How to Medicate a Faggot. Or Some Jokes are Better Said in Tagalog.

**I have written a "maybe" insensitive post about somebody with HIV. However, I am giving myself a week to decide whether to publish or otherwise. I know I'm a jerk, and I could be an extremist jerk, and I know what I wrote could ignite needless debate. The truth is I no longer engage in comments wars because such litter are just as useful to me as a punch in the face. Like the nearly rotting tilapia that is used to make buro, I, too, have matured. 

Meanwhile, here's something I wrote a few years ago. It could be relevant now. It talks about medication, but it's really a study on joke delivery. I have decided to include the comments with this re-post. You should know that there was once upon a time when this blog had such darling action.

First, the joke in the ideal tongue:

Q: Paano mo papainumin ng gamot ang bakla?
A: Ihalo mo sa tamod.

And now, its english equivalent:

Q: How do you medicate a faggot?
A: Mix it with sperm.

My blog is a decidedly English mess, as far as the medium goes, but exceptions are in order if and only if it best gets the point across. Of course, I can choose to use the phrase "mix it with sperm" for consistency's sake, but that spineless translation doesn't hold water. Ihalo mo sa tamod is a killer. And I suppose it is the only judicious method with which to deliver that punchline.

Now if you can please say these lines repeatedly, and if you should be so kind to say it out loud for the benefit of those within earshot:

Ihalo mo sa tamod.  
Ihalo mo sa tamod.  
Ihalo mo sa tamod. 

Surely you, my reader of such individual and refined humor, will agree, hopefully, unless you're autistic, that this Tagalog equivalent, this mischievous mantra, is the only acceptable currency that will make the joke profitable. Mix it with sperm makes it sound like an episode of Junior Masterchef. Or a refresher in Chemical Engineering. This English equivalent weakens the thunder of the joke, bankrupts the toilet humor, and it will embarrass the teller with "polite" reactions. Or it can be a dirty finger, too, depending on the company you're trying to entertain at that time. 

Mix it with sperm. You know you blew the joke somewhere when you're getting paid with reserved smiles. 

Now, here's the kicker. Understand that this joke works best when said by another faggot; there is nothing quite as mentally sound as making fun of yourself. It's an unspoken license, a perk if you may, much like our African-American friends and their N-word. It will, however, appear bigoted and offensive when delivered by a non-member, a non-GL Card holder (GL Card = Ganda Lang Card). This sanction includes you "babaeng baklas." You know we love you, not as much as we love our boys, but we love you just the same. Yes, we allowed you rights to our slanguage, but there are things that are, for lack of a better term, non-transferable. Don't try to circulate this joke for your own benefit. I will scalp you.


What you can do, though, is you can teach this joke to one of your many, many homosexual friends. Let them deliver. It doesn't matter how they say it, or how they do it, but it rolls better, and sounds safer off a homosexual tongue.

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.

The Seven Annoying Facebook Posters (Introducing The Loser Meter!)

**Seven. Like the deadly sins. And in spite of this, I'm glad that Facebook doesn't have a Post On a Need to Know Basis in the fine print. I wouldn't have material otherwise. And before we begin with this playful list, I challenge you, my Dearly Beloved reader, to ask yourself this.



I am writing a post that will boost my Facebook posts, but that took longer than an erection on some pothead. That explains this repost. I wrote this in November 2010. It can use an update, but it's still relevant.

Seven. Like the deadly sins. I will be updating this post soon to include "The Sudden Expert," "The Nearly Faceless," and "The Spoiler." 

1. The "I Heart My Macchiato" Poster
This is usually accompanied by a picture of a half eaten banofee pie and a Tall Caramel Macchiato with their name painstakingly made visible on that one shot. I get it. You have hand-me-down taste. And it would have been so very special, so damned special if there weren't one billion of your social climbing kind out there. Underscore would have been. Stick to your calls.

LOSER RATING: This poster doesn't qualify. There's nothing wrong with this kind of poster, but a ratio of four Machiato posts to one generic post is doubtful.

2. The 20-year Old Kid and His Unsolicited Love Advice
I say grow up, get yourself a haircut, move out of your parents' house, start supporting yourself, and then tell me about it. If I wanted advice on that crazy little thing called love, then I'd get me a mother fucking fortune cookie. Or read the horoscope. Or buy me a Bob Ong book and then count the number of times he's been plagiarized by you little boys and girls just for the devilish fun of it.

