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.

The Missing Blog Soup! Blog Soup #2: Smog, Posers, and More Posers from Nine Years Ago

You simply have no idea how filthy the air we're breathing unless you're 26 floors above ground level. I'm sitting here in the office, in a station near a window, overlooking the busy metro on a busy Friday morning, and there's just smog ahead of me. Smog. Twenty six floors above the metro is a putrid limbo of carbon monoxide brought about by our irresponsible attachment to pollution.

It is just dirty out there, you see.

Anyway, you want to read something interesting?

Astrologer wrong on the big prediction

BHOPAL, India (Reuters) - Hundreds of people flocked to a village in central India Thursday to see if an astrologer who forecast his own death would indeed die as predicted.
But the 75-year-old man survived the day.
Kunjilal Malviya, who lives south of the Madhya Pradesh state capital Bhopal, had been meditating in his house after announcing he would die Thursday between 3 p.m. and 5 p.m
A police official confirmed the astrologer was fine and quoted his family members as saying the prediction failed because many of those gathered had prayed for him to live.
"We are afraid of his prediction coming true because all his predictions till date have been correct," his son Anirudh said by phone earlier Thursday.
"My father had predicted the death of my grandfather 15 years ago and it came true exactly like he calculated."
Police have been posted near the house to prevent the astrologer from killing himself, authorities said.
Millions of Indians consult astrologers about their futures as well as marriage and job prospects.
Malviya's prediction is not the first of its type by an Indian astrologer. But in the past, crowds have beaten up astrologers when their predicted demise failed to occur.

It's just about time them posers made for actual value. Entertainment value, that is, and really, nothing can be as fun as seeing them fakers failing to put their money where their mouths are.
And since we're talking posers, let me ask you this: how real can reality TV get when all the characters are trying to make "pa-star" in front of the camera? And come to think of it, how do you expect anybody to behave characteristically when they know that they are being monitored by a 24/7 camera feed? How does the tag line go again, Reality ng Totoong Buhay? Or some shit like that, right? Oh common, we all know it's TV, and it's primetime TV for that matter. My life, and everybody else's, is the ultimate reality TV since the things we do are never recorded for posterity. I can do whatever I can without fearing eviction, I can make fun of everybody else without getting censored or suspended for one day. I can get naked and make love without worrying about internet-wide publication. I can get sick and get confined without summoning the staff medics for support. I don't have to worry about 24-hour security. I don't need to prep up and look pretty for no cameras. I can get bored and not complain about it since I just need to shut up and get away with the lack of theatrics. I don't have to pose in my real life, and I don't have to answer to the MTRCB either.

The MTRCB has got to get involved in all that relentless self promotion. And we all know that censorship utterly defeats the point of reality tv.

It's the perfect Macdonald's theme party. Poser's night.

This was written during the first ever Flipino translation of Endemol's Big Brother series. The one with the gay half-Iranian Uma? The one with the grossly uncultured booger-flicker Franzen? No? It had that band Orange and Lemons singing "Pinoy Ako," which, FYI, was a hit among musical plagiarists with no real knack for creativity on their own. Of course you remember it, I mean, it's not so easy to forget a motley cast of trying hard flop outs and their 24/7 campaign to out fake the hell out of each other.

I like the recent Big Brother cast though. Celebrity Edition 2 opens up a big can of whoop ass. I hope Yayo Aguila or the Canadian Beauty Queen Riza wins.

Blog Soup #12 -- A Succession of W's

**It's a soup of topics that don't really follow suit. Or it's me with all that material but nothing to write.

**Meanwhile, the following paragraphs were taken from that big notebook I almost always have with me. I try to write a lot, when I'm not drunk or lazy, and these notes represent my mostly sober moments.

