Paningit

YOU...

2011-09-10T18:18:00.001+08:00

YOU...

X: You never quit.
Y: You never win.
Z: You're an idiot!

EXCHANGE GIFT

2011-08-21T11:42:00.001+08:00

MANNY AND PARIS. Can we expect an indie film anytime soon?

So I guess by now the whole fanfare surrounding Paris Hilton's Manila visit has died down. But if you were living under a rock these past few weeks, let me give you a recap.

:: Paris Hilton, the world's richest and most famous indie film maker was in Manila to pay her friends, the Pacquiaos (that's Manny, Jinkee, and mommy Dionisia to you), a visit.
:: It was also a business trip as Paris appeared in her store openings (hehehe what a word, "openings") at the mall and discussed investment ventures with the Pacquiaos. Who cares? Believe me when I say you can not imagine the immensity of the fuck I don't give.
:: She lost her two iPhones. Again, who gives a fuck? Seriously.
:: They exchanged gifts.

>> World boxing champ Manny Pacquiao gave Paris a Manny Pacquiao Doll
Features:
1) Movable parts
2) Snap-on, stay-on parts
3) Made from high-grade, highly-durable, non-toxic, child-safe, idiot-proof plastic. So even if Paris decides to put the doll in some body orifice where the Sun don't shine... like her mouth, it's perfectly harmless.

>> Not to be outdone, the billionaire heiress also gave Manny her own doll. Introducing the all original, customs quarantine and BFAD-approved Paris Hilton Blow Me Up Doll. You can read the features off the box (hint: the doll comes complete with THREE TENDER LOVE OPENINGS)

awww... what a blossoming friendship these two megastars have.

FORGET TUKKO, HERE'S A NEW MIRACLE DRUG FROM THE PHILIPPINES!

2011-07-19T17:19:00.001+08:00

MEDICAL FACT:
The Philippine Government, specifically the medical and scientific communities sternly warn the public that there are no proven scientific studies that show the Philippine Gecko (Tukko) can cure diseases such as AIDS, asthma, cancer, tuberculosis and impotence.

ENVIRONMENTAL FACT:
Philippine environmental officials confirmed a significant drop in the Tukko population and has taken action to prevent locals from selling the lizard in local and international black markets. Prices of Tukko (300 grams and above) in local circles range from P10,000 to P500,000, while international transactions fetch a hefty sum of anywhere between P800,000 to as high as $19,000,000.

BUT WAIT! THERE'S A NEW SCIETIFIC BREAKTHROUGH!!!!

INTRODUCING THE NEW CURE-ALL MEDICINE THAT WILL.. UHM.. WELL, CURE ALL KNOWN AILMENTS AND DISEASES IN THE MODERN WORLD!!!!

INTRODUCING!!!!

THE PHILIPPINE KUKO!!!!

THE PHILIPPINE KUKO! Known as finger nail and toe nail clippings in English (because everything just sounds more credible when they are translated in English), is the new, revolutionary miracle drug that will change the face of the global medical and drug industry!!!

Each 100 grams of PHILIPPINE KUKO contains a special enzymes and nutrients that can cure diseases such as asthma, AIDS, cancer, halitosis, tonsillitis, gonorrhea, gall stones, dyspepsia, colic, and even common
cough and colds.

Boil 100 grams of PHILIPPINE KUKO to cure digestive and excretory system ailments including, but not limited to, ulcer, loose bowel movement, irritable bowel syndrome, and constipation!

Grind and sniff/ snort 100 grams of PHILIPPINE KUKO to cure all known respiratory system ailments!

Chew on PHILIPPINE KUKO to whiten teeth and strengthen gums! THE PHILIPPINE KUKO has also tested to effectively combat depression, and a such, a viable alternative for Zoloft and Prozac!

The PHILIPPINE KUKO can also cure sexually transmitted diseases! Just insert a tablespoonful of PHILIPPINE KUKO in affected/ infected areas and you will be cured in as fast as three hours! It is also a more potent cure for Erectile Dysfunction.

You can also make use of the PHILIPPINE KUKO as an effective exfoliant/ facial scrub for youthful, soft and fair-looking skin!

SO WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! BUY PHILIPPINE KUKO NOW!!!

AVAILABLE IN ALL MERCURY DRUG,WATSON'S, 7-11, CINDY'S AND MANG INASAL OUTLETS NATIONWIDE!!!

THE PHILIPPINE KUKO. THE NEW CURE-ALL, MIRACLE DRUG FROM THE PHILIPPINES!!!!

TODAY'S TOP 5: MY EXERCISE PROGRAM

2011-07-09T03:34:00.000+08:00

If you ask me what the average life expectancy of Filipinos are nowadays, I'd probably say that they usually live... until they die. And not a day longer.

However, a more technical answer according to Index Mundi (http://www.indexmundi.com/philippines/life_expectancy_at_birth.html), the average Filipino is good for about 72 years. Impressive? Maybe not as it has been scientifically proven that we can still be outlived by a number of things such as Maling and Lucky Me noodles, which expire 150 years and 82 years, respectively, from the date of manufacture. Amazingly, this life expectancy figure increased from 69 years in the year 2003. Further proof that former President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo was (and still is) bad for the health of Filipinos.

Anyway, I've recently decided to join the "health-conscious" population of this country by embarking (and dedicating myself) on an exercise program that will improve not only my physique, but also my overall wellness.

***

5) STRETCHING
I usually do this every morning upon waking up (and it's still a medical anomaly why I wake up every morning). While still in bed, I stretch up and reach as far north as I can. Then I stretch my limbs laterally on both sides. Then I stretch down, with shoulders still pinned on the bed, and... scratch my balls and pototoy. That completes my stretching routine for the day.

4) BENDING
Done with extreme care, usually when I'm picking up something off the floor. Lower back bending: "Uy, syet Piso!" Neck bending: "Uy helicopter, oh!" Lower back bending with extreme balance: "Potek naman nabitawan ko nanaman yung sabon!" Lower back, knee, and ankle bending combo: "Ay syet tae!"

3) AB CRUNCHES
This is the most difficult routine in my exercise regimen. Which explains why I mostly do it twice a day only... when I tie and untie my shoelaces. To achieve maximum result, the key in this exercise is to tie your shoe laces as loosely as possible so you can repeat the ab crunches as much as you can during the day.

2) WORKING THE BICEPS
The most expensive exercise in my daily regimen. It requires a spoon and lots of food. Step 1: make an "L-shape" of your arm in front of your chest. Step 2: make your arms as stiff (especially your biceps) as possible. Step 3: pick up the spoon and proceed to scoop the food from your plate. Step 4: eat. Repeat this 350 times on each arm per meal per day and you will feel your biceps will certainly firm up and tone. Very important reminder: do not do this with your right arm only, you won't like the result after two months.

1) BREATHING EXERCISE
My breathing exercise is based on the oriental way of breathing which helps increase the "Chi" that will eventually strengthen your "Core." Step 1: light up a cigarette. Step 2: avoid normal "puffing" with your cigarette, instead inhale as deep as you can with as much smoke as you can. Step 3: hold smoke in your lungs for at least 10 seconds. Step 4: exhale slowly with smoke circles.

BONUS EXERCISE: THE SPRINT
Since running/ jogging is such a fad these days, I have managed to incorporate a cardio-vascular challenge in my exercise program. The challenge, however, is to not run, but sprint in 3 to 5 minute bursts. To do this, you can either throw pebbles and insults at your local neighborhood siga ("Huy, tangna mo! Bakit ikaw siga dito ha?! Suntukan na lang tayo o!!!) then sprint, or you can anger your local stray askal, then sprint again.

Do these exercises religiously and I guarantee you will live a healthier life. You may even live more than 72 years. Or at least live until President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo gets convicted on her plunder charges.

Good day Motherfuckers!

2011-07-09T01:47:00.001+08:00

I'm back from the dead. Please disregard all posts prior to this one. Defibrillation of this blog is ongoing.

So is there something new to expect from Paningit this time around? Not much really. Only thing I can promise is from now on I'll try my best to write my posts in sentence case. Of course this blog will always be about the usual random nonsense and vile rants I spew time and again. It will also house segments such as product, movie, music, and restaurant reviews (because I know you'd need me to tell you what to buy, what to watch, where to eat and who to date), and the notorious TODAY'S TOP 5. So stick around, motherfuckers! Enjoy the ride. Or not. I don't care.

serve coffee. even at four in the morning.

2008-12-20T17:09:00.000+08:00

:: i skipped work after an all-nighter with olie and guill. yeah. skipped. on purpose. and i had to tell them some lie about me being sick. damn, i hope my boss isn't reading any of this shit.

but come to think of it, i really told them the truth. i was sick. sick and tired of work, that is. this is the first time that i have felt anything like this about anything. and i hate it. this isn't me. of course i'm cynical and i complain, and i whine, and i bitch about things... but this time, this contempt is real.

:: imagine, eight bottles of beer and numerous shots of brandy (and i don't drink brandy!) and i'm over-analyzing things! shit!

:: guill is a very talented kahonista, by the way. he makes it look and sound easy. even with a canister of pringles or a five-gallon water jug, he can still give you wicked beats!

:: olie has become, shall i say, a very accomplished babbler.. not yet the scat artist that jason mraz is, but he's getting there. last night he played impromptu riffs with improv lyrics such as:
>> "binosohan ko ang tiyahin kong malaki ang..."
>> "ah... eh... eh-eeehh... oh... oh-ooohhhhh... waaaahhh!!!"
>> "meron akong kaibigan... kaibigang mataba... matagal na niyang di makita ang kanyang alaga..."
>> "kung wala nang tissue... gumamit ng resibo..."

shit like that.

:: stepped out of the bar at four in the morning and it was really cold. i saw a thermometer and it gave an "antartica" reading. and still i didn't want to go home. i just wanted sit there. on the curb. with my guitar. smoking cigarettes. in the middle of nowhere. waiting for nothing. you tend to think of a lot of things especially when your wife is not around.

is this midlife crisis (at 29)? or have i officially bottomed out.

:: do people even use friendster anymore?

:: and how can a 24-hour gasoline station convenience store not serve coffee at four in the morning just because they're mopping the floor?!! what the fuck is up with that?! don't you people want business? my money ain't good enough for you? am i too fat for you? do i remind you of your uncle? is he a retard? what?!

:: maybe i do remind them of their retarded uncle.

a post of shorts

2008-12-14T14:23:00.000+08:00

unlike the previous post (read it first)... this one is a post of shorts... different kinds of shorts.

enjoy.

ciao people!

a short post

2008-12-14T14:15:00.000+08:00

this is a short post.

it consists of only twelve words.

ciao!

real.time.blogging.sortof.

2008-12-12T07:32:00.000+08:00

10.35 AM
fuck damn, i'm sleepy! i can't work. i can't function well. and i can't handle the cold shoulder treatment. it's something that i've never learned to deal with. ever. i am completely capable of compartmentalized thinking... but whenever i get the cold shoulder, my consciousness, focus, and resolve all goes haywire. i can't stand the fact that someone somewhere would want to stab my spleen with a spoon. maybe it's me. my flawed character. the way i like to please everyone as much as possible. but i can't do that, right? can i?

the term cold shoulder, by the way, was coined sir walter scott in his 1816 book, the antiquary. during those days (back when anal intrusion was still sanctioned by the catholic church), an unwelcome guest or a guest that has maxed out his welcome was served a cold shoulder of mutton instead of a hot meal.

i say give me a cold shoulder of mutton instead.

10.44 AM
i found myself staring blankly into space again. i was thinking of the time i first reported for work in this company. why? well.. i guess you start to think of the beginning when you know the end is near. hot damn! you gotta admit, i delivered that line better than brad pitt did in mr. & mrs. smith. score one for me, yo!

11.08 AM
today's crossword is extremely hard to complete... especially now that i've torn the damn thing to a thousand bits. f*ck you crossword puzzle!

11.15 AM
if only i can muster enough energy to edit these articles. if. only. shit!

11.29 AM
onerepublic's record sounds quite good. i'm mildly amused with it. found myself singing along with some tunes. if only these guys didn't feature lacoste as much in their mtvs, they would've had better street cred. now, they're product placement whores instead.

11.41 AM
is it lunchtime yet? is it? damn!

11.43 AM
one facebook contact just announced she will attend the "hug a jew day" on february 2. wow! hug a jew. what's up with that? how about hug a german?

12.00 PM
finally! lunch! now time to eat my cold shoulder of mutton.

ciao guys!

skeedee-bee-bop-blap-blah!

2008-12-09T15:14:00.000+08:00

i only have a few minutes to spare before my batteries run out. so i'll just ramble random thoughts off my brain. please join me.

:: reading my original blog (paningit.blogspot.com), the one i started back in 2004 (back when blogging was still both an exact science and a pure art form.. whatever the fuck that means)... i can't imagine how much i have evolved. i started off as a polite young man, just baring my views and and my personal take on things for all the world to read. then i turned into a rampaging, swearing narcissist (where i did my best works by the way). and now, this, a mellowed down rampaging, swearing cynic. what the hell happened. it's like i never lost my angst but i lost my capacity to say "asswipe, fucktard, and shitface" in a matter of three years. change can't be that radical. can it?

:: my capacity to misspell and mistype (if there's such a word) remained consistent through the years, though.

:: i have to apologize to my left brain. yes. my left brain. the hemisphere that controls my right hand, analysis, logic, and math. i haven't been using him as much lately. i think he's jealous of my right brain. yeah, the so-called creative side. so when someone accused me of being stupid in math (about a month and a half ago)... lefty laughed at me so hard i heard a vein pop in my head. yes. i've been wrongfully accused. people who really know me, though, wouldn't even think of that. they'd know better. way better. ha! so i have to apoligize to my left brain. sorry, lefty. sorry if you felt neglected for the past couple of years. i'd like you to know that i'm contemplating of going back to graduate school really soon. and me and righty couldn't do that by ourselves. we need you. i promise to speak more in maths in the coming days.

:: and to go back to graduate school, i need a change in my present situation. a major change. a life-altering, tectonic-plate-shifting change. i need to find a better situation. a better place. some place where i am actually wanted and i can run free to be myself. well... i can't actually run.. but you get the point. some place where i can shout at the top of my lungs and say "fuck, i need a smoke and a drink!" and there'd be no judging eyes staring at me. some other place. not this. i'd be doing myself and my family a great disservice if i don't do something about it real soon.

well, that's all for now. ciao, f*ckers!

born on thanksgiving (a very late post)

2008-12-09T08:58:00.000+08:00

for the past 29 years, i can almost certainly count with only my two hands (that's ten fingers, if you must know) the number of thanksgivings that didn't fall on my birthday. i don't know, i could be wrong. but that's my version and i'm sticking with it.

anyway, thanksgiving. it's not really a filipino event. nothing really ever happens on the 24th of november. except for my legendary parties. legendary, not because of extravagance (jeepers, my birthdays are cheap!) but because of the freaky things that happen in them. of course, those things deserve their own blog post, which i plan to do in a series... but you know how my attention span goes haywire and all. anyway...

so, thanksgiving. a time of thanking. a time of giving. a time of giving thanks. and i'm not big on gratitude. and i'm trying to change that. i need to be more thankful, being born on thanksgiving and shit. y'know.

and so now, i thank family and friends of present and past...

> my folks for not going through the abortion... kidding. but seriously, thank you for not leaving me inside a basket and let me drift off the nile. who knows what the egyptians would've done to the world if they had the chance to harness my talents.

> my little sister.. for believing all her life she's adopted.... again, kidding.

> my friends for being there when i need them. and for being there even if i don't need them. and just for being. for beer. for coffee. for smokes. for the good. and for the bad.

> my kids... for believing me when i said (successful after 84 tries) they were not adopted and that i'm really their father. yes, my kids, life does suck at times. and no, you are not children of some english duke. and no, i can't afford a castle and a pony. and no, rainbows aren't for sale either.

> my wife... for everything. for the purpose. and for the meaning.

i'm not really big on gratitude. but i'd most certainly try. even if it kills me.

ciao for now, yeah?

a study in procastination...

2008-12-05T12:14:00.000+08:00

i'll update this blog later...

well, it's a fat guy with a weird goatee talking... so take it with a grain of salt

2008-11-19T18:45:00.000+08:00

... everybody loves a winner. i don't know why.

when you win, everybody clings on to you like flies on, well, fly paper, i guess. and they make associations too. like, hey this lead singer from this band? yeah, we were schoolmates. or this actress? yeah my uncle's cousin's friend's roommate knows her sister's sorority sister's dentist's cousin. that kind of association. and they use this to the fullest, too. to alleviate their own loser status, i guess.

there's something about being a winner that makes your voice a bit more bold and imposing. your sweat smells a bit more pleasant. your comebacks a bit more witty. you stand a little taller. you stride more confidently. hey, even your fart becomes rainbows and chocolates and unicorns and fairies and cute cuddly care bares.

when you lose? well, you're essentially the same person. except you didn't win on a certain something or you got beat by another. the kicker: the world hates losers. they're not as forgiving. people detach themselves from you. you're a leper. but not exactly because i've seen lepers get more care and attention and random acts of kindness than losers get.

suddenly, people don't want to have anything to do with you. you start to lose your "friends" and all those associations they made of you. your wisecracks are no longer funny. and your fart suddenly smells what fart should really smell like... shit. the net effect - you become a bigger loser. which brings me to my next point...

... i don't believe in kicking people when they're down. i've been through a number of scuffles and fist fights in my life, but unless the other guy stole my girl, or raped my mother or sister, i don't kick him when he's down. that's just who i am. sure, i've kicked people's nuts before. but that's different. balls are fair game when you're in a fight. kicking someone when he's down and his mouth is full of blood and dirt and he's struggling to get up with his whole upper body braced with one arm... now that's just cruel. kind of like what we do with "losers."

... maybe i'm stuck. maybe i shouldn't be here. maybe. i don't know. all i know is... especially for the past four years, a lot of people have grown tired of me. well, with some of those people, i've grown tired of them, too. i don't know what kind of extended funk i'm in right now. but it's not good.

... right now, it's a bit weird listening to ely buendia.

... i'm reading something right now from mark haddon. the curious incident of the dog in the night-time. kind of brings back memories of the little prince. only written by an autistic math savant. cool book, really. with prime numbers standing in as chapters of the book. only thing is, it's a bit contagious. read three to five chapters in a row. then try talking to someone. you'd be surpised why the hell suddenly you're talking like:

"the carrot in the yard is orange but i wonder why didn't they call carrots orange vegetables and call orange the fruit as orange fruits. and i like orange. both the fruit and the color. and i like gray, too. of course the color because i have yet seen a fruit named gray. and when i see eight oranges and eight strands of gray hair in the morning i know it's going to be a good day!"

or some shit like that.

ciao people!

did i say that out loud #2

2008-11-19T10:37:00.000+08:00

there's a glob of chaos that follows me everywhere like a dog. and when i say everywhere, i mean EVERYWHERE.

still, i think that's far better than having a swarm of killer bees tail me all the time. wouldn't you agree? fuck, c'mon!

a thousand things...

2008-11-11T04:19:00.000+08:00

... to do and to say. that may or may not involve this blog.

for instance, i would like to say that my ass is better heard. even better smelled at times. but never better seen.

that is all.

lotsa friends

2008-10-29T04:27:00.000+08:00

i got lots and lots of photographer friends...

and not one of them even remotely influenced my photography... sonnavab*#@$!

the future (shet, napukaw! apay ngay?)

2008-10-28T10:03:00.000+08:00

i had this well written (ahem) post yesterday. didn't finish it. saved it as draft. then the friggin' thing just vanished! what the (bleep)! it takes a lifetime for anything to "load" but it only takes a blink of an eye for something to disappear. technology. internet. i swear.

***
and i can't re-write it. that would be stupid. because i hate repeating myself. really, i do. i do hate repeating myself. i hate, i hate, i hate repeating myself. i hate it with passion. and just to stress the point, let me just say it again - i hate repeating myself.

oh wait... have i told you guys i hate repeating myself? yeah, i thought so.

***

speaking of technology, i remember this thing i read a couple of years back. something written by some futurist. he has this theory on evolution. that someday man (and i'm talking about our physical structure here) would evolve into something like a letter "Q."

yep.

regardless if you're male of female, we'd all be composed of three main parts, namely:
:: the round body that'll hold your brain, your face, all your organs and whatnots...etc, etc...
:: a poop chute for excretion
:: and a limb/ finger to push buttons

we won't need feet because we'd all be moving around aboard ultramobile segways. we don't need mouths either because we'd all be communicating telepahically. and we won't be needing hands too because we'd be moving things around with our minds.

which brings me to this theory: since i look somewhat like a letter "Q" now, is it possible that i am just a glitch in the human evolutionary spectrum? that the "me" you're seeing now, this gorgeous being, this thing of symmetry and beauty... is the look of the future.

hoorray for the future!

now if i can just move this pencil telepathically. move, pencil... move... move...arghhh!!! MOOOOVE!!! okay, i just had an aneurysm.

***

if we communicate telepathically... then i wouldn't have to type anything, like this friggin' blog post, for example. and like that stupid blog post multiply lost yesterday. then i wouldn't have to re-write posts or repeat myself ever again, right? because.. let me just say this one thing... i hate repeating myself. there. just in case i haven't told you guys yet.

ciao "Q" people.

so... (more updates)

2008-10-23T11:21:00.000+08:00

... we've been having a couple of rehearsals here and there. nothing serious. sporadic at best.

... i can't believe we (all four of us) still fart (a lot) during practices. it's hard. but it's part of the adjustment period, i guess. imagine all four of us in a seven square-meter, low-ceiling room with poor ventilation, then someone suddenly lets a rip.all hell breaks loose.

the weird thing about farting? it's contagious. like yawning. someone farts then another farts five minutes later. then every three minutes after that. the gap shortens. then every thirty seconds thereafter. then we all fart in unison. only in different "voices" because our butt crevices have varying radial openings. miraculously, though, the "voices" blend and at times they sing to the tune of stone temple pilots' plush... only, it sounds like eddie vedder.

it's an orchestral and glorious and methane-filled experience.

... i've gradually developed this taste for pulpy orange drinks. as to the long-term effect it will bring, i don't know. all i know is... shake shake shake shake ah-shake it!

... we have this friend, jack (not his real name), who had to deal with a lot these past few weeks. he just had his daughter born. then kidney stones. he got his kidney probed with a tubular camera. and that tubular thingy had to be inserted through his member.

a good thing happened, though. he peed and out came the stone.. that was big as texas. ok, maybe a little smaller. maybe. give or take a few thousand square kilometers. he's fine now. he just has to deal with the meds... and a swollen kidney.. and a swollen member. and the fact that he can't eat everything he wants anymore. and the two bottles of beer only prescription. ouch. but at least he didn't have to go under the knife. apir, jons! ooops.

more to come.

for now, ciao!

it was effin four in the morning.

2008-10-22T13:25:00.000+08:00

step out a bar at 4AM in a chilly foggy october morning. and i promise you, the city skyline is simply breathtaking.

suddenly there's a plethora of ideas. you get visited by your muse. and get flooded by possibilities. effin possibilities, man!

as much as possible you would want to record these ideas. have a draft. polish it. then outcord them later. problem is... you're not only intoxicated by ideas, but also with vodka, rum and beer. in that effin order.

then you can't record. and it compromises your ability to outcord later. so the ideas become just passing flashes of brillance. it's like being in a car and you see a marvelous view but you don't have a camera to immortalize that moment.

you burp. you fart.

and that's just that.

at effin four in the morning.

did i say that out loud #1

2008-10-21T07:30:00.000+08:00

now i can't decide what i miss the most - the alcohol or being an asshole.

i need...

