Friday, January 28, 2011

How to Kill John Lloyd Cruz. Or How to Kill Luis Manzano. Or How to Kill Shaina Magdayao.

This was originally titled Suggested Causes of Death for Future Star Cinema Movies, but then I elected to publish the How to Kill title instead because it is simultaneously simple and playful. Meanwhile, I wasn't about to post this yet, but I saw My Amnesia Girl on a fifty-peso DVD (wonderful clarity, I should add), and I elected to post this now.

I Love You, Goodbye was a good film with an okay story of doubtful originality. They killed Derek Ramsey in this car accident. Fine. This reminds me of another Star Cinema production, In My Life, whose glittering ensemble included Luis Manzano, John Lloyd Cruz, and Vilma Santos. In it, Luis Manzano recovers from colon cancer (what a sick joke), but gets hit by a car on his way home.

The cancer didn't kill him, but the hit and run did.

I was fucking pissed.

I have nothing against Star Cinema. They have some of the most promising denial princes and princesses in the business. And my favorite closet queens are in their shining roster too! It's just that those hit and run scenes gave me this head-on collision of ideas on how they should kill their future characters.

1. Death by Choking

This will work lovely on Luis Manzano. That big mouth of his will hold a lot of food, more than his throat will be able to accommodate. His massive pie hole makes him an ideal candidate. Have you seen that doughnut commercial where he placed a whole doughnut in his mouth without even batting an eyelash? He should have friends who know the Heimlich maneuver. Oh no, scratch that. It defeats the point.

2. Death by Erotic Asphyxiation

In My Life was a gay-oriented film. They should have capitalized.

Erotic asphyxiation is the intentional restriction of oxygen to the brain for sexual arousal. It is also called asphyxiophilia, autoerotic asphyxia, hypoxyphilia, or breath control play. Colloquially, a person engaging in the activity is sometimes called a gasper

I wrote about Erotic Asphyxiation as an excuse for calling in sick for work. You can read it here.

3. Death by Drowning

Imagine Derek Ramsey's dead body being fished out of some large body of water. And he's wearing this killer pair of Speedos. Oh, they should drown him just for that priceless scene alone.

4. Death by Any Non-Specific Autoerotic Fatality and Simultaneous Vaginismus
Autoerotic fatalities are deaths that occur during sexual activity when an action, chemical, device or prop that is being employed to enhance physical or psychological stimulation causes the death.
They say it is an extremely rare phenomenon, that lovely dog lock, but it happened to that no-talent bitch Shaina Magdayao. They might as well take it up a notch and follow that up with another crazy idea. Let's say the dude dies from some random autoerotic fatality, suppose he chokes on a dildo, and then his penis gets locked in Shaina's venus fly trap. She then wonders why the forward thrusts have stopped. She looks back at him, and she faints. The dude died in extreme pleasure, this odd grin plastered to his face as they managed to finally pull out his cock in St Lukes. His penis was violet then.

5. Death by Vagina Dentata
And why the hell not? What's not to adore about a killer cunt with fangs? Of course, they won't die from a cut penis because they can always stitch that back like what they did to John Wayne Bobbitt. What will happen is that he will be bound by ropes as he's lying down on a stretcher, and then the vengeful lover, say Kim Chiu, will do woman on top. She will leave him to die from excessive blood loss.

Speaking of which, I did a movie review of Teeth, and it was largely ignored.
You can read it here if you want to.

6. Death by Spontaneous Human Combustion

Won't somebody please give that JimGirl creature a movie already? And please kill him during the opening credits. Preferably of this. No script, no acting, just stand still, you faggot, and let the special effects team work their magic.

7. Death by Rabies
Just because of it's cruel nature. Think about it -- Jimgirl (they should draft this faggot if only for the kill scenes) dies crazy and hydrophobic, and that's not because he's drowning in saliva. The fact that I am personally terrified of this disease makes it, in my own estimation, a good scary movie.

8. Death by Embarrassment
I know dying of embarrassment is a figure of speech, but think about it. Props to the genius writer who can actually pull this one off! It's such a shame, really, that both John Lloyd and Shaina lived through that incident. They would have been perfect for research and development. Ahaha, John Lloyd pulled that off. Funny.

9. Death by Dismemberment
Or, in honor of the enjoyable cruelty of the 90s, Death by Chop Chop. By the same remembrance, our hero/heroine will be kidnapped. They don't do this anymore. I miss those rescue scenes where our hero and his weakling friends invade this steel warehouse and fight the bad guys with pieces of wood. And they always win even though they're always outnumbered and out-gunned. And they celebrate with this dance number in the beach or some resort. Anyway, nobody pays attention to the ransom because the kidnap victim is not John Lloyd Cruz and can easily be replaced. Almost everybody else in Star Studios is obsolete, dog-locked or otherwise. And the dismemberment, the chop chop, will be a devilish metaphor of their likely fate in show business. They should get a hint.