1. What is Self Defeating?

I remember this local whatshisface recording artist, Jed Madela, and he was endorsing his new album in some whatsitsface noontime show. He's promoting this album, and it's this collection of remakes and revivals of hitherto bastardized songs from the 80s and the 90s. I think it's the first of its kind most especially here in the Philippines. Anyway, Jed Madela goes ahead and tells the viewers to not buy anything that's "not original." I know he's addressing the piracy issue, but "not original" is a very loose phrase. It can very well refer to his remakes. Which is what his new album is all about. Which will be in deep shit if the viewers tooks his word about "not buying anything that's not original."

Bad call, Mr Champion Something.

2. Worst Shits
**I remember writing this was when I was still in the five year relationship.

I was taking what can be one of the worst shits in my life, because I had to do it in the office, twice in two hours, when it dawned on me that, as far as I go, I'm just making the third party up. The infidelity is all in my head and, for what it's worth, he just doesn't measure up to the love of my life. What troubles me more, though, is that I can't seem to say this with the conviction that it deserves. Maybe I'll give it a few days, and then I'll say it again. But what troubles me, even more, is why I'm getting these epiphanies while sitting on a toilet bowl.

3. Wet Dreams

I had the strangest dream last night. It had all the elements of a good wet dream -- a curious half story, a comely young stud equipped with a raging erection, and, like in real life, the idea of getting caught as your head gyrates in that familiar, circular dance. I don't remember what it smelled like, for it was a dream, but that familiar sensation of choking remains distinct. And pleasurable. What makes it far more queer was the series of events which consummated in that fantastic fellatio.

He was this undercover cop, and he was doing surveillance work on a witch. Literally, a pins and dolls kind of witch, the sort that's equipped with a cauldron and chants, and employs her victim's personal effects for her black magic.

I couldn't make heads or tails of the whole incident. Heads, yes, but reason?

4. Writing Thought

Because when you're this dime-a-dozen nobody who imagines he can write, and he does so with not as much as any formal training to his credential, and all you have is passion and pluck and punctuation, then you revel and bask and glow at every validation you get. Most especially when its from the one female you think, as a gay guy, you've been impersonating all these years. What I'm saying, really, and this goes out to you insecure haters, is this -- fuck you and your ideas.

Blog Soup #11: Your Facebook Status Sucks, Breaking the Three Month Rule, and Hooray for Smelly Third World Shit!

So, if a picture paints a thousand words, then a screen shot of a Facebook status is equivalent to about... seven Facebook statuses? We all know how wordy some of these people get with their self-entitlement; their nonsense runs at a rate of 100 words a minute. Who cares about the pricey Starbucks breakfast you had this morning after your call center shift? Who cares about the pricey Papa Johns dish you had for lunch? I am charitable by default, but I don't give a half-baked cross-eyed fuck over what boring rhetoric you have on the table. Talk about the pricey 16-year old cock you sucked on last evening, or some other embarrassing secret we know you're keeping, and I'll get back to you then.

I remember that wonderful Lewis Black saying this on AOTS (Attack of the Show):

How big of an ego do I have that makes me believe that people will be interested in what I have to say?

That being said, allow me to say this, and I say this on a spiritual note -- fuck your stupid breakfast. Now, eat your heart out, and let me show you what a relevant status is like:


Or not. Ahaha, you know I'm a jerk, and I wanted to show you guys one of the better lines I wrote for the coming New Year. It's so last year, I know, but I loved it so much I should be proposing to it. But that's just sick, so I posted it again.

The message of the post was some quality shit. I suppose I have moved on. But there was this one time in December where I wrote this note a few minutes after B left. I tried to see if I can start dating again. To hell with the three-month rule. Anyway, I used B for practice, and I gather he didn't mind. And here's what I wrote, and I transcribed it in one of my favorite Windows Applications, Notepad:



Now it took me about six days to do another update, and my nipples weep in apology. But I was on to something, and that is this. Ladies and gentlemen, presented for your self-pleasure, Smelly Third World Shit!


It's a new tab, or a page, in his here Blahg of Bull. Check that out if you have time and are too tired to masturbate. Enjoy, you darling punks!

And speaking of Facebook, you might want to check this out, as well. Click the banner!

