You Wish You Can Read Something Like This in Your Grave

**It was very idle browsing that landed me to this amazing obituary. I was floored by how Mary Mullaney, Pink to her beloved, left such indelible tender thoughts in her loved ones. It's things like this that make the internet, and life, a worthwhile distraction. And I can only hope that someday in the very far off future, somebody will make me an obituary that's half as luminous as this. 

**Happy Holidays to you and the weird nerd next to you. Live next year well, alright? Muahness from Pasig Cirehhh!

Image and Obituary were borrowed from The Huffington Post.

If you're about to throw away an old pair of pantyhose, stop. Consider: Mary Agnes Mullaney (you probably knew her as "Pink") who entered eternal life on Sunday, September 1, 2013. Her spirit is carried on by her six children, 17 grandchildren, three surviving siblings in New "Joisey", and an extended family of relations and friends from every walk of life. We were blessed to learn many valuable lessons from Pink during her 85 years, among them: Never throw away old pantyhose. Use the old ones to tie gutters, child-proof cabinets, tie toilet flappers, or hang Christmas ornaments.

Also: If a possum takes up residence in your shed, grab a barbecue brush to coax him out. If he doesn't leave, brush him for twenty minutes and let him stay.

Let a dog (or two or three) share your bed. Say the rosary while you walk them.

Go to church with a chicken sandwich in your purse. Cry at the consecration, every time. Give the chicken sandwich to your homeless friend after mass.

Go to a nursing home and kiss everyone. When you learn someone's name, share their patron saint's story, and their feast day, so they can celebrate. Invite new friends to Thanksgiving dinner. If they are from another country and you have trouble understanding them, learn to "listen with an accent."

Never say mean things about anybody; they are "poor souls to pray for."

Put picky-eating children in the box at the bottom of the laundry chute, tell them they are hungry lions in a cage, and feed them veggies through the slats.

Correspond with the imprisoned and have lunch with the cognitively challenged.

Do the Jumble every morning.

Keep the car keys under the front seat so they don't get lost.

Make the car dance by lightly tapping the brakes to the beat of songs on the radio.

Offer rides to people carrying a big load or caught in the rain or summer heat. Believe the hitchhiker you pick up who says he is a landscaper and his name is "Peat Moss."

Help anyone struggling to get their kids into a car or shopping cart or across a parking lot.

Give to every charity that asks. Choose to believe the best about what they do with your money, no matter what your children say they discovered online.

Allow the homeless to keep warm in your car while you are at Mass.

Take magazines you've already read to your doctors' office for others to enjoy. Do not tear off the mailing label, "Because if someone wants to contact me, that would be nice."

In her lifetime, Pink made contact time after time. Those who've taken her lessons to heart will continue to ensure that a cold drink will be left for the overheated garbage collector and mail carrier, every baby will be kissed, every nursing home resident will be visited, the hungry will have a sandwich, the guest will have a warm bed and soft nightlight, and the encroaching possum will know the soothing sensation of a barbecue brush upon its back.

Above all, Pink wrote -- to everyone, about everything. You may read this and recall a letter from her that touched your heart, tickled your funny bone, or maybe made you say "huh?"

She is survived by her children and grandchildren whose photos she would share with prospective friends in the checkout line: Tim (wife Janice, children Timmy, Joey, T.J., Miki and Danny); Kevin (wife Kathy, children Kacey, Ryan, Jordan and Kevin); Jerry (wife Gita, children Nisha and Cathan); MaryAnne; Peter (wife Maria Jose, children Rodrigo and Paulo); and Meg (husband David Vartanian, children Peter, Lily, Jerry and Blase); siblings Anne, Helen, and Robert; and many in-laws, nieces, nephews, friends and family too numerous to list but not forgotten.

Pink is reunited with her husband and favorite dance and political debate partner, Dr. Gerald L. Mullaney, and is predeceased by six siblings.

Prince was the Jerk Cat Who Died On Me.

We met in 2008. He died yesterday, December 12, 2013, at around 9:20 pm. 

  

We pissed on that laundry basket of heartbreaks those five years sent our way, didn't we? That's what jerks like us do. And we did it together. And we had awful fun, just the two of us, irritating each other to death. I will miss you, Prince, and I will miss you more than the little immature boys I played around with.  I can't remember when you weren't there, haha. You were always there, cat, always. You never made me feel alone. 

I love you Prince... Priiiinnceee!... That's how I call for you every day as soon as I get home from work. That wasn't necessary, however, because you're already running down the stairs to meow me your cat variations of "Good Morning." Always. This stopped five days ago when your complications kicked in. You never failed to meow me back. And you were eating less and less. Something was wrong, and it went wrong, and things went from bad to worse, and it got so deadly bad. 

