There is Truth in Some Forwarded Emails: You, Too, Can Be an Asshole!

**One of my resolutions for this coming year is that I resolve to be a better, well-trained, champion-class, S-rank asshole in 2011. And there are 32 easy ways with which I can make this happen. Remember, you darling punks, practice makes perfect!




HOW TO TICK PEOPLE OFF

1. Leave the copy machine set to reduce 200%, extra dark, 17 inch paper, 99 copies.
2. In the memo field of all your checks, write "for sexual favors."
3. Specify that your drive-through order is "TO-GO."
4. If you have a glass eye, tap on it occasionally with your pen while talking to others.
5. Stomp on little plastic ketchup packets.
6. Insist on keeping your car windshield wipers running in all weather conditions "to keep them tuned up."
7. Reply to everything someone says with "that's what you think."
8. Practice making fax and modem noises.
9. Highlight irrelevant information in scientific papers and "cc" them to your boss.
10. Make beeping noises when a large person backs up.
11. Finish all your sentences with the words "in accordance with prophesy."
12. Signal that a conversation is over by clamping your hands over your ears and grimacing.
13. Disassemble your pen and "accidentally" flip the ink cartridge across the room.
14. Holler random numbers while someone is counting.
15. Adjust the tint on your TV so that all the people are green, and insist to others that you "like it that way."
16. Staple pages in the middle of the page.
17. Publicly investigate just how slowly you can make a croaking noise.
18. Honk and wave to strangers.
19. Decline to be seated at a restaurant, and simply eat their complimentary mints at the cash register.
20. TYPE IN UPPERCASE.
21. type only in lowercase.
22. dont use any punctuation either
23. Buy a large quantity of orange traffic cones and reroute whole streets.
24. Repeat the following conversation a dozen times:

"DO YOU HEAR THAT?"
"What?"
"Never mind, it's gone now."

25. As much as possible, skip rather than walk.
26. Try playing any song by tapping on the bottom of your chin. Morse code the lyrics if you have to. When nearly done, announce "No, wait, I messed it up," and repeat.
27. Ask people what gender they are.
28. While making presentations, occasionally bob your head like a parakeet.
29. Sit in your front yard pointing a hair dryer at passing cars to see if they slow down.
30. Sing along at the opera.
31. Go to a poetry recital and ask why each poem doesn't rhyme.
32. Ask your co-workers mysterious questions and then scribble their answers in a notebook. Mutter something about "psychological profiles."

Oh, I also have two other posts which you darling punks can peruse if the prior tips weren't enough to scratch your itch. Enjoy!

Sorry I Took a Dump on Your Dick. Here's P20 More.

**Which is exactly what 2010 has been like for this here blahg of bullshit.

Thank you, you lovely darling punk, for being so generous with your page loads, and your comments, and your lurking, and your link exchanges, and your follows. Those gestures are, figuratively, the best ass-fucking that my lonely sex-starved blog needed. You all know I'm a jerk who foul mouths in excess and is generally nasty in all the wrong places. You all know I'm this gay asshole who vibrates the influence and the innuendos with a fury. I'm far too mischievous for your own good, hell, for my own good even, but you punks kept at it until I'm far too sore to even cross my legs.

Fucking A!

Your patronage is like doggie style without the muscle pain, the warm and sticky feel of lube, that faint whiff of alcohol in your breath as you try to kiss me from behind, from where you're kneeling, that curious smell of shit and then the panic that goes with it, and most importantly, the discomfort that takes place when your dick intermittently gets too pumped and then goes out of my hole.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, darling punks one and all, I just compared your benefaction with sodomy. And I did that on purpose. You know how I work; I'm wicked with my compliments, and I'm mostly in heat.

Now, allow me to say this, and I say this with every grateful fiber in my being -- You all rock! Honestly, you do. Keep at it, and try not to be hiphops because they die early, and they're sure to rot in hell with a dead certainty.

That being said, You All Have a Merry Christmas! And may your blood pressures shoot off the roof! That's reverse psychology. You know I love you. You know I care. You shout whenever, and I'll be there. And I really mean the seasons greetings.

Sanctuary -- A Post With Very Little F-words and a Lot of Drama

**"You don't want no drama. No, no drama, no, no, no, no drama. So don't pull on my hand boy. You ain't my man, boy, I'm just tryn'a dance boy. And move my hump." -- Black Eyed Peas, My Humps

Most closet queens communicate on a need to know basis even to their closest allies -- their mothers. This is true, even of their closest intimates, those whom they call "teh," or "sis," or "marsz," or "bff," or "bhie," or "babe." And it looks like they're mighty comfortable with this unspoken agreement; the parent doesn't need to know, or she can at least find comfort in her son's makeshift support system -- his equally confused circle of friends. They have decided to leave their mothers in the dark, these complacent little faggots satisfied with their selective disclosure. But I'm sure they're aware that they're missing out on something. And it's this heaven of comfort that levels and outshines that temporary security their gay colleagues have prepared for them. There's nothing like a mother's words of comfort to sustain you during your most trying gay heartbreaks. I have been through devastation a few weeks back, and I survived with watermarks and barely a scratch. My mother saw me through it, and these are lines in that saving letter she wrote me:



I am openly gay, and Aurora, my mother, bless her dear heart, she is my sanctuary. Of course, there are my friends, offline and online, and my darling brother and sister. You all saw me through my bleeding and I am forever thankful for your sympathies. Fo shizzle mah nizzle you darling punks. But there's just no comparing the absolute comforting closure that my mother's words provided. Because it was the ultimate acknowledgment that a gay person like myself needed. Because it echoes the acceptance that I can never ask for, out of shame. Because it illuminates the support that I can ony dream of, out of pride. Because she's my mother. And she wrote her validation in a letter. And I was pleased.

