Countdown to New Year: One Day Left!

**Have you kissed your digits goodbye yet? Here's to you and your fireworks.

My Worst Christmas Memory

I've never had a bad Christmas until that one in 95.

My mother, she's a doll I tell you, and she was wrapping singulary empty gift boxes. She was more like preparing them for display than having them summarize the holidays with new stuff on Christmas morning.

She had enough money for boxes, gift wrap, and tape, but not enough for actual presents. I was never a brat, but there was still some reasonable materialism in my person. Practice made it all the more refined. And with all my previous Christmases, I had more than my proper share of practice. My holiday spirit was this growingly greedy presence, more like an evolving summary of my abundant Christmases past. And it was that same nasty spirit, however improperly reasonable because it uses "upbringing" as an excuse, which played a big role in imprinting that memory with severe graphic detail.

I tell you, you don't forget things like that. It killed my expectations, made quick work of paralyzing my Christmas Spirit, and left me decidedly less convinced of a merry Christmas that year.

Top Ten Reasons Why I'm This Close to Hating Filipino Taxi Drivers (Updated with Your Comments!)

**Of course, I am not referring to ALL of them, but there are certain drivers who give you THE impression that they all attended the same dipshit taxi driver college.

**Meanwhile, I first wrote this six years ago, December 10, 2010. I felt like reposting this now on account of I sort of miss the interaction I had with my readers then. Plus I am still licking scratch wounds somewhere, and that has been keeping me from publishing fresh content. 




1. They have to stop over for a gas refill. While the meter is running.
The only reason why a middle class queen bee like myself hails a cab is when I feel like I'm going to be late. My kinky night job guarantees less traffic, so I can allot some ten minutes to get to the office. Imagine my frustration as some taxi driver takes away five minutes of my allowance to refill his tank. We could have been using those five minutes to close the gap between my person and the office, but no. Hateful Taxi Driver Man has to take his time with what he can be doing while he's cruising, and he takes mine in the process.

Of course, I can always leave home earlier, but I have to allow at least thirty minutes to prepare, twenty minutes of which are spent in the washroom rolling the packaging tape.

2. They are closeted war freaks.
I remember this one time, just recently, when this driver got into a heated argument with a truck driver who refuses to give way. The taxi driver stops our cab in the middle of the road, catches the attention of this truck driver, attempts to pull him over, and he shouts the foulest of expletives at the same time. Its not love at first sight. Mr Taxi Driver Man is obviously provoking the fight out of Chickenshit Truck Driver Man. Chickenshit Truck Driver Man, being the surprising coward that he turns out to be, stays behind the driver seat and screams like a girl.

My Macho Posturing Dick Taxi Driver Man was grinning like a champion inbreed as he drives me home. This after alarming the shit out of my person.

3. They're sometimes grossly unhygienic.
Imagine being in an enclosed air conditioned space, and you're sitting next to this taxi driver who, after several minutes, reveals his alter ego without as much as a warning. Or a handkerchief. You find out that he doubles as this symphony conductor who specializes in wind instruments. Now, imagine those wind instruments as hoarse and throaty pipes with some sort of fluid discharge. And you find residual specks of said discharge on his steering wheel.

And then you begin to wonder: should you investigate your arms and the sleeves of your shirt for similar traces? You're thinking about it, because it will appear unethical. See, you want to shower him with kindness, as he was doing you with his spittle. So fuck you, Phlegmatic Taxi Driver Man, you and your unused Good Morning Towels suck.

4. They a. bore you b. make you uncomfortable c. freak you out with unnecessary small talk
And, as always, its the same old unending tirade on oil price hikes, bitch fits against the government, and oil price hikes. And bitch fits against the government. See, its the same silly tiring truck you probably heard from the last taxi driver who drove you home. And from the one before him. And you'll probably be adding your current driver, Boringly Dense Taxi Driver Man, in your list.

I actually wrote a piece about this certain sub specie. You might want to check out "My Three Wisemen Rode Metered Camels."

5. They drive with a death wish. And, being her gay impersonator, I just quoted Jessica Zafra.
It's a wonderful way to commute, them taxi cabs, what with the isolation from them cheap ass jeepney passengers, but it just might turn out to be my coffin with wheels as Eat Your Heart Out Knight Rider Taxi Driver Man here goes 300 on a 120mph road. Mach 5, baby. Sure, they take me home faster, but I still want to get home. Like, you know, alive and stuff.

6. They over-charge.
Its either that, or they don't offer Basic Subtraction in Taxi Driver College. Or they never make sure that they have coins or small bills. You know, with which to make change. So what I do is I make sure that they do; I sometimes pay with coins. Of course, this is simply in response to their scripted "Ay, wala kayong barya? Wala akong panukli diyan." (Ay, do you have smaller bills? I wouldn't be able to make change.) I'm just being a girl scout.
That's how you deal with the Greedy Dipshit Taxi Driver Man. You sometimes have to be an asshole in return.