10. Suicide by Masturbation
Just because it's wicked funny in an autopsy report. Cause of Death: Suicide by Masturbation. And they'll be employing this in a gay-oriented film, like the Manay Po series that sucked a big cock on its way to oblivion hell. We homos have the combined horny of both genders, so we are the likeliest candidates.

Now if you liked that list, then you will definitely love this:

Monday, January 24, 2011

You want a Pair of Open-toe Manolos; You Need a Pedicure

**My decision making process largely revolves around the question: Is it a want or a need? Growing up, I had the professional foresight of my mom and her sisters to reinforce that principle. Trouble is, I grew up jaded and largely distracted, so my wants and needs are borderline independent of each other.

1. You want to be popular; you need a good cosmetic surgeon, or very big tits.

2. You want a tattoo; you need a personality.

3. You want Globe Tattoo for you wireless internet; you need to consider your options. Jessica Zafra calls it a WORTHLESS PIECE OF CRAP.

4. You want your own life; you need to move out of your parents' house.

5. You want to be independent; you need to get a haircut, get your act together, and get a job.

6. You want a boyfriend; you need two, maybe three, of the following - dashing good looks, lots of money, a likeable personality, unbelievable good luck.

7. You want to live long; you need to quit smoking.

8. You want to be cool; you need a punch in the face.

9. You want surgically assigned dimples; you need proper dental hygiene.

10. You want to be feared; you need an sexually transmitted disease. Or a bad case of hair lice.

11. You want to be respected; you need to stop whoring.

12. You want a happening social life; you need to stop being so shallow. You need real people in your social circle.

13. You want a drink; you need a drink. No doubt about it, a man's got the constitutional right to get smashed, most especially if he's a taxpayer. Or WAS a taxpayer. I'll even hand you that shot glass.

14. You want to be very good in bed; you need a prayer.

15. You want to win a talent search and become an overnight celebrity; you need electroconvulsive therapy.

16. You want to stop kissing asses in your dead end job at the office; you need to hand in that resignation letter.

17. You want to finally get laid for the first time; you need to stop being such a nerd and turn that Nintendo off.

18. You want to be a model; you need to be tall, size zero, and you need a striking cuteness that warrants a second look. Yes, all three. Notice how the trying-hard catwalk isn't a pre-requisite? Because they pay professional ramp trainers to teach tall, size zero, and strikingly cute ladies how to walk the walk.

19. You want your Pikachu to evolve into a Raichu; you need to give it a Thunderstone. He hee, can't help the Pokemon talk, sorry.

20. You want to kill yourself and get it all over with; you need a good bellyaching laugh.

21. YOU WANT IT ALL! You need a near-death experience.

This post answers the question "Is it a want or a need?" I just made it current. Picture from Alley Cat Scratch Costume.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Are You Ready for LitWit 4.5?

Those LitWit Challenges are writing contests in Jessica Zafra's blog. Ms Zafra will ask her readers to write the story behind a certain picture, something that doesn't use adjectives, tell the story behind this song, notes to your ex, a story consisting of dialogue, the story of your life, etcetera. Winners get books, or cocktails, or a meet and greet over cocktails with free books. Entries are comments with a strict word count and are still subject to amendments, however she sees fit.

You should read the kind of entries those darling nerds throw in. The competition is just intense, to say the least, and what makes it better is that Ms Zafra takes the time to critique each entry. It's not just a contest, though. It's also free writing lessons.You, my punk reader, should submit something if writing gets you hard.

I suppose I just plagiarized myself; the preceding paragraphs were taken from my Winning the LitWit Challenges Page, but I authored everything in this dump anyway. I reckon there's nothing wrong with that. Anyway, I once asked Ms Jessica Zafra if I can endorse her LitWit Challenges in this here blahg of bull, and she said yes. You can read about that meet up here, but for now, I have some unsolicited promotion to do. And
this explains why I've been posting my failed LitWit submissions recently.

Meanwhile, I have prepared this other post that was designed to masturbate your egos. Yes, I'm referring to you, my darling punk, in my blogroll. You ain't there for show. I have prepared this post that enumerates the writing strengths of that exceptional population in my blog roll. Well, most of them anyway, but since my blog roll has been flourishing with such wonderful additions, I have proposed to postpone its publication because the research is a fucken drag.