2008-10-21T05:17:00.000+08:00

... serious photoshop training.

somebody save me.

brain farts are hard to come by. bai.

2008-10-20T13:19:00.000+08:00

i got lots of shit to do and i'm blogging.

and i haven't blogged (or blogged about your mom) for the past three years or so. so this makes this post the official "i'm back and i don't know how long i can sustain this latest blogging episode of mine" post.

the ghost of me can still be found here: http://paningit.blogspot.com.

dang, that surely looks and feels like eons ago, ain't it. i mean, the last time i had a meaningful post, my waistline is about 38... now it's 53 inches. wow.

anyway, some updates are in order:

a) i am now relegated to a wheelchair. after being hit by four, yes count 'em and weep, four 16-wheeler trucks while jogging in a dimly-lit tunnel at highway 54. that was fun. did i give up jogging? fuck no. now i'm pushing tin. and the size of my biceps. whoa baby!

b) i also had a heart attack. my whole left side is now paralyzed. and since i'm fat, my whole left side pretty much looks like a deflated balloon. plus now i drool while i watch the tv. wait, that was happening since i was 8.

c) so i decided to pickup the guitar again. so what, right?

d) no, really. i did. learning new songs. re-learning old ones. still trying to figure out how to properly hit the key of A with three of my fingers all in the second fret. speaking of fretboards, have they really gotten smaller or what?

e) i have a decent yamaha. got it very cheap from a very good friend. yeah, you can say i conned him into selling that ol' beauty.

more updates to come.

ciao!

blah!

2008-07-16T14:44:00.000+08:00

blah!

that is all.

FUCKSHITCONOPUTAFUCKASSBITCHSLAP!!!

2007-08-10T21:22:00.000+08:00

good day, fuckers. i've temporarily set up camp here.

now, on with the show...

free my ass!

2007-04-17T12:56:00.000+08:00

i skipped work today. why? well, why the fuck not?

i'm in a local coffee shop that offers free wifi access. read that again, free wifi access. i know it's not a big deal for some of you guys in your planets and galaxies, but in this country, and in this city, anything free is a big deal. specially for cheap fuckers like me.

it's my first time in this joint. and i was really excited to use that FREE thing announced by that FREE sign hanging by their door. i sat down, fired up my machine, and called for the waiter for some coffee. the smiling schmuck handed me the menu and said i would have to order something like 250 bucks' worth of food and drinks for me to use their FREE WIFI.

now. wait. what. the. fuck.

help me out. i got lost somewhere between the seventh day of creation and 215th episode of prison break here. did you say i have to order 250 bucks' worth of your junk? that stuff in the menu? i don't fucking think so asshole!!!

look, i was minding my own business, wandering around, looking for a place to spend some time i ripped off from work when your stupid yellow sign that says FREE called me from across the street! i was promised FREE WIFI connection and i'm going to get it! i want just a cup of coffee and i won't be tricked by any of your stupid marketing ploys you scheming oppressive capitalist BOAR!!!

that was a pretty intense moment right there. i looked straight in the waiter's eyes and told him that. he was sweating like a 200-pound 10-year-old who couldn't climb the rope in gym class.

two hours later, i'm still here. writing this post. with a cup of coffee, two glasses of iced tea, a continental breakfast, pancakes, a platter of potato chips, and a half-eaten pizza alfredo thin crust. all worth a little over 500 bucks.

fuck!!!

i should've reported for work today.

//i'm out.

fuck mr. world!!!

2007-04-14T13:20:00.000+08:00

what the fuck's wrong with my blogroll? why the fuck am i banned from reading claudzki's blog? and what the hell happened to rain's blog?

looks like everyone shipped out of town.

okay, enough about that. what i'd really like to know is what the fuck is THIS!!!

mr. fucking world??!! since when did that happen? there's something morally wrong with the world, i tell you because we're raising the next generation of men to be pussies!

let me give you a taste of what the website says:

"The contestants, will all have great looks and well-toned bodies, however, what makes Mr World so special is that it goes far further, by really testing the character and determination of the our national winners."

what a load of crap! it's another one of them annual metrosexual conventions. only this time it's global. and more stupid. i'll summarize the whole mr. world competition for you:

step 1: take all the commercial models you know who are shallow, dumb and inherently bad at basic math, who pluck their eyebrows, wax their armpits and balls, and apply make-up on their cheeks and nipples. make sure you include ben affleck and david beckham in there.

step 2: put them in a blender.

step 3: put the blender on high for five minutes. add a dash of salt, pepper, and a teaspoon of facial scrub every minute into the mixture.

step 4: set aside the gooey pulp in a petri dish and wait for it to germinate some 150 clones.

step 5: have all of them watch a whole season of will and grace. after that, have them watch the following movies in this order: a) sleepless in seattle b) while you were sleeping c) legally blonde d) titanic and e) brokeback mountain.

step 6: pair them up and have them do manicure and pedicure on each other. first one to cry wins the stupid mr. world title.

yay fuck yay!!!

step 7: fly me to china. have me hand over the award to the winner. as an added bonus, i'll whip out my penis and crack his skull with it.

fuck mr. world. fuck metrosexuals. next thing we know, there'll be a competition for men who breastfeed their children for chrissakes!!!

i say we stop this stupidity right now and celebrate men and manhood the way it should be celebrated... with a beer-chugging marathon.

//i'm out.

fuck the alchemist

2007-04-13T14:12:00.000+08:00

if you're still reading this shit, then there's something seriously wrong with your head. either that or i have to get a restraining order.

good day fuckers. how's it hanging?

so i'll skip the usual "woe on me for not posting for such a long time and may the blogging gods strike me with lightning twice and plunge my world in eternal darkness for all of eternity" bit and just give you a straight update of what's up with me these days.

this is it... NOTHING! oh, by the way... here's my ASS!!! and it's fucking STUCK!!!

yep. i'm still stuck with the same work in the same company. still stuck with the same suck-y salary. still stuck in the same office with the same suck-y people. still the stuck in the same routine. in fact, i'm so stuck i need a metal spatula to scrape my ass off the office chair everytime i go on a bathroom break. and in most cases i don't make it in time. so now i wear diapers.

remember that tv show we put up? it didn't work out. yeah, the story of my life if you ask me.

don't get me wrong. there's nothing wrong with the wife and kids. at least that's one department in my life i haven't screwed up... yet.

goodnessfuckinggraciousthankyoufuckingjesus for that!!!

i'm looking for some change right now. a career change maybe. a change of scenery. or even just a change of nappies. i don't fucking care, really. just a change. because right now, i don't like the fact that my default facial expression is a scowl and that i let anyone who asks for a light or even asks for time get to know the business end of my shoe up their asses.

i hate that because even if i'm a badass and i eat rocks for breakfast, and wash them down with a few bottles of diesel, and smoke like 80 cigarettes a day, and carry a chainsaw everywhere i go, and fluff my armpits with gunpowder, deep inside, i'm still looking for what that gay writer terms as my own "personal legend." and i won't even ask you how many redundant terms i wrote in that last phrase.

ah yes... the "personal legend." the one thing in the world that you are suppose to do or suppose to be to find your ultimate happiness. the gay writer even went as far as saying that the whole universe conspires into helping you achieve your "personal legend." ooookay. so if the universe conspires to help, then isn't it possible that the universe, with all its mysteries and shit, can have a bad day and conspire against you. think about it, pussybrain. what if you're in the rut you're in right now because the universe cooked up some universal conspiracy of letting you have it in the ass. (dramatic pause for three seconds)... IN THE ASS!!! HOLY SHIT!!!

anyway, forget about that and answer this assmunch, what the fuck is an alchemist? seriously.

i'd rather be a chemist, a profession with a clear definition in the dictionary and has the capacity to make millions by mixing shit together to produce crystal methane, rather than some weird, ambiguous, buddha on a mountaintop, i am one with the universe cocksucker. and all it takes is to take out two letters.

i don't know what the fuck i'm saying anymore, but i don't care. in the grand scheme of things, we'll all be dead anyway. now shoo, or i'm calling the cops.

//i'm out.

what the...

2007-02-03T11:21:00.001+08:00

damnit!

new blogger eh?

something must be done with this blog. i can't live like this forever.

can i?

ooohhh.. licky here!

2006-09-27T16:25:00.000+08:00

i'm not suppose to be here right now. i really should be working on that newsletter of ours. but i saw something disturbing yesterday. and i can't get it out of my head.

i really can't.

so i was at the mall. and i saw this mother holding her kid, who was eating ice cream. the kid was about four. and we all know how four year olds eat ice cream, right? no? well, then close your eyes for a minute and go back to the time you were four and you were eating ice cream off a cone.

yeah, you were licking it with your lips and not with your tongue, weren't you?

admit it.

liar.

so the kid was licking it with his lips... and nose... and was creating this big rocky road mess on his face. and i was fine with that because he's a kid.

what got to me was the mother. she turned around and saw her kid and i thought i got good courtside tickets for some good old fashioned ass whoopin'! i found myself actually rooting for the mother to beat the living crap out of her kid. but it didn't happen.

instead, she took out a hanky, licked it then proceeded to wipe her kid's face with it.

holyfuckingmotherofchristeatingcheesecakes!!! what the fuck was that?!

then she did it again. but seeing the hanky all soiled up and realizing she didn't want to get her tounge in there, she spit on it instead. she continued wiping her kid, with more vigorous rubbing this time you can actually see the child's face turn from red to violet.

holyfuckingmotherofchristpumpinggasinsomeremotegasstation!!!! fuck!!! eeewwww!!!!

that poor kid. if his mother started beating him up instead, then he could at least have kicked the bitch's shin and shoved her down the stairs. but no. he was wiped clean with a hanky drenched in mother's spit. he didn't have a choice. a chance. and he didn't even finish his ice cream. poor kid!

now, i have read about books upon books about parenting (i'm that paranoid of screwing somebody else's life) and i tell you i have never, ever encountered a chapter, a paragraph, or even a sentence that says when a woman becomes a mommy, her spit suddenly becomes AJAX.

yes. AJAX. or any cleaning agent for that matter. i wish it were true, though.

imagine all the possibilities if all mothers have AJAX spit.

you're running late for a meeting and you spill some mocha latte on your shirt? no problem. ask the nearest mother to spit on your shirt. go ahead. don't be shy. she'll give it a full "hwuuwakptu!" (coincidentally, "hwuuwakptu" is not only the international sound effect of spit but also the name of a malaysian senator.) give it a few scrubs, and there you have it good as new.

and don't worry, i've been told that spit dries quickly and rarely leaves a mark, unless of course the mother's been chewing on a bar of hershey's dark chocolate, because 7 out of 10 mothers always do.

then you're fucked.

//i'm out.

hey, can you dig it?

2006-09-13T08:06:00.000+08:00

i can just feel this carrot slide in and out of my funhole! (y'knowwattymsayin'?)

it was this rare thing that happened yesterday (you know what i'm saying?) that i got home early (you know what i'm saying?) around 6 PM (you know what i'm saying?).

it was great (y'knowwattymsayin'?) and i had the chance to have dinner with my family (y'knowwattymsayin'?) and spend some quality time with them (y'knowwattymsayin'?). and after dinner, we all went to the living room to watch tv (y'knowwattymsayin'?) and i had the opportunity (y'knowwattymsayin'?) to watch shows that i haven't seen for about a year now (y'knowwattymsayin'?).

after watching tv (y'knowwattymsayin'?), i kissed the kids good night (y'knowwattymsayin'?) and i went back to watch some more tv (y'knowwattymsayin'?). so i was surfing channels (y'knowwattymsayin'?) and apparently i got hooked on mtv (that didn't surprise me - (y'knowwattymsayin'?)) and on this show called cribs... mtv cribs (y'knowwattymsayin'?). it amazed me to no end that houses and condo units (y'knowwattymsayin'?) owned by celebrity millionaires ( not just celebreties, but celebrity millionaires (y'knowwattymsayin'?)) that have the market value of at least five million bucks (including furnishings, appliances, cars and shit (y'knowwattymsayin'?)) can be called a crib (y'knowwattymsayin'?).

what annoyed me, however (y'knowwattymsayin'?), is not how these celebrity millionaires paraded their riches in front of everyone (y'knowwattymsayin'?), but how these celebrity millionaires think everyone (y'knowwattymsayin'?) is as dumb as they are (y'knowwattymsayin'?).

i tell you, it's the only show on tv(y'knowwattymsayin'?) and probably the only period in my entire life (y'knowwattymsayin'?) when i'll ever hear the phrase... yep, you guessed it... "Y'KNOWWATTYMSAYIN'?" a record 84,000 times in a span of 30 minutes (y'knowwattymsayin'?). what the fuck is up with that?!!!! (y'knowwattymsayin'?)

now it's got me hooked. i can't take it out of my head (y'knowwattymsayin'?). it's like a virus. it's stuck right there (y'knowwattymsayin'?). like a piece of annoying, decomposing food wedged between the molars at the back of my mouth and no matter what you do with a toothpick, toothbrush, floss, or a jack hammer, you can't seem to get it out of there (y'knowwattymsayin'?).

what ticked me more is how they say "Y'KNOWWATTYMSAYIN'?" not as an expression but like you're really dumb enough not to understand what it was they were saying (y'knowwattymsayin'?).

like...

"and this is my bed y'knowwattymsayin'? this is where it all goes down y'knowwattymsayin'?."
-- yeah fucktard, it's where you sleep and have sex with shallow women.

"and this is my pool y'knowwattymsayin'? it has a jacuzzi and has a lot of water in it y'knowwattymsayin'?"
-- yeah, well, like it's supposed to be filled with jello or beans or something? of course it's filled with water, dumbass!

"and this here is my pimpin' ride baby y'knowwattymsayin'?. it's got its motor under the hood y'knowwattymsayin'? check it out."
-- well, i'll be darned if your car had the motor attached at the side of its 24-inch rims, mr. henry ford.

"and this here is my fridge y'knowwattymsayin'? aw, nevermind man, there's nothing to pimp here y'knowwattymsayin'?"
-- oh i would love it if you pimp me that carrot right there. how much for an hour of fun with that carrot? ten bucks? wow! i'd be inserting it in my funhole now if you don't mind.

"and this here is my bathtub y'knowwattymsayin'? it's where my ladies and me take a bath y'knowwattymsayin'? we just lay here at opposite ends, facing each other, just kickin' it y'knowwattymsayin'?"
-- i'm sorry. you're kicking what? so you're facing each other with legs stretched out and just "kickin' it? whoa! so lemme get this straight. that's you kicking her clam and her kicking your nuts and you're all just hanging around eh? weird celebrities. fucking weird celebrities! yeah, i know what you're saying you saddistic piece of shit!

and so that concludes this post (y'knowwattymsayin'?).

//i'm out.

the devil can wear knitted bikini briefs by tommy hilfiger for all i care!

2006-09-05T11:38:00.000+08:00

merryl streep never looked so delicious! uh-huh!

this is not about the movie.

i haven't seen it. i'm too stupid to see dark comedies peppered with wit and sarcasm. i don't get them. and i love fashion as much as i'd love to have eight dentists suck raw nerves out of my jaw. yeah, that's fashion for me in a nutshell. eight jewish dentists sucking raw nerves through my lower-left second molar. now i'm not anti-semitic. i'm actually anit-mel gibson.

but i loved braveheart. and the lethal weapon franchise. i actually liked joe pesci there. oh, and don't forget mad max. wicked, rad hair. ah, mad max. the passion of the christ would've been better if mel played... well, christ. but he just had to direct it, didn't he? he just had to.

mel-gib (his street name) speaks good hebrew, though. believe me, he does. especially when he's drunk and babbles hebraic verses to pick up hot blondes half his age. yes, the hebraic charm works all the time with all the "ankh..anschkl..skhkach" phlegm-atic-phonetic sounds there. hebrews actually have 164 vowels. true. i bet you didn't know that, huh?

and with that, ladies and gentlemen, i would like to say:

hey, turds! i'm back. and i love you all!

back from a month-long battle with testicular cancer.

well, not really. i just think that having testicular cancer would be a cute excuse for not being here. ain't it a cute excuse? me thinks so.

so i haven't been here. boo-fucking-hoo! so what? it's no reason to hate on me. because i've been to your fucking blogs and i've been commenting and spewing venomous comments here and there and you never come here and you still ask me why i don't fucking post. you don't come here and you still know i'm not posting? how the fuck does that work? no, seriously. it's like i'm telepathically channeling my lack of blog updates or something.

you know why i know you haven't been here. because i actually posted about a month ago and i generated like 8 comments, which is pretty acceptable at this day and age. but my inbox records at least 10 more emails asking me to post.

i'm like, you haven't even visited the damn place, how do you know i haven't posted you demanding slug? you have? well, where the fuck is your comment then?

none. nada. zero.

look, if you want to be friends, then at least leave a mark when you come in here. because i get off on comments pretty fast. uh-huh. i don't care what you do... pee on the door or something, just leave a mark. that way, when i wake up in the morning and check this pathetic blog i can smell your piss and say, "hmm... emilio's been here and he's asking me to update this blog to make his empty life more meaningful. i'll do it!" (ta-daan!)

and who the fuck names their children "emilio" anyway. that's just wrong.

//i'm out.

travel mugs are stupid

2006-08-10T10:28:00.000+08:00

goddamnit!!!

from now on i'll be drinking my coffee only from a mug.

a frigging mug!!!

a brief recap on how we got from point A to point B:

i came in the office in my usual jolly self, as usual. fuck. that sounded weird.

anyway, so i came in, turned the computer on and banged on the keyboard. i got my coffee brewing and my mp3 player's starting to fill the air and change the vibe in my little corner as i was feeling the song, man. it was this danceable tune from the new radicals, i think. y'know, the one that goes: "don't give up/ blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah/ don't forget/ you only get what you give/ don't let gooooo/ whoooo-hoh-hoooooo.." y'know, that shit. i was feeling it i tell you - head boppin', butt shaking, fingers snapping, the works, man! all the time, my chair was squeeking in protest. "you fat tub o' lard! if you want to dance, stand up for chrissakes!," it said.

yes, it was a typical day. only, it wasn't. that's because i've decided to have my coffee in this for the first time:

yes, it's a stupid travel mug, or is it traveler's mug? you know what? i don't give a shit what it is. if you travel, you put your drink in a bottle, or in a plastic bag with a straw, not in a stupid mug with a lid and a drink hole. it'll just make you look like a dork.

"hey man, what are you having there?"
"coffee."
"oh yeah. i can't see it. how can i be sure it's not ovaltine?"
"well how about i take this travel mug and shove it up your ass, then you tell me if i'm drinking coffee or ovaltine."

yes, instead of my trusty old ceramic mug, i've made the mistake of drinking out of some lame thing that was obviously invented by a limped dick metrosexual. it's hip. it's cool. it's trendy. it's designed to make you look like you have a boyfriend named tony who works as a day manager over at mcdonald's.

what i hate about these things is how you have to really turn, tighten, and seal the lid before you can have your coffee. i mean, where's the fucking manual, huh? how should a dumbass like me suppose to know that? shouldn't things with complex contraptions, invented by some insane reject who sports the latest david beckham hair-do, have at least a quickguide in the box? well where the fuck is it, moron?!

so i loaded the damn travel mug with my freshly brewed energy drink. turned the lid once, twice. pushed open the sliding drink hole cover. pressed the damn thing against my lips and tilted it in a 35-degree angle.

sonnavabitch! i knew i should've tightened the lid for at least a third one.

all of a sudden: scalding hot coffee on my shirt, scalding hot coffee on my khakis, and worst of all, scalding hot coffee on my balls! goddamnit!

it totally ruined my day. the coffee stain on my shirt was the size of china, but looked a lot like australia, while the stain on my crotch looked like greece, i wonder what that meant. but my balls! oh i can almost hear my nuts scream in horror, i tell you. those poor things never felt any liquid that hot before. and the only reason i was forced to drink from that stupid travel mug was my laziness to have my ceramic mug washed by the janitor.

fuckfuckfuckfuck!!! fuck you travel mug! from now on, i will always use my ceramic mug when i drink coffee in the office. it's kickass, it tell you:
or if ever i use that travel mug again, i'll do it without the lid and with a straw. yeah, a friggin' straw. because i'm sure as hell won't be pouring coffee over any of my shirts again.

wait, let me try it with a straw now.

sonnavabitch! now i burned my taste buds. goddamnit!!!

//i'm out.

sir a-hole. the protector of the (sexually) abused!

2006-08-07T14:42:00.000+08:00

just when you think things can't get any weirder... they made me chairman , oops, chairperson (fuck! i hate the PC police!) of the newly formed anti-sexual harassment committee here at work.

go on, laugh. it's funny.

i know. what the fuck were they thinking? it's like i'm the last guy who would even give a rat's ass if someone gets sexually harassed in the office. okay, that was just mean. sorry, but am i even qualified for this shit? i only think that i already have my hands full doing PR and branding in the office.

plus... i love porn. i think that right there constitutes an outright disqualification, doesn't it?

*bing!* (in case you're wondering, that's the sound of a light bulb switched on. pretty lame, eh?)

come to think of it, maybe my appointment in this committee won't take much of my time afterall. and if i'm really lucky (and the guys at the office just layoff the booze a bit) i won't be doing work with it at all. you see, the committee will act as a grievance desk to handle the evaluation and pass judgment on sexual harassment cases.

*wicked story jump*

i can imagine it right now... all six committee members and i seated in a semi-circle formation, wearing black robes and lame curly blonde wigs that those idiots in the british parliament wear. then we'll have the accused right at the center with his hands tied with barbwires, his shirt all in shreds and his back bleeding, and his face all black and blue. he'll be crying like a baby in front of us mumbling some completely inaudible shit about not having to touch (and squeeze) women's breasts ever again. then he'll totally flip out and shout something like "i only needed milk for my coffee!!! can't an honest hardworking employee get milk for his coffee?! can't he?!"

then i'll say with a thundering voice that only james earl jones can do...

" silence! you, sir, are found guilty of 186 counts of sexual harassment. you are thereby sentenced to lifetime solitary confinement inside the betty boop rehabilitation facility otherwise known as the left bottom drawer of our vice president's office desk. there you will spend the rest of your life boxed in without food and sunlight with just the vice president's old pair of smelly tennis shoes and a cuddly betty boop doll!"

*graaash!!! booom!!!! ka-blam!!!!* (in case you're wondering, that's the sound of thunder, because i'll be sentencing people only on cold, stormy evenings, when conan o'brien's not on.)

he'll be kicking and screaming: "please, lord. not the betty boop! kill me now! not the betty boop!"

then i'll go... still with the james earl jones voice: "guards. take him away!"

*graaash!!! booom!!!! ka-blam!!!!* (yeah, it does sound more like pots and pans.)

"simba! simba!.... luke, i am your father.... this is CNN..." damnit, i love james earl jones!

okay, back to reality. the reason why i think i wouldn't do any work on this committee is all the ladies in the office are just plain ugly.

that's it. they're all just ugly.

and if you fornicate with, much less grope and harass any of them, then people here will just think you're on crack. that case would then be handled by the anti-drug and substance abuse committee. not me. sweet!

//i'm out.

i don't know jack

2006-07-31T11:29:00.000+08:00

"hi there. ever dance with the devil in a pale moonlight?"

fuck you, jack nicholson! i am the devil.

it's good you're a rabid Laker fan and portrayed my dad well in that movie "as good as it gets" or else, i would've let my grandma kick your scrawny ass, punk!

oh, and don't even start with that tandem of yours with adam sandler. repeat after me: "the best actor in anger management was former nyc mayor, rudy guliani. i am guliani's bitch. i am guliani's bitch."