I'm sorry I wasn't as prompt as I needed to be, Baby... Baabyyyyy! ... That's how I call for you whenever I felt like shit. That wasn't necessary, however, because you were always on your way to meow me your cat variations of "You look like you can use a hug. Here." 

I was hugging your remains for twenty more minutes before I tucked you in that shoe box. I'm sorry if I got you wet, but I made sure you were comfortable. I wrapped you in one of my favorite shirts. 

There were times when I had to dry my ugly crying face before writing shit away. And, until now, I never cried while writing. Are you happy now? We were supposed to be crazy together. Now I'm just crazy alone.  

I'll try to write you something real nice as soon as I stop crying like a little girl. Because I am crying like a little girl who lost her fiercely loyal cat. I love you, Prince, and thank you for loving me back. 

No Comments

**And now, ladies and gentlemen, presented for your reading displeasure -- self-indulgent flagellation. I know, I know, but it's that time of year when my menstrual discharge is dissolving me from the inside. 

I will always be my greatest and my most foul mouthing critic. I back read my posts, and there are times when I would tell me, "Putangama tong baklang to, puro kalechehang nonsense, mura lang ng mura tong hindot na to may maisulat lang." I would say that in my head, where it is safest because it is retractable. I say it aloud when I am on my own; delivery gives it conviction, and conviction gives it sex appeal. That is very uncommon these days, being alone, because I am always with a beloved somebody. But that doesn't change my severe masochism.

Daming alam, gago.

I make other critics unnecessary because I am doing a splendid job at it. I know myself better, and that knowledge equips me with the best curse words to use. So fuck you if you think I suck at what I'm doing. I am well aware of it, thank you very much, even before I get started. Save your strength, critic, and use the time to control your gag reflex instead. 

I can tell you that this is why I disabled my comments. And I can tell you up front, and with a straight face, that I am not gay. I shut down my comments not because I shudder at the next anonymous troll's wrongly spelled bash-fest with the heart breaking grammar. I know how it's like to be a basher. I used to insult with such vigor that I did take the time to check and see if my victims would bash me back. And I would return the honor with another eager stab at the eye. 

Anyway, your opinion on my writing does not qualify. If it did, you have to be a very notorious writer with several books behind her, a Palanca award, some international renown, a dedicated army of readers, and connections that will make any social climber mad with envy. Your qualifications will keep you so busy that you will not find the time to comment on anything posted in this blog. You are not her. Therefore, your opinion on my writing does not qualify. 

And you are not me. Remember what I said in the first few paragraphs? Your criticism is unnecessary. Find the time to masturbate instead. 


Somebody said that it is rather infantilizing to be praised a lot. Amen, you. I get some of that from time to time, and I don't mind the acknowledgment. However, I already have a Facebook account that I repair to if I wanted my ego stroked. "Awesome, well-written post!" "I love the way you write!" "You are a genius!" Thanks, love, but my Facebook friends are already raving over what I ate for breakfast. I don't need this many compliments; I'd rather get fucked in the ass. 

I kind of miss the interactions between myself and the two or three people that leave comments. However, they are now my friends in Facebook. They are already going berserk over what I ate for lunch. Our relationships have reached this level wherein I understand and I empathize with their Daily Horoscope for Virgo. We get to become assholes in real time, and they don't do selfies. This works better. I can live with that. 


I think it's this level of maturity, haha, that comes with age. Thirty three is very defining. It's the oldest I've been, and I am rather fond of it. The things I know now armor me from the kind of choices, ugh, I commit to in my twenties. All thirteen years of it. The friends I have now bullet proof me from the useless jerks that I will meet in the future. The cuss words I know and use now are far more refined and eloquent. The critic I've become paralyzes me from pushing that Publish button. What else can I ask for out loud?  

I can write a very defining list that explains my disabled comments. It will be a numbered list, it will be brief, and it will spare you from the verbal diarrhea. But I'd rather not. That list will not be retractable. I will need to open up my comments sometime in the future, and I don't want to hear any of it. 

Emergency Post: So Angry

**I am bleeding mad. And I can use the writing practice. 

I am seething livid in my own hatred. My chest feels so severe, heavy and heated; there's a criminal piece of brimstone that's pumping my blood. And it's circulating that scalding anger all over, and I can feel it's white hot intensity burning, escalating as it reaches my extremities. This is not spontaneous combustion. I am willfully precipitating my own implosion. Die faggot. There is nothing spontaneous with being a volunteer.

I hate you so much. I hate you with the kind of loathing that is especially reserved for repeat offenders of scandalous felonies. I hate you and the words you use. I hate your excuses. You don't know what you are saying. I hate you so much. Again, I hate you. 

I can't feel my toes. What the hell is happening to me? 

Ah, my feet are beginning to melt. Fuck it. And fuck you too, most especially you because you think this is corny. I am standing on my knees now, my legs are a stinking puddle, and I'm writing this with one hand because I need to keep ... oww fuckk.

