**I have no idea what I wrote here, but I like it. Maybe it's a one-sentence story.
There was a call center homo who lived a thoroughly boring life that nobody cared to know him and so they didn't.
End of story.
Showing posts with label People. Show all posts
Showing posts with label People. Show all posts
Friday, January 06, 2017
Friday, December 02, 2016
Schedule a Colostomy and Save a Friend!
**This goes out to them perpetually pissed off sort of people whose disposition, come hell or high water, are always in direct proportion to the kind of things they have stuck up their ass. I'm sure you know somebody like him.
There's this person I've known for close to five years now, and, thankfully, we're not friends. I see him almost every day, and what little pleasantries we've exchanged are limited to a word count of five. I never talk to him if I can help it on account of he's almost always frowning, and he could be, for all I know, biologically engineered to breathe fire. That smirk on his face works as good as a fingerprint -- it's the best identification he's got. I'm not stretching the truth when I tell you that I rarely see him smile. It's as if his face repels cheer and sunshine and all that creamy goodness, and it appears like he doesn't mind being a wet blanket towards everybody else's high spirits.
This dish rag, because he's got the personality of one, is pushing 40 now. Or at least he looks like it with the way he's always frowning. So there's just absolutely no point in teaching old sour dogs new cheerful tricks. Like smiling and stuff.
I'm not going to size him up, at least not any more, or decipher his corrosive psychological code because there's no real objective behind such a frustrating undertaking. Let's leave that to expensive shrinks who are getting paid for their intestinal fortitude. Or to them idle self-serving dipshits who think they're smart enough to unravel everybody else's behavioral patterns and then post their observations as Facebook shout outs. I mentioned Mr. Anthrope here (as opposed to Ms. Anthrope, which sounds like Misanthrope, which means "world hater" -- get it?) because you probably know somebody, maybe a far removed family member who lives in the same house, or an ex-friend who got kicked off the Emo-bandwagon because he was taking things a tad too seriously, anybody with a severely toxic disposition. And you don't know what to do with them. At least anything humane.
And so allow me to hazard several suggestions.
1. Imagine a self-restraining order in your head, like a uranium-green neon Post It that says "Keep the Fuck Away!" when you're within ten feet of said Toxic Person. And because it will be in your head, make sure it's very accessible for future recall. Maybe tuck that next to that mental file cabinet that's labelled "Favorite Masturbatory Fantasies," and leave that as it is. Do this if you got luck and you;re not in speaking terms with said Toxic Person. Or at least you used to be.
2. Stop talking to him. Delete him from your Facebook network. Remove his number from your cellphone, so that you reply with a "Who you?" the next time he sends you a message. Just cut him off completely, and pray well that he gets the hint.
3. Be as equally cheerful as he is toxic and become the more irritating of the two of you. Show all your teeth when you smile at him (which will be every ten to twenty minutes), always talk in rising pitches, high five until it's an involuntary reflex, and small talk like you breathe unnecessary banter. Become so thoroughly irritating to him that he cuts you off first, and then congratulate yourself.
4. Drug his coffee with 3,000 mg of the strongest over the counter laxative. Or whatever dosage that's potent enough to make him shit a five pound brick. Studies show that grumpy people more or less have something stuck up their ass, and I'm hoping that this exercise in conditioning bowel movement works like a charm. If it doesn't, and he's still no more cheerful after that nuclear shit, then tell yourself that at least you tried. And find wisdom in these two words - Shit happens.
5. Find yourself a good proctologist and schedule a colostomy. Maybe, just maybe, two ass holes will do him good.
There's this person I've known for close to five years now, and, thankfully, we're not friends. I see him almost every day, and what little pleasantries we've exchanged are limited to a word count of five. I never talk to him if I can help it on account of he's almost always frowning, and he could be, for all I know, biologically engineered to breathe fire. That smirk on his face works as good as a fingerprint -- it's the best identification he's got. I'm not stretching the truth when I tell you that I rarely see him smile. It's as if his face repels cheer and sunshine and all that creamy goodness, and it appears like he doesn't mind being a wet blanket towards everybody else's high spirits. This dish rag, because he's got the personality of one, is pushing 40 now. Or at least he looks like it with the way he's always frowning. So there's just absolutely no point in teaching old sour dogs new cheerful tricks. Like smiling and stuff.
I'm not going to size him up, at least not any more, or decipher his corrosive psychological code because there's no real objective behind such a frustrating undertaking. Let's leave that to expensive shrinks who are getting paid for their intestinal fortitude. Or to them idle self-serving dipshits who think they're smart enough to unravel everybody else's behavioral patterns and then post their observations as Facebook shout outs. I mentioned Mr. Anthrope here (as opposed to Ms. Anthrope, which sounds like Misanthrope, which means "world hater" -- get it?) because you probably know somebody, maybe a far removed family member who lives in the same house, or an ex-friend who got kicked off the Emo-bandwagon because he was taking things a tad too seriously, anybody with a severely toxic disposition. And you don't know what to do with them. At least anything humane. And so allow me to hazard several suggestions.