//i'm out.

suck copious amounts of boy-band ass, justin timberlake!

2006-07-28T13:23:00.000+08:00

i don't even know why majority of the world is shocked that this fucker right here... ... is gay and is getting his ass fucked by this guy right here... what's wrong with people today? ain't it fucking obvious enough? i mean, look at N'sync maggot for instance. just look at him for three seconds.

yep, gayness.

then look at the chiseled muscle guy. you might say, he looks pretty straight. he looks pretty normal. he looks pretty okay, nothing's wrong with him. that's the fucking problem folks... he looks fucking pretty! again, gayness. and will you please open your eyes and look at the fucking shirt for chrissakes! if that doesn't scream boy george sucking everyone's cock in culture club while singing karma chameleon, i don't know what does.

there's a lesson to be learned from this; and this goes out especially to the ladies. the lesson is, REAL MEN:

1) shave, but don't shave their balls or the pubes that run up their asses
2) pick on their own scabs and eat 'em
3) make use of their index finger and thumb to pick their noses
4) fart and burp, sometimes simultaneously
5) have skidmarks in their underwear
6) watch TV and drink beer for at least a quarter of their waking life
7) laugh loud and hard enough for their tonsils to be viewed by an audience
8) have at least one scar more than two inches long that he can brag about
9) grab annoying clowns and mimes by the balls and hurl them to Katmandu
10) and loves great, sweaty, gorilla sex with women

they don't join bands that practice dance steps instead of instruments and sing "bye-bye-bye" in front of thousands of raging fourth graders. and they don't join the amazing race either. that's that , fuckers!

//i'm out.

the boss' wife

2006-07-20T17:03:00.000+08:00

so i saw my boss' wife one day at the entrance of a crowded gocery. i greeted her. she greeted back. then proceeded to ask me, there in the middle of what i sensed was a purely homophobic crowd, where is my partner?

what?! fuck!

"oh, you mean my wife."

"yeah, your partner."

"no, my wife."

"yes, where is your partner?"

then people started looking at me.

shit. shit. shit. what is your problem, lady? you can't just yell to a guy in the middle of a crowded grocery and ask where his "partner" is. jesus. i'm not gay! i have a wife. two kids. bad posture. and dirty fingernails. i have no partner.

nosy bourgeoisie bitch. no wonder she's married to that baboon in the office.

aaarrrgghhh!!!!

//i'm out.

i'm going to shit on paper like i've never shit on paper before. and i'm going to cause the murder of thousands of trees.

2006-06-27T08:18:00.000+08:00

so i decided on one thing when i woke up today. right about the time i was wiping my ass after i took a huge dump.

i'm going to write a book.

no, seriously.

what's it about? i don't know yet.

when do i plan to release it? i have to think over that, too.

do i have a publisher? and editor? uhm, none.

but i'm going to do it.

seriously, trust me on this.

no, seriously. trust me on this.

more updates later this week fuckers.

//i'm out.

another daddy blog-type post up your ass!

2006-06-20T09:56:00.000+08:00

my daughter has been reading since she was four. she's turning six next month. so it's safe to assume that her comprehension and vocabulary vastly improved in the past two years. another thing, the materials she's been reading has started to pique her curiousity.

and being the catholics that we are (shit!), she's been reading bible story books these past few weeks. yeah, those damn books with large pictures of a bearded, celibate jesus that her damn godparents gave her. damn! why the fuck would they give a kid bible story books? those things can mess up a kid's mind... believe me, i know.

anyway, last week she something about the "virgin mary." so she asked me what the fuck a "virgin" was. of course she didn't say fuck.

i didn't answer right away... because i was watching a conan o'brien rerun (i know, i don't have a life). but the truth was, i didn't know how to answer her at all. so she asked me again.

"dad, what's a virgin?"

"well.. uhm.. you see, honey... a virgin is someone who never had, y'know..."

"no, i don't."

"well, a virgin is... erm.. she never got it down with... uhm..."

"down with what dad?"

"well, a virgin is..."

i was frozen for a good ten minutes. like the PC guy in those clever Mac ads. goddamnit, those ads are hilarious. anyway, i knew i was fucked, so i had to push the emergency button.

"well, honey, a virgin is... look! a giraffe!!!"

"where dad?"

then i ran away as fast as i could.

and that, ladies and gentlemen, is how i get out of tight situations.

let me just say that i blame the catholic church for two things. those are (1) making parenting very hard and (2) having dysfunctional families around the world. why the fuck don't they just tell the truth? that mary wasn't actually a virgin and she got banged pretty good by that carpenter named joseph. instead, what they're trying to promote is a celibate father and a virgin mother who had children!!! no wonder families are so screwed.

fuck the catholic church!

//i'm out.

pissing away

2006-06-15T13:10:00.000+08:00

i took a leak this morning. it was an unusually long one. don't ask me how it happened. maybe because i haven't peed for the past four days. maybe.

then i remembered that earthquake survivor story back in 1990. a guy (not me, i was merely 10 years old back then, hence i wasn't a guy yet. fuck that. whatever.) was still alive and was trapped for 14 days under rubles of concrete and steel. he had no food of course. his means of survival were, of course, breathing (dumbass!) and (another of course) drinking his own piss.

i know.

eww!

*gag reflex*

*puke*

yuck!

anyway, he needed to stay alive. so drinking his own mountain dew was his only choice.

i wonder if i were in the same situation. and it happened on a morning such as this when it seemed like i squirted 500 gallons of piss out of my body. seriously, it felt like 500 gallons. i went to the bathroom at 6:00 am and came out about four and a half hours later. dehydrated and all... going back... would i have drank my own piss? maybe.

i could just imagine how that tasted. hm, that was the beer i had last week. odd? it's a bit stale now. hm, and that's the chicken soup i had for dinner the other day. funny. chicken still tastes like chicken no matter the form.

with the amount of piss i had in the tank, i could've survived the whole ordeal for two years. two friggin' years!!! that's equivalent to watching will and grace episodes 8 hours a day! on second thought, being stuck there would be a whole lot better than watching the fags of will and grace dance around like monkeys in heat for 8 hours a day. oh well.

going back to the earthquake survivor dude. he was rescued 14 days later. according to him, he spoke to... dig this... a fly. not kidding. true story, man. apparently, he told the damn fly to lead the rescuers to where he was. dang! now that's what you get when drink your piss for 14 days straight.

so, there. he was dug up and rescued. obviously, he was very happy because when pictures of him showed up in the papers, he had this big smile on his face as he was being carried out on a stretcher. oh yeah, of course all his teeth were very yellow. fuckdamn!

//i'm out.

moving on - someone give me a blowjob for this cheesy title

2006-06-13T14:32:00.000+08:00

yeah!

it's the beginning of the week and i feel sore with all the sorting, packing, lifting, dragging, hauling, unloading, unpacking, re-sorting, cleaning, mopping, dusting, and eating 48 buns of cinnamon bread over the past four weekends.

yes, ladies and freaks, we're moving into a new place by friday. and may i just say-

goddamn! it's fucking exhausting! i never knew i had that much junk in the closet. old ids, a gazillion types of cards, birthday presents i never got to use (what? you don't suggest i start using 8-color crayola sets now, do you?), uneaten slices of pizza... shit, i've got everything i'll ever need in my closet! i don't have to work a single day in my life anymore. i can live off with pizza bits and birthday cards and star wars action figures. it'll be so much fun.

then if i get lonely, i'll accidentally cut my palm and press it against an annoyingly white volleyball that happens to be there in the corner of my room. then i'll draw a face on the damn ball and call it mr. wilson. yeah. mr. wilson. he will keep me company everyday. and when i really get lonely and i start crying like a girl, mr. wilson will just make his way to my crotch and give me a blowjob! high five!

oh yeah, i also saw my old photos. old, old photos. all of them black and white. why? because i'm a hundred and two years old, bitch! anyway, i was ogling at 'em pics and damn, was i fat.

i looked in the mirror... and it hit me. flying crap! i'm still the fat fuck that i was 14 years ago. the way i look almost had zero improvement from highschool, only more facial hair. no wonder girls, babies, and even tourists still avoid me.

anyway, that's that. now shoo.

//i'm out.

anyone home?

2006-06-13T14:10:00.001+08:00

fuck!!!!!

goddamn!!!!

i just had to get that out of the way.

i'll be back.

//i'm out.

good morning sportsfans!

2005-11-22T08:09:00.000+08:00

i've been grouchy every morning for the past four months or so.

i don't know. it could be because of my nagging back injury. or my headaches. or the lack of caffeine. or the bad taste of tar and nicotine that i smell everytime i wake up. i don't know. but lately, i just hate talking and being with people in the morning. i can't stand them. and i just have to let them know.

let's fucking rant.

:: good morning, fuckers! -- yeah. that's how i've been greeting everyone in the office everyday. everyone, except my boss, that is. so here's the drill: i come in late. everyone busy doing their job. i stand still for a good five seconds by the door. they look at me and smile. then i yell... "GOOOOOOOD MORNING, FUCKERS!!!" then i give them this weird look as if saying, "what? got a problem? what?! you ain't got shit on me, king kong!" they go back to their little corner and continue their work. i drop off my bag, turn on my computer, then go outside and smoke. sweet!

:: how about some coffee? -- well, i'm not exactly offering them coffee. what i'm offering them is an unforgettable experience. everytime someone bugs me for a report, or asks me some lame, stupid question like, "hm... when was the last time you did something for the first time?" or any of that shit, my reply is plain and simple. "when was the last time you had coffee? here, have some of my scalding hot, freshly brewed, hazelnut flavored concoction.." {splash!} "oh, i'm sorry, was that too hot for you, yah pussy?! second degree burns? oh, don't worry about it. you'll be picking scabs off your face in no time, yah moron!!!"

:: stop it with the christmas carols please! -- so i finally find my resolve to somehow do some real work. i sit down. get into my zone. then suddenly, some stupid christmas music plays on the fucking radio. what the fuck?! christmas is like a month away. it's going to happen anyway, no matter how much we "normal" people pray for it not to come. so why sing carols and merry melodies in november?

look, we've got a few days left to sulk, and be miserable, and be grouchy. i say let's take advantage of it. so i stood up, turned the radio off, and went back to my desk. some asshole actually had the the balls to turn it on again. so i stood up and turned it off. someone turned it on again. for the second time, i turned it off. then someone turned it on, the stupid fuck even increased the volume. this time, however, it was no jingle bells that was blasted from the speakers. it was adam sandler singing something about growing old with someone even if that girl's breasts horribly sag and touch the floor and shit.

that did it. i snapped, got a cup of my scalding hot, freshly brewed, hazelnut flavored coffee (yeah hazelnut. very pussy, i know.) and poured it all over the radio (i wish i was making this up). the damn thing stopped playing. and it was smoking, too. sure i had to pay for it. but not hearing that damn box play for the next month was really worth it. fuck you radio! fuck you everyone! now, go back to work!

:: lock everyone out -- no more radio? no problem. i just put on my earphones and play mp3s from my extremely kickass mp3 collection. ah yes. i have perfectly locked everyone out. now i can work in peace. just then, a turd comes in and starts asking for some documents. i tried to ignore him. but i could still hear his shrieking voice, so i turned up the volume. then he got it up a notch by mouthing words in front of my face. so i took off my earphones. i looked at my coffeemaker, hm, no more coffee. so i just shouted at him, "i'm listening to madonna, do you mind???!!!!" that shut him up.

// i'm out.

seriously

2005-11-15T15:39:00.000+08:00

if i don't shave for a month, i'd look like a fat chewbacca.

i love chewbacca.

//i'm out.

am i normal?

2005-11-15T15:37:00.000+08:00

i flush before i pee.

i wash my hands before i hold my dick.

and i sing the first stanza of "melt with you" when i do it.

i'm a loser.

//i'm out.

i have an idea

2005-11-15T14:49:00.000+08:00

let's do hand slaps, shall we. high five!

the phone's dead.

the tv's dead.

i'm dead.

//i'm out.

i'm in a lot of pain right now... so get off my nuts!

2005-10-14T08:40:00.000+08:00

"... so it's friday. so fucking what?"

"... yahoo! education's word for the day: replete. means full, abundant. well, let's use it then. i'll start, ahem, ahem... you're so replete of shit!!!"

"... what the fuck is wrong with this radio station? it has the same song played on a loop for about forty minutes now. something's terribly wrong here. maybe somebody entered the booth and murdered the DJ. i hope somebody entered the booth and murdered the DJ. honestly, i do."

"...i have this idea for a movie. yeah, my life! i'm sure you've thought of that, too. that your life would somehow be a great story for a movie someday. what's pathetic though is that it's the only reason you don't commit suicide. yeah, you like to reach the age of 50 or something. why? because you think by that age you'd somehow end up successful and it would make a dramatic and heart-warming ending to your feelgood movie. bullshit! wake up, because jerry fucking maguire ain't real!"

"... my last post about engineers didn't do well in terms of comments. which can only mean one thing. majority of my readers are engineers. and i have offended them. sweet!"

"... i was in a packed elevator the other day. i noticed a girl gave me that look. y'know, that look that says: 'shit, why did i have to stand next to this guy?' it was fucking fascinating. just then i had the urge to pick my nose in front of her. but i didn't. i hate elevators."

"...i don't wear sunglasses indoors. i don't talk on my cell phone for 14 hours a day. i don't have a blackberry or an XDA. i'm not trendy. i don't even know what that motherfucking word means. i don't drive a BMW, in fact, i don't even own a car."

"... i like giving doofy smiles to strangers. i like it more if i get to watch them freak out because of my doofy smile."

"...i don't own one piece of nice clothing. in my fabulous collection of stupid, lame, moronic t-shirts, there's one suit. y'know that one suit a boy buys in high school? the suit that's supposed to make him a man?
yeah, that's my one suit. and it doesn't fit anymore. as a result, my director / co-producer is having a hard time finding me a sponsor for my wardrobe."

"wouldn't it be great if we could just slap each other's palms with shit everytime we shake hands? like everytime we meet new people: 'hi, my name is, A. {splat..shake...shake... shake.. shake.. wipeoff} and you are? oh, my name is john. {splat..shake...shake... shake.. shake.. wipeoff} i'm the new neighbor.' suburban hipocrisy, i swear. anyway, shit, right. of course, we'd all have to wear cologne to somehow fight the smell. then the cologne smell will be infused with the shit smell and we'll all end up having this weird semi-european smell. that would be fun fun fun!"

//i'm out.

they don't get it... i don't get it... fuck!

2005-10-11T14:51:00.000+08:00

so i sat in this meeting for most of the morning. the thing sucked big time. it was about our operations and million kilowatt-hours and shit, y'know, this and that. anyway, i can honestly say that the meeting was the most painful three hours i've ever had in a room full of engineers... yes, including the gang rape incident 8 years ago.

then we came to the part where we talked about this big project we'll embarking on early next year -- the construction of two friggin' hydropower plants. it's big. as in billions big. that's when i dozed off. when i woke up, they were talking about acquiring a number of boring machines worth at least a cool 1.5 million each for the project.

"that's it!" i said to myself. something has to be done. so i got off my chair and said:

"what the fuck do you dipshits need those things for?!! boring machines? for what? i mean, don't you think we have enough of that shit in this company already? just take a look at you guys, 20 minutes into the meeting and you almost had me take out my lighter and burn the chest hairs of our hairy boss here, harry (not his real name, but i had to make a rhyme). you fucking bored the hell out of me!!! i say we save the money and buy ourselves some kickass karaoke machines instead. so who's with me?"

they paused. stared at me for five frigging minutes because engineers are like that, they're like pentium twos that tend to over analyze every data they get. i can almost read what they were thinking:

> why didn't i think of that?
> this fat blabber mouth is a genius!
> amazing! he's right!
> why am i still a virgin? oh yeah, i'm an engineer... silly me.

then they all shouted in approval. the whole boardroom broke into a festive mardigras complete with marching bands, floats, confetti, hot chicks showing their jugs, and elephants with fancy accessories. everyone was so frigging happy and they lined up to congratulate me and my ingenious idea.

one of the nerds even offered to be my personal butler for the rest of his life. i declined, so i let him shampoo my crotch instead. he agreed, but only if he could lick my balls after shampooing them. i said, hell yeah! then everyone lined up and took turns licking my balls. the bosses. the boring engineers. the hot chicks in grass skirts, the trumpet players, the elephants... everyone!

then i really woke up. and everyone was staring at me.

and i thought it was the perfect opportunity to ask for a bathroom break.

//i'm out.

is you madona(l)?

2005-10-07T19:20:00.000+08:00

who the fuck is mr. madonal joel?

Dear Sir/Madam,
I am Mr Madonal Joel, Chief Executive Officer of
Conoil andGas Ltd. We are OPEC members that deals on crude oil, raw materials
and export to Canada, America,Europe and Asia.Our company is also into
entertainments.

oh, so that's who madonal joel is. funny name. a CEO eh? of what? cornoil? let me get this straight, you emailed me this afternoon without knowing if i'm a guy or a girl?

so you're company's also into "entertainments" eh? can't argue with that. heck, i'm pretty much entertained now.

speak up madonal dude, what do you want from me?

We are looking for reliable commission agent who can help us receive
payments from customers that our company havesupplied goods in Canada, America, Europe and Asia as well as making payments through you to us. Please if you are reliable and interested in been a commission agent with our company we will be glad but you have to be an honest and trustworthy person.

whoa! an agent? like a super secret double-o-seven agent? so do i get to ride cool cars, and use cool gadgets, and more importantly, do i get to shag hot hot hot chicks?

so you're like recruiting me, right? for this ultra super top secret mission somewhere in the bahammas where we have an ultra super top secret hideout that needs a password and a knock, right? no. still, i like my eggs stirred, not shaken thankyouverymuch.

oh, a commission agent. what the fuck is that? receive payments? you mean a fucking cashier? no, thanks. and how dare you question my "honesty" you dipshit! you don't even know me.

wait, do you also wear one of those pointed swirly twirly bras? because that's super hot! yeah!

Note that, as our commission agent, you will
receive some percentage and
motivations on whatever amount you receive on
behalf of our company. Be informed that THERE IS NO FINANCIAL OBLIGATION AT YOUR
END as a commission agent. Join our work at home team, no hassles. 100%
SATISFACTION!!
what the fuck is "some percentage and motivations?" you mean, i'm going to get paid, right? well, you should've just said it. but i guess you like using big words like "percentage and motivations." i guess that makes you super smart eh?
funny guy. sorry, i don't need any "motivations."
what the fuck is a "work at home team?" are you friggin' nannies or something?
"100% satisfaction!!?" now that's the kicker right there. you definitely got me now, mr. madonal joel. how can anyone ever go wrong when someone offers them a deal with a "100% satisfaction!!" guarantee written in it? and it's written in all caps,too! woot!
shit, i'm in. where do i sign?
Please, to facilitate and proceed if accepted, do send me madonal_joel@yahoo.co.uk promptly
by email the followings:
NAME.............................................
MAILING ADDRESS..................................
AGE:.............................................
STATUS:..........................................
STATE/COUNTRY.....................................
TEL/FAX NUMBERS...................................
COMPANY NAME (If any).............................
OCCUPATION........................................
Thank you for your time as we are looking forward to workingw with you as
you send your response back to us.
Mr Madonal Joel.
Chief Executive Officer.
whoa! "email the followings?" hows about i email you, madonal_joel@yahoo.co.uk, some droppings instead? thank for wasting approximately 16 minutes of my time.
fuck you, biotch!!!
//i'm out

sick

2005-10-06T15:59:00.000+08:00

now ain't this great. for the past two days i've got nothing in my mind but blog. then suddenly i have this serious bout with tonsilitis that forced me to stay in bed for two days. bummer.

it's funny. tonsilitis. it's like something kids only get. because there's this weird misconception that adults should only get sick with something "really serious" like cancer or brain tumor or something.

well, fuck them. i had tonsilitis, okay. i had fever and my throat was aching so much i couldn't swallow my own saliva, okay. i'm taking antibiotics for a week, okay. and i'm not allowed to drink any alchohol for a whole week for the antibiotics to kick in, okay. i think that's something serious.

officemate fucktard: dude, where were you the past two days?
me: i was sick, man.
officemate fucktard: really?
me: tonsilitis.
officemate fucktard: ahahahaha!!! tonsilitis? really? i think i stopped having tonsilitis when i was twelve. ahahahaha!!! what did you do? did you eat a lot of chocolates, you fattie? ahahahah!!!
me: ahahahaha... fuck you! you stopped having them because you started giving blowjobs to mall cops when you were twelve you fucking fag!
{silence}
officemate fucktard: i'm not a fag, lardass.
me: well, then stop listening to the village people, asswipe! now go back to your cube before i jam my coffee mug up your ass!
officemate fucktard: you should have them removed... your tonsils. tonsillectomy is just a minor operation, you know.
me: hows about i give you a serious asswhooppinlectomy instead, huh?!

tonsilitis is something serious, people. it can be fatal. believe me.

//i'm out.

the big fucking reveal - this is it, fuckers!!!

2005-10-03T15:53:00.000+08:00

before you read on, read this first. yeah. read it. because i won't be fucking responsible if you don't have a fucking clue of what i'm talking about here.

***
before i continue. i'd like to announce that this blog turned one last september. yep. this blog is one year old. and to me, i think that is a test of a true blogger. clearly, you've gone past the point of no return once you've hit one. right? right? i don't know.

somehow, i found it really strange... i mean, really really strange, that i didn't have a single post last september. it was like the perfect time to alienate all my readers. but i didn't plan that to happen. honest.
so, yeah. no celebrations. no confetti. no champagne. no cheesy tributes. and most of all, no "the best of..." clips. because i really hate that shit, y'know. a tv show turns one or hits a milestone and they waste an episode by showing their "the best of..." clips. that's bullshit. i'd rather go out, buy a six-pack, and sit in front of the tv smoking cigs, drinking beer, and eating pork rind. i'm pathetic, i know.

so if you're still there and you want to wish me a happy blogga-versary or something. go ahead. i'd say thank you. then i'd ask you to stand up with me, raise our glasses and say... "the man behind this stupid blog is a marketing asshole!!!"

***
i also like to announce that i'm now officially wearing prescription glasses. do i hate it? i love it! i love it as much as i love having a root canal! contacts? no, im too clumsy and stupid to maintain contacts. so i opted for specs. good thing i got a great deal for one those hip wiretap frames. that way i won't look too much like the ugly oaf that i already am.