I feel... bitter now... Even more so because I... I... God damn it I... I choked this piece with adjectivesssshhhhittt... 

Dear Devina

**I am not at my proudest when I post mean things. However, I enjoy writing shit like this. Very, very much. And I know that this ... update lost it's opportunity by a few months. It could have been current if it was written a day or two following Devina's induction to the Halls of Stupid Racists. It would have been funny if people were still armed with a ready opinion. Bullshit. There is a point to this delay. I meant to say we don't easily forget. Bitch, please.

**The pictures from this post were borrowed from this post in China Smack. It's this travel guide with a Faces of Death feel to it. It is not for the faint of heart. It will leave you bothered. You can actually smell the very graphic pictures. There are things that you cannot un-see. But you will still click on it. I know you will. 



I am sure you are faintly familiar with Devina Dediva's anti-Filipino comments that surfaced with Megan Young's coronation. 

You can enlarge this image by clicking on it. Go ahead.

I understand that you, Devina, are simply following the time-honored tradition of being racist for your five minutes of fame. Prejudice for popularity. It happens a lot. And we, by we I am referring to our marginalized third world lot, we get plenty of that. We are usually the butt of your domestic helper jokes, and I do not respect that. We are infinitely more than that, Devina, and let me show you how. 

Persecute the person, not his or her race. See, Devina, we are now aware of your Indian origins. You are a Singaporean national with Indian roots. I did the painstaking research, and now I have material to work with. Before anything else, allow me to mention that I am impressed by the illustrious achievements of the Indian people. There's this, this, this, and this. Surely, an entire nation of such noble accomplishments is beyond this kind of racism. I know that. I understand that. And that is exactly why I am isolating that insecure cunt Devina from the rest of the wonderful Indian people. 

I am, of course, playing it safe. I am not messing with our Hindu brothers. Fo shizzle mah nizzle.

Having said that, Devina, do you know that your filthy racism reminded me of the Ganghes river. What about the Ganghes river?

It is this river. 

Now, if we should follow your generalizing train of thought, then I would assume that you, Devina, took a bath in the Ganghes river. Yes, that river. 

Did you also gargle corpse juice in the Ganghes river, Devina? No wait. Don't answer that. I know you did.

Did you also dip your boyfriend Prakash's uncircumcised dick in the cemetery waters of the Ganghes river before putting it in your mouth, Devina? No wait. Don't answer that. I  know you did.

Did you also wash your weathered pussy in these funereal waters, Devina? No wait. Don't answer that. I know you did.  

Did you also rinse your sagging boobs in the corpse juice of the Ganghes River, Devina? No wait. Don't answer that. I know you did.  

Did you have sex next to the floating carcasses of these rotting cows, Devina? No wait. Don't answer that. I know you did. That includes the having sex part. You look easy. 

I'm sorry what, Devina? You didn't have sex next to that dead cow? My bad. You had sex next to this dead man instead. 

We heard that you were fired from your job because of your racist comment, Devina. Goes without saying that it sucks to be you. But we knew you had it coming; your vanity was of the terrible, unrequited kind. Underscore unrequited; look at you. And, like adding salt to injury, we found out that your bosses were Filipinos. What a very delicious twist. Your bosses were among that race of maids that you so lovingly insulted. So, having said that, and following your racist track mind, would you agree that you were fired by maids? And if you were fired by maids, then what does that make you, Devina? 

What do you call a smelly cunt that gets fired by maids, Devina? 

That preceding sentence was a question and an answer rolled into one. The answer is Devina. Your name should have it's own dictionary entry, Devina. It will be the contraction of two words: Dev for devilish and Ina. Ina is a Tagalog word (Tagalog is the language we use when we Filipinos attending to our domestic helper duties). Ina means "Mother." Which would have been a gentle word if it wasn't associated with the easiest insult to say in Tagalog. Putangina. Tangina. Son of a bitch. And that is the nature of the "Ina" that we are including in your dictionary entry, Devina. 

I said "ladies," Devina. You don't count. 

Again, I have nothing, absolutely nothing against the entire Indian race. You guys have the coolest culture and the wickedest mythology and your ladies have the most mesmerizing eyes. Plus, you guys have one of the Wonders of the World to your merit. I regard your accomplishments, your illustrious achievements, your shining successes with an admiring gaze. Hats off and snaps in a z-formation to you people. This post was nothing but an attempt to humor this one particular overweight bigot, and her pendulous boobs that are meant for punching sideways, and that haggard sarcasm of a face, and her cocksucker cheeks (because they bulge), and her cocksucker arms (because they bulge), and her cocksucker legs (because they bulge), and her lousy attempt to drown her insecurity with a racist comment. 

Bitch, please. Do you honestly think you can get away with this? You see, Devina, you should have done your research. Not only can we Filipinos do dishes. We also do insults.