I could have cried in return, which is natural and expected, but I cried myself out during the first three days, and I am largely dehydrated.

Total number of F-words -- Seven. find, friends, faggots, for, few, forever, Fo. Hijo de puta, I fucking made it.

P.S.
I love my ma, but after several re-reads on this same post, I can now honestly say that this was a thoroughly boring post. I felt like writing it, though, because that email my mother sent me gave me sunshine and daisies and a generally wonderful feeling that I felt like writing about it at the time. I had a few ideas, wrote some lines, improvised, formed paragraphs, and there we have it. A thoroughly boring post. And the drama made me do it.

I solemnly swear that I will no longer write drama even if it threatened me with an ice pick or a love letter.

Coffee with The Jessica Zafra

**I won me my fourth LitWit Challenge, rock and roll, and the trophy book was a collection of Lydia Davis' Complete Works. What makes this grand, far more, was that Jessica Zafra herself awarded the prize book over coffee. Isn't that just darling? Sure, I was tied with this guy, Cacs, but his entry was just positively brilliant, so I didn't mind sharing the limelight with him.

**This post narrates just about most everything that happened on my second meet and greet with the Mistress of the Universe. Enjoy! Oh and before you read this post, be sure to have a handkerchief laced with strong ammonia with you. The last part almost made me faint.

Getting There
I woke up well rested to nine hours of sleep that day, and I felt so alive and so energized. I was fresher than a goddamn scandal. I had lunch with my funny gay friends, got the digicam, took a nice bath, and had my hair curled. I had an angry infestation of zits that day, and I need to look nice elsewhere. Because distraction is key.



I felt amazing on the way to our assigned rendezvous, The Cake Club in the Powerplant mall in Makati. It was about three in the afternoon then. The clouds were fertile with threats of rain, but I was walking on sunshine that day, and the fresh curls on my head bounced with each half skip half step I made towards The Cake Club. I was Tyra Banks with pogo-stick heels, and I was fierce with excitement.

The Cake Club, Finally
I was thirty minutes late when I got there, and I'm blaming the curls. And, to make things far more un-cute, I can't seem to find that infernal Cake Club. But then I heard my name, looked to my right, and she was looking at me with her fingers pointed towards my lost person. There she was, the smiling Mistress of the Universe, and my curls loosened up and went out of place. Her awesome presence blew away all that preparation to look darling. And I was just approaching our table then.



I went "Hi Madame!" in this distinctly homosexual inflection, and I felt at ease.

The Things We Talked About!
There were three of us in that table; we were joined by the brilliant Cacs. Yes, there were two winners, and they were both clever wits in their own rights. The gay jerk submitted a story, The Harlotte Champion is at Stake, where he bashed the Gym Bunnies and the Discrete Bisexuals. The straight guy was also a winner with his entry, The Remainders, and it was fantastical science fiction. Yes, Cacs happened to be straight, and I happened to be thrilled at the presence of a straight guy in these meet and greets. Who knew straight guys read and subscribed themselves to the schemes of the Mistress of the Universe? This weird world of nerds is interesting.

From Left to Right: Cacs, Freddie Aguilar, and the Mistress of the Universe. Those earrings are made of emptied Mighty Bond tubes, if you should know, because her site's big on rugby these days. Get it? Meanwhile, she had a bottle cap ring on her right hand and a colorful skull ring on the left.

Our conversation was salt and peppered by the participation of a foreign gender in the table. It went this way and that and was altogether interesting! We talked about a lot of most things that you can squeeze in two hours -- two meal a day rugby players, BENCH-sponsored rugby players, rugby players and their short shorts, well defined crotches and why they fetch 300-plus comments, beautiful men and women, making money with graphic novel apps, Ricky and Raymond Lee and how they're not brothers, the rules of rugby, that boring disappointment that is The Deathly Hallows Part One (boring and disappointment are totally my words), Inception, Cacs' The Remainders, John Lloyd Cruz as Kumander Dog Lock, Ely Buendia, Atom Araullo and those crow's feet, Roderick Paulate, The Catch and The Game, her National Bookstore sponsorship, endorsing the LitWit Challenges, the Romea and Juliet-ness of some gay jerk's love story, and the Mistress of the Universe's funny twisted way of dealing with a broken relationship --she wished he was dead!

I had a cafe au lait on this beautiful white mug, and it was a good thing mostly because I wasn't paying. The Mistress of the Universe is most generous.



It was an brief affair, as lovely and darling as it was, and it lasted no more than two hours. She signed our books, had a few pictures taken, and the day ended with that incredibly firm handshake. But the most unexpected thing happened after that. And this is where you'll be needing a handkerchief that's laced with strong ammonia

I Made Beso with Jessica Zafra!
We were walking towards our respective exits, and we were about to break the party. And I should say that It's a downright blessed thing that I have enough years of practice as far as this polite nicety goes. I came prepared, but I almost didn't know what to do when she raised her cheeks in that familiar gesture. I was pleasantly surprised and nearly fainted at the same time. Of course I obliged!

The beso felt like oily cheeks, mine, and it had this curiously humbling characteristic about it. It was darling, and it was beyond my wildest imaginings, but making beso with Jessica Zafra (I love that line so much, it should be lyrics to a song) was the second most unprecedented (never before seen or done) thing that happened to me that day. The first one was when I quoted Mark Twain, my favorite dead author, in an offline dialogue. This also happened to be the absolutely nerdiest thing I ever did, and I was mighty pleased I did because this validated my nerdness.

The Nerdiest Thing I Ever Did

"With a hundred words to do it with, the literary artisan could catch that airy thought and tie it down and reduce it to a concrete condition... understandable and all right, like a cabbage; but the artist does it with twenty, and the result is a flower."