Blog Soup #10: The Taxi Driver and Freddie Aguilar, Khie-Khie Pai, and Thank You Goes a Long Way!

The first thing I asked that taxi driver was if he had change for five hundred pesos. He said he did. And then he paused, look at my face, and said "Kamukha mo si Freddie Aguilar." (You look like Freddie Aguilar.)


I was screaming in my head, Ibaba mo ko! Ibaba mo ko! Freddie Aguilar ka pa, syet!!! But I didn't, because I was ten minutes away from getting late. And besides, that made for a validation. See, I sometimes call myself Freddie Anne Curtis Aguilar Barretto for kicks, and so that comment really didn't offend. And it was a funny story, too, so I really don't mind. There's nothing painful about it, Kuya Eddie, and I even gave that driver seventy pesos for a sixty peso drive.

I was doing research for a set of Trivia Questions¹ when I discovered this most curious, unheard of puppet in that all-time childhood favorite Batibot. Her name's Khie-khie Pay, and here's her Wikipedia Entry

Khie-Khie Pai, a Bruha orWitch (Reseth Neniel) who, flies at midnight with her broomstick. She is fond of doing VOODOO, playing with her favorite voodoo doll named JC her crush known as Bhu-bhu Yhug.

Khie-Khie Pay. That would have been my drag queen alter ego, and I can either be Khie-Khie or Khie Pay, and I'll start using it now because it sounds fantastic either way. That's too good a name, it's more than a steal, it's a snatch. Also, that can be my American Name, on the phone, while I'm at that kinky night job. I can hear it now -- "Hi this is Khie-Khie, how can I help you today? Whaddaya mean where am I located? I'm the happiest place on earth."

The Afternoon With Jessica Zafra post was responsible for two days of unprecedented page loads. Thanks to Madame Zafra for allowing the shameless self promotion in her comments, and to Glentot for the link, to those wonderful people in my Facebook network who took the time to humor that shout out, and to those amazing bloggers in my roll.



You should know my panties are wet with tears right about now. But seriously, thanks and cheers you all!

¹I love those snippets of unneccessary information that you don't really need, but you like knowing just the same because they are reminiscent. What was the name of She-Ra's horse? Of He-Man's tiger? Of that forgetful fortune teller in Batibot? Which Bioman died? You know the drill, and yes, this is a project I'm working on.

Blog Soup #9: Propelling the Trapped Snot Out of Jessica Zafra's Nose, Prince Poppycock, and The Next Nice Post!

So I entered Jessica Zafra's LitWit 3.6 challenge last week, and we were assigned to explain what happened to that hot dude on that picture to the left. I wrote a love story with cats that speak German, and this is what she said:

Momelia: This morning I woke up with a dry throat and nasal congestion. I went out for brunch, drank three pots of tea and felt better, but by 5pm I had a fever. It went away after a long nap, but my nose was still clogged. Then I read your story and the laughter propelled the trapped snot out of my nose. Thank you! Since you describe yourself in your blog as my female impersonator, then the PK in your story is you. (Amsterdam is not a country.)

PK is Pussy Kamagong, and she's the heroine in my story. That's a porn name. Again, your porn name = the name of your first pet + the name of the street where you lived as a child.

I didn't win that challenge, but we (some of her favorite entries) got invited to drinks; I will be meeting Jessica Zafra for the first time this Saturday! I will get shitfaced with the One Female I think I've been sincerely impersonating all this time. It just doesn't get any better than that, noh?

I have won two of her LitWit challenges before, and I'm just saying. And I also call myself Momelia because, and to quote our local vernacular champions, "nakaka-babae yun." I'm thinking of using Pussy Kamagong, too, for the same reasons.

Speaking of gay influences, submitted herein for your daily dose of crazy fantastic: Prince Poppycock!


That link redirects to a You Tube video with this amazing, amazing talent. If you have time, go on ahead and watch it, and then in the wake of his brilliance, ask yourself this -- Figaro?