To Our Beloved Allison

**I am a cat person by choice. But we were dog people by default. This probably mirrors my deviant sexual preference... and that was an awful, insensitive joke.  Having said that, I will be suspending this week's scheduled cunt-bashing (that of Devina Dediva). Allison, the family dog, died from the complications of a massively ruptured tumor. 

...
...

I was itching to squeeze in a bitch joke sideways, but this is a loose obituary of sorts. Now tell me, my darling reader, what is Phenomenal Restraint? 

Allison

Born: December 2002 

Died: November 19, 2013

My mother said that "When a family pet dies, she is saving somebody in return." Thank you, Allison. I remember the funereal treble of your awful pain. I can only imagine how much you really suffered. Be a good girl and be at peace now. 

We love you.

The Kind of Attitude We Need

**I'll make this quick; I have some relief goods to pack.

Beautiful, isn't she? Meanwhile, there's something else I want to say. And this goes out to our detractors.

To Jax Cote, Devina Dediva, and your lot of racists: Bitches, please. We have survived mounting death counts. We smiled as Mother Nature was PMSing away on our poor little corner of the third world. We weathered Ondoy and Yolanda and Uring and Pablo and Sarah Geronimo and countless permutations of Mother Nature's menstrual discharge. Ugh, we rallied on and smiled at the face of of these awful calamities. We stared death at the face. We stared at our current administration at the face. And we did it all with that endearing Filipino smile. Bitches, please. What makes you think your philistine remarks will break the Filipino spirit?

Having said that, I would like to address that Devine Dediva. I have reserved a very special place in my demonology for very insecure cunts like yourself. I'll bash you good, real good, on next week's post. And, for good measure, it will have pictures like this.

Image from China Smack.

To my proud, "tabo"- wielding countrymen: Bitches, please.
This is not the time to argue about whose God has the bigger dick. This is not the time to itemize the multitudes of people our organized religions have helped. This is not the time to compare good advertising. There are other opportunities for our self-serving publicity stunts. This, however, is the time to be human. Strip yourself of your leader-led mob mentality and just be good, for the love of whichever God you are subscribed to. Just be good. Shut your pie hole; we are rather tired of each other's "Your God Sucks" spiels. Let's do volunteer work together. 

Image from Gl Brain.

Andoy's Unang Putok and Beating Sid Lucero in Marvel

**I was supposed to post this in between my usual Friday updates, maybe on any random Thursday or something. This was supposed to be an Emergency Post. And I was supposed to caption this with something friendly, like I will break my rules for this guy. Didn't happen. But his book did! Yeah, you go give them hell, Andoy! 

Unang Putok will be available in National Bookstore beginning November 12. 

I have known this blogger for several years now, met him twice, and remained a fan all that time. Still am. Enough about me. Andoy's got a book published!

This blogger is awesome. This book may or may not be the be all and end all of his writing career, but it's a good start. He deserves this, and much greater things, and I am rather glad that he is finally getting published. Painom ka ah! (Drinks on you!)

I will not write a review. I haven't purchased a copy yet, but I will get to it as soon as I have gotten over this inexplicable feeling that a blogger has for another blogger. It's indescribable, but it can be measured; it is 20 percent jealousy and 80 percent congratulatory. If you want a review, do a Google search. He has tons of die hard fan boys and fan girls who already posted the honor.

I would assume that this book is something that he, as a blogger, has always wanted to do, and I am happy for him and his accomplishment. On a more personal note, I am sorry, Andoy, that I wasn't able to give you That recommendation. You know what I'm saying, but know that I tried. However, with the look of things, your book will propel itself to a larger, book-buying audience anyway.

Congratulations Andoy! Your book will go places! And it is not because it has longer legs than you, oh hell no, far from it.

Meanwhile, I beat Sid Lucero in Ultimate Marvel vs Capcom 3. Well I'm sorry, my Facebook friends, if I had to rub it in. Again. See, you don't get home from a long day in the kinky office expecting some console gaming with a celebrity. Things like this don't happen everyday. Why, things like this don't just happen at all. And on the off chance they do, then you post it wherever possible just for good measure.

I had to customize this picture. So?

I'm the one with the head band. This was around 8:30 am last Tuesday. And yes, I know, UMVSC3 has been around for around two years now. However, I have never played it before with a celebrity. I have never, up until last Tuesday morning, played UMVSC3 with a celebrity. Having said that, and I say this on a "Shhh, it's okay" tone of voice, fuck you and your insecure fault finding. 

It was my "Best Pick" Team (Chun Li, Haggar and Rocket Raccoon) against Sid's (Zero, Wesker and Vergil). He was playing against my brother Jacob earlier (seen in the picture), and I knew Sid can pull off some combos. I remember he had to customize the controls since he's used to a different button configuration. And I remember the words "Bring it" at the back of my head.