***
so here it is. the real reason why i haven't blogged for the past eleven years or so. the real reason why most you guys are pissed off at me right now. the real reason i lost my virginity. it's not really big, but what the fuck, right? drumroll please...

i'm involved in a project and that project is... another drumroll please...

more please....

more please....

a bit more, please...

it is a local tv talk show.

so what? big deal. as if you care. go ahead, i'll give you a couple of minutes to laugh your ass off and collect yourself before i continue.

you done?

good.

so i really am making one. honest. and i'd be the host and the creative director of it, too. honest.

remember that day, sometime early this year (i think), when i announced that a friend of mine and i got together and discussed this talk show. yes, that day. yes, that talk show. this is it.

that's why i haven't been doing much writing here. because i've been writing segment scripts and spiels and shit. i've been busy planning with the creative team. my own creative team... who's basically just a bunch of my funny friends, all five of them. we've been brainstorming since august. then there's the logo for the show, the name, the venue, the performers, the guests, the bands, the shoot dates, the tentative launch, the facial, the makeup, the wardrobe, the set, the this, the that... fuck i'm going out of my mind right now! i'm excited. i feel like i'm 16 again. well, maybe not.

and to answer some of your questions. yes, it is my show. i did say earlier that i'll be the host and the damn creative director, didn't i? why don't you believe me?

yes, the show's going to be a one hour weekly. it'll be on fridays at 9 or 11 in the evening, i think. it won't be aired live. but we will tape it with a live audience. there will be no laugh tracks and shit like that. every episode i'll interview two guests (local celebs and shit), then we'll have a guest band, then three to four segments (at least one will be done in front of the studio audience, the others will be taped).

the show will be aired locally. by locally, i mean, it will be initially aired just in this city where i live. then we'll be slowly syndicating it to other cable companies, or something like that. what channel will it be on? it will be on this new cable channel that my partner is part of that'll be launched sometime in november. so, we'll be doing a segment and studio shoots by the end of the month. then we'll be airing the show about two weeks after the channel has been launched.

yes, we will be the first locally-produced show that will be launched on the channel. yes, we will be heading the channel's program list. am i pressured? you bet your smelly ass i am! shit! i've been having irritable and loose bowel movement for two months now!

am i concerned about how i look on tv? yes. because i'm an ugly, uneloquent mess. but i'm vying for the ugliest tv talk show host award, anyway. so why the fuck worry, right? but i do need a serious make-over. so anyone out there with a kind soul.. please sign me up for "queer eye." wait, i also need a new job. then sign me up for "the apprentice" too. shit. when did become such a tv whore???

how many people do you think will watch the show every week? well, roughly there are about 250,000 warm bodies that inhabit this city. my most educated and calculated guess would be.. uhm.. about eight viewers. five if we put out a really really shitty episode.

my first guests? one of the city's councilors. yes, a politician. and from what i heard, she's a very hot MILF! schwing! the other will be "the" legendary rock icon of this country. kinda like britain's john lenon. yeah, that big!

will i quit my job for this show? no. not yet. well, it all depends after the first season (13 episodes in 3 months). it's safe to say that in the next 6 months or so, i'd be practicing the "sex and cash theory." well, the theory postulates that you can strike the perfect balance between something you really love (sex) and something that pays the bills (cash). so, no. i won't be quitting my job. not yet.

will the show affect this blog? well, it has already affected this blog. and for that, i'm sorry.

{cue inspirational soundtrack}

all i ask is for you guys to understand me. remember when you were young and people ask you about what you want to be when you grow up? i never answered a doctor, or a pilot, or an astronaut, or an educator, or a fireman. all i answered was i wanted to be someone who can influence people's perception on things. well, this is it. the show. it is an opportunity for me and my friends to influence perception and really fuck up some minds!!! yeah!

so that's that. i'll be coming in here every now and then... say, about twice a week to update you guys of our lame show. and of course, to give you your usual dose of ... dose of... i don't even know what i give you guys.

so hang in there, please.

oh, the name of the show?

fat chance, fucker! i can't tell you that. not yet.

//i'm out.

the big fucking reveal - speculations

2005-10-03T08:50:00.000+08:00

okay. i'm going to cut the crap. there is no part 2 to this stupid "big reveal" trilogy whatever the fuck it is. and this post may yet be another lengthy incoherent rambling, so i'm going to make a conscious effort to cut it up in parts for you guys afflicted with ADD.

before i start, i'd like to say that i don't care anymore if there's even a single soul who'd read this blog. that may be too harsh. true. but if i were you, i won't even waste a nanosecond of my life coming back to this shithole checking to see if the fat blogger has posted part 2 or part 3 or part 79 of his stupid story. no more parts. no more chapters. no more "stay tuned for the next" blah blah blah. just truthful shit from now on (or until i get to clear the air with you people).

there were a lot of speculations on why i didn't blog for the past eleven years or so. and i'd like to straighten them out.

first. i wasn't fired from my job because of blogging. the fact is, i wasn't fired, period. i even got a raise two months ago. that's proof of how much this company likes the bullshit i give them. i take a crap and everyone lines up outside the toilet to get a piece of me. so, no. i wasn't fired. i'm still working for this company i've been in for the past four years. that's a record, by the way.

second. while it might be true that i got bored with blogging so much that i grew a stupid mullet and decided to join the circus as a front act for a band of midgets instead, still it's not enough reason not to blog. but i didn't blog. and it seemed that i threw it all away. and i left you guys in the air. and i'm sorry for that.

no, i didn't grow a mullet. i grew sideburns instead.

no, i didn't join the circus to become part of a midget freakshow.

truth is, my workload increased by four times since may. everyday was like monday. only, it's like monday in hell. i didn't shave. i didn't eat right. but i'm still as big as a rhino. i'm beginning to wonder if what i have is indeed fat, because it's starting to feel like blubber. yes, the science of metabolism intrigues me... and pisses me off.

so, yeah. the work overwhelmed me. it was too much. and i guess it ate me whole. the scary part was i just focused on one thing - making money. but the money didn't come.

and at the end of the day, i'm still stuck with this job that didn't pay much. a job that rewarded politics instead of creativity. a job that respected length of tenure more than talent. a job that puts a premium on "teamwork" rather than individual ideas that create true value. a job that gave me a fancy job-title and issued a set of high status business cards to pimp myself with. a job that gave a corner office with a window. a job that provided travel opportunities. a job that provided me and my family the so-called "financial security" every fucktard with a family needed.

the job.

the work.

the money.

and all the bullshit that came along with it.

no, i didn't get tired of blogging. i was busy with my job. and i got tired of life. i just thought that wasn't worth blogging.

third. i hate drew carey. if i had my way, i'd stick dave attell up my ass instead. then i'd be farting random funnies all over the place. plus, i think dave attell won't mind being stuck in my ass for the rest of my life, which will end in about...uhm, six years.

{this post is getting too long. like i've said, i'll cut it up in parts. but i won't be promising anything anymore. comment on it if you want. }

//i'm out.

the big reveal (or where the fuck was i part 1)

2005-08-31T10:41:00.000+08:00

call off the search party!!!

i'm still alive and kicking, baby! yeah!

call CSI. tell them i'm not missing anymore. and tell them to fire gary sinise because he's so fucking overrated.

so how's it hanging, fuckers? missed me? no? fuck it. i don't care if you missed me. what matters is i missed you guys like hell. yeah! high five fuckers!

what in satan's lair does that even mean eh? i missed you guys like hell? does it mean i missed you so much i feel so hot, like frigging 8 million degrees celisius or something, while demonic minions prance around cracking whips and shit shouting at me to keep working like i was a coal miner, and i have no water, and i'm so frigging thirsting and hungry i can eat my own tounge, and i'm dressed in shredded jeans and shirt, barefoot with frigging ball and chain shackles and all dirty, while being forced to sing mariah carey's butterfly? is that how missing you guys like hell means? fuck that!

would it have been better if i said i missed you guys like heaven?

or how about i missed you guys like new jersey? if that's the case, then i missed you for more than two months while having a stupid bon jovi song stuck in my head...

whooah!
we’re half way there
whooah!
livin’ on a pray'r!
take my hand and we’ll make it - i swear
whooah!
livin’ on a pray'r...

fuck! i hate bon jovi. i hate the band. i hate the music. i hate the hair. i hate the theatrical antics they do on stage with all those cables and harnesses and fireworks and shit. i hate the guy. and i especially hate the fact that he fucked ally (anorexic) mcbeal. fuck bon jovi.

but yeah, you heard me, i missed you guys. lemme give you all a big hug.

*BIG HUG*

bullshit. i feel such a dork doing that.

***

you're probably wondering where the fuck i've been. yes, i bet you are... not! who gives a shit anyway, eh?

but just in case you're interested, stick around. because if you're a regular here you know there's some warped and fucked up story that'll follow this shit. yeah! high five!

yeah, i'll be explaining it in a three-part mini series i'd like to call, the big reveal. this post right here is part 1 by the way.

***

so, where was i? ah yes. so after typing that dopey post i had last july, i went on a hiatus. fuck, i hate that word. hiatus. it's like i've been to haiti or something.

ooh, haiti.. voodoo... i like that. bullshit. if hiatus were a person, i'd definitely strangle the bitch with my bare hands.

anyway, what really happened was after typing that stupid post, i got judo-chopped at the back of me neck. it knocked me out and i lost consciousness for what i think is about a good 42 minutes. now, how in madonna's ass did know i was unconscious for 42 minutes? simple. in those 42 minutes of being unconscious, i saw nothing but static. yeah, static. why? well, why the fuck not?

so i saw nothing but static like that lousy jodie foster alien flick that bored the shit out of me. when i woke up i saw these reed-thin, weird looking, crazy-eyed aliens.

i knew they were aliens because the moment i opened my eyes they immediately said: "hi, we're reed-thin, weird looking, crazy-eyed aliens. we judo chopped you behind your neck to run some tests on you... and insert something in your ass."

then i went: "fuck you, aliens! you don't scare me! bring it on, you dildo-looking bastards! bring it on!"

then they made me bend over and grab my ankles. actually they didn't force me to bend over, but there was this tasty slice of pizza on the floor and they wouldn't let me have it unless i assume the position.

so there i was, bent over, grabbing my ankles, and scrubbing pizza off the floor with my tounge when i suddenly felt a sharp throb in my ass. they shoved something in. something really big. it felt like an elephant. and it hurt real bad.

after chewing that last slice of pepperoni i shouted, "what the fuck was that???"

"not what, but who...," the motherfuckers said with a grin. actually i didn't see them grin because they don't really have lips. they just communicated to me through telepathy.

"okaaay, smartass! so who the fuck was that???"

"oh, that was drew carey we shoved up your ass."

"who??? drew carey??? drew fucking carey!!!??? now why the hell did you do that?"

"look buddy, we're doing you a favor here," said their leader. i knew he was the leader because he was wearing a tony danza shirt that read: who's the boss? i am, mona!

"we're avid readers of your blog. we access it through a superdoopermega broadestband connection from our planet, zenderpussygalactic9. we just think your blog's not funny enough. so we're helping you out by "incorporating" some drew carey humor in your writing. to do that, we abducted him and decided to have him reside in your ass permanently," said the boss.

then i went: "but why drew? why not jimmy kimel? or the ghost of johnny carson or something. not drew. drew's an unfunny bitch. whose line is it anyway is the most stupid show ever."

then i heard my ass talk: "hey, i resent that."

now that freaked me out. it was drew. he was talking through my ass.

"we won't be having any problems here, right? i'll be good to you, help you out with your comedy and make you famous and shit, and in return i expect you to feed me at least 84 twinkies everyday. do we have an agreement?" drew said.

"now how am i suppose to feed you twinkies? you're in my ass???" i said.

"simple, dipshit. ever seen how elephants eat with their trunks? that's how you'll feed me. you do that or we'll be having problems."

"are you threatening me?"

"oh you bet i am. i'll be blurting out wicked john wayne-inspired improv shit through your ass if you don't follow my instructions."

that was it. i blacked out. totally.

then i woke up, and i was in my bed. everything normal. everything. except for the mountain of twinkie wraps beside me. then i saw my little fireman. it was acting wierd. it unwrapped twinkies and shoved them in my ass. yes, all by himself. i shouted. i shouted my head off.

then i heard my ass talk again: "hey, you're up. i didn't want to wake you because you looked so tired, so i decided to help myself." it was drew. and somehow he found a way to control my wiener to feed him.

i passed out... and was in a coma since july 9.

that's what happened.

***

okay. okay. that's all bullshit. what really happened was....

to be continued...

i'm out.

i usually have explanations for things like this

2005-08-22T16:53:00.000+08:00

hello... anybody home?

i'm still alive fuckers. and i'm badder than ever. will be back in a day or two to tell you all about it. yeah, "it" being something really important that may or may not affect the future of this blog. wait, it's been affected already. fuck it.

so for those of you planning to have a tatoo that'll say "paningit rocks" or "big A can fuck my butt anytime of the year except christmas!" right at the center of your forehead, well, don't do that just yet. please. i won't be liable for anything that may happen to your ass because... it's your ASS! and you might find it a bit surprising but i don't do asses. really. it's not my thing.

so hang in there. and quit touching yourself because it'll just make you sleep. i know, i'm such a douche.

i'm out. (but it won't be that long, i promise)

the day you said you like the foo fighters

2005-07-08T20:29:00.000+08:00

i'm still living with your ghost.

fax you too!

2005-07-04T13:53:00.001+08:00

okay, you ready for this? i am convinced that the facsimile, yes the fax machine, is the devil's tool.

though many of you would think that the modern fax was developed in the 70s, it was actually invented in 1843 by a scottish inventor named alexander bain. the poor schmuck must've been bored to death making clocks, that's why he sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the fax machine's blue print. but i guess he just sold half his soul, not all of it, because it took him close to 20 years developing the damn thing before the first ever fax was sold in 1861 by a certain giovanni. and since then, offices have never been the same. and since then, all fax machine salesmen were named giovanni. it's BS, i know.

so you want more proof that the fax machine is satanic eh? how about this one, in 1843, the same year the fax was invented, james presscott joule quantified the conversion of work into heat. there's your proof. work + heat = hell, which IS satanic. or how about this one, on that same year, the B'nai B'rith, the oldest jewish service organization in the world, was founded. clearly an anti-christ organization because we all know that the jews were the ones who crucified christ, right? oh, here's more, the first issue of the economist was published and the bishop's university in quebec, canada was also founded in 1843. clearly both satanic as the evils of this world is propagated only by economics and religion. coincidence? i don't think so.

still don't believe me? how about this, the name of that first fax machine ever sold was the pantelegraph, which sounds very much like the name of that hardcore /trash metal / satanic band, pantera! zing! bingo! that hit the fucking jackpot right there.

i don't know how to draw. bite me.

***

but the best evidence that can proove that fax machines are indeed satanic is how people react to it everyday at the office. let me share you some examples i've observed:

case study 1: female, 42, happily married, mother of two.

normally she's always happy. smiling. not a care in the world. you see her and you can just tell that teletubby songs play in her head in eternal repeat. that is, until her boss transfered their department's fax machine beside her desk. one day she was doing her thing, sending out purchase orders to suppliers. she does this everytime. it's part of her job/ routine. then i heard:

"fax tone please."

"hello. yes this is (her cheesy nickname) of (the name of our company), and i'd like to ask for a fax tone."

"hello? hello? fax tone please."

"I JUST NEED A FRIGGIN' FAX TONE, BITCH!!! A FAX TONE!!! DIDN'T YOUR SPECIAL ED CLASS TEACH YOU HOW TO USE THE FAX???"

"HELLO!!! HELLO?! she hung up. NOBODY HANGS UP ON ME!!!"

then she slams the phone and went into a hysterical fit for about half an hour shouting "FAX YOU!!! FAX YOU!!!"

the fax is evil.

case study 2: male, 27, in a steady relationship with the same woman for the past 3 years, had a good catholic eduction.

this guy is one of the most focused and poised officemates i've ever had. he rarely snaps under pressure. he's systematic. punctual. organized. religious. and he never curses. and i think he's gay because of the way he dresses, and because he always has nice clean shoes. but that's beside the point. so one day, he needed to finalize a billing statement and, of course, fax it to one of our clients. he can't consolidate the data that'll go in the billing statement because one of our accountants hasn't finished her report on it. so he approached the accountant, explained to her the urgency of the billing statement, and told her he'll be back for it immediately after lunch. so long story short, the accountant didn't meet his deadline.

this made him all red. really flushed. i've never seen him like that. then he shouted at the accountant in front of everyone in that office. he said, "ARE YOU CRAZY??? I NEED TO SEX THESE DOCUMENTS TO (name of our client) BEFORE 4PM OR WE'LL BE INCURRING PENALTIES!!!"

yep. he did say it. he said SEX instead of FAX. realizing everyone's staring at him because he made a major boo-boo, he carefully eased his way out of the accounting office. just in time before everyone burst into laughter. poor guy. he just resigned two weeks ago.

the fax machine is evil, i tell you.

i'm out.

this ain't about nick nolte

2005-07-02T11:16:00.000+08:00

morons have been doing renovation works in my office since monday. and yes, it's driving me crazy.

for the past five days i've heard nothing but planks of wood being sawed, nails being hammered, planers wheezing in the middle of important phone calls, and carpenters' small talk. and i thought those carpernters looked a little bit too thin. they were like anorexic. so i think you'd understand why i asked if any of them guys is somehow related to karen carpenter of, of course, the carpenters. they stared at me blankly. then i decided to take it up a notch by asking them to sing superstar. again, they stared at me blankly. fucking morons. fucking freaky morons! they were like staring at me with those "children of the corn" eyes.

the only upside from all these is getting high on paint thinner for the past five days. but other than that, the whole thing was both annoying and distracting, and if you combine the two, you get something like "annotracting," which is german for "pretty fucked up." okay, i don't know what the fuck i'm saying.

let's just fucking rant, shall we?

:: sticking your finger where the sun don't shine, then using it -- how do you even call this disorder? fuck. so you're lazy. you don't want to use the stairs and elect to ride the elevator instead. while waiting, a fucktard on a cellphone stands beside you. yeah, he's pretty well dressed with a three-piece suit and talks to an "associate" over the phone about the "dell effect" and "selective sourcing is changing the landscape of supply chain mangement yada yada yada.

he switches his phone from his right ear to his left ear, then takes his right index finger and sticks it in his right ear and gives it a few passionate wiggles. so passionate in fact, he even closed his eyes and bit his lower lip. yeah, it was that good. after that, and without even wiping it, he takes the same finger and pushes the elevator's up button. jesus motherfucking christ doing backflips!!! that is just sick!!! fuck you, you washed out psuedo-financial analyst from the post yuppie era wearing a three-piece suit. wash your fucking hands! didn't your mother tell you not to go sticking your finger in things not sold in walmart?

now i see myself as a someone with a pretty strong stomach for things. but the fucker grossed me out so much i had to take the friggin' stairs. and i had to sweat like a pig. and i hate sweating. fuck you, you unsanitary bitch!

:: it's like onions, only worse -- now if you think something's too offensive to look at, you look the other way. if you think something tastes so bad, you don't eat it. but what about the smell? tell me, how the fuck can you avoid someone who smells like onions inside a jampacked bus at 7:44 in the morning without saying to his face, "i'd actually work an extra four hours a day just to have the money to pay some people to shower." people who smell should be shot. and if they smell and ride the bus, they should be shot twice.

shower, motherfucker!!! is that too hard? are you a fucking retard you can't shower on your own? is your time really that precious you can't even waste fucking five minutes of it just to get a decent shampoo and scrub? shower, stinkbomb, or i'll be forced to resign from work and consider a career change. like be a kickass fireman. but i won't be putting out fires, no sir. i'll set up a special hot line for people to call every time they smell someone like you roaming in public. and if they do call, i'll get on my kickass 14-wheeler fire red fire truck and hunt for you. and when i see you, i'll aim my super kickass fire hose on your stinkin' ass and hose you down with bleach. yeah, you heard me, bleach. my truck will be like loaded with a thousand gallons of bleach at any given time, ready to disinfect stinking bombs. so please, shower.

:: i know it's a baby tee -- but if it doesn't look good on you, don't fucking wear it. right? right! and if you think i'm wrong, fuck you. i'm sick and tired of people who insist wearing small shirts just to show some skin. yeah, mostly they're women. or transvestites. either way, i think they're wrong if they think it's sexy to wear these baby tees that don't cover up their belly. well, actually it's a good thing if you're fit, but when your belly sticks out, oh man, that's another story. because you'll just end up looking like either: (1) a dude with nice, shiny hair and manicured nails, (2) a girl who wears her backpack up front, (3) or someone who loves attending college beerbong parties.

and how about those with navels that simply look ugly. yuck! it doesn't matter if you pierce a ring through that shit, it still looks like nick nolte! and i hate nick nolte. fuck nick nolte!

i'm out.

blogger images

2005-06-25T14:33:00.000+08:00

hm... so blogger launched blogger images in an attempt to make life easier for us bloggers to post pictures in our blog posts. fuck! can i just say that again? okay. so blogger launched blogger images in an attempt to make life easier for us bloggers to post pictures in our blog posts. friggin' weird the way i wrote that. like i was on crystal meth or something. wait a minute. i am on crystal meth. can i say that again? can i? can i? please. here it goes. i am on crystal meth!!! hahahaha. shitz!!! hey, dude, can you help me out with this METH problem i can't solve? yeah, it's like if {x^2+2x-35=0}, then x must be equal to? x is equal to five, bitch! hahaha! okay, bad joke. a total waste of time. i promise not to say crystal meth again. there, i said it. crystal meth!!!

but i'm not high or anything. honest. the only reason i logged in and posted this half-assed post is so i can test how blogger images work. y'know, just to have a first hand try on how this new blogger feature can disappoint and frustrate us more in the future as we struggle to continously improve the look and feel of our blogs.

like that friggin' photo of a black dog trying to dry hump that poor cat. aww.. poor cat. who's your daddy, bitch? who's your daddy??? are we allowed to call cats bitches? seriously. or this photo of a cardinal in vatican having a break. sniffer. fucking sniffer. this is an example of how scarface could've panned out had he turned away from sin and been faithful to the gospel.

that's it. i'm way to high to be posting shits like this right now. okay, that was a joke.

i'm out.

dumbo, that annoying weather guy, and monks

2005-06-23T08:36:00.000+08:00

so i saw an old college friend last week. yeah, she's old. about four, five years my senior. i'm betting she'll have a heart attack when she reads this. ha!

anyway, so i saw her. we shared an exchange of the usual "hi, how are you?" pleasantries.

y'know the drill:

"hi."

"hey."

"been a long time eh? so how are you?"

"fine. so what's happening?"

"oh nothing much."

"killed an elephant lately?"

"oh no, haven't been in africa for about two years now. i've heard ivories haven't been that attractive in the black market since 98. so i shifted."

"really? to what?"

"siberian tigers. their fur and bones attract quite a hefty sum for coats and traditional chinese medicine, y'know."

"if you ask me, i'd rather kill whales. i mean, when's the last time a whale ever did something for you eh??"

that would've been our exhange if we were POACHERS. but we're not.

i don't know about you guys, but this wet dumbo sure looks like a friggin' rat with a trunk.

so we had this instead:

"hi, A! how's it hanging there?"

"nothing much, audrey. we're experiencing a relatively cool middle of the week weather up here in the north with highs reaching 24 degrees celcius and lows of about 14 degrees as night falls. we're also having light to moderate winds coming from the coast, blowing through partly cloudy skies with a 20 percent chance of rain in the afternoon. so how's your situation there?"

"oh we're having a bit of dry spell and a mild heat wave with temperatures ranging from 27 to 36 degrees. i'd advise everyone to wear their sunscreen if they decide to step out of the shade as our skies are clear with no sight of precipitation for the next four days or so. the sun will rise at around 5:22 tomorrow morning, and it will set at 6:18 in the evening. back to you, A!"

a perfectly normal exchange, if we were WEATHER GUYS. but we're not. heck! one of us ain't even a guy. i was referring to her not being the guy, smartass.

i can probably crack this annoying motherfucker's head with a 2x4 in two seconds flat. given the chance of course.

so we had this exchange instead:

"hey, A! how you doin'?"

"oh nothing much actually. due to technical difficulties and lack of credit worthiness, my runway has been unable to offer others with the proper flight control facilities. so i've been out of the radar lately. but not totally out, y'know. i was once soaring the stratosphere a few months back when they asked me to descend to 3,000 feet, which is below the controlled airspace. so i tried to contact the others on one two one decimal five to try get me out my slump, but speedbird 32 suggested i take up the hold as instructed and just cruise at 800 feet with FILBs and other little itinerant bastards. so how about you?"