That was the quote I paraphrased. And I did that to address a certain awkward moment. I was pleased, and I can now say, with fireworks and truth to the letter, that I am such a gay nerd. Now if you happen to find that funny, in a discriminating self righteous homophobic kind of way, then let me tell you something on a spiritual note: Fuckk Yow. And I don't care. Meanwhile, I wasn't verbatim on the Mark Twain quote, but it was still the queen of my nerd-things-I-ever-did mountain.

A Daisy of a Picture!
I was singing and dancing in my head when I went home that day. If sunshine had a smiling face, then I will be its homosexual picture at the back of that taxi cab. I was busy reviewing the pictures I took on that meet and greet when I remembered to read what she wrote on my prize Lydia Davis book. And so I did, and what I read was just too darling for words. By the same token, it will overwhelm a thesaurus, so let me post a picture instead.




And On a Final Note

Again With That Smile!

Candidate on the left is a gay jerk who is in another picture with one of his greatest literary influences. Candidate is suffering from a mild to severe case of star-struck-ism-ness (idle linguists should improve on that word, that "condition," and make an official dictionary entry of it). Condition is potentially damaging to subject's over-smiled mouth; the worst case scenario will require stitching. Simultaneously, gums are suspect to over-exposure and may require treatment unless photographer decides to finally take that picture already.

Further investigation into this condition indicates that subject doesn't mind the fuglifying (further uglifying) effects that star-struck-ism-ness causes. His happy hormones are reported to be at a record high under such attacks and, in effect, defeats the occasional fits of vanity that subject has admitted to sufferring.

Cheers to Drinking Advice! (Updated With Input from You, My Darling Punk Readers)

**I have been nursing a broken heart these past few weeks. And I believe that it is time for me to say this, and I say this on a spiritual note -- Tama na yang bwakanang syet na drama na yan! I-kampay na to, mga punks!

**My hearts too smashed and I need a fucken drink! There is therapy in moderate alcoholism, but be sure to have friends with you. Drinking alone plain and simple sucks, and nobody should be left to doing that unless they're hardcore alcoholics with no social life.

**Meanwhile, these are but playful advice, to be taken with a grain of salt (not to be taken literally). I just happen to have something to share about this most darling of vices, and I went through a lot these past few weeks. "A lot" can also mean to say a lot of alcohol, and it supplied enough comfort that I felt I should do something in return. So here's this list.

**The title was modified because I suppose it makes better sense, what with your darling input and all. Cheers you lovely punks!


1. Don't count the number of bottles of beer you've had. That's something a macho-posturing teenager will do.

2. If you have this nagging secret you've committed to taking to the grave with you, then don't drink in excess. Alcohol lubricates the jaws, loosens your restraint, and it encourages you to talk it all out. The tears are optional, sure, but the secret will spill, by and by. I know this guy, this gay guy from CDO, who could've remained in that closet if only he hadn't kissed that guy in public because he was too drunk.

3. Use a jigger for good measure. Seriously. I'm a "hard" drinker by choice, and whoever came up with that piece of glassy convenience should be knighted, or canonized, or run for public office.

4. If you prefer doing it "a la tambay," where everybody plays left in this circle with this one jigger, and you feel you've had plenty, then learn to pass. If you're not man enough to admit you are officially smashed, then give yourself a break. Take a breather. Walk it out. Take five. But do come back to your drinking circle because your fellow "tambays" will think you've folded. And that's the last thing that a macho guy like you wants to happen.

5. If you prefer doing it "a la tambay," where everybody plays left in this circle with this one jigger, and you have pulmonary tuberculosis, then get your fucking hands away from that shot glass! Motherfucker.

6. Alcohol in is alcohol out. So if you feel like taking a leak, then stop holding it in, piss it all away, and praise the Lord because you now have room for more alcohol!

7. Alcohol dehydrates you, and a glass of water from time to time helps. This works best after you've had an alcoholic piss.

8. Yes, you can use cold water as a chaser. Don't be such a faggot.

9. There was this one early morning in 2003, I think, where I shared a bottle of "gin bilog" with two "barangay tanods" (citizen watch). See, I also wave and say hi to the poor people "din." Anyway, they sliced 15 pieces of calamansi, squeezed the juice AND the seeds into that bottle of gin, took out a shot glass, and played left. There were three of us, and there was more for me. That shit tasted like hellfire down my throat, and I would far rather die than play left to that concentrated venom.


10. Don't drink to impress. I remember this one time in college where I was late for a drinking session with the "cool people" of 3-C Mathematics. I wasn't much of a drinker then, but I was courteous and spilled with etiquette, so I took that tall glassful of gin-pomelo and gulped that mess bottoms up. I wanted to make up for lost time. A few minutes later, I started seeing black spots ahead of me, I was seriously getting dizzy, and my stomach was suddenly disagreeable. I walked to the bathroom in a series on unbalanced steps, closed the door behind me, and I passed out.

I remember waking up to the smell of vomit and seeing one of my classmates looking in from outside that small window. I was lying down the white tiles of the bathroom floor. He shouted something that had my name on it, and in a few minutes, or years, somebody unlocked the bathroom door, carried me to bed, and wiped me clean with a warm, moist towelette.

The humiliation didn't stop there. I woke up a few hours later in this screaming fit of curses. I stood up and started foulmouthing everyone, walked to the bathroom, and went back to bed with my cursing mouth still on its loudest. I then heard her mother shouting back, "Hoy! Tigilan mo yang pagmumura dito sa bahay ko! Iinom-inom ka, hindi mo pala kaya!' (Hey! Stop cursing in my house! Stop drinking if you can't hold it in!)

That woke me up. And the most that my courteous person did was to apologize in shame.

