Friday, December 30, 2016
Countdown to New Year: One Day Left!
**Have you kissed your digits goodbye yet? Here's to you and your fireworks.
Friday, December 23, 2016
My Worst Christmas Memory
I've never had a bad Christmas until that one in 95. My mother, she's a doll I tell you, and she was wrapping singulary empty gift boxes. She was more like preparing them for display than having them summarize the holidays with new stuff on Christmas morning.
She had enough money for boxes, gift wrap, and tape, but not enough for actual presents. I was never a brat, but there was still some reasonable materialism in my person. Practice made it all the more refined. And with all my previous Christmases, I had more than my proper share of practice. My holiday spirit was this growingly greedy presence, more like an evolving summary of my abundant Christmases past. And it was that same nasty spirit, however improperly reasonable because it uses "upbringing" as an excuse, which played a big role in imprinting that memory with severe graphic detail.
I tell you, you don't forget things like that. It killed my expectations, made quick work of paralyzing my Christmas Spirit, and left me decidedly less convinced of a merry Christmas that year.
Friday, December 16, 2016
Top Ten Reasons Why I'm This Close to Hating Filipino Taxi Drivers (Updated with Your Comments!)
**Of course, I am not referring to ALL of them, but there are certain drivers who give you THE impression that they all attended the same dipshit taxi driver college.
**Meanwhile, I first wrote this six years ago, December 10, 2010. I felt like reposting this now on account of I sort of miss the interaction I had with my readers then. Plus I am still licking scratch wounds somewhere, and that has been keeping me from publishing fresh content.
1. They have to stop over for a gas refill. While the meter is running.
The only reason why a middle class queen bee like myself hails a cab is when I feel like I'm going to be late. My kinky night job guarantees less traffic, so I can allot some ten minutes to get to the office. Imagine my frustration as some taxi driver takes away five minutes of my allowance to refill his tank. We could have been using those five minutes to close the gap between my person and the office, but no. Hateful Taxi Driver Man has to take his time with what he can be doing while he's cruising, and he takes mine in the process.
Of course, I can always leave home earlier, but I have to allow at least thirty minutes to prepare, twenty minutes of which are spent in the washroom rolling the packaging tape.
2. They are closeted war freaks.
I remember this one time, just recently, when this driver got into a heated argument with a truck driver who refuses to give way. The taxi driver stops our cab in the middle of the road, catches the attention of this truck driver, attempts to pull him over, and he shouts the foulest of expletives at the same time. Its not love at first sight. Mr Taxi Driver Man is obviously provoking the fight out of Chickenshit Truck Driver Man. Chickenshit Truck Driver Man, being the surprising coward that he turns out to be, stays behind the driver seat and screams like a girl.
My Macho Posturing Dick Taxi Driver Man was grinning like a champion inbreed as he drives me home. This after alarming the shit out of my person.
3. They're sometimes grossly unhygienic.
Imagine being in an enclosed air conditioned space, and you're sitting next to this taxi driver who, after several minutes, reveals his alter ego without as much as a warning. Or a handkerchief. You find out that he doubles as this symphony conductor who specializes in wind instruments. Now, imagine those wind instruments as hoarse and throaty pipes with some sort of fluid discharge. And you find residual specks of said discharge on his steering wheel.
And then you begin to wonder: should you investigate your arms and the sleeves of your shirt for similar traces? You're thinking about it, because it will appear unethical. See, you want to shower him with kindness, as he was doing you with his spittle. So fuck you, Phlegmatic Taxi Driver Man, you and your unused Good Morning Towels suck.
4. They a. bore you b. make you uncomfortable c. freak you out with unnecessary small talk
And, as always, its the same old unending tirade on oil price hikes, bitch fits against the government, and oil price hikes. And bitch fits against the government. See, its the same silly tiring truck you probably heard from the last taxi driver who drove you home. And from the one before him. And you'll probably be adding your current driver, Boringly Dense Taxi Driver Man, in your list.
I actually wrote a piece about this certain sub specie. You might want to check out "My Three Wisemen Rode Metered Camels."
5. They drive with a death wish. And, being her gay impersonator, I just quoted Jessica Zafra.
It's a wonderful way to commute, them taxi cabs, what with the isolation from them cheap ass jeepney passengers, but it just might turn out to be my coffin with wheels as Eat Your Heart Out Knight Rider Taxi Driver Man here goes 300 on a 120mph road. Mach 5, baby. Sure, they take me home faster, but I still want to get home. Like, you know, alive and stuff.
6. They over-charge.
Its either that, or they don't offer Basic Subtraction in Taxi Driver College. Or they never make sure that they have coins or small bills. You know, with which to make change. So what I do is I make sure that they do; I sometimes pay with coins. Of course, this is simply in response to their scripted "Ay, wala kayong barya? Wala akong panukli diyan." (Ay, do you have smaller bills? I wouldn't be able to make change.) I'm just being a girl scout.
That's how you deal with the Greedy Dipshit Taxi Driver Man. You sometimes have to be an asshole in return.
7. They give you a hard time when its raining.
We all know that, by default, they overcharge when its raining hard. That's a fairly charitable understatement. And that's if and only if, underscore ONLY IF they agree to drive you to wherever the hell it is you're going.
Imagine yourself suffering this screening process for close to an hour, only to have your relief cut short by having Choosy Sonofabitch Taxi Driver Man small talk you to death on your way home. If the small talk doesn't get you, then the scary driving will. Or the fare.
They should know that karma in the year 2008 is digital. Its faster. Like broadband faster. Waaay faster than it was ten years ago. They should shudder this early on.
8. Sarah Geronimo should know that she used to sound like Celine Dion, but she was still a virgin back then. So she ought to stop trying hard to hit those notes because she's becoming so borderline desperate.
Oops, wrong list. But, while we're at it, I still think she should stop wearing those shiny clothes, too.
If you don't know who she is, then don't google her. What you don't know won't hurt your eyes or your ears. Or your sense of proper manners. Its not nice to throw insults, see?
9. You sometimes need to add twenty to fifty pesos more.
And then they'll take you in. It's either this, or number 10.
10. They forget to turn the meter on.
Of course, we know this is just a practiced scam which gives them the excuse to charge you their preferred fare. It's either this, or number 9, which ever comes first.
11.
12.
14.
This reminds me of this one time when this driver asked me what time I was supposed to be at the office. I know I left home early; I have about an hour left before logging in, and then the commute will take me another five minutes. Tops. So I told him that I was early for work. And then he asked me if I want to check in a motel with him. I said no. Because he was old and he was likely 12 out of those 14 hateful taxi driver types. And with that in mind, allow me one more quote
**Meanwhile, I first wrote this six years ago, December 10, 2010. I felt like reposting this now on account of I sort of miss the interaction I had with my readers then. Plus I am still licking scratch wounds somewhere, and that has been keeping me from publishing fresh content.
1. They have to stop over for a gas refill. While the meter is running.
The only reason why a middle class queen bee like myself hails a cab is when I feel like I'm going to be late. My kinky night job guarantees less traffic, so I can allot some ten minutes to get to the office. Imagine my frustration as some taxi driver takes away five minutes of my allowance to refill his tank. We could have been using those five minutes to close the gap between my person and the office, but no. Hateful Taxi Driver Man has to take his time with what he can be doing while he's cruising, and he takes mine in the process.
Of course, I can always leave home earlier, but I have to allow at least thirty minutes to prepare, twenty minutes of which are spent in the washroom rolling the packaging tape.
2. They are closeted war freaks.
I remember this one time, just recently, when this driver got into a heated argument with a truck driver who refuses to give way. The taxi driver stops our cab in the middle of the road, catches the attention of this truck driver, attempts to pull him over, and he shouts the foulest of expletives at the same time. Its not love at first sight. Mr Taxi Driver Man is obviously provoking the fight out of Chickenshit Truck Driver Man. Chickenshit Truck Driver Man, being the surprising coward that he turns out to be, stays behind the driver seat and screams like a girl.
My Macho Posturing Dick Taxi Driver Man was grinning like a champion inbreed as he drives me home. This after alarming the shit out of my person.
3. They're sometimes grossly unhygienic.
Imagine being in an enclosed air conditioned space, and you're sitting next to this taxi driver who, after several minutes, reveals his alter ego without as much as a warning. Or a handkerchief. You find out that he doubles as this symphony conductor who specializes in wind instruments. Now, imagine those wind instruments as hoarse and throaty pipes with some sort of fluid discharge. And you find residual specks of said discharge on his steering wheel.
And then you begin to wonder: should you investigate your arms and the sleeves of your shirt for similar traces? You're thinking about it, because it will appear unethical. See, you want to shower him with kindness, as he was doing you with his spittle. So fuck you, Phlegmatic Taxi Driver Man, you and your unused Good Morning Towels suck.
4. They a. bore you b. make you uncomfortable c. freak you out with unnecessary small talk
And, as always, its the same old unending tirade on oil price hikes, bitch fits against the government, and oil price hikes. And bitch fits against the government. See, its the same silly tiring truck you probably heard from the last taxi driver who drove you home. And from the one before him. And you'll probably be adding your current driver, Boringly Dense Taxi Driver Man, in your list.
I actually wrote a piece about this certain sub specie. You might want to check out "My Three Wisemen Rode Metered Camels."