7. They give you a hard time when its raining.
We all know that, by default, they overcharge when its raining hard. That's a fairly charitable understatement. And that's if and only if, underscore ONLY IF they agree to drive you to wherever the hell it is you're going.
Imagine yourself suffering this screening process for close to an hour, only to have your relief cut short by having Choosy Sonofabitch Taxi Driver Man small talk you to death on your way home. If the small talk doesn't get you, then the scary driving will. Or the fare.

They should know that karma in the year 2008 is digital. Its faster. Like broadband faster. Waaay faster than it was ten years ago. They should shudder this early on.

8. Sarah Geronimo should know that she used to sound like Celine Dion, but she was still a virgin back then. So she ought to stop trying hard to hit those notes because she's becoming so borderline desperate.
Oops, wrong list. But, while we're at it, I still think she should stop wearing those shiny clothes, too.

If you don't know who she is, then don't google her. What you don't know won't hurt your eyes or your ears. Or your sense of proper manners. Its not nice to throw insults, see?

9. You sometimes need to add twenty to fifty pesos more.
And then they'll take you in. It's either this, or number 10.

10. They forget to turn the meter on.
Of course, we know this is just a practiced scam which gives them the excuse to charge you their preferred fare. It's either this, or number 9, which ever comes first.
11.

You forgot to mention ODORS. I've endured many a taxi ride, inhaling at 3 minute intervals because of the rank stench of any of (but not limited to) the following : sweaty feet, shawarma armpits, or wet dog. Seriously. -- Sitting Pretty

Oh, good point, Sitting Pretty. And then sometimes, they sleep on their own cabs too, their bare feet resting lovely on that steering wheel after a whole day of driving. And I'll wager my long legs that those steering wheels stink of foot sweat.

12.

"What about taxi drivers who'd pretend not to know your destination or those who'd take the looooooooong route" -- Orally

And then Vajarl goes for the kill with this darling example

"Kanikanina lang, pasakay ako ng taxi, sabe saken "Magkano po binabayad nyo ron?" Sabe ko "Di po ba may metro?" Sabe nya, nako hindi kase ako naghahatid don, kaya magkano bibigay nyo?" Since marami akong dala, nagsabi na ko ng "70 pesos".Malapit lang naman. At 70 lang ang barya ko. Sabe ba naman "Eh 70 ren yun pag minetro ko eh." POTANGENA LANG." -- Vajarl

13.

"Been reading your blog for a while now, and I gotta say you elevate shit into fine art". -- A Fistful Of Moonbeams™

I was thinking of another Sarah Geronimo punchline, but I had to post this darling comment. I am now an artiste. Or something with enough quality crap to his bearing. And for all the right reasons, I figured I could well use a compliment.

14.

"One time I was on this taxi on my way to Eastwood.

The driver was flipping between radio stations. Somehow, the rock songs, OPM ballads, the "Tot-tot-tot" do not appeal to him, so he keeps switching.
And then he stopped at a radio station playing a song he liked.
"Beautiful" by Christina Aguilera'" -- Glentot

Maybe he was crusing, and that Christina Aguilera song was an invitation to his... motives. Scary.

This reminds me of this one time when this driver asked me what time I was supposed to be at the office. I know I left home early; I have about an hour left before logging in, and then the commute will take me another five minutes. Tops. So I told him that I was early for work. And then he asked me if I want to check in a motel with him. I said no. Because he was old and he was likely 12 out of those 14 hateful taxi driver types. And with that in mind, allow me one more quote

"I maybe easy, but I'm not cheap!" -- Aubrey Miles, from the movie Singles

I Am Now Quitting Blogging

I know you all might think that this is too sudden. But I've thought about this, really, and it is with inconsolable regret that I cry out this announcement:

I am now prepared to completely discontinue this blog. And I have just signed up for a bigger house.





Of course I'm pulling your legs right after your boxers, my Dearly Beloved. This is my house, and there's no leaving. My updates, as of the late, are borderline postponed, however, because I am imagining that I am in love. 

I Don't Do Trick or Treat

**I posted this in 2011, and it's still wildly relevant today. 

**Not enough Halloween fun to go around that we have to borrow some other country's crap?

None of the people I knew growing up had to do trick or treat. We were so decidedly quasi-ghetto that my Halloweens were trips to the cemetery where we would make balls out of candle wax drippings. I know its primitive, and it sure as hell hurt, but it kept us entertained until it hurt some more. Then we'd whine our grown ups to take us home. We'd whine with wonderful industry if we happened to be in the cemetery on a Saturday afternoon because we can't afford to miss Noli de Castro hosting the all too creepy Magandang Gabi Bayan Halloween special.