LOSER RATING: Doesn't qualify. I'm not saying you're dumb. Far from it. I simply have no employment for your advice.

3. The "I Hate Your Guts, But I'm Too Chicken to Tell It To Your Face, So I'll Post a Shout Out Instead and Wait for the Comments Because I'd Rather Have Sympathy Over Courage"
They were mighty fluent during the last election period. And they can't get enough exclamation points. I had to import mine from China.

LOSER RATING:





4. The "I Have a New Post in My Blog, and I Will Be Too Cross-Eyed with Delight If You Guys Can Click on this Link Here."
Faggot, if we know you have a blog, and if we liked the shit you wrote about the last time you endorsed your proud waste of internet space, then we'll bookmark you, and you don't have to ask. So stop distracting me, bitch. I'm uploading my macchiato/banofee pics.

LOSER RATING:






5. The "I'm Telling You Anway" Poster
Personally, this has got to be the most self-absorbed of the lot. He's too self-absorbed, you'd think his physical constitution is made of up 40% water and 60% cotton. He posts about the most useless triviality, the most unusable detail, the superficial more often than not that he prompts the question:

And we should know this because?

Really, we're just so positively thrilled that you "just woke up :)," or that you're "cooking beef tapa," or that you're "4 cm na," but seriously, why do I need to know that?
LOSER RATING:





6. The "Poor You" Poster
There's this one loser in my network who shouted out that he's not going to be on Facebook for a few days. Nobody made a comment. A few days later, he posted a follow up shout out saying he's back. Again, nobody posted a comment. Sigh, this poor thing was thinking somebody cared. Let it be known that this facet of social networking, i.e. getting ignored, is most certainly heart breaking because it defeats the point of a subscription. But I have to admit, that shit is entertaining most especially when that somebody is getting ignored twice.

It can be argued that this kind of poster, the "Poor You" poster, is a distant relative of the "I'm Telling You Anyway" poster , but unlike the latter, the often-ignored "Poor You" poster is amusing. Because he's relentless.

His shallow shout outs, and that's a staggering understatement, rarely, if not never, get the props he was shooting at. Like the "I'm Telling You Anyway" poster, this attention whore just can't cut it, but, for some reason, he's far too encouraged by all that conceit that he goes for yet another nip at attention. Which he doesn't get. One can be led to believe that all the 300-plus people in this loser's network died over the weekend. Or he's just dead to them to begin with, and he's just there for quantity. The poor little bastard needs a consolation, so here's a customized comment you can use if you suspect one of these losers in your network:

"I don't know where you get your sense of entitlement, but you need to lose it."

LOSER RATING:






7. The "I Like What I Said" Poster
There was this one gay loser kid (Jesus, I need to trim these people down) in my network who posted that he's in a relationship. And it looks like he liked it so much that he was the first one to click on the LIKE link. Which doesn't make sense to me, because you don't post things like that if you didn't. Now it would have been fantastic, like in a fantasy, if his audience humored his bullshit, like good fucking sports, but no. The "I Like What I Said" poster's was the only acknowledgment on his own shout out. And that's just sad.

Imagine laughing at your own joke because nobody found it funny. That's the "I Like What I Said" poster for you, and he's an unprecedented height of pathetic. Because he's doing it for the fake props, and not to save face.
LOSER RATING:

Notebook Cannibalism

**I copy "cannibalism" in this context from the Esteemed Mistress of the Universe. Meanwhile, here's a selection of "safe" crap from my notebook. 

1. It is only in Facebook where your copper plated, base metal life turns into gold. And for the most part, this alchemy applies to your face too. 

2. I remember watching Dead Silence more than five years ago. I just got home with a festive selection of food from the mall. I was then lying down on the couch after putting my house clothes on. Prince, my long Siamese, was grooming himself on the couch next to me, and Joel, my partner, was tending to something "domestical" in the kitchen. It was raining a bit, perhaps a gentle drizzle, and we were about to have lunch in a few minutes. 

Those were good times. Those were truly happy times. Joel has a wife and two kids now, and Prince died of liver complications in 2013. 

3. Limiting your reading limits the quality of writing that you want to create and enjoy. So tell me, Homo, what are you going to do about it? 

4. You will need to hand it to that darling group of planeswalkers. Thank you, you guys, for inviting me. No, seriously, thank you for letting me in somehow. You guys are awesome. 