5. They drive with a death wish. And, being her gay impersonator, I just quoted Jessica Zafra.
It's a wonderful way to commute, them taxi cabs, what with the isolation from them cheap ass jeepney passengers, but it just might turn out to be my coffin with wheels as Eat Your Heart Out Knight Rider Taxi Driver Man here goes 300 on a 120mph road. Mach 5, baby. Sure, they take me home faster, but I still want to get home. Like, you know, alive and stuff.
6. They over-charge.
Its either that, or they don't offer Basic Subtraction in Taxi Driver College. Or they never make sure that they have coins or small bills. You know, with which to make change. So what I do is I make sure that they do; I sometimes pay with coins. Of course, this is simply in response to their scripted "Ay, wala kayong barya? Wala akong panukli diyan." (Ay, do you have smaller bills? I wouldn't be able to make change.) I'm just being a girl scout.
That's how you deal with the Greedy Dipshit Taxi Driver Man. You sometimes have to be an asshole in return.
7. They give you a hard time when its raining.
We all know that, by default, they overcharge when its raining hard. That's a fairly charitable understatement. And that's if and only if, underscore ONLY IF they agree to drive you to wherever the hell it is you're going.
Imagine yourself suffering this screening process for close to an hour, only to have your relief cut short by having Choosy Sonofabitch Taxi Driver Man small talk you to death on your way home. If the small talk doesn't get you, then the scary driving will. Or the fare.
They should know that karma in the year 2008 is digital. Its faster. Like broadband faster. Waaay faster than it was ten years ago. They should shudder this early on.
8. Sarah Geronimo should know that she used to sound like Celine Dion, but she was still a virgin back then. So she ought to stop trying hard to hit those notes because she's becoming so borderline desperate.
Oops, wrong list. But, while we're at it, I still think she should stop wearing those shiny clothes, too.
If you don't know who she is, then don't google her. What you don't know won't hurt your eyes or your ears. Or your sense of proper manners. Its not nice to throw insults, see?
9. You sometimes need to add twenty to fifty pesos more.
And then they'll take you in. It's either this, or number 10.
10. They forget to turn the meter on.
Of course, we know this is just a practiced scam which gives them the excuse to charge you their preferred fare. It's either this, or number 9, which ever comes first.
11.
You forgot to mention ODORS. I've endured many a taxi ride, inhaling at 3 minute intervals because of the rank stench of any of (but not limited to) the following : sweaty feet, shawarma armpits, or wet dog. Seriously. -- Sitting PrettyOh, good point, Sitting Pretty. And then sometimes, they sleep on their own cabs too, their bare feet resting lovely on that steering wheel after a whole day of driving. And I'll wager my long legs that those steering wheels stink of foot sweat.
12.
"What about taxi drivers who'd pretend not to know your destination or those who'd take the looooooooong route" -- OrallyAnd then Vajarl goes for the kill with this darling example
"Kanikanina lang, pasakay ako ng taxi, sabe saken "Magkano po binabayad nyo ron?" Sabe ko "Di po ba may metro?" Sabe nya, nako hindi kase ako naghahatid don, kaya magkano bibigay nyo?" Since marami akong dala, nagsabi na ko ng "70 pesos".Malapit lang naman. At 70 lang ang barya ko. Sabe ba naman "Eh 70 ren yun pag minetro ko eh." POTANGENA LANG." -- Vajarl13.
"Been reading your blog for a while now, and I gotta say you elevate shit into fine art". -- A Fistful Of Moonbeams™I was thinking of another Sarah Geronimo punchline, but I had to post this darling comment. I am now an artiste. Or something with enough quality crap to his bearing. And for all the right reasons, I figured I could well use a compliment.
14.
"One time I was on this taxi on my way to Eastwood.Maybe he was crusing, and that Christina Aguilera song was an invitation to his... motives. Scary.
The driver was flipping between radio stations. Somehow, the rock songs, OPM ballads, the "Tot-tot-tot" do not appeal to him, so he keeps switching.
And then he stopped at a radio station playing a song he liked.
"Beautiful" by Christina Aguilera'" -- Glentot
This reminds me of this one time when this driver asked me what time I was supposed to be at the office. I know I left home early; I have about an hour left before logging in, and then the commute will take me another five minutes. Tops. So I told him that I was early for work. And then he asked me if I want to check in a motel with him. I said no. Because he was old and he was likely 12 out of those 14 hateful taxi driver types. And with that in mind, allow me one more quote
"I maybe easy, but I'm not cheap!" -- Aubrey Miles, from the movie Singles
Friday, December 09, 2016
Would You Delete a Dead Friend From Your Friendster List?
**Cannibalized¹ and amended, all for your reading pleasure. Or displeasure. I've been writing about vaginas and breastfeeding recently, and I was supposed to follow suit with a helpful tip on where to get your offline porn. But it will be Halloween in a few days, so I gathered this will be better received.
The last time I saw him was in Teriyaki Boy in the Mega Strip. We were four tables away, and I was just so involved with my lunch that I elected to stay put and just greet him later. I was too hungry to be sociable, then, and I'd far rather attend to my rice than to get up and exchange pleasantries. I remember them calling the waiter, so they probably haven't ordered yet. I was thinking that I'll probably approach them later, after I've had lunch. But this heavy lunch was followed immediately by a couple of cigarettes, and since the air was so perfect outside, we decided to freshen out and smoke for another thirty minutes.
I never got to approach him. But then, I reckoned I'd just "make kuwento" the next time I saw him. Or maybe I'd just send him a quick message in Friendster and try to catch up on things. Not entirely personal, and not very warm; I am a jerk at the very least, but at least it goes to show that I'm trying to keep in touch.
That message never happened. I was just so busy with my offline life that signing in to any of my online activities became the least of my concerns. Turns out that I'll have no chance to say hello at all. It was a few weeks since I last saw him that I learned of his death in a car accident. He didn't die from the accident itself, but he died from the internal injuries brought about by this terrible collision.
I didn't say hello when I had the chance. And, like the irresponsible friend that I am, I never went to his funeral at all. Maybe because I didn't know what to make of this situation which I never thought possible. But for the most part, I dreaded the thought of seeing any of my friends in a coffin.Fast forward to almost five years today, and he's still in my Friendster list. And, like the recovering social networking junkie that I am, I'm still logging in to it from time to time. But I guess there's still no point in sending him that message. I don't think they have Friendster from where he is right now.
¹This is a repost from July of 2007.
The last time I saw him was in Teriyaki Boy in the Mega Strip. We were four tables away, and I was just so involved with my lunch that I elected to stay put and just greet him later. I was too hungry to be sociable, then, and I'd far rather attend to my rice than to get up and exchange pleasantries. I remember them calling the waiter, so they probably haven't ordered yet. I was thinking that I'll probably approach them later, after I've had lunch. But this heavy lunch was followed immediately by a couple of cigarettes, and since the air was so perfect outside, we decided to freshen out and smoke for another thirty minutes.I never got to approach him. But then, I reckoned I'd just "make kuwento" the next time I saw him. Or maybe I'd just send him a quick message in Friendster and try to catch up on things. Not entirely personal, and not very warm; I am a jerk at the very least, but at least it goes to show that I'm trying to keep in touch.
That message never happened. I was just so busy with my offline life that signing in to any of my online activities became the least of my concerns. Turns out that I'll have no chance to say hello at all. It was a few weeks since I last saw him that I learned of his death in a car accident. He didn't die from the accident itself, but he died from the internal injuries brought about by this terrible collision.
I didn't say hello when I had the chance. And, like the irresponsible friend that I am, I never went to his funeral at all. Maybe because I didn't know what to make of this situation which I never thought possible. But for the most part, I dreaded the thought of seeing any of my friends in a coffin.Fast forward to almost five years today, and he's still in my Friendster list. And, like the recovering social networking junkie that I am, I'm still logging in to it from time to time. But I guess there's still no point in sending him that message. I don't think they have Friendster from where he is right now.
¹This is a repost from July of 2007.
Friday, December 02, 2016
Schedule a Colostomy and Save a Friend!
**This goes out to them perpetually pissed off sort of people whose disposition, come hell or high water, are always in direct proportion to the kind of things they have stuck up their ass. I'm sure you know somebody like him.
There's this person I've known for close to five years now, and, thankfully, we're not friends. I see him almost every day, and what little pleasantries we've exchanged are limited to a word count of five. I never talk to him if I can help it on account of he's almost always frowning, and he could be, for all I know, biologically engineered to breathe fire. That smirk on his face works as good as a fingerprint -- it's the best identification he's got. I'm not stretching the truth when I tell you that I rarely see him smile. It's as if his face repels cheer and sunshine and all that creamy goodness, and it appears like he doesn't mind being a wet blanket towards everybody else's high spirits.
This dish rag, because he's got the personality of one, is pushing 40 now. Or at least he looks like it with the way he's always frowning. So there's just absolutely no point in teaching old sour dogs new cheerful tricks. Like smiling and stuff.
I'm not going to size him up, at least not any more, or decipher his corrosive psychological code because there's no real objective behind such a frustrating undertaking. Let's leave that to expensive shrinks who are getting paid for their intestinal fortitude. Or to them idle self-serving dipshits who think they're smart enough to unravel everybody else's behavioral patterns and then post their observations as Facebook shout outs. I mentioned Mr. Anthrope here (as opposed to Ms. Anthrope, which sounds like Misanthrope, which means "world hater" -- get it?) because you probably know somebody, maybe a far removed family member who lives in the same house, or an ex-friend who got kicked off the Emo-bandwagon because he was taking things a tad too seriously, anybody with a severely toxic disposition. And you don't know what to do with them. At least anything humane.
