Friday, February 25, 2011

Presenting Your Gay Nine-Ball Champion

**It's nice to look back sometimes.

Saturday, September 10, 2005 (3:30 AM, Doro's Place)

It was more like a four-nine combination to the left side pocket.I am my own inspiration. Ladies and gentlemen, the local pool hall now has a new nine ball queen. You ever saw a gay guy champion a nine ball tournament? You ever saw a gay guy best 44 straight males in a game that's dominated by straight men? You ever saw a gay guy emerge victorious in a game that's not usually championed by homosexuals? Exactly. I saw all that in myself, and that was a mighty proud vision if you ask me.

It was a long twelve hours of nine ball pool. I can't say that it was an easy field since some of the fiercest competitors I've played with are in the roster. There were shotmakers who made it clear that they were very skillful while making practice shots before the tournament. There were players who intimidated without having to wield a cuestick. As a matter of fact, the person who taught me how to play good pool also registered for the same tournament, the same tournament I won. I beat them. I beat them all, and though I was drop dead tired beyond description, I was still waving my pool cue at the end of the day. And everybody was congratulating me at the end of the day, too.

Three years ago, in 2002, I had no idea that I'd be a nine-ball champion. Back then, I was so thoroughly clueless with the game, I wouldn't know a sidepocket from a hole in the ground. Before learning the game, I had the impression that a tiririt (bridge) was a playful reference to a guy with a small penis. I was so foreign to the game that the terms doblete (bank shot), sargo (break), and kumpiyansa (pool-wise confidence) were more than Greek to me. They were ngongo Greek spoken by a retard with a harelip. I was so lame with the game that my friends waited in turns playing with me since they don't mind playing for free anyway. I always ended up paying for the game.

But then, I started taking an interest in the game. For some reason, I felt that billiards was a sport that I wouldn't mind getting dirty with. It had a certain suave-ness which appealed to my natural suave-ity (ha haa, lack of words, ain't it a bitch?), and I knew I had to go for it. Or at least die in the process of trying. So I started hanging out in the local pool hall, watched how the real players danced with their cuesticks, took down notes, and I rolled up my sleeves. In the long run, I became a spotter (racked balls up), and I started quoting (refereeing) for money games (pustahan). I watched and learned, and I began to understand how it is played. I then progressed to becoming in-hall (harang), and I played against people with no one to shoot pool with. I used to keep track of my scores and my win-loss average. I started okay with an average of three wins in five or seven in ten, but I started looking good when I started averaging with eight in ten.

Eventually, I started playing money games myself, but I got tired of it not because of the plain suckiness of losing. I quit gambling because they just wouldn't pay up. But I continued with my ongoing training since, like any sport, it gets more exciting the more you get better at it. I got involved with my playing group, and I'd go all around Pasig watching big time money matches just to feel the intensity of such competitions. It was terribly inspiring, and it made me want to have my own cuestick.

My first cuestick was this common looking wand which produced brilliant miracles. There's this running joke with pool players that they're only as good as the stick they're playing. And there's a good reason why it's a joke. See, I'm playing good on a secondhand stick, and I loved it like it was an extension of my arm. It served me good for two years until it was donated to the pool hall. I then graduated to a prettier maple stick which went on to help me win my first pool championship. That's nothing more than a striking coincidence. It is true that I won with a better looking wand, but I kept and improved on the same skills that I learned with my first cuestick. If I were to acknowledge my victory with my prettier cuestick, then I might as well start claiming that a writer's as good as his pen. Or that a referee's as good as his counting skills.

I'm not world class, and I'm not good enough to be playing in TV. There's a whole army of better pool players out there who can easily beat me with one hand tied behind their back. I may have won my first tournament, but I'm not good enough to go on ahead and brag. But then, I still won my first tournament, and if anything, that's the best validation I could ask for. I get to be this accomplished in one of my better passions, and nothing, for the time being, could be as remarkable. Come to think of it, it's not that bad. I am better than myself three years ago, and I am loving the game with as much interest as I had the first time I met with it.

See, this was the only love affair I've had that actually did me good. I now know how it feels like to champion a pool tournament. I've never been this awesome.

I stopped playing when I fell in love and lived in with J. I still keep at it, from time to time, and I still remember how fierce I used to be.