The Next Nice Post is not really a post per se; I'm referring to the bullshit pick up line that anonymous blog hoppers make for acknowledgment. That usually precedes the self-indulgent "Exchange links?"

Nice Post! Exchange links?

These days, its "Beautiful, well-written post." My problem with this up-and-coming cliche is that these comment-farming dicks don't even care to expound. How beautiful is it? Which parts are well written? It's a link to a Sexual Reassignment Clip on YouTube, and I wonder what well-written post you're referring to? I just copy-pasted my Facebook status, "My eyes hurt, my body's sore in all the wrong places, I've been feverish for a week now, and my blood count's awful low;" You think dengue is beautiful? Tell me you don't get what I wrote, but you find me an endearing jerk that you'd like to add me to your roll. I would gladly comply. But give me something vague and saltless and a general waste of space like "Beautiful, well-written post," and it's my finest foul mouthing in your general direction.

Hijo de puta, blogging used to be a creative waste of time in 2004. Now it's just rhetoric whoring.

Credits to Jessica Rules the Universe for that delicious rugby player's picture.

Blog Soup #8: Of Red Smoke, Love, and Why You Should Love Your Siblings

Nine years is a long time for somebody to be maintaining a deathly bad habit. I started smoking in the year 2000 (mostly as a big Fuck You to them dime a dozen doomsayers. The end of the world didn't happen, so I might as well try smoking), and if I keep this up, then I might as well be exhaling red smoke in another year or so. I'm not a heavy smoker, but I keep a schedule. My recommended daily allowance of ten sticks (tops, Marlboro Lights) gets consumed in very specific intervals and moods. There's a stick first thing in the morning; I'm holding a cigarette before I do my toothbrush. And then there's another stick on my way to work. Three hours go by and its another stick on my first coffee break, two during lunch, and then one more before going home. Sometimes I take three sticks during lunch because an hour allows us a lot of time to scandalize, and nothing gets you smoking faster when its over the latest office gossip. I scatter two more sticks before I call it a day, and then it's the same song and dance all over the next morning.

With that being said, I can halfheartedly say that I don't feel my lungs collapsing in bloody papier mache lumps the size of closed fists, but the idea of exhaling red smoke has been nagging itself into recent memory any opportunity it gets.

My friends are either smokers, or they don't mind the secondhand smoke. I prefer the latter mostly because they never bum for a cigarette.

I love him in spite of his shallow skin deep tendencies. And, as expected, I'm willing to share some of his stresses if only he weren't such a drama queen about everything. I don't usually mind because, fuck it, I'm in love.

I've learned to realize that your siblings, not your childhood friends, are your best reminders of your own personal history. They're like Post Its that share your last name. This is mostly because, try as you might, there's just no letting go of the family you were born with.

Blog soup #7: Whatever Happened to Jhezper Driedfish, Immortality, and the Meaning of Life in Ebay

A post about hiatuses. Understand this is a wake up call. We do have a life.Define the word hiatus. Maybe I don't need to. I mean, those five properly arranged words "we do have a life" appropriately ends the discussion. You know this craze got you good if you don't mind documenting whatever blog-able encounter or thought you might have encountered with obsessive fervor.

Jessica Zafra calls it "cannibalizing her own life for material."

Succinct, yes, right on the dot; we do have offline lives too. So it doesn't matter if they're in for the temporary high; bloggers who haven't been posting for months now have all the right to do so.

Anyway, did you know that they're selling the meaning of life in Ebay? Yeah, there's that and thirty-dollar penis pumps.

Speaking of the meaning of life and such overly exaggerated bull, I got really philosophical this one time after my first hour of Looney Tunes. They were advertising very uneducational and highly violent toys when I got to thinking: Would I rather be immortal? Riiight. To sweeten the deal, let's add in a whole lot of genius, plenty of goal orientedness, and a great wealth of goodness not in an Oreo Cookie.

But, you will be him:

Seriously.