And so allow me to hazard several suggestions.
1. Imagine a self-restraining order in your head, like a uranium-green neon Post It that says "Keep the Fuck Away!" when you're within ten feet of said Toxic Person. And because it will be in your head, make sure it's very accessible for future recall. Maybe tuck that next to that mental file cabinet that's labelled "Favorite Masturbatory Fantasies," and leave that as it is. Do this if you got luck and you;re not in speaking terms with said Toxic Person. Or at least you used to be.
2. Stop talking to him. Delete him from your Facebook network. Remove his number from your cellphone, so that you reply with a "Who you?" the next time he sends you a message. Just cut him off completely, and pray well that he gets the hint.
3. Be as equally cheerful as he is toxic and become the more irritating of the two of you. Show all your teeth when you smile at him (which will be every ten to twenty minutes), always talk in rising pitches, high five until it's an involuntary reflex, and small talk like you breathe unnecessary banter. Become so thoroughly irritating to him that he cuts you off first, and then congratulate yourself.
4. Drug his coffee with 3,000 mg of the strongest over the counter laxative. Or whatever dosage that's potent enough to make him shit a five pound brick. Studies show that grumpy people more or less have something stuck up their ass, and I'm hoping that this exercise in conditioning bowel movement works like a charm. If it doesn't, and he's still no more cheerful after that nuclear shit, then tell yourself that at least you tried. And find wisdom in these two words - Shit happens.
5. Find yourself a good proctologist and schedule a colostomy. Maybe, just maybe, two ass holes will do him good.
There's this person I've known for close to five years now, and, thankfully, we're not friends. I see him almost every day, and what little pleasantries we've exchanged are limited to a word count of five. I never talk to him if I can help it on account of he's almost always frowning, and he could be, for all I know, biologically engineered to breathe fire. That smirk on his face works as good as a fingerprint -- it's the best identification he's got. I'm not stretching the truth when I tell you that I rarely see him smile. It's as if his face repels cheer and sunshine and all that creamy goodness, and it appears like he doesn't mind being a wet blanket towards everybody else's high spirits. This dish rag, because he's got the personality of one, is pushing 40 now. Or at least he looks like it with the way he's always frowning. So there's just absolutely no point in teaching old sour dogs new cheerful tricks. Like smiling and stuff.
I'm not going to size him up, at least not any more, or decipher his corrosive psychological code because there's no real objective behind such a frustrating undertaking. Let's leave that to expensive shrinks who are getting paid for their intestinal fortitude. Or to them idle self-serving dipshits who think they're smart enough to unravel everybody else's behavioral patterns and then post their observations as Facebook shout outs. I mentioned Mr. Anthrope here (as opposed to Ms. Anthrope, which sounds like Misanthrope, which means "world hater" -- get it?) because you probably know somebody, maybe a far removed family member who lives in the same house, or an ex-friend who got kicked off the Emo-bandwagon because he was taking things a tad too seriously, anybody with a severely toxic disposition. And you don't know what to do with them. At least anything humane. And so allow me to hazard several suggestions.
1. Imagine a self-restraining order in your head, like a uranium-green neon Post It that says "Keep the Fuck Away!" when you're within ten feet of said Toxic Person. And because it will be in your head, make sure it's very accessible for future recall. Maybe tuck that next to that mental file cabinet that's labelled "Favorite Masturbatory Fantasies," and leave that as it is. Do this if you got luck and you;re not in speaking terms with said Toxic Person. Or at least you used to be.
2. Stop talking to him. Delete him from your Facebook network. Remove his number from your cellphone, so that you reply with a "Who you?" the next time he sends you a message. Just cut him off completely, and pray well that he gets the hint.
3. Be as equally cheerful as he is toxic and become the more irritating of the two of you. Show all your teeth when you smile at him (which will be every ten to twenty minutes), always talk in rising pitches, high five until it's an involuntary reflex, and small talk like you breathe unnecessary banter. Become so thoroughly irritating to him that he cuts you off first, and then congratulate yourself.
4. Drug his coffee with 3,000 mg of the strongest over the counter laxative. Or whatever dosage that's potent enough to make him shit a five pound brick. Studies show that grumpy people more or less have something stuck up their ass, and I'm hoping that this exercise in conditioning bowel movement works like a charm. If it doesn't, and he's still no more cheerful after that nuclear shit, then tell yourself that at least you tried. And find wisdom in these two words - Shit happens.
5. Find yourself a good proctologist and schedule a colostomy. Maybe, just maybe, two ass holes will do him good.
Friday, November 25, 2016
I Am Now Quitting Blogging
I know you all might think that this is too sudden. But I've thought about this, really, and it is with inconsolable regret that I cry out this announcement:
I am now prepared to completely discontinue this blog. And I have just signed up for a bigger house.
Of course I'm pulling your legs right after your boxers, my Dearly Beloved. This is my house, and there's no leaving. My updates, as of the late, are borderline postponed, however, because I am imagining that I am in love.
I am now prepared to completely discontinue this blog. And I have just signed up for a bigger house.
Of course I'm pulling your legs right after your boxers, my Dearly Beloved. This is my house, and there's no leaving. My updates, as of the late, are borderline postponed, however, because I am imagining that I am in love.
Friday, November 18, 2016
Hard Talked
I was told, just recently, that the reason I never get a good man is because I am easy to get. And you know what, My Dearly Beloved, something tells me that I should agree with this straight talking rock and roll tattooed friend. The past few assholes I've dated should be testimony enough. God damn it, I am easy to get, and I should make the right improvements.
What happened last week? I was rightful tired of dating yet another wrong man.
What happened last week? I was rightful tired of dating yet another wrong man.
Friday, November 04, 2016
Finally
You see, My Dearly Beloved, Section 7, which is the criminal charge that was filed against him, which is what I'll be referring to him now, Section 7 has been recently released from his incarceration, and I'm celebrating plenty now, because I get to sleep better after more than seven weeks.
There.
There.
Friday, October 28, 2016
I Don't Do Trick or Treat
**I posted this in 2011, and it's still wildly relevant today.
**Not enough Halloween fun to go around that we have to borrow some other country's crap?
None of the people I knew growing up had to do trick or treat. We were so decidedly quasi-ghetto that my Halloweens were trips to the cemetery where we would make balls out of candle wax drippings. I know its primitive, and it sure as hell hurt, but it kept us entertained until it hurt some more. Then we'd whine our grown ups to take us home. We'd whine with wonderful industry if we happened to be in the cemetery on a Saturday afternoon because we can't afford to miss Noli de Castro hosting the all too creepy Magandang Gabi Bayan Halloween special.
Them 80's were a fucking good time to do Halloween. Halloween's mostly a laid back affair where we'd get high on mostly primitive shit that in no remote way resembled what other countries did on that same day. We're mostly cool with our wax balls and our scary TV shows. But we were largely original with our celebration, basic but original, and we kept to our own like what our parents did. Fast forward to twenty years later, and the whole celebration started getting different. Its not the transgendered kind of different, nor is it the receding hairline kind of different. It's more of the irrelevant kind of different because our kids are doing Trick or Treat now.
Now let me give you the reassuring claim that when I'm wrong, then I'm most definitely certainly wrong, and I think Filipino kids dressing up to do trick or treat is so wrong its borderline stupid. I admit I'm all in for the aesthetics. Cute is cute, no contest, but its the whole idea that bugs me. What kind of rice are we eating these days that gave us the idea its okay for our Filipino kids to go Trick or Treating? Are we becoming so Americanized that we have to dress up our kids for candies like what they're doing? Do we even know why we're doing it? Have we finally run out of third-world things to do on Halloween? Or for the rest of the year for that matter? Because if we are, then there's no reason why we should stop with Halloween. We might as well do Thanksgiving, and we'll do it not for any cultural significance, most definitely not for the Indians, not for shit, but for the poultry. And why shouldn't we? We're already dressing our kids up like little brown devils to ask for candy, we might as well go overtime with all this cultural social climbing and do Thanksgiving. Halloween for the candy, Thanksgiving for the turkey. But we should learn how to stuff that Andok's chicken this early on.
All in all, this trick or treating business among our kids, our Filipino kids, has got to be a singularly conceited affair that makes no sense in this third world country. Truth is, we all probably grew up in the same dark ages where our Halloweens were identified with candle wax balls and ghost stories on TV. But I never grew this unnecessary inclination to dress up my nieces or nephews as ghosts, goblins, hookers, or sperm bank tellers just for treats. I wouldn't know how to make sense of it all. Kids are terribly inquisitive little devils by default, and I know one of them will ask me WHY THE HELL am I wasting good money on cheap-ass costumes that make gay dipshits of them.
I really wouldn't know what to say to that. I'll just teach them how to make the baddest candle wax ball instead.
**Not enough Halloween fun to go around that we have to borrow some other country's crap?
None of the people I knew growing up had to do trick or treat. We were so decidedly quasi-ghetto that my Halloweens were trips to the cemetery where we would make balls out of candle wax drippings. I know its primitive, and it sure as hell hurt, but it kept us entertained until it hurt some more. Then we'd whine our grown ups to take us home. We'd whine with wonderful industry if we happened to be in the cemetery on a Saturday afternoon because we can't afford to miss Noli de Castro hosting the all too creepy Magandang Gabi Bayan Halloween special.