5. Q: Is it cannibalism when you suck dick? A: Contrary to popular belief, sucking dick is not cannibalism. Swallowing cum is. 

6. "Fully Charged Brain Coffee with Industrial Grade Nicotine." This is what I call my folder of morning songs that include Jessie J's "Domino" and Ariana Grande's "Break Free."

7. One difference in having male friends over female friends is that your male friends don't go like "we're not that close yet" when you insult them with heart. 

8. I served ten years doing technical support, ten years, ten goddamned years, a decade of internet troubleshooting. I resigned after ten years, to the day, and I'm just learning the ropes of being a lady guard now. So no. Don't you goddamned lecture me about comfort zones. You are barking at the wrong, indignant tree, bitch.  

9. Make the little things count. Be grateful for all the right things, however small, because it accumulates to radiate a bigger shine. Yes, I do borderline emo fag from time to time. 

10. I remember faking sleep on the couch in the garage at two in the morning because I was waiting for my ex to come home and feel sorry for making me wait. This is a true story. This is a distasteful story. 

11. I like you, but your extra-pronounced forehead is oilier than the Middle East, so no. 

12. "So, you're the writer," said this kindly stranger, a woman in her 40s, surely. "How did she know" was the panicked nagging in my head, and "what does she think of my shit" was the distinct whisper. I lose my cool whenever anyone discusses my writing, even in passing, so you will imagine my embarrassment when this kindly stranger mentioned "writer" and "you're" in the same Hello. 

I blushed and went "ihhh." 

13. I will miss their status updates, and Like-ing pictures of sick kids because, apparently, One Like is the one prayer that didn't happen. And I will miss their viciously edited selfies that nearly erased their "outfit of the day" face, and their "just woke up" face, and their "where to go" face, and their "I am swag" face. I will miss the captions that are irrelevant to these edited pictures most definitely. 

I meant to quit Facebook, but that didn't happen because I like looking at Bruce and his beautiful face. 

14. My mouth's as wide open as the last time I had a raging erection two inches from my face. 

15. I miss You who gave me the perfumed white rose. I really do.

16. Hey girl, I have written better shit than the "Goiter" non-story. Try "It Could be Worse" for size and perspective. 

Dear Devina

**I am not at my proudest when I post mean things. However, I enjoy writing shit like this. Very, very much. And I know that this ... update lost it's opportunity by a few months. It could have been current if it was written a day or two following Devina's induction to the Halls of Stupid Racists. It would have been funny if people were still armed with a ready opinion. Bullshit. There is a point to this delay. I meant to say we don't easily forget. Bitch, please.

**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. 

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. 

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.

Another Random Bitch Fit

No real updates this week. I want to throw a bitch fit. However, much unlike the kind of fits I throw, I don't feel like being as elaborate or as articulate with how I want to write-shout this one out. See, I am currently the first thing in sick and tired and stressed and abused and frustrated. A lot of devastating shit has been happening to me offline; if the words "devastating shit" are a cock, then it's pounding me hard in the ass as we speak. Ow, ow, ow. Anyway, you don't want to hear my crap. Much like the same seemingly end-of-the-world roadblock you're facing right now, nobody gives a shit. My issues are nowhere near scandalous, they're the last thing in interesting, haha, so I won't bore you. I'd keep it to myself, although I'd write it away, in this here post, because writing has helped keep me sane countless times prior. 

You know how it feels like when somebody close to you, no, very dear to your heart submits you to the same selfishness because they don't seem like changing? No, baby, have fun all you want, don't mind me. I'm spending longer hours at work now, like an additional two hours for the godforsaken commute, but I can manage. Yes, I just found out how tired to the nuts I am now. I just got home, baby, and I see you sleeping like a harmless angel with a moustache. Sleep it off. You deserve it. You go ahead and have fun all you want. Don't mind me. I have the toughest lady nuts anywhere. All this additional stress? Nahh, you just have all the fun you can get, don't think about it, don't worry yourself none. No, oh no no no, don't mind me, you go ahead and have all, as in All!, the good times you can get. I'm only in the night shift for three months, so you better get the most of it! You know how tough I am. I'll get used to this, too. 

