yeah, there's that and thirty-dollar penis pumps.

Speaking of the meaning of life and such overly exaggerated bull, I got really philosophical this one time after my first hour of Looney Tunes. They were advertising very uneducational and highly violent toys when I got to thinking: Would I rather be immortal? Riiight. To sweeten the deal, let's add in a whole lot of genius, plenty of goal orientedness, and a great wealth of goodness not in an Oreo Cookie.

But, you will be him:

Seriously.

Related Links:

Jhezper Driedfish

Updating the Hate List

36. FX drivers who make a "quick stop" to the gasoline station en route to your destination. No, they don't mind at all if the five minutes it takes for the refill was all you need to get to work on time.

37. Call center agents who go overboard with their obviously fake American accents. That and the "borrowed" lifestyle that goes with it.

38. The news. Seriously, the news. There's just nothing good about it. The only good news can only come from my physician. Or Mon Tulfo.

39. Them people who say that they "don't care what other people think." Yeah, right. If what other people think don't matter to you as you claim they don't, then why do you have to let them know? Why do you feel like you need to write that down? Why do you have to broadcast your disinterest and lack of concern? There goes the foul smell of irony in your general direction.

Talk about self-defeating.

40. You can tell #39 got to me a little. But not as much as the government gets to me. I try to ignore it by not exercising my right to vote proactively since I think that's not enough grounds to get me imprisoned. Unless they, being the overly hateful posers they are, waste productive time in getting us in the same eight by six room with those flying voters.

41. Old people who gossip their way to notoriety. They do it like it was the complete summary of everything they learned in their prime. They make me wonder: Whatever happened to the wisdom in old age?

42. I mentioned this before, but let me say it again: low self esteem. Really. There is always something to be proud of. Unless we're referring to this new recording artist and all that shamelessness.

43. Ha haa, I reserve the right to be completely self defeating in this hate post. So let me laugh. I mean, have you heard Gabby Eigenmann sing? That in itself would be perfect for #42, but then, I'll have to make way for his acute lack of judgment. I'm going with the lesser evil. I'm going with his singing.

44. The materialism in Christmas. Call me a hypocrite; I do like expensive Christmas gifts, festive Christmas dinners, and going to Christmas parties with new threads on. But what makes it hateful is these things make Christmas more of a privilege than anything else.

How do you participate in this season of giving when you have nothing to give?

Minus the appeal to sympathy and all that weak shit, what I'm really trying to say is that it sucks to be broke on Christmas.

45. That being said, let's all brace ourselves for that hellraising havoc due in eight weeks: last minute shopping. It's more character building, or defeating, or revealing to be more specific as compared to sports. And it's just as sweaty.

Click here for The Hate List (1-35)

How'djoo Like My Un-Horny Template?

Vitamin Enriched!

But seriously, how do you guys like the new look? I mean, the old one was this hell of pop ups, and I figured it's about time for a little change.

You'll never see Aga Muhlach endorse this much orange though. But hey, it's still the same down to earth bullshitting that inspired tankfuls upon tankfuls of retch. With or without the flies.

The Shaider Post

It's either I have too much time, or I just can't let go of another favorite childhood memory.

1. There was this episode where Annie was shot with her yellow panties in a mid air leap. That one little episode would arguably be the most remarkable for it shaped a lot of young horny bastards barely out of their foreskins.

2. Does anyone remember the Shigi-Shigi Strange Song? It's this disturbing theme music cued whenever Fuuma Lei-Ar weaves his evil in Tokyo. That's the same song we hear when he breeds yet another beast for Shaider to play with. It's strange, it haunts, and it is still recognized more than a decade since it first aired. As a matter of fact, I have this friend who have it as a ring tone in his mobile phone. I have it in Limewire.

Click here for the lyrics. Yeah, lyrics. You probably memorized the Voltes V theme anyway.

3. Lei-Ar has two memorable however overly made-up minions, Poe the God Officer(or Iga or Yda or Ida in the Philippine dub version) and Commander Hessler (or Drigo in the Philippine dub version). These two loved headdresses like it's nobody else's businesses. She had this oval-ish disco ball with horns sticking out both sides; his was urn shaped, had red streaks for drama, and had a square opening for his face. And did you know that Yda (or Iga or whatshisname) was really Fuuma Lei-Ar's transvestite grandson? Yeah. That's right, trans-ves-tite. Grand-son. How did I know? Internet.


4. Here's how our favorite hero usually goes for the kill. Shaider finds Ugly Strange Beast after twenty minutes of investigation in a thirty minute program. Ugly Strange Beast escapes into the Time Space Warp which exponentially increases it's evil powers by a freaking mile. Shaider pursues Ugly Strange Beast in said dimension where Ugly Strange Beast opens up a can of whoop-ass on said super-promoted Space Sheriff slash Metal Hero.

He suddenly gets equipped with the insanest arsenal of Ugly-Strange-Beast-Ass'-Kicking Gear. This includes the Blue Hawk, the jet thingy, and that drilling tank something something. And who can forget Babylos? This was their giant spaceship headquarters which turns into a monster-blasting weapon of evil-hating justice. Yeah, Shaider's projected blue image holding the Babylos in gun form was just pure wicked.

5. Shaider was Alexis in IBC Channel 13, and he was super-promoted from Archaeologist into Space Sheriff slash Metal Hero. Annie just can't be his girlfriend; she's just too baduy in those yellow, I dunno, chalecos?

He, on the other hand, looks just too delectable in those tight white pants.


6. Tokyo's almost always abandoned when Fuuma decides to go wickedly cruel on Sunday afternoons, just thirty minutes after Bioman. Yeah, we'll miss the original Yellow Four, but not as much as Hiroshi Tsuburaya.

Kamakaila'y nalungkot ako sa natanggap kong nagbabalitang patay na raw si Shaider. nalaman kong noong Hulyo 24, 2001 pa pala pumanaw sa edad na 37 dahil sa kanser sa atay si Hiroshi Tsuburaya, ang artistang Hapon na gumanap na Shaider."

from JAPAN "LIVE ACTION "HERO

Shaider's dead.

This post is my warm recollection of that Space Sheriff slash Metal Hero.

