How The Gays Were Made (Part One)

Your motherfather just finished his last blow dry at around 2pm that day; they had to close the parlor earlier because it was your motherfather's 40th birthday. They began setting up the monoblock tables and chairs at around three in the afternoon. That signaled the actual preparations. A unit of homos was readying the ice box, the beer tower, the ten cases of Red Horse, and the two boxes of Emperador Lights. See, your motherfather and his friends are Olympic-level alcoholics. They drink with a purpose. Which is later on malicious.


Meanwhile, a gaggle of fags was frying all that lumpiang shanghai, all four kilos of it, and the tofu. Somebody else had the sense of humor to apply lipstick and eyeliner to several tilapia that were destined for a hell of deep frying. Meanwhile, another "fren" remained isolated from all that crazy hustle. He was crouched on one of those monoblock chairs, his legs propped, his shoulders stooped, and his face had the dedicated focus of a bomb disposal unit.

He cannot be disturbed. He cannot be touched. Because he had the scared duty of sending out the invitations to that evening's guests. He is group messaging the guests like crazy. He made sure he was registered for UnliText20. On two different phones. Because his was the most important, the most paramount, the most important task that day.

Of course, your motherfather and his alcoholic homo friends can easily drain all that excess in a bat of an eyelash. But it was your motherfather's 40th birthday after all. They have decided to intoxicate your motherfather guests. So that your motherfather's can get to unwrapping his birthday presents. That's the plan.

The videoke was in criminal force during your motherfather's 40th birthday. I remember it started at around 8pm. Now, your fatherfather can be one of the many barely legal kids hogging the mic and the songbook. I say "can be" because nobody remembers much of anything else during the parties your motherfather hosts. And that night, in particular, was truly an assault to my senses. Again, the videoke was criminal with all that  Tagalog rap songs. Oh my ears! The air was a felony with all that second hand smoke. Oh my nose! And your motherfather and his aging gay friends? Oh my eyes!

So you'd understand how your motherfather paralyzes the memory with the parties heshe celebrates. And, even then, the alcohol hasn't kicked in yet.

Again, your fatherfather can be anyone of those "true brown style gangstas," haha, hogging the karaoke. He can be the scrawny tanggero with the black shirt and the lopsided bullcap. He can be...

To be continued.

**I have been meaning to write a story about how us fairies were made. I wanted to give it the "Once upon a time..." format, it being a fairy tale and all, but I decided otherwise and just told it straight. Which is ironic for a gay story. Anyway, I wanted to give it time, a lot of time to think it over and edit everything in my head, because I wanted it to be of exceedingly grand proportions; I will tell this only once. Of course, I lingered, I strayed, and I moseyed from writing projects to another; my Fairy Tale was largely neglected in consequence. Blah. What you just read serves as a working introduction, and I propose to finish the damn thing before the year ends. This is a start.

Hinde! Hinde! English To, English!

**It is for the benefit of our non-Filipino friends that I encourage you guys to check this post instead -- How to Medicate a Faggot. 

**Magta-tagalog ako sa linggong ito. Hanep no? Yaman din lamang na ako'y inyong paunlakan, bitch, sapagkat bihira lamang ito. Ngayon, kung ayaw mo, at kung may reklamo ka eh di itanong mo sa titi mong maliit, okay? "Hoy tite, bakit nagtatagalog tong bayot na to ngayon? Ano meron?" At maniwala kang masakit na nana ang isasagot niyan kasabay ang mga salitang, "Trip nya men, wag kang daot. Gago." Okay goh. 

Ang pagu-usap na inyong mababasa ay hindi totoong nangyari, okay? Ngunit hindi na siguro kayo magtataka kung medio pamilyar ang tema. Pamilyar AT nakakairita. AT nakakarindi. AT nakaka-buang. AT pauuuuuulit ulit na lang. Ang mga ganitong klaseng pagu-usap ang magiging dahilan kung bakit minsan, sa loob loob mo, ay masasambit mo na lamang ang mga salitang, "Tainang buhay to, oo." Oo, promise. Maliban na lamang shempre kung ikaw si Nakakairitang Kausap. 

Ako: Hindi ba parang luma na yang pausong yan ni Vice Ganda? 