"i've been great! been with delta echo sierra for two years now. and i'm also in close contact with my peeps on one one eight decimal three five y'know. they've been really super and all. i remember once i had problems with strong headwinds and i was down to fuel minimums in a middle of a really long flight twelve miles north of manchester just past flight level 240. bulgarian 231 was so cool to lemme land and even allowed me to take off on both my inbound and outbound legs for free. woot!

"good for you."

that's how our conversation would've been if we were AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLERS. but we're not.

monks as air traffic controllers? hell yeah! they can pray for your safety. or if you die, they can pray you won't be reborn as paris hilton.

so it went down exactly like this:

"A! how are you, man?"

"fine."

"what happened? you don't look so good."

"audrey, audrey, audrey. we've been friends for what? seven years now? you know for a fact that i've never looked good."

"oh. okay."

"see you around."

so that was it. short. uneventful. boring. unwitty. casual. and simply fucking unfunny. but it was real.

i'm out.

fuck moby! my shin still hurts.

2005-06-17T15:56:00.000+08:00

this morning at the office was hell.

i'm just glad i don't keep a sledge hammer under my desk.

i was on a tight deadline. writing an important news release about our company's merger with "another" company which is actually "another" company because that other company is no other than our company too. yes, i like using the words "another" and "other" several times in one sentence. and yes, our company has agreed to enter into a defacto merger with no other than itself. it's like telling someone you're getting married. you hire a wedding planner. you send out all the invitations. and on the day itself, you show up in front of the priest with a life-sized wax replica of yourself. in a white gown. what an ass.

so there i was. deep in thought. writing. and in times like these, working on a really tight deadline and i'm focused and shit, there are actually three things that could really tick me off:
(1) i hate being stared at,
(2) i hate my work being stared at and
(3) i hate listening to moby

one or a combination of any of the three could spell danger to anyone, especially if i'm holding a blunt object.

anyway, so i was writing. then suddenly from out of nowhere this four year-old kid shows up. what the fuck is a kid doing in my office at 8:30 in the morning? apparently one of my officemates decided it was cool to bring her little creature at work. and she also decided that it was cool for her kid to hangout in my office instead of hers. fuck! does my door read day care, bitch?!?

don't get me wrong. i rarely hate kids. honest. i have two of my own. but i make sure they're at their best behavior everytime we're at somebody else's place. this kid, i assume, was not taught that way.

he went behind my desk and started bugging me. he stared at me. he stared at my monitor. and he looked a lot like moby. yeah, like he's on chemo therapy or something.

"what are you doing?"

"i'm writing something really important. why don't you go back to your mom."

"what are you writing?"

"something really important. please go back to your mom's office."

"are you writing a story? is it about samurai jack?"

"no, it's not about samurai jack. would you like a paper and a pencil? here. go sit there and draw something."

"but it's no fun drawing without crayons."

i didn't answer. i can feel my face turn red. i'm starting to lose focus. i'm starting to hum fatboy slim's weapon of choice. i'm starting to...

"you're fat! hahahaha! you're really fat and you have fat fingers too! hahahaha!!!"

"okay, that's it. get out of my office! now!"

he starts to cry. or at least, i thought.

"i'm sorry. but if you could just please go to your mom. please."

"you're mean. i'm telling you to my mom."

"good. anything to get you out of here."

that's when he came near me and kicked me in the shin. fuck! i can't even begin to tell you how much that stings! fuck! and i can't rub my shin because i'm fat and i can't reach it even if i'm sitting down. and it really fucking hurts. in fact, so bad that i wished his father masturbated in the shower instead four years ago.

"you fucking kid!!! i'm going to choke you til your eyes pop out!"

"hahaha! you can't catch me! hahahaha!"

then i gave him the finger. that did it. he stopped laughing. but his eyes grew in amazement. he went out of my office quietly.

i, on the other hand, went on to do my thing even with a swollen shin. twenty minutes later, the kid was running in circles at the lobby screaming, "fucking kid! fucking kid! fucking kid!" with both of his hands raised and both his middle fingers sticking out. shit. i'm fucked.

lunch at the cafeteria, everybody looked at me weird. again.

seriously, i will pay some people not to have kids. i mean, the least they can do is discipline them. or not bring them to the office because some people, like me, actually work at the office. if they can't do that, then i suggest they put 'em on a leash or something.

i'm just glad i don't keep a sledge hammer under my desk. because i could've smashed that kid's spine with it. or he could've cracked my shin with it.

fuck! he really looks like moby.

i'm out.

free starbucks coffee

2005-06-16T09:59:00.000+08:00

been hangin' out at a local starbucks every after work for the past couple of days. yes, because i love the coffee there (damn! i hope people at starbucks read this shit and give me free coffee everytime i go there). and yes, because i have nothing else better to do (then again, maybe they shouldn't read this).

lemme just say (or suggest... i'm still hoping they read this and give me free coffee) that this particular coffee outlet i frequent should upgrade the variety of reading materials they have for us customers. i mean, fuck! i usually have my coffee by myself. and because i hate staring into spaces and looking every inch the moron that i am in public, i end up asking for reading materials. magazines. the day's paper. the company brochure. their survey form. their barista application form. just about anything that can help me not look like a college drop out and a loser while i kill time. by the way, i'm not a college drop out. but i do look like a loser. and a moron. but of course you already know that.

so i go there and pay considerably more than what the fucking coffee's really worth, and what do i get? i get volumes upon volumes of girlie magazines. yes, you heard me. girlie mags. magazines that talk about the pros and cons of boob jobs. that talk about the benefits of hypoallergenic and non-corosive cosmetics. that talk about the right kind of bra that can give the illusion of having fuller breasts. that talk about finding mr. right. that talk about how to clean your clit even with long fingernails. that talk about beauty tips, coping with stress, love and relationship advice, plucking your eyebrows, waxing your underarm with honey and shit, yada, yada, yada, yada. bullshit!

lemme ask you this local starbucks outlet that i usaully frequent, who the fuck do you think is your target market here? fifteen year-old lindsay lohan wannabes? stupid highschool girls who think they fart everything that is nice in the world like candies, and rainbows, and unicorns, and daisies, and twinkling stars, and smurfs, and sugar and spice, and strawberries and cream, and oreos? i don't fucking think so.

what you have are people like me who work long hours in the office just to have the purchasing power to buy your insanely priced "gourmet" coffee, which you virtually stole from the equally hardworking coffee growers of south america by taking advantage of their business inadequacies. and yes, i am both verbose and incoherent when i haven't had my usual fix of four cups of coffee before noon. fuck you! burn your girlie mags or prepare to feel the wrath of an extremely fat guy!

having said this, i, however, still hope starbucks reads this and give me free coffee.

and why the fuck can't we spell girlie with a "y"?

i'm out.

what the dilly?

2005-06-15T12:13:00.000+08:00

i am a basketball fan. so bite me.

but i haven't watched a single minute of the detroit-san antonio championship series. because i think any game that features a boring school boy named tim and an ugly ape named ben can seriously cause impotency and low sperm count.

the only way i'm going to watch that series is if eva longoria shows up in the stands looking like this. or this. or this. jesus christ i think i'm about to explode! how desperate is this housewife, anyway? desperate enough i hope. *wink, wink*

or if david hasselhoff shows up. because we all know everybody just loves david hasselhoff, right? with or without baywatch, right? wrong! anyone with even a quarter of an ounce of self-respect would never ever ever be a fan of an actor that sports an 80s hairstyle . actually this picture of david was really funny when i first saw it. then it gave me nightmares for five days straight. the last one figured hasselhoff making out with spongebob. and if you think that was bad, the second half of my nightmare featured hasselhoff picking up spongebob by the waist and started rubbing him against his hairy chest, in between his legs, and up his ass. yes, just like a sponge! yuck! if the picture gives you nightmares, please let me know.

***

i'm sure by now everybody knows what happened to the michael jackson case. yes, he got acquitted. whaddayaknow, jacko is white afterall.

what most of us don't know, however, was how disappointed jacko was with the verdict. yes, he was disappointed. and yes, he's uglier than joan rivers. why was he disappointed? because the jury blew his only chance to ever experience some true manly love... for twenty years. poor jacko, he was really looking forward to finally have sex with someone his own age. well you can't have it all, right? now he goes back to his neverland ranch to have sex with kids a fifth his age.

oh, by the way, stephen king had something to say about the verdict, too.

***

so i had chicken for lunch today.

flat, dry, flaky, pan-fried chicken breasts. tasted like paper.

as i was about to chew my first chunk of chicken boobies, i suddenly had a thought. what if this chicken had a name? what if it had a family? kids? friends? a blossoming career in advertising? what if... aw fuck it! catchup always does the trick. yeah! catchup! high five, cathcup!

now that made me wonder why everyone at the cafeteria looked at me weird.

***

one day i'll attend a really hip PR event and all night i'll just stand in a corner holding my beer and wearing a shirt that reads: “DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING PEOPLE PERSON?”

yeah, that'll be nice. then when i'm tired of that i'll go at the end of the buffet table and pig out on the chips and dip. yeah, like the chips and dip were only made for me.

and when people try to get chips, i'll the slap the back of their hands and yell: "FUCK YOU, YOU PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A HOWARD STERN JOKE! STAY AWAY FROM MY CHIPS!!!"

and when i'm done with my beer, i'll close my eyes and just throw the bottle to the stage and pray really hard i hit a band member on the head. and when i do knock a band member out cold i'll yell: "YEAH! THAT'LL TEACH YOU NOT TO SING HANSON SONGS YOU FUCKING FAG!!!" even though they weren't playing any hanson shit.

***

so last week i was browsing through me blogroll and read something about mary poppins over at mussolini's.

a question: is mary poppins connected in any way to imelda poppins?

if you don't know who imelda poppins is, don't ask. it's a stupid question, i know.

i'm out.

old photos

2005-06-08T18:35:00.000+08:00

was feeling nostalgic over the weekend.

the wife was out of town. i had no money to burn. i was hungry. i'm always hungry. got tired of nba live. there was nothing good on the tele. was listening to elvis costello. then barry manilow. then i thought, how much lower can i go?

so what to do? i brought out the old photo albums. and fed my nostalgia. i saw my baby picture when i was two. yes, it was a naked baby photo. yes, i was damn cute. actually, i'm still damn cute if you ask me. that is, if you ask me. ask anyone else and you'll end up seeing gag reflexes.

what struck me, though, is how huge my balls were. damn! damn huge balls! the circumference of one was like bigger than the moon! well, give or take 10, 930 kilometers. and that's just my left nut.

everytime i sat down, i was like sitting on a planet like that gay character from that book "the little prince," written by that gay author antoine de saint excruciate or something. what's his name again? the gay character, i mean. oh yeah, little prince.

anyway, enough with my balls.

i was on my third album when i saw the ugliest, scariest, freakiest photo of a mofo i've ever seen in my entire life. my initial reaction was of course to jump out of my seat in horror and run around in circles in the front yard screaming, "repent motherfuckers! the end is near!!!"

i did that for two hours straight when my sister came out of the house looking really worried and asked me what the hell was i scared of. i showed her the picture.

"look! this thing. this hideous creature. i have never seen such grotesque monstrosity since ernest borgnine smiled in ariwolf's final episode!"

"what the hell is airwolf?"

"oh, nevermind. just look."

"but that's your picture when you were in high school."

i looked at it again. and again. and again. yes, it was me.

well, in that case, it's the second ugliest, scariest, freakiest photo of a mofo i've ever seen in my entire life. a distant second. the first would have to be michael jackson.

i'm out.

one of these days... and oh, another bit about hermie the hermaphrodite

2005-06-06T18:39:00.000+08:00

i got some shit to say.

okay, so maybe i don't. but there's only one reason why i haven't been blogging lately. well, not as regular as i used to. and not as regular as i want to. and that reason is... (drumroll please, max)...

maybe, just maybe, i've run out of things to say.

gasp!

now, don't get me wrong. i haven't been lying to you guys. it's true that i've been busy. actually, still busy. the past few months have been the worst in my pathetic career. i got blamed for things. things i failed to do. things i didn't do right. things i did right but were not done on time. but mostly (like 80% of the time) i got blamed for things that were stupidly done by other dickheads who didn't even have the brain to comply with my fucking requirements. everything just fucking exploded on my face. like a bad birthday joke. only my birthday's five months away. fuck! i hate birthdays. well, actually i hate birthdays that get equated with foul ups at work that feels like bad birthday jokes. did you get that? good. fucking good!

then there's the new boss i was assigned to. fucking VP for shit who was a former President and COO of a sister company that went bye-bye just recently. yes people, currently i'm reporting to a man who eats, breathes, and dreams of "chapter 11s." fucking sweet!!! and he looks like a white, balding gorilla. the hair on his head is thinning faster than the ozone, but the hair all over his body is just as thick as a wool rug. and he always has this comb in his back pocket. yeah, and he constantly combs his chest hairs with it. fucking freaky!!! especially when the comb gets stuck just at the bottom of his left nipple and he starts screaming like a sissy girl. freaky! and it happens like 6 to 7 times everyday.

and every time he gets scared, y'know, like when he watches horror movies and shit and his hair starts to stand on end, his shirt expands and he turns into this creature that looks like a fluffy teddy bear. a hideous fluffy teddy bear. one of these days, i'm going to buy 500 dozens of balloons and rub it against cotton. then i'm going to stuff all the balloons inside his office. when he enters in the morning... wham! fucking static baby!!! yeah!

then there was this time i got rudely evicted from my office. yeah! evicted! like i fucking pay rent to work there! apparently some lady on a power trip who looks like a fucking frog decided to move my things to the other room while i was out on field work. when i got back, all my things were just piled up. was i pissed? of course. i wanted to take my box of push pins and just shove it in her rotten vagina. oh, i know it's rotten because a vagina's is directly proportional to how a woman looks. and that woman looks like ALF. yeah, complete with the 80's hair sprayed do and all, only she has a longer chin. one of these days i'm going to take that old office photocopier on the roof of our office and patiently wait for that bitch to come out the front door. when she comes out, i'll push the damn thing over the ledge. SPLAT! ha! how's that for an office transfer, bitch!!!

oh, okay, where the fuck was i? yeah, about me being too busy to post. which is actually about me not having a damn topic to post in this stupid blog. posting something that says you're "too busy" to post would just be too cliche and fucking idiotic. you're not too busy, you just don't know what to write about. seriously, if you were too busy, guess what, you wouldn't be writing a fucking post about how busy you were because you'd be busy getting busy with whatever busy business is in making your life so busy. got that? good. fucking good. because one of these days, i won't be "too busy" and i'll get my mojo back and i'll be blogging again. like my life depended on it. like i've never blogged before.

***
PLUG:

oh, remember hermie the hermaphrodite? of course you do. i know i do. well, he/she made an entire post dedicated to me. actually he/she was suppose to make fun of me for four hours straight. that was the deal. but hermie only managed to come up with a 4-minute blah-blah about me. actually, it's a 22-minute blah-blah if you're a poor illiterate fuck. anyway, how did this happen? well, i asked for it. in a form of a comment. and hermie gladly obliged. i said please and he/she said yes, and we just kinda had a moment. right there. eewww.

go check the hermaphrodite out and ask him/her if he/she can make fun of you too. yeah, go there. because i'm tired of making use of "/" everytime i talk about the bitch. one of these days, i'm gonna stop using the "/" and just call everybody gay. do we even have a pronoun for gays?

i'm out.

why the fuck won't they work?

2005-05-30T18:08:00.000+08:00

i'm sorry if i wasn't around for a while. i got hit by a car.

and on that note, let's rant.

don't you just fucking hate things when they don't work on the time of day they're suppose to work. no, i'm not talking about complicated things that have complex circuit assemblies and shit. i'm talking about ordinary, mundane, every day things that seem to fuck up everytime we need them the most. what the fuck is up with that?!!

i mean, it's not like they have a mind of their own that they suddenly stop functioning at will and begin on an existential tirade of what the fuck life means or who gives a rat's ass about their existence. they are things! they don't have a brain! or do they?

:: calculator -- the most intelligent freak of the class of 2005 confidently enters the room full of nervous wrecks, cheaters, and dumbasses. they're about to begin what is the hardest and most important exam of their lives. the hardest and most important exam starts. mr. intelligent whips out his calculator. presses the power button. nothing happens. the calculator suddenly goes pfft.

the result: he finishes the exam 10 minutes before the alloted time expired. the goddamn virgin was so frustrated because he felt he didn't ace it. he goes home and hangs himself.

score: calculator - 1; geek who died a virgin - 0

:: shoelaces -- guy goes in the cafeteria. fills up his tray with every possible food offered in the menu. walks to his table. from the corner of his eye (left eye), he sees the new employee. a chick. a hot chick. all alone at her table. looking at him. as if inviting him to join her for lunch. and eventually shag in her apartment's couch after work. the guy senses the need. he slowly walks towards the new hot chick. he smiles. she smiles. his shoe laces get undone. he steps on it. he trips. he falls face flat on the bowl of peas. there's potato all over the place. and his pork chop just ruined his new calvin klien shirt.

the result: everybody laughed. the new hot chick laughed. his ex-girlfriend laughed. his bestfriend laughed. his boss laughed. even the toothless fat lady who cooks the peas laughed. everybody. he skipped lunch. quit work. and went home hungry and unemployed.

the score: shoelaces - 1; guy trying to be cute while holding a tray full of food - 0

:: fly zipper -- big party. lots of guests. top honchos of major tv networks. talent scouts. important bimbos and shit. he was the entertainment for the night. the newest stand up comedian on the rise. the buzz of the town. he was booking gigs left and right. and this, by far, was the biggest gig of 'em all. then the time came. he took center stage. everyone was quiet. he started off with his first joke. everyone was laughing. laughing real hard. second joke, everyone was still laughing. everyone laughed non-stop all throughout his set. he can't believe it. then he waves goodbye. he suddenly realizes, his fly was open. and he forgot to wear his boxers.

the result: his little pecker peeked at everyone in that important party. and it was the ugliest, funiest, and tiniest pecker anyone has ever seen. he gave up stand up comedy to work in a sweater factory.

score: fly zipper - 1; sienfeld wannabe with a small dick - 0

:: lighter -- was raining. hard. he just came out of the bar at 4 am, two hours past the last call. he can still hear her say those words: it will never work between us. again, he started to cry. like a sissy. really cry. like a 10-year old girl with pigtails who wanted ice cream. he walked. about four blocks. that became eight. that became twelve. he was looking for some cigarettes. at four in the morning. under the rain. he crosses the street. no cars, no cabs, no lights, no nothin'. then he remembered, he still has a stick left somewhere inside his jacket. he frisks himself. and there it was. the stick. and like heaven was on his side, the rain stopped as he took out his last stick for the night. it was like salvation. there, at the middle of the street, he put the stick in his mouth and took out his lighter. the damn lighter won't work. he kept trying. still, nothing. by now he's pretty pissed. at everything. the lighter, the cigarette, the wet road, the darkness. he was yelling out expletives like there was no tomorrow. then out of nowhere, a car came out of the darkness. he was hit in the leg, was tossed a good 15 feet in the air, and landed head first on the sidewalk.

the result: well, what the fuck do you think? of course the guy died. his skull was cracked open for chrissakes!

the score: the car - 1; heart-broken bosa nova - 0

***

now if these things don't work the way they're suppose to work when you need 'em and where you need 'em the most, then what makes you so sure that microsoft longhorn will?

i rest my fucking case!

i'm out.

desribe yourself in one word

2005-05-21T18:06:00.000+08:00

heard it a lot of times.

everytime you get to the "getting-to-know-you" part of retreats, seminars, summer camps and even the first day of classes, they always have it.

stand up. say your full name. say your nickname. and to keep it real short, describe yourself in one word and why?

now what the fuck does this do? nothing, actually. it's just a stupid routine done by every pale-skinned, pimple-faced, sexually frustrated camp counselor. it's nonsense, that's what it is.

so far, i've heard desriptions like:

(1) i'm cool -- because i'm cool as ice baby! yeah! (bullshit! if you're cool, then why the fuck do you always carry around a pocket calculator? geek! you're a geek!)
(2) i'm friendly -- because i'm always here to listen. (really? well listen to this then. i don't think you're friendly, bitch!)
(3) very artistic -- because i'm really good in the arts. (i can see that. but is that an excuse not to wash your hair? take a shower you fucking hippie scum!)
(4) religious -- because i go to mass every sunday. and i love jesus! i really do! (woman, don't say that. for your own good, don't say that. because you might be personally talking to god before this session is over.)
(5) funny -- because i like telling jokes and i like making people laugh and i'm a very jolly person. here's a joke, what do you call a hundred lawyers chained at the bottom of the ocean? hm, c'mon tell me, what? hahaha! this is so funny! (the fuck! have you been on heavy medication lately? maybe you haven't noticed, but people laugh at you not with you, dumbass! yeah, that's because you look like a snot.)

when it was my turn, i simply said this:

A MISTAKE.

and i didn't bother explaining. why? because i don't feel like i owe a bunch of strangers an explanation of who i am.

i am a mistake, that is that. people who know me would agree to this.

i'm out.

what happened?

2005-05-20T18:10:00.000+08:00

7:22 pm. a guy walks in a bar. he's obviously tired from work. loosens his tie and unbuttons that pesky choker known as the shirt's top button choker.

he orders for two shots of vodka. bartender obliges. he downs the first shot. no problem. he looks at his watch. it's 7:29. he downs the second shot. no problem. he orders another double. both went down in a couple of seconds. then he orders a beer. he leans forward with elbows on the bar. he chills.

five minutes later, he turns to the bar tender and asks who won the game. the bartender doesn't answer. didn't hear the question.

then a voice of a lady suddenly said the lakers lost again. he looks at the end of the bar and sees the most gorgeous woman he has ever seen in his entire life. sweat starts rolling down his forehead. his heart is pounding so hard, he could've sworn he saw it jump off his chest and do the macarena right there at the bar. he closes his eyes. for a minute. focus. focus. gets up from his chair. walks. walks. walks with a swagger. he feels like bruce lee. or bruce wayne. either way, he's beaming with confidence. he'll score tonight. no doubt.

a few seconds later, his face is about six inches away from the woman. he feels nervous. very. the woman's smiling. looking at his eyes.

he asks her if he can buy her a drink. the woman doesn't answer. instead, she reaches out for her bag and takes out a knife. with one stroke, he's down on the floor. holding his left ear. well, actually the woman is holding his left ear. he's just bleeding. messy. very. badly.

then the woman gets up. pays for her drink and walks out the door. he looks at his watch, it's 2:30 am.

***

i'm out.

again, feeling random

2005-05-18T18:56:00.000+08:00

i haven't shaved for two days and suddenly i look like a character from planet of the apes. fucking facial hair! i hate facial hair. the only benefit of me having facial hair is i can grow wicked goatees in as short as two weeks. after that, the 'tee becomes high maintenance. and i hate shaving around goatees and shaping them every morning. argh! it's just too much work for someone who just woke up and haven't had enough coffee in his system. it's just too much work for someone who has to hurry up to catch the bus. it's just too much work for someone who has fat fingers. there, i said it.