Advanced guards, timed assists and TACs (Team Aerial Combos). Nobody's winning yet, all of our team members are still alive, and we're still figuring out how to off each other's anchor. Mine was Chun Li. His was Zero. Oh, that awesome leg tattoo wrapped half the length of his right leg.  

Game face on. Somebody managed to dodge a hyper and is closing in for some sort of punishment. Who knew who was leading? Notice how Sid worked his controller? He admitted he's not used to the PS controller. He owns a custom joystick. Yes, dude's a verified gamer. Meanwhile, you could stick two controllers in my wide open mouth.

He was down to one character at this point, I think it was Vergil, and he resumed his hyped gamer side. You know how it's like when it's neck to neck on a basketball game? And your team could win if they did it first? And the game has boiled down to the last critical minute? Imagine playing that much energy on a 32-inch screen . I won, by the way. I knew I would, of course. But it was intense because I beat Sid Lucero, haha.

Oh, that person to the right most (pearly white skin and pink blouse) is my friend Onath. I thank him for this twisted opportunity. We are forever grateful for this! And that lunch with the cast and crew is way beyond words. 

Horror Story # 2: What are You Doing, Little Girl?

**This is Part Two of my Two Horror Stories post. Having said that, you guys enjoy the scariest night, or nights, of the year. Enjoy it for me as I will be engaged to my kinky night job on All Hallows Eve and Halloween, respectively. What can I say? A grown girl's gotta do what a grown girl's gotta do. 

Awww, fuck it. I'm working on Halloween. You. Lucky. Bastards get your overflowing fill of horror movie marathons, and drinking on the graves of your loved ones, a long weekend, and getting paid days off. And what do I have? Taxable holiday premium, that's what I have. Thirty two percent of which goes to the most hopeless government in this side of the third world. Shit. Shiiitt!

I never saw her again, but I wished she paid another visit. I can use her smiling presence. 

The first time I saw her was in 2010. I remember it well because it was then that I broke up with my partner of five years. Actually, it was a few months after we broke up; I was no longer a mess, and I have been sleeping longer hours then. Anyway, this happened in the early hours of the morning. I remember that, too, because I was sleeping nights in those days. I was roused from the usual suspended state by nothing suspicious in particular. I just woke up. 

And there she was at the foot of my bed. The lights were off, but the large windows behind her allowed some moonlight to reveal her form. She appeared to be a little girl, a little over three feet, maybe four, and she had straight hair that framed her face down to her shoulders. I remember nothing of what she wore, or if she moved, or if she whispered. She was just there, at the foot of my bed, in what can be three in the morning. 

But I remember this one detail very well -- she was smiling at me. Again, the spare moonlight missed her face, but her presence was as happy as it was sudden. There was nothing scary or threatening about this strange little girl in my room at three in the morning. I remember she was small, and she had straight hair, and that she had the happiest presence for something that wasn't supposed to be there in the first place.

I was lying still. She was not moving. Has it been a minute now? I don't know, but I decided to sit up and maybe take a closer look. At that very moment of movement, my little angel then crawled down the foot of my bed, where I cannot see her, like she was inviting a game of hide and seek. I did not expect that. The cat I was still living in with, Prince, was huddled to my right in a careless ball. He was sleeping. I did not expect that, as well. He's supposed to be sensitive!

Her sudden movement down the foot of my bed did not discourage my investigation. I was curious as to what I was supposed to be seeing next. Will she be kneeling down? Will she be looking up at me this time? Will she laugh or snicker or whisper something? What is she up to? And so I followed her down the foot of my bed where it was empty except for my well-used slippers. 

And, aside from the movement from my years-old stand fan, it was silent. 

I looked back to where Prince was. He was awake. Not a miao or a flick of his tail issued from that cat. He was standing up and looking at me, and I felt he was irritated that he had to wake up to me looking stupid down at whatever. And if I remember it right, the words "Human, please" registered well at his face. I don't care. For some reason, my little angel's balming presence kept me happy that morning. 


I never saw her again. But I'm looking forward to it. 

Two Horror Stories

**I am a big fan of Halloween. So I wrote these.

Horror Story # 1: Your Selfie

There was this ugly gay boy who posted an unedited selfie in Facebook. And this is what it looked like along with the customary quote.

"If you don't want to take my picture, then I'll take it myself! Shit!"

Now, there were several reports that explain why this unedited selfie was even let loose in the first place. His friends say he's the overly vain And overly ugly kind who was as confident as he was unsightly. Our shuddering sources say he asked his closeted gay friends to dare him do it. He was somewhat disappointed that nobody asked him to do it. But he went for it anyway because he thought that unedited selfies will trend.

There were others who insisted that he was half-drunk at the time this abominable crime took place. His reasoning was paralyzed with whatever he was drinking then. Meanwhile, they refuse to admit if Ugly Gay Boy here was drunk with alcohol or if he was drunk with his incredibly intoxicating conceit.

