A True Love Story

**This is not in keeping with the dumb shit I write, but things like this happen offline. Of course, the contents of this post have been altered for "sharing" purposes. And by "altered," I meant no F-words or C-words or D-words or M-words or N-words or G-words, none of the usual herbs and spices. This is a God Damned Love Story, a True Love Story for mother fucking crying out loud. 

You're looking at two hearts. And a forensic pathologist. 

Dear Immigration Officer, 




I didn't know what to expect of this sweetheart I met online. That was in September 2009. Albert and I got to talking, and doing video calls, as is customary with these introductions, and I agreed to meet him in person three months later. There is something disarming about him that made me throw all caution to the wind and just say yes to meeting him in person. 

I admit that I could be careless, but this felt safe, for some reason. 

I cannot forget December 27, 2009 because that was when I finally met him in person. Albert is a dashing and handsome fox at 56. I was 26 then. Yes, ours is a May December affair, and it is pregnant with equal measures of caution and abandon. I remember well how he told me, with this smile in his voice, that I was the one he's looking for. And then, in the midst of the bustle in that busy airport, he hugged me. Tight. That was two days after Christmas, and it still felt like sunshine. 

We got to know each other better during his ten day visit. He's a real gentleman, and he overflowed with manners and he treated me with this unprecedented care. Was I fragile? No. But the way he was with me, the way he regarded me and took me in his arms, it felt right. Finally, something felt right in my 26 years, and I couldn't have been any more grateful than I was back then. 

It was amazing how things got better, how we took off, for he was back after a month, and then some more. His visits were frequent; he returned to the Philippines to see me 16 more times after we first met, and I was happier each time. 

I will apologize now for the cliche, because the truth is, there are no other words. Albert is a dream that came true, and he materialized into this amazing man, and he is my amazing man. And then, at the height of my happiness, he surprised me with a proposal. 

Our Holy Union Ceremony took place in August 2010. I know it is rather sudden, rushed, even, but how can I say no to this man? To this dream? I am aware of his prior trespasses, for his honesty was admirable. He admitted everything to me before we got married, no, United, and I have learned to accept him for everything that he is and for everything that he's been through. 

The Filipino gay culture is more than being attracted to the same sex. We want to look like women, we want to be loved as women, we want to be women. I cannot get over the fact that Albert continued to love me even after my sexual reassignment surgery. I had my sudden reservations then. Will he continue loving me without my boy parts? That was critical, decisive, even, but he supported me regardless. Would you believe that he financed my operation? And we're still a happy couple to this day. He never, ever, abandoned me, and his sunshine is as warm as the day I first met him in 2009.  

And so I ask you this, dear Officer. How can I not love him more? I never left him, I never did, and this was a decision that I have never, not once, regretted. Albert really is the one, and I am fortunate to have been united with him, if only in spirit. 

But then, as good fortune would have it, same sex marriage has been legalized in some parts of the US. This was in 2013, and I am seeing this as the one real proof of my unwavering devotion to Albert. We have five years of trust and loyalty and mutual affection behind us, and we are looking forward to spending the rest of our lives together. I intend to marry Albert as soon as possible, as soon as the opportunity presents itself, and I cannot wait to say yes, in a real ceremony, to this sweetheart I met online five years ago. 




Sincerely, 

John Peter Pascual

My Rules on Facebook Likes

**Before anything else, allow me to share a "quote" I created a few years back. 

"Why, is that a dick to be Liked?"

I used this in one of my earlier posts, What to Like in Facebook, and I wrote this in keeping with what you really want to say when somebody asks you to "Like my Page please," but are too polite to give them the finger. That sentence was a mouthful, I know. Meanwhile, That picture is public service, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, but nobody really used it anyway, so fuck that and let us move along. 

This list explains my Facebook Like Policy (haha). You could disagree on the things enumerated here in an equally sulfuric post, tell me about, and I am not going to read it. I can honestly promise you now, in earnest, that I will not give a fuck. To each his own, Dearly Beloved, you are what you Like. And having said that, let us begin this list.  

Baby Pictures During the First Seven Days

Seven days. This is because not all babies are this cute. 

I would like to say how I feel for you, first time parents, and your boundless joy and the speechless happiness that comes with your angelic bundle of noisy ecstacy. I have personal reasons why I have decided not to reproduce. But I'm sure you have nothing but warmth for your Little Beloved, which is why I will Like all your updates for the first seven days following your delivery. This could be nickel-plated empathy, but I am genuinely happy for you, and I will then understand your usual mission of documentation. 