***

and what's the fuss about the grand opening of the new star wars movie? so what??? i think it's bullsith... i mean, shit, bullshit! we can pretty much draw the story ourselves after episode one right? anakin skywalker, son of a slave, was given to the jedis for training. the only reason he moved to the darkside was because obi-wan always kept an eye on him, everywhere. in his sleep, in the bathroom, everywhere. and all anakin wanted to do, as a normal kid with an insane count of mediclorean, was to masturbate all day. hey, it ain't easy being a jedi when you're in your teens. you always have to control the "force." no wonder anakin was so pissed at obi-wan. "he's holding me back!" he said.

yoda: fear leads to anger. anger leads to hate. hate leads to suffering.
me: no, yoda, you shriveled, incoherent maggot! sexual frustration leads to suffering. that's why anakin fucked amidala real well everytime they saw each other.

***

i don't really have a third topic. so i think i'm just gonna go now.

i'm out.

then i woke up

2005-05-15T18:20:00.000+08:00

we all had them.

bad dreams. weird dreams. of the dry or wet variety. in black and white or in full, textured, vibrant colors. short ones or long ones, like an epic. we've had 'em. funny thing is, i've never been bothered by dreams or what they mean.

is it my subconscious cryin' out for help (stop watching teen movies, motherfucker! julia stiles ain't all that!)? or is it just my imagination going haywire even when i'm sleeping (hey, with a few silicon implants here and there, julia stiles can be hot!)?

but i've never been bothered. not until this morning when i realized that for the first time in a long time, i didn't have one. a dream. so it got me thinking about the past dreams i had. and i'd like to share them with you.

***
i was in a barbershop, the one that i frequent, to get a blow job. of course not. jeez. to get my hair cut, what else. anyway, i asked for my barber, roland. the lady said roland's not there. he called in sick. i said i badly needed a haircut because i'll be going to this important party the following day. she told me wait in the barber's chair. then she called in the new guy. out came from the back of the shop a guy sporting a full beard and long hair. they guy looked like bo bice, only taller. then he asked what kind of hair cut? and i said just an inch off the sides and the back.

then he said, "okay. but before i cut your hair, think about it."

then i went, "think about what?"

then he said, "do you think it's gonna make you change?"

then i went silent for a while. i was looking at him at the mirror. he was looking back at me.

"look, dude, bo, whatever your name is, i just want my haircut, and i'm in a hurry. so, please, if you could just..."

"i was just messin' with you. one haircut comin' right up. by the way, the name's jesus."

then i woke up.

***
i was watching kill bill vol. 1 at the living room. then i suddenly heard my cousin's voice from the kitchen.

"dude, i thought i heard someone knock. go check the door."

"you do it, i'm watching a movie here."

no answer. then after ten minutes the whole kitchen was covered with thick, white smoke.

"hey, what the fuck are you doing there?"

he comes out from the smoke holding a bag of chips and a waterpipe and said, "i'll be at the bathroom. if that kill bill chic, uma thurman, knocks on the door tell her i'll be out in a minute."

then i woke up.

***
was at the office. getting some work done. suddenly i get this email from kofi annan. weird? oh it gets better. his subject read: re:hey! increase your manhood by 4 inches!

so i opened the damn thing. it only had two sentences in it. it said, "dear friend, maybe you can help us out. the unicef needs more guns!"

then i woke up.

***
john lennon, yes THE john lennon, and i were having coffee at this dingy cafe. he wasn't saying much while i was bugging him all day for an autograph.

then he took off his trademark lennon glasses and said, "you know what most blokes know little of? it's that yoko ono was the best sex i've ever had."

i said, "okay..."

silence.

then he said,"you should write that down."

then i woke up.

***
now, if you can interpret dreams, please email me, why? i dunno. for you to waste time, i guess.

i'm out.

at least...

2005-05-11T18:16:00.000+08:00

when you're down. i mean really down.

like life betrayed you.

like you have this intense burning desire to purchase this stupid gadget that you really don't need, and you know it'll be phased out in a couple of months with a newer, more sophisticated, more expensive version that has no significant upgrades whatsoever from the older version, only it looks more cool now because they have it in metallic silver, and you thought you'd be more popular at work because you're the only one who owns such a gadget even if you don't know what the fuck it does, but you're broke. (got that? good.)

like you're up for promotion for about 18 months now, and you've worked so fuckin' hard to impress your boss, only to see the new guy who has been in the office for just four months snatch the job of your dreams from right under your nose. then you begin to suspect your boss is really into men because he has this smile, like he just got his dick sucked by the new guy every time they finish their super confidential close-door meetings on tuesdays.

like you almost got ran over by this pre-owned, recently waxed, bmw, owned by this pompous, smart-ass, pimple-faced virgin, shit-eating business major who just graduated from college and thinks he knows everything in the world because he's the day manager over at a mcdonald's franchise owned by his father.

like your life's a really bad sequel. of a really bad movie. like encino man. and you're pauly shore.

please remember, that at least:

you don't have an identical siamese twin.

who is a bother attached at your shoulder.

and he's gay.

and you're not.

and you saw him take the KY Jelly out of the medicine cabinet because he has a date coming over.

and you only have one ass.

think about it. and learn to put things in perspective.

i'm out.

stoopid (what a way to spell)

2005-05-10T18:11:00.000+08:00

okay. a confession.

back in college, there was this one morning i really tried very hard not to be late for an 8AM exam. it was a math exam, but what the fuck, who gives a shit? anyway, as usual, i got up 7:30, downed a cold cup of coffee i left in my mug from the night before, had a stick of cigarette, and hit the shower. everything was pretty normal. until the point i decided to change my normal shower routine. you see, like most normal dorks, i strictly follow a shower routine that could take as long as 15 minutes:

(1) shave
(2) brush my teeth
(3) take a big dump
(4) soak up in the shower
(5) shampoo
(6) masturbate (oops!)
(7) lather up with soap
(8) rinse
(9) then towel dry

on that fateful day, however, i skipped routine #6 and interchanged #5 and #7. the result: i had soap in my eyes. and since i was in a hurry, i was dumb enough not to rinse it off. i reached for the bottle of shampoo instead. with my limited vision, i got the bottle, squeezed out a fair amount, and proceeded to work my hair. then it started to smell funny. the shampoo. it didn't smell like head and shoulders. it smelled like that same smell i smell when i wash the dishes. that made me think for a while, "what the fuck? i thought of a sentence that had the word "smell" in it thrice!"

then i started to rinse. then i saw it. it wasn't head and shoulders. i was surprised. and i acted all surprised too. i put on the "maculay-culkin-home-alone-part-1" surprised face complete with hands on the cheeks and mouth wide open. i was practicing that face for years. finally, i got to use it.

going back to the story, yeah it was not shampoo. instead, the thing i had in front of me was a yellow bottle of dish washing liquid. now ain't that nice eh? i had a math exam in 10 minutes, memorized a bunch of math formulas and solved shitloads of math problems all night when i realized i'm the most stupid fat guy to ever shower in the world.

how did a bottle of dishwashing liquid end up in the bathroom? i don't fucking know.

what happened after that? i was late, because, again, i spent a good 10 minutes tying my shoelaces. but i aced the exam. because if there's one thing i'm good at, it's math. believe it.

***

but then, i realized that my stupidity was actually inherited. that means i can't take full credit for every blunder that i make in life. it's genetic, you see. my grandfather (from my mom's dad) once added tide (yes, the powdered soap tide) in his coffee because he thought it was coffeemate. the grandfather also once used bleach on his hair because he thought it was conditioner. apparently, he also had soap in his eyes at the time, and he stepped out the bathroom sporting an eminem do. my uncle (my mom's younger bro) once had hair mousse on his beard and moustache because he thought it was shaving cream. and just the other day, my mom was hysterical in the living room because she can't turn down the volume of the TV. she said the remote was busted. then i pointed out to her that the thing she was holding was not the remote, but her cellphone (i wish i'm making this up, but all happened for real).

after that, i thought, wow! i got the stupid gene from my mom's side! and with that discovery i yelled "woot!" at the top of my lungs.

i thanked my mom. i said if it wasn't for her, i'd completely go through life with low self esteem because i'd think my stupidity is my own doing. now i can just blame her side of the family! then i hugged her, and kissed her, and said, "happy mother's day, stupid mom."

she smiled.

i'm out.

look

2005-05-07T18:55:00.000+08:00

it was not just hectic. it was fuckin' insane!!!

for the past week, i've slept a total of less than 16 hours. my brain's so sore right now i can actually feel it squishing against the inner lining of my cracked skull. i cracked my skull when i was four. i bit the hand of my nanny. dropped me head first. no, actually she grabbed me by my feet and swung me against an anvil. yes, i'm lying. no human being would've had the strength to carry me when i was four. but i did crack my skull. yes, i'm a spaz.

so, i got out of work about half an hour ago. decided to have coffee to pump some sort of life to my tired, sore, zoned out brain. was sitting outside the cafe. smoking. my chin rested on my left palm, which was supported by my dark, chaffing, manly left elbow that rested on the cold steel table. my right hand was holding a cigarette over an ashtray. my eyes were staring into blank space. my mind was blank. didn't want to do anything.

suddenly from the corner of my eye, i saw this girl looking at me. no, she wasn't checking me out. the last time somebody checked me out, i was 14. that somebody was a man. anyway, she was looking at me. i was bothered. of course by the way she looked at me. you know. like she has a dozen smart ass comments going through her head about the way i dressed and how pathetic i am and shit.

i may have been a bit paranoid. hey, haven't had enough sleep, remember?

but still i was bothered. so i looked at her too. and i gave her that look. you know. the kind of look that seemed to say, "hey bitch! i may be fat and balding, but at least i make it look good. you, on the other hand, are just ugly. wait. no, you're not ugly. you're mediocre ugly! you're not even the kind of ugly that makes people turn around, look at you twice, and have an impact on their lives for even ten seconds. right now, i'd like to kick you in the groin!"

then she looked the other way. ha! that'll teach her not to stare at people. especially cranky, spazzed out people with cracked skulls.

***
to the readers of this blog. i miss you all. i love you all. and i'm not lying. just been busy lately. you know, work, life, burly guys. i'm really tired. feeling very random. not stable at the moment. i hope you understand. as if you care. heh.

i'm out.

i'd choke april with my bare hands

2005-05-03T18:37:00.000+08:00

i had the worst april of my pathetic life. and by all indications, it won't get any better anytime soon.

most of it had to do with work. and pressure. then stress. the combination of the three never fails to upset my stomach.

for the past four weeks i was frantic. i was having panic attacks. well, sort of panic attacks. i was desperately cramming three months worth of work into these four short weeks. i was working even on weekends. and if you thought working on a monday was bad, try working on a sunday. that'll be just super!

only time i get to rest is when i sleep, or go for a leak, or smoke, or blog. i usually blog to relieve stress. either that or i go relentlessly punch holes in the wall and violently curse at my desk lamp. fuck you desk lamp! okay, i'm lying. i don't have a desk lamp. i curse at my tape dispenser. fuck you tape dispenser! fuck you! okay, that felt better. jesus fuckin' christ, i'm pathetic.

but what do you do when you run out of walls to punch holes in? you rant.

:: people who can't understand what "call back after 15 minutes" means -- it seems that i can't convince people, even over the phone, that what i do is important. everybody takes a break. i get left behind because i'm working. the phone rings. i answer it. caller looks for someone not there at the moment. i politely ask him to call back after fifteen minutes.

that should've been enough, right? wrong.

forty seconds later, the same guy calls back and asks for the same person. "look, dude, i'm not lying here. they've all gone for a 15-minute break. just hang up, wait for 15 minutes, then call back. or i can take a message and have him call you back. okay? okay." wrong again.

two minutes later, phone rings, same guy. "fuck! dude, do you know why the fuck am i talking to you right now? that's because i sacrificed my 15-minute break to get more work done. and i'm not getting anything done with you calling three times for the past three minutes. what the fuck is your problem? is it that important? are you lonely? are you a loser? attention whore? call back in 15 minutes, wackjob!!! hang up right now or this phone will be shoved up your ass faster than you can hit that redial button!!!

15 minutes later.

hey steven, your mother called. yeah, three times.

:: people who are "high on life" -- somebody had elmo for breakfast. yeah, you see them everywhere. they have this big goofy grin on their faces. you ask them what they're on, and they answer, "hey man, i'm high on life!" now what the fuck is that???

"high on life? please bore us with your spiritual mambo jumbo oh enlightened one."

"dude being high on life means everything's clearer. everything's in perspective. everything's blah blah blah"

"okay. i get the point. please shut up and turn the other way."

"but it's sooo much better when you're high on life. everything's sooo much clearer, everything's blah blah blah..."

"okay, that's it. shut up. or what'll be clearer to you is the back of my hand repetitively slapping you across your eyes. get it? good. and you still don't shut up, i'll go bash your head on the pavement for about forty times. by then, you'll be higher than life. you'll be beyond life. you'll be in the afterlife. and you can't get any higher than that, believe me."

:: my fucking shoelaces that keeps getting undone -- okay, i can't, for the friggin' life of me, get my attention straight. like for instance, it really takes me a long time to get dressed in the morning because i can't get focused. eventually i wind up staring at the wall for a good fifteen minutes. yeah, the wall with the holes. then i have to do my shoelaces. since i have this homer simpson belly sticking out, i get so fucking frustrated just bending over and tying them. *frustrated!!!* so i tie them real fucking well, like i triple knot them and shit. but immediately after every time i have lunch, the fucking shoelaces magically come undone. what the fuck is wrong with you shoe??? why do you do this to me? stay tied motherfucker! stay tied!!!

now i don't know what magical force is behind this annoying mystery of life, but i'm going to get to the bottom of this.

do i have a jedi knight office mate that just likes to see me scream obscenities at my shoes that's why he unties them by using "the force?"

do we have ghosts in the office that are so fucking playful, they'd like seeing fat guys bend over and struggle to triple knot stubborn shoelaces? is it casper? well if it's casper, then he's not that friendly after all isn't he? no wonder the dude's fucking dead!

i'm going to get to the bottom of this.

i'm out.

where was i?

2005-04-28T18:57:00.000+08:00

so, everyone who is anyone in blog city seems to be taking a breather.

i was out for three fucking days and i hardly saw any changes in the damn scenery when i got back. and three days without blogging, for me, is quite long. like a month. it felt like i was out for a month. so i'll just say that. because that's what it felt. i was out for a month. dang!

why was i out? actually i have a very valid reason.

three days... er.... a month ago, i was out for a walk. nothing special. coffee. cigarettes. and my alone time. enjoying it actually.

then suddenly three guys jumped out from the bushes and ganged up on me. they were asking for money. they were all big. the smallest guy, obviously the ring leader of the circus, was like 6'8". actually he was 5'2", but he did sound like 6'8" so i'll just say that. they also had guns. uzis. glocks. .45 pistols. ak-47s. name it, they have it. there was no chance i'd be able to use my kung fu on them. so decided play along.

"jesus christ! me? money? would you like some lint, because i have a lot those? how about some falling hair? no? look, man. i've got nothing. i'm the cheapest guy alive."

"shut up and hand me over your wallet!"

so i hand over my wallet.

"receipts, bills, ids... what the fuck is this???"

"oh, that's a picture of mr. t. he's my dad. look, we have the same eyebrows."

"bullshit! this fat motherfucker's broke," said the other guy who stands 6'10" and was holding the ak-47. "i say we waste the bitch!"

"no, wait," said the ring leader. "i have an idea. take off your pants fatso."

"what the fuck? is this fuckin' rape? because i could set you up with a couple of bitches i know downtown. they'd gladly do it for free."

"shut up! take off your pants or you die!"

"okay, okay. jeezus."

"good. now squat on this paper bag and take a big dump on it. now!"

"you want me to shit on this bag? what the fuck for?"

"do it!"

thank god i had eight dimsum platters for lunch. so that's what i did. i squat on the bag and began to expel shit from my body so hard i almost had an aneurysm. then the unthinkable happened. the three guys suddenly dropped their pants and started jerking off. on me. while i was taking a dump. fuck!

i couldn't take it anymore. so i passed out. for three days. that felt like a month.

and that's what happened.

that's why i was out.

actually, that's not what happened. work got in the way. life got in the way. but i wanted to do a post about three burly guys getting off on me while i was taking a dump. so, there.

i'm out.

lemme get this out of the way

2005-04-28T18:32:00.000+08:00

i just saw your picture
about fifteen minutes ago
and i suddenly felt
a sharp pain in the middle of my chest
i can't explain the pain
but it does have a name
it's guilt

but i found a way to get this out of me

i'll work out my karma

in the gym

missed me? i guess not.

2005-04-25T12:36:00.000+08:00

my wife works for this colossal telecommunications company. colossal. yeah, they hand out colossal remuneration packages to their employees and charge colossal air time rates to their customers. colossal.

what does it have to do with my next post? nothing.

:: people who are not in the library but still insist in using their library voice -- i usually play my wicked mp3 collection or my launchcast radio while at work. it keeps me stable. and i consider myself a pretty considerate guy (really, i'm pretty), so i keep the volume at a fairly manageable level. the only time i turn it a down a notch or two is when the boss drops by every morning to talk about how much his balls were itching the whole night. and how much he enjoys KY jelly with his coffee. sick bastard. anyway, that's what i do. so i expect everyone who drops by my office to speak up with a volume suited for an office conversation. because i won't fucking turn down the volume for them. that being said, i'm still constantly annoyed by people who insist in using their library voice.

"hey A, can you give me last month's KRA monitoring table, because my department needs it to review team members who were able to hit their targets and..."

"i'm sorry, BUT WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?!!"

these people need to be taught a lesson. maybe i'd talk to them first. y'know, be diplomatic and shit. "look, sissy, if you want us to have a good working relationship, please raise the volume of your voice. do it before i kill you. thanks." if that doesn't work, then i'd pick them up by their noses and hang them behind my door for the whole 8 hours. why? because this is not a fucking library, bitch!

can you see a sign that says "silence?" can you see endless rows of bookshelves? can you see a librarian? no, he's not a librarian, he's conan. not conan the librarian, dumbass! he's conan the "who-the-fuck-cares-i-have-muscles-big-enough-to-break-your-face" barbarian. and he has this mighty sword that can cut you in half if you don't raise the volume of your voice to an appropriate level, assmunch!

i know a lot of you have problems with loudmouths. you're annoyed by loudmouths. but at least you can hear 'em.

:: people who hand out resto menus in the street -- well, not just in the street. they're fuckin' everywhere. they're in every corner of the mall. they go inside offices. they double as pee pee room attendants, "good afternoon, sir. here's your towel. and here are today's specials." bullshit!!! who the fuck wants to think about food inside the bathroom? who? tell me. okay, i'll have the ribeye and a bottle of the most expensive "get-your-pathetic-fucking-menu-out-of-my-face-before-i-force-you-to-drink-toilet-water" wine.

here's an idea. why don't you just close shop and move to iraq where the chances of you being shot while handing out menus in the street would be higher.

remember this people, if a place has to have a guy outside handing out menu's, then chances are the place sucks ass!

:: people who always have the inside track -- i hate them. i hate them with passion. they think they know everything about the latest happenings around town. like this guy who once said he had the inside track on the reason why jennifer aniston and brad pitt broke up. yeah. he said his aunt's, cousin's, mother's, nephew's roommate has a godfather who's niece is a friend of someone who now works as a studio custodian in hollywood.

great! you see, horsefucker, what you just did automatically qualifies you to work at access hollywood. yeah, with that queer, billy bush. now, if you could just turn around and walk the other way. please. before i peel all the skin off your body. thank you.

and oh, the reason why jennifer and brad broke up? jen farts too much and brad rarely showers.

i'm out.

stuff and things

2005-04-20T14:24:00.000+08:00

stuff

i've been getting a lot of mails lately. no, not hate mails. and definitely not fan mails. they're mails from, dig this, friendster. ha! now why the fuck would friendster send me emails? it's not like i have a stupid friendster account or anything. holy shit. i just remembered i do have a friendster account. damn, that's lame!

so about the emails. "friends" from my stupid and lame friendster network (yeah, all 14 of them. what can i say? i'm really not that friendly.) have been fielding notices that they've started their own friendster blog.

great.

another blog.

great.

yay fucking yay! let's celebrate shall we? bring out the champagne, drink 'em all up, then shove the bottle up your ass you talentless piece of shit. because the last thing the world needs right now is another blog that talks about nothing but you getting up every morning, skipping class or being late for work, and taking some random test or attending some useless meeting. shut the fuck up! go out and have sex, get drunk, screw your professor, your dog, your officemate, or someone, i don't care. if your life is a 9-5 hell, do something about it, like, i don't know, get fired. but please, mr. talentless fucktard who wants to believe he's a writer, please, stay away from blogging. do other things, just don't blog. hey, i can get up, take a shit, and write about it too. does that mean i should create a blog too? hell no! oh wait. i already did. nevermind.

things

this just in. there's a new pope. joseph ratzinger (did i get that right?) alias pope benedict XVI. and he's german. not catholic. but german. what a stupid joke.

rumor has it that our boy, joe, here was part of hitler's army way back in world war II. the same army that almost annihilated the jews to extinction in the 1940s. what a way to start things off eh?

cardinals at the vatican said the new pope is planning to talk to dirk nowitzki of the dallas mavericks about skipping the basketball hall of fame after 7-foot bavarian retires from playing... to be canonized as saint. i didn't know jesus was such a basketball fan.

stuff

now that there's a new pope, i guess i better change my poll then.

the results:

48 people voted. 42% wanted conan o'brien to be pope, 25% voted for donald trump, while 8% of you fuckers wanted homer simpson to be head of the church. but from the list, i voted for ozzy. imagine him biting a bat's head off everytime he says mass. that'll be just wicked! yeah!

things

is it just me or has anyone noticed that DONALD TRUMP is just an anagram for PORN MALT DUD.

i'm out.

whatever happened to amelia earhart... blah blah blah

2005-04-18T16:40:00.000+08:00

there are those who were destined to fly.

and there are those who were cursed to stay grounded and crawl the earth for all eternity.

that is reality, and we must learn to accept that.

in 1903, the wright brothers, with their monstrous creation, conquered the air for 12 seconds. some 60 years later, they recorded smash hits that included "you've lost that loving feeling" and "unchained melody." wait a minute. those were the righteous brothers. shit.

anyway, moving on. in june 1928, amelia earhart became the first woman to fly across the atlantic. incidentally, the boeing company lays off some 20,000 to 30,000 employees 73 years later. talking through a spirit medium, amelia said she wished she was the one who got laid instead.

what is my point here? i don't fucking know. all i know is not all creatures gifted with wings should be flying.

***
pilot: tower, this is flight 232 requesting permission to land, over.
tower: roger that flight 232. the runway's all clear for landing.
pilot: roger that.
(a few milliminutes later)
pilot: tower, this is flight 232. there seems to be a problem with our visual. the runway, is blocked with something grey. it has the word nautica printed on it.
tower: roger that flight 232. abort! abort!
pilot: too late. my landing gears and flaps are already down. will make an emergency landing on a nearby field. wish me luck, tower.
tower: godspeed, flight 232.