Them 80's were a fucking good time to do Halloween. Halloween's mostly a laid back affair where we'd get high on mostly primitive shit that in no remote way resembled what other countries did on that same day. We're mostly cool with our wax balls and our scary TV shows. But we were largely original with our celebration, basic but original, and we kept to our own like what our parents did. Fast forward to twenty years later, and the whole celebration started getting different. Its not the transgendered kind of different, nor is it the receding hairline kind of different. It's more of the irrelevant kind of different because our kids are doing Trick or Treat now.

Now let me give you the reassuring claim that when I'm wrong, then I'm most definitely certainly wrong, and I think Filipino kids dressing up to do trick or treat is so wrong its borderline stupid. I admit I'm all in for the aesthetics. Cute is cute, no contest, but its the whole idea that bugs me. What kind of rice are we eating these days that gave us the idea its okay for our Filipino kids to go Trick or Treating? Are we becoming so Americanized that we have to dress up our kids for candies like what they're doing? Do we even know why we're doing it? Have we finally run out of third-world things to do on Halloween? Or for the rest of the year for that matter? Because if we are, then there's no reason why we should stop with Halloween. We might as well do Thanksgiving, and we'll do it not for any cultural significance, most definitely not for the Indians, not for shit, but for the poultry. And why shouldn't we? We're already dressing our kids up like little brown devils to ask for candy, we might as well go overtime with all this cultural social climbing and do Thanksgiving. Halloween for the candy, Thanksgiving for the turkey. But we should learn how to stuff that Andok's chicken this early on.

All in all, this trick or treating business among our kids, our Filipino kids, has got to be a singularly conceited affair that makes no sense in this third world country. Truth is, we all probably grew up in the same dark ages where our Halloweens were identified with candle wax balls and ghost stories on TV. But I never grew this unnecessary inclination to dress up my nieces or nephews as ghosts, goblins, hookers, or sperm bank tellers just for treats. I wouldn't know how to make sense of it all. Kids are terribly inquisitive little devils by default, and I know one of them will ask me WHY THE HELL am I wasting good money on cheap-ass costumes that make gay dipshits of them.

I really wouldn't know what to say to that. I'll just teach them how to make the baddest candle wax ball instead.

Be Safe

I've been in and out of prison these past couple of days. It will be a week tomorrow. Eighty of them crowd that cell, and it smells like death by armpit suffocation in there. This particular death is worse during the 6pm visits because it is usually at that time that half of Pasig Cirrehh's population gets the same idea, minus the "taking a bath" part, and visits.

He testified negative in the afternoon of that 2am buy bust operation. He was sleeping, says a mutual friend, when it happened, and he was jolted into a head aching wakefulness by people with long guns. What screwed them up though, him and five other friends, was when they signed this document that sealed them into custody as long as the investigation is going on. They are still detained as I am writing this.

Damp with Pus

**This is for You and Your "I have the lousiest air conditioned job in the world ever omgpls kill me now while I take a selfie." 

Imagine two swollen legs on a pair of denim shorts. 

The bandages on his diabetic legs were wrapped just below the knees and terminated on his ankles. They were a yellowish white, probably because they haven't been changed for a week or so. His left leg was heavier than the right. It was a sickly oval, yellowish because it was damp with pus, and it was ripe for an amputation. It was pregnant with infection, and I can just smell it from where I am, a meter away in the affecting humidity of this third world jeepney. 

It is around two in the afternoon, and I am not sitting alone in an air conditioned taxi. I am sardined in this four-wheeled oven toaster, and all 224,337 of us passengers are marinating in exhaust fumes and everybody else's body odor. These are hardly the best conditions with which to consider somebody else's bad health. I look around me, and I am surrounded by this wealth of opportunities to complain about, but no. I wonder what a leg full of of pus smells like, instead. 

Damp with Pus continues to arrange the packs of cigarettes he's selling so they look tidy and organized. It's probably the least he can do. That and he tries to hide his swollen left leg to no avail since his plastic chair's big enough for his left butt cheek. His plastic umbrella's big enough for his right butt cheek, but he doesn't give a shit. He tends to his wares in earnest, his plump fingers mechanical as he separates the Golds from the Reds, the Menthols from the Lights, and his eyes are nowhere else. 

It is around two in the Philippine afternoon, which is exceedingly punishing for someone with a long sleeved shirt on. My arm pits weep, not for Damp with Pus and his unrewarded dedication to his cigarettes, but because I'm wearing a black, long sleeved shirt in a crowded jeepney at around two in the Philippine afternoon. 