Related Links:

Jhezper Driedfish

Blog Soup #6: Tattoos, Ebonics, and Making Expandable Posts in Blogger

I sooo missed doing the soup thing, so I managed to take some time off ALL THAT penetration, collected my thoughts and all those emptied lotion canisters, and cooked up Soup # 6. Clicking on that link just takes you back to this same post, so you might as well forget about clicking that link altogether.

Lexan mentioned before that "pag nagkaka-bf eh tinatamad ng mag-update." Let me apologize for the growing inactivity these past few weeks, but I confess to having a lot in my hands. And then something else in my ass, but that's a different thing.

And yes, we're still together.

One of the most overlooked things about tattooed men or women is the obvious fact that we can keep a commitment. It may not always be as permanent as the skin art, but we try to maintain it for as long as our best efforts allow us. This probably explains why, inspite of the tequila bottles breaking, the uncharacteristic crying, and the family getting in the way, we're going on ahead and getting the first four months behind us.

See, a commitment's well on it's way already.

Here's me quoting myself (and yet another wonderful display of narcissism slash masochism): "The pain I can't give to others I give to myself. And it's going to be a beautiful work of art." I did it the first time out of curiosity, and maybe because of this echoing passion to express myself. Seriously, I'm not pulling your panties; expressionism is so right on the butt.
The foreign sensation of the needle was not something you'd prefer on your skin. And yet it became an acquired addiction. So much so that it was soon followed by three other sessions within the span of ten months.

And here's my favorite new phrase courtesy of Urban Dictionary

FO SHIZZLE

"Fo shizzle ma nizzle" is a bastardization of "fo' sheezy mah neezy" which is a bastardization of "for sure mah nigga" which is a bastardization of "I concur with you whole heartedly my African american brother."

Or just For Sure. Being my new favorite phrase and all, you guys might encounter this catchy little ebonic phrase from time to time in this here blahg of bull. It rolls! Fo Shizzle!

If you happen to enjoy porn and limewire at the same time, here's a little something you might find interesting: The Tall Israeli Monologue.

And yes, here's how I make expandable posts. Thanks to No Fancy Name for helping a million bloggers masturbate their HTML skills. You rock! And yeah, for future reference, I've linked him up in my Tools Roll, just below my Blog Roll. Feel free to call it public service.

Speaking of which, I've updated my rolls in the sidebar to include three new categories: Momel's Tools, DSL Tools, and my Blogging Tools. Momel's Tools refer to those websites that I usually open when I'm equipped with high speed. DSL Tools is something I need to look up from time to time, being the so efficiently tech savvy gay sonofa that I always am. And yes, Blogging Tools, created for convenience. It's like having my bookmarks on my blog.

You don't have to say it, but I know you're so admiring my clever.

Blog Soup #5: Fuck Buddies, Blog Rule #11, Strawberry Syrup, and the Good News About Blowjobs

Kids, today's soup is served with a healthy serving of bitterness.

I've always been the third party in the last few, uhm, flings I've participated in. I strongly recommend against calling them relationships because, first, fuck buddies don't exactly qualify as lovers. And second, home breaking has never been powerfully inclined to be a God fearing habit. So there.

It's been that way in these last two years. Yup, two relationships in three years. It's either I'm a very loyal lover, or I take a long time to recuperate since I bleed well and all that. I'm thinking it's more of the... nah, it's going to be a mighty bitter soup. But I'll tell you this much, my songs back then were rotating either on Stevie Wonder's Part Time Lover or Juice Newton's Angel of the Morning.

And yeah, cheating on your fuck buddy doesn't necessarily mean infidelity. It doesn't qualify as a relationship in the first place anyway.

I almost forgot to mention this in my Blog Rules, it was more like I did, but Rule #11 goes like: Never blog about your work specifics. Or at least never bitch against management in your blog. There was this guy who worked for Google. And he got fired because of his blog.

This is the story.
And this is what happened.