1. Imagine a self-restraining order in your head, like a uranium-green neon Post It that says "Keep the Fuck Away!" when you're within ten feet of said Toxic Person. And because it will be in your head, make sure it's very accessible for future recall. Maybe tuck that next to that mental file cabinet that's labelled "Favorite Masturbatory Fantasies," and leave that as it is. Do this if you got luck and you;re not in speaking terms with said Toxic Person. Or at least you used to be.
2. Stop talking to him. Delete him from your Facebook network. Remove his number from your cellphone, so that you reply with a "Who you?" the next time he sends you a message. Just cut him off completely, and pray well that he gets the hint.
3. Be as equally cheerful as he is toxic and become the more irritating of the two of you. Show all your teeth when you smile at him (which will be every ten to twenty minutes), always talk in rising pitches, high five until it's an involuntary reflex, and small talk like you breathe unnecessary banter. Become so thoroughly irritating to him that he cuts you off first, and then congratulate yourself.
4. Drug his coffee with 3,000 mg of the strongest over the counter laxative. Or whatever dosage that's potent enough to make him shit a five pound brick. Studies show that grumpy people more or less have something stuck up their ass, and I'm hoping that this exercise in conditioning bowel movement works like a charm. If it doesn't, and he's still no more cheerful after that nuclear shit, then tell yourself that at least you tried. And find wisdom in these two words - Shit happens.
5. Find yourself a good proctologist and schedule a colostomy. Maybe, just maybe, two ass holes will do him good.
Friday, November 25, 2016
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 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.
Friday, September 09, 2016
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."
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.
 |
| Imagine two swollen legs on a pair of denim shorts. |
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.
Friday, September 02, 2016
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.
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.
Friday, August 19, 2016
What We Talk About with My Android Friends
**And by "Androids," I mean my biologically male beloveds who have achieved such amazing augmentations to their, and I use this term apologetically, to their "masculine" forms. One of them still argues, to this day, that giving birth will soon be transferable. I'm still arguing against that.
Notice how that first line was a murder of modifiers?
1. Where this or that's nose was stitched.
2. Surgery aftercare and precautions. I learned that recovering from a rhinoplasty can be a terrible thing for heavy smokers who just can't stop.
3. Who's the best nose doctor in Manila?
4. Sidewalk stalls in the Emirates that offer walk in surgery.
5. Cup size, butt size, and how much collagen or silicone or tire black these add ons received.
6. Where this or that's silicone implants were injected. And where it hurts more.
7. Hotel rates.
8. Asian currencies and their peso equivalent.
9. Double condoms as a safety precaution.
10. The inconvenience of sharing a hotel room most especially when one or the other has a paying guest.
11. The life-and-death-ness of flushing drugs in the toilet bowl. Most especially in a foreign country where the general population speaks Mandarin. And tonight's high-paying pangyao has this habit.
12. Hoarding female hormones, oral collagen, injectable glutathione, and has anyone mentioned liver damage yet? Nope.
13. Forehead contours.
14. The aging androids mention "Minoxidil" quite often.
15. Her being bailed out of this Singaporean prison because of her legendary beauty is really an urban legend. The truth is that she plead guilty, and then they lowered her sentence. But they allowed her, and her alone, to continue taking her female hormones behind bars.
16. Pictorials for their profiles in that ladyboy website.
17. I heard she was sore for weeks after she got her brand new, fully functional vagina. They were whispering that she didn't have to take a psychological exam prior to her sexual reassignment surgery.
18. If you want to know what a sexually reassigned vagina looks like, then you might want to read Close Encounters with the Vagina-ed Type.
Notice how that first line was a murder of modifiers?
1. Where this or that's nose was stitched.
2. Surgery aftercare and precautions. I learned that recovering from a rhinoplasty can be a terrible thing for heavy smokers who just can't stop.
3. Who's the best nose doctor in Manila?
4. Sidewalk stalls in the Emirates that offer walk in surgery.
5. Cup size, butt size, and how much collagen or silicone or tire black these add ons received.
6. Where this or that's silicone implants were injected. And where it hurts more.
7. Hotel rates.
8. Asian currencies and their peso equivalent.
9. Double condoms as a safety precaution.
10. The inconvenience of sharing a hotel room most especially when one or the other has a paying guest.
11. The life-and-death-ness of flushing drugs in the toilet bowl. Most especially in a foreign country where the general population speaks Mandarin. And tonight's high-paying pangyao has this habit.