Today he's got this purple shirt on, collared, and, with his dirty complexion, it made him look like an overweight tumor. Props to the shirt, however, for holding his stomach in, all of it, as its oppressive weight fought to fall down the street. Meanwhile, Damp with Pus' knee length denim shorts continue to puzzle me. How did he manage to wear denim shorts? It will brush against his frothing infection, you can bet on that, but what worries me is that his legs are thicker than his thighs. 

Of course he has to remove his bandages, but they... One gets used to the glacial movement of this third world traffic, most especially when one is distracted. 

He already color-coordinated his candies, and there are these impressive rows of Yellows and Reds and Greens that sold for a peso each. He then makes change for a ten, and he does all this without looking at his customer, a high school kid with a white polo and brown slacks on, worn leather shoes and a cheap back pack. Goomela, it said. This kid's probably 12, 13 at the most, but he dragged on that stick like a runner up. His girlfriend, obviously 12, took a puff like a God damned champion. 

The traffic's not moving, which is expected, it is past two in the afternoon, and these uniformed delinquents are rushing out of school. I still can't get used to the smell of poor and exhaust fumes, but such is the life I lead in the third world. I might as well. I took out my handkerchief, spread it on my palms, horizontal and smelling like fabric conditioner, covered my nose with it, and I decided to look at Damp with Pus some more.  

His cigarettes should look tidy. And he ignores the curious stares of strangers as he commits himself to his work. He quits hiding his left leg, and continues to organize his wares. Why, you will detect a defiant spirit in how he goes on with his cigarettes and his candies. And you can tell he'll continue doing this even after both his legs were amputated. 

His cigarettes sell at five pesos a stick, eighty pesos for a pack, and his candies are a peso each. He will keep selling them until he has enough money for maybe a kilo of rice and a can or two of whatever. His insulin shots will wait. And those will wait until his legs are gangrenous and then ripe for that saving amputation. That will be nice, real nice, and I don't think that will happen. 

It is not a happy picture now. But if he meets his 16-hour work days and saves enough money even after the rice and canned whatevers, his future could be bright. Why, if he worked harder than that, which he probably will because he doesn't have a choice anyway, then his future's even brighter, illuminated even, with the blinding fluorescent glare on that operating table. And I see an oscillating saw in that same future, and it reflects a steely glint that makes Damp with Pus' future far brighter. And I doubt that. 

The jeep begins to move, and Damp with Pus makes change for a twenty. I will probably see him in that same spot tomorrow. 

Speaking of Confidence that Causes Erections

**No. And it's still a Friday, and I made my deadline. Meanwhile, I do not fat shame. I love my friends of all sizes in equal measures. The thing is, you should have seen this pig in the mall. 

I ask you now, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, with unusual sincerity and truthfulness to the letter. When was the last time someone's confidence made you horny? Was there ever a time, just one time, that someone's oozing self belief made you moist to the point of flooding your basement?

There was this really fat, morbidly obese faggot who was wearing this black shirt that was pitiful in how it stretched on him. I tell you, if you had the opportunity to listen closely, then you will imagine a faint scream from that shirt. He had a pair of glasses on, a medium sized shopping bag on his left hand, and he walked as though he was beautiful. Honey, that gay pig was feeling it. And I should admit that a tired black shirt does make one feel fierce somehow, in parts, in small parts. It isn't just the shirt, however, that gave him that swagger in his walk.

Maybe it's all these books on self-empowerment that's leading him on. Maybe he's read one to many memes on the beauty within. Maybe has a valid accomplishment like maybe he has an enormous dick. Perhaps. Maybe I know someone who doesn't give a shit. Maybe that's me.

The back print on his shirt read "Prospect." Prospective what? A cardiac arrest in his thirties? What audacious advertising. It could work though. You can see "Prospect" from the moon.

I will hazard a guess and suspect that "Prospect" meant he was single. And I am not surprised. See, you go ahead and impress your confidence all you want, but that's hardly anything one looks for in a boyfriend. It is awesome that you are confident, and you go girl, but you're as big as a master bedroom. Wait, no. You're so wide and spacious, you might as well be haunted.

You put that goddamn book down, shed those crazy ideas in your head, and start losing weight if you want the rest of your audience to agree with your beauty.

The line "I want to date you because of your impressive confidence" does not happen in real life. I don't remember any mention of "Your perfect grammar made me love you more than masturbation" ever. No. Not in this life, or the life prior to this one. Not in this third world country, and not in this crazy planet.

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.

I Touched Someone's Goiter Today

** You must understand, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, that these narratives happened to me or to people I know. Mostly me.