To this day, I still tell my friends that I don't drink gin no more because its too "squatter" for me.

11. I never bow my head down while drinking. This is more of a superstition than an advice, though.

12. Practice makes perfect. Form a Saturday Club. For Bloggers! Yeah baby.

13. If you, my darling punk reader, have some advice or tips on drinking, then please drop me a comment and let's improve on this list.


14.

"I take cold water as a chaser, probably the wisest advice by a pechay friend. And refrain from fatty/salty pulutan. -- Orally"

So it's got to have a temperature for darling results? Check! I'm sure there's a scientific explanation behind the preference. But I don't do scientific here unless its about a perverse sexual act. Thanks Orally!

15.

"Eat a banana. No pun intended, as in a banana. My teacher said it keeps the alcohol from going back up. -- Glentot"

Ohh I loathe that feeling with a passion. That's because it's just a second away from complate and utter humiliation. Bananas. Got it! Thanks Glenn!

16.

"I learned from Y Tu Mama Tambien that beer is the best cure for a hangover. It's true! -- Pat"

Again, this sounds like one of those crazy ideas that actually worked. There's something about this idea that I just postively adore. Thanks Pat!

17.

"I once heard you can eat a tablespoon of butter before you drink. It supposedly coats your stomach so you don't get drunk easily. -- Neil"

This actually makes sense, but I'm not one to eat a tablespoon of butter. It's fattening, and it tastes weird on its own. Thanks Neil!

18.

"Eat something oily before you drink. -- Barry (an offline friend who ran and won the National Presidency. I kid. He could be a stunt double. I kid.)

This makes sense, most especially if you're looking at Neil's Butter Rule. I'm thinking of doing research now, because I'm a gay nerd, to address the science behind these additional advice. But I don't do research unless its about a perverse sexual act. Thanks Barsz!

19. Thanks again for the input! Keep those darling advice coming, you lovely punk readers!

I Just Got Home from Coffee with Ms Jessica Zafra

Yes, my darling punk reader. Again. And I will be writing about it soon! Meanwhile, here are some pictures.




This is me after the meet and greet. That how I look like after recovering from a mild case of star-struck-ism-ness. I have met and had cocktails with The Mistress of the Universe before, and it could have been severe if this was the first time that I met her.




The Cake Club is located on the second Floor of the Powerplant Mall, in front of National Bookstore. This is where the lovely madness took place. And it should be said that I was about thirty minutes late, like I was the first time. Motherfucking damn it.




This has got to be, by far, my favorite picture of all. I could have cried upon reading this, but I'm all cried out and am severely dehydrated by that break up. This meet and greet helped. And I will be writing about it soon! Cheers you, and mabuhay from Pasig Citehh!

P.S. My next post will be about alcohol.

A Kinky Breakup Story -- My EX Is A Porn Star!

This is a 2005 chat transcript that I saved for future reference. This was with a friend who had a porn star ex-girlfriend, and he talked about it in 2005. He discovered that his ex-girlfriend started doing porn after they broke up, and she has been moderately advertised in some porn site. He found this out because he was researching for material for his porn blog. So he planned something similar to a horny entrapment, and then the rest is sexy fun. It's all here, you darling punk.

I was greater_cynic, among other devilish handles, but I no longer use that YM ID; it has seen better days. Yes, I used to talk like I did in this chat transcript. Now, my four leaf clover of a friend, simply because he's lucky, hello, is using the handle "stranger7XXX." Of course, that's not his real YM ID. It might as well be Bucky Lastard. But that was amended in this post for the purposes of privacy; he's too cool to be chatting with non-pornstars like the rest of us.

And aside from that one modification, the rest of the transcript is presented in it's unwholesome third world goodness. In Tagalog. So click on the link below, it will redirect you to another post that was meant for the motherfucking length of the transcript, but it's in this same blog anyway. If you want to post a comment, then please do it in this post, okay? Muahness from Pasig Citehh!

Click Here to Read the Complete Chat Transcript!

Sooo... This is What a Breakup Feels Like

**It's not enough that it kills, but it gives you shit ideas at the same time. I don't mind the ideas though. At least I know I'm not crazy yet. And because I'm such a list freak, allow me to practice this obsessive compulsive tendency on the foolish notions that came to me in between the tears and the anger and all that creamy goodness.

1. I lived a life of sin and excess and loose morals and extravagant homosexuality. And then I died and met Joel. Ah! The very mention of his name mutes out Heaven's harps; he was Love in a 5'6 frame. I was confused. I didn't know if I was judged correctly because it was four years of happy and content domestication. We broke up three months before our fifth year, and then I realized that the Divine Authorities passed the right sentence. I've never been in a hell this cruel.

2. I moved out of my mother's apartment more than four years ago just so I have something of my own to go home to. And I did. Or rather, I used to. In the light of our recent break up, I am now just paying rent.

3. You will forgive my being out of character in this post. A lot of the drama in what you are reading now has more potency in it when compared to this extreme drinking session where, of its thirty guests, twenty six of them are horny homosexual men. The other four guests are barely legal male teenagers with experience. Yes, if you could please pay attention to the drama, please.

4. I suppose the only reason why I'm crying now as I'm writing this is because my sister asked me to hang in there. And I feel like writing because I have to make the shedding stop. I should try something! Crying makes me look less rock and roll. And, in passing, I must make a secret habit of this wonderful foreign thing, this crying. That long sigh summarizes the tears and brings with it this marvelous feeling of relief that beats masturbation easy. This long sigh did to my heart what writing and talking about it to my friends failed to do. It lifted this strange weight, and I am now less inclined to endear Joel into memory. I love this crying shit. They never mentioned how good it feels. Fuck those sons of bitches and their Bob Ong plagiarisms. Ahhh! I should sleep better now, I suppose.