Watch out for it though. Anyway, on to the challenge.

Any ideas yet? Yes, she accepts entries in Tagalog, but you will need to register for a username. Which you can accomplish in two minutes tops. Again, my darling punks, the deadline's on 11:59 PM Monday, January 24, 2011. I can't even begin to describe that feeling of inspection and comparison when you have that entry submitted alongside other brilliant write ups. That funny Glentot knows the feeling. He has submitted twice.

Again, my darling punk, if writing gives you a raging hard on, or makes you wet, it's a gender specific metaphor, then try to submit to the LitWit challenges. Good luck!

Here are the instructions on registering:
1. Go to
2. Click on the title of the latest LitWit Challenge. It's 4.5: Bed of Nails this time around.
3. Click on the LOGGED IN link. It is directly below the Leave a Reply line.
4. You will then be prompted to login with a Wordpress username and password. Nope, don't cry yet. There is a link that says Register. This is directly below the check box for Remember Me.
5. Follow the bouncing ball. It's tiring to enumerate the following instructions on account of they are mostly self-explanatory. And besides, hindi ka chicks. Malaki ka na.

Monday, January 17, 2011

How to Offend the Christians, the Filipinos, and a Minority With Fiction

**Forgive me God if I made You look like an Idiot. This was a passing fancy, and I swear that I commandeered my highly decorated adjectives to fall in because I was trying to make You look way cool at the same time. Meanwhile, there is a lesson to be had in this failed composition. And that goes out specifically to us bloggers.

On the eighth day, God created the Ego.

But He left that project alone, neglected if you may, because it was an utter waste of Divine energies. There is no advantage in the Ego. There is no benefit in owning one. An ivory elephant, in all its beauty and grandiose upkeep, will still have its share of beholders and admirers. Meanwhile, the Ego will have a steady fan base of one, and it will be just as expensive to maintain. Furthermore, God found out, because He is all-knowing and all-seeing and all that wonderful Goddishness, that the Ego is a devilish catalyst to unbelievable feats of pride and shamelessness that he completely abandoned that insidious undertaking altogether.

He then remembers that, like Hayden Kho, the Ego was the Devil's idea anyway. The latter suggested this "wonderful innovation to your most intelligent creation" on the seventh day. They were chillaxing then.

And so it goes that God discontinued the Ego and designed its destruction. He thundered this awful pit, and buried the Ego along with several of his major disappointments. These failures include Mahal's ex-boyfriend-turned-tasteless-drag-queen Jim Girl, that talentless scourge to Filipino Action Movies named Mikee Arroyo, his parents, the Ampatuans, the as-duplicitous-as-she-is-over-acting Mariel Rodriguez, and the PCOS machine. The aforementioned clawed their way out of this fetid prison, and, by and by, became Embarassments to the Proud, "Tabo"-Wielding Filipino people.

The Ego was left alone in that dreadful pit. It was then tangible, but, because it was this limbless mass of curdled pus, it had nothing to employ for its salvation. It died in that pit, and God was relieved.

But the Almighty was not taking any chances. Several of his greatest disappointments have escaped and are destined to raise hell in the Philippines. He then commissioned the Devil to take the Ego's remains so it can burn forever. "Trash the damned thing," the Almighty boomed, and in consequence, the Ego was the first officially Goddamned thing. Now, in what can be the rarest display of obedience, the Devil complied. But he was then busy planting fixers in the Department of Foreign Affairs in Pasay City; those motherfuckers are as old as time if you should know. He was, then, too distracted to pay full attention to his ordained office that he took to his duty half heartedly. What the Devil did, though, was that he took this handful of brimstone and emptied his palms in the Ego's grave.

The Ego burned, for sure. But it was a mistake, an Almighty mistake, mind you, and by their very nature, mistakes linger. It turns out that the Ego, like sin, cannot be completely disposed of. It burned, sure it did, and it was a massive heap of black ashes by the time the brimstone had performed its appointment. But it didn't perish in the way that dead things stay completely dead. Because there was movement in the midst of the Ego's pitch black remains.

The Ego's divine architecture was moving to the whims of an infernal blueprint. It's ashes squirmed in this hideous dance, the Macarena, as it took this familiar shape. It looks as if, no, it was turning into what looked like God's greatest, vainest creation.

The Ego's ashen remains became human. But it's conception was damnation, and it's engineering had such detestable influences. it's thought processes were wired with an affluence of pointless bitchfits and rhetoric nonsense. Furthermore, these were reinforced by this unprecedented degree of self-entitlement and a knack for shameless self-promotion. And it was armed with this most curious artifact, an HP laptop that came with this intermittent DSL connection because it was powered by Globe. And it had a Google account, too.