Blog Soup #6: Tattoos, Ebonics, and Making Expandable Posts in Blogger

I sooo missed doing the soup thing, so I managed to take some time off ALL THAT penetration, collected my thoughts and all those emptied lotion canisters, and cooked up Soup # 6. Clicking on that link just takes you back to this same post, so you might as well forget about clicking that link altogether.

Lexan mentioned before that "pag nagkaka-bf eh tinatamad ng mag-update." Let me apologize for the growing inactivity these past few weeks, but I confess to having a lot in my hands. And then something else in my ass, but that's a different thing.

And yes, we're still together.

One of the most overlooked things about tattooed men or women is the obvious fact that we can keep a commitment. It may not always be as permanent as the skin art, but we try to maintain it for as long as our best efforts allow us. This probably explains why, inspite of the tequila bottles breaking, the uncharacteristic crying, and the family getting in the way, we're going on ahead and getting the first four months behind us.

See, a commitment's well on it's way already.

Here's me quoting myself (and yet another wonderful display of narcissism slash masochism): "The pain I can't give to others I give to myself. And it's going to be a beautiful work of art." I did it the first time out of curiosity, and maybe because of this echoing passion to express myself. Seriously, I'm not pulling your panties; expressionism is so right on the butt.
The foreign sensation of the needle was not something you'd prefer on your skin. And yet it became an acquired addiction. So much so that it was soon followed by three other sessions within the span of ten months.

And here's my favorite new phrase courtesy of Urban Dictionary

FO SHIZZLE

"Fo shizzle ma nizzle" is a bastardization of "fo' sheezy mah neezy" which is a bastardization of "for sure mah nigga" which is a bastardization of "I concur with you whole heartedly my African american brother."

Or just For Sure. Being my new favorite phrase and all, you guys might encounter this catchy little ebonic phrase from time to time in this here blahg of bull. It rolls! Fo Shizzle!

If you happen to enjoy porn and limewire at the same time, here's a little something you might find interesting: The Tall Israeli Monologue.

And yes, here's how I make expandable posts. Thanks to No Fancy Name for helping a million bloggers masturbate their HTML skills. You rock! And yeah, for future reference, I've linked him up in my Tools Roll, just below my Blog Roll. Feel free to call it public service.

Speaking of which, I've updated my rolls in the sidebar to include three new categories: Momel's Tools, DSL Tools, and my Blogging Tools. Momel's Tools refer to those websites that I usually open when I'm equipped with high speed. DSL Tools is something I need to look up from time to time, being the so efficiently tech savvy gay sonofa that I always am. And yes, Blogging Tools, created for convenience. It's like having my bookmarks on my blog.

You don't have to say it, but I know you're so admiring my clever.

Super Excitedly Early Christmas Post # 1: Which Christmas Song Best Brings Home the Bacon? Or Ham? Or Bibingka?

I've been burning discs like a fool on a mission since we had the broadband loving going on at home. What used to take 20 minutes to download on a better day on dial up now takes about less than two minutes on broadband. I'm telling you, 2006 has never looked this promising in any given third world country. Yeah, I'm saying that during the last quarter of the year. That's done on purpose, but that's not the point.

And it is in the holidays-specific spirit of music PLUS our current insane download rate that I'm preparing my Christmas playlist. In October. What can I say, I was raised to embrace the spirit this early on. And in this country where Christmas starts as early as November and ends somewhere during the first week of January, I don't think you can blame me for being this excited. I don't think YOU can blame yourself either. And, being blessed with the current download rate and all, I went on my happy sleighbell ringing self and launched the download button.

So here's a sort of compilation of the songs I have queued in Limewire. Feel free to take suggestions as you please, but I would love it if you guys can vote for at least three of the better Christmas songs which, as the title implies, sets the mood this early on. I'd love to create the most rocking-est Christmas Playlist as early as November.

All I Want For Christmas Is You - Mariah Carey
White Christmas - Bing Crosby
The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire) - Nat King
Cole Do They Know It's Christmas - Band Aid
Jingle Bell Rock - Bobby Helms
Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree - Brenda Lee
I'll Be Home For Christmas - Bing Crosby
Santa Claus Is Coming To Town - Jackson 5
Mary's Boy Child - Matt Monro
Winter Wonderland - Peggy Lee
Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree - Mel & Kim
Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas - Jane McDonald
O Come All Ye Faithful -Stacie Orrico
Jingle Bells -Les Paul & Mary Ford
Do You Hear What I Hear -The Cliff Adams Singers
Joy To The World -The Choir Of St Paul's Cathedral
Hark The Herald Angels Sing -Harry Secombe

Yes, that's Limewire and not Itunes. See, it's okay to not have an IPod yet to hear these songs. You don't need an IPod to hear these songs. It's the Christmas spirit that matters. And, being increasingly materialistic these past few years, the Christmas spirit tells you to go on ahead and burn your thirteenth month pay on an IPod.

Thank You Goes a Long Way!

Sometimes, a picture says it better.
Thanks guys for making my first ten thousand hits possible. I'm still thinking of what to write to

a. commemorate
b. celebrate
c. immortalize
d. remember

(insert answer) the first 9,999 hits and what, or who, made them happen.

Of course, I'm referring to you people.

And thanks Third for the screenshot. Priceless!

Related Links: (It's not my birthday, but allow my Excessively Self-Promoting Self to surface at least just today.)

Heartwarming-est
You Know How to Scratch My Itch!
Updates for my First 3000 Hits!

Remembering the Old Blog

So if a picture's worth a thousand words, then here's a couple of thousand for you all. This was what was left of my old blog, fondly entitled My Perverations. Perverted. Narrations. And a whole plenty of wordplay. It ain't completely dead yet as a number of my earlier posts, which includes Lemuel and The Bibliophile Post, belonged to that blog.

I wasn't as interested with HTML codes back then, so I had to settle with the default black Blogger template. I just wanted to blog, and I never had this need to impress. But then I started blog hopping and I realized how much my old blog sucked. Don't get me wrong, I'm referring to the format. I know I'm brilliant, but nobody's reading me. So I charmed my blog up, switched pantyliners, and voila, a Blahg of Bullshit.

It might be the same behavior which takes place when you know other people are watching. It's the height of caution at it's most conceited. Gone are the days when you can just go on ahead and write away your moments. It doesn't work anymore since, as a blogger, you're unknowingly pimping your moments for comments. You have to make it look presentable, if not good, since you know you are not trying to impress yourself anymore.