Sunday, February 20, 2011


**You know what they say about pictures and thousands of words, and you know how cliches arouse me, so I will allow these screen shots to tell you the story. And I was thinking of an enumeration of sorts, but I suppose you guys can refer to the timestamps instead. Forgive the images and their proportions that need a little more industry. For the nth time in my life, I was lazy.

I read the email a day later, and I missed the chance to have lunch with The Mistress of the Universe and Danton Remote. Imagine that.

There you go. I really don't do WAHHH, and I only make exceptions when I'm severely livid or if some guy finally finds my G-spot, which was just recently, so here.

Now, I have foamed in the mouth before over this wonderful book, Ribblestrop, so here's a link if you're interested.

It's Harry Potter on Crack, and The Perfect Mark Twain Quote Us Bloggers Can Use

Seriously, what gay nerd can say no to a free book?

This is it.

Now you know where to address those bomb threats, poisoned letters, or venus fly traps.

I can name one or two other things that are as exciting as this book, but I will not name it now because my mother is reading my blog from time to time. And she also sent me this email too, a comment on my blog in general, and I suppose I can post that when I'm running out of things to cannibalize.

Easy does it? Aw hell now. Pressured and Long Legged. That's what does it.

Yes, I can do three weeks.

Wish me luck, you darling punks.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Momel's Top 7 Un-Funniest People in Philippine Showbiz

**Think of it this way: you can collect all their funniest moments and you have a four-minute compilation which includes the credits. And I really need to update this list. Any suggestions, you darling, darling punks?

1. Ruby Rodriguez
She's getting pied in the face by Tito, Vic and Joey for over ten years now, and none of that comic genius ain't rubbing off. She needs to learn that overacting is so totally not funny.

2. Raffy Rodriguez

Who says we don't have a Jim Carrey wannabe? I remember this Rodriguez for his exaggerated facial expressions and stretched grin. Maybe he was thinking that his sister's such a blockbuster with her excessive OA, he might as well adapt her secret to success to his blossoming showbiz career. We're talking about the same career which resigned itself to obscurity after three movies (It's Cool Bulol, April Boys' Sana Makapiling Ka Muli, and Ikaw ang Miss Universe ng Buhay Ko) within a four year span.

Unfunny brother on the left. Unfunny sister on the right. This was the best Raffy Rodriguez picture I can steal off the web. I suppose he was too unpopular for any publicity pictures himself.

3. Smokey Manaloto
He shared a house "along da riles" with Dolphy, and he appeared in at least 20 movies which included the classic SuperMouse and the Roborats ("Ilabas mo. Ang iyong. La-wit"). But he was never funny for some unknown reason.

4. Anjo Yllana

He did have his moments as Dino, Barbara Tengco's (Tessie Tomas) trigger-happy retarded kid in Abangan ang Susunod na Kabanata, but he's still corny due to his association with Smokey Manaloto as Count Takeshi. He's currently trying to channel Dino with his Bulagaan jokes, and that's what cemented him in my list. The retard kid's not as funny without the equally damaged, but in no way dull, Barbara Tengco.

5. Giselle Sanchez

If most comedians are smart at the very least, then it should follow that a magna cum laude is going to be a riot. She should be glad that she can still capitalize on her good skin and her nice rack. It's either that or she should practice catching trash from her SST audience.

6. Cita Astals

I heard she used to work as a councilor for the local government. Which was a good working environment for somebody with her comic mettle. Actually, any working environment with no room for comedy should be perfect for somebody with Cita Astals' comic mettle.

She currently has my sympathies.

7. Eric Quizon

Having the King of Philippine Comedy as your father doesn't necessarily make you the Princess by default. It doesn't work that way. Is it really that hard to be funny if you're still hiding in the closet? And who's in the mood for some irony? He used to co-star with Redford White in RPN's Buddy en Sol where he played the straight man to White's punchlines. FYI, "A straight man is a role in a comedy double act where a performer works with a comedian by setting up the situations or feeding the lines that allow their partner to make a joke."

Imagine the wordplay.

The King of Comedy, who has yet to receive the National Artist Award, is flanked by two of his unfunny sons -- Jeffrey on the left and Eric on the right.

Friday, February 11, 2011


**I think you guys should meet him. He was one of my earlier posts that actually had comments, he's a favorite among my two offline readers, and he reminds me of the earlier days. Presented for your orgasmic pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, that endearing idiot telemarketer, Lemuel.

