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!"

Other People's Love Stories #3: Twice His Age

**Or Other People's Weirdness: Twice His Age

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

From the Sematary of Non Issues: The Insult Comic

**Some other kids wanted to become pilots or doctors or teachers or lesbians.I wanted to become a voodoo priest or a ghoul caller or a grave stitcher or a necromancer, until I found out that there is no such thing outside of a Magic Card. So I raise the dead with my writing instead. Meanwhile, this issue has long died and went to the hell of non-issues. 

Ten points to whoever names this little homicidal darling. 

What business does an insult comic have with being sensitive? We bore witness to you offending people on TV, and when I say "we" I mean millions of us. We know that you have multiple mean bones in your anatomy, and this structure is perfect for your kind of comedy. You were infamous for insulting people that are more influential than yourself, and nothing stopped you. You were good at what you're doing, so you kept that up. You might as well. You make the homos look good, which is a funny kind of good, and it's a good kind of funny too. 

Imagine my confusion, however, when you gave us that show of indignation the other week! You appeared on national TV without a hint of basic powder, not even a dab of basic blush, in a basic white shirt on a basic pair of jeans. You showed up in your basic self, and you looked so basic, sub-basic, even, if that is a word, because you meant to display how honestly common you truly look like. I am not one to act surprised, so I wasn't. I kind of have an idea that you're not much of a looker since I spent hours looking at your pre-celebrity youtube videos, which were filmed in the dark, usually, on account of you worked in a comedy bar. Anyway, you even took your hair piece off because you were so into the bullshit indignation behind your "Beauty Fades" monologue. Remember this, though: this was one a noon time show, in one of the more influential networks in the third world. You displayed your basic face and your receding hairline while most everyone's having lunch because you were imagining that you have a point. 

"Beauty fades," you said, because that's the kind of crap that went well with the rice we were eating at that time. That's rich, coming from you, from you of all people, from you of all millionaire comic insults. What happened? All those hatefuls trolls got to you because they were right for once? I know the drama is as real as your straight boyfriend's affections towards you, and I know that your Beauty Fades Show is a cheap appeal to sympathy, but why did you, of all Insult Comics, resort to that? It's a hot mess, reconciling an Insult Comic with an Appeal to Sympathy, because you have no business giving us all that drama. What? We cannot be mean back at you? What? You can't take the same honest crap you're serving on a daily basis? What? We can't read you back? What? What about that show's ratings? 

For crying out loud and fake, you're making millions of currency with your insults. You, of all people, can't be that sensitive.