I touched someone's goiter today only because she asked me to. I hesitated, of course, because this sort of invitation is not like being asked to have lunch together. It is the farthest thing from casual. It doesn't happen everyday, and it shouldn't happen at all because it shatters the boundaries of good form and crosses over to "What the fuck, woman?" I hope you, My Dearly Beloved, understand my hesitation. See, you don't comply to moving your fingers up and down someone's greasy throat just to cop a feel on their iodine deficiency. You don't. You might as well smell skin cancer, or lick the stitches of an appendectomy wound. You don't. You just don't, because such constraint is in keeping with the courtesy that is expected of sober people. You can always ask, because asking is polite, or you can wait for them to appeal to your sympathy through means that are convincingly hands on. 

Our first liter of cheap brandy, 50 proof, was two hours ago, and this second liter shredded our restraints in no time at all. Anyway, how we in the Third World do it is that we sit in a circle and rotate the shot glass in the direction that's assigned by whoever's pouring the shot. It's not usually a circle, not necessarily, since it depends on where we're drinking and how many of us are trying to get shit faced. Sometimes it's a semi circle, most especially when we're drinking on the streets, usually below a lamp post. It's a semi circle to give room to passers by, who usually smile off that shot glass that we offer, and tricycles and refrigerator mechanics on their way to a job at one in the morning. It could be a rectangle, or a square, depending on the shape of the table. This is, however, a luxury on two counts. First, a fully functional table is uncommon with these impromptu get togethers. And by "fully functional" I mean "having four legs." We rest our liter of brandy, the chaser, and the shot glass on a make shift table supported by hollow blocks. Second, you need space to accommodate the drinking table and its occupants. And you don't get that luxury when you're drinking on the streets below a lamp post at one in the morning. 

That's how we roll. 

Goiter Girl still doesn't look any younger than a 40 year old house wife that's marinating her liver with that second bottle of cheap 50 proof. She was the one pouring the shots then, and she was doing a capital job. She never missed, her shots were prompt, and her stories kept flowing out of that dirty mouth. I wasn't paying attention to her because my drunk texting can't wait. The honest truth is that I was distracted during the second liter, so I had to ask her again when she solicited her goiter. "I'm sorry what," was the only thing in my head. 

Maybe she was thinking I had healing hands. And maybe I can't blame her poor, darling heart; that bitch's face was mahogany with 50 proof brandy. She thought wrong, unfortunately, and I will not enlarge on her ridiculous imagination. You see, My Dearly Beloved, I cannot even heal the dick that erects for other men's dick. And my healing hands have been trying twice a day, for about thirty years now, since I learned how.


I swallowed my spit, in secret, as my fingers cupped that pregnant growth on her neck. And I wiped my hands on my jeans when she wasn't looking. 

Hello 2016

**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. 

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

Si Lemuel. Mediooo Mapogi.

**Mga kaibigan, nais kong ipakilala sa inyo ang isa sa mga paborito kong nagi-inutil na timawa. Siya ay si Lemuel. Isa siyang telemarketer na aking nakilala noong... Pebrero pa... 2005. Matandain ako kaya alam ko yang mga ganyang bagay. Nagta-trabaho siya nun sa... saaa... PLDT at minsang nagkausap kami sa telepono ay alam ko na.... alam na alam ko na... na hindi ko siya titigilan kahit kailan pa man. Matagal ko nang kilala itong si Lemuel, at ilang beses ko na rin siyang ni-repost dito. Oo, repost. Ngayon lang ako nag-intro ng Tagalog para maiba lang.

Image from Arhiblog.

LEMUEL: Puwede po ba kay Rommel Tullao? Si Lemuel po ito, sa PLDT.

MOMEL: Si Rommel ito, bakit, anong problema? (Lakas maka-hombre noh? Rommel. Parang anak ng general.)

LEMUEL: Tanong ko lang po kung may picture na kayo sa PLDT?

MOMEL: Picture? Anong picture? Bakit kailangan ng picture sa PLDT? ID ba yan? Ilalagay sa billing statement?

LEMUEL: Hindi po. Pictures po para sa PLDT, yun bang call wait, call fo-ward, tsaka speed dial. (Walang patumpik tumpik. Hindi siya nag-buckle. Features pala.)

MOMEL: (Loob loob ko eh "Ahhh, gago to.") Ahhh, wala pa. Pwede bang paki-explain yon, hindi ko alam yun eh. (Nagdi-dial ako bilang telemarketer ng mga panahong ito, pero ngayon lang ako nakatanggap ng telemarketing na tawag.) Yung call wait, alam ko iyon, meron kami noon eh. Eh ano naman yung call forward?

LEMUEL: Yung call fo-ward kasi ganito yun eh, parang ano lang yun, kuwan. Teka lang ha. (Pagdating dito eh binaba niya sandali yung telepono at may narinig akong sigawan.)

LEMUEL: HOY, NONG! ANO BA ULIT YUNG, ANO BA YUN, YUNG CALL FO-WARDING? EH PINAPAPALIWANAG NITONG KAUSAP KO EH!