**A funny thing happened to me one time last September of 2004.
I spoke with an actual telemarketer!The sales call was nothing I would observe myself, it losing out on the finer points of telemarketing, but I remembered it well enough to be able to transcribe it minutes after I dropped the phone on this Lemuel guy. He hee, if you've been in the telemarketing industry for more than a year now, sales agents like Lemuel aren't the type you'd usually forget. The bottomline was that he wasn't good at all, and that's an easy understatement. He sounded like he was courting the household help, I mean, he sounded like the Filipino equivalent of a redneck. He doesn't know what he's saying, and he sounded so friggin' boring, I wondered why I listened to him while he was delivering his sales pitch.

Maybe I did it for the novelty of my first telemarketing call. But if anything, this was hilarious.

This ain't him, but just as clueless!
Lemuel: Puwede po ba kay Rommel Tullao? Si Lemuel po ito, sa PLDT.

Me: Si Rommel ito, bakit, anong problema? (Yeah, so it's Rommel all along.)

Lemuel: Tanong ko lang po kung may picture na kayo sa PLDT?

Me: Picture? Anong picture? Bakit kailangan ng picture sa PLDT? ID ba yan? Ilalagay sa billing statement?

Lemuel: Hindi po. Pictures po para sa PLDT, yun bang call wait, call fo-ward, tsaka speed dial. (Oh, he was talking about features. Unbelievable. He spoke like he was right all along.)

Me: ("Is this a sales call?!?" was the thing which came to mind.) Ahhh, wala pa. Pwede bang paki-explain yon, hindi ko alam yun eh. (Of course, I was trying to get the most of my first sales call. I used to be a telemarketer myself.) Yung call wait, alam ko iyon, meron kami noon eh. Eh ano naman yung call forward?

Lemuel: Yung call fo-ward kasi ganito yun eh, parang ano lang yun, kuwan. Teka lang ha. (At this point, he puts down the phone, and the following conversation was heard in the background:)

Lemuel: HOY, NONG! Ano ba ulit yung, ano ba yun, yung call fo-warding? Eh pinapapaliwanag nitong kausap ko eh!

Man in a VERY Loud Voice: SABI-HEN mo, yung call fo-ward, ano lang yun, halimbawa, may pupuntahan siyang birthday, tapos ano, TEKA NGA!(This man with the loud voice then picked up the phone, and I found myself talking with him.)

MAN: Hello, ikaw ba yung kausap ni Lemuel?

Me: Opo (Duh). Ano ho ba ulit yung call forwarding? (I was having fun at this point already.)

MAN: Kasi ganito yun, halimbawa, may pupuntahan kang birthday, tapos walang maiiwan sa inyo, edi ang gawin mo, i-call fo-ward mo yung telepono mo para doon mo na lang sasagutin sa birthday.

Me: Aaah, eh pa'no kung walang telepono sa pupuntahan kong birthday?

Man: Ehhh, pakabitan natin. Pero kuha mo na yung call fo-ward, ha ser?

Me: Oo, okay na.

Man: Ehhh, teka lang ha. (He then puts the phone down, and started shouting in the background, "HOY Lemuel, okay na. Eto na 'o!" Moments later, a familiar dull voice was heard on the other line.)

Lemuel: Okay na ser?

Me: Oo, okay na. Eh ano naman yung speed dial, ha?

Lemuel: Ganito lang po yun ser. Yung speed dial eh ano lang, magpipindot kalang ng number tapos makakadial ka na.

Me: Niloloko mo ata ako eh! Eh siyempre ganoon talaga yun para maka-dial, pipindutin mo siyempre yung mga number!

Lemuel: Hindi po ganoon yun. (Mali na naman ako. Kasi naman eh.) Ibig sabihin, isang number lang yung pipindutin mo para imbes na (He starts counting softly.)para imbes na pitong number eh isang number na lang yung ida-dial mo.

Me: Teka, call center ba ito?

Lemuel: Hindi po, PLDT po ito. Sa OPSIM (or something), dito po sa San Joaquin (Pasig).

Me: Eh paano ko malalaman na PLDT ka nga?

Lemuel: Punta po kayo dito. Dito po kami sa tapat ng...(I cut him off.)

Me: HA? Pinapapunta mo ako diyan? Teka, magkano naman yung tatlong features na iyan ha?
Lemuel: Ano po, P59.75 lang kada buwan. Fixed na ho iyon. (I'm not sure if it was 59.75 or 59.25, I forgot that part).