Yes, I'll get used to this, too. On account of this has happened before, like a month ago, and I remember some scatterings of the same incident while we're alr... But then, like I couldn't have mentioned enough, you go ahead and have all the fun that you can. Don't mind me and this anger-point kind of white deja vu I'm writing about. White, as in the color of boiling point loathing, and it is dissolving me from the inside. Nope, you know me enough. It's not killing me yet. You just sleep it off, maybe we'll talk later. And then what? Your "I'm sorry" will be tender and profuse with kisses, and then we're back to okay. And it can be the best apology ever if only it didn't have the qualities of a song on repeat. 

Oh, your status updates are killing me, too. Never mind that you're keeping me a secret to most of your new friends, but you have to know how you're hurting me with the kind of longing you're posting about. I'm trying my best, my absolute, and it pains me to suddenly feel so inadequate. 

I can handle an additional two hours to commute. Yes, I will be sour, and I will be grumpy, and I will all the more caustic, but that's nothing I can't manage. I have the toughest lady nuts anywhere. But my self esteem is on an all time lo... Help me out, will you please?

A Cumshot of Sadness

The thirties are a bracing time for any homosexual guy. Most everybody else you know, at least the straight ones, are already married and are starting their own families. These days, they are usually giving you death by vomiting with each hourly update of their babies' uncute antics. You then consider losing your Facebook account.

I am bitter. Your kids are hella pretty. For real. Having said that, let's move along.

They look happy, though, and they feel happy, and you know it. You can see it in how their smiles match that familiar twinkle in their eyes. You imagined you had that twinkle before, but after two sharply disappointing relationships, you realize now that you are just faking it all this time. Everybody else is getting married, and you are still praying. But then, surviving all that deception toughened you up a lot, so you are a little less inclined to give a shit. You are now praying less.

I am bitter. I love you, and thank you for kissing me twice on the forehead while I'm getting that arm tattoo. I will continue loving you in spite of whatever. Having said that, let's move along.








I mean it, homo. You are a gay guy in your thirties. Move along. You should know better than to dwell... there is a reason why it's a cumshot's measure of sadness.

The First Joyful Mystery is Brought to You By

I don't usually share much as far as the goings-on of my offline life go. But when I do, I make it a point to share something that's worth the time and trouble. In my personal estimation, the most boring story is something that's loaded with the pronouns "I, Me, and My," and if it can't be funny or scandalous, then it's not worth reading or listening to. If its all about you, and we know you're a total bore right off the bat, then it's not worth reading or listening to. If it hasn't got the words "tattoos, writing, second hand books, big dicks, horror, fellatio, sodomy, minors" anywhere in its entirety, then I will roll my eyes, give you the finger in secret, walk away and find time to masturbate instead.


So I'll keep my mouth shush on the Bolinao trip. It was lovely, and it was most enjoyed, and it was a pleasant trouble to my liver, but that's mostly the long and short of it, so I'll stop here. There isn't much to report, although there was this one time in the van. We agreed that it was driven by somebody with a deathwish, and we decided to pray the rosary on our return trip to Manila. Now, the last time I did the rosary was in Grade Six, and that was a few decades back, so you'd understand if I can't figure it out. I was going to do the First Joyful Mystery, and I was like "The First Joyful Mystery is brought to you by Jollibee. Bida ang Saya."


That was an honest mistake, mind you. But it was the second heartiest laugh I had on that trip. The first one was when I saw this version of the movie 300, and it was in Ilocano, and it totally killed me.

I am fresh from a wonderful trip, and I am as fresh out of ideas. But the First Joyful Mystery gave me something to chew on. Ad Jingles, that's what, and if you darling punks can figure out what these Jingles are endorsing, then I'll give you a... a... I'll give you a...


1. Clue: Frozen Good

"It's not easy to be a nugget
You look like all nuggets do
They don't know what really matters
Is what's inside of you
I'm a ______ _______ nugget
More chicken under my shell
A chunky,
Juicy!
Chicken delight
In every nugget bite!"

2. Clue: Breakfast

"Great things start from small beginnings…
Growing up with Olympic energy,
Growing up with ____,
____, ____ everyday"

3. Clue: Rachel Lobangco

"Sssh-boom Sssh-boom"
"Shhboom, Shh Boom….
yadadadadadada, Shh Boom Shh Boom..
yadadadadadada, Shh Boom"

4. Clue: Francis Magalona

"Katarungan, ito ang gusto ko
kalayaan, ito ang gusto ko
Kapayapaan, ito ang gusto ko
karapatan pang tao, ito ang gusto ko
kalikasan, ito ang gusto ko
kabataaan, ito ang gusto ko
kaibigan, ito ang gusto ko"

5. Clue: Bathroom

"Did you hear? (Oh, c'mon)
I don't believe it
It can't be true…
I can feel it, oh yeah, I feel it,
It really works, you better believe it…
I can feel it!"