12. Hoarding female hormones, oral collagen, injectable glutathione, and has anyone mentioned liver damage yet? Nope.
13. Forehead contours.
14. The aging androids mention "Minoxidil" quite often.
15. Her being bailed out of this Singaporean prison because of her legendary beauty is really an urban legend. The truth is that she plead guilty, and then they lowered her sentence. But they allowed her, and her alone, to continue taking her female hormones behind bars.
16. Pictorials for their profiles in that ladyboy website.
17. I heard she was sore for weeks after she got her brand new, fully functional vagina. They were whispering that she didn't have to take a psychological exam prior to her sexual reassignment surgery.
18. If you want to know what a sexually reassigned vagina looks like, then you might want to read Close Encounters with the Vagina-ed Type.
19. I wrote Close Encounters with the Vagina-ed Type in October 2010. And I can still see what it looks like with unnerving vividness.
20. He was chatting with me from inside a closet because his roommate had a paying client. This gives him peephole access to the perfect intercourse between business and pleasure.
Friday, July 29, 2016
Blackie
My neighbor, Old Flaccid, decided to be a noisy motherfucker that morning.
He kept shouting the same word twice per repetition, "Blackie! Blackie!," in this pattern that gave him breathing intervals. He was old, you see, and he looked like he was decaying because of his skin. It has the character of a withered scrotum. Old Flaccid needed to breathe, I guess, on account of this unproductive yelling, "Blackie! Blackie!," could be too much for his age. There is still some posture in him, however, and there is still some grit and spit and all purpose anger with each "Blackie!" that issued from that old mouth. He can't be that old.
I will not know, for sure, just how old Old Flaccid is since I've tried my best to ignore him for the better part of a decade. I would hazard a guess and announce that he's a few years younger than the Ark of the Covenant, but I could be wrong. What I'm sure of, however, is that the calm of this wonderful 7am morning died to Old Flaccid's noisy reports. He was as loud as the loudest "I don't give a fuck" in the manner of bitter old people, and I wish he was senile so he'd shut the fuck up.
"Blackie! Blaaackie!"
Now what you need to understand, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, is that Blackie is this long haired cat that perched himself on top of this concrete wall that surrounded Old Flaccid's property. He's a feet away from these suspended electric cables that were interesting in what they can do to breathing things. And what you need to remember is that Blackie is brown. He's as brown as the golden feces of a one year old. He's as brown as undigested almonds. He's as brown as the moisture on your underwear when you were praying to Jesus for dry fart a few seconds ago. I'm telling you, I have seen that cat several times before, and by cat I mean Blackie, and I've always known him to be brown. I'm looking at him in this morning sunlight, and yes, he is brown.
"Blackie! Blaaackie!"
Blackie was ignoring Old Flaccid's authority because he had people to count. I guess that's what he's doing with the way his brown head followed everybody that passed his concrete wall. How long has he been at it?
"Blackie! Blaaackie!"
Blackie's eyes pierced Old Flaccid's general direction. And they had the feline equivalent of "I wish you were senile so you'd shut the fuck up." I have seen that cat several times before, and I only liked him today.
"Blackie! Blaaackie!"
Friday, July 01, 2016
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.
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.
 |
| 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.
Friday, January 15, 2016
A Prostitution Story
"Sir? Excuse me Sir, but the lady you're with is actually a boy in his passport. See?" Pangyao, the horny Chinese national, barely concealed his shock as he returned the evidence to the overly made up front desk receptionist. He thanked her in embarrassed Mandarin, and then he stormed out of that hotel with his head below his left armpit.
That look of cruel triumph on her face, lurid with foundation, was truly an evil thing.
Meanwhile, She (or He, depending on where you stand in this train wreck that is Gender Labels) has been waiting in Room 420 with this expensive lingerie, black lace, that did nothing for His (or Her) sense of decency. I say that because His (or Her) flaccid dick, which is now glutathione-pink, was still visible below his ass if you wanted to look at Him (or Her) from behind. He (or She) has no idea that He (or She) will be waiting long, so He (or She) takes a Selfie and captions it with Beijing's temperature.
His (or Her) perfect surgery gets 70 plus Likes within the hour. Meanwhile, Pangyao's wife gets ready to fuck her husband in earnest since it has been ages since he's home this early.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
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.
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
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| 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
Friday, February 14, 2014
Holy Roman Taxi Cab
Pay attention please, my dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, for I will now give you a mental picture of... the kind of... odd shit you don't see every day. You will probably scratch your head at what your mind's eye will be seeing, much like I did on my way home that morning. It caught me unaware, knocked the mental wind off my head, for I do not have the imagination for this level of shit. I kid you not. Having said that, I tip my hat to that Jesus loon, for I am now a reluctant fan.
And this is the farthest thing from gross, too, so feel free to read aloud to your kids. Anyway.