A third theory, and I am serious as I am writing this, came from his very close friends. They say that Ugly Gay Boy was trying to impress an office mate. This could make sense because Ugly Gay Boy here was very conceited, after all.

However, the "Why?" behind this incident is nowhere near as horrifying as the reports that issued from nearby hospitals and lying in clinics. A doctor was, after a few shots of vodka, reported to have said: "We have never... oh my God... In all of my twenty-something years of medical practice, this was the first time that I have diagnosed somebody as having epileptic seizures and violent diarrhea. Combined! I remember they were rushing in three of those poor people every half hour or so. And this continued for the next twenty four hours. Why, they were literally shaking and shitting all over the emergency room! And some of them... oh Lord... some of them had it so bad, they had blood on their feces!"

"You will not believe what our wards looked like, and smelled like, two days after this epidemic began. And you, you poor thing, you will not get that nightmare out of your head. (Tears are running down his face at this point. He sobs. He sighs.) It was like... It was like somebody decided to re-enact The Holocaust in Pasig Cirrehhh!"

Image from Worldwar2-facts

I am finally writing this next paragraph after borrowing the courage from a ream of cigarettes.

I had to mention that there were also similar reports from nearby lying in clinics. This is because the expecting mothers are (makes sign of the cross) a terrible casualty. They decided to conceive, immediately, after suffering from the same epileptic fit slash uncontrolled bowel movement.  Which is, of course, understandable. They'd rather give birth on the spot, than allow ugly gay boy's unedited selfie to linger in their memory. They were expecting, after all, and their haunted memory of ugly gay boy's unedited selfie will have bothering effects on their undeveloped angel.

"And besides," one ex-mother revealed, "my little kid looked better in her second trimester than Ugly Gay Boy will ever be in his twenty something years."

Meanwhile, Ugly Gay Boy refuses to take responsibility for the near-genocide that his unedited selfie caused. He refuses to answer questions and dismisses inquiries, as well as threats to his life, with that "Bitch, please" look on his unsightly face. He is still at large, and is still logging in to Facebook. His account is not yet disabled. He is still ugly.

This may or may not be a true story. Ugly Gay Boy may or may not be gay. And, by the same token, our villain may or may not be a boy. 

Horror Story # 2: What are You Doing, Little Girl?

I will post this next week. Haha.

Bring the Bit Enn!

"Bring the beat in! Someone guest her on Ellen, for the love of God."

This girl should be on Ellen. The truth is, I am positive that Ms Degeneres' good people, as I am writing this, are already setting the gears in motion as far as this singer's US VISA goes. By the way, it is for the benefit of her thousands of instant foreign fans that I am providing the following translations. I feel like it is my duty, as someone versed in the vernacular of the tabo-wielding Filipinos, to... cast away your doubts as far as her lyrics goes. No, she is not speaking hare-lipped Aramaic. It is not demon-speak. She is not possessed. Far from it. Blame it on her accent; our overnight sensation here is too focused on her illustrious singing career to concern herself with such trivial details. Stars like her fuck pronunciation and make up for that glaring defect with... uh... uhh... I mentioned I provided translations.

Bawal lait ah = No insults, please.
Bit enn = Beat in
kamown = come on
windopay = window pane
Bebe = Baby
Naaathing = Nothing
Laaab = Love
Yur tha wahn (unintelligible mumbling) I can always call. = You're the one I can always call.
Putangina oh = Oh son of a bitch (She never cursed here. That was me.)
Forst = First
Neeeeeeheeed = Need
Top, tup, tap, tahp, taap = Top, top, top, top, top.

Oh fuck this unwashed shit. I have been listening to this crap for at least five times now, and it stopped being funny after the first playing. Eat your heart out, reader, and play the goddamn recording already. I would have loved to transcribe this wonderful singer's lyrics, but I don't have the supernatural powers required to do that. However, out of foresight, I have provided the lyrics to another song, Beyonce Knowles' "Love on Top," just because I have noticed a very striking resemblance.

Image from Homorazzi.

Love On Top 

Bring the beat in!

(Verse 1)
Honey, honey
I can see the stars all the way from here
Can't you see the glow on the window pane?
I can feel the sun whenever you're near
Every time you touch me I just melt away

Now everybody asks me why I'm smiling out from ear to ear (They say love hurts)
But I know (It's gonna take a little work)
Nothing's perfect, but it's worth it after fighting through my tears
And finally you put me first

(chorus)
Baby it's you.
You're the one I love.
You're the one I need.
You're the only one I see.

Come on baby it's you.

You're the one that gives your all.
You're the one I can always call.
When I need you make everything stop.
Finally you put my love on top.

Ooh! Come on baby.
You put my love on top, top, top, top, top.
You put my love on top.
Ooh oooh! Come on baby.
You put my love on top, top, top, top, top.
My love on top.
My love on top.