You don't want to lose your bread and butter over some blog, right? And then there's the story, more like a blog post, of this one Microsoft employee who took pictures of Mac computers being delivered to his office. Imagine that. You remember Britney Spears back when she was still a spokesperson for Pepsi and got fired for drinking Coke? It's the same drill. No, no, no, I said drinking Coke. Not snorting coke. That's Kate Moss. Well anyway, this Microsoft guy got fired for it.

The Microsoft Guy
Britney Spears and Coca Cola
Kate Moss and coke

And with kinky sex, yes, strawberry syrup goes a long way. Yeah, and the punchlines, oh all those punchlines you can manufacture when you've nothing on but strawberry syrup and spit. Har, I'm telling you, I don't usually kiss and tell, or make out and tell, or do the kinky and tell, but there was this one time. No, I don't feel squeamish. I feel funny, real funny as I'm recalling that one line when I cracked up something and totally ruined the freaky of that sweet moment. I'm actually grinning as I'm writing this. And I'm not going to tell. I just want to, uhm, be real kinky and put ideas in your head.

To spit, or not to spit? That is the question. Ladies and gentlemen and ball sniffers all, here's another testimonial to the things you learn everyday. They might not exactly be useful, but then again:



And then I learned the other day that it's not mighty advisable to swallow since sperm tends to stick to the throat and cause problems. Do you remember those expectorant commercials with the balled out chewing gum (phlegm) sticking to this glass container (the lungs)? Yeah, but this time, think of the gum as the, you know, the man juice and the glass container as the throat. And they're not making anything yet to dissolve that.

Blog Soup #4: I Almost Died and I Blogged About It, Waterproof Lenses, and Shit in a Bottle

My fourth near death experience had lots of running half naked men, rocks, and a taxi with a shattered windshield. It happened two days ago.

Oh wait, but was it my fifth already? I don't know, I lost count. It's not that I'm courting death or anything, but your life flashing right before you is not exactly an experience you need to relive for five times. Five times. It doesn't need to be in a row or anything, but it only takes one brush with death to make you want to stop and smell the roses before you're actually pushing roses from six feet below.

I almost drowned twice, been in an automobile accident three times, and I almost had my appendix explode on me once. What makes that last incident the closest so far was that the gangrenous little sonofabitch was a couple of minutes removed from implosion. Had I been any more idle and I could have been mothering a deadly infection that would have been, for all the right reasons, the death of me.

That's five times in 25 years. Five close encounters; it only takes one wrong turn of events, and I would be submitting one report I've never worked on before.

My own autopsy report.

If there was a God, I'd tell him that I get it already.

Anyway, on a lighter note, I went sunglass shopping with my friends earlier today. They were going to a company outing, so they need to look cool while catching some sun. One of my friends fancied this wicked little thing, and at a little more than the thousand peso mark, he wanted to make sure that it's worth the buck. So he asked the saleslady, "Miss, hindi ba magfa-fade yung tint nitong lens pag nalagyan ng tubig-alat? (Miss, are you sure that the tint on the lens will not fade if it gets a little salt water?)"

The sales lady then replied "Tingnan po natin! (Let's see!)" with the awful pep of a cheerleader. She then opened the glass showcase, took one of the lenses used for that pair of shades, threw that to the floor, and she stepped on it.
And then she stepped on it again. She was doing that Dance Revolution thing on a piece of eyewear. She then said "Hindi po (Nope)" without losing that smile in the process.

I was so totally disturbed by this completely unrelated demonstration that I found myself stomping on that stupid little fucker. And I was laughing at the same time too.

My friend bought that pair all the same.

I'm not a big fan of stool tests. You know, you're supposed to take these physical exams as a pre-requisite to employment. Or if you are already employed, they do these things annually just to check on your, uhm, physical well being. I take great pride in my clean bill of health, but I've never been too keen in taking a sample of my, uhm, crap. What makes it gross is you need to take a sample of your shit in a bottle.