Them 80's were a fucking good time to do Halloween. Halloween's mostly a laid back affair where we'd get high on mostly primitive shit that in no remote way resembled what other countries did on that same day. We're mostly cool with our wax balls and our scary TV shows. But we were largely original with our celebration, basic but original, and we kept to our own like what our parents did. Fast forward to twenty years later, and the whole celebration started getting different. Its not the transgendered kind of different, nor is it the receding hairline kind of different. It's more of the irrelevant kind of different because our kids are doing Trick or Treat now.
Now let me give you the reassuring claim that when I'm wrong, then I'm most definitely certainly wrong, and I think Filipino kids dressing up to do trick or treat is so wrong its borderline stupid. I admit I'm all in for the aesthetics. Cute is cute, no contest, but its the whole idea that bugs me. What kind of rice are we eating these days that gave us the idea its okay for our Filipino kids to go Trick or Treating? Are we becoming so Americanized that we have to dress up our kids for candies like what they're doing? Do we even know why we're doing it? Have we finally run out of third-world things to do on Halloween? Or for the rest of the year for that matter? Because if we are, then there's no reason why we should stop with Halloween. We might as well do Thanksgiving, and we'll do it not for any cultural significance, most definitely not for the Indians, not for shit, but for the poultry. And why shouldn't we? We're already dressing our kids up like little brown devils to ask for candy, we might as well go overtime with all this cultural social climbing and do Thanksgiving. Halloween for the candy, Thanksgiving for the turkey. But we should learn how to stuff that Andok's chicken this early on.
All in all, this trick or treating business among our kids, our Filipino kids, has got to be a singularly conceited affair that makes no sense in this third world country. Truth is, we all probably grew up in the same dark ages where our Halloweens were identified with candle wax balls and ghost stories on TV. But I never grew this unnecessary inclination to dress up my nieces or nephews as ghosts, goblins, hookers, or sperm bank tellers just for treats. I wouldn't know how to make sense of it all. Kids are terribly inquisitive little devils by default, and I know one of them will ask me WHY THE HELL am I wasting good money on cheap-ass costumes that make gay dipshits of them.
I really wouldn't know what to say to that. I'll just teach them how to make the baddest candle wax ball instead.
Friday, October 21, 2016
You Gave Me Flowers This Day Last Year
We progressed to calling each other the kind of names shared by drunk texters, and we shouldn't have because I started waiting for your texts. I knew then that something's not right. You don't usually text, though, you call, and I looked forward to those too with a smile in my heart. I shouldn't have. I was confident that I've gotten over wasteful shit like what we were going through then. You shouldn't have given me flowers. You shouldn't have encouraged me.
You shouldn't have. Now I'm a mess. I'm a haggard mess because I'm trying to impress some guy in prison. This isn't easy, you see. There is no way in hell that three visits in a work week is healthy. They aren't. It's not easy to be all friendly and shit towards turd figures of authority who call you names and ask a lot of bullshit and call you sexy while they're moving their hands up and down your waist and ass. It's not easy to be all smiles and cheer because I just got home from a nine hour shift. It's not easy to spend less on myself because I wanted to spend more on his food and his toiletries and his groceries. I had no fucking idea that they charge fifty pesos per visit. Hell yes.
I had no idea that I'll be going all out for someone now this time last year. What makes it worse, though, is that I'm doing this under the pretense that I'm trying to get to know him better. What I know so far is that he tested negative, and that he seems nice, and that I'm still a hundred percent doubtful. I do know for a God Damned fact that this will not work out. I don't doubt the familiar hurt that's just waiting to pounce on me and grip my heart between its saber teeth. I'm losing sleep now, and I'm losing weight too, and I'm always tired, and this never happened before you encouraged those hijo de la gran puta feelings.
I'm sorry but I sort of hate you now for giving me flowers this day last year. I was happier before you did that. For real.
Friday, October 14, 2016
My Last Break Up Was in February 2014
**And I remember every written detail of it like it was copy pasted in this week's update. I'm still waiting for the next break up though. But I need to have something to break for that to happen. I'm not in anything like that as of this writing, so I guess I'll have to wait.
"No, I'm good. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing."
I was stunned at how easy and casual those words slipped my lips. I have been through similar break ups, but there wasn't enough of them. I was cool, which was uncommon for I am letting go of a happy love. I was direct, which was unnatural for I'm sure I could argue my way back in if I wanted to. It was a happy kind of love after all. But I said No with the finality of a summary execution. And I said it twice in case he missed it the first time. One can never be too sure, my beloved Sweet Nuts.
It was the casual kind of No, the everyday No, the dismissive kind of No you'd use when the high school graduate behind the counter offers to upsize your fries.
"Would you like to upgrade your fries, sir?"
"No, I'm good. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing."
And he tried that again, and his voice was broken now. It was just the two of us in that dark room. We were lying in bed, smelling of our poisons: I, cigarettes, he, cheap brandy. It was humid, in spite of the reassuring noise of the creaky electric fan, because we chose to huddle with the sheets below our necks. It was his idea. My head rested on left arm, his right leg over both my thighs. We were clothed inside the cocoon that was smothered with the smell of dried sweat and saliva. It would have been the sweetest thing on most days. But we were breaking up on the dead hour of that Wednesday morning.
The smell of alcohol could have been downright criminal if he had plenty, but he was drinking for only two hours, for I timed it, and his breath was only slightly offensive. My nose was a few inches below his lips, and his mouth was troublesome with the nearly drunken rhetoric. Everything he said had this faint smell of cheap brandy, but anyway.
"You know I love you, By." And he kissed me below the left ear. It smelled. It tickled. "But this is what I'm used to. I grew up loving the (insert his Religion here), and I know I can save you. I want to save you, By." He kissed me on the left cheek, and then on the jawline, while his right hand played with the ruffled hair on my forehead. We are still cocooned in that smelly blanket. My arm pits are beginning to shed tears of their own.
"You remember that time you joked about not wanting to join us because you don't even have time to go to your church? I know you're a good person, but you can't be without Jesus." He hugged me tighter, and his cheeks hugged mine, and I can feel my face moisten with his breaking voice. Which is odd because my face never gets damp when we are this close. It is usually my southern regions, my physical Mindanao, my Puerto Princesa that gets rather worked up and excited when we are left to our own devices, but enough of that. My Baby's voice has broken, and he proceeds with the admirable courage he borrowed from his cheap brandy.
"By, please. I know you are a good person, and I love you for that. But I know I can save you if you let me. So what's it going to be? It's either you join my religion, or we'll call it quits."
"Would you like to add a sundae to your meal, sir?" Because that's what it sounded like to me.
Again, dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, remember that my nose was a few inches below his lips. And I got to thinking. If this is what redemption smelled like, then I'd far rather sign up for the other place. I'm kidding.
I knew, for some reason, that he will pop that question, by and by. But I never imagined that it will involve these consequences. Ours were the happy kind of love that was protected by our family and friends. It wasn't gossip-proof, but it rallied on. And it pushed through, and it sprinted, and it jumped, and it conquered (vomit) the two-year mark. We are looking forward to our third year together when he had to ask that infernal question. Goddamnit.
It is during charged times like this that I miss my cat the most. That jerk Prince hasn't been peeing for three days before he finally died in 2013. We thought it was just gas, or some boy cat broke his gay-ass heart, or some bad leaves he ate. The vet said it was normal for cats to nibble on potted plants. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing normal with how Prince lay sprawled below the sofa the day he died.
"No, I'm good. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing."
I was stunned at how easy and casual those words slipped my lips. I have been through similar break ups, but there wasn't enough of them. I was cool, which was uncommon for I am letting go of a happy love. I was direct, which was unnatural for I'm sure I could argue my way back in if I wanted to. It was a happy kind of love after all. But I said No with the finality of a summary execution. And I said it twice in case he missed it the first time. One can never be too sure, my beloved Sweet Nuts.
It was the casual kind of No, the everyday No, the dismissive kind of No you'd use when the high school graduate behind the counter offers to upsize your fries.
"Would you like to upgrade your fries, sir?"
"No, I'm good. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing."
And he tried that again, and his voice was broken now. It was just the two of us in that dark room. We were lying in bed, smelling of our poisons: I, cigarettes, he, cheap brandy. It was humid, in spite of the reassuring noise of the creaky electric fan, because we chose to huddle with the sheets below our necks. It was his idea. My head rested on left arm, his right leg over both my thighs. We were clothed inside the cocoon that was smothered with the smell of dried sweat and saliva. It would have been the sweetest thing on most days. But we were breaking up on the dead hour of that Wednesday morning.
The smell of alcohol could have been downright criminal if he had plenty, but he was drinking for only two hours, for I timed it, and his breath was only slightly offensive. My nose was a few inches below his lips, and his mouth was troublesome with the nearly drunken rhetoric. Everything he said had this faint smell of cheap brandy, but anyway.
"You know I love you, By." And he kissed me below the left ear. It smelled. It tickled. "But this is what I'm used to. I grew up loving the (insert his Religion here), and I know I can save you. I want to save you, By." He kissed me on the left cheek, and then on the jawline, while his right hand played with the ruffled hair on my forehead. We are still cocooned in that smelly blanket. My arm pits are beginning to shed tears of their own.