Online Relationships

Isn't it funny how you can be so grossly uninterested after meeting, for the first time, the most recent love of your life?

You had butterflies in your stomach an hour ago, before you two actually met, but you're so pumping your guts out through your mouth after meeting him or her. Much like that medical procedure where they pump the analgesics off of your stomach after your most recent drug overdose.

But to give it some credit, at least, with these kinds of relationships, you know you're current fling slash prospective soulmate in the works is a SUN subscriber. You couldn't have made that any clearer when you mentioned you're looking for a GF or a BF na "naka-sun SIM."

At least, there's one thing in common.

Related Posts:

Some Chatters Aren't Meant to Go Online

Gaway Gaway Grammar and Jovit Moya

My 10 Favorite Posts

Here's a little list of some of the creamiest crap you'll ever find in this here blahg of bull. I like some of them because of the comments, some trigger a smile and a funny recollection, and some because of the inflamed passion I've always invested when referring to such issues.

I make passion sound like an infection, don't I? But still, feel free to browse through some of, in my personal understanding, through some of my better pieces.

These are enumerated in no certain order, just the way I like it. Ten's a random number. It might as well be seven, fourteen, two, or, for the love of excessive self promotion, eighty three since that's all of the posts I've written since day one. Day one was almost two years ago. Yes, I know 2005 is not two years ago, but my first blog was, and a third of the content in this here blahg of bull was transferred from my first blog.

So there.

1. Momel's Take: The Unwritten Rules of Blogging
My personal code of blogger conduct. Underscore MY, it being the operative term.

2. Growing Up Gay Part 1: Another Gay Baby
I like using self explanatory titles. That pretty much explains why I hate answering questions referring to my titles.

3. Confessions of a Telemarketer
I used to be one telemarketer almost two years ago. Interesting thing, that telemarketing gig.

4. In Defense of Call Center Agents
I have this growing inclination to bash almost everybody sporting a fake accent, and that includes
myself. But I still remember to love my own. I still do.

5. My Hate List
Oprah Winfrey once suggested, not to me personally, that we enumerate at least five things we are personally grateful for. That's on a daily basis. I don't have that much discipline and I'm no Oprah Winfrey. But this is just as therapeutic.

6. In Between Bookmarks and Dog-Ears
This was supposed to be a confession, and it remained as such all throughout, but there was something else involved in this post. And that's another confession for you.

7. Lemuel
Simply the dumb-dumbest telemarketer you'll want to talk to. Hands down. No contest.

8. MEL Versus the "Discreetly Bisexual, Man-Eating PAMINTA"
Is this always going to be as old as time?

9. Presenting Your Gay Nine-Ball Champion
And to quote Momel, I get to be this accomplished in one of my better passions, and nothing, for the time being, could be as remarkable.

10. Friendships in the Event of an Appendectomy
I was bitter when I wrote this.

The picture you see in there is that of a Russian woman with a mouth full of golden teeth due to extremely poor hygiene. Clearly, this goes to show that, there is still something of value even in the stinkiest and filthiest and rottenest of places. Pretty much like what you're seeing in this here blahg of bull. Oh, enjoy the leftover morbid while you're at it.

This Will Be Short

Hi. I will be defending my title in a nine-ball tournament on the 9th.

The pressure's starting to build this early.

I might write about it soon.

Cheers all!

Related Link:
Presenting Your Gay Nine Ball Champion

PS
I still have another fresh post you guys might have overlooked. Who needs three mugs of coffee when you have pre-tournament jitters, huh? I'm so swearing right now, it's like getting circumcised for the second time around. Here:

When Was the Last Time the World Rotated Around You?

When Was The Last Time the World Rotated Around You?

See, I don't think it actually did. It never did. Your personal understanding of the world and its axis never involved you in the equation. It's just your ego that caused this. It's just you thinking you're all high and mighty impressionable with whatever claim to fame you think you have to your credit. Spare me, spare us, we really don't care. And we mean it. We really don't.

You have got to stop believing that you cause people to stop with their mouth agape and look at you or whatever you think is physically pretty about you. See, there is always bound to be somebody who's going to make you feel ten times uglier than you never you thought you actually were. Believe me, there always is, and that's already assuming that you actually are pretty by other people's standards. Beauty is always in the eyes of the beholder, and if you wish to be beheld as somebody visually desirable, then leave room for more than one beholder. If you wish to put your money where your assumptions are, then you need to subject yourself to other people's judgment, other people being the operative phrase.

There is always another person that's better paid than you are, so stop flashing your promotion around like you got there first. It's not like you're the only sheriff in town, you see, and there's always a shinier badge. You may or may not deserve the promotion, but we're sure we don't deserve to be suffocated by all this power tripping.

You hang out with a goodlooking crowd of the hippest people available in your area. People then identify you as one of the hippest people available in your area. That's cool by association, and, honestly, there's really no cool associated with this ecosystem. You get to have their cool transferred to you by virtue of your being a social parasite, and then you start forgetting that you can't be cool on your own. Parasitism. That's what it is. No, really.

The fake accent doesn't amaze us one bit. Well guess what Joe, or Jack, or Johnson, or whatever your American name is, there's just about a thousand other Joes or Jacks or Johnsons out there. And they're getting better paid than you are. And their accent's a whole heaven of believable. So shush your posing; manong jeepney driver's shitting in his pants as he's trying to find out how to make sukli your twey-neeh pey-sows.

No, you are not cool. You are never going to be the judge of that. Forget what you might have read about the shit behind self-empowerment. That tends to confuse you, and if any of this reaches you and causes echoes in your made up ivory tower, then you were confused big time. The only reason why any of this should strike a nerve is if this post mentioned any of your stinking idiosyncrasies. Well whoop-de-freaking-do, I'm not apologizing for your delusions on account of that will be, for all the right reasons, your own stinking problem.

And honestly, we're not sure where all your confidence is coming from.

See, it's not our fault you're such an attention whore.

How Much Cock Do I Have to Suck?

**or How Many Blogs Do I Have To Hop To Get the Traffic?

There are people who drop by your tagboard, leave a quick message, and then promote their blog. They are not asking for a link exchange, they just want to let you know that they blog too. Whoop-de-doo.

There are people who comment on your most recent post, and then promote their blog. You then remember your policy towards generic comments as you remember the other generic comment before this one.