VGW: Hinde, hinde! Hindi siya luma. Heto nga at naririnig mo pa sa akin diba? 

Ako: Hindi ba parang two years ago na yan? 

VGW: Hinde, hinde! Eto nga at ginagamit ko pa diba? Kasasabi ko lang diba? Paulet ulet? Tokyo tokyo? 

Ako: Pero teka, question... 

VGW: May sasabihin pa ako, bakla! Nagmamadale? Nagmamadale? May lakad? May lakad? 

Ako: Okay, ano ba yon? 

VGW: Hindi pa ako tapos mula sa kanina. Sayang naman ang pagkabisa ko... 

Ako: Hindi ka pa tapos? 

VGW: Hinde, hinde! Tapos na ko. Tapos na! ... 

(Medio tahimik ng onti. Hindi madugtungan ni VGW yung taray-tarayan niya eh. Mga dalawang minuto rin ang lumipas. Awkward na.) 

Ako: So tapos ka na nga ba? 

VGW: Hinde, hinde! Tapos na ko. Tapos na! ... 

(Tahimik pa ulit. Wala ito. Hindi talaga makaisip ng pan-dugtong si VGW. Awkward ulet. Sooo, pasok ulit ako.) 

Ako: May nabanggit kang "sayang naman ang pagkabisa ko." Bakit, ano ba kinabisado mo? Siguro yung sa paulet ulet?

VGW: Marunong pa sa ken, bakla? Marunong pa? 

Ako: Okay sige, ano ba yung sasabihin mo dapat?

VGW: Paulet ulet? Balic balic? Shabu shabu? Weather weather? 

Ako, sa loob loob ko: Ahhhh, yun pala yung kinabisado niya. Yung paulit ulit na mga salita. 

Ako: Okay ka na? 

VGW: Hinde, hinde! Hinde ako okay! Andami ko ngang problema oh. (Sabay turo sa mukha niyang naka-half smile.)

Ako, sa loob loob ko: Sarcastic ka pa kunyari. Hindi bagay. Heto magandang tanong...

Ako: Sooo... baleee... Hindi ka pa nakaka-move on sa ganyang klaseng patawa noh?

VGW: Hinde, hinde! Hindi pa ako naka-move on! Manghuhula ka ba? 

Ako, sa loob loob ko: Huli ka betch.

Ako: Alam mo, hindi ko maintindihan kung nagpapatawa ka pa o naging boring ka na sa pakikipag-usap mo. Ang akin kasi eh, oo, madaling gayahin yung estilo ni Vice Ganda. May formula eh. Heto yun oh: "Hinde, Hinde!" + "Hindi ako" + (Yung Tanong Mo sa Kanya) + (Kabaligtaran ng Tanong Mo sa Kanya Times Two) Halimbawa: Masaya ka ba sa ginagawa mo? Tapos sasagot ka ng "Hinde, Hinde! Hindi ako masaya sa ginagawa ko! Anlungkot ko nga eh, anlungkot!" Andaling sundan diba? Walang biglaan. Madaling hulaan kung ano ang susunod mong sasabihin. Alam mo eh minsan angkop sa yo ang status na "Mas masarap ka pang sampalin kaysa kausapin." Trying hard ka kasi eh. 

VGW: Sinasabi mo bang ang korni ko ha? 

Ako: Hinde, hinde! Hindi ka korni. Sobrang comedy ka, sobra. Alam mo kung ano ka? Nakakairita ka. Ayun ka. Alam mo, okay nga yang pauso na yan ni Vice Ganda kasi kahit papaano eh tinaktakan nito ng karagdagang saya ang natural na pagiging makulit nating mga Pilipino. Pero minsan kasi eh OA na. Maya't maya eh. Mas OA siguro yung tatag niyan. Dalawang taon na yan nung nauso ah. Medio palasak na nga eh. Hanggang ngayon kasi eh.

Ako: At bakit? Porke ba mahusay na komedyante ang ginagaya nyo eh magiging comedy ka na rin? Iba ang delivery at timing ni Vice Ganda. Hindi niyo kayang gayahin yon. Hindi niyo naisip na pag-aralan yung pasok ni Vice Ganda. Ang alam niyo lang eh yung Hinde Hinde niya. Shieeeeeettt!