5. He arrived within the hour, and we talked. And then we cried. And those were simply the most acidic tears I've ever shed. The skin on my face was intact, but something in my chest was being dissolved by this very potent corrosive.

6. Tomorrow, I will compare all this drama with a jar of surgically excised human appendices floating in embalming fluid. And I will soon find out that there isn't much of a difference, if there was any to begin with. God damn this awful baggage! I wish I could pray this away, but I am a seasonal Catholic, mostly in December. I have a month's practice, in a year, and my prayers will not answer. I will, for now, suffer this imaginary tumor until the next great distraction comes along. I wouldn't mind one with an eight inch cock, although that will take some getting used to. It will be December soon. And then I'll start praying.

7. You will need your funny friends in times like these. Or a friend.


8. Happiness is getting out of the hospital with a prescription for mild painkillers twice a day for a week. No, I'm not dieting on a dumb kind of rice, but then we were expecting a biopsy. I know this doesn't follow, but I was referring to another kind of drama which was simultaneous with the break up and it kept me distracted some.

9. Clearly, the words "heart break" or "heart broken" are, now that I'm suffering, an understatement. My heart didn't break. It dissolved, and in its place remained this burning piece of furious brimstone that melted everything around it. Whoever came up with those terms should be shot because she's common and has a poor choice of words.

10. It's a hearing aid because it doesn't just magnify a song. It lets you hear every line of lyric. And, in the face of these mounting tears, you believe they wrote it for you.

11. The truth is I've had two break ups in 2010. The first one happened in August, and it terminated a six year redhjlajdtionjhfship. I didn't escape that last one in November, either, and it ended a four year love affair with The love of my life. I loved the first one, W, with my internet connection and my landline. On the other hand, I loved the second one, J, with. My. Heart. Fuck that cheese.

There's no question about it, the only time you can call that "two timing," shush your pie hole, is when you just heard that phrase, and you doubt you know what that means, but you use it anyway because you are imagining you are making sense.

Never mind that the first one, with W, is more or less imaginary on account of it was all online with several four-hour phone calls. It was helpful, in a way, because it conditioned me for real devastation. All that practice was most useful. That first relationship, if you can call it that while sober, was established on nothing grounds. It was lacking, but it had perfect timing, and it made for the best toilet training.

12. I have a steady income, a degree in Mathematics, my own apartment with things in it, and I'm living in with the love of my life. I was so cool, I could preserve processed meat. But then we broke up three months before our fifth year, and then my personal estimation suffered. But I will endure and emerge, and then I will be cooler. I have a vision -- I will be keeping ice and canned beer cold. Blecch.

OMG You Guys, the Internet is Full of Weird People! Who'd Have Thunk? -- PART ONE

**Think of this as an advocacy.

**Meanwhile, this is a filler post. I have this folder of prepared posts just in case I should be "distracted." That is what I am now, and then some. My offline life is the very definition of devastation, currently, and I am taking a break from all that crying and shedding and silent screaming because I am still a blogger, after all, and I have to post. That being said, I apologize to you, you darling blogger in my blog roll, if I wasn't present in your comments form recently. I love you and I will make love to you if you were hung and a power top.




Just when you thought you've desensitized yourself with the sickest ocular trauma the World Wide Web has to offer, along comes, to further revolt your unbelieving and simultaneously excited person, these choice clips from Something Awful.net's Archives. I didn't know how I got there, perhaps a series of unfortunate hops, but it's goddamn awful, and it rocks.


I'm idle when I have the time, and to quote Junkmaster, I did the surfing, so you don't have to. So there. And this is NOT a sponsored post, mind you. Continue reading, love.

Verily, the internet is way too big for one's pustular imagination, and here's another opportunity to broaden our perverse horizons together. Ladies and gentlemen, submitted for your orgasmic and brick-shitting pleasure: selected Lines from Something Awful.net's Archives. These are transcribed verbatim, and that explains the typos; kindly shut your piehole please. I'm having none of it.

1. from The Eunuch Archives

Now comes the question. Currently with one testicle, my scrotum is way too loose and sticks to my thigh, twists around, gets caught on everything and is always in the way

A Eunuch, by the way, is a castrated human male. He's got one testicle. I give him one loser star.





2. from The Incest Taboo Forum

I say this tongue in cheek mostly, but me and mom have two kids both healthy and fine and I have a child with my aunt and one with a cousing and they are fine and healthy no birth defects (except the boys have small ears, lol).

You know where I stand in this Taboo thing. I endorse the thing. The number is on a prior post, and if Gabriel asks, just tell him you got the number from the tattooed gay dude. Mention Taboo 1 to 13. But this guy is referring to the actual act.





3. from The Real Super Powers and Universal Psychic Guild

Lately I have noticed that I can listen to the thoughts of any animal that I come into any type of contact with (long range not sure how long). The bad thing is that I hear every though and animals are quite schizophrenic.

Anyone know how to shut out thoughts?

I have nothing against make believe super powers. I used to be Rogue when we were doing X-Men play fights as kids. And look at me now.





4. from The Goths, Witches, and Wiccans Forum

plus im planning to get a tat that sez "S.K.I.T" n gcthic text or old english or something like that. meaning SERIAL KILLER IN TRAINING

Or you can get a tattoo that says "S.T.F.U.L." It means SHUT THE FUCK UP LOSER





5. from The Auto-Fellatio, Wrestling, and Time Travel Forum

New SS, very interested.

Posted by Newbie on February 11, 2004 at 20:12:42

I had never thought that so many could actually SS. I was very surprised when I looked online and found such a community. I had tried a few times before lately but though it was just something that you had to be born with. I am now excited to actually get to my cock. I am 19, 5'10" and weigh about 145 pounds. I have gotten my tongue about an inch or two from the tip of my cock. I was wondering if anyone could give me some tips or personal tips. I know it will take some time to get down on myself, but I can't wait!