There are people who go straight to the point and tell you that a link exchange is necessary. You used to entertain such invitations. And you longed for such invitations until you realized that, in the long run, it is better to keep fewer bloggers and call them family as opposed to maintaining a long list and call it grocery shopping. Or blog shopping to be more specific since that's what it basically is. What makes it such a drag is that you find out that don't need everything in your bag.

There are people who just "dropped by." These people are also bloghoppers. So why can't they just "hop by?" But I don't get it when they say they're just "dropping by." Oh shit. You can tell just how bad I am with puns.

And then there's the rare kind. They tell you to go to their blog with not as much as dispensing early courtesies. So, you don't.

You already know that you have a nice blog. Somebody already beat them to it, but they called it a rocking blog, or a great blog with "nice posts," or a cool site with rocking entries. They're not even implying that you reciprocate. And this makes you wonder: Is this the blogger's handshake?

SPAM is only good when it comes from a can. And you know how molested you're tagboard has become when it's festered with unsolicited advertisements and people "dropping by." Oh shit. Take a picture of me and my bad punning.

Looking back, you realize that everybody needs to start somewhere. Just like you did. And then you smile as you remember how you once participated in this attention-whoring cycle. You still do. But then again, you remember that you were never of this type:

There are people who call your blog names and call themselves anonymous. This is because they only have one ball left to identify themselves with. Yes, all that name calling exhausted both their balls in the process.

See also:
Momel's Take: The Unwritten Rules of Blogging

I Used To Be Poor

I'm an agent in a call center. But unlike most agents, I don't speak English outside of the office on account of I believe that my English is something that they're paying for. I never paid no eighty pesos for one cup of coffee, never have and never will, I'm not that flashy, and I never used my occupation to social climb.

Yes, the income borders on the slightly lucrative, but that's never an excuse to become a totally inflated airhead. At least I never saw it that way. It does afford a comfortable lifestyle personalized with the most fantabulous accessories the income bracket can provide. But it still sucks if it's making you defy the earth's gravitational pull on your head.

I've been working in the same industry for three years now, and I have been working for three different companies all that time. Although it is a little too early to say that I've been there and I've done that, what little experience I've had in the industry tells me this much: I used to be poor.

Friendster vs Blogger

It's just about time to push myself back.

Feeding the ego has never been more fun online as it never was offline. This is mostly true if your personality had the appeal of roadkill. Not that you're ugly or anything, but your charms leave much to be desired.

What makes it fun is that you don't need to be specifically goodlooking to be interesting. Give yourself a shot captured in an angle that makes things ten times cuter than they actually are, post that as your online identifier, and your all set. You learn how to Photoshop images, you become skillful in blurring out imperfections and capturing photographs with lighting that makes your complexion noticeably fairer than it actually is.

You might have stolen other people's photographs and claimed their handsome faces as your own.

You've mastered the magic of deception in your campaign for online popularity. The people in your friends list love you for it. The people in their list, in turn, find you an attractive little package with the suggestive powers of a few faked photos, and then they want you in their list.

You then develop a steady following. Your friends list grow to a hundred, two hundred, three hundred. You might have considered opening a second Friendster account to accomodate all these people who want you in their list because like you, they also believe in the transference of cool. The more people you have in your list, the more popular you appear to become, and the more friendster accounts you log into indicate the increasing appeal of your online self. Your ego is fed with every Invitation you approve of. Your satisfaction burps with every Testimonial you allow in your list.

Your happy and sweet and all that creamy goodness in your fake little world. What makes it funny is that you're successful as a super poser in a world where appearances matter more. What makes it funnier is you allowing all this deception to bloat your ego.

Blogging makes for a different kind of gratification. It is actually the kind of satisfaction certain people approve of since it acknowledges the creative self. And by creative self, I'm referring to brain output, the intellect, and nothing, not even doctored images, beats that kind of validation. Yeah, fake pictures require both skill and creativity, but the satisfaction is still on a different playing field all the same.

And what's good about it is that there's no cheating it. You're either an interesting writer, or you're not. You're either an effective writer, or you're not. You either have something to say, or you don't. People might actually care about what you're blogging for, or they don't. Your readers might return for a second helping of what you're serving, or they don't.

It's pretty much that black and white.

See, what makes blogging a whole plenty of different is that your blog becomes an outlet of your inner bastard writer. It creeps to the attention of well-meaning readers until it arrests them and makes them stop to read more. It begins to charm its way to the hearts of certain people. They begin to comment. And then they begin to comment on the rest of your posts until they've confessed to actually liking what you're writing about. They admire you as the bastard that you really are, and then you feel much better.

As a blogger, people actually browse through what you have to say.

You sigh in relief because no matter what you do, there's just no concealing stupid. And you're not hiding anything with your writing. So you sigh more. You even grin with the understanding that you never needed to fake your output. People appreciate you in the raw.

Of course, you can still go on ahead and plagiarize somebody else's writings and claim it as your own. But seriously, where's the fun in that?

That being said, you then look at your clock and find out you've been online for more than the healthy number of hours. Do something offline. Find time to masturbate.

Ow!

I'm sorry if I haven't been a visible blogger as of the late, but I am still a writer all the same. I had a lot of issues written down, and I'm still figuring out how to dispense my notes in a way that will preserve my... my... what's that word again?

This one's written in the afternoon of June 27, 2006.

I don't think I've had bad relationships in the past. What I know is that I AM bad in any relationship. I just don't make it work. Let's say the relationship is this three month fetus in the womb, and I am, for all the wrong reasons, pro-life.

Okay, so that's a bad reference. But it works.

I have this great wealth of cynicism in me, and it surfaces from time to time to work against by benefit. See, this is how it works in the real world: Pessimism is not good in a relationship. And I'm his universal poster child.

Therefore, I'm not good in a relationship.

I have all this room for doubt, and I make sure I dispense it in generous amounts. I bitch, and I've had all that practice in cold shouldering, and then I bitch more. My temper trends, and I make for the best anecdote in unfaithfulness. If infidelity was a whiny little bastard boy, let's say that three months just ain't enough to discipline the sonofabitch.

See me in the pool hall in two hours. With the way I slammed the door when he left ten minutes ago, it looks like I'll be needing a lot of therapy.

