**I need to be good at something. I'm not saying this because I'm drunk, but because I really need to be good at something else, and not just putting dicks in my anus. So let me write some more, instead.
It is now five in the morning, and I can hear him fucking her in the other room. There is no groaning or moaning or cursing involved. Where's the sexual grammar that blooms with expressive delight? And this is decidedly boring most especially when there's nothing to see. It's the irregular thrusting sound that muscle upon muscle upon the iron frame of a four post bed that's giving them away. It's muffled, but distinct, a soft whoomp/creak followed shortly by a series of irregular whoomp/creeks, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, pffooottt went my unoccupied ass, and then a succession of the usual whoomp/creaks.
I am not one to judge. Maybe it is acceptable for two consenting, exceedingly drunk adults to fuck each other most especially when they're attracted to each other right off the bat. Several hours of brandy ignites, and then intensifies, the magnetic intention, and his erection, and that explains my listening to the Whoomp... Creak Show. I get that, and I am not going to knock on their door just to be a lousy friend and tell him that his real girlfriend will not know anything. I say real because there is an alarming increase in the population of Drinking Sessions Girlfriends. I have no choice but to come to terms with that minority. The Whoomp... Creak Show will not air otherwise.
It is now 5:40 in the morning. And they're still at it.
I now bear Unfortunate Knowledge. His forward thrusts are singular, and I can give you a list of three or four dirty boys that will out fuck him ten times out of ten. This is not what disappoints me, however. I used to look up to him because of his flowery homilies about loyalty and fidelity and The Great Love, you know, the usual crap that weakens in the face of two liters of brandy and three hours of flirting. I'm still hearing him fucking her in the other room. The Whoomp... Creak Show is still airing. Whatever happened to all that face, pretty boy?
I mildly wonder how looking at him tomorrow will be like. He did me no harm, he bore me no false witness, he ruptured none of my tight orifices, he did me no wrong. It is now 6:10 in the morning, and I am waving a cheerful Fuck You to fidelity. I learned today that Nearly Nothing beats a raging erection.
This group of kids ranging from four to six years old were my captive audience as I gave my dog a bath in the garage. Cohen, least exciting name for a dog, was roughly 30 pounds. His fleas were 70 percent of his body weight, I suppose, for I felt those blood sucking grapes behind his ears, and along his back, and between his toes, and under his arm pits and leg pits, and all over his wet body. Those parasites felt dreadful as my gloves lathered Cohen's infested torso. He was more of a tree now, I imagine, than he was a dog. And he bore the most vicious fruit for they were pallid and had multiple legs that thrashed as I picked one off him for inspection.
I asked one member of my audience, a girl of four I imagine, if she had a dog. That smile on her face as she shook her head was a beautiful thing of innocence. What about a cat, then? She said no because they were too poor for pets. And then I had half a mind to gift her with one of Cohen's fleas to get her started. And Cohen, being the sweetest plagued thing with feet that he is, I'm certain Cohen wouldn't mind sharing. He's a darling, I tell you.
Cohen died a slow death later that year. The vet said that rat urine inflamed his liver to bursting, and my heart continues to bleed for his presence, fleas and all.
"Sir? Excuse me Sir, but the lady you're with is actually a boy in his passport. See?" Pangyao, the horny Chinese national, barely concealed his shock as he returned the evidence to the overly made up front desk receptionist. He thanked her in embarrassed Mandarin, and then he stormed out of that hotel with his head below his left armpit.
That look of cruel triumph on her face, lurid with foundation, was truly an evil thing.
Meanwhile, She (or He, depending on where you stand in this train wreck that is Gender Labels) has been waiting in Room 420 with this expensive lingerie, black lace, that did nothing for His (or Her) sense of decency. I say that because His (or Her) flaccid dick, which is now glutathione-pink, was still visible below his ass if you wanted to look at Him (or Her) from behind. He (or She) has no idea that He (or She) will be waiting long, so He (or She) takes a Selfie and captions it with Beijing's temperature.
His (or Her) perfect surgery gets 70 plus Likes within the hour. Meanwhile, Pangyao's wife gets ready to fuck her husband in earnest since it has been ages since he's home this early.
**It has been glacial periods since I wrote anything for The Mistress of the Universe. So imagine my juvenile thrill when she gave me a deadline for this account. What you are about to read now, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, is the undistilled verbal diarrhea. Meanwhile, the edited submission appears here.
"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Edmund Burke
If Evil was a foot and a half long, scuttled on four short legs, was coated in fur that's as black as corruption, and had a leathery tail that's as long as its body, then I woke up to the sight of it on my kitchen floor. It wasn't doing any scuttling this time on account of Evil was, to my mounting horror, Evil was half-trapped in this Glue Board. A part of me was convinced that It isn't sticking around to make friends. Half of Evil's horrible length, from its lower feet to some of its tail, was stuck to this Glue Board that I got in Puregold for fifty five pesos.
Evil was not moving for the time being, like it was calculating a pandemic, and it was truly the most disgusting thing. Meanwhile, that Glue Board was truly the most amazing thing, and I have elected to purchase more of it if I live through this ugly ordeal. Anyway.
I was frozen, briefly, from the sofa I slept in. I stood up, and Evil tried to scamper a few inches towards the open kitchen door. That slight movement paralyzed my courage all the more, because it meant I was not making all this shit up. "There's this adult rat that's half trapped on this glue board on my kitchen floor" shoved the sleep off me, and I armed myself with a purpose. I cannot allow, I will not allow Evil to live. It will return with an infernal appetite and an infestation of other Evils, and I cannot, will not live with that. Evil will triumph if a good fag like me did nothing, and besides, what will Jesus say?