Me: Puwede ko namang i-cancel pag ayoko na? (You have no idea how I wanted to be the one to cancel something over the phone!)

Lemuel: Opo, kayo naman magbabayad noon eh.

Me: Tapos, doon na lang siya lalabas sa billing statement, diba?

Lemuel: Opo.

Me: Tapos, kailan siya maa-activate ha, Lemuel?

Lemuel: Tatlong araw pa ho, kaya malamang sa Lunes.

Me: So, anong kailangan mo ngayon? (He wasn't using a script, I think.)

Lemuel: Kelan birthday mo?


Lemuel: Eh, kailangan po eh. (Why can't I use that in my telemarketing rebuttals?)

Me: (I wanted to humor him.) O sige, August 8.

Lemuel: Akina na yung SSS number mo.

Me: HA? Pati ba iyon?

Lemuel: Kailangan po eh.

Me: Naku eh, nasa office ID ko, hindi ko maalala. Tawagan mo na lang ako sa Lunes para maibigay ko sa iyo, okay?

Lemuel: Wala ho sa inyo ngayon?

Me: Tawagan mo na lang ako sa Lunes.

Lemuel: O sige po. Babay.

This was my first ever sales call, and I was intrigued by the many similarities between his call and my sales scripts. Of course, I was a little... refined as "Ben Tumbling," that being my American name, but I appreciated the way he wanted to answer all my questions. He was a little crude and all that, but with a little training, I'm sure he'll do good.

So what happened to Lemuel, anyway? He never called back.

Monday, February 07, 2011

I'll Punch You On the Boobs, Bitch (Updated)

I hate it when babaeng baklas try to outgay me.

There's this pekpek (cunt) who actually corrected my gay lingo with another mispronounced gay term I know I've never heard of before. I'm sure it sounded familiar, but it isn't spoken in that borderline nasal inflection that my cross dressing friends use. And, for all the right reasons, her correction sounded wrong.

Miss U¹ was corrected with Tita E². They both refer to the same thing, which is to take a shit. You know how flexible swardspeak is. Anyway, she pronounced Tita E as "tee-tay," as in "bitay (execute)," as in Judge Max Asuncion: Hukom Bitay. It should sound like "Tee-ta Eee," stress on the second e so it sounds like the tagalog word for shit. She had a point, but the execution's self-defeating. It must be the grade-F, 50 peso callboy man juice she's swallowing those days.

"Ay mali yan. Miss U ba talaga tawag don? Hindi ba dapat Titaey?"

Sure, you can say it in any which way possible, but it should sound familiar to the homo that you're talking to. What's the point in an unintelligible secret code anyway? Swardspeak is flexible, and it was meant to confuse and amuse the straights. It is our pig latin, the gay morse code, and we are its only authors and editors. Your versions don't count. Read my cock sucking lips, bitch: They. Don't. Count.

Just so you're aware, you grandisima puta, swardspeak is exceedingly variable. One word can take on a lot of different forms, and all these forms are acceptable. That's how darling that makeshift language is. That's what makes it stand out and infectious. But then, pronunciation is key. I admit, you don't need to be borderline nasal; but try to make it sound okay. No, the to-mah-tow and to-may-toe argument doesn't follow here. It is largely popular, the tongue of the Filipino faggot, but it's not an official language yet. So don't give us no excuses. We are the officiators of that darling vernacular. Shove that tomato up your cunt. You should quit your imagined authority. I don't even know your name.

So let's call her Pining. And her last name's Garcia. Pining Garcia. At gusto kong suntukin and suso niya. Betch!

That sounds like a song, but it hadn't a hymn to it. I like how it sounds though; if you want to say that line "susuntukin ko suso mo eh," then say it like you mean it. It sounds funnier that way. Your eyes can use a little threat, but avoid saying it with an arched eyebrow.

Her name may be fabricated, but her awful bastardizing was that of real life culture stealing bitches who try to claim our gayness with their own made-up perversions. I know it wouldn't work anyway; the gay mojo is cultured by a lifetime of discrimination, fear, and this futile hope to fit in.

Gay people are funny, I think, because their sense of humor grew to become one of the finest defense mechanisms in their arsenal. Babaeng baklas (Uber Fag Hags) are merely trying to imitate this funny by hanging out with the real baklas too much to be able to absorb some of our developed humor. They do acquire some of our mojo, by and by, but their punchlines are still hollow because they are lacking the inspiration. But they don't mind.