At this point, I really don't care if he comes back.

We talked later that evening, and I cooked up this fantastic song and dance about how apologetic I am for being all that blah earlier that day. Minus this little intermission number where punches were thrown and hair was pulled, we still agreed to see each other the next day. I was unharmed. He was pissed over some other dude.

Kami Na

This will be the first entry that I will be writing in Tagalog. No, Ben Tumbling doesn't write in Tagalog, he writes in Retarded, so his posts don't count. Check my Bullshitting at a Glance, look for the dropdown list called The Malditang Ben Tumbling, and you'll know what I mean. But for the time being, forgive my going out of character, at least just for today, and allow me to sigh.

And I am having a hard time uploading this picture of an angel for this post. It's an angel that doubles as a grave marker, so it's not that divine to begin with.

June 12 ata yun, di ako sure sa date, di na naman importante yun eh, pero what happened was na-confirm na kami na. Magkatabi kaming nakahiga sa kama, shempre onting sweetness sa pagyakap ng braso ko sa dibdib niya, tapos tinanong ko siya kung "Ano ba talaga tayo?"


Sabi niya, "Ikaw, ano sa tingin mo, kung ano nasa isip mo, yun na sagot ko." Siempre, mahirap yung ganong sagot, nasa isip ko eh naglalaro lang kami. Dun naman nagsimula talaga yun eh, malay ko bang may mangyayari pang ganitong factor. Di naman siya love, pero it still moves in mysterious ways. Ew, jologs no? Sobrang true brown style. Sobrang ghetto. So anyway, sabi ko "Eh ikaw nga tinatanong ko eh, ano ba talaga tayo." Sabi niya, "edi mag-on tayo. Yun, mag-on tayo." Sabi ko naman, "Mag-on tayo?" Sabi niya, "Oo, mag-on tayo."

O di sige. Sabi ko sure. Pero sa loob loob ko eh "Ew, is that ka-cheapang on-on thingy still uso pa ba these days?"
Pinagmasdan ko mukha niya habang natutulog siya later that day. Oo magkatabi na naman kami, pero alam niyo, hindi ko talaga siya mahal. Ewan, di ko makuha yung feeling na mahal ko siya. Walang kurot. Para bang go signal, kailangan may ganun. Required yun eh. Pero wala eh. Promise. Sinabi ko pa sa kanya, habang natutulog siya, "Alam mo, hindi kita mahal." Harsh ba? Eh nung time na yun eh gusto kong maging malinaw yung nararamdaman ko. Aba, di ko naman akalain na magiging ganun kalinaw yun. Nasabi ko eh. Oo, tulog siya nung binulong ko yun, pero at least mabuti na yung may practice diba para pag gising siya eh buwelo na lang ang kailangan.

Pero bago nangyari itong araw na ito eh kinikilig ako habang nakikita ko siya. Totoo. Andian pa yung mga pagkakataong medio inis ako pag di siya tumatawag, tapos gusto ko palagi ko alam kung kumain na siya, kung okay siya. Alam niyo na yun. Andoon yung kiliti. Pero ngayong na-identify na kung ano talaga kami, parang tinatabangan na ako.

Mage-english lang ako sandali ha, pero very very light lang...

Siguro I was in it for the chase. Kasi nung nakuha ko na yung prize eh feeling ko there's nothing left to accomplish. Kaya nga nasabi ko sa kanya na hindi ko siya mahal. Oo, tulog siya nung sinabi ko, pero ang importante eh nasabi ko na. May practice na kumbaga. Madali nang sabihin yun pag maririnig niya at eksaktong gising siya. Eh sa ganoon talaga eh.

Na-confide ko pa nga one time sa isa kong better offline friend (BOF) kung anong
plano kong gawin. Sabi ko, "Kasi naman friendship medio matagal rin akong wala sa ganitong sirkulasyon. Sa ganitong klaseng relasyon. Hindi ako talaga completely devoted dun sa guy, kaya ang balak ko eh pag-practican ko na lang siya para performance level ako sa next relationship ko." Sabi naman ng friendship ko, "Hala ka, maka-karma ka diyan sa gagawin mong yan. Masama yan."

Ang iniisip kong karma eh pano nga kung halimbawang ma-fall ako sa kanya. Basag-trip yun diba? Imbis na pinagpa-practican ko lang siya eh naging seryoso ang mga pangyayari. Lagot na kasi siguradong mabu-blurred ako. Pero yun nga at nakapagbitaw na ko ng salita. "Hindi kita mahal."

Ang nakakatawa pa eh pinag-usapan pa namin kung anong meron ngayong kami na. Rules and regulations ba. Anlaking kalokohan diba? Hiniling ko na at least magkita kami or dapat may communication AT LEAST once a week. Hiniling ko na sana eh alagaan niya yung girlfriend niya ng husto, wala bang magbabago, siyempre mahirap nang makahalata yung kalaban. At hiniling ko rin na wag na siyang maghahanap ng iba. Ako na lang.

Sarrrap eh noh?

Siya naman, sabi niya kung puwede raw eh wag na raw ako manlalaki. Kahit one night stand eh di raw puwede kasi nga naman eh unfair yun kung siya eh di na siya naghahanap ng iba tapos ako naman eh pasaway. Sabi ko sure. Pangalawa eh kung magkakahiwalay daw kami eh sana pag-usapan namin. Wag ko raw gagawin sa kaniya yung ginawa ko sa mga nauna kong relationships. Atin atin lang ha, pero ugali ko yung ganoon eh. Nangi-iwan ako sa ere pag alam kong magkakalabuan na kami ng partner ko. Dapat daw pag-usapan namin. Agree naman ako kasi kahit papaano eh naintindihan ko na nakikinig siya sa mga kuwento ko. Pangatlo eh Say No to Drugs daw. Patawa.

Pero ngayong namang na-identify na kung ano kami, eh medio nakabuti naman siya pagdating sa, ano, sa, alam niyo na yun. Nahihiya ako eh. (Hiya). Medio comfortable na ako pag nagma-make out kami. Ewan ko, pero feeling ko eh mas ganado siya pag tinuturuan ko siyang humalik. Hanep. Tsaka mas nakakatuwang magnakaw ng halik lalo't andoon yung mga barkada niya. Dahil nga sa kami na eh entitled ako doon, ibig sabihin eh akin na yung halik na yun. Kaya go lang, pero dahil sa konting respetong factor eh medio kailangang on the sly tayo. Pero iba yung thrill ng ang alam mong ninanakaw mo eh sa iyo, diba? Kahit cheap thrill pa siya.