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| Imagine green streaks along its Mazda frame. |
I was hopping in slow motion in its general direction when I saw this white cross, this very large white cross erected a few inches away from the TAXI lamp. I paused. I said it was heaven sent, yes, but I was actually kidding. This yellow taxi cab, with green streaks along its Mazda frame, actually had a white cross installed on its roof. I am not kidding you, Sweet Nuts. My redemption from that day's shift had a large white cross a few inches away from the TAXI lamp. And I am not making this up. I swear on God's Vessel, which might as well be the same thing I was looking at, that I am not making this shit up.
I cancelled the slow motion hop and switched to baby steps. I was curious.
Meanwhile, the cab itself was an unmarked yellow with green paint along it's Mazda frame. It meant to take me home. But the obscenely large cross installed on it's roof meant to preach.
I am usually lazy by default, my dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, and I hardly have the disposition to wait for another cab. My baby steps were cautious, though, as I proceeded to Manila's Next Popemobile. But then the driver stepped out, and I froze in my tracks. I was suddenly rooted in place, like a bush, and my head was burning with ideas like sprinting or brisk walking or walking on water. What is this that I am looking at now?
He stepped out of his plate-numbered Popemobile, raised both his arms up at 45 degree angles to his shoulders, raised them above his head, and he is beckoning to me with his arms spread wide. He wasn't smiling. I am serious.
He looked like an archangel in a bragging contest and they were measuring wingspan. His wings were This wide, and he is the object of what could be penis envy in angels. Anyway, he. Wait, no, "He" was wearing a white polo shirt, you know, with green sleeves. He looks like some mortal in his forties, I think, medium built with the complexion of varnished wood. The soft glow from the TAXI lamp defined his features. He had curly black hair. His face was stern and leathery, his eyes were beady, and he was sporting a moustache that was quite the rage with kidnappers in those action films in the 80s. He was now standing before the open door next to the driver's seat, and he was beckoning to me, his arms were stretched apart and raised at a 45 degree angle to each shoulder. The fingers on each of his palms looked like they were glued together like flippers. And it was the beckoning movement of each flipper that was very troubling to me.
It doesn't stop there. Two of the upper buttons on his polo shirt were undone. And on his chest was this enormous crucifix. Yes, my dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, I seized the word "crucifix" because that is exactly the size of it. Imagine a copper cross the size of your thumb. Now, magnify that pendant by a hundred fold, and that will fix you with a proper estimate. Nope, the beckoning isn't stopping yet.
It dawned on me that God's Plate Numbered Vessel was running on the essential oils of myrrh, frankincense, and some shabu. And it's herald has been sniffing plenty of exhaust fumes.
He's giving my ass crack a stigmata of sorts on account of I could shit on the spot with this kind of crazy going on. However, I am far too cool for this loony Bible show, and you know that my dearly beloved Sweet Nuts. I maintained my safe distance and watched as he, no, "He" got back in his vessel, closed the door, and started his engine. I was actually relieved to see that yellow cab with it's green streaks move and accelerate. I noticed that the large white cross on its roof did not budge. It was then a little after four in the morning.
I noticed one of the security guards was looking at the same explosion of crazy. I was relieved. For a while there I though I was having one of those holy visitation things.
Friday, January 31, 2014
How to Say Sawadee Ka!
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| The beautiful Lucy Sandy Shanghai. |
Lucy's "Sa" is high-pitched, throaty, an has a characteristic lisp. Thaa. "Wa" sounded like "haaa." The "w" was really a crossdressing "h," and the "a," there were three of them in my ears, could last a lifetime. Haaa. "Dee" was pronounced as is, and would have gone unnoticed if it wasn't for Ms Shanghai's delicious inflection. Dee. "Ka" was "kahhh" and sounded like... what you would sound like if... Imagine you were strangling yourself for a minute, or at least until you're close to fainting. You let go a few seconds before blacking out, and you are now gasping for air. And then you go for it. Go on. Kahhh.
Taken as a whole, the lovely Ms Shanghai's "Sawadee Ka" would be an octave higher. It will be throaty and nasal at the same time, and it will have you maimed and punched and mobbed and bludgeoned to within an inch of your life if you weren't as cute as she is. Having said that, let us give it a go.
No, wait, here's a link to one of those videos I was referring to earlier. Use this as a guide.
Sawadee Ka!"Thaa-haaa-dee-kahhh"
Friday, November 29, 2013
Dear Devina
**The pictures from this post were borrowed from this post in China Smack. It's this travel guide with a Faces of Death feel to it. It is not for the faint of heart. It will leave you bothered. You can actually smell the very graphic pictures. There are things that you cannot un-see. But you will still click on it. I know you will.
I am sure you are faintly familiar with Devina Dediva's anti-Filipino comments that surfaced with Megan Young's coronation.