I will Like all your updates, and I'm talking All of them. That includes the hourly selfies and updates on your Little Beloved's shit patterns. Why, you can even post your Little Beloved's first used diaper in a trash can, and I will like it in earnest.  

This flood Liking will take place for the first seven days, where you are at the summit of your happiness inspite of your sore vajayjay. I will Like with restraint, as is customary for I have taste, on the eighth day forward. Hopefully, your kid inherited the cute genes so I can continue to Flood Like such updates. 

I remember this one Facebook status where this bitch updated everyone on the dilation of her vajayjay. "Omg, I'm 4cm na." Just sharing. 

Common Courtesy Likes 

I steal pictures from the Internet. I have no problems with them stealing pictures back. That, ladies and gentlemen, is The Golden Rule in motion.

I will not Like any of your updates if you have never Liked any of my updates. I have decided to believe that there is still such a novelty as common courtesy in 2014. Once upon a time, in the 20th century, the powers that be indoctrinated everybody with the principles of The Golden Rule. The Golden Rule asks everyone to "Do unto others what you would have others do unto you," and we grew up to its ironclad implementation that we were living it by the age of four. We grew up to Common Courtesy, what polite days, and I have reason to believe it died a few years back.

Common Courtesy is not a trend in Facebook. Everyone is so bent on being Liked, and then generating Selfies or updates that will collect more Likes, that no one bothers to pay attention to anybody else. However, I admit that there are a few Golden Exceptions who still manifest this kind of unusual acknowledgment, and they keep my little faith going. Like me, and I will Like you back. And that's basically the size of it. 

This explains my Common Courtesy Like Policy. There are near infinite ways to make fun of Etiquette, but I'd far rather not for it is something dear to me, like my G-spot, so let us move on. 

Tattoos

That tall homo writes this crap. To the left is his Awesome Tattoo Artist, Ms Rakel Natividad. 

Pictures of your new tattoos get automatic Likes. I feel for you, my Inked Dearly Beloved. This also explains why anything by my Awesome artist, Mam Rakel Natividad, get automatic Likes. 

Family

We are talking about the family you were born with. 

Status updates from family members get automatic Likes regardless of the content. 

Some Selfies

Haha, a list on Selfie Rules smells luscious, but I don't have the energy. Or the interest.

I will Like your Selfies if and only if they fall under any of the following guidelines: 

1. You are genuinely beautiful or handsome, whatever. I should know since I know you in person. Underscore genuinely. 

2. You are genuinely beautiful or handsome regardless of your gender. I'll even add a comment that says "LikeLikeLikeLikeLike" if you were a truly beautiful boy or a really handsome girl. 

3. That is still your real face, and you haven't aged a bit.  

4. That is no longer your real face, and I am really Like-ing your cosmetic surgeon's intestinal fortitude. 

5. I really like you as a person.

6. You smile with your teeth. 

7. You are not giving me no goddamn attitude most especially when we know how painfully ordinary you look in person. 

8. You have no make up on. 

9. On the spot if someone took your Selfie for you (which defeats the point), but you went ahead and posted that stolen shot anyway because you don't give a fuck. 

10. You're a fierce bitch, qualified.  

11. Your Selfie isn't accompanied by some weak-ass plagiarized quote that really does nothing to bring out your eyes. Having said that, your Selfie Quotes really are irrelevant, aren't they? Where's your confidence?

Shameful Scandals

There is a German word for it. Schadenfreude. 

You are sharing some titillating scandal that involves people I know. It's okay if you're not mentioning names, but the clues you let slip gave us a passport photo in our heads. Thank you. 

Trust me, My Dearly Beloved, this is one of the two main reasons why I keep logging in to my Facebook account. I am a hopeful gossip because my life is mostly boring. 

Having the Steel Nuts to Tag the Object of Your Loathing

Think about it, Dearly Beloved. When was the last time somebody tagged someone in a Facebook fight?

You're tits are boiling in anger with that ALL CAPS status update directed towards a certain dip shit in our network of friends. And you are not keeping us in suspense because you actually Tagged the dip shit in question. Three snaps in a Z-formation to you, you fierce, fierce bitch. 

I hate it when people express their loathing over someone in their network, and they let the rest of their friends know, and they unload an emotional string of 100 furious words (no periods, one sentence) towards a very hateful Anonymous person. I get that you're livid, I am aware that you're boiling, but if you really meant all those F-words, then you should at least have the courtesy to fight fair and let the object of your hatred know. And us, too, since we, your intended audience, know the right kind of drama to pay attention to. Some of us have taste, you know. 

Think about it. How would we, your intended audience, know you're not making up the drama? 