Kami na. Yahoo. Pero di ko siya mahal talaga. Ewan, sabi nga, que sera. Tingnan na lang natin ang mangyayari.

Oo pala, tinanong ko siya kung gaano katagal kami tatagal sa palagay niya. Gusto raw niya na tumagal kami. Sabi ko, sure.

19 Hours With the FuBu

I wanted to get to know he-who-is-trying-to-father-my-firstborn well, so what we did was we locked ourselves up in my room for 17 hours. We did, uhm, things you don't do with your friends. And we talked more for the other two hours.

I mean, there's nothing wrong in talking with "the buddy," right? We've been doing the kinky for this number of weeks now, and I think it's just about freaking time. And yeah, this could be one of the more personal issues that I'll be posting.

6AM to 4PM: We slept. We were drinking beer before that, and he was already asleep an hour before we locked ourselves up. Breakfast was coffee and buns followed by a healthy serving of cigarettes, and then we called it a day and started the marathon. He was out cold as soon as he hit the sack while I managed to push in some extra time on the PS2.

I was able to sleep for maybe seven hours, give and or take a minute. I was either busy studying his face, or bitching about how the dude was hogging all of the ventilation.

4PM to 430 PM: I woke up to his hand holding mine. He asked for a glass of water. We had a few cigarettes. We were drenched in sweat and a whole plenty of mounting horniness. We talked about the mutuality of this, uhm, association and discussed the shelf life of our little buddy system.

We decided to see more of each other. Not that we haven't seen most of each other already.

430PM to 6PM: We both made love to the PS2.

6PM to 930PM: We had dinner in bed. We then smoked some more, turned off the lights, lit one mother of a scented candle, and listened to a lot of Freddie Mercury and the Backstreet Boys. He wanted to hear something "sentimental;" the heat of the moment inspired Larger Than Life without even pausing.

We then talked about the first time. And then the second time. I interrupted the train of thought by introducing house rules if we were to let this buddying survive. It's supposed to be, and it IS going to be, strictly exclusive. Third partying will pretty much destroy this partnership. Yeah, you can't always be too sure, and at this point after more than three weeks of seeing each other, I might be having a thing for this dude already.

Underscore might. Or italicize. Or put it in flaming bold letters, but for the love of good sex, don't slash it out. That's important.

And then we, uhm, snuggled and talked about kissing. He then thought about doing some roleplay. He wanted to act asleep, I was supposed to steal a kiss, and then he'd kiss back. It was pretty okay, but I wanted to pep things up and do a little scripting and rape the moment with a little movie-making drama. Some of the scripts included "Akin ka lang," "Huwag ka nang papalag," and "Ang alat mo!"

Talk about anti-climactic. Not that I'm hellraising for personal hygiene; understand that we've been in the same room for more than twelve hours now. So there.

He was altogether hilarious with his segues, but it didn't exactly kill the moment since we had a total of 21 takes total. Yeah, "takes," as in "Lights, Camera, Apoy sa Kuko ng Samar, Take 1."

Kissing is nice on sufficiently soft lips. It's nicer with 21 tries, er, takes.

930PM to 1030PM: We turned the lights back on, and I kicked his ass in another hour of PS2.

1030PM to 1230AM: We were so much in need of fresh fresh air, so we decided to abandon the confinement and we went down to smoke. We talked. Yeah, talked, as in the verb "talk" in its past tense. Yeah, talk, as in "communicate." We shared stories and compared problems and all that good jazz, went inside to do a little more talking, and we had dinner.

I learned that you can share actual sentences with the "buddy" and not just limit the conversation to prolonged vowel sounds.

Then I found out that I need to be somewhere by 130AM, so we took a bath. Yeah, "we," as in there was more than one person who took a bath.

We parted ways at somewhere past one that same morning. And unless I begin to forget what he looks like, I will be seeing him again.

2 Days After

Momel starts his personal counselling and contemplates two-timing:

Momel to Self: Come to think of it, I DO tend to forget his face from time to time, but I still remember the kiss. I know I'm smiling as I'm thinking about going out and start looking for the better kisser. And I'm thinking about doing that right now.


3 Days After

In a chat conversation with one of my better offline friends (BOF):

[06:01] BOF: nd wag mo cia kakahiya,once n pinasok mo n yan
[06:01] BOF: tulungan mo n lan
[06:01] BOF: n magbago

I don't want to stay put. I'm sure there is someone better. For now, I have someone to practice with.

I know I haven't introduced any form of history about the guy. I wouldn't. But this string of events consummates one "buddy system" that has been going on for a certain amount of time. Feel free to ask. You know I love hearing from you people.


7 Days After

I started downloading Utada Hikaru's "First Love" because of this line:

I'll remember to love you taught me how

Seriously! You grew up believing that a FuBu is good for one thing and for one thing alone. And then something happens which completely slaps your bible, leaves you thinking, and then makes you wonder "What if?"

First Love is this Japanese song with some English verses in the chorus. I tried, but I wasn't able to memorize the damn song in its Japanese goodness. I believed that this sort of memorization would be a breeze, what with my resonating success with the Voltes V theme, but it turns out that I wasn't really cut out for this sort of thing.

Blog Soup #5: Fuck Buddies, Blog Rule #11, Strawberry Syrup, and the Good News About Blowjobs

Kids, today's soup is served with a healthy serving of bitterness.

I've always been the third party in the last few, uhm, flings I've participated in. I strongly recommend against calling them relationships because, first, fuck buddies don't exactly qualify as lovers. And second, home breaking has never been powerfully inclined to be a God fearing habit. So there.

It's been that way in these last two years. Yup, two relationships in three years. It's either I'm a very loyal lover, or I take a long time to recuperate since I bleed well and all that. I'm thinking it's more of the... nah, it's going to be a mighty bitter soup. But I'll tell you this much, my songs back then were rotating either on Stevie Wonder's Part Time Lover or Juice Newton's Angel of the Morning.

And yeah, cheating on your fuck buddy doesn't necessarily mean infidelity. It doesn't qualify as a relationship in the first place anyway.