Ako ay rinding rindi na sa walang katuturan at walang bagong kakornihan nitong aking kausap na si VGW. Vice Ganda Wannabe. Pagkasabi ko ng Shieeeeeettt! ay hindi ako nagdalawang isip na suntukin siya sa kaliwang suso niya sabay karipas ng takbo. Tuwang tuwa ako sa ginawa kong yon, lalo pa't alam kong 1. Hindi pa siya nakaka-recover sa reality check. at 2. Hindi niya ako kayang habulin. Kaya't sinamantala ko na ang saya ko at sinigawan ko siya ng "Wala na bang baagooo? Nakaka-burat kang kausap, gago!"

Haha, baliw-baliwan lang ang peg. Peeggg??? 

Walang kinalaman. Nai-post ko na ito minsan. Gusto ko lang sagarin ang pagtatagalog ko.

Let Me Introduce Myself Some More

**This is a weakly written nonsense about myself gone nowhere. Hello there. Pay attention while I go crazy aimless. 

That there is me. Thirty two, homo, tattooed. I could have posted a better picture of the jerk that maintains this blog, something that passes the qualifications of a good Photoshopping, but I gather this will answer. Why, nothing says personality more than a stolen shot, now is there? It captures the real vibe, the natural whatever, the gay core at it's most vulnerable. It's the best, oh yes. And, for the life of me, I don't know how to fucking Photoshop. I don't know how to forget, either. Here's to that. And why am I posting this now? I don't know. Call it a spur of the moment kind of plan, whatever. 

That picture was taken in his natural habitat, which is a drinking session. And there I am, captured unawares with a Marlboro Lights in hand, problems stewing in my head as I am waiting for my shot. We were getting plastered on gin, I remember, and I was seated next to one of my better punk friends. He's getting thinner and thinner each time I see him. I think he's high on something, but I don't give a shit. What's the matter, men? Talk to me. We're on the same boat, he screwed both of us big time! I love my friends. Seriously. I have work the next morning, but I... whatever. They all rock. Talk to me, will you? We used to have fun. Help me?

Anyway, this here's the fag that maintains this blog. Why now? Why not. I mean, seriously, why the hell not. Ask him anything. Questions about tattoos, however, will be gladly entertained with better details. Questions about love, life, organized religion, and your future are addressed by the Otherwise School of Logic. As in Otherwise, expect a great deal of dicking. It will be polite, it will try to have substance, but it will be dicking nonetheless. Don't act surprised. He's been trying to be funny for five years now. And he's giving that Trust thing another go, but guess the hell what? 

Oh. If you want to know what a Math graduate looks like, then that there's your answer. Yes. Well, some of them, at least. That there is me, and this here is me, in my most pointless limerick-y mosey-ing. Why! What is this most brilliant shit that I just wrote? And why am I having fun, pray tell? Can you tell I'm faking it, too? 

Anyway, hello you. Welcome to my blog. That there is me, Keep dropping by, will you? Will you please? How about a picture of my tits to keep your attention?

.              .

There!

A Cumshot of Sadness

The thirties are a bracing time for any homosexual guy. Most everybody else you know, at least the straight ones, are already married and are starting their own families. These days, they are usually giving you death by vomiting with each hourly update of their babies' uncute antics. You then consider losing your Facebook account.

I am bitter. Your kids are hella pretty. For real. Having said that, let's move along.

They look happy, though, and they feel happy, and you know it. You can see it in how their smiles match that familiar twinkle in their eyes. You imagined you had that twinkle before, but after two sharply disappointing relationships, you realize now that you are just faking it all this time. Everybody else is getting married, and you are still praying. But then, surviving all that deception toughened you up a lot, so you are a little less inclined to give a shit. You are now praying less.

I am bitter. I love you, and thank you for kissing me twice on the forehead while I'm getting that arm tattoo. I will continue loving you in spite of whatever. Having said that, let's move along.








I mean it, homo. You are a gay guy in your thirties. Move along. You should know better than to dwell... there is a reason why it's a cumshot's measure of sadness.