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

A Rape Story (Part 1)

**What you are about to read is wrongfully ripped off of the filthy pages of a friend's diary. I have nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the material that you may or may not choose to read. He got the fucking. I did the copying. We are talking rape here. You will, of course, choose to read it. And I am posting it here for your pleasure. 

Meanwhile, I am enjoying shutting you guys off with the disabled comments. I do not mean to be a stuck up bitch, oh hell no darling, but it saves me the goddamn trouble of having to explain why this post comes in two installations. 

Picture from the Hannington blog

Rape, to somebody with the shining morals and virtues of, say, a lump of charcoal is nothing more than getting sodomized without your explicit permission. That, there, is the size of the matter, the long and short of it, the gist and measure of this raping business. Oftentimes, the same libertine (or victim) may admit to liking the carnal trespassing altogether. Most especially when he has surrendered to him being un-rape-able (oh yeah, look at me now). 

My lover raped me this morning. I don't think he was as drunk as I guessed he was on account of he had the necessary strength to pin me down and then fuck me in the ass until he came. Ejaculation takes some time, most especially when the body is paralyzed with alcohol. But he went at it until he succeeded in his invasive mission. It took him about seven minutes, tops. 

We were drinking eight hours earlier that evening; we went through a box of the local brandy. A box of the local brandy is loaded with twelve one-liter bottles laced with 32% alcohol each. Potent, sure, but we were killing it with a thousand friends; it was four in the morning before anyone noticed. Before anyone Sober noticed. Our population of alcoholics was reduced to six. And this count included my lover, whose head was already in a 20 degree angle towards his next shot of fire water. 

We were home thirty minutes later. 

(Part Two is next week. I'm tired of long posts.)

Goooood Mooorningg!

Photo from Disney Wikia

I had four hours of sleep. I had to sacrifice a quick bite and a cup of coffee because I am going to be fifteen minutes late (and counting) for my 6am shift. I was hungrier than I expected, and I had to delay my caffeine fix for another hour at least. There isn't a goddamn tricycle in sight, and I have been waiting for about ten minutes now. The morning bustle's beginning to take form, and I'm starting to smell less like my body spray and more like a carbon monoxide ashtray. 

It goes without saying that I was the first thing in sour that morning, and my mood can't be anymore "Fuck you" than that. 

I was deciding on lighting another cigarette when I saw this trashy, green tricycle from afar. Like everything that was fastened together with chewed gum and staple wire, it was an uncomfortable vision. And then I heard it was as noisy as expected of a thing held together by chewed gum and staple wire. But it was vacant. It will answer. I hailed it. A truck of market vegetables passed me by, and it's dirty cargo of unwashed delivery boys shouted, "Hanep, punks!" Fucking muchacho tanzeros. 

Meanwhile, I noticed that my trashy, green tricycle was driven by this plump-ish, bearded old dude maybe in his fifties. He had smiling beady eyes, streaks of black curly hair below his green and white cap, and his leathery face was punctuated by wrinkles mostly around the eyes. I queried, "Bagong Ilog po?" And he nodded that universal third world gesture of "Get in" that is common amongst tricycle drivers. I got in. 

He blew me away as soon as I got myself seated in his most uncomfortable transport. Literally. What he did was an instant sunrise to my already sour morning. He shouted "Good Morning!" in this distinct loud and raspy voice, in the middle of all that morning hustle and bustle, in the face of my building frustration. 

"GOOOOD MOORRNING!" 

Photo from Homemaker

What the fuck, Manong? 

It never occured to me that this old dude was tripping. That strange gesture arrested my attention. It was a "Good Morning!" that resonated in four different octaves. It was resounding. It was loud. It cut through everybody's noisy bullshit like a white hot knife through soft butter, yeah yeah. I liked it, and in spite of myself, it made me smile. 

That ugly morning was cut short where I least expect it. A very loud and very polite tricycle driver? Life has the weirdest turns.

Lousy Writing

**This was recently submitted for consideration, and I received judgment a week later. I was told it was, in a way, rather primitive. I read it again. Oh hell yes. It sure is a weak motherfucker. This is a lesson in reading yourself back; there is some benefit to be had. Meanwhile, I could write about that thieving bitch, Napoles, but there isn't a word that even comes close to the kind of white hot loathing I have for her.  

Image from gotchacomix.

On Protestations

Here's the thing: 

1. Most of those rallyists are hungry and unemployed. Why, I even dare to suppose that they go to those meetings just for the instant noodles. 
2. There are 900,000 call center agents in the Philippines as of 2010. That's a hundred thousand short of a million. And that was three years ago. 
3. The BPO industry in the Philippines was forecasted to have earned between US$11 to $13 billion. This was in 2010. Notice the dollar sign. 
4. Any random call center agent takes home an average monthly salary of P18,000. 

Here's the Question: Can you, you jobless rallyists you, give us another 18K a month job? At least 18K a month? No? I'm sorry, what? You'll give yourselves that job first? 

Here's the Solution: If you can find the time to hold a protest, then you sure as hell can find the time to look for a job. You have no authority to meddle with our bread and butter. You have nothing but the borrowed courage and second hand opinions of a troublesome mob. That's what you are. A mob. Do you even know what we're doing in the first place? No? I thought so. Leave them alone. Leave us alone. You get yourself a haircut, hand in that bio data (which is blue collar talk for a resume), and pay your taxes like the rest of us useful call center agents do. 

Dirty third world jobless freeloaders.