Thanks!

Autofellatio is the act of oral stimulation of one's own penis as a form of masturbation. Practitioners of this sexual act are simultaneously so hung and flexible that they can suck their own cock. These guys don't deserve loser stars. They deserve a standing ovation.


6. from Voy Forums: Troubled Teens Unite!

Date PostedL 13:47:19 02/21/03 Fri
Author: ricky barningharn
Subject: skitzoprenia

ill get to the point
1.when walkin with my friends and family i get the feeling they will all turn around and start fighting me and i get very paranoid
2.when walkin 1/2 the cars i see give me the feeling they r following me to observe me.
3.i hear voices in my head(mostly my name)and talk to myself often.
4.the government has bugged my house and they r watching me 24/7 (i think)
5.i sumtimes think people r reading my mind
6.i currently take wellbutrin,zyprexa,seriquil

tell me whats up

This is what's up, fool.





7. from The Peeing and Pooping in School and Public Forum

Subject: I need some suggestions
Name: Emily
Date Posted: Dec 31, 03 - 10:15 AM

Message: Hi, My name is Emily and I am new here. I have tried to have accidents in my underwears but I have not been succesful At doing.

Also, are their any girls that could be my friend.

Thanks,
Emily

Why would anyway want to shit on purpose on their own underwear? And a girl, no less? Of course, the gender is immaterial, and I could be wrong.





8. from The Can't Find On Google Forum

a at 11/19/2005 08:57:23 pm

Really Looking For: a job that does not require a college (or highschool....) education

Search Terms Tried: uh, i couldnt thhink of what to type so none

Comments: jus wondering. the more money the better!! just incase i was to, err, *cough* drop out of highschool *cough* . its 12:00 and i have a crapload of homework....im failing half of my classes.... i know about 3 people in tha whole school well... so, i was just wondering what kind of job ops i have. not saying i will or anything, just curious...

josh at 12/06/2005 02:36:31 am

Really Looking For: a copy of my mug shot taken about 2 years ago by the police, and my arrest record

Search Terms Tried: texas stae records mug shots; texas state arrest records; my mugshot; my arrest record, basically any combonation you can think of

Comments: it's not like I'm a hardened criminal trying to erase my record or anything, it's just that I have been arrest before and I a0wanna see what I looked like b) want to try and use the pic for a website and c) wanna see if public intoxication is still on my record. if any one can help please do. oh and I'm a cheap-skate so I don't wanna have to pay a site for a picture of myself

Suffice to say that there are things that Google can't find. That being said, do you guys Google yourselves?

9. from The FightingArts Forum

KNOCK OUT!!!
#196028 - 04/04/04 02:31PM

where on the neck is the most effective spot to pinch someone if you wished to put them out or paralize them for a couple of minutes. i keep trying it on my little brother but he doesn't like to cooperate

Or you can try it on your own, and have somebody administer the strong ammonia. And then do it again if you didn't like the results.





10. from The Deviant Desires Forum

"i find pig roasts so erotic"
Posted by samantha on 08-02-03 at 03:46 PM

I attended my first pig roast last weekend,and for some reason found the though of all of the people there consuming this roasted pig quite erotic! My boyfried enjoyed it to, but not in the same way as I did! My question is,am i too wierd or is this just a passing perversion? I mean I can't wait till the next one... samantha

I never knew that roasted pigs can be such a turn on. This lady's sick; the loser meter doesn't apply.

A Public Service Announcement from Momel's Big Blahg of Bullshit: Where to Get Your Porn Offline

**Because I'm not just long legs and then some. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you read me right - Where to Get Your Porn. This is not a sponsored post. This is me doing an endorsement for y'alls obscene businesses.

We were trying to get ourselves smashed in my apartment. And we've had too much to drink that night. Somebody got real horny and popped a DVD in the player. I think it was me. It was one of those cheap-ass Scandals Collection, where they had celebrity look-alikes in the most uncompromising gymnastics. You know it's not Marian Rivera, or Heart Evangelista, or Katrina Halili (no wait, I take that back, that Is Katrina Halili), but we went ahead and popped that video because we were looking for something else to make fun of.

Because that's what we do as horny, intoxicated fags: we find fault and laugh. And then in retrospect, it makes no difference if we're sober and indifferent: we still find fault and laugh. And that kind of consistency is just legendary. And I'm just saying.

I didn't mention that, as horny, intoxicated fags, we're also automatically on the prowl for meat. Because my mother reads my blog sometimes, and I wouldn't want to give her the wrong impression.

Ten minutes into the DVD and we saw this ad for what can be, personally, The Mother of All Porn movies. It featured this terrific orgy where everybody was alternatingly fellating and doing cunnilingus in this human circle, their naked bodies bounded this lascivious circumference that writhed and pulsated with every stroking movement. Yes, ladies and gentlemen and kids below 12, this was an advertisement for Taboo. And it had a phone number. 0927 442 9548. And further instructions, too - Look for Gabriel.



I saved that number in my phone and texted Gabriel because I wanted to get me some classic porn. What happened next was all a vague haze; I was drunk like a fish swimming in a beer aquarium so I didn't know what transpired in that series of text messages. But I enjoyed what came of it, all thirteen episodes of it, because he was prompt like a solicitation and knows good business. He gave me Taboo 1 to 13, porn culture, and blood in my sperm, for a thousand pesos. We met, the first time, in Robinson's Galleria.

And he also gave me access to his voluminous list of classic titles, and hijo de puta, he's got enough for suicide by masturbation. No gay titles though. Pain in the nuts, I know.