Baby, Baby
I can hear the wind whipping past my face.
As we dance the night away.
Boy your lips taste like a night of champagne.
As I kiss you again, and again, and again and again.

Now everybody asks me why I'm smiling out from ear to ear (They say love hurts)
But I know (It's gonna take a little work)
Nothing's perfect, but it's worth it after fighting through my tears.
And finally you put me first.

(Repeat chorus until you pass out)

How to be Rude: Comments

**This post is also known as How to Bash Tip # 1: Divide and Conquer. 

So we heard recently that a second sex video of Chito Miranda and Neri Naig surfaced. I have never seen it. And I will never watch it. I was tempted to, but I remembered how disappointed I was with Chito's fucking that I decided to just let it be. The first installment wasn't any excitable; Chito Miranda's black-as-sin dick was an awful nightmare, and Neri Naig's pendulous breasts were a felony to the female anatomy. However, I would imagine that some people jerked off to this episode while they played one of his songs in the background for good measure. Whatever. 

I will not write about it. These celebrity sex videos are becoming so fucking tiresome in their frequency. And what makes it irritating is that they're all sex between straight couples. How very bland, how very boring, how very beyond scandalous. What have our gay celebrities been doing? Playing Barbie dolls and doing each other's hair? Cruising at the gym or pandering to the horny whims of your TV-executive benefactors? Get out of your comfort zone, homo. We can use the representation.

I have written about Chito Miranda's first sex video. And you can click here you're interested. 

Meanwhile, the last time I trolled was five or six years ago, and I sort of missed being mean to stupid people and their stupid bitch fits. So I gave it another go sometime back, and, having done that, I don't think I missed being a bully at all. Anyway, allow me to share a screenshot. Sometimes, a series of pictures is far more eloquent. You remember what they say about a picture being worth a thousand words? Yeah? Now think about this: what if... it's a picture... of words? Ahhh. Imagine that many thousands. 

Again, I do not miss being such a jerk towards other people's poorly written sentiments, and I fucking hate being so disrespectful in their borrowed space. It sucks that I have to go out of my way just to be a dick. That is why I have this blog. And being such a cock in other people's territory is a felony towards this blog; why be a dick in other territories when  I can well do it here?

Comments are just one of the many wonderful opportunities for your meanness to shine. Treat yourself to these other tips.

How to be Rude: Books
How to be Rude: Burgers
How to be Rude: Directions

Greatly Appreciated! Thundering Thanks!

**"Thank you" is just two words. I wrote you guys a mouthful, instead. 

Image from Halloweenforum.com

I never, ever, ever, ever, no not ever, ever, ever asked no one to "Please Follow Me!" Last time I checked, which was just about now, I never embellished my side bar with an explicit request for you guys to "What the hell are you waiting for?" Yes, there is a button that says "Join this site," but it was never accompanied with a well-written threat. I Thanked you for the follow, that I did, and I have never edited that because I am still very grateful. However, I never asked any of you sweethearts to do so. You did that out of your own volition and your own free will. I never forced, or threatened, or bribed, or held anyone at knife point, gun point, or cock point (imagine that, "tinutukan ng burat," haha). You followed me. You did that on your own. 

And I can never, ever, ever, ever, no not ever, thank you enough. 

I Said This Before

No one in their right mind should volunteer to follow me. I would never follow me. Not even if I took out my dick as a bribe. "Look at that cock, homo. How's that for size, huh? It's pointing at your laptop where it's master opened some bullshit blog. How's about giving it a look see? Or maybe a follow? There you go baby." 

Image from Sodahead

I know I said this before, but your continued patronage still leaves me simultaneously confused and grateful. Like I said, you know what I write, and how I write, and you know how I like to be obscene, but you kept at it anyway and I don't know why. My posts are spaced a week in between. I cuss a lot. I use long sentences. I write about rape and reassigned vaginas and throwing cats in hampers and breastfeeding in cabs and dead people and stupid things that nobody gives a stupid fuck about. My grammar is usually suspect. I have never received a Blog Award. I have recently disabled my comments. But I still have my followers. And they are growing. Shit, man, what can I say? Thank you guys for being weird. 

What Crazy Bus Got You Here?

I was reviewing my followers the other day, and I know I recognize some of you from my early blog-whoring days. I was shining with optimism then. And that was from seven years ago. I was hungry for a link exchange back in the old days, and I honestly believed it was going to be easy. This, ugh, optimism gave birth to this pathetic appetite for self-promotion; I actually took the unbillable time to check on other blogs on a regular basis. I left comments everywhere because I thought they all would spare me the same courtesy. I wanted to be recognized SO BAD that I went so low as to volunteer a Guest Post. It was, come to think of it, a most embarrassing idea because the currency was shameful: a hundred-word post, at least, for a link exchange. Blah, shudder. 