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You can enlarge this image by clicking on it. Go ahead. |
I understand that you, Devina, are simply following the time-honored tradition of being racist for your five minutes of fame. Prejudice for popularity. It happens a lot. And we, by we I am referring to our marginalized third world lot, we get plenty of that. We are usually the butt of your domestic helper jokes, and I do not respect that. We are infinitely more than that, Devina, and let me show you how.
Persecute the person, not his or her race. See, Devina, we are now aware of your Indian origins. You are a Singaporean national with Indian roots. I did the painstaking research, and now I have material to work with. Before anything else, allow me to mention that I am impressed by the illustrious achievements of the Indian people. There's this, this, this, and this. Surely, an entire nation of such noble accomplishments is beyond this kind of racism. I know that. I understand that. And that is exactly why I am isolating that insecure cunt Devina from the rest of the wonderful Indian people.
I am, of course, playing it safe. I am not messing with our Hindu brothers. Fo shizzle mah nizzle.
Having said that, Devina, do you know that your filthy racism reminded me of the Ganghes river. What about the Ganghes river?
It is this river.
Now, if we should follow your generalizing train of thought, then I would assume that you, Devina, took a bath in the Ganghes river. Yes, that river.
Did you also gargle corpse juice in the Ganghes river, Devina? No wait. Don't answer that. I know you did.
Did you also dip your boyfriend Prakash's uncircumcised dick in the cemetery waters of the Ganghes river before putting it in your mouth, Devina? No wait. Don't answer that. I know you did.
Did you also wash your weathered pussy in these funereal waters, Devina? No wait. Don't answer that. I know you did.
Did you also rinse your sagging boobs in the corpse juice of the Ganghes River, Devina? No wait. Don't answer that. I know you did.
Did you have sex next to the floating carcasses of these rotting cows, Devina? No wait. Don't answer that. I know you did. That includes the having sex part. You look easy.
I'm sorry what, Devina? You didn't have sex next to that dead cow? My bad. You had sex next to this dead man instead.
We heard that you were fired from your job because of your racist comment, Devina. Goes without saying that it sucks to be you. But we knew you had it coming; your vanity was of the terrible, unrequited kind. Underscore unrequited; look at you. And, like adding salt to injury, we found out that your bosses were Filipinos. What a very delicious twist. Your bosses were among that race of maids that you so lovingly insulted. So, having said that, and following your racist track mind, would you agree that you were fired by maids? And if you were fired by maids, then what does that make you, Devina?
What do you call a smelly cunt that gets fired by maids, Devina?
That preceding sentence was a question and an answer rolled into one. The answer is Devina. Your name should have it's own dictionary entry, Devina. It will be the contraction of two words: Dev for devilish and Ina. Ina is a Tagalog word (Tagalog is the language we use when we Filipinos attending to our domestic helper duties). Ina means "Mother." Which would have been a gentle word if it wasn't associated with the easiest insult to say in Tagalog. Putangina. Tangina. Son of a bitch. And that is the nature of the "Ina" that we are including in your dictionary entry, Devina.
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| I said "ladies," Devina. You don't count. |
Again, I have nothing, absolutely nothing against the entire Indian race. You guys have the coolest culture and the wickedest mythology and your ladies have the most mesmerizing eyes. Plus, you guys have one of the Wonders of the World to your merit. I regard your accomplishments, your illustrious achievements, your shining successes with an admiring gaze. Hats off and snaps in a z-formation to you people. This post was nothing but an attempt to humor this one particular overweight bigot, and her pendulous boobs that are meant for punching sideways, and that haggard sarcasm of a face, and her cocksucker cheeks (because they bulge), and her cocksucker arms (because they bulge), and her cocksucker legs (because they bulge), and her lousy attempt to drown her insecurity with a racist comment.
Bitch, please. Do you honestly think you can get away with this? You see, Devina, you should have done your research. Not only can we Filipinos do dishes. We also do insults.
Friday, November 15, 2013
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.
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| 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.
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| Image from Gl Brain. |
Friday, October 11, 2013
How to be Rude: Comments
**This post is also known as How to Bash Tip # 1: Divide and Conquer.
So we heard recently that a second sex video of Chito Miranda and Neri Naig surfaced. I have never seen it. And I will never watch it. I was tempted to, but I remembered how disappointed I was with Chito's fucking that I decided to just let it be. The first installment wasn't any excitable; Chito Miranda's black-as-sin dick was an awful nightmare, and Neri Naig's pendulous breasts were a felony to the female anatomy. However, I would imagine that some people jerked off to this episode while they played one of his songs in the background for good measure. Whatever.
I will not write about it. These celebrity sex videos are becoming so fucking tiresome in their frequency. And what makes it irritating is that they're all sex between straight couples. How very bland, how very boring, how very beyond scandalous. What have our gay celebrities been doing? Playing Barbie dolls and doing each other's hair? Cruising at the gym or pandering to the horny whims of your TV-executive benefactors? Get out of your comfort zone, homo. We can use the representation.
