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.

Top Ten Reasons Why I'm This Close to Hating Filipino Taxi Drivers (Updated with Your Comments!)

**Of course, I am not referring to ALL of them, but there are certain drivers who give you THE impression that they all attended the same dipshit taxi driver college.




1. They have to stop over for a gas refill. While the meter is running.
The only reason why a middle class queen bee like myself hails a cab is when I feel like I'm going to be late. My kinky night job guarantees less traffic, so I can allot some ten minutes to get to the office. Imagine my frustration as some taxi driver takes away five minutes of my allowance to refill his tank. We could have been using those five minutes to close the gap between my person and the office, but no. Hateful Taxi Driver Man has to take his time with what he can be doing while he's cruising, and he takes mine in the process.

Of course, I can always leave home earlier, but I have to allow at least thirty minutes to prepare, twenty minutes of which are spent in the washroom rolling the packaging tape.

2. They are closeted war freaks.
I remember this one time, just recently, when this driver got into a heated argument with a truck driver who refuses to give way. The taxi driver stops our cab in the middle of the road, catches the attention of this truck driver, attempts to pull him over, and he shouts the foulest of expletives at the same time. Its not love at first sight. Mr Taxi Driver Man is obviously provoking the fight out of Chickenshit Truck Driver Man. Chickenshit Truck Driver Man, being the surprising coward that he turns out to be, stays behind the driver seat and screams like a girl.

My Macho Posturing Dick Taxi Driver Man was grinning like a champion inbreed as he drives me home. This after alarming the shit out of my person.

3. They're sometimes grossly unhygienic.
Imagine being in an enclosed air conditioned space, and you're sitting next to this taxi driver who, after several minutes, reveals his alter ego without as much as a warning. Or a handkerchief. You find out that he doubles as this symphony conductor who specializes in wind instruments. Now, imagine those wind instruments as hoarse and throaty pipes with some sort of fluid discharge. And you find residual specks of said discharge on his steering wheel.

And then you begin to wonder: should you investigate your arms and the sleeves of your shirt for similar traces? You're thinking about it, because it will appear unethical. See, you want to shower him with kindness, as he was doing you with his spittle. So fuck you, Phlegmatic Taxi Driver Man, you and your unused Good Morning Towels suck.

4. They a. bore you b. make you uncomfortable c. freak you out with unnecessary small talk
And, as always, its the same old unending tirade on oil price hikes, bitch fits against the government, and oil price hikes. And bitch fits against the government. See, its the same silly tiring truck you probably heard from the last taxi driver who drove you home. And from the one before him. And you'll probably be adding your current driver, Boringly Dense Taxi Driver Man, in your list.

I actually wrote a piece about this certain sub specie. You might want to check out "My Three Wisemen Rode Metered Camels."

5. They drive with a death wish. And, being her gay impersonator, I just quoted Jessica Zafra.
It's a wonderful way to commute, them taxi cabs, what with the isolation from them cheap ass jeepney passengers, but it just might turn out to be my coffin with wheels as Eat Your Heart Out Knight Rider Taxi Driver Man here goes 300 on a 120mph road. Mach 5, baby. Sure, they take me home faster, but I still want to get home. Like, you know, alive and stuff.

6. They over-charge.
Its either that, or they don't offer Basic Subtraction in Taxi Driver College. Or they never make sure that they have coins or small bills. You know, with which to make change. So what I do is I make sure that they do; I sometimes pay with coins. Of course, this is simply in response to their scripted "Ay, wala kayong barya? Wala akong panukli diyan." (Ay, do you have smaller bills? I wouldn't be able to make change.) I'm just being a girl scout.

That's how you deal with the Greedy Dipshit Taxi Driver Man. You sometimes have to be an asshole in return.

7. They give you a hard time when its raining.
We all know that, by default, they overcharge when its raining hard. That's a fairly charitable understatement. And that's if and only if, underscore ONLY IF they agree to drive you to wherever the hell it is you're going.

Imagine yourself suffering this screening process for close to an hour, only to have your relief cut short by having Choosy Sonofabitch Taxi Driver Man small talk you to death on your way home. If the small talk doesn't get you, then the scary driving will. Or the fare.

They should know that karma in the year 2008 is digital. Its faster. Like broadband faster. Waaay faster than it was ten years ago. They should shudder this early on.

8. Sarah Geronimo should know that she used to sound like Celine Dion, but she was still a virgin back then. So she ought to stop trying hard to hit those notes because she's becoming so borderline desperate.
Oops, wrong list. But, while we're at it, I still think she should stop wearing those shiny clothes, too.

If you don't know who she is, then don't google her. What you don't know won't hurt your eyes or your ears. Or your sense of proper manners. Its not nice to throw insults, see?

9. You sometimes need to add twenty to fifty pesos more.
And then they'll take you in. It's either this, or number 10.

10. They forget to turn the meter on.
Of course, we know this is just a practiced scam which gives them the excuse to charge you their preferred fare. It's either this, or number 9, which ever comes first.

11.

You forgot to mention ODORS. I've endured many a taxi ride, inhaling at 3 minute intervals because of the rank stench of any of (but not limited to) the following : sweaty feet, shawarma armpits, or wet dog. Seriously. -- Sitting Pretty

Oh, good point, Sitting Pretty. And then sometimes, they sleep on their own cabs too, their bare feet resting lovely on that steering wheel after a whole day of driving. And I'll wager my long legs that those steering wheels stink of foot sweat.

12.

"What about taxi drivers who'd pretend not to know your destination or those who'd take the looooooooong route" -- Orally

And then Vajarl goes for the kill with this darling example

"Kanikanina lang, pasakay ako ng taxi, sabe saken "Magkano po binabayad nyo ron?" Sabe ko "Di po ba may metro?" Sabe nya, nako hindi kase ako naghahatid don, kaya magkano bibigay nyo?" Since marami akong dala, nagsabi na ko ng "70 pesos".Malapit lang naman. At 70 lang ang barya ko. Sabe ba naman "Eh 70 ren yun pag minetro ko eh." POTANGENA LANG." -- Vajarl

13.

"Been reading your blog for a while now, and I gotta say you elevate shit into fine art". -- A Fistful Of Moonbeams™

I was thinking of another Sarah Geronimo punchline, but I had to post this darling comment. I am now an artiste. Or something with enough quality crap to his bearing. And for all the right reasons, I figured I could well use a compliment.

14.

"One time I was on this taxi on my way to Eastwood.

The driver was flipping between radio stations. Somehow, the rock songs, OPM ballads, the "Tot-tot-tot" do not appeal to him, so he keeps switching.

And then he stopped at a radio station playing a song he liked.

"Beautiful" by Christina Aguilera'" -- Glentot

Maybe he was crusing, and that Christina Aguilera song was an invitation to his... motives. Scary.

This reminds me of this one time when this driver asked me what time I was supposed to be at the office. I know I left home early; I have about an hour left before logging in, and then the commute will take me another five minutes. Tops. So I told him that I was early for work. And then he asked me if I want to check in a motel with him. I said no. Because he was old and he was likely 12 out of those 14 hateful taxi driver types. And with that in mind, allow me one more quote

"I maybe easy, but I'm not cheap!" -- Aubrey Miles, from the movie Singles

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!