In their heads, they have evolved from loyal fag hags to makeshift Vice Gandas. Name one famous fag hag that is funny by default, who doesn't have any visible gay influences about her, and is armed with the perfect timing and the quickest wit for insults. Anyone in mind? Anyone yet? Exactly. So we'll have to borrow one of our own, just for reference. And his kind of humor is a favorite with these isolated babaeng baklas.

The makeshift Vice Ganda Fag Hags are just so oozing with the gay influence that they imagine they can scatter the faerie dust themselves. But their punchlines are hand me downs, their delivery spiritless and uninspired, and left to their own devices, they will come up with one borderline funny joke by the time the gay guy produced four. And he has another one coming up, just wait for it. And that's just the jokes and the insults; the facial expressions are left out to make it a fair competition.

It will never work. They grew up straight, they never had our fears, and they have no need to develop any of our defense mechanisms. We don't hear none of it in their delivery.

This is why us gay folk are way funnier than any babaeng bakla, however hard they try. This is why we were able to improvise a darling slang that is increasingly everybody's favorite. And this is why I don't take too kindly to girls correcting my gay lingo. I find that absurd. It's like teaching an American how to speak with an American Accent. Sure, I'm pissed. I mean, it makes us proud to hear you ladies speak that verbal free-for-all in the elevator, or during those cigarette breaks, or when you're cruising with us. We have become so national, and we love it. But you will do good to never edit us. Because the next time that she does, I swear to God, talagang susuntukin ko siya sa suso.

¹Miss U refers to the act of taking a shit. The reference is taken from the title holder's sitting on that throne.
²Tita E is the gross version. The second syllable Ta is truncated with the third syllable E. Exactly.

Update: I am now reminded of what one darling punk, Pat, mentioned in his Hate List. Allow me to quote this line. You may or may not agree, but I find this absolutely golden to a degree.

14. Popular expression-mongers. Ikaw na! ‘teh! which I find funny back when the gays had exclusive rights to speak it. Straight girls ruined teh.

Wednesday, February 02, 2011

Write a Sonnet for LitWit 4.6!

It can be argued that poetry, or any of them measured forms of expressions for that matter, is far more refined compared with the bullshit-susceptible essays that I favor. I don't do refined, and by the same token, I don't do poetry. I. Just. Don't. I suppose its the same default indifference that explains my aversion to clitorises. I can't do poems even if you bribed me, but I suppose I can hazard at attempt at gunpoint. And here's how it would look like

Zephyr, in the sky at night
You leave my mouth agape

With your carefree flight

And I wonder

Is this runny, salty warmth
That I taste on my lips

And on my tongue

Your droppings?

Even then, I feel so helpless, I had to refer to Madonna.

Personally, lyric measurement is a set of boobs and a pussy; it repels me and leaves a bad taste in my mouth. That bad taste in my mouth shit was figurative, of course. Sonnets, haikus, iambic hexameters, rhyming octaves... ah shit, just pass me that shotglass, light my cigarette and I'll be well on my happy way. No please, I'll pass on the rohypnol, thank you.

My free-flowing dipshit principles are claustrophobic; the restrictions of those ridiculous measurements will suffocate my ideas. I suppose I could write a poem, by and by, but my thoughts, and my enthusiasm, will then be deader than disco.

And besides, the only measurement that I do is with a 12-inch plastic ruler.

It goes without saying that I will not be joining this challenge. Meanwhile, there's this fistful of talents in that golden blogroll who are better equipped to grab this episode by the horns. I totally suck at poems; I can't even do bird shit right.

That being said, here's LitWit 4.6

What's a sonnet, you ask?
A Sonnet is
1. A verse form consisting of 14 lines with a fixed rhyme scheme.
2. A formally structured poem with 14 lines.
3. A lyric poem of fixed form: fourteen lines rhymed and organised according to several intricate schemes.
4. I'm sure glad I do essays and lists.
5. Amen to # 4.
Sooo... any ideas yet? Again, ladies and gentlemen, darling punks one and all, here are your instructions:

Here are the instructions on registering:
1. Go to
2. Click on the title of the latest LitWit Challenge. It's 4.6: Write Us a Sonnet 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.


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