Accomplishments 

Acknowledge.

I make it a point to Like a friend's accomplishments. And we're talking about the kind of accomplishments that they studied hard for, rendered multiple over time hours for, weight trained with religious discipline for, stayed loyal to each other after five years for, woke up at four in the morning for three months for, got nominated and then elected for, cheated a drug test for, got wrongfully detained and got out of it for, saved P100,000 so they can get a pair of silicon breasts for. So no, that magical anemic chicken you cooked for lunch doesn't count, unless of course you are quadriplegic and you were a telekinetic chef. 

Listen, Dearly Beloved, listen here. I am genuinely acknowledging of your triumphs, most especially when you deserve them. I am not kidding. But your "OMG, I just beat ___ levels in ______" update?

Quotes Like These 

And, for the troubled life of me, I still don't get broken hearted people who keep quoting crap about moving on, or about how the next love of their lives will be better and shit, or about how the ex was a womanizing cunt. You are telling us that you have "moved on" because? You already told us a week ago, why do you need to tell us again? Maybe you need the "Keep telling yourself that" kind of reinforcement, but bitch, please. Get over it. You are now in your thirties and you are still following that Marcelo dude? 

Happy Pictures of Your Parents 

Lovedoesnotagewhatthefuckamisaying. But there are exceptions.

Such pictures are love, undistilled raw love, and they get automatic Likes. End of story. 

I am now reminded of the sheer tastelessness of posting pictures of your recently deceased. Some morbid things are delicious, but seriously, dude, why can't you just tell us where the wake is being held? What, are we the kind of people that require visual evidence of a Dearly Departed in a coffin? What, are you thinking we are suspicious? What, they're not dead enough? What, the reports of their death are greatly exaggerated? 

And you should know that there is nothing original with this sort of weirdness.  
The Victorians have done post-mortem photography, and they did it rather tastefully considering their subject. We are talking 18th century here, my Dearly Beloved. What you're doing has been done to death, it is far from original, and it's still a loser update. 

Meanwhile, feast yourself on these fine examples of post mortem photography, 18th century style.

Updates by The Crushie 

I am too old for this shit, you know.

Get automatic Likes. Ugh, sonofabitch, I just said "Crushie." And I am in my thirties now. Anyway, Crushie is thin. Crushie is most definitely rock and roll. Crushie has more visible tattoos than I have. Crushie gives me spectacular erections all the time. Crushie is all that and then oozes with hardcore confidence. Crushie is someone I haven't met yet.  

Be Afraid of This Clown

Title 2: Why This White Faced Motherfucker 

Dearly Beloved, this is Art the Clown. The Clown.

Now let me tell you the truth, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts. I just watched what could be the scariest shit in my adult life. There I was, all thirty four years of me, stealing a quick look behind my back as the credits rolled to signal the applause this film deserves. Oh wait, a cut scene. What the fuck, there is more to it? Why am I... Oh wait gran hijo de puta! Shit, you are not fucking with me again you goddamn white-faced clown. Mother. Fucker. That stupid bitch should have blinded the clown when she had the chance. I thought to myself that is exactly what I will do now as my eyes scanned my living room for something pointed.The credits resume, and I snapped out of it. 

And then I decided that this movie is, indeed, Boss-level scary.

All Hallows' Eve is what happens when Sadako's curse meets John Wayne Gacy's serial killing. Pennywise (from Stephen King's It) lends his maddest make up skills and fails. Miserably. Cap'n Spaulding (of Devil's Reject's infamy) decides to lend a hand in murderous intent and fucks it up real bad.Why, even that vigilante clown Buster (from that Masters of Horror episode "We All Scream for Ice Cream') and his ice cream voodoo squeals in defeat at Art's devilish tricks. Billy the Puppet (of the Saw series) is a goddamn dummy. I'm telling you, Dearly Beloved, those amateurs have got nothing on Art. 

Troublesome, motherfucking scary Art. 

This is John Wayne Gacy, a real life serial killer. He used to be The Bomb.

And this is Pennywise. Yes, he's in a sewer. What's he doing in a sewer? 

This is Cap'n Spaulding. He should be teaching his wonderful Foulmouthing in a university somewhere. 

And we have Buster. No scares, all ice cream. And some voodoo.

Throw in pools of black mascara and blacker lip stick on a mouth of decaying yellow teeth, and you have Art the White Faced Clown. Or Mime. He should be Art the Mime, the magical homicidal mime who will draw you in with that disgusting smile and keeps you in place with a loaded syringe. He smiles a lot, and he smiles with his eyes, too, that he makes you remember if you've ever been afraid of clowns before.  