NONG: SABI-HEN mo, yung call fo-ward, ano lang yun, halimbawa, may pupuntahan siyang birthday, tapos ano, TEKA NGA! (At kinuha na ni Nong ang telepono.)

NONG: Hello, ikaw ba yung kausap ni Lemuel?

MOMEL: Opo (Duh). Ano ho ba ulit yung call forwarding? (Medio libang na ko nito.)

NONG: Kasi ganito yun, halimbawa, may pupuntahan kang birthday, tapos walang maiiwan sa inyo, edi ang gawin mo, i-call fo-ward mo yung telepono mo para doon mo na lang sasagutin sa birthday.

MOMEL: Aaah, eh pa'no kung walang telepono sa pupuntahan kong birthday?

NONG: Ehhh, pakabitan natin. Pero kuha mo na yung call fo-ward, ha ser?

MOMEL: Oo, okay na.

NONG: Ehhh, teka lang ha. (Binaba niya sandali ung telepono at may sinigawan, "HOY Lemuel, okay na. Eto na 'o!" Ilang segundo lang ang nakalipas aaatt... )

LEMUEL: Okay na ser?

MOMEL: Oo, okay na. Eh ano naman yung speed dial, ha?

LEMUEL: Ganito lang po yun ser. Yung speed dial eh ano lang, magpipindot kalang ng number tapos makakadial ka na.

MOMEL: Niloloko mo ata ako eh! Eh siyempre ganoon talaga yun para maka-dial, pipindutin mo siyempre yung mga number!

LEMUEL: Hindi po ganoon yun. (Mali na naman ako. Hindi na ako tumama. Iba ka Lemuel.) Ibig sabihin, isang number lang yung pipindutin mo para imbes na (Nagbibilang siya...) para imbes na pitong number eh isang number na lang yung ida-dial mo.

MOMEL: Teka, call center ba ito?

LEMUEL: Hindi po, PLDT po ito. Sa OPSIM (Parang ganun.), dito po sa San Joaquin (Pasig).

MOMEL: Eh paano ko malalaman na PLDT ka nga?

LEMUEL: Punta po kayo dito. Dito po kami sa tapat ng ...

MOMEL: HA? Pinapapunta mo ako diyan? Teka, magkano naman yung tatlong features na iyan ha?

LEMUEL: Ano po, P59.75 lang kada buwan. Fixed na ho iyon.

MOMEL: Puwede ko namang i-cancel pag ayoko na?

LEMUEL: Opo, kayo naman magbabayad noon eh.

MOMEL: Tapos, doon na lang siya lalabas sa billing statement, diba?

LEMUEL: Opo.

MOMEL: Tapos, kailan siya maa-activate ha, Lemuel?

LEMUEL: Tatlong araw pa ho, kaya malamang sa Lunes.

MOMEL: So, anong kailangan mo ngayon?

LEMUEL: Kelan birthday mo?

MOMEL: BAKIT MO NAMAN TINATANONG ANG BIRTHDAY KO?

LEMUEL: Eh, kailangan po eh. (Oo nga naman, Rommel. Hindi ka mananalo diyan.)

MOMEL: O sige, August 8.

LEMUEL: Akina na yung SSS number mo.

MOMEL: HA? Pati ba iyon?

LEMUEL: Kailangan po eh.

MOMEL: Naku eh, nasa office ID ko, hindi ko maalala. Tawagan mo na lang ako sa Lunes para maibigay ko sa iyo, okay?

LEMUEL: Wala ho sa inyo ngayon?

MOMEL: Tawagan mo na lang ako sa Lunes.

LEMUEL: O sige po. Babay.


Dun na natapos. At hindi na tumawag si Lemuel. Sayang.

The Kind of Attitude We Need

**I'll make this quick; I have some relief goods to pack.

Beautiful, isn't she? Meanwhile, there's something else I want to say. And this goes out to our detractors.

To Jax Cote, Devina Dediva, and your lot of racists: Bitches, please. We have survived mounting death counts. We smiled as Mother Nature was PMSing away on our poor little corner of the third world. We weathered Ondoy and Yolanda and Uring and Pablo and Sarah Geronimo and countless permutations of Mother Nature's menstrual discharge. Ugh, we rallied on and smiled at the face of of these awful calamities. We stared death at the face. We stared at our current administration at the face. And we did it all with that endearing Filipino smile. Bitches, please. What makes you think your philistine remarks will break the Filipino spirit?

Having said that, I would like to address that Devine Dediva. I have reserved a very special place in my demonology for very insecure cunts like yourself. I'll bash you good, real good, on next week's post. And, for good measure, it will have pictures like this.

Image from China Smack.