I have written about Chito Miranda's first sex video. And you can click here you're interested.
Meanwhile, the last time I trolled was five or six years ago, and I sort of missed being mean to stupid people and their stupid bitch fits. So I gave it another go sometime back, and, having done that, I don't think I missed being a bully at all. Anyway, allow me to share a screenshot. Sometimes, a series of pictures is far more eloquent. You remember what they say about a picture being worth a thousand words? Yeah? Now think about this: what if... it's a picture... of words? Ahhh. Imagine that many thousands.
Again, I do not miss being such a jerk towards other people's poorly written sentiments, and I fucking hate being so disrespectful in their borrowed space. It sucks that I have to go out of my way just to be a dick. That is why I have this blog. And being such a cock in other people's territory is a felony towards this blog; why be a dick in other territories when I can well do it here?
Comments are just one of the many wonderful opportunities for your meanness to shine. Treat yourself to these other tips.
How to be Rude: Books
How to be Rude: Burgers
How to be Rude: Directions
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So we heard recently that a second sex video of Chito Miranda and Neri Naig surfaced. I have never seen it. And I will never watch it. I was tempted to, but I remembered how disappointed I was with Chito's fucking that I decided to just let it be. The first installment wasn't any excitable; Chito Miranda's black-as-sin dick was an awful nightmare, and Neri Naig's pendulous breasts were a felony to the female anatomy. However, I would imagine that some people jerked off to this episode while they played one of his songs in the background for good measure. Whatever.
I will not write about it. These celebrity sex videos are becoming so fucking tiresome in their frequency. And what makes it irritating is that they're all sex between straight couples. How very bland, how very boring, how very beyond scandalous. What have our gay celebrities been doing? Playing Barbie dolls and doing each other's hair? Cruising at the gym or pandering to the horny whims of your TV-executive benefactors? Get out of your comfort zone, homo. We can use the representation.
I have written about Chito Miranda's first sex video. And you can click here you're interested.
Meanwhile, the last time I trolled was five or six years ago, and I sort of missed being mean to stupid people and their stupid bitch fits. So I gave it another go sometime back, and, having done that, I don't think I missed being a bully at all. Anyway, allow me to share a screenshot. Sometimes, a series of pictures is far more eloquent. You remember what they say about a picture being worth a thousand words? Yeah? Now think about this: what if... it's a picture... of words? Ahhh. Imagine that many thousands.
Again, I do not miss being such a jerk towards other people's poorly written sentiments, and I fucking hate being so disrespectful in their borrowed space. It sucks that I have to go out of my way just to be a dick. That is why I have this blog. And being such a cock in other people's territory is a felony towards this blog; why be a dick in other territories when I can well do it here?
Comments are just one of the many wonderful opportunities for your meanness to shine. Treat yourself to these other tips.
How to be Rude: Books
How to be Rude: Burgers
How to be Rude: Directions
Friday, May 24, 2013
What to Write on Jesus' Facebook Wall
**I've written about this in one of my posts1, but I have I decided to devote this week's update to this relatively pressing issue.
Say for example you are a Christian, and you wish to express your Christian faith in the best trending way you know how. You look for Jesus Christ in Facebook. And so you did, but it's suddenly a confusing mess because there are lots, as in Goddamn shit loads, of Jesus Christs in Facebook. It's like a plague of Jesus Christ locusts out there.
Anyway, this doesn't stop you from your most Christian mission. You need to tell Jesus something, or die trying. Prayer used to be the only sure fire way to get Him a message, but seeing as most prayers are left unanswered because God works in mysterious ways anyway, you yield to something more visible. More 2013. More bandwagon-ish. Hey, if everybody else is doing it, then why can't you? Right? So you lose the sign of the cross, and looked for a Jesus to subscribe to. Or Like. Of course, the operative term here is visible. You want your Facebook friends to see Jesus Christ in your Interests page.
Meanwhile, you still cannot choose which Jesus Christ to subscribe to. Luckily, most of them have links to their own websites, but you're in a hurry, so you offer your Like to the first Jesus you see. You will have a new life in Candy Crush in another two minutes, so you can't be bothered to check their individual links. That's your problem. As for me, I am suddenly devoted to this one Jesus in particular, Jesus H Christ, because he's a jerk. And, on a personal note, Jerks Rule! But this one Jerk is a Savior to God's sheep, so Liking him is a win-win situation for sure. Here's a fine selection of Jesus H. Christ's recent status updates:
I am loving Jesus more today than yesterday. Thank you Facebook. Having said that, one of the other reasons why I chose to enlarge on Jesus' Facebook Wall is the title. What to Write in Jesus' Facebook Wall. Catchy shit, isn't it? And this is what you write in Jesus' Facebook Wall.