"You remember that time you joked about not wanting to join us because you don't even have time to go to your church? I know you're a good person, but you can't be without Jesus." He hugged me tighter, and his cheeks hugged mine, and I can feel my face moisten with his breaking voice. Which is odd because my face never gets damp when we are this close. It is usually my southern regions, my physical Mindanao, my Puerto Princesa that gets rather worked up and excited when we are left to our own devices, but enough of that. My Baby's voice has broken, and he proceeds with the admirable courage he borrowed from his cheap brandy.
"By, please. I know you are a good person, and I love you for that. But I know I can save you if you let me. So what's it going to be? It's either you join my religion, or we'll call it quits."
"Would you like to add a sundae to your meal, sir?" Because that's what it sounded like to me.
Again, dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, remember that my nose was a few inches below his lips. And I got to thinking. If this is what redemption smelled like, then I'd far rather sign up for the other place. I'm kidding.
I knew, for some reason, that he will pop that question, by and by. But I never imagined that it will involve these consequences. Ours were the happy kind of love that was protected by our family and friends. It wasn't gossip-proof, but it rallied on. And it pushed through, and it sprinted, and it jumped, and it conquered (vomit) the two-year mark. We are looking forward to our third year together when he had to ask that infernal question. Goddamnit.
It is during charged times like this that I miss my cat the most. That jerk Prince hasn't been peeing for three days before he finally died in 2013. We thought it was just gas, or some boy cat broke his gay-ass heart, or some bad leaves he ate. The vet said it was normal for cats to nibble on potted plants. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing normal with how Prince lay sprawled below the sofa the day he died.
Friday, October 07, 2016
Shit Break Four of Four
Oh yesss, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, yesss, I think I am doing consistently well with my Friday updates. Which is why I deserve this last shit break for the year.
Friday, September 30, 2016
Blog Soup #13: Dead Cats, King Tys, and Walking Slower
**It is now four minutes to Saturday. This means I made this Friday's deadline. Awesome sauce.
My cab driver swerved past this dead cat on the road because he said it was bad luck. It wasn't even black. It was red and mangled. And then he said it was "mas malas" (worse luck) to hit a live cat because that will be murder and the Virgin Mary will not like it.
His name is Tys, for Tyson, and he wanted a crown tattoo with the words "King Tys" below it. This will be his first, and if he had the actual courage to shut his royal piehole and get needled already, I remember he wanted it a few inches below his left shoulder. I only met him once, in a smoking area in Megamall, and I doubt I'll see him again. And on the off chance that I do see Tys again, then I doubt he'll get crowned a few inches below his left shoulder.
I walked slower today, and I enjoyed perspiring less. That, and I saw a lot more around me. I saw obscenely priced cup cakes with spectacular frostings of blue and red, ugly dresses on sale, big men with small tattoos, and display rack pastries that resembled piles of brown feces. I walked slower today, and this new wealth of impractical shit still impresses me somehow.
My cab driver swerved past this dead cat on the road because he said it was bad luck. It wasn't even black. It was red and mangled. And then he said it was "mas malas" (worse luck) to hit a live cat because that will be murder and the Virgin Mary will not like it.
His name is Tys, for Tyson, and he wanted a crown tattoo with the words "King Tys" below it. This will be his first, and if he had the actual courage to shut his royal piehole and get needled already, I remember he wanted it a few inches below his left shoulder. I only met him once, in a smoking area in Megamall, and I doubt I'll see him again. And on the off chance that I do see Tys again, then I doubt he'll get crowned a few inches below his left shoulder.
I walked slower today, and I enjoyed perspiring less. That, and I saw a lot more around me. I saw obscenely priced cup cakes with spectacular frostings of blue and red, ugly dresses on sale, big men with small tattoos, and display rack pastries that resembled piles of brown feces. I walked slower today, and this new wealth of impractical shit still impresses me somehow.
Friday, September 23, 2016
Be Safe
I've been in and out of prison these past couple of days. It will be a week tomorrow. Eighty of them crowd that cell, and it smells like death by armpit suffocation in there. This particular death is worse during the 6pm visits because it is usually at that time that half of Pasig Cirrehh's population gets the same idea, minus the "taking a bath" part, and visits.
He testified negative in the afternoon of that 2am buy bust operation. He was sleeping, says a mutual friend, when it happened, and he was jolted into a head aching wakefulness by people with long guns. What screwed them up though, him and five other friends, was when they signed this document that sealed them into custody as long as the investigation is going on. They are still detained as I am writing this.
He testified negative in the afternoon of that 2am buy bust operation. He was sleeping, says a mutual friend, when it happened, and he was jolted into a head aching wakefulness by people with long guns. What screwed them up though, him and five other friends, was when they signed this document that sealed them into custody as long as the investigation is going on. They are still detained as I am writing this.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Shit I Wrote About Facebook
Do not get me wrong, My Dearly Beloved, I like to Facebook. See, nothing compares to the disappointment of finding out how much time you've wasted on other people's business. Absolutely nothing. There is masturbation, but that dedicated art of pounding dick at least erupts in this satisfying climax that is both familiar and addictive. Like-ing does not get you anywhere near the object of your predatory erection's pants.
Oh wait. It does.
Meanwhile, here's a list of nonsense writing that's pointed at everybody's favorite waste of time. That includes myself, of course. I've been writing about Facebook since 2010. This blog's first write up, however, was posted in 2003. It's about breakfast. I have very little to show for it aside from this list that's nine items strong. I will argue, however, that the time I spent on Facebook was dedicated to pure research. And if you ask me, I am not buying that research shit.
1. My Rules on Facebook Likes (Thursday, November 20, 2014)
2. A Message for You Facebook Philosophers (Sunday, September 04, 2011)
3. What to Write on Jesus' Facebook Wall (Friday, May 24, 2013)
4. Truly, Facebook Brings Out the Attention Whore in Each of Us (Wednesday, March 17, 2010)
5. The Seven Annoying Facebook Posters (Introducing The Loser Meter!) (Sunday, November 07, 2010, and this was reposted just recently because it is still relevant)
6. Here's a Tip on What To Like in Facebook (Saturday, June 25, 2011)
7. I Hate Your "Omg I'm So Ugleeeehhh Huhuhu" Facebook Selfie (Friday, August 02, 2013)
8. This is Why I Hate Your Second "I'm Bored" Facebook Status (Friday, July 26, 2013)
9. Blog Soup #11: Your Facebook Status Sucks, Breaking the Three Month Rule, and Hooray for Smelly Third World Shit! (Wednesday, January 05, 2011)
Friday, September 09, 2016
Damp with Pus
**This is for You and Your "I have the lousiest air conditioned job in the world ever omgpls kill me now while I take a selfie."
The bandages on his diabetic legs were wrapped just below the knees and terminated on his ankles. They were a yellowish white, probably because they haven't been changed for a week or so. His left leg was heavier than the right. It was a sickly oval, yellowish because it was damp with pus, and it was ripe for an amputation. It was pregnant with infection, and I can just smell it from where I am, a meter away in the affecting humidity of this third world jeepney.
It is around two in the afternoon, and I am not sitting alone in an air conditioned taxi. I am sardined in this four-wheeled oven toaster, and all 224,337 of us passengers are marinating in exhaust fumes and everybody else's body odor. These are hardly the best conditions with which to consider somebody else's bad health. I look around me, and I am surrounded by this wealth of opportunities to complain about, but no. I wonder what a leg full of of pus smells like, instead.
Damp with Pus continues to arrange the packs of cigarettes he's selling so they look tidy and organized. It's probably the least he can do. That and he tries to hide his swollen left leg to no avail since his plastic chair's big enough for his left butt cheek. His plastic umbrella's big enough for his right butt cheek, but he doesn't give a shit. He tends to his wares in earnest, his plump fingers mechanical as he separates the Golds from the Reds, the Menthols from the Lights, and his eyes are nowhere else.
It is around two in the Philippine afternoon, which is exceedingly punishing for someone with a long sleeved shirt on. My arm pits weep, not for Damp with Pus and his unrewarded dedication to his cigarettes, but because I'm wearing a black, long sleeved shirt in a crowded jeepney at around two in the Philippine afternoon.
Today he's got this purple shirt on, collared, and, with his dirty complexion, it made him look like an overweight tumor. Props to the shirt, however, for holding his stomach in, all of it, as its oppressive weight fought to fall down the street. Meanwhile, Damp with Pus' knee length denim shorts continue to puzzle me. How did he manage to wear denim shorts? It will brush against his frothing infection, you can bet on that, but what worries me is that his legs are thicker than his thighs.
Of course he has to remove his bandages, but they... One gets used to the glacial movement of this third world traffic, most especially when one is distracted.
He already color-coordinated his candies, and there are these impressive rows of Yellows and Reds and Greens that sold for a peso each. He then makes change for a ten, and he does all this without looking at his customer, a high school kid with a white polo and brown slacks on, worn leather shoes and a cheap back pack. Goomela, it said. This kid's probably 12, 13 at the most, but he dragged on that stick like a runner up. His girlfriend, obviously 12, took a puff like a God damned champion.
The traffic's not moving, which is expected, it is past two in the afternoon, and these uniformed delinquents are rushing out of school. I still can't get used to the smell of poor and exhaust fumes, but such is the life I lead in the third world. I might as well. I took out my handkerchief, spread it on my palms, horizontal and smelling like fabric conditioner, covered my nose with it, and I decided to look at Damp with Pus some more.
His cigarettes should look tidy. And he ignores the curious stares of strangers as he commits himself to his work. He quits hiding his left leg, and continues to organize his wares. Why, you will detect a defiant spirit in how he goes on with his cigarettes and his candies. And you can tell he'll continue doing this even after both his legs were amputated.