Alas, from the Ego's rot was born the first blogger.


This was another failed entry for Ms Jessica Zafra's LitWit Challenge 4.3. The task was to create a story about Metamorphosis, and this is what I submitted. It didn't win because it was profuse with the adverbs (bad habit, next to too much adjectives), and I made God look like an idiot. And my love life's still a defeated mess. Five years down the drain because of some goddamn... But I suppose this submission is relevant enough for publication. At least in this here blahg of bullshit, where most everything of bad taste is relevant.

**One of the many reasons why I keep submitting to Jessica Zafra's challenges is because of the feedback. We can all use a writing tip. And more practice. And a banging sex life. And zero transmissible diseases. Again, this is all fiction, so don't get your panties in a fucking bunch.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Failing LitWit 4.2: Something Sensational

Was it Nymphomania or Satyriasis?

I was cocksucking these two boys last evening, at the same time, and they gave me the same feedback about my teeth getting in the way. Double fail. I should be less of an anal slut; my fellatio's getting rusty.

We braved that cold December evening in our skinny, skinny jeans and our ladies medium tank tops. We clearly had a mission, a predatory purpose, and our erect nipples, shaped like rabbit shit at that temperature, made sure that the message got through.

And so we picked up these four kids outside Dunkin Donuts. It was somewhere around 8 that evening. The night was young. Our bookings, younger.

We were taking our prey to my apartment when I noticed this cross dressing old faggot a few feet away from where we picked up these kids. He was giving us the finger with his good eye. Ahaha! That loser should give the blue eyeshadow a break already. At his age, he should just give everything a break and just die somewhere quiet.

His young, virgin cock was stained with feces and semen as he slowly pulled it out of my ass. My upper legs were sore; I was on my knees for about a year or so. My face was swimming in perspiration, but I felt amazing on the whole. Meanwhile, there was this faint smell of shit somewhere as I pulled up my boxer shorts and stood up to open the lights. I was half-panicking then.

It was such a shameful investigation of the sheets. I knew I had to make amends, so I told him, "Sorry I took a dump on your dick. Here's fifty pesos more. Just don't tell your friends."

That kid from yesterday was cute, but he wouldn't know what to do with his dick once I got it in me. He's never done doggie before. At least I'm sure he doesn't fuck around. Hell, the kid's fifteen.

How do I know that? One of his friends dropped by earlier today. He says he wants me to take care of him. I said no because of his shortcomings.

I haven't had sex with my boyfriend for six months now. He turned 18 last June, and I suppose he just got too old. But I'll buy him a shirt for Christmas, one of those ornery medium shirts from Bench. I may even wrap the thing, but I don't know.

So I went to Bench this afternoon. I wasn't aware that those hideous third world closet queens are holding an assembly at that outlet. Fucking shit, never mind that I now smell like their cheap-ass Penshoppe colognes. I had to get him something because I will be breaking up with him before the year ends.

It's all about shelf life, of course.

He had half a mind to get away from here and do Chrismas or something. But I have a whole mind to unwrap his pants, kneel down in between his long legs, and have me some holiday cheer myself. That third world brandy, however, did the negotiation, and he was complicit, by and by. The second bottle had as much persuasion in it as the empty one, and my throat was having a Merry Christmas halfway through the second Gran reinforcement.

Merry Christmas, 'Insan!

I suppose my only problem, if there is any to begin with, is that I don't spit. I'm an inveterate swallower, and that's that's not helping my gingivitis none. Meanwhile, there is providence in being an anal slut, a power bottom if you may, and I need to stock up on the rubber.

I'll drop by 7-11 tomorrow on my way to Intellicare. I still have three condoms left, and I reckon I'll be fresh out by morning.

End of Submitted Entry to Jessica Zafra's LitWit 4.2: Something Sensational

The challenge was to write something sensational. It doesn't need to be realistic; we can "fabricate" a life if needed. The ends justify the means, I suppose, so this is what I submitted. The entry itself was "redacted," that means "censored," and that's a shame because, as a gay jerk, I'm always pushing for shameless.

I didn't win this challenge. And I didn't win the next challenge, either. I was just writing, really, but I wasn't into it. I was loading the adverbs. I was employing my flowery adjectives in excess. I thundered and lightning-ed far too much, and I paid less attention to the details. I was writing to shine my diction, but that wasn't the point, that was never the point, and I knew something was wrong. Very wrong. And it sure as hell isn't my sperm count.