So if you kids are in the market for porn, then here are your digits:

0927 442 9548

And, again, look for Gabriel. If he asks you where you got his number, tell him you got it from me. You might want to mention the tattooed gay dude who got Taboo 1 to 13. That should refresh his memory.

Fuck You Jim Girl, Here's Your One Thousand Words

**He used to be called Jimboy, when he was still dating that showbiz novelty they call Mahal because, I suppose, he wanted to be famous by association. Poor choice, though. Of course they broke up, and you'd think that was that, but he did a Bebe Gandanghari number in The Buzz last Sunday; he finally came out of the closet, and he was in drag. Blech, it was a pathetic repeat of awful showbiz history, and it was just bad shit.

**And it is my self-imposed responsibility, duty if you may, to report and make fun of this bullshit that is called Jimgirl. Super crap calls himself that now, and I wrote him this letter.

Dear Jimgirl,

First off, I just want to let you know that you're yesterday's bad news, you cheap piece of suck-up, no-talent shit. You're not a celebrity, not even close, so don't tell us you missed show business. Your knee-high, quarter-famous¹ ex-girlfriend, that dwarf you stepped on in your pathetic attempt at social climbing, she barely cut the fame cake. And that's not for lack of practice, either; she had this nightmarish full frontal video clip where she was taking a shower. Disgusting stuff, really. And that's coming from me. I grew up watching those Faces of Death videos, and I was practically desensitized. That video of your midget benefactor, in all her godawful nakedness, had more horror in it than the one with this Japanese guy eating shit with a spoon. God, that takes me back.




The only thing proper about that interview you did last Sunday was the timing. I mean, it was Halloween, and it would have been swell and dandy if you were in drag for the publicity. But it turns out that you were in drag because you're an actual fag, and you're not kidding. Funny, you're wearing that bonnet, and you're not kidding? Anyway, there's nothing original with the coming-out-in-drag gimmick. Somebody beat you to it. And it stagnated his already rotting career all the more. He had movies, and an Imdb page, and a Wikipedia page, and a lovely ex-wife who was more prosperous after the divorce. He came out in drag, and that sinked his Titanic. Meanwhile, the height of your popularity was your name in a bad song.

♫Piolo, Piolo, I love you. ♫Aga, Aga, I like you. ♪Jimboy, Jimboy, I hate you. ♫Eh kasi naman, niloloko mo ako.♪

I'm sure you practiced for that "exclusive interview." You even dressed for the occasion, poorly if you should know. But you can't cry on cue. That One Close Up was critical, and you let the moment pass with this painful attempt at shedding a tear. Which didn't happen. We knew you were faking it right at that moment when you started to look like somebody punched you square in the nuts. But, nope, no tears. Your badly done make up was run-free, and it could have used the character that those "tears" will provide. That's a shame, really, because you were none the prettier anyway.



That interview with The Buzz will not help you none. Well it helped you become the butt of our white hot loathing, but aside from that, there will be no benefit in your behalf. It was just thoroughly pathetic, if you should know. Furthermore, I don't think that what you earned from that TV guesting will be enough for a beauty parlor. You might as well revive your role as a parasite and look for a midget sugar daddy in show business. But that's a bad idea, I gather, because the novelty of dwarves in show business died out in the 90's.



Your coming out in The Buzz will not help you none, so here's a thousand-word picture I promised for consolation.


¹I can't say semi-famous, that would be telling a lie. And I used that to address proportion.

Breastfeeding in Cabs, Part Three -- How Would You Faggots Like It?

**And so, ladies and gentlemen, the homo is inflamed.
**My last post was about vaginas, so this post makes sense.

My mouth started watering when I heard those sucking sounds from that little breastfeeding shit a foot away from me in that FX (poor man's cab). And that bothered me, because fags like me don't get worked up over such trivial nonsense like, of all things, sucking sounds. Sucking sounds are me working my delightful black magic. Tch...Tch...Tch...Tch... I'm used to it, but I subscribe to an entirely different octave of sucking sounds. Sure, cocksu... fellatio maybe in the same range to the untrained ear; one almost cannot distinguish the sounds made by sucking on a nipple from the sounds made by sucking on a cock, but if you must listen closely (haha)...

I used the phrase "sucking sounds' four times in that preceding paragraph.


But, in spite of that, I'm remaining confident with my sexual preference, my deviation so to speak, and all its unearthly however worldly abominations notwithstanding. Because I'm gayer than you.

(Bitchfit in three... two... one...)

Because I'm gayer than you, waay gayer than you and that effeminate shit with those skinny jeans and pointy white leather shoes that you refer to as your "special friend." I'm soo gayer than you two, and your Starbucks eyeball, and the ladies medium shirt that you wear with military discipline, and that funny Bench Fix crew cut, and that secret proficiency in Swardspeak that you practice with your fag hags, one of which poses as your girlfriend, if I might add, and that gym membership too. I'm gayer than all that, combined, and then still have enough homo in me to import to Iran or somewhere.

Throw in your cock-smelling breath while you're at it, and I'm STILL the gay cup that overfloweth.

(End of bitchfit)


So you'd understand how bothered I got when my mouth started watering in response to all that breastfeeding. In a motherfucking cab. It doesn't really matter where it happened. But what gets my panties in a bunch was when I was suddenly, and for no real reason, worked up over the insane sucking sound that kid made to the comfort of her very liver. It suckled, and it suckled, and it suckled, and it was rhythmic, and wet, and it seemed to go on forever.

It drove me nuts, I'm telling you, until I couldn't take none of all this suddenly gruesome pressure. So I took out my dark blue work jacket, covered my head in it as if I'm trying to sleep, and then swallowed my excess saliva. All of it.