To my proud, "tabo"- wielding countrymen: Bitches, please.
This is not the time to argue about whose God has the bigger dick. This is not the time to itemize the multitudes of people our organized religions have helped. This is not the time to compare good advertising. There are other opportunities for our self-serving publicity stunts. This, however, is the time to be human. Strip yourself of your leader-led mob mentality and just be good, for the love of whichever God you are subscribed to. Just be good. Shut your pie hole; we are rather tired of each other's "Your God Sucks" spiels. Let's do volunteer work together. 

Image from Gl Brain.

Bring the Bit Enn!

"Bring the beat in! Someone guest her on Ellen, for the love of God."

This girl should be on Ellen. The truth is, I am positive that Ms Degeneres' good people, as I am writing this, are already setting the gears in motion as far as this singer's US VISA goes. By the way, it is for the benefit of her thousands of instant foreign fans that I am providing the following translations. I feel like it is my duty, as someone versed in the vernacular of the tabo-wielding Filipinos, to... cast away your doubts as far as her lyrics goes. No, she is not speaking hare-lipped Aramaic. It is not demon-speak. She is not possessed. Far from it. Blame it on her accent; our overnight sensation here is too focused on her illustrious singing career to concern herself with such trivial details. Stars like her fuck pronunciation and make up for that glaring defect with... uh... uhh... I mentioned I provided translations.

Bawal lait ah = No insults, please.
Bit enn = Beat in
kamown = come on
windopay = window pane
Bebe = Baby
Naaathing = Nothing
Laaab = Love
Yur tha wahn (unintelligible mumbling) I can always call. = You're the one I can always call.
Putangina oh = Oh son of a bitch (She never cursed here. That was me.)
Forst = First
Neeeeeeheeed = Need
Top, tup, tap, tahp, taap = Top, top, top, top, top.

Oh fuck this unwashed shit. I have been listening to this crap for at least five times now, and it stopped being funny after the first playing. Eat your heart out, reader, and play the goddamn recording already. I would have loved to transcribe this wonderful singer's lyrics, but I don't have the supernatural powers required to do that. However, out of foresight, I have provided the lyrics to another song, Beyonce Knowles' "Love on Top," just because I have noticed a very striking resemblance.

Image from Homorazzi.

Love On Top 

Bring the beat in!

(Verse 1)
Honey, honey
I can see the stars all the way from here
Can't you see the glow on the window pane?
I can feel the sun whenever you're near
Every time you touch me I just melt away

Now everybody asks me why I'm smiling out from ear to ear (They say love hurts)
But I know (It's gonna take a little work)
Nothing's perfect, but it's worth it after fighting through my tears
And finally you put me first

(chorus)
Baby it's you.
You're the one I love.
You're the one I need.
You're the only one I see.

Come on baby it's you.

You're the one that gives your all.
You're the one I can always call.
When I need you make everything stop.
Finally you put my love on top.

Ooh! Come on baby.
You put my love on top, top, top, top, top.
You put my love on top.
Ooh oooh! Come on baby.
You put my love on top, top, top, top, top.
My love on top.
My love on top.

Baby, Baby
I can hear the wind whipping past my face.
As we dance the night away.
Boy your lips taste like a night of champagne.
As I kiss you again, and again, and again and again.

Now everybody asks me why I'm smiling out from ear to ear (They say love hurts)
But I know (It's gonna take a little work)
Nothing's perfect, but it's worth it after fighting through my tears.
And finally you put me first.

(Repeat chorus until you pass out)

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.

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.

Scandal ni Edgar

**Alternate title: Titi Mong Garabucho-oh woh

**The problem with my once-a-week updates is when I'm itching to publish my unnecessary say on some current hot item. But I cannot. Because I am far too lazy, and sexy, to be writing something impromptu about what everybody else is trying to be smart about. Two weeks ago, Chito Miranda, of Parokya ni Edgar fame, thrilled nearly everyone with his far from fascinating fornicating feats. A video of Chito's penetrating powers leaked, it was posted on The Internet, and nearly everybody jerked off to Neri Naig's hanging tits or Chito Miranda's "un-Filipino" penis. Four minutes later, everybody climaxed and went back to their pedestrian Facebook shallowness (i.e. Selfie.145926535halfofyouwontgetthis8979323846).

I was honestly revolted by that scandal. I had to write this down.

They turned the lights on, but Chito's dick looks like it was left in the dark. It wasn't even a dick. It seemed to me that Chito Miranda has been fucking Neri Naig with some root crop that he pulled from the soil. That dick. That dick. Oh Jesus, it was as black as sin. It was, for a Filipino, hardly erect. It was, in a word, unsuckable. And that's tough coming from a hardcore fan gay.