In retrospect, I wrote my better pieces when I still have a love life to reinforce my ideas. So, that means I can arrive at this following line without hesitation and the need for a prepared rebuttal:

"My writing needs a date. Furthermore, fuck the three month rule. And you know you have it bad when you're using the crumbling defeat that used to be your love life as a scapegoat."

This doesn't mean, though, that my blogging will suffer. I am Dr Jekyll with my LitWit Submissions, whereas I deform into Mr Hyde with this blog of bullshit. Notice the choice of words? I suppose we are all like that elsewhere, and that distinction is a much needed saving grace. I treat my material... differently when I'm logged in to Blogger. I use a lot of antibiotic throughout the whole blogging process. And I'm kinkier, too. Honest to God, I am.

Again, this is fiction; don't be too alarmed. To fabricate is to manufacture, which is the core of this submission. And I'm just saying. This was my whole uncensored entry, in all it's horny, predatory entirety. There is a reason why I posted this failed entry, and I'll tell you later, you darling punk!

Oh, and before I forget, I've this new tab, too! Enjoy!

Sunday, January 09, 2011

That Homo-bashing Little Devil

I was watering my plants, potted plants -- no metaphor there, and there was this group of kids playing Bring Me. Now, the purpose of that game, like most other games, is to win, and the first kid to deliver the officiating young bastard's request wins. They call him Emcee in those darling Jollibee kiddie parties. Bring me a wallet, bring me a one peso coin, bring me a venereal disease until she ran out of senseless things to request.

I was within earshot of these little motherfuckers, and she was fresh out of ideas. You can hear it in that suspended "Bring meeeeee...eee...eee... ano pa gusto niyo?" ("Bring meeeeee...eee...eee... what else do you want?") One of her friends, a little devil boy of around six, loudly whispered in her ear "a bakla (a faggot)."

It would otherwise have been funny if these kids were of legal age. Hell, kinky even, but no. I would have erupted in this fluent litany of foulmouthing if this little sonofabitch was 16. But he was around six, and I would not dare. That would have been immature. So I took out my hymn book of damaging prayers and wished he grow up gay. And he will be ugly, fat, and dumb, and he will be cocksucking on the providence of his parents until he's forty. Amen.

That being said, let's all define the word Fag Hag

They're basically these chicks who love the gays so much that the only thing that they don't have in common is a firstborn. Some of the most popular haggots are Marie Antoinette, Chelsea Handler, Grace Adler, Kris Aquino. And the reason why I'm saying this, in the dullest, uncharacteristic manner is because this is the best segue to the following post endorsements. Click!

Wednesday, January 05, 2011

Blog Soup #11: Your Facebook Status Sucks, Breaking the Three Month Rule, and Hooray for Smelly Third World Shit!

So, if a picture paints a thousand words, then a screen shot of a Facebook status is equivalent to about... seven Facebook statuses? We all know how wordy some of these people get with their self-entitlement; their nonsense runs at a rate of 100 words a minute. Who cares about the pricey Starbucks breakfast you had this morning after your call center shift? Who cares about the pricey Papa Johns dish you had for lunch? I am charitable by default, but I don't give a half-baked cross-eyed fuck over what boring rhetoric you have on the table. Talk about the pricey 16-year old cock you sucked on last evening, or some other embarrassing secret we know you're keeping, and I'll get back to you then.

I remember that wonderful Lewis Black saying this on AOTS (Attack of the Show):

How big of an ego do I have that makes me believe that people will be interested in what I have to say?

That being said, allow me to say this, and I say this on a spiritual note -- fuck your stupid breakfast. Now, eat your heart out, and let me show you what a relevant status is like:

Or not. Ahaha, you know I'm a jerk, and I wanted to show you guys one of the better lines I wrote for the coming New Year. It's so last year, I know, but I loved it so much I should be proposing to it. But that's just sick, so I posted it again.

The message of the post was some quality shit. I suppose I have moved on. But there was this one time in December where I wrote this note a few minutes after B left. I tried to see if I can start dating again. To hell with the three-month rule. Anyway, I used B for practice, and I gather he didn't mind. And here's what I wrote, and I transcribed it in one of my favorite Windows Applications, Notepad:

Now it took me about six days to do another update, and my nipples weep in apology. But I was on to something, and that is this. Ladies and gentlemen, presented for your self-pleasure, Smelly Third World Shit!

It's a new tab, or a page, in his here Blahg of Bull. Check that out if you have time and are too tired to masturbate. Enjoy, you darling punks!

And speaking of Facebook, you might want to check this out, as well. Click the banner!


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