Image from io9

I left comments everywhere, I linked this blog to my email signature, I offered to guest post, and went so far as to gamble with the quality of my blog roll. There was a time that I saturated my blog roll with the occasional boring blog. But it was all in the spirit of honest optimism. I wanted to be recognized! I was hopeful, and cheerful, and blogged with a skip in my step, and had the enthusiasm of a five-year old girl. I was the height of pathetic social climbing back then. I became my own grave embarrassment. I was seriously out of character back then, and it still disgusts me to this day. Why, I would spit on my grave if I was dead seven years ago. 

All I wanted was a link exchange. But some of you guys followed me, instead. It was like hoping for random anal but getting a bukkake facial instead. I am truly honored. Thank you. Of course, I do not mean to offend any of you good people. I am rather kinky by default, and the gang bang comparison is really a compliment. 

This Includes You, Yes You, and That Weird Nerd Next to You

Image from Survivaltribe.

Meanwhile, I am still unfamiliar with several other names in my 71-strong (and proud) list of followers. Again, my optimism has had several death anniversaries; I no longer whore around for a link exchange. I no longer blog hop. I no longer entertain random link exchanges. I no longer comment back. And the only endorsements my updates get are from any of the following sources: 

1. Status updates in my Selfie Media of choice. I'm sorry. I meant to say Social Media.
2. That small handful of bloggers who link me in their smart blog rolls. 
3. My intermittent presence in Ms Jessica Zafra's blog. My alias, Momelia, is linked to this blog, see. 
4. The strong odor of burning sulfur And lotion usually signifies this blog has been updated.
5. Check this blog if you are suddenly getting feverish in the afternoons. And that is coupled by extreme discomfort when you're urinating And there's a distinct pain in your dick. And some discharge. I mean, the pain can't get any more severe, so you might as well, right? And on the off chance that you did pay me a visit if you're having one of those days, then let me share a tip. Branded antibiotics will murder your wallet. Go generic and save yourself a good fifteen pesos a pop. 

What I meant to say is that I don't advertise myself as much as I used to. And having said that, it still suprises me beyond expectation how I am still getting hits and follows from you people. Thank you. And let me be a homo and "thank you for your wonderful" patronage. 

This goes out to you, yes you, and that weird nerd next to you. Thank you. 

This out of sync, however appropriate image is from Leisurecommunities.

I appreciate you all! Muahness from Pasig Cirehhhh!

I Thank This... (Updated)

Motherfucker for Reviving my Lust for Horror Movies. That was the complete mouthful; I elected to truncate this title because I have decided to irritate my Facebook friends with my weekly blog updates. The problem with that is some people in my network, like two or three of them, still see me as this very proper Catholic girl with a solid moral upbringing that leaves no room for unbecoming ideas. I have decided to respect that. 

**Hey, guess what, my 70th follower! I don't know why, guys, really, I really don't have a clue. That same sentiment goes for the medication that you all should be taking. And having said that, you know I love you back. All 70 of you. 

**Update: And then we have my 71st. You rock. All of you. And I will be writing you something nice next week, too. This will go out to all 71 of you, and to my regulars (haha) as well. Thank you.

Image from karthik82.com

Evil Dead 2013. I am not going to write a review for it; I have never completely recovered from the tiresome procedure that was my thirty eight horror movie reviews. The last one I did was in July 2010, and I am still reeling from the stress and pressure. I will never do another horror movie review. That's what I said back then, and that's what I will maintain. 

I thought that marrying two of my most beloved interests, that of writing and horror movies, ensures that I will never run out of material to write. I was right for the first twenty reviews, and then I realized I was kidding myself. Not only did I get tired of taking notes while viewing; it was an endeavor that sucked the fun out of screaming just for the hell of it. 

A horror movie was no longer fun, back then. It was just another blog update. 

Having said that, I encourage you guys to watch this motherfucker. You might need to see it twice; you will not get enough of it's relentless brutality. The pace and the imagery? Oh, madre de dios, hijo de puta. And, for good measure, try to watch it with two or three of your best alcoholic friends. And a liter of Emperador lights. You will need a drink during your first viewing. Underscore "during."

Again, this is not a review. In case you missed the very obvious, it's a thank you note. And now here's a recommendation: I would suggest that you guys stick to ice cold water for your chaser. Any of them gay-ass weak-type juice concentrates will paralyze the necessary courage that your (hard) alcoholic drink of choice provides. The fake courage will see you through this entire movie. 


And before I forget, much props in a z-formation to this other bad ass of a horror movie. It warmed me up real good prior to this year's Evil Dead. I am not reviewing The Conjuring, but I have to admit, 2013 has been very generous to the genre. No wait. It goes more than that. Truth is, 2013 is a fucking multiple orgasm for horror movie lovers. 

Image from impawards.com