Neri Naig looked young, but her breasts gave her away. Those breasts have the quality of a pendulum. They were pendulous breasts, and I hardly wondered why she allowed herself to be fucked for viewing pleasure. Those pendulous (I love this word) breasts have gone places; her tits pointed south, but that pair of veteran, well bitten boobs looked like they have been cupped by more hands than one. They were so everywhere, they have their own frequent flyer miles.

And that's just her boobs. I won't talk about her cunt. That's a gay man's Great Sandy Waste.

Anyway, Chito, here's what I think. Yes, I am addressing you by your first name because, as a gay fanboy, I think I knew you. Yes, I am addressing you by your first name because I know I can get away with this "feeling close" moment; you will never read this blog anyway. It took you twenty something years to establish that shimmering rock star status. It took you guys two decades to build such a loyal following of music-buying fans. You guys penetrated the local music industry with signature songs whose clever lyrics ranged from the funny to the romantic. And then a seven minute video leaked. And it succeeded in single-handedly (or fingered-ly, or tongued-ly, whatever) warping my near-idol worship.

Your chinito eyes, and the uneven teeth, and the hair that's usually parted in the middle was the wholesome face that sang my adolescent insecurities away. And, recently, I saw that face bury itself in pussy. Sure, I get it, sex drugs rock and roll; you guys are living the life. We already know. We have an idea. But do we really have to see all three in a video? In amateur action?

Some things cannot be unseen. Most especially when such images involve a personal hero involved in some lousy fucking. Ew, that dirty dick. Ugh, those pendulous breasts. But you know what, it doesn't matter to me anymore. Honestly. Your songs are better, waaaay better than your penetration. And your songs are why I'm still a fan. Of your songs. You sang about the suicidal Buloy and his dog Morlock. You sang about garabucho lips in your song Silvertoes. You sang about guys being in love with their pare; you shined for the homos way earlier than Erik and Vincent did. You brought Mr Suave to life. Your songs are the best in Pinoy crazy, and it doesn't matter what garbage will be blackmailed out of you.

Your songs are your redeeming factor. Maybe you can sing this scandal away?

Poor People and Their ATMs

**Long lines give you good ideas.


1. Won't somebody please designate a special booth for people who have no clue as to which end of their ATM goes into the machine? The least they could do is to include Basic ATM Training before they introduce the principles of burger flipping or canned-good bagging or making change.

2. I know long lines are a drag, but seriously, won't you guys limit your ATM Entourage to at least two people? And mind you, this includes yourself. I understand that the thought of maxing out your ATMs only to have your 800 pesos taken at knife point's something to cry over; your unemployed friends make you feel safe. But help us people at the back by lowering our expectations. Clear up space. Help us keep track, would you?

3. Why are the sneakier looking social climbers always the ones with at least three ATM cards? And why do they keep the PINs for those cards written in some piece of paper? And why are they always maxing out their withdrawals? For all three cards? And why are... ohhh.

4. We might be sharing the same queue, but our monthly salaries are a different story. So don't look back at us with that disappointed "How come?" look in your eyes as the machine screams "Insufficient Funds" with your most recent transaction. That laughable gesture's lost its point as we, in the back, don't really care. Life moves on, like this line ought to be doing.

And besides, that sense of indignation feels soo fake.

5. Please stop displaying your brand new ATM card at us. That makes you look so cheap.

6. If the machine's an actual booth with a door, and you're next in line, be courteous enough to let the person ahead of you exit first before letting yourself in. That's common courtesy, and there's no buying that. Much like common sense, when there's only one line, and you go on ahead cramping my style with your "Is this the pila (line/queue) for the ATM ba?"

7. Yes, that machine's smarter than you, and believe it or not, you're already down to your maintaining balance. So stop asking "Are you sure???" with that second balance inquiry in a row. Yes, it's sure.

What, No Career Yet? -- A Follow Up on Jimgirl's Epic Fail

It's been four, five months since you last came out in drag. And then what? Don't tell me you don't have any TV or movie offers yet. Endorsements, perhaps? Soaps? Voice overs? Any further guestings? Anything to promote? Nothing? Seriously? But you looked so, ah, fierce in that interview slash grand reveal with Boy Abunda. You wore this faux leather jacket on that animal print blouse. You had this most tasteful bonnet on, and those black leggings you wore did a wonderful job in concealing those mammoth legs. How can such a refined taste in clothes fail you? You looked all too smashing with your coming out.

Smashed in the face is more like it. Hah! I shall make it a personal mission to monitor what news of you with such devilish sarcasm, and I will make fun of you, Jim Girl, every chance I get. That will be an easy job, though. I drip ridicule, and I don't expect to hear anything from you in the next 100,000,000,000,000 years.

It's been four, five months since you last came out, and I still hate you with a passion.