Those clowns have nothing, not even remotely anything, on Art the Clown. By the way, this is one of the more unnerving scenes in All Hallows' Eve.

Have you ever been afraid of clowns before, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts?

You wished the things he did with his hands stopped at mimery, but he is as masterful with that amputation bone saw as he is with the usual flower stick. He had no dialogue so he spoke no evil (duh, why did I even write that), but his range of wicked genius (how very cheesy, Momel) was, for lack of a better word, The Shit. 

He holds firmly to his killing purpose with unnerving tenacity. And he flashes those rotting yellow teeth while he's decapitating a dude because he's a lunatic. Have you ever been afraid of clowns, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts? Try All Hallows' Eve. 

Did you know, Sweet Nuts, that there is a real term, and a website too, for your fear of clowns? Coulrophobia (kool-roh-phow-byah i-laav-beeg-deeks haha made you say it) stems from seeing "an unfamiliar face on a familiar body." This rational could work with kids, or equally impressionable adults, but it is rather lacking. The familiar body, of course, is the human torso with its extremities. What you get from the neck up, that unique clown weirdness, is the "unfamiliar face." And there you go. 

Now, the psychology behind this fear, the evaluation, is rather unconvincing if you ask me. I have seen masses of unfamiliar faces on unfamiliar bodies, but I am not afraid of drag superstar Nina Flowers. I am not afraid of that charming Prince Poppycock. I am not afraid of The Elephant Man, bless his soul. I am not afraid of Bebe Gandanghari or Jim Girl or that sickening population of third world rejects we see on TV. 

What's so terrible about the spectacular Prince Poppycock?

There is something infinitely more gripping with clowns that supplies some reservation at the back of our heads. I, for one, am doing triple somersaults because there is an actual word for "abnormal fear of clowns," but I am not that sold on the premise of an "unfamiliar face on a familiar body." Seriously, my Dearly Beloved, why are clowns scary? Is it because of the excessive make up that's made to look like a permanent grin?  A smile that does not move on a breathing person is unnerving enough. But then you magnify that by a hundred with tons of white face and lurid red lipstick that has metastasized. Seeing this badly executed smile on a grown up man with a dress gives it another dimension. Is that it? Is it because this "unfamiliar face" is trying so hard, in his weirdly spastic way, to make us laugh? Is it because this permanent grin doesn't speak and communicates with exaggerated gestures? Is it because, as kids, we grew up to the image of Death with a white skull, and the white 
face comes terrifyingly close? 

What makes clowns scarier? Bloodstains, that's what. 

And then we want to know why are some clowns endearing? Why do I find The Joker infinitely more interesting than some caped guy with a utility belt? Why is The Joker's girlfriend, Harley Quinn, just as exciting? 

I am not afraid of clowns, but I admit they somewhat worried me when I was a kid. Art the Clown modified my resolve. I am leery of Art the Clown not because he is "an unfamiliar face on a familiar body," but because he is the Perfect Scary Clown. Why, then, is he the perfect scary clown? Oh fuck it. You be prompt with your copy of "All Hallows' Eve." Make haste and scare yourself in earnest. You find this out for yourself. And besides, this mouthful on clowns is making me goddamn tired. 

Watch it.

Troublesome Things to Watch This Halloween (A List of Awful Movies)

**Scary is relevant, my Dearly Beloved, so I'll give you a list of troublesome things to watch instead.

Now allow me to let you in on a secret, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts. I am a sick gay fuck. There. This has been going on for the better part of my thirty something years, and it's hardly surprising when I consider my interests. It's in the criminal books I read, and the malicious thoughts I entertain. It's in the web pages I have bookmarked, and the dirty finger I throw with my eyes. It's in the things I imagine, which includes the slow roasting way with which someone I hate dies, and the poisonous indulgences I maintain. That includes this blog. It's in everything I do in secret,  and, most especially, the kind of movies I watch. 

Rest assured, my Dearly Beloved, that I am still a good little Christian homosexual.

I. I. I. Shit, I hate talking about myself, and I'd far rather drown than to keep the verbal diarrhea exploding on the subject. I do have a point, Dearly Beloved. We have decided to do you service on this lovely Halloween evening and suggest crap that will hopefully scar you for life. I pray that you are either six years old or incredibly impressionable, since I am aiming for some sort of light trauma with this list. And because we are sick gay fucks, we claim some sort of authority, or at least the intestinal fortitude with which to sit through each of these troublesome things. 

I said "things." I know. These things are not listed in any particular order. 