***
next thing you know a fat guy's blurting out inaudible expletives, twitching and turning with both of his hands struggling to reach the back of his neck, while his brand spankin' new grey nautica shirt is drenched with a mug of freshly brewed coffee.

the fat guy is me. a cockroach landed on the back of my neck.

i hate roaches. i hate them all. i wish it would rain mothballs for 40 days and 40 nights so every goddamn cockroach would just die! or i wish everyone in china, all 1.3 billion of them, would join fear factor and each of them would have to eat roaches for about a week so they can win $50,000 and a pair of kicks from nike... yeah, the one that says "made in fucking china."

fuck! i hate creepy, crawly cockroaches! and i miss my shirt! argh!!!

i'm out.

i love my stapler

2005-04-14T20:21:00.000+08:00

sometimes when i'm bored i play up these scenarios in my brain. fun, sunshine-y, skippy-dee-doo-da scenarios. for example, i want to buy a whole box of spray paint. then i'd sneak in the office really early, like fucking 5:00 am early, and proceed to spray the words "fuck you" on every goddamn monitor in the office. and for my boss' monitor, i'd spray the words "fuck you! you're an idiot you fucking fag!!!" yeah, that'll be fun. and did i say i'd do it on every monitor? yeah, every single one of them. except for the one co-worker that annoys me the most. because that's where i'll hide the cans once i'm done.

then i'll go home, take a shower, drink coffee, and be at the office on time. then i'll go really nuts like, "who the fuck did this??? answer me! have you no respect for office property? i say we find the motherfucking vandal who did this and cut his dick off!!!" then i and 33 other thugs in the office will do rounds and i'd point to them that fuckface's monitor where i hid all the cans. then we'll take him outside and beat him up real bad. til his black and blue and can no longer speak. then i'd get my boss to fire him in front of everyone. then he'd be crying like a fag and be begging for his job back, but my boss will just kick him in the groin and say: "i'm not a fucking fag you unemployed piece of crap!!!"

that'll be fun.

and as he leaves the office with all his things neatly packed in his stupid box i'd say to him: "hey asshole, next time you wanna borrow my stapler, ask me nicely, okay?"

i'm out.

lalalalala... lalalalala... lalalalala

2005-04-14T13:51:00.000+08:00

bear with me for a while.

my mind's on autopilot and my life's on pause.

why?

because of this video a friend of mine sent me.

i think it fried my brain. thanks a lot arne. that one could possibly be the MOST annoying video that anyone in the free world will ever get to watch. yes, more annoying than a britney spears mtv.

i'm out.

my butt hurts... in a very hetero kind of way

2005-04-12T11:23:00.000+08:00

i hate plastic!

they're non-biodegradable. they contaminate the air when manufactured. they clog up the drain. and they can choke you in your sleep.

but what can i possibly hate more than plastic? i'll tell you. monoblock plastic chairs!!! i hate them. i hate them with passion! and here's why:

yesterday started out pretty good. i woke up early and helped my wife pack for her trip out of town. she'll be gone for a week. after packing, i took her to the bus station to send her off. a goodbye kiss here, a goodbye kiss there, then off i go to the office.

everything in the office was fine. normal. nothing out of the ordinary or anything like that. then lunch came. and i thought, fuck lunch! why the fuck do i have to prescribe to societal norms and have lunch every time the clock hits 12 noon? i say fuck 12 noon! i'll have lunch whenever i want. so i skipped the 12 noon ritual and went back to work. i'll have a late lunch at around 1:30, no big deal. when i got there, the cafeteria was filled with four warm bodies. ladies. officemates. having a late lunch too. they asked me to join them. but i wasn't that hungry, so i skipped the meal and got me a bag of chips and a bottle of coke instead, then i joined their table, sitting in one of them stupid monoblock plastic chairs.

so it was fun, they were having their meal, i was having my soda and chips, we were debating whether or not this local actor is gay or extremely gay. i was being funny. they were all laughing. i was hugging the conversation and i was being cute and funny and charming and sarcastic and burping all at the same time. then...

BRRRRAAAAKKKKKKZZZZTTTKRAKAKT!!!!!!!

shit! i lost sight of the four ladies i was talking to and was suddenly staring at the space under the table. the fucking chair broke. split in half. and my butt landed hard on the floor. hard! real hard!!! fuck you chair! fuck you you monoblock piece of shit!!! of course everyone laughed. i laughed because i had no other choice. amazing how we can laugh when someone stumbles, falls, crashes to the ground, slips, trips, slides, hit by a running hummer, and has third degree chemical burns. amazing! that's why stupid shows like AFV are still on air. but it's cool. laughing at myself is something i can do with relative ease. so i got up, picked up the chair, picked the chips, and picked up whatever dignity i had left, then i went back to work. but my butt hurts. shit! it really does. until now. like i fractured my tail bone or something. anyway, i called the wife. told her all about my exciting lunch. then listened to her laugh at me for two hours. well, not actually, but it felt like she laughed for two hours.

a few hours of work later, i felt my stomach grumble. i was fucking hungry. i didn't have a real meal. all i had was soda, chips, and a nasty monoblock plastic chair incident. i wanted to go back to the cafeteria, but returning to the scene of the crime would be unwise for someone like me. so i took off and grabbed a bite at brothers' burger. dang! i got me a nasty brothers' pounder with lots of onions. lots of it! then i called up some friends to hit the bar for some good ol' fashioned beer-chuggin'. i needed some comforting.

so we were at the bar. chillin'. chuggin' beer. played some pool. drank more beer. chilled with the band. chugged some more beer. then i told them about my monoblock plastic chair story. they laughed for two hours. then we drank some more beer. to be more accurate, a lot more beer.

by the time i got home, the brother's pounder was working it's magic down in my large intestines. so i got in the bathroom and did my thing. my butt was still sore and my crap had this funny smell. like onions. fuck! i should've stayed away from the onions.

waking up this morning had me thinking about college. yeah, college. no wife by my side, my butt still hurts, i still smell onions, and i have this nasty hangover. yep, definitely college.

and i hate monoblock plastic chairs!

i'm out.

hm... i wander...

2005-04-09T13:12:00.000+08:00

i got shitloads of work to do and my mind keeps wandering off into space.

i hate it. totally hate it. it's like i'm sick with A.D.D... yeah i have focus issues. so what? let me tell you something. way back when i was a little kid, i used to go to this place called... oooohhhhh, what's this? it's my stapler! yay!

:: if given a chance, and by "chance" i mean i could do such thing without being put behind bars, i'd like beat up every mime and clown i'd see on the street, in a circus, in a birthday party, in a play, and in the goddamn bathroom!

:: i'd to take the world's timeline in my hands and just rip the whole decade of the 80's off it. yeah! that would be just super! because the 80's sucked! except of course for the cure, and the clash, and elvis costello, and the showtime lakers, and the laker girls (schwing!), and wrestlemania, ... okay, okay. so not everything about the 80's sucked. but most of it did: like the big hair, the hairspray, cindy lopper, glam rock, knight rider, growing pains, moonlighting, the cosby show, acid washed jeans, tele evangelists, spiral notebooks, vanilla ice, milli vanilli, lionel richie, rick ashley, band aid, the whole "we are the world fuckin' fiasco and how much we'd like to feed africa" bullshit, punky brewster, small wonder, the untalented fatass meatloaf, and of course, TONY DANZA. fuck! i hate tony danza! so here's what i'd like to do. i'd like to gather all these fuckers of the 80's and put them all in a garbage bag. then i'd eat all day and take a big dump in the bag in the evening. then i'll tie it up and leave the bag in the middle of the freeway where it can be run over by some sleepy truck driver. ha! that'll be super! WOOT!

:: and i hate the word woot. i'm not sure if it's even a word. and i don't know what it means because i'm a dumbass. and besides, everytime i say woot! i feel like a goddamn owl. or a turkey. depends on the time of the day actually. woot! woot! woot! what the fuck does it mean???

:: sometimes i really have this great idea of blowing up the moon. that'd be great! there'd be no more tides to push us around and no more "moonlight" to turn people into werewolves. what would be our source of light at night? i don't know. use a goddanmn flashlight!!! but then again, a lot of people would disagree because the light from a full moon could be so romantic. ah yes. romance... belch! haven't you been paying attention in your science class when you were a kid? the moon doesn't have light. it just reflects the sun's rays. got it? good. in that case, problem solved. you want romance? you want the sun's rays reflected on the earth at night? then i say we build a gigantic robot replica of michael buble's head and launch it into orbit! that'll do the trick. but that's lame. let's build a giant robot monkey head and call it "spanky" instead. woot!

:: and if i were the ruler of the universe, i'd make AB the pope! and he doesn't even have to be catholic. why? because i said so.

i'm out.

summer lovin'

2005-04-06T16:19:00.000+08:00

summer's here!

and you can feel it too. warm weather slowly creeping up... like that annoying wedgy you got at the prom. remember the prom? oh, you don't? me too. i bet you were some loser back in high school. yeah, loser. fat kid, pimple-faced, couldn't get a date. so you decided to spend the night with a bowl of popcorn in one hand and a gallon of coke in the other and watched mr. holland's fucking opus instead while the rest of the school danced the night away, had fun, socialized, and lost their virginity.

that's you.

not me.

why?

because i never went to the prom. nope. not making that up.

legend has it, those holy motherfuckers who run the school i attended way back when i was an awkward teener prayed to god and asked him if our batch, being the little devils that we were, deserved a highschool prom. apparently, god said no. and that's why i never went to a prom, and our principal got 554 death threats the following week. sweet!

but enough about the prom, let's talk about summer.

basically, summer is, um... er... uhm... it's warm weather. and warm weather = sweaty fat guy. and sweaty fat guy = one extremely pissed off foul mouthed dude.

y'know what, let's drop the summer business and talk about something else. let's rant:

:: can i offer you some water? -- can you get the fuck away from me??? i know this has been a growing trend for some time now -- people wanting to be more health-conscious and shit. you know what? i don't care. when i go to someone else's house, i don't want to be offered a 330ml bottle of fresh, sparkling water worth 50 bucks. no sir. because if you go to my house, you'll either get coffee, tea, oj, iced tea, beer, or a shot of gin. not water. and certainly not water in some lame plastic bottle. you want water? open the fucking tap and help yourself you health-conscious whore. don't get me wrong here, i mean, i know we need water because it makes up yada-yada percent of our body. but show me some effort. i'm a guest here. gimme some sprite, or even ovaltine. not water.

:: oh, my soda tastes flat, how can i drink this now? -- aawww, that's too bad. you know why? that's because you forgot to tighten the cap, dumbass! there's a reason most soda caps are of the resealable twist variety you know -- so it won't spill, and it won't lose its fizz. you, on the other hand, have offended and disrespected the efforts of the investors of the resealable twist cap. that's because you're either dumb or lazy. what's wrong with you? is your wrist broken? are you sick? too weak? disturbed? out for revenge? no? then tighten the goddamn bottle cap!!! oh, you want me to do it for you? sure. tell you what, why not turn around, drop your pants, bend over, and prepare to scream "help me mama, i promise to eat my spinach!" because i'm about to stick this bottle up your hairy ass!!!

:: hey dude, do you have a light? -- bullshit! what am i to you eh? right. a total fucking stranger. and what did your mom tell you about strangers? did she tell you to go up to them and ask for a light? no. so what the are you doing here asking me a friggin' light for you fucktard! spare me a minute and let me share something here: i've been smoking since i was 14, and never, not even once, have i asked any living soul for a light. that's because i know that when you decide to be a smoker, you need some sort of fire-making apparatus to light your cigarette. and for that, i ALWAYS have my trusted zippo with me. no, not hippo, ZIPPO. retard! if you're not some poser who only smokes just so you could show off to people "hey, look at me, i'm a tough guy because i smoke marlboro lights" then go buy yourself a fucking lighter. never, i repeat, never approach me for light during one of my precious cigarette breaks. this is my alone time right here. time to reflect about life and ask important questions like, "hmm... i wonder what's for dinner.." so unless i have some stupid sign hanging around my neck that says "i like to meet new friends by lighting cigerettes" then i suggest you go pick up two sticks and rub them together, horsefucker!!!

:: "i wanna run to you.. hoohoooo.... i wanna run to you.. wooohooohooohooo..." -- i have no problem with people who play their walkmans, discmans, iPods, or whatever it is they play and have a their fucking earphones glued to their ears. no problem with that. what fucking irritates me are people who play this shit and sing out loud with them... in public... and the worst thing about is, of course, they can't hear themselves. jesus christ fucking the DJ!!! what the fuck is wrong with you people? can't you see what you're doing here? you're trying to kill everyone within a 10-kilometer radius. you're like a mini atomic bomb with seriously messed up vocal chords. okay, last time i checked your ugly ass wasn't on american idol. when i'm trying to read my book, or having a cigarette break, the last thing i need is a horrendous whitney houston impersonation yelling in my ear. so shut the fuck up, lower the volume, and save the friggin' audition for your shower.

whew! i'm spent. someone please take me to the fucking prom. because i don't like to watch mr. holland's opus, anymore, not for the 38th time.

i'm out.

monday morning spam

2005-04-05T10:03:00.000+08:00

so this will be a new segment on this blog.

every monday morning.

and it involves a few selected fan mails from thousands that i get from around the world.

thousands.

everyday.

honest.

okay. that was pathetic. i know.

but i do receive letters and they're all so cool and shit, but i can't answer them all because, let's face it, i need to appear to have some sort of life.

so, every monday morning, i'd take the more inspiring ones to feature and answer them here, right at the middle of the classroom. let's start:

From: xxx_xxxxx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: Jan 6, 4:12 PM
Subject : FUCK YOU PIG!

PANINGIT:

You're terrible!!! Why? Tell me why does your blog suck? It sucks so much i can't even read it without vomitting all over my keyboard. And that sucks. So what gives?

Sincerely,

I REALLY HATE YOUR STUPID BLOG.

-------------

REPLY:

dear "i really hate your stupid blog,"

thanks for the email. it really makes me feel good that people are reading this shit. honest. you want to know why my blog sucks? well, one rational reason might be because i'm just not funny. i mean, i try real hard to be funny but no one ever laughs.

these people who think they know what "real" comedy is just ignore me. i have a good feeling people like you click on my blog once in a while just to show someone how pathetic i am. like writers, they go to my blog to raise their spirits and be assured that at least someone is worse than they are. so there's your answer.

oh, and you're an asshole.

-------------

From: xxxxxx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: Jan 14, 5:36 PM
Subject : what's with the name?

dear paningit,

what does the name of your blog mean?

emily

-------------

REPLY:

dear emily,

"paningit" means "space filler."

now i know that you know that i'm about to share a very interesting and funny and amusing story how and why i came up with that name. but today's not that day. yes, i'm that lazy.

-------------

From: xxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: Jan 18, 9:08 AM
Subject : help!

Dear Paningit,

I know you have a wife. Me too. I've been married for 2 years now. My problem is, my wife doesn't want to have sex with me anymore. Everytime I try to, she always comes up with some excuse, like she has a headache. What can i do? Do you suggest I have sex with prostitutes instead? Help.

Thanking you in advance,

Johnny M

-------------

REPLY:

dear johnny m,

honestly, that is your fucking problem. if you want to go have sex with prostitutes, i have no problem with that. just be sure you don't catch anything.

and everytime your wife doesn't want to shag you, i suggest you get a soap, and a towel, and go have a fucking cold shower.

-------------

From: xxxxx_xx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: February 2, 11:42 AM
Subject :

Dear Paningit,

Most of the time, I don't get your jokes. I'm sure they're all funny, but sometimes i really don't get them. But I visit your blog everyday, even if i don't get it. Are you really just a bad writer?

B. Goldy

-------------

REPLY:

dear b. goldy,

you're absolutely right! why are you still reading it?

-------------

From: xxxxxxxxxxxxx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: February 11, 8:10 PM
Subject : TV show

Dear Paningit,

I think it's really cool you're planning to put up a TV show. If you ever get famous, are you still gonna blog?

Lily C.

-------------

REPLY:

dear lily c.,

no, probably not. i think it would piss me off to all of a sudden have 80 comments on a post about buying a new shirt from a bunch of idiots trying to sound cool, hoping i reply to them so that they can print out my response and jerk off to it.

nah. just kidding.

-------------

do you have a question? need some advice? then email me at paningit@gmail.com, and i just might answer you here on my blog in a really SARCASTIC, UNFUNNY WAY.

i'm out.

the one where i answer a hermaphrodite "i love you"

2005-04-01T19:13:00.000+08:00

rarely do i pull out a comment and decide to dedicate an entire post to it.

but yesterday i received a comment that i found to be both fascinating and interesting, and if you combine both of those words you'd get something like fasciresting.

anyway, someone who goes by the super secret alias of "hermaphrodite" left this comment: "i love you"

well, hermie, if i may call you hermie -- thanks for the comment. honest. i really appreciate it.

but holy fuck to the nth degree! i got to tell you, that felt fucking weird. as weird as wiping my ass clean with a handful of orange rind.

something tells me this shit ain't right. excuse me for a minute. i have to go to the bathroom. real bad.

(three hours of vomitting later)

okay i'm back. well, let's see if we can break this sucker down for our readers at home:

:: first of all, i am homophobic. and i know i'm not suppose to be one. and despite completing a whole semester's worth of "gender and management" studies, i am still homophobic. but i do have gay friends. and they're smart, and funny, and useful. in other words, they're great. as long as they keep their hands away from me, that is. because, DAMNIT!, if ever they try to pull a stunt on me, i swear, i'll break their necks. promise.

:: the only guys who know i am that homophobic (well, aside from all you fuckers now) are my friends. and i thought those motherfuckers are doing a number on me. so yesterday, i conducted a massive witch hunt. i whipped out my phone, got a hold of my contacts, and started dialing their damn numbers.

random friend: helloooo...
me: look motherfucker, drop that shit and answer this: are you hermie?!!
rf: hermie? what the fuck are you talking about?
me: just answer the damn question fuckface, are you hermie? you better tell me now because i'm gonna find out sooner or later and if you really are hermie you ugly wackjob, i'd break your face so hard not even your dog can recognize you!!! you got that?
rf: dude, did you forget to take your medicines again?
me: well.. yeah. so?
rf: who the fuck is hermie? i'm sitting in the bathroom drinking laxatives and trying hard not to pop a vein because i can't get shit out of my ass! and you call me up asking if i'm hermie? what the fuck is wrong with you?

so that was how my witch hunt went. called up all 68 of my closest dearest friends.

:: then it occurred to me, the sonofabitch said "i love you." wait a minute. nobody, and i mean nobody, says "i love you" to me. except, of course, my wife. and i even have to secretly drop a pill or two in her drink just to make her say that.

:: so hermie's not my friends and definitely not my wife.

:: a few hours later, hermie had another comment, this time saying kirsten dunst is one of them. jesus fucking christ! the creature even left a url. hermie's a blogger. and he/she/it could very well be an actual hermaphrodite.

so i was stuck there. at that thought. all morning.

how can i possibly bash and slam someone right in the middle of the classroom if he/she/it is actually a hermaphrodite?

i mean, if hermie was just some random blog prankster, then i could've easily said: "look here you sick cocksucking bastard, i've no time for games and i don't care about your stupid comments!!! you can either leave me now, in peace, while you still can, or else... or else i'm gonna track you down and find out who the fuck you really are. and when i do, i'd come knocking at your door and grab your mom by her apron's knot and proceed to shove her up you stinking little ass!!!"

i could say that. but i won't. i just took my happy pills. and because i took my happy pills, i decided to research more on hermaphrodites.

hm... lemme see... opening google... typing the word "hermaphrodite"... waiting... fucking google is lying says the search took 0.47 seconds (i actually waited a good three ticks)... here we go, hermaphrodite links... uhm, aha, definition... says here: hermaphrodites are persons born with both male and female sex organs.

holy shit. i need to go the bathroom again.

(20 minutes of vomitting later)

bullshit. this is too much for me. a person with both a penis and a vagina. goddamn!!!

you know what hermie, i'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. if you are what you say you are, then that's just fine. you can come in this blog and hang out as you please. but for the love of god, i beg you, please behave yourself. okay? you have to promise that. and the only reason i'm letting you stay is because i pity your condition. but the minute you start talking about your dick here, i'm throwing you out! got that? good.

although i think your condition is actually an advantage... hey, you can double your chances of going out on a saturday night.

one question though, you have a male and a female sex organ... does that mean you can have a hard-on and actually fuck yourself?

just curious. and oh, don't expect me to say "i love you" because i fucking won't say it. not to you, not to anyone with a dong.

i'm out.

thursday night last week: spiderman

2005-03-31T16:10:00.000+08:00

thursday night last week was weird.

i had this dream. in my dream i was a film critic. or was it film reviewer? what's the difference between a film critic and a film reviewer? oh, one of them critiques the movie while the other reviews it. does it matter? it doesn't, because they're both in the film's payroll anyway.

so, yeah, back to my stupid dream.

supposedly, i was this revered film critic and i'd be on air in 30 seconds as a guest in some lame showbiz talkshow. i was suppose to dish out a review for this new movie, spiderman 2, that'll open sometime june 2004.

shit. don't get me wrong. i love spiderman... in a hetero way of course... and spidey's my favorite comic book character of all time... but i was this revered, respected, critically-acclaimed film critic in my dream. i can't fucking review spiderman 2!!!

so i asked for the show's producer. i told him there is no way i'd do a spiderman 2 review. i said, "look, allan, let me do farenheit 9/11 instead." he said no. "well how about the notebook?" he said no.

i was getting pretty pissed.

then he said, "jimmy, you're going to do a spiderman 2 review whether you like it or not because that movie's hot. besides, sony pictures has already agreed to a 20% added rate of (name of the showbiz talkshow)'s advertising spots for the next three months. don't screw this up, jimmy. either you do spiderman 2 or i'd have to make you review garfield the movie or that new jacky chan starrer.

by now i was really pissed. nobody warned me that my name was going to be jimmy!!! i, the revered film critic, had "jimmy" for a name, in my own fucking dream! argh!!!

so i was up in 5....4....3....2..... this really gay showbiz talkshow host of this really lame showbiz talkshow starts blabbering away with his spiel. two minutes later, he asks me, "so, jimmy, what do you think of the new spiderman movie? toby maguire's hot, don't you agree?"

then i was like...

"uhm... yeah. actually, uhm, i'm sick and tired of seeing shit for spiderman 2! holy fuck, there's no way in hell i want to see this movie now because, just thinking about toby maguire one more time makes me wanna throw up five years of old pizza. there is such a thing as too much marketing. and i like to call it "calm the fuck down on the spiderman 2 shit already!"

and it didn't end there. i got pretty fired up and said other things like...