6. Clue: It makes a rainbow.

"You wanna see what happens in a bag of ____?
What goes on before they touch my lips?
They make a rainbow…(chocolate ____)
A choco rainbow…(chocolate ____)
And then they color all the flowers and they paint the trees
They're sweet and delicious, look at all those bees
When I want fun, I get a bag of ____
And make a rainbow
(____, ____)…"

7. Clue: Polish

"_______, _______…
The secret of beauty is in your hands,
_______, _______,
Your beauty shines with _______."

8. Clue: 80s

"____, ______ _____,
Ang wallet na masuwerte,
Balat nito ay genuine
International pa ang mga design
Ang wallet na masuwerte
____, ______ _____."

My next post will be about big dicks. And it will be a mouthful.

Lemuel

**I think you guys should meet him. He was one of my earlier posts that actually had comments, he's a favorite among my two offline readers, and he reminds me of the earlier days. Presented for your orgasmic pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, that endearing idiot telemarketer, Lemuel.

**A funny thing happened to me one time last September of 2004. I spoke with an actual telemarketer!The sales call was nothing I would observe myself, it losing out on the finer points of telemarketing, but I remembered it well enough to be able to transcribe it minutes after I dropped the phone on this Lemuel guy. He hee, if you've been in the telemarketing industry for more than a year now, sales agents like Lemuel aren't the type you'd usually forget. The bottomline was that he wasn't good at all, and that's an easy understatement. He sounded like he was courting the household help, I mean, he sounded like the Filipino equivalent of a redneck. He doesn't know what he's saying, and he sounded so friggin' boring, I wondered why I listened to him while he was delivering his sales pitch.

Maybe I did it for the novelty of my first telemarketing call. But if anything, this was hilarious.


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

Me: Si Rommel ito, bakit, anong problema? (Yeah, so it's Rommel all along.)

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

Me: 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. (Oh, he was talking about features. Unbelievable. He spoke like he was right all along.)

Me: ("Is this a sales call?!?" was the thing which came to mind.) Ahhh, wala pa. Pwede bang paki-explain yon, hindi ko alam yun eh. (Of course, I was trying to get the most of my first sales call. I used to be a telemarketer myself.) 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. (At this point, he puts down the phone, and the following conversation was heard in the background:)

Lemuel: HOY, NONG! Ano ba ulit yung, ano ba yun, yung call fo-warding? Eh pinapapaliwanag nitong kausap ko eh!

Man in a VERY Loud Voice: SABI-HEN mo, yung call fo-ward, ano lang yun, halimbawa, may pupuntahan siyang birthday, tapos ano, TEKA NGA!(This man with the loud voice then picked up the phone, and I found myself talking with him.)

MAN: Hello, ikaw ba yung kausap ni Lemuel?

Me: Opo (Duh). Ano ho ba ulit yung call forwarding? (I was having fun at this point already.)

MAN: 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.

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

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

Me: Oo, okay na.

Man: Ehhh, teka lang ha. (He then puts the phone down, and started shouting in the background, "HOY Lemuel, okay na. Eto na 'o!" Moments later, a familiar dull voice was heard on the other line.)

Lemuel: Okay na ser?

Me: 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.

Me: 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. Kasi naman eh.) Ibig sabihin, isang number lang yung pipindutin mo para imbes na (He starts counting softly.)para imbes na pitong number eh isang number na lang yung ida-dial mo.

Me: Teka, call center ba ito?

Lemuel: Hindi po, PLDT po ito. Sa OPSIM (or something), dito po sa San Joaquin (Pasig).

Me: Eh paano ko malalaman na PLDT ka nga?

Lemuel: Punta po kayo dito. Dito po kami sa tapat ng...(I cut him off.)

Me: 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. (I'm not sure if it was 59.75 or 59.25, I forgot that part).

Me: Puwede ko namang i-cancel pag ayoko na? (You have no idea how I wanted to be the one to cancel something over the phone!)

Lemuel: Opo, kayo naman magbabayad noon eh.

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

Lemuel: Opo.

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

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

Me: So, anong kailangan mo ngayon? (He wasn't using a script, I think.)