His cigarettes sell at five pesos a stick, eighty pesos for a pack, and his candies are a peso each. He will keep selling them until he has enough money for maybe a kilo of rice and a can or two of whatever. His insulin shots will wait. And those will wait until his legs are gangrenous and then ripe for that saving amputation. That will be nice, real nice, and I don't think that will happen.
It is not a happy picture now. But if he meets his 16-hour work days and saves enough money even after the rice and canned whatevers, his future could be bright. Why, if he worked harder than that, which he probably will because he doesn't have a choice anyway, then his future's even brighter, illuminated even, with the blinding fluorescent glare on that operating table. And I see an oscillating saw in that same future, and it reflects a steely glint that makes Damp with Pus' future far brighter. And I doubt that.
The jeep begins to move, and Damp with Pus makes change for a twenty. I will probably see him in that same spot tomorrow.
 |
| Imagine two swollen legs on a pair of denim shorts. |
It is around two in the afternoon, and I am not sitting alone in an air conditioned taxi. I am sardined in this four-wheeled oven toaster, and all 224,337 of us passengers are marinating in exhaust fumes and everybody else's body odor. These are hardly the best conditions with which to consider somebody else's bad health. I look around me, and I am surrounded by this wealth of opportunities to complain about, but no. I wonder what a leg full of of pus smells like, instead.
Damp with Pus continues to arrange the packs of cigarettes he's selling so they look tidy and organized. It's probably the least he can do. That and he tries to hide his swollen left leg to no avail since his plastic chair's big enough for his left butt cheek. His plastic umbrella's big enough for his right butt cheek, but he doesn't give a shit. He tends to his wares in earnest, his plump fingers mechanical as he separates the Golds from the Reds, the Menthols from the Lights, and his eyes are nowhere else.
It is around two in the Philippine afternoon, which is exceedingly punishing for someone with a long sleeved shirt on. My arm pits weep, not for Damp with Pus and his unrewarded dedication to his cigarettes, but because I'm wearing a black, long sleeved shirt in a crowded jeepney at around two in the Philippine afternoon.
Today he's got this purple shirt on, collared, and, with his dirty complexion, it made him look like an overweight tumor. Props to the shirt, however, for holding his stomach in, all of it, as its oppressive weight fought to fall down the street. Meanwhile, Damp with Pus' knee length denim shorts continue to puzzle me. How did he manage to wear denim shorts? It will brush against his frothing infection, you can bet on that, but what worries me is that his legs are thicker than his thighs.
Of course he has to remove his bandages, but they... One gets used to the glacial movement of this third world traffic, most especially when one is distracted.
He already color-coordinated his candies, and there are these impressive rows of Yellows and Reds and Greens that sold for a peso each. He then makes change for a ten, and he does all this without looking at his customer, a high school kid with a white polo and brown slacks on, worn leather shoes and a cheap back pack. Goomela, it said. This kid's probably 12, 13 at the most, but he dragged on that stick like a runner up. His girlfriend, obviously 12, took a puff like a God damned champion.
The traffic's not moving, which is expected, it is past two in the afternoon, and these uniformed delinquents are rushing out of school. I still can't get used to the smell of poor and exhaust fumes, but such is the life I lead in the third world. I might as well. I took out my handkerchief, spread it on my palms, horizontal and smelling like fabric conditioner, covered my nose with it, and I decided to look at Damp with Pus some more.
His cigarettes should look tidy. And he ignores the curious stares of strangers as he commits himself to his work. He quits hiding his left leg, and continues to organize his wares. Why, you will detect a defiant spirit in how he goes on with his cigarettes and his candies. And you can tell he'll continue doing this even after both his legs were amputated.
His cigarettes sell at five pesos a stick, eighty pesos for a pack, and his candies are a peso each. He will keep selling them until he has enough money for maybe a kilo of rice and a can or two of whatever. His insulin shots will wait. And those will wait until his legs are gangrenous and then ripe for that saving amputation. That will be nice, real nice, and I don't think that will happen.
It is not a happy picture now. But if he meets his 16-hour work days and saves enough money even after the rice and canned whatevers, his future could be bright. Why, if he worked harder than that, which he probably will because he doesn't have a choice anyway, then his future's even brighter, illuminated even, with the blinding fluorescent glare on that operating table. And I see an oscillating saw in that same future, and it reflects a steely glint that makes Damp with Pus' future far brighter. And I doubt that.
The jeep begins to move, and Damp with Pus makes change for a twenty. I will probably see him in that same spot tomorrow.
Friday, September 02, 2016
Speaking of Confidence that Causes Erections
**No. And it's still a Friday, and I made my deadline. Meanwhile, I do not fat shame. I love my friends of all sizes in equal measures. The thing is, you should have seen this pig in the mall.
I ask you now, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, with unusual sincerity and truthfulness to the letter. When was the last time someone's confidence made you horny? Was there ever a time, just one time, that someone's oozing self belief made you moist to the point of flooding your basement?
There was this really fat, morbidly obese faggot who was wearing this black shirt that was pitiful in how it stretched on him. I tell you, if you had the opportunity to listen closely, then you will imagine a faint scream from that shirt. He had a pair of glasses on, a medium sized shopping bag on his left hand, and he walked as though he was beautiful. Honey, that gay pig was feeling it. And I should admit that a tired black shirt does make one feel fierce somehow, in parts, in small parts. It isn't just the shirt, however, that gave him that swagger in his walk.
Maybe it's all these books on self-empowerment that's leading him on. Maybe he's read one to many memes on the beauty within. Maybe has a valid accomplishment like maybe he has an enormous dick. Perhaps. Maybe I know someone who doesn't give a shit. Maybe that's me.
The back print on his shirt read "Prospect." Prospective what? A cardiac arrest in his thirties? What audacious advertising. It could work though. You can see "Prospect" from the moon.
I will hazard a guess and suspect that "Prospect" meant he was single. And I am not surprised. See, you go ahead and impress your confidence all you want, but that's hardly anything one looks for in a boyfriend. It is awesome that you are confident, and you go girl, but you're as big as a master bedroom. Wait, no. You're so wide and spacious, you might as well be haunted.
You put that goddamn book down, shed those crazy ideas in your head, and start losing weight if you want the rest of your audience to agree with your beauty.
The line "I want to date you because of your impressive confidence" does not happen in real life. I don't remember any mention of "Your perfect grammar made me love you more than masturbation" ever. No. Not in this life, or the life prior to this one. Not in this third world country, and not in this crazy planet.
I ask you now, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, with unusual sincerity and truthfulness to the letter. When was the last time someone's confidence made you horny? Was there ever a time, just one time, that someone's oozing self belief made you moist to the point of flooding your basement?
There was this really fat, morbidly obese faggot who was wearing this black shirt that was pitiful in how it stretched on him. I tell you, if you had the opportunity to listen closely, then you will imagine a faint scream from that shirt. He had a pair of glasses on, a medium sized shopping bag on his left hand, and he walked as though he was beautiful. Honey, that gay pig was feeling it. And I should admit that a tired black shirt does make one feel fierce somehow, in parts, in small parts. It isn't just the shirt, however, that gave him that swagger in his walk.
Maybe it's all these books on self-empowerment that's leading him on. Maybe he's read one to many memes on the beauty within. Maybe has a valid accomplishment like maybe he has an enormous dick. Perhaps. Maybe I know someone who doesn't give a shit. Maybe that's me.
The back print on his shirt read "Prospect." Prospective what? A cardiac arrest in his thirties? What audacious advertising. It could work though. You can see "Prospect" from the moon.
I will hazard a guess and suspect that "Prospect" meant he was single. And I am not surprised. See, you go ahead and impress your confidence all you want, but that's hardly anything one looks for in a boyfriend. It is awesome that you are confident, and you go girl, but you're as big as a master bedroom. Wait, no. You're so wide and spacious, you might as well be haunted.
You put that goddamn book down, shed those crazy ideas in your head, and start losing weight if you want the rest of your audience to agree with your beauty.
The line "I want to date you because of your impressive confidence" does not happen in real life. I don't remember any mention of "Your perfect grammar made me love you more than masturbation" ever. No. Not in this life, or the life prior to this one. Not in this third world country, and not in this crazy planet.
Friday, August 26, 2016
Other People's Love Stories #4: Excerpts from a Blowjob
**There is no way to embellish this retelling any further, so I won't.
He holds my right hand, wraps my fingers in between his, moves them closer to his face, and then he starts planting slow kisses. This little boy of 22 has the softest lips, and those little boy kisses are a darling surprise. His breathing tickles the gap in between my fingers, how pleasurable, and I continue sucking on his little boy dick with renewed enthusiasm. To say the least, I was rather surprised at the gesture. And so I rallied on, undeterred, for I have an ejaculating mission to continue.
I was horny, you know, and I think I was doing a straight-up, bang up job. You seem I don't recall any of my boys kissing my hand while I was giving them head.
Fellatio has never been this romantic. I have decided to give this sweetheart such a violent orgasm that he'll be sucking his food for three days.
He holds my right hand, wraps my fingers in between his, moves them closer to his face, and then he starts planting slow kisses. This little boy of 22 has the softest lips, and those little boy kisses are a darling surprise. His breathing tickles the gap in between my fingers, how pleasurable, and I continue sucking on his little boy dick with renewed enthusiasm. To say the least, I was rather surprised at the gesture. And so I rallied on, undeterred, for I have an ejaculating mission to continue.