Getting that piece of shit in that bottle is a completely different endeavour altogether. But before you do that, you need to be able to have something to put in that bottle. Have you ever crapped under pressure? Imagine this: medical clearances are due in an hour, and you don't feel nothing like taking a dump.
I'm telling you, it's not that freaking easy sitting on the shitter waiting for golden stool to happen.

Okay, so you managed to convince your bowel movement to do some actual movement. You will now take a deep breath and pray for intestinal fortitude. You will need to isolate the specimen. Imagine how easy things would be if they accepted stool samples on a wet tissue, but no. They had to pick that from a bottle.

So how exactly do I do it? With a piece of stick and surgical precision. Oh, and good aim, too. It's not that easy to catch things that float in water.

Related Posts:
What's a blog soup?
Triggering the Dirty Finger
When is an Appendix Like a Penis?
The First Week

Blog Soup #3?

All the filth that overfloweth from that stinking cup of piss known as ABS CBN has materialized into GEM TV. No, it doesn't have badly dressed singing champions. It doesn't feature noontime shows with anniversaries consummating in highly sensationalized massacres. It doesn't have totally unfunny comedians with bloated egos. What it does have, however, is this hour-long show called "Ang Nagsialis sa Dating Daan." I'm not sure if it airs for an hour, but it was all the time I needed to get sick.

I'm not sure about these guys, but bad publicity is still publicity. And I don't think broadcasting Eliseo Soriano's bank account number would help either. Alright, we get your point, he's going to hell because he swindles with the Bible and all that, but pulleaaase.

Brother Mike's already another human skidmark in the underwear of life. And what used to be his disciples are bashing him at channel 20 on weekdays at 5 in the afternoon.

Clearly, all this buzz in the NEWS about "suggestively erotic" notebook covers made available to kids in grade school is totally pointless. Why would any kid wank off to his Mathematics notebook when he can always abuse his parents' DSL connection? We'll just have to wait until these kids learn how to use Google. See, we all know for a fact that the Internet is made for porn.

Spaghetti. Call it that. Or pasta, if you will, but for the love of breastmilk, please stop referring to it as "spag." That sounds like something Andrew E would say.

How many MMDA officers does it take to blow a whistle? At least three blowing at the same time. You know how it is here in the Philippines, the louder the clearer. So that explains why I was seeing three MMDA officers terrorizing FX drivers with all that synchronized whistling. Fortunately, it was a one day show in front of the Galleria, and these drivers were able to breathe again the following day. Are these FX drivers that hard of hearing? It's either that, or we must have a whole lot of graduates from Traffic Control School.

I've never posted anything about that gay cowboy movie. I've never even watched the damned thing. True, Jake Gylenhaal and Heath Ledger enjoying each other's chocolate starfishes has got to be any gay guy's top masturbatory fantasy, but that's already another blogger's thesis statement. Not watching it doesn't make me any less gay anyway. Does that make you any less of a Christian if you were thirty years old and uncircumcised?

"I wish I know how to quit you?" Yeah, wave and say hi to the surgeon general and my cancer sticks.

Hey, allow me to greet you all a Happy Mother's Day in advance. My mom's not reading this blog, but she knows like the sweet angel she is that I'm extending the heartfelt shout out to her in California. Most of you folks might still have two parents. I only have one. And I don't think it matters anyway since my mother deserves twice the love.

Mama, I hope you never get tired of that Spice Girl song.

I used to say that lie down with dogs and then love your fleas. You are who your friends are, and that is exactly why I'm going to edit or re-write my blog roll. I've been doing a lot of hopping lately, and after getting a dose of healthy whiffs from different blogging influences, I' ve come to realize that I will need to retain, uhm, "certain" blogs.

Take a picture of me pimping some of my earlier posts:

What's a blog soup?
Triggering the Dirty Finger
A Finger to the Surgeon General
Ten Things
Things I Do With My Different Groups of Friends

What's a blog soup?