I haven't posted this in Jesus' Wall yet. Let's keep this a secret, but the thing is, I fear the wrath of Jesus' online flock. All 19,318,814 of them. There is strength in numbers, not to mention the strength in one's online faith. That there is unbelievable. And I don't want to mess with them. For real. See, I could be reported to Facebook. And that will be a threat to my Facebook account. And I don't want to lose my Facebook profile yet, because that there is my only visible association with Jesus these days. And I have a score to settle with that spawn of the devil, Candy Crush.
1 Made you click. It's the next post, really. And I'll see you guys next week.
Say for example you are a Christian, and you wish to express your Christian faith in the best trending way you know how. You look for Jesus Christ in Facebook. And so you did, but it's suddenly a confusing mess because there are lots, as in Goddamn shit loads, of Jesus Christs in Facebook. It's like a plague of Jesus Christ locusts out there.
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| Choooose Your Jesus! |
Anyway, this doesn't stop you from your most Christian mission. You need to tell Jesus something, or die trying. Prayer used to be the only sure fire way to get Him a message, but seeing as most prayers are left unanswered because God works in mysterious ways anyway, you yield to something more visible. More 2013. More bandwagon-ish. Hey, if everybody else is doing it, then why can't you? Right? So you lose the sign of the cross, and looked for a Jesus to subscribe to. Or Like. Of course, the operative term here is visible. You want your Facebook friends to see Jesus Christ in your Interests page.
Meanwhile, you still cannot choose which Jesus Christ to subscribe to. Luckily, most of them have links to their own websites, but you're in a hurry, so you offer your Like to the first Jesus you see. You will have a new life in Candy Crush in another two minutes, so you can't be bothered to check their individual links. That's your problem. As for me, I am suddenly devoted to this one Jesus in particular, Jesus H Christ, because he's a jerk. And, on a personal note, Jerks Rule! But this one Jerk is a Savior to God's sheep, so Liking him is a win-win situation for sure. Here's a fine selection of Jesus H. Christ's recent status updates:
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And I quote: "Not a bad bathroom shot, if I do say so myself....."
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I am loving Jesus more today than yesterday. Thank you Facebook. Having said that, one of the other reasons why I chose to enlarge on Jesus' Facebook Wall is the title. What to Write in Jesus' Facebook Wall. Catchy shit, isn't it? And this is what you write in Jesus' Facebook Wall.
I haven't posted this in Jesus' Wall yet. Let's keep this a secret, but the thing is, I fear the wrath of Jesus' online flock. All 19,318,814 of them. There is strength in numbers, not to mention the strength in one's online faith. That there is unbelievable. And I don't want to mess with them. For real. See, I could be reported to Facebook. And that will be a threat to my Facebook account. And I don't want to lose my Facebook profile yet, because that there is my only visible association with Jesus these days. And I have a score to settle with that spawn of the devil, Candy Crush.
1 Made you click. It's the next post, really. And I'll see you guys next week.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
How to be Her
**This post was inspired by a real person, a goddess-variety charmer with whom I've had the fortunate acquaintance to brag about. I was washing the dishes this one day, when I happened to look at the kitchen tiles, those white, and clean kitchen tiles, and I suddenly had this inspiration to write. I'm not sure if she's aware of this, but her not knowing is alright, I suppose. I'm not dedicating this to her. What am I, straight?
First off, you will have to be very, very beautiful. You need to have skin which rivals that of snow glistening with the coming of the morning. Your hair needs to live, breathe, and be thoroughly self-sufficient; it has to have a life of its own. It could be paying taxes for all I care, but I don't know. Your face, ah that face, will be the very design of Aphrodite, or Venus, or Minerva, or whichever deity was the most inspired upon her creative emergency. Your glow should be this divine influence that could have been leased from The Almighty's vainest whims. Simultaneously, you should be statuesque, possessed of this comely figure, and you should cheat on your diet from time to time. You don't smoke. You eat fruits. You should be all that, and then some, so that calling you "beautiful" will be a criminal understatement.
Your paradise-level beauty will be so beyond illustrious that it will compel common-looking folk with uncommon insecurities to purchase rope. Or a gun. Or large volumes of rat poison and think about administration if the alcoholic pity parties should fail in their purpose.
Your smile, ah that smile, will be it's very own enchantment. This animation of your allure will be a supernatural persuasion. It will move your beholders to a peaceful trance. You will have that effect when you do. And it will move those common-looking folk with uncommon insecurities to abandon the drinking altogether and just hang themselves.
Your admirers will have their own population. And their numbers will be formidable enough to inaugurate their own municipality.
