A Rape Story (Part 1)

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

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

Picture from the Hannington blog

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

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

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

We were home thirty minutes later. 

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

Goooood Mooorningg!

Photo from Disney Wikia

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

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

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

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

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

"GOOOOD MOORRNING!" 

Photo from Homemaker

What the fuck, Manong? 

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

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

Lousy Writing

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

Image from gotchacomix.

On Protestations

Here's the thing: 

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

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

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

Dirty third world jobless freeloaders.  

Whatever Update

**I wouldn't have anything to write if it weren't for this light bulb moment that happened to me. While I was taking a shit this morning. No pictures. No spell check. No previews. 

I have learned to. Identify my tolerance. For everybody else's bullshit. And then I get to decide. Should I smile it away? Give it the finger? Write it out? There's no end to your vanity. Anyway. I've been smiling it away more recently these days. That's scary. I've been writing your crap out. And then I find myself smiling at it. This blog is fucked. 

Maybe this inner-peace bullshit. It's just a goddamned phase. It better be. Oh Jesus Mary. It better be. 

I can choose to post this on Facebook. As a status update. And I will choose to ignore it myself. 

Beauty Queen Teeth

I was smoking in front of TGIF while waiting for the mall to open when I noticed this beautiful face to my left. His perfectly blushed cheeks were radiant as they supported this killer pair of black shades. His lips were as purple as a bad bruise, his nose delicate and pointy like those of a little girl. His thin frame and wide shoulders were draped in this black number that had yellow streaks all over. His sense of fashion can use a little indoctrination, but his face was warm and friendly as it was comely, so I talked to him.

I gave him a warm smile; he was looking at me anyway. "Hi, ako pala si Momel." And he was like, "Hi, I'm Maimai," in that familiar high pitched voice that's as close as one gets to friendly strangulation. Again, Maimai here was beautiful, so I had to ask, "Contesera?" Contesera, or Beauconera, is a beauty pageant regular. And he said, "Dati. I used to, and I've been all around. Kung saan saan..." I butted in because I can't help it, "Taray, nationwide?" He didn't seem to notice, so he went on uninterrupted. "... pero thirty na ako. Matanda na. Graduate na ko dian." And then he gave me one of those obviously practiced smiles that conteseras shine with. And then Maimai's pretty stopped dead in its tracks.

He flashed this set of Very yellow teeth.

I am in my thirties myself, and I've seen a lot of yellow teeth, but seriously, Maimai's stains are the oddest. There's this heavy concentration of that school bus yellow on his upper row.  Which is the only teeth a beauty queen usually displays, and it rested on his lower bruise-purple lips. However, the yellow is darker, heavier even, on his two front teeth. Remember that funny bit where you stick chewed gum on your two front teeth? And then you smile, and the people who see it laugh in surprise because it's hilarious as shit? Because it's a joke? Far unlike Beauty Queen Maimai's golden treasure here?

I breathed a sigh of relief in secret; I was about two feet away from him. Anything closer, like within smelling range of his breath, and I could be spending my lunch hour with an oxygen tank. No, wait, smelling salts, strong ammonia, and then an oxygen tank. I could be paralyzed too, sure, if I didn't keep to my personal space. Anyway, I'm not saying that he's got dragon's breath. I'm not saying he's got killer halitosis. You know what? I'm sorry. There. I'm sorry if I jumped to conclusions. I apologize. So allow me to say this, and I'm saying this from the bottom of my heart: I'm sure, no, I know that beneath all that poorly maintained teeth, beneath all that yellow, beneath all that dental profanity... is just really stinky breath.

So Maimai here graduated from gay beauty contests because he says he's gotten old. Maybe it's high time for him to enroll in som Dental Hygiene School. You see, the same thing goes for old dogs and "old" fags. They could sure learn some new tricks. Maimai here can learn to brush his teeth. Good girl.