And there were lots of it, I could have drowned in my own throat. And nobody would have noticed because I was faking sleep.

No, I didn't get an erection, oh Thank You Lord, but I was all too freaking disoriented all the same. I was thinking about it all the way home, too. Maybe I was a closet-king all along, but I dismissed that nonsense in a heartbeat the moment I got home to my fucking live-in lover J.

Close Encounters With the Vagina-ed Type

**I went through almost half a pack of Marlboro Lights as I was writing this awful episode. It turned out that writing, alone, didn't cut it; I had to do something about the excess mental stress that this incident damned me with. It was almost ten cigarette sticks on one recollection alone; imagine how utterly reduced I got towards the end of this event.

The closest encounter I've had with a vagina, in all my gay thirty years, was with that of a transgendered man. It happened in the early hours of last Sunday, October 17, and it will continue happenng in my head for the rest of my years. I was beyond shocked; I was haunted. And with the aggravation that that grim image gave me as I walked home that morning, I swear I looked like this guy.


Anyway, here's what happened.

It was about two in the morning, and there were three of us homos parked in front of my good friend O's sari sari store. We then heard the subdued roaring of a motorcycle engine going out, and somebody saying "Ano nah!" in that distinct faggy inflection you can only hear in the Philippines. It was O's lovely, lovely friend S, and he had a pambahay shirt on these very short cotton shorts.

I never met him before, but he's beautiful.

His name was S, like the chocolate, and he looked like a beautiful 24 year old call center agent. He was really 36, but his shimmering skin, smiling features, and luscious long locks postponed his aging process by a full decade and then some. He was what is known in the local gay vernacular as a Japanera, or a Timer. A Japanera, or a Timer, is somebody who's made several business trips to Japan, usually for years on end, as an entertainer. And he was a shining success as a Japanera, so it goes well without saying that his youth, and his breasts, and his hips are enormously well-invested. He is almost a complete feminine achievement, and he can deceive to his girly heart's content if only he talked less. But he was a charming conversationalist, polite and acknowledging, and he was the sweetest artificial daisy there was.

It turned out that S had more to him than meets the deceived eye, and it was all revealed in the next hour of lively and loaded gay reminiscing until S had to leave. At that point, my friend O, he owns the sari sari store, called me, and he was like, "Momel halika, tingnan mo ung pechay ni S. (Momel come here, look at S' vagina)." Of course I was curious, so I took a peep at his surgically reassigned vagina.

Madre de dios.

Here's what the gracious S did to accommodate his captive, and increasingly stressed, audience. Remember he was wearing those loose cotton pekpek shorts? The kind that Richard Simmons would wear in his work out videos? And he was sitting on the driver's seat of this motorcycle; imagine the angle. From that position, S spread his legs apart, and then he lifted his left knee. He pulled the inner left hem of his shorts towards his right, and there it was. S' surgically re-assigned vagina.

Hijo de puta.

It was dark. It was the beef tapa that was marinated in soy sauce to make bistek with. Only it was diagonal, and it had, for something so wrong, hair in the right places. Of course, this is assuming that hair grew out of those places; my selective memory of straight porn can only be so faint. S' surgically reassigned vagina was in that same spot where the trunk of his cock used to be. The vulva (slit) started about five inches below his belly button, it was about four inches long, and it terminated somewhere in that area where his testicles used to be. It was lumpy, and it was dark, and he had it done in Thailand where SRS (sexual reassignment surgery) was dirt cheap. That probably explains that small tattoo next to his singit, and it said "Made in Thailand. For Export Only."

I kid. There were no tattoos.

I heard S say "Oo, may mani yan," as he played with his man made labia. I didn't care to investigate if that was meant to be joke. I was getting an operation myself -- I was getting an indelible memory tattooed in my head.



I didn't want to touch it, OH HELL NO, because I wouldn't know what will happen to me the moment I laid a finger on somebody's vagina. Even if that somebody was a man. And even then, if I touched it, I will smell my fingers, by and by. Its dreadful how smells amplify the memory of something already that eerie. So I satisfied myself with flinching in silence and had a cigarette the moment S drove away in his motorcycle.

It was all visual, but for some odd reason, the experience left a bad taste in my mouth.

And in spite of what happened, I am still grounded on this blind faith towards a higher, supreme grace, an absentee divinity, a marvelous force that gives each one of us the most needed saving coincidence. I remember looking at S' reconstruction, and thankfully, my mouth didn't water like it did on the Breastfeeding in Cabs episode. That will be my tragic unmaking, and I will not hear the end of it.

My Next Post Will be About Vaginas. Meanwhile, Here's One of My Blogging Secrets --- Notepad¹

**If you're using Windows, then do Start > Programs > Accessories > Notepad. There are times when it doubles as a magnifying glass of sorts. And I'm swearing by the way it illuminates your posts when I'm reading them.

Here's what I always do when reading your posts -- I copy-paste your recent entry into an open Notepad, and then I read it from there. It's because I can read it from there without the distracting necromancy that is HTML. The thought is naked, the composition is bare, it's just me and your words in their final arrangement. Reading it in this white blank space, and in that no-nonsense Arial font (size 11, regular), allows me to digest the fiber of your thoughts presented in that signature way that only you, the writer, can arrange them. I'm getting closer to your style of writing this way, not to plagiarize, but to familiarize, and I can arrive at a more, shall we say, human response.






Unless of course I just don't get the shit that you wrote. In which case I do The Quick Brown Fox Jumped Over the Crazy Poodle several times until I'm satisfied. And then I'll go back to what you blogged about, and then be an awful jerk about it just because.



This is why most of my comments are closer to home. I don't want to look and sound generic.

¹Awful. It's been about a week since my last post. Jesus H. Christ, talk about lazy! Sorry about that, boys and girls.