You will be so beautiful, but you don't seem to know it Or you're aware of your spellbinding influence, but you don't seem to care. That is the hard part, the insufferable consequence, but if you want to be her, then you should lose all pretenses that come with such beauty. I suppose that's a common thing with most of God's handpicked. They were divinities since birth that humoring their advantage becomes a tiring repetition. So they leave that privilege, that of flaunting, to the common-looking folk, and then it becomes a comic delusion.
The insecure common-folk, at least those that will survive their suicides, will glare at you, in secret, of course, and whisper among themselves -- "Maganda nga, pero wala namang utak." "Yes, she's beautiful, but I'm sure she's stupid." They will derive some consolatory triumph in this tired, tired attack, and they will snicker in satisfaction. You will, however, douse this weak offense with that smile -- you are possessed of a college diploma in the field of medicine. You are smart, but you will elect to dispense of your wit when you're throwing punches with the funny boys. You have an evolving sense of humor, and I call it that because you're smart enough to upgrade your comic arsenal.
You can choose to flip your preferably anonymous detractors with your dainty, porcelain fingers, but there isn't a fiber in your educated being that permits such reprehensible behavior.
This, my dear reader, is how to be her, I judge. And these requisite fortunes, from the divinity to the demeanor, are mandatory. Because she is an angel, and angels are perfection. You can, however, miss out on a detail or two, but you will be a cheap, lackluster, copper-plated angel. A two-cent imitation, really. Now, seeing as undergoing an appendectomy thrice is far more possible than to collect all those blessings in another person, not your person, or my person for that matter, we might as well give up. Get to know her, or someone like her, and then be thankful for the acquaintance.
A beautiful friend is an advantage sometimes, and I will explain that later. But don't count on becoming pretty by association. That doesn't work. You will just look ugly. Be inspired, instead.
First off, you will have to be very, very beautiful. You need to have skin which rivals that of snow glistening with the coming of the morning. Your hair needs to live, breathe, and be thoroughly self-sufficient; it has to have a life of its own. It could be paying taxes for all I care, but I don't know. Your face, ah that face, will be the very design of Aphrodite, or Venus, or Minerva, or whichever deity was the most inspired upon her creative emergency. Your glow should be this divine influence that could have been leased from The Almighty's vainest whims. Simultaneously, you should be statuesque, possessed of this comely figure, and you should cheat on your diet from time to time. You don't smoke. You eat fruits. You should be all that, and then some, so that calling you "beautiful" will be a criminal understatement.
Your paradise-level beauty will be so beyond illustrious that it will compel common-looking folk with uncommon insecurities to purchase rope. Or a gun. Or large volumes of rat poison and think about administration if the alcoholic pity parties should fail in their purpose.
Your smile, ah that smile, will be it's very own enchantment. This animation of your allure will be a supernatural persuasion. It will move your beholders to a peaceful trance. You will have that effect when you do. And it will move those common-looking folk with uncommon insecurities to abandon the drinking altogether and just hang themselves.
Your admirers will have their own population. And their numbers will be formidable enough to inaugurate their own municipality.
You will be so beautiful, but you don't seem to know it Or you're aware of your spellbinding influence, but you don't seem to care. That is the hard part, the insufferable consequence, but if you want to be her, then you should lose all pretenses that come with such beauty. I suppose that's a common thing with most of God's handpicked. They were divinities since birth that humoring their advantage becomes a tiring repetition. So they leave that privilege, that of flaunting, to the common-looking folk, and then it becomes a comic delusion.
The insecure common-folk, at least those that will survive their suicides, will glare at you, in secret, of course, and whisper among themselves -- "Maganda nga, pero wala namang utak." "Yes, she's beautiful, but I'm sure she's stupid." They will derive some consolatory triumph in this tired, tired attack, and they will snicker in satisfaction. You will, however, douse this weak offense with that smile -- you are possessed of a college diploma in the field of medicine. You are smart, but you will elect to dispense of your wit when you're throwing punches with the funny boys. You have an evolving sense of humor, and I call it that because you're smart enough to upgrade your comic arsenal.
You can choose to flip your preferably anonymous detractors with your dainty, porcelain fingers, but there isn't a fiber in your educated being that permits such reprehensible behavior.
This, my dear reader, is how to be her, I judge. And these requisite fortunes, from the divinity to the demeanor, are mandatory. Because she is an angel, and angels are perfection. You can, however, miss out on a detail or two, but you will be a cheap, lackluster, copper-plated angel. A two-cent imitation, really. Now, seeing as undergoing an appendectomy thrice is far more possible than to collect all those blessings in another person, not your person, or my person for that matter, we might as well give up. Get to know her, or someone like her, and then be thankful for the acquaintance.
A beautiful friend is an advantage sometimes, and I will explain that later. But don't count on becoming pretty by association. That doesn't work. You will just look ugly. Be inspired, instead.
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