I was horny, you know, and I think I was doing a straight-up, bang up job. You seem I don't recall any of my boys kissing my hand while I was giving them head.
Fellatio has never been this romantic. I have decided to give this sweetheart such a violent orgasm that he'll be sucking his food for three days.
Friday, August 19, 2016
What We Talk About with My Android Friends
**And by "Androids," I mean my biologically male beloveds who have achieved such amazing augmentations to their, and I use this term apologetically, to their "masculine" forms. One of them still argues, to this day, that giving birth will soon be transferable. I'm still arguing against that.
Notice how that first line was a murder of modifiers?
1. Where this or that's nose was stitched.
2. Surgery aftercare and precautions. I learned that recovering from a rhinoplasty can be a terrible thing for heavy smokers who just can't stop.
3. Who's the best nose doctor in Manila?
4. Sidewalk stalls in the Emirates that offer walk in surgery.
5. Cup size, butt size, and how much collagen or silicone or tire black these add ons received.
6. Where this or that's silicone implants were injected. And where it hurts more.
7. Hotel rates.
8. Asian currencies and their peso equivalent.
9. Double condoms as a safety precaution.
10. The inconvenience of sharing a hotel room most especially when one or the other has a paying guest.
11. The life-and-death-ness of flushing drugs in the toilet bowl. Most especially in a foreign country where the general population speaks Mandarin. And tonight's high-paying pangyao has this habit.
12. Hoarding female hormones, oral collagen, injectable glutathione, and has anyone mentioned liver damage yet? Nope.
13. Forehead contours.
14. The aging androids mention "Minoxidil" quite often.
15. Her being bailed out of this Singaporean prison because of her legendary beauty is really an urban legend. The truth is that she plead guilty, and then they lowered her sentence. But they allowed her, and her alone, to continue taking her female hormones behind bars.
16. Pictorials for their profiles in that ladyboy website.
17. I heard she was sore for weeks after she got her brand new, fully functional vagina. They were whispering that she didn't have to take a psychological exam prior to her sexual reassignment surgery.
18. If you want to know what a sexually reassigned vagina looks like, then you might want to read Close Encounters with the Vagina-ed Type.
Notice how that first line was a murder of modifiers?
1. Where this or that's nose was stitched.
2. Surgery aftercare and precautions. I learned that recovering from a rhinoplasty can be a terrible thing for heavy smokers who just can't stop.
3. Who's the best nose doctor in Manila?
4. Sidewalk stalls in the Emirates that offer walk in surgery.
5. Cup size, butt size, and how much collagen or silicone or tire black these add ons received.
6. Where this or that's silicone implants were injected. And where it hurts more.
7. Hotel rates.
8. Asian currencies and their peso equivalent.
9. Double condoms as a safety precaution.
10. The inconvenience of sharing a hotel room most especially when one or the other has a paying guest.
11. The life-and-death-ness of flushing drugs in the toilet bowl. Most especially in a foreign country where the general population speaks Mandarin. And tonight's high-paying pangyao has this habit.
12. Hoarding female hormones, oral collagen, injectable glutathione, and has anyone mentioned liver damage yet? Nope.
13. Forehead contours.
14. The aging androids mention "Minoxidil" quite often.
15. Her being bailed out of this Singaporean prison because of her legendary beauty is really an urban legend. The truth is that she plead guilty, and then they lowered her sentence. But they allowed her, and her alone, to continue taking her female hormones behind bars.
16. Pictorials for their profiles in that ladyboy website.
17. I heard she was sore for weeks after she got her brand new, fully functional vagina. They were whispering that she didn't have to take a psychological exam prior to her sexual reassignment surgery.
18. If you want to know what a sexually reassigned vagina looks like, then you might want to read Close Encounters with the Vagina-ed Type.
19. I wrote Close Encounters with the Vagina-ed Type in October 2010. And I can still see what it looks like with unnerving vividness.
20. He was chatting with me from inside a closet because his roommate had a paying client. This gives him peephole access to the perfect intercourse between business and pleasure.
Friday, August 12, 2016
HBD to Me
You get to greet a person on his birthday once a year. So I don't think it's good fucking form that you abbreviate your well wishes with a god damn HBD. Girl, we're talking about a one time deal in 365 days, so I think it's just proper. Perhaps I'll let your HBD slip if you still have finger cramps from masturbating too much, but you don't. FY. And it doesn't matter to me that it's in social media. Who has time for real interaction these days? The least you could have done was to spell out your greetings. It's once a year. OMWTFGAF.
I'm exaggerating of course. You know I'm a dick who loves dick. TY.
I meant to enlarge on this update some more, and I was on leave for five days. But I was drunk for four days, and I had to attend to my sexy lady guard job on the sixth.
I'm exaggerating of course. You know I'm a dick who loves dick. TY.
I meant to enlarge on this update some more, and I was on leave for five days. But I was drunk for four days, and I had to attend to my sexy lady guard job on the sixth.
Friday, August 05, 2016
There are Two Kinds of Salad Spinners in this Planet
This Essentialist Salad Spinner sits on the kitchen counter and waits for its owner to spin salad. It was meant to spin salad, its engineering is for spinning salad, and it was purchased to spin salad. This Essentialist Salad Spinner devotes all its salad spinner energies, which are mostly centripetal, to its one calling. And it attends to this purpose, which is arguably divine, with the focused dedication of an Essentialist Salad Spinner. It was meant to spin salad, and it will spin salad, and it will spin salad better than the next salad spinner, which is unacceptable if its not an Essentialist Salad Spinner.
Of course you should know, My Dearly Beloved Sweets Nuts, that by "spinning salad" we mean "washing leaves." And by "leaves" we mean the usual greens that are best enjoyed with dressing. These leaves include lettuce, arugula, and why the fuck am I listing greens, and the Essentialist Salad Spinner attends to these leaves with strict adherence to tradition. Do not doubt the Essentialist Salad Spinner for it married itself to its purpose in the same way that other people pronounce their marriage to Jesus. The Essentialist Salad Spinner knows its shit full well.
The Essentialist Salad Spinner came out of this box with pictures of a Salad Spinner on its front face, instructions for use at the right, product details on the left, and a picture of a thin lady enjoying a salad at the back face. Salad Lady is wearing a green tank top with a smiley face on it.
An Existentialist Salad Spinner, meanwhile, decides that it wants to do something else with its shelf life. It begins as a Salad Spinner from a similar box as the Essentialist Salad Spinner. It came with the same set of instructions, its colander is of the same proportions as the Essentialist, and its pull cord is just as long. The Existential Salad Spinner Agrees that he is built to wash leaves, but he Argues that washing leaves is too "de rigueur." The Existentialist Salad Spinner has appropriated its centripetal force to more personal purposes, like spinning stories, and it has no enthusiasm to the purpose that it has long abandoned.
I am familiar with this one Existential Salad Spinner in particular. His outer bowl is embellished with skull stickers and heart stickers. Anchor stickers adorn its handle, while there are variations of snake stickers and "Only God Will Judge Me" stickers on its cord. Most Existential Salad Spinners, however, limit themselves to simpler ornamentations, however, less extreme, if you may, on account of they don't have access to that many stickers on the kitchen counter. That doesn't make them any less of an Existential Salad Spinner. What sets them apart from the Essentialist Salad Spinner is this marked intention to be something else. Spinning salad isn't really its thing. And it is not because it is lazy. Hell no, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, hell no. It has other uses for its centripetal force.
On its spare time, the Existentialist Salad Spinner absorbs the written works of Sartre and Kierkegaard, and has expressed an interest in the philosophy of Absurdism.
Friday, July 29, 2016
Blackie
My neighbor, Old Flaccid, decided to be a noisy motherfucker that morning.
He kept shouting the same word twice per repetition, "Blackie! Blackie!," in this pattern that gave him breathing intervals. He was old, you see, and he looked like he was decaying because of his skin. It has the character of a withered scrotum. Old Flaccid needed to breathe, I guess, on account of this unproductive yelling, "Blackie! Blackie!," could be too much for his age. There is still some posture in him, however, and there is still some grit and spit and all purpose anger with each "Blackie!" that issued from that old mouth. He can't be that old.
I will not know, for sure, just how old Old Flaccid is since I've tried my best to ignore him for the better part of a decade. I would hazard a guess and announce that he's a few years younger than the Ark of the Covenant, but I could be wrong. What I'm sure of, however, is that the calm of this wonderful 7am morning died to Old Flaccid's noisy reports. He was as loud as the loudest "I don't give a fuck" in the manner of bitter old people, and I wish he was senile so he'd shut the fuck up.
"Blackie! Blaaackie!"
Now what you need to understand, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, is that Blackie is this long haired cat that perched himself on top of this concrete wall that surrounded Old Flaccid's property. He's a feet away from these suspended electric cables that were interesting in what they can do to breathing things. And what you need to remember is that Blackie is brown. He's as brown as the golden feces of a one year old. He's as brown as undigested almonds. He's as brown as the moisture on your underwear when you were praying to Jesus for dry fart a few seconds ago. I'm telling you, I have seen that cat several times before, and by cat I mean Blackie, and I've always known him to be brown. I'm looking at him in this morning sunlight, and yes, he is brown.
"Blackie! Blaaackie!"
Blackie was ignoring Old Flaccid's authority because he had people to count. I guess that's what he's doing with the way his brown head followed everybody that passed his concrete wall. How long has he been at it?