Lemuel: Kelan birthday mo?

Me: BAKIT MO NAMAN TINATANONG ANG BIRTHDAY KO?

Lemuel: Eh, kailangan po eh. (Why can't I use that in my telemarketing rebuttals?)

Me: (I wanted to humor him.) O sige, August 8.

Lemuel: Akina na yung SSS number mo.

Me: HA? Pati ba iyon?

Lemuel: Kailangan po eh.

Me: 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?

Me: Tawagan mo na lang ako sa Lunes.

Lemuel: O sige po. Babay.


This was my first ever sales call, and I was intrigued by the many similarities between his call and my sales scripts. Of course, I was a little... refined as "Ben Tumbling," that being my American name, but I appreciated the way he wanted to answer all my questions. He was a little crude and all that, but with a little training, I'm sure he'll do good.

So what happened to Lemuel, anyway? He never called back.

I Wonder How This Will Look In Your Resume

**I really have no more active plans of furthering this blog. An excuse post is just tiring, and redundant, and just pointless when one hasn't got no drive in him no more. But I was checking my inbox this one time, when I noticed this familiar folder that contained my blog comments from 2005 onwards. And then I suddenly wanted to update. So I'm giving you this, for now.


Fluffer

A fluffer is a hired member of the crew of a pornographic movie whose role on the set is to sexually arouse the male participants prior to the filming of scenes requiring erections.

A fluffer also has the duty of keeping adult film stars "cleaned up" in between takes or during photo shoot set-ups, so that the actors or models do not have to move from their positions. These duties are considered part of the makeup department. After setting up the desired angle, the director asks the actors to hold position and calls for the fluffer to "fluff" the actors for the shot.

So I Got Me This Funny Book For a Panty-Dropping Twenty Pesos

**That calculates to 43 US cents. Damn straight. I would if I could, but I'm not shitting you. Turns out you can still get cheap things that you don't mind showing off.

Nothing's that new with 2010. The purchasing power of a hundred pesos is still as gay as it was in 2009, if not gayer and sucks a bigger cock. So imagine my sweet, sweet pleasure during one of those unplanned side trips to this second hand book store. I got me Dennis Miller's The Rant Zone for twenty pesos (43 US cents). He's this kick ass Emmy Award winning comic, and much of the material in this book originally appeared in his stand up routines. Makes for a rip-roaring fucking riot, I tell you, and I got it for twenty pesos.

Twenty pesos won't buy you a pirated DVD. Twenty pesos can't fetch you a damn root beer float. Twenty pesos won't get you a liter of Coke. It won't get you half a pack of Marlboro Lights (they're 23 pesos in any 7-11 outlet). It sure sure as hell won't get you half a hand job, let alone get you laid, but I got me a real funny book for it.

My point? Its a funny book for a price you won't mind. And at twenty pesos (43 US cents), it can't get no fucking better than that. No, this is not a recommendation of sorts, I'm just so pleased with my rummaging skills, and my spectacular good luck. Like most everybody is, I reckon, with any fantastic find.

And because I'm all about generosity and charity and all that creamy goodness plus a bag of chips, here are some quotes halfway through the book.

"The word 'fuck' is a beauty, isn't it? From its fricative genesis, blossoming into its ripe, rich middle until its cruelly truncated in its prime by a merciless glottal stop... In all of its earthly, salty illicit Anglo-saxon glory, "fuck" is almost as satisfying to say as it is to do."
--On the English Language

"Ronnie was ... offset by nose hairs so unkempt it looked like he had just inhaled Bob Marley, feet first."
--On Auto Shopping

"Women have to tread very carefully so as not to shatter fragile, male egos, so my recommendation for the first serious female presidential candidate is that her campaign slogan should be 'Oh My God, You're So Big.' "
--On a Female President

"A sign that someone is a great friend is when I can go long stretches in his company without saying so much as a word. That's trust. My best friend? Actor John Garfield's perfectly preserved corpse."
--On Friendship

"You know your marriage is in trouble when your wife starts wearing the wedding ring on her middle finger."
--On Relationships

"Most of you don't know this, but I was a child star and I have kept it under wraps because I thought it would hurt my career as an adult. You probably don't recognize me with the goatee but, yes, I played the little red-headed girl Margaret on Dennis the Menace. Fuck you, Mr. Wilson!"
--On Child Stars

Story of an Ugly Homeboy

**This is a hate post. Because I loathe this dick with a hatred that's reserved for incompetent sons of bitches that's just as conceited as they are ugly.