I almost forgot to mention this in my Blog Rules, it was more like I did, but Rule #11 goes like: Never blog about your work specifics. Or at least never bitch against management in your blog. There was this guy who worked for Google. And he got fired because of his blog.

This is the story.
And this is what happened.

You don't want to lose your bread and butter over some blog, right? And then there's the story, more like a blog post, of this one Microsoft employee who took pictures of Mac computers being delivered to his office. Imagine that. You remember Britney Spears back when she was still a spokesperson for Pepsi and got fired for drinking Coke? It's the same drill. No, no, no, I said drinking Coke. Not snorting coke. That's Kate Moss. Well anyway, this Microsoft guy got fired for it.

The Microsoft Guy
Britney Spears and Coca Cola
Kate Moss and coke

And with kinky sex, yes, strawberry syrup goes a long way. Yeah, and the punchlines, oh all those punchlines you can manufacture when you've nothing on but strawberry syrup and spit. Har, I'm telling you, I don't usually kiss and tell, or make out and tell, or do the kinky and tell, but there was this one time. No, I don't feel squeamish. I feel funny, real funny as I'm recalling that one line when I cracked up something and totally ruined the freaky of that sweet moment. I'm actually grinning as I'm writing this. And I'm not going to tell. I just want to, uhm, be real kinky and put ideas in your head.

To spit, or not to spit? That is the question. Ladies and gentlemen and ball sniffers all, here's another testimonial to the things you learn everyday. They might not exactly be useful, but then again:



And then I learned the other day that it's not mighty advisable to swallow since sperm tends to stick to the throat and cause problems. Do you remember those expectorant commercials with the balled out chewing gum (phlegm) sticking to this glass container (the lungs)? Yeah, but this time, think of the gum as the, you know, the man juice and the glass container as the throat. And they're not making anything yet to dissolve that.

I Hope My Prince Charming Blog Hops

I got this from Carl's blog.

Instructions:

1. The tagged victim has to come up with 8 different descriptions of their perfect lover.

2. He/she needs to mention the sex/gender of their perfect lover.

3. He/she must tag 8 more people to join this game and leave a comment on their respective sites anouncing that they've been tagged.

4. If tagged a second time, there's no need to post again.

And here goes!

Gender: I want them gay males on account of straight men don't exactly enjoy THE sex as much as we do. I want the whole experience to be totally mutual and reciprocal and all that creamy goodness you don't see in an Oreo cookie. Yes, I'm a horny bitch.

And the following are eight little characteristics you will never find in one single gay male at the same time. In another gay male, I mean. You have a pen?

1. Cute, but not THAT cute. I love beauty in all it's different masturbatory appearances, but I also hate competition just the same. Defining cute and not referring to Google: as tall as or taller than I am (I'm about 5'9 at the very least, so he should be just as vertical), slim like a freaking Capri, and smiles like he just got laid.

2. Plays good pool. I'll totally stalk him if he can beat me without batting an eyelash (yes) in an hour's worth of nine ball pool. We should be able to perspire to and enjoy one thing that doesn't involve any form of penetration.

3. Has an actual sense of humor. If he can't make me laugh, then at least he should be able to laugh with me. See, I've learned that laughter makes for the best ice breaker, and that makes it easier to get on with the next item in the relationship agenda. And yeah, that also means he should be anti-climactic enough to laugh when I crack a joke in the middle of a passionate make-out session.

4. He should let me bum his cigarettes. What that means is a. he smokes b. he's generous c. he's willing to share a room in the Lung Center.

5. He should give me time to play pool and hang out with my friends. I've been causing balls to go in holes since 2000. I've been with my better friends since childhood, so he should understand the hierarchy. Or he can go suck my nuts.

6. He should like to be gross. Or at least shut his piehole and respect my inclination towards such genres. Let me rephrase that, he should like totally revolting films and media and entertainment since I'm such a total pervert. And he's going to go out with a pervert and the inner freak that goes with his gay goodness. Nope, my dictionary of revoltingly gross entertainment does not include Joross Gamboa, most of the people in ASAP, Vhong Navarro movies, and pencil cut pants. These belong to a very very different level of gross. It's the gross that makes you do the sign of the cross.

7. Educated. Or at least have the good timing and proper etiquette to point hard and laugh loud. I'm not kidding.

8. He should adore me and treat me like a god and pedestalize my enlarged, uhm, face pics on an altar racked with myrrh, frankincense and gold, and he should pray the angelus for me plus the three o clock prayer, and he should fast in my name, and quote my blog, and sing and dance in the goodness of his heart because he loves me like sliced bread. Just be loyal, for crying out loud. That's all I'm asking for. Really.

And I'm tagging the following bloggers. Brew and Tanya, Carl tagged you already, so I'm not tagging you anymore, okay? Have fun!

Tagging MALE bloggers:
1. Bryan
2. Erik
3. IE
4. Alex
5. Krislan
6. Jhed
7. Lexan
8. Rob

Tagging FEMALE bloggers:
1. Pepay
2. Rosie
3. Lojika
4. Devilicious
5. Patricia
6. Ira
7. Stellar
8. Laitera

In Canada: Filipino Table Etiquette Punished at Local School: Lunch Monitor Tells Student His Eating Habits are ‘Disgusting.’

Yeah, we might have heard or read of this in one page or another, but here are the links anyway:

From the West Island Chronicle
From iBalita Forums
From Yehey.com
and the Google search results

In a nutshell, he's this Filipino kid who eats with a spoon and fork. The Canadian lunch monitor from this certain school in Quebec tells him that his eating habits are disgusting. He goes on to repeatedly harass the boy's eating habits with more than a spoonful of scorn. He does this ten times until the boy becomes too embarassed to eat dinner with a spoon and fork. This upsets the Filipina mom who, in turn, reports this incident to the school principal. The principal then defends his staff member by saying, and I quote, "Madame, you are in Canada. Here in Canada you should eat the way Canadians eat."

Here:


End of story. And we have a phone in question:


Hey, I respect cultural differences in all it's rich and creamy goodness. I might even sign up for a parade if needed. But you never use the word "pig" in reference to any particular cultural aspect. That's just evil and something that the spawn of Satan would do. It's not nice, and it tends to become offensive, and it's something that you should apologize for.

...