"Blackie! Blaaackie!"
Blackie's eyes pierced Old Flaccid's general direction. And they had the feline equivalent of "I wish you were senile so you'd shut the fuck up." I have seen that cat several times before, and I only liked him today.
"Blackie! Blaaackie!"
Friday, July 22, 2016
Other People's Love Stories #3: Twice His Age
**Or Other People's Weirdness: Twice His Age
We've been friends for a while now, but she still refers to me as "Uy, ano!" That's "Hey you!" in receipt language. Anyway, Norma, that's my friend, Norma cooks the best torta within miles, and that's why I'm keeping her business. And I decided to eat at her stall that afternoon on account of I was too lazy to do them goddamn dishes afterwards.
So there I was, all 5 foot 9 inches of pure fierceness with nothing but a tanktop, a short pair of brown floral shorts, and an umbrella at around ten in the morning in all this third world heat, standing before this selection of warm lunch. "Hey you!" I can see it on her teeth. Norma, that's my friend, was happy to see me. And she was with this giggling old stranger that was, by comparison, happier to see me.
Life without Norma's torta was far from satisfying, but I had to make do with her current menu. And I have to choose with marked haste on account of Norma's other friend, the giggling old stranger, was standing next to me now. And she's moving her wrinkled hands up and down my right sleeve of tattoos. That smile never left her face.
I hurried with my quailed egg ground beef something and a cup of rice, of course, to the closest table. Norma's friend, and that smile, sat across me, directly before me, where she decided that I can use her cheerful company. It turns out my tattoos remind me of her Facebook friend with which she shares a secret relationship with, and they've been flirting on and off four four months now, and that she's...
"You're telling me you have a boyfriend in Facebook?"
Her forefinger stretched an inch before her puckered lips told me to keep it a secret. She says her boyfriend was "high profile," which prompts the secrecy. Shhh. I told her I will be 36 this August because she asked. And then she told me, with a wider smile, that her boyfriend is younger than I am. He's 28. And I'm nearly done with lunch.
"You're telling me that your Facebook boyfriend is 28?"
She giggled hard and then shushed me immediately with that pointed forefinger before her puckered lips.
"You tell me," said that look on Norma's face.
I was paying for my lunch when I heard Norma's friend mention "when a guy likes a girl, then he should visit her," and "passports," and "travel to the Philippines," and I smiled at the three of them goodbye.
Let me make a wild guess and report that she's about 60 at the very least. She was around five feet flat, and her hair's the triumph of white over gray. Her eyes have seen decades, and her crow's feet have crow's feet. She's this ball of senile energy, and if it wasn't for her vibrance, then my money's on 62. What I do know, from the stories that issued between those jagged teeth, is that her boyfriend's 28. She has a mouthful of yellow teeth that were distributed in two disorderly rows. It reminds me of a Chinese colony without religion. And I cannot make any of this up, because if I did, it will be between a younger dude, probably a minor, and a balding horndog with a beauty parlor.
 |
| My tattoos figure largely in this story. |
We've been friends for a while now, but she still refers to me as "Uy, ano!" That's "Hey you!" in receipt language. Anyway, Norma, that's my friend, Norma cooks the best torta within miles, and that's why I'm keeping her business. And I decided to eat at her stall that afternoon on account of I was too lazy to do them goddamn dishes afterwards.
So there I was, all 5 foot 9 inches of pure fierceness with nothing but a tanktop, a short pair of brown floral shorts, and an umbrella at around ten in the morning in all this third world heat, standing before this selection of warm lunch. "Hey you!" I can see it on her teeth. Norma, that's my friend, was happy to see me. And she was with this giggling old stranger that was, by comparison, happier to see me.
Life without Norma's torta was far from satisfying, but I had to make do with her current menu. And I have to choose with marked haste on account of Norma's other friend, the giggling old stranger, was standing next to me now. And she's moving her wrinkled hands up and down my right sleeve of tattoos. That smile never left her face.
I hurried with my quailed egg ground beef something and a cup of rice, of course, to the closest table. Norma's friend, and that smile, sat across me, directly before me, where she decided that I can use her cheerful company. It turns out my tattoos remind me of her Facebook friend with which she shares a secret relationship with, and they've been flirting on and off four four months now, and that she's...
"You're telling me you have a boyfriend in Facebook?"
Her forefinger stretched an inch before her puckered lips told me to keep it a secret. She says her boyfriend was "high profile," which prompts the secrecy. Shhh. I told her I will be 36 this August because she asked. And then she told me, with a wider smile, that her boyfriend is younger than I am. He's 28. And I'm nearly done with lunch.
"You're telling me that your Facebook boyfriend is 28?"
She giggled hard and then shushed me immediately with that pointed forefinger before her puckered lips.
"You tell me," said that look on Norma's face.
I was paying for my lunch when I heard Norma's friend mention "when a guy likes a girl, then he should visit her," and "passports," and "travel to the Philippines," and I smiled at the three of them goodbye.
Let me make a wild guess and report that she's about 60 at the very least. She was around five feet flat, and her hair's the triumph of white over gray. Her eyes have seen decades, and her crow's feet have crow's feet. She's this ball of senile energy, and if it wasn't for her vibrance, then my money's on 62. What I do know, from the stories that issued between those jagged teeth, is that her boyfriend's 28. She has a mouthful of yellow teeth that were distributed in two disorderly rows. It reminds me of a Chinese colony without religion. And I cannot make any of this up, because if I did, it will be between a younger dude, probably a minor, and a balding horndog with a beauty parlor.
Friday, July 15, 2016
Shit Break Three of Four
This third quarter of the year has been a bad bitch to the lady guard you're reading now, so I'm using my third quarter Shit Break.Yes, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, that's what I do, with a smile in my heart, that's what I do to buy cigarettes and pay them bills with.
Friday, July 08, 2016
Other People's Love Stories #2: The Aging Crossdresser and the Fuccboi
**The first truth is that theirs is a love story where no love happens. The second truth is that what they have is not even a story. They have a non-story. They have a no-love non-story, but they think they're, or at least one of them thinks they're in love. And he knows it's not mutual.
Fuccboi is visibly bored, and he doesn't care if it shows, and he doesn't like the vibe of Aging Crossdresser's ancient presence. Aging Crossdresser, on the other hand, decides to blind eye his boy toy's usual misbehavior, however, and he continues wooing the apple of his eye, and Fuccboi too, with cheap brandy and Horny Horny Pink on his lips. Someone asks for coins to buy ice with, and he hands him a fifty.
Fuccboi lives in the Smaller Intestines of this Pig called Metro Manila. Aging Crossdresser's beauty parlor is in the same tract, although it is closer to the Larger Intestine. He is more than twice Fuccboi's age. As a matter of fact, he is four months away from being thrice Fuccboi's age, which is 16. Theirs is an affair that operates on the usual quid pro quo in these kinds of relationships: money for sex with the genuine loyalty of a fake love affair.
They both lead utterly boring lives. He is on his third attempt at finishing second year high school, while he owns a trying hard beauty parlor and a Nokia phone with mostly under age boys in his address book. And let me tell you that about 80% of these boys are on his payroll. The remaining 20% are uncircumcised, but he keeps them just the same in spite of his loathing for the taste of cock cheese. A free hair cut is how they met. This is how our Aging Crossdresser addresses the grooming needs, among others, of the growing numbers of Fuccbois in the Smaller Intestines.
Now he's drinking cheap brandy with Fuccboi and Fuccboi's other Fuccboi friends, and he's already texting Fuccboi's replacement with the usual lust in his wrinkled fingers. Fuccboi decides to blind eye his aging benefactor's misbehavior, however, and he continues to flirt with some Fuccgirl on the smartphone he received on Aging Crossdresser's second monthsary.
 |
| What is pedersaty then is still pederasty now. |
Fuccboi is visibly bored, and he doesn't care if it shows, and he doesn't like the vibe of Aging Crossdresser's ancient presence. Aging Crossdresser, on the other hand, decides to blind eye his boy toy's usual misbehavior, however, and he continues wooing the apple of his eye, and Fuccboi too, with cheap brandy and Horny Horny Pink on his lips. Someone asks for coins to buy ice with, and he hands him a fifty.
Fuccboi lives in the Smaller Intestines of this Pig called Metro Manila. Aging Crossdresser's beauty parlor is in the same tract, although it is closer to the Larger Intestine. He is more than twice Fuccboi's age. As a matter of fact, he is four months away from being thrice Fuccboi's age, which is 16. Theirs is an affair that operates on the usual quid pro quo in these kinds of relationships: money for sex with the genuine loyalty of a fake love affair.
They both lead utterly boring lives. He is on his third attempt at finishing second year high school, while he owns a trying hard beauty parlor and a Nokia phone with mostly under age boys in his address book. And let me tell you that about 80% of these boys are on his payroll. The remaining 20% are uncircumcised, but he keeps them just the same in spite of his loathing for the taste of cock cheese. A free hair cut is how they met. This is how our Aging Crossdresser addresses the grooming needs, among others, of the growing numbers of Fuccbois in the Smaller Intestines.
Now he's drinking cheap brandy with Fuccboi and Fuccboi's other Fuccboi friends, and he's already texting Fuccboi's replacement with the usual lust in his wrinkled fingers. Fuccboi decides to blind eye his aging benefactor's misbehavior, however, and he continues to flirt with some Fuccgirl on the smartphone he received on Aging Crossdresser's second monthsary.
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