It's bad enough that you're ugly. No, we're not talking about the garden variety kind of ugly doomed to spent a lifetime of masturbation because they ain't never gonna get themselves laid, oh Lord no. We're talking about the repulsive-type ugly that causes people to cross themselves as a reflex. It's the Quasimodo-type ugly that's best left alone in a bell tower to isolate the children, oh the dear children, from what can be a lifetime of psychological anguish towards a very specific childhood memory. And by "memory," we're really talking about your face.

What makes it worse is when you're That ugly turd, and you're in a position of power. The funny thing is you're not that accepting of your shortcomings. To you, ugly is relative, and you don't understand why the guys snicker and snigger as a general response to your time-tested coolness. The faggots point at you and break out in fits of devilish laughter. As if they'll ever experience your fantastic manhood, you tell yourself. Those horsefaced freaks, you tell yourself in what can be a rare display of wit, Bray! like the fucking donkeys they are. The kids are awful with their blameless innocence. You could punch these little goblins everytime they question your biological make up.

You've grown accustomed to the unprovoked shower of spittled insults from these dicks, but it's the females you can't stand. You don't mind the fugly bitches; they can jeer all they want, but they're still not getting a piece of you. But the hot ones, oh merciful Jesus, those ones are an entirely isolated pain the nuts. You're, what, 28 in human years, and you have yet to score. Fucking virgin.

You wonder what went wrong as you repair to your family to shelter you from all this unfair response. Your mother, being the frog that she was, spawned a foaming pod full of healthy eggs. These eggs eventually became you and your siblings. You were the most likeable of the lot, the handsomest even, because you had the biggest frog mouth, the longest frog tongue, the largest frog eyes, and the slimiest frog skin. Your frog piss created super wartsin record time, and that potency is a big plus. That potency gave your siblings the frog equivalent of what is called penis envy in human terms. You so rock, you tell yourself.

And so you have good reason to challenge these narrow minded retards that call you ugly. You tell yourself.

The tadpole that is you mutated into a thoroughly horrifying bullfrog. And you wore glasses, for good measure. You croaked your way into a supervisory position in that call center job; you know you've got it made when you finally have underlings towards which you can endorse your thoroughly repulsive person. But they're not as much as underlings as they are opportunities, you tell yourself. You imagine kissing one of them smack on the lips to undo your frogness. Maybe even half a kiss, just enough to give yourself an idea as to how a woman's kiss feels like. Maybe you'll bring that up on your next coaching session. Maybe you'll get lucky enough to get laid, you tell yourself. Might as well schedule the next team building.

But as it goes, the spectacular black magic that caused your promotion came with a curse. You will be blinded towards your spot-on incompetence. That resulting blind spot, furthermore, will be reinforced by an unprecedented lack of personality that does nothing to even your chances of getting laid.

You will be a supervisor, yes, but it will not be enough that you're ugly.

GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY OCEAN!

**Say it loud! Feel it roll!

If I won me the lottery, the first thing I'll buy is the South China Sea. So I can tell people to "Get the fuck out of my ocean! You're peeing my dolphins to death!" I'd tax them assholes for swimming in my sea, and I'll probably enjoy a lucrative return in my investment because I'll impose charges for even crossing my ocean. Of course I know it won't happen, but what the hell, right? That line rolls so good in my tongue, its near orgasmic. So I'll say it again.

Picture from Fugly.com

Feeling Strongly

**Tell yourself this. I know it worked for me. Let me hold your hand so we can say it together.

How do you expect to inspire industry when you betray your own incompetence with vigorous scapegoating and the usual set of tired excuses? I mean, seriously.

Picture courtesy of cynic-tees.

The Seven Secrets of Attractive Body Language

**Ain't body language the cutest?

Finally got to finishing the Body Language book I talked about on this post. I now know when to tell if your boss is most likely to agree with, say, a pay raise, when a person's at his horniest, and when to tell if a person's most likely to backstab you senseless. I also learned that cool and collected people use less body language, and I learned that on the last two chapters. Which basically takes a big fat dump at everything else I've learned 300 pages earlier since I'd rather be cool and collected anyway than to learn when to time your flirting.

The Seven Secrets of Attractive Body Language

1. Face: Have an animated face and make smiling a part of your regular repertoire. Make sure you
flash your teeth.

2. Gestures: Be expressive, but don't overdo it. Keep your fingers closed when you gesture, your hands below chin level, and avoid arm or feet crossing.