What the hell am I saying? That statement is just downright cruel and indicates an ego about to explode like a swelling appendix. (Insert awful curse word that rhyme with truck, ALL CAPS ) YOU Mr Bergeron! Suck my (Insert slang for penis) you mother (insert the word fucker in here)!!!

And furthermore...oh wait, we have another transmission from line 2, and its from Mr Normand Bergeron himself!



Ha haa!

Next week on Momel's Big Blahg: The shit-eater's guide to proper table manners. Or maybe not. Don't keep your fingers crossed yet. It's all for show! HAR!

Blog Soup #4: I Almost Died and I Blogged About It, Waterproof Lenses, and Shit in a Bottle

My fourth near death experience had lots of running half naked men, rocks, and a taxi with a shattered windshield. It happened two days ago.

Oh wait, but was it my fifth already? I don't know, I lost count. It's not that I'm courting death or anything, but your life flashing right before you is not exactly an experience you need to relive for five times. Five times. It doesn't need to be in a row or anything, but it only takes one brush with death to make you want to stop and smell the roses before you're actually pushing roses from six feet below.

I almost drowned twice, been in an automobile accident three times, and I almost had my appendix explode on me once. What makes that last incident the closest so far was that the gangrenous little sonofabitch was a couple of minutes removed from implosion. Had I been any more idle and I could have been mothering a deadly infection that would have been, for all the right reasons, the death of me.

That's five times in 25 years. Five close encounters; it only takes one wrong turn of events, and I would be submitting one report I've never worked on before.

My own autopsy report.

If there was a God, I'd tell him that I get it already.

Anyway, on a lighter note, I went sunglass shopping with my friends earlier today. They were going to a company outing, so they need to look cool while catching some sun. One of my friends fancied this wicked little thing, and at a little more than the thousand peso mark, he wanted to make sure that it's worth the buck. So he asked the saleslady, "Miss, hindi ba magfa-fade yung tint nitong lens pag nalagyan ng tubig-alat? (Miss, are you sure that the tint on the lens will not fade if it gets a little salt water?)"

The sales lady then replied "Tingnan po natin! (Let's see!)" with the awful pep of a cheerleader. She then opened the glass showcase, took one of the lenses used for that pair of shades, threw that to the floor, and she stepped on it.
And then she stepped on it again. She was doing that Dance Revolution thing on a piece of eyewear. She then said "Hindi po (Nope)" without losing that smile in the process.

I was so totally disturbed by this completely unrelated demonstration that I found myself stomping on that stupid little fucker. And I was laughing at the same time too.

My friend bought that pair all the same.

I'm not a big fan of stool tests. You know, you're supposed to take these physical exams as a pre-requisite to employment. Or if you are already employed, they do these things annually just to check on your, uhm, physical well being. I take great pride in my clean bill of health, but I've never been too keen in taking a sample of my, uhm, crap. What makes it gross is you need to take a sample of your shit in a bottle.

Getting that piece of shit in that bottle is a completely different endeavour altogether. But before you do that, you need to be able to have something to put in that bottle. Have you ever crapped under pressure? Imagine this: medical clearances are due in an hour, and you don't feel nothing like taking a dump.
I'm telling you, it's not that freaking easy sitting on the shitter waiting for golden stool to happen.

Okay, so you managed to convince your bowel movement to do some actual movement. You will now take a deep breath and pray for intestinal fortitude. You will need to isolate the specimen. Imagine how easy things would be if they accepted stool samples on a wet tissue, but no. They had to pick that from a bottle.

So how exactly do I do it? With a piece of stick and surgical precision. Oh, and good aim, too. It's not that easy to catch things that float in water.

Related Posts:
What's a blog soup?
Triggering the Dirty Finger
When is an Appendix Like a Penis?
The First Week

Explaining Some of My Favorite Movies

This is a little list of some of the movies I wouldn't mind faking a sick leave for.

http://www.hotfreelayouts.com/movies.php

So let me explain what's happening here.

I like To Wong Foo because you'll never see anything as funny as Wesley Snipes in drag elsewhere. This is actually where I got the snapping habit from. Broken Hearts Club appeal to the moist and chewy part of me which I never knew existed until this came along in HBO that one night. These two films are for the lady in me.

Yes, that's The Little Mermaid in the list. That's for the kid in me.

The Never Ending story was a warm childhood memory. What makes it warm is it had my Mom, my Dad, and Me. I remember we were still a complete family back then during the first time I watched this. And what they told me after the film was one of the things I have always cherished even in childhood. They told me, "Momel, appealing to sympathy is always a cheap shot."

Ha haa, got you.

The Silence of the Lambs was a recent favorite, and it had Sir Anthony Hopkins in his creepiest. Hannibal Lecter beats the bad shit out of Jason or Freddy or that ugly doll Chuckie ten times out of ten. Mind you, that's three against one.

Linda Blair's projectile vomiting in The Exorcist actually inspired Ryu and Ken's (Streetfighters) Ha-dou-ken. Yup, and I never masturbate. But the Exorcism of Emily Rose was a very interesting film on account of it actually introduces demonic possession as court evidence. In a legal procedure. In the court of law. I'm not sure if it's actually based from a true story, or if that's just another marketing propaganda, but the thought of actually presenting Lucifer to testify in the court of law is just ridiculously interesting.

I loved Sister Acts 1 and 2 for the music and the songs and all those funky nuns doing Dianna Ross and the Supremes. I've actually LimeWired most of the songs in the soundtrack.

Night of the Living Dead and The Bride of Frankenstein are absolute classics in all their black and white-ness. George Romero's genius does a magnificent transfer in color with his revival of Dawn of the Dead, and that little bitch of a horror flick actually had me screaming like the girl I was supposed to be.

There is a reason why people remember The Grudge. It's the same reason why you're seeing it in my list. Seven Doors to Death was also known as The Beyond, and by George, it had the best acid-poured-on-eyeballs scene ever!

I placed Girl Interrupted and Beetle Juice in my list not only because kleptomaniacs make for effective actresses but for entirely different reasons. Beetle Juice had Harry Bellafonte singing Day-O. And just when you thought Angelina Jolie's lips could never get any more abnormal, Girl Interrupted slaps you silly, paints you red, and calls you a dick.

Hey, you can get one of these fantastic list thingies (and you call me a writer) by going to:

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Enjoy!