What's a blog soup? I call it a blog soup because it's this pot (post) of completely unrelated sentences cooked to look interesting. These lines might be ideas for future posts, comments, and just random thoughts. It's supposed to be incoherent, but it should make sense at the same time.


I talk to myself from time to time, and sometimes, I say something cute that I'd want to quote myself at a later time. So I put it in this soup. Or maybe I hear somebody else say something real brilliant that I would want to use at a later time. So I quote them and put it in this soup. Or maybe I find an amusing line from Douglas Adams or Mark Twain. I wouldn't want to vandalize my books with dog-ears and a highlighting pen, so I paraphrase and put it in this soup.Or maybe some smelly local went overboard with the nakakagalit factor, and I don't have enough time to torture current events with a dedicated blahg post. So, for future reference, I lock my jaw and put it in this soup.

You get the drift.

It's basically an excuse for being both lazy and incoherent at the same time.

Blog Soup #1

(Over the phone)
MEL: Hello, puwede po kay Jen?
GIRL: Ay si Ate Jen? Ay wala po sha.
MEL: May lakad ba siya?
GIRL: Ay si Ate Jen po? Ay nag-badMENton po.
MEL: Ay. Ganon ba? O sige, pakisabi na lang tumawag si Mel, okay?
GIRL: MEL po? AY opo.
If that ain't too much "AYs" in one short conversation, then I'm a
gay guy swearing on goat eyelashes as a sex toy.


(Video City)
Cashier: Sir, hindi pa po kayo puwede makahiram ng unlimited. Sa ngayon, puwede niyo lang hiramin ay hanggang dalawang titles lang kasi bagong member pa lang kayo.
MEL: So kailan pa kami puwedeng humiram ng unlimited?
Cashier: Kailangan po, makasampung balik kayo rito.
MEL: Tapos, sa isang balik eh maximum of two titles lang?
Cashier: Opo, minimum of two titles, maximum of two titles. (Exactly.)
MEL: So ibig sabihin eh kailangan muna naming humiram ng dalawampung titles bago namin ma-avail yung unlimited?
Cashier: (Pauses, looks at the ceiling). Opo.
**Jesus, lady, it's just ten multiplied by two.

(At a birthday party in Jollibee)
Emcee: Hokay kids, we're going to form two groups. One for boys, one for girls, and etceteras, okay? Let's join us together common. (Nobody stands up except for five kids already in front.) Common kids, common, let's join the jollibee group. Do you want to join yes or no? (Yes, that's one sentence).
**Let us join us together common?

I'm not updating my blog as religiously as I used to. Well, that's a fucking given. But that does not mean that I've given up on what used to be such a devouring passion. For the time being, I had to sacrifice my "blogging time" to give way to my sexy night job as a technical support
representative. But don't you all worry, I'm still kinky, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

I have so much to write about, and yet I have so little time with which to work with. See, in between technical support, avoiding really stupid people, and having a life of my own, I really can't find just the right space to get busy with my writings. I know it doesn't pay the bills,
but it allows for a satisfaction paralleled maybe by a wicked gangbang with the OC boys. Okay, I'm not punishing myself for a diversion which is as gratifying as it gets. I mean, I'd love to write more and get more of my sick thoughts in this here blog, but I just don't have the time. I'll find a way to work this out, but for the time being, it's another six minutes left to log back in.

I have this new friend, and he was just relentless with his discussions about singing contests. And for some reason, it got me thinking. I mean, How gay is a guy who can differentiate the two contests which Sarah Geronimo and Rachel Ann Go championed? I'm not jumping to conclusions, but yeah. The only thing gayer than that is Erik Santos wearing feathers in his hair. With a dress cut down to there. Is this going to trigger another endless verbal attack towards my "silahistang" gay bashers? Nope. This dude in question's nice, and I was JUST thinking, see?

And if anybody asks, tell them yes. I'm looking for a boyfriend. It's just about time! (Insert otherworldly laughter here.) I mean, it's about time to get in love again. And there's a reason why I'm saying it like it's more of a choice than anything else.