3. Head Movement: Use Triple Nods when talking and Head Tilt when listening. Keep your chin up.

4. Eye Contact: Give the amount of eye contact that makes everyone feel comfortable. Unless looking at others is a cultural no-no. lookers gain more credibility than nonlookers.

5. Posture: Lean forward when listening, stand straight when speaking.

6. Territory: Stand as close as you feel comfortable. If the other person moves back, don't step
forward again.

7. Mirror: Subtly mirror the body language of others.

Related Posts:
Reading

Presenting the Non Graduates

**We'll be having another surge of graduates in a few more weeks. That means we'll be saying hello to a fantastic swell in the ranks of the unemployed. But I'm not writing this for them.

This goes out to those lazy motherfuckers who have yet to make their parents proud this year, but can't right now because they fooled around too much. I'm talking to you who won't be seeing the gratification behind a diploma because you're not graduating this year. You. Are. Not. Graduating. This. Year. Like you didn't last year. Yes, I'm talking to you who can't relieve your parents yet of their financial support for your stagnating education. And it looks like they will need to sacrifice another year of unrewarded overtime hours thanks to your aimless attempts at college. Yes, I'm talking to you who mastered the intricate science of Bumming with a double degree in Loafing. I'm talking to you who took additional units in Premarital Sex and Alcoholism because your units in Accountancy or Mathematics or what have you are just too gay to be taken seriously.

And it would have been promising were you guaranteed some decent enough job after college. But chances are, you will be more likely to maintain the same work ethic you've been so shamelessly displaying during your college years. You can just imagine it now, cutting work just to get yourself shit faced with the same crowd who pulled you down in your college years. It looks like you'll be a bum for a year or two after your graduation that's three years overdue, and we'll be hearing some very stoopeed excuse like "you need the hiatus." Promising, yes, but its not going to be okay. You're still not graduating this year because you are a lazy, impressionable oaf.

I feel for you though; I finished a four year course in five years maybe for the same exact reasons you have in your defense.

How Was Your New Year, Babe?

**I was never a punctual person. So here. Happy New Year!

One of the many reasons why I hate fireworks is this: Blogging with three fingers to a hand will take some getting used to. So I won't.

Oh Madness

**Would you pay to have your fortune read?

LEO - The Lion Great talker. Attractive and passionate. Laid back. Usually happy but when unhappy tend to be grouchy and childish. A Leo's problem becomes everyone's problem. Most Leos are very predictable and tend to be monotonous. Knows how to have fun. Is really good at almost anything. Great kisser. Very predictable. Outgoing. Down to earth. Addictive. Attractive. Loud. Loves being in long relationships. Talkative. Not one to mess with. Rare to find. Good when found.

It's kind of hit and miss, but boy, does it hit! I have never had my fortune told by somebody paid to see the future, but I'm guessing them seers might as well be just as wordy. You know, the more they tell you, the more likely they'll get warmer. And in the very unlikely event that I will be paying to have my fortune told , I will probably be hearing all of it, but I will most likely be listening to none of it. They will never be a hundred percent right on, but I'll probably keep that to myself because I volunteered to pay them to see my future.

Oh, the embarrassment! I'll probably pay them extra just so they'll keep our little fortune telling session a secret

How to be Rude

**I love being a bibliophile.

I've learned that one of the better things to imply disinterest towards anyone is to take out a book and start reading while they're looking. In the event that you don't feel like listening to their brainshit yapping no more, then wait for them to finish what nonsense they're talking about. You can maybe force a nod to fake agreement, hell, force two nods for good measure, and then go back to your bookmarks. Timing counts; it makes you less rude than you have practiced to be.

A bigger book guarantees your point goes across, and I make sure I have one when I'm feeling like its going to be a decidedly long day. A paperback works too; it's like your swiss army knife, your panic button, because its size makes it available to you anywhere you go. There is safety in convenience because there's no telling when you're likely to encounter more than your daily share of really boring people. Magazines offer very little resistance because they don't last long. The bore will probably get it the third time you're reading from page one. That kind of defeats the point because I'm after the discretion here, and they aren't supposed to notice the conscious effort.

Of course, make sure you're reading something interesting. You're going to be more occupied that way, and that takes care of the body language you need to accentuate your disinterest.