"okay. i fucking get it okay. people at sony, you made a sequel. whoopidi fucking doo! toby goes crazy and hooks up with a hottie and kicks some ass. great stuff! good luck with it! but for the love of letting me breathe for seven seconds without feeling like there's machete sticking out my groin, please, NO MORE FUCKING SPIDERMAN!!! and oh, about that hottie, mary jane. what's her name again? kirsten dunst. right. wow! that bitch is amazing!!! she was that kid in interview with a vampire, right? wow! man, has she changed. not too long ago she was this annoying kid with fangs, then suddenly she shows up on screen with these plump, juicy breasts and a great body for sex!!! growl!!! excuse me while i fix my underwear to hide my hard-on. dang! oh yeah, my final rating for spiderman 2... go see it for mary jane. if you're not down with kirsten dunst, then go see garfield instead."

after i said my piece, i looked at allan the producer. he was holding this big can of paint thinner and was splashing the whole studio with it. he was about to burn the whole set down.

then i woke up.

weird.

weirder, i turned on the tv, tuned in to hbo, and guess what... spiderman 1 was on.

pretty fucking amazing.

i'm out.

please don’t leave me home alone… again

2005-03-31T12:18:00.000+08:00

a classic case of too much too soon, maybe.

he was just a kid. a spoiled brat. a millionaire. but still, a kid. that kid. what’shisface? oh yeah, macaulay culkin.

come to think of it, his name would've been enough to screw him up. imagine being called "macaulay," a family name of a stupid english historian. imagine yelled at by other kids, "macaulay! would you like to come out and play?" "stop calling me names!!!" "but dude, that is your name." "nooooooo!!!"

i bet he would've preferred to be called kevin or richie instead.

and i think that's the reason why the kid never really wanted to grow up because he wanted to stay that way, as kevin or richie, not as dorky macaulay. poor kid.

another reason why he didn't like to grow up: people around him (agents, scouts, directors, producers, hollywood whores, production assistants) kept saying he was a cute kid. cute kid??? no he's not. he looked like a young version of david spade for chrissakes!

and back in 1996, i think, he went touring with sonic youth. i don't know about this, but in my opinion, hanging out with a band like sonic youth could fuck up your mind pretty well.

but what really made him cross that line from sanity to insanity was in the movie home alone.

haven't you heard? there were scenes that were shot, and the director made culkin believe that the scenes were actually part of the movie. so the kid, being the obedient child star he was, played along.

poor kid never saw what was coming.

so they shot the scenes, and instead of joe pesci and daniel stern acting as idiotic burglars, it was michael jackson who entered the picture. jacko did all sorts of things. horrible things. grabbed the kid's ass, put his hands inside the kid's pants, fiddled the kid's dong, sang smooth criminal, and moonwalked. now, if that won't fuck up your mind, i don't know what will.

then there was the stinkin' sequel which was a flop compared to the original, but they just had to make it. why? because jacko produced it and culkin asked for it.

i know what you're thinking. i don't believe it either. well, not until i spoke with culkin himself yesterday. he said, and i quote: "for a long time i thought majority of my insanity was due to being a child actor, until i realized recently... wait, i fucked michael jackson."

oh you think all i'm saying here is BS eh? well read it yourself.

shit. i'm such an incoherent ass!

i'm out.

it's all about 'em bunnies

2005-03-28T19:17:00.000+08:00

oh. it's easter. who gives a shit?

so yesterday was easter sunday (from my side of the moon, yesterday was a sunday, so backoff) and for the catholic fanatics it's suppose to be the time they all scream "sweet-lord-i-finally-finished-highschool!" and jump up and down because jesus rose from the dead and shit... but i think he could've done better you see... i mean, y'know, him being god and all.

anyway, i'm not about to greet you all a happy easter.

fuck.

i just did, didn't i?

but my point is, i'm fucking lazy today, and i practically dragged myself out of bed for work; dragged myself in the board room for a stupid meeting of some lame-ass anniversary party on may (can't you just give us cash and a dayoff?); dragged myself to blog just to tell you guys the the essence of easter.

and the essence of easter is... bunnies!

and i won't elaborate on that shit either.

all i can say is, if i were a bunny, i'd be him. only i'd be 200 pounds heavier. yeah, i'm a fattie. but i'm fucking extreme!!!

and here's something else,

i'm out.

the day madonna almost killed me

2005-03-23T13:23:00.000+08:00

madonna sings
in the background
as i ponder jumping
from the 11th floor of pain

her voice is getting clearer
her lyrics getting louder
as if taunting me
to jump off the ledge

while people below form
a moshpit under a suffering rockstar
they scream and howl and beg
for an encore performance

i will oblige
to the demands of the rabid faithful
so i close my eyes and prepare
for my final stage dive

but maddona fades into silence
so i retreat from the brink of madness
and decide to listen to another
song not sung by her

such and such and shit...

2005-03-22T15:34:00.005+08:00

such...

first of all, about the fucking layout. some people loved it, some didn't, some had no fucking opinion at all. thanks a lot.

some dude even went the extra mile and asked me (by email) why i changed the damn template. well.. why the fuck not? it's mine. and i was bored with it. i was even planning to administer a complete plastic surgery on the damn blog last night. thing is, i was too lazy. and besides, my html skills, on a scale of 1 to 10, is a fucking -4. i was one of 'em losers who tried to be this angst-ridden, mysterious, dark, "tired-of-the-world-can't-impress-me-with-that-shit-i-can-hack-into-your-deepest-sexual-fantasies" kind of geek way back when being a geek was fashionable. it was the fucking 90s okay. now, i'm just me. a flabby internet loser.

and such...

i really loved the way you people responded to paningit's stupid questions . yeah, the friggin' polls! it got the interactivity level of this blog a notch higher. because of that, now i know you guys actually hate me. just kidding. or am i?

just keep clickin' away on your answers and shit. and keep commenting on my stupid posts, too. if you feel you want to tell me something and you wouldn't want someone else to read it on the comments board, then email me. it's that simple. remember, your opinion and your feedback matters to me... fuck, that sounded like a lame commercial for a bank.

by the way, this week's poll is all about what shit would you like to see more of in this blog. so what are you doin' there scratchin' your balls for? go answer the friggin' question already. jeez!

and shit...

maybe i'm just a weirdo (oh... i am?), but don't you find it strange that we can't stand the smell of other people's shit, but when we go to the bathroom and unload a steaming pile of our own crap, that same smell doesn't faze us at all? i mean, shit is shit is shit. it's foul-smelling, whether it came from your own ass or from someone else's. it just is.

and such again...

five digits! dang!

last night, the site meter registered 10,000 hits. 10,000 hits! ten thousand fucking hits!!! that is fucking insane!!! i can't even count to 10,000. usually i lose count at around... hm... lemme see... 7842, 7843, 7844, 78... see, i lost count.

this stupid blog started 2005 at 1,000 hits. now it's ten times that number. fuckeroo!!!

i can't even fathom 500 people reading the kind of shit i put out. now i have 10,000??? what the fuck gives? anyway, thank you, all of you for stopping by and reading and commenting and i've run out of interesting things to say about this so i'll just go away now before i embarrass myself.

i'm out.

job interview

2005-03-21T10:47:00.000+08:00

i'll take nothing less than a hundred thousand a month, a 15 percent increase annually, an office with a view on the top floor, a parking space not more than 30 paces from the main entrance of this building, top of the line alienware laptop and desktop computers, food, gas, and clothing allowances, two days off a week, a 30-day paid vacation every year, a comprehensive health plan benefit, and stock options.

arrogant? assertive?

gentlemen, you were the ones who flew me in for this. i was having a perfect time at the beach downing tequila shots, until one of your represntatives approached me and begged for this interview. and the only reason i'm here is because mr. evert is a family friend.

as far as i'm concerned, you need me more than i need you. so that means, gentlemen, that you know what i bring to the table. i don't have to prove anything to you. you know what i can do, and you know how this company can benefit from it.

arrogance. definitely.

those were his thoughts. yes. his arrogance was never articulated. he was a stiff, nervous wreck, sitting on a steel chair four feet across a panel of five grumpy suits.

the suits were all business that day.

judging from their looks, they were all way above 50, and were suffering from either prostate cancer, erectile dysfunction, or a combination of both.

he slowly rubs his sweaty palms on his black slacks. he clears his throat with an occassional "ahem-ahem" from time to time. those were the only sounds that reverberated in that room for five minutes.

five minutes... was like eternity for him. he wished they'd ask more questions. questions that he knew the answers.

what's your favorite color? grey. your favorite food? pizza with lots of cheese and salami. your favorite drink? beer. strong beer. your favorite tv show? conan o'brien. you listen to any music? i think slipknot fucking rules!!!

his eyes were set on the suit in the middle. a very old suit with a face that looked like a rayon shirt. he was the top suit, and he was flipping through his credentials. every now and then he would nod and look at him. he would give a faint smile in reply, as if to say:

what, fucker? what do you want? do you want to hire me? then say so you fucking old fart. hire me. hire me!!!

"have you thought this through mr. ortiz? "

"yes sir." you bet i have you scrotum-faced bastard! why do you think i'm here???

"are you sure you really want to join our team?"

"definitely sir." look dickhead, i need the job okay... i need the friggin' job!!! i'm in the middle of a custody battle and i need the friggin' job!!!

"the job offers twenty thousand a month with 10% annual increases... depending on your performance, of course."

you need me more than i need you fuckers!

"you'll have a six-day work week, with fifteen days each for sick leaves and vacation leaves."

you give me what i want now, or i'll walk out that door!

"all of it if you pass the six-month probationary period. which means you start at fifteen thousand a month. and during your probationary period, we'll require you to render at least two hours of overtime everyday."

bullshit! i'm better than this! i'm not going to sit here and listen to this crap!!!

"mr. ortiz, are you amenable with our conditions?"

"yes sir."

"then welcome to the team."

can you tell me how to get, how to get to...

2005-03-18T14:47:00.000+08:00

SESA-FUCKING-ME STREET!

are they still on air? i'm serious. i mean, how many new episodes of sesame street do we really need nowadays? by this time you'd expect people born between 1975 to 1985 can already read and count.

i would like to take this opportunity to bash sesame street and blame them for getting me hooked on the tube! you motherfuckers!!! you destroyed my childhood! i could've read books, lots of books that would've helped my grammar and spelling and shit. books that would've built my patience and raised my emotional quotient. now, thanks to you idoits sitting around there at the children's television workshop with your thumbs up your asses, i have a.d.d. instead!

seriously, i think sesame street is a very dangerous place to be in. i wouldn't live there even if someone bribed me with a million bucks. 1.2 million? i'd give it some thought. but a million bucks? no fucking way. people who live there have serious fucking issues.

you got a 10-foot flightless bird, aptly named big bird, that never lays an egg, lives in a nest, snores like a plumber, and is so fucking annoying. hey dude, make yourself useful and join the nba draft. either that or volunteer to change busted lightbulbs of lamp posts. do us all a fucking favor and move to the sequoia national forest. i'm sure there you'll find a tree big enough to nest you big yellow ass on!

you got a fucking two-ton furry mammoth named snuffy. this guy talks gay and has long curly eyelashes and gives everyone a queer look (i've been told he likes to check out guys' butts). what bugs me is for years people think he's imaginary. gimme a break! how can you miss something as big as a friggin' garbage truck and walks the speed of a geriatric snail??? tell me, how???

you got a creepy day-walker vampire (the count) who likes to count anything and everything he sees and ends every counting session with thunder and lightning. that's fucking freaky!!! and he laughs backwards too with a "ah-ah-ah" instead of a "ha-ha-ha." i say drive a stake through this bloodsucker's chest and burn him. burn him!!!

you got a gluttonous wobbly-eyed blue guy (cookie monster) with furry hands that devours anything in this path - plates, bricks, records, cookie boxes, cookie jars, girl scout cookie girl scouts, buses, trains, tin cans... everything! he talks like a retard too. personally, i think he'd be better off in some mental institution that hang around in sesame street.

then you got two fucking homos that live togther. one is yellow and sports a pathetic fido-dido do (bert), the other one's orange, sports a messed up crop, laughs weird (ish-ish-ish-ish-ish) and loves playing with sex toys and rubber duckies with enormous beaks during bathtime. these guys do nothing but stay in their house and administer blowjobs to each other. when they're not doing that, they run this stupid petition in the internet encouraging everyone that the next president should legalize gay marriages. spare us and just move to massachusettes please!

and it doesn't stop there. you got a frog that desperately tries to be a news reporter and an actor. you wanna be that, kermit?! well, pack your bags now because you can't. why? you're not tom brokaw. and oh, yeah, it ain't easy being green. right. that's because it sucks being you! period!

wait, lemme see... oh yeah, then you have that other green guy who lives in a trashcan and has a bitch who's a former member of the village people that carries him around town. fucking grouchy character that oscar is. he bitches about his life and how he wants everybody to just leave him alone and shit. i've been told he wasn't like this before. only in sesame street everybody's so fucking annoying that nobody wants to leave anybody alone, even just for a fucking minute... even if you stink and you live in a fucking trash can!!!

and there's this incredibly annoying red guy... elmer... shit... elmo. he's the most annoying of them all with a voice like a 55-year old public teacher's nails screeching on a blackboard! shit! he bugs people all day about how he likes to color his fish blue and how he wants to fly a stupid kite and... AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!! and it doesn't stop there. the guy's so fucking narcissistic he likes referring to himself in the third person. elmo this, elmo that, elmo this and that. shut up dipshit! shut the fuck up! nobody wants to tickle your hairy body! nobody!!!

there's more... a purple guy named telly, a blue skinny bald guy named groper.. oops.. grover... and a lot more. only problem is, i can't talk about them anymore without having another stroke.

so please, y'all know the song, sing along will you... tantan-tantanan-tanantan-tantanan / sunny day / who gives a shit!

i'm out.

walking HBOs, have a nice day, tourists, and smart people

2005-03-16T13:03:00.001+08:00

i'm feeling a bit jolly today. whoa! wait a minute, did i just say "jolly?" does anyone use the word "jolly" anymore? seriously. what kind of a moronic loser would use the word "jolly" in an introduction of a post. a loser... like me.

let's rant.

:: walking HBOs -- don't you just hate it when people take lines from popular movies and inject their thing in there and use it as if it were their own.

fuck you! you didn't write that line. "you had me at hello, even before you entered the door" oh shut the fuck up! the least you could do is acknowledge your source, or buy a friggin' jerry maguire poster.

like i know someone who loves fight club so much. and i mean soooo very much. the guy's practically a walking, breathing, uglier version of tyler durden. anyfuckingway, he love's the movie so much he always makes use of "the first rule of (blank) is..." reference. at first it was cool. "dude, the first rule of playing video games is...", "dude, the first rule in eating in a japanese restaurant is...", "dude the first rule in smoking a cigarette is...", "dude, the first rule in listening to a ramones album is...", dude the first rule this, dude, the first rule that. arghhhh!!!

dude, the first rule of hanging out with you is... not to hang out with you at all. please shut the fuck up or i'll take this really bulky fight club vhs tape and smash it in your head. reality check: you are not brad pitt, you are not tyler durden, you do not make soap, and you're not a charismatic leader of some vigilante group that spreads mayhem and mischief. you are a pimple-faced computer nerd that goes to the movies alone with your popcorn on one hand and your soda on the other.

besides, if you're so fucking clever mr. the-first-rule-to-everything-is, then answer this: what's the second rule?

just as i suspected. ass!

:: people who feels the need to wish everyone to have a nice day -- nothing wrong with wishing someone well, especially in the morning. if you're going to say have a nice day, make sure that that someone indeed has a lot of day ahead of him. don't wish him have a nice day at 9:00 in the evening. where the fuck is your common sense dipshit???

and please be sensitive enough. if you can see a person is really having a rough day, don't say have a nice day just for the heck of it. it really wouldn't sound nice. someone said that to me once: 10:00 in the morning, i'm flooded with a million requests from a million different people, i haven't shaved, i haven't had enough coffee. then this guy comes in and says, "hey, it's a tuesday and i'm feeling super. i hope you do too. have a nice day."

"bullshit! did i win the lotto? grow hair? lose weight? do i have a mansion? can you see super models flashing their breasts in my face? did i save the world? no? then get out of my fucking face!"

why not say, "can i help you with anything," instead? now that'll be better than taunting someone with "have a nice day." jesus christ, if that officemate ever pulls off something like that again, i'll @@$%%#$##$&*^##*^ his ass!!!!

:: people asking for directions -- can't i guy smoke a cigarette on the streets of baguio without dealing with absurd distractions? my only time to get away and rest my puny brain for a few minutes , and now i have some jackass from some far away province asking me how to get to the bus station.

do i look like i have a map tattooed across my chest? here, i'll clue you in - those lines are called stretch marks, buddy. it ain't a step by step guide on how to get around the city. do i look like a tour guide? i don't think so.

listen up. before you leave your tiny over priced hotel room to venture out into this tiny, dirty city of ours - remember to bring your map. because when the next seemingly innocent jerkoff strolls up to me with his dorky video camera out, wearing his "i love baguio city" t-shirt and bonet on... i swear on kris aquino's grave that i will take my cigarette and put it out right where the cow goes moo! fucking tourists!

:: people who think they're just so smart -- like that asshole who when asked what their favorite film is, they mention some random 1950's french drama about a guy who's slowly being manipulated by civilization.

shut the fuck up, einstein!!!

either say godfather 2, or fight club like everyone else or prepare for me to break your long skinny nose.

and oh, how about that sorry excuse for a human being who accidentally learned latin when he was twelve and wave it in your face during every conversation. do i look like i give two shits? hey, i learned how to play with my balls at around the same age - wanna give me a fucking medal? ass!

that's it. i'm spent. have a nice fucking day!

i'm out.

LOL and ROTFLMAO

2005-03-14T19:13:00.001+08:00

okay. bear with me for a while.

i've been chatting my way through the internet for quite some time now. but i haven't, for the fraggin' life of me, ever got the hang of using chat lingo. i don't know why. i'm just that kind of retard, i guess.

so i'm a retard and i converse with people through chat and often i see them use terms like LOL (for laughing out loud) and ROTFLMAO (for rolling on the floor, laughing my ass off). at first, i thought "what the fuck are these people saying here?!" i really didn't have a clue... it's like a secret vernacular for this ultra hip secret society that has an eleven-digit password and an ultra cool knock and shit. so being the moron that i am, i pretended to know what LOL and ROTFLMAO meant.

until i got tired and i googled the motherfucking terms. i found it a bit amusing, actually, so i tried making use of them. problem is, i feel twice the idiot that i already am whenever i use shit like BRB, CWYL, and GTG... and i feel i am not being completely honest with the person i'm talking to if i use acronyms like LOL or ROTFLMAO instead of "hehehe" and "hahaha."

for people who use these terms, don't get me wrong, please. i've got nothing against you guys. if that's your thing, then it's fine. it's just that it doesn't work for everyone. certainly not for me. i know this has been the "thing to do" for a while now, but recently i feel its use has been taken too far.

like yesterday, when i was talking to my friend online. same old bullshit. i say i'm tired. he asks why. i say because i got sucked into watching conan o'brien until 1:00 am. he says LOL.

huh? LOL??? let me get this straight. you just laughed out loud because i said i stayed up late to watch tv? it wasn't a fucking joke you ass. and i bet you weren't even laughing. i bet you had nothing of importance to say in return so you just threw in a LOL for the hell of it.

and ROTFLMAO. oh shit this one really gets me. when was the last time you rolled on the floor laughing over something someone said on the internet. to tell you the truth, i never rolled on the floor laughing. the only way you'll ever see me rolling on the floor is if i accidentally light the hair in my ass on fire.

anyway, that's just my fucking opinion.

so going back to my yesterday. yeah that stupid batchmate of mine who kept replying LOL to everything i said... anyway... apparently he's a huge fan of blogs too. thankfully not a fan of my blog (whew!).

he said he noticed the sharp increase in people who comment on my shit. i ask, what the fuck is wrong with that??? he said, oh nothing. a few minutes later, that "oh, nothing" really turns out to be "i think that people should stay away from the things you write because you don't really say anything that has sense."

"who? me? sense? well boo-fucking-hoo! who ever told you that i had sense??? who ever fucking told you that i'd like to complicate things by throwing in my two cents worth of shit about life's meaning and the purpose of existence and the blah fucking blah blah blah of things???"

i should have said that. but no. yesterday was sunday and i didn't feel like busting a nerve in my head... so i said, "well, you know me. hehehe."

i thought that'll shut him up. i was wrong. he went on criticizing every fucking post i had especially the ones about god and about valen-fucking-tine's day. then he gives me the url of one of his favorite blogs. a blog that, he said, is worth posting a comment on.

so i checked out the blog (don't bother asking for the fucking url, i didn't save it) and here's what i read:

:: today i went out for a walk. i like to take walks, especially long ones, because you really get to think and feel part of the outside world. you should take a walk today. get some fresh air. you might enjoy life more. ::

what a fucking loser!!! take a walk today??? what the fuck are you, some kind of a recovering alcoholic who lived in a box for the past three months??? jesus fucking christ in my ass, some fucking post.... bravo!... some fucking post!!!

yeah it pissed me off real good. but what pissed me off even more was that this lame blog written by some talentless limpdick loser had 32 comments under it.

32 fucking comments. 32! are you kidding me? i take a good twenty minutes of my time to write a thoughtful post about how sexy my ass is (which gets 14), while this moron says he likes walks and gets 32 friggin' comments. what's wrong with society? are people simply that boring???

i guess they are. LOL! ROTFLMAO!

i'm out.

my ass!

2005-03-11T11:35:00.000+08:00

i find it a bit fucking disturbing that some people in hollywood called "actors" actually make a living out of showing their ass in the big screen.

... disturbed because i'm a guy, and personally, i'd rather see, j-lo's, jolie's, cameron diaz' asses sprawled all over the place instead of them actors' asses. most of these actors make use of ass-stunt doubles anyway.

... disturbed because i think my ass is way sexier (though way bigger, too) than that of collin farrell's and i should be making more money and more chances of getting laid on screen than that stupid beer-chuggin', foul-mouthed irish!

... disturbed because i've heard from somewhere that mel gibson wanted to duplicate his lethal weapon 2's "butt-bathing-under-the-moonlit-sky" scene during the shooting of the passion of the christ... yes, at the garden of gethsemane.

... disturbed because there are actually a lot of people who would pay to see this kind of shit. hey people, listen up. these asses are actually pale-white and are treated with cosmetics to make it look perfectly tanned.

... but i am convinced, that though my ass is sexier than most hollywood actors, i think you'd agree that my behind is better heard... not seen... not even kissed.

i'm out.

another conversation with god (and jesus)

2005-03-08T17:37:00.000+08:00

fucking lightning struck my desk at exactly 6:00 pm. now i got a week's worth of handwritten research burning.

a few nanoseconds later... boom! thunder came roaring from the sky.

me: what the fu...

god: i wouldn't say that if i were you!

me: god! i mean... god... what's up, man, how's it hangin'?

god: haven't you learned anything from 15 years of catholic education? i am not man. i am GOD!
boom!

again, fucking thunder. thank goodness there wasn't any lightning before it. boy, this guy really has a thing for cinematic effects.

me: yeah, right. god. so what brings you to this side of town eh?

god: again, haven't you learned anything from 15 years of catholic education? i am god and therefore i am omnipresent. i am everywhere. i am not exactly, as you put it, at this side of the town. i am god.

boom!

me: okay, why don't we just cut the bullcrap and just tell me what i can do for you. you're holding me up here. i got a lot of work to do. and thanks to your trigger-happy lightning-fingers, i'm looking at a week's worth of setback. so what's up?

god: i've been reading your blog these past few days and...

me: you've been reading my blog? really? wow!

god: silence! (boom!) you shall not interrupt me when i speak!

me: oh, okay. my bad.

god: as i was saying, i've been reading your blog these past few days and i've noticed that you've been using my son's name rather indiscriminately. i demand an explanation! (boom!)

me: what? that? oh i was just having fun with it. besides, i don't think jesus christ has a problem with it.

god: well it has been bothering him. and he's been seeing a shrink because of it. at night he couldn't sleep. and if ever he goes to sleep, he wakes up in the middle of night screaming. he wets his bed. he says he hears all your readers laughing at him everytime they read his name in your blog.

jesus christ: dad! you're embarrassing me.

god: well it's the truth my son.

me: wait a minute. jesus! you mean to say, you asked your father to talk to me all because of this???

jc: well, your excessive name calling has been hurting my feelings. have you any idea how hard it is to schedule a session with dr. phil?

me: then why the fuck did you have to bring your father into this? you could've just talked to me directly. you're like an eight-year-old for heavensake! god, i'm sorry about this. i understand you're pissed because i know you're a busy guy and all... but your kid is acting like a pussy.

jc: hey stop that!

me: pussy!

jc: stupid, overrated blogger.

me: pussy!

jc: asswipe, assmunch, horsefucker!

me: pussy!

jc: ego-maniacal dickhead!

me: pussy!

jc: dad! he won't stop