The fading sunlight of that afternoon poured on Evil, and it betrayed Evil's true form. The hair on my arms prickled. Evil was plump like gluttony and its scraggly coat of hair, not fur, was black like sin. Its gray, leathery tail was the whip that scourged people who take hourly selfies for all of Eternity. I see that Evil's bottom legs and maybe four inches of its tail were caught on the GlueBoard, and this explains Evil's restricted movement. I will not be able to unsee this oppressive image, and it is now an indelible nightmare in my brain, but I imagine that Evil's nuts were glued to the board as well, and that would make things tolerable because it is funny.
H.P. Lovecraft wrote a short story, The Dreams in the Witch-House, where the antagonist, obviously a witch, owned a curious familiar. It was this large rat with the face of a man. Brown Jenkin teleports, was fluent in taunts, gnaws on human flesh with relish, and was altogether a mean little freak. He had nothing on this thing of Evil, however.
I remembered we have a hammer in the garage. And a box of sandwich bags. I decided that I have some smiting to do.
I stood up and walked on barefoot towards the locked screen door, my eyes glued and offended at Evil's oppressive presence on my kitchen floor. A sharp click issued when I undid the lock, but what happened next was as alarming as the lack of standards in the writing that you are reading now. I heard cardboard scrape across my kitchen floor at the same time the lock was released. Terror grew in my heart as I moved my head to where Evil was. The kitchen floor was now exorcised of the presence that possessed it a few seconds back. Where was it? I know that I should be relieved, but I committed myself to cleansing my house once and for all, so I braced myself and walked towards the open kitchen door.
What I saw next nearly shocked the Christian faith out of me.
And I wouldn't have lived through this awful turn of events were it not for two words of Divine Providence: "Glued Nuts." You see, Evil's panicked scuttling caused the whole length of its form, that plump black form, to stick on The Glue Board. And it was far more revolting because I am now seeing it up close. Evil was now as completely helpless as it was hideous on The Glue Board. It is now entirely stationary, except for it's small, scheming head that moved left and right as it contemplated its current circumstance. I crossed myself for protection. Glued Nuts.
I rushed back to the garage to where The Hammer is. It's nothing more than a used claw hammer, really, but it will serve a heavenly function today. I wrapped the business end of The Hammer with two sandwich bags. Things will be particularly messy, there will be blood, and you will not catch me scrubbing rat brain off the head of some claw hammer. Meanwhile, I am now reinforced with implements of retribution. I have my faith, and a claw hammer that's wrapped in two sandwich bags. I am ready. And with God as my witness, I will get shit done.
My feet approached with caution because Evil, trapped as it was, grew in size with each step I made towards it. The Glue Board excelled in its divine purpose, but God damn this monstrous Evil! My heart was on the verge of collapse as I squatted next to this helpless abomination, but I have decided to be brave. I was then a foot next to Evil stuck in The Glue Board. I paused, and with what little measure of courage I have about me, I squatted down. My heart was paralyzed in my throat as I gripped the Hammer on my left hand. Time slowed down. Imagine the smell of an adult rat.
I hovered my Hammer of Good two to three inches above Evil's hysterical head, made one upward swing, for practice, took a deep breath, and then I closed my eyes. I repeated that trajectory in my head, and then brought the Hammer down in one thunderous wallop.
Whackkk!
The air was still, and everything was silent save for my heart beating in my throat along with that troubled worrying in my head. That was deafening for good reason. Did I miss? I have good aim, usually, but I smited Evil on the head, hopefully, with my eyes closed. So there's a considerable chance that my Hammer of Good fucked up, my aim might have gone to hell, and I might need to hammer Evil on the head one more time for good measure.
I opened my eyes. The Glueboard, to my mounting anxiety, was now flipped over, and all I could see was four inches of Evil's leathery tail sticking out from below. It wasn't moving. I let go of The Hammer, carefully, and I stood up with expectation. I might have done it. I might have perished Evil. I might have triumphed, and Edmund Burke will be so proud. My heart resumed its rightful place in my chest, and I noticed I'm breathing easier now. I have calmed down. And with this resurgence of confidence in this immaculate accomplishment, I tapped the Glue Board with my left foot, and then it twitched.
The Glue Board shivered with the living Evil trapped below it. And it shuddered again. Evil lived, oh Lord, Evil survived my smiting, and it mocked my courage with this display of sheer protest. Indignation coursed through my veins as I decided to... No, I was too exasperated to think straight (not to mention too gay), so I stomped on the Glue Board, twice, with every fiber of irritation in my person. And then it was still.
I tapped the Glue Board one more time, and it was lifeless. I left it alone for a minute, and it remained utterly still. So I took a garbage bag and heaved The Glue Board into it. A slight pool of blood marked my triumph. And, for what it's worth, I could have bled that pool myself, for I have never killed anything larger than Pestilence, which is a cockroach, prior to perishing Evil today.
**I posted something today because I want to start 2016 right with the wrong kind of material.
He was about nine, and his brother maybe four. But I'm sure they wore matching shirts that are red and white. His left arm was wrapped around his little brother's shoulder, in what was an affectionate display of brotherly love, and his right hand was holding a half empty bottle of beer. The air was thick with good cheer and suffocating with the residual smoke from exploded firecrackers. It was deafening, too, with Really Terrible karaoke singing and vainglorious Judas Belts, Atomic Big Triangulos, Mother Rockets, Goodbye Philippines, and similar prohibited firecrackers that are better off confining little shit kids in crowded emergency rooms. And, like the previous celebrations of the incoming year, I am still hearing that one hit wonder Virna Lisa belting "Magkaisa" somewhere. Whoever hired that DJ should be drowned in gunpowder. This is because the People's Power Revolution was nearly thirty years ago, and he still doesn't have any good songs to usher in 2016.
Anyway. Happy New Year from the smaller intestines of Pasig City.