The Human Centipede: Full Sequence

If it's not the shit-eating that kills you, then it could be the pedal infanticide. If that doesn't get you, then it could be the barbed wire penetration. If that doesn't get you, then it could be the visual smell of shit stained lips bound with a stapler. If that doesn't get you, then I'd like to get your autographed picture, please, and some of your personal effects, if you don't mind. I will make you a goddamned altar, God. 

Vase de Noces

It's a sad film about this lonely farmer who's gone mental, Real mental, and it's not just the pig fucking that gives him away. It's a black and white piece of depravity that won't bore you with suggestive dialogue. Nobody talks in this piece of shit. Which is just as well since it's set in this farm owned by this pig fucking farmer. Would you listen to a pig fucking farmer talk? No? What about the raped pig? Would you listen to it if it talked? Really? I thought so. 

Nekromantik 

This love story could be worlds of super fun if he were alive while she was raping him. The title lets us in on the lurid proceedings of corpse-fucking, but the piece of shit director, bravo you, who did this crap went overboard and gave me a mental smell of what I'm watching. And I'm telling you now, Dearly Beloved, the words "infected wormy cheese" do not come close.  

 Whoever thought that necrophilia was fun? Nobody, that's who.  

A Serbian Film 

Oh dear. Killer. One hundred and ten minutes. One twenty-second scene of sheer infernal sick. This crap is not meant for parents because there are images you will not un-see and sounds that you will not un-hear. I am giving you this warning with the finality of a heart attack, Dearly Beloved, because I truly care. Haha. Meanwhile, on a serious note, I am still hearing that newborn's tortured wailing as I'm writing this. You know a movie fucked you up real bad when it plays a terrible memory on cue. 

Salo 

It's a frightening fiesta of libertine excesses that caters to the visually excitable. We are treated to naked, pubescent boys and girls, all beautiful in their thick flowing manes and skin so smooth that it's sinful. It takes place in this picturesque Italian manor, hidden from the curious eyes of anyone within fifty or so miles. It's either mildly pornographic or wildly pedophilic, and that depends on how you look at it. 

Visual, visual, visual. It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye, which is, when you think about, the long and short of this film adaptation. Is it wicked ocular trauma, then? Not even close. Is "pedophilic" even a word? Who gives a shit. 

My heart is torn between a list of ten things or an aneurysm. Meanwhile, anything that's 70 proof, no chaser, no ice, and a deputation of equally sick friends will make watching these troublesome things tolerable. Go for it. Have fun, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts.  

To Our Tattoo Haters Part One: What Happens When You Get Old?

**Now if you can please focus your attention to the use of the phrase "Tattoo Haters" in between the words "Our" and "Part." There you go, that's right. Keep that in mind, Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, and know that I love you long time muahness from Pasig Cirreehhh!

I will be like this except maybe for the stomach tattoos. And I will find friends with more tattoos than I have, and we will remain friends until we smell like urine every time we meet, and we will have a bad ass picture like this someday. This is what will hapen when I grow old. It's either this or lung cancer. 

I Will grow old with my ink, and that's about the long and short of it. People will continue to be freaked out in secret. I have gotten used to that, and I am growing to like the unnecessary attention.  You, however, will never appreciate that because you are as indecisive as you are judgmental. I decided to get inked, I will brave the consequences, and I will manage with shining confidence. 

I endured hours of needles puncturing my forearm, my wrist, my chest, and that area above the armpit it a bitch. The needles puncture my skin at a rate of 50 to 3,000 times a minute (a sewing machine runs at 750 stitches a minute), and, more importantly, it's not just one kind of needle. We're talking specialized needles that are compressed in threes, fives, nines, and fifteens. And I sat through hours of repeated infliction because that special pain delivers something beautiful and thoroughly personal. I am the kind of person, we are the kind of people that sees past the blood and the puncture wounds and beholds the beauty behind it instead. So you will understand why we are more concerned with Tattoo Maintenance and After Care and points a dirty finger at Public Opinion. 

Leave us and our growing collection of tattoos alone. You don't get that kind of untoward attention, you will never understand how that feels like, so you mind your own business. 

And having said that, allow me to tell you haters the truth behind growing old with tattoos.  

Fuck your insecurity, fuck your like-minded friends and your mob mentality, fuck your self-serving standards of what is acceptable, and, most importantly, fuck your obviously weak brain and its terrifying lack of original opinion. Do something with your limitless time. Masturbate until your palms bleed, and leave us the hell alone. Or as we say it in the third world vernacular, 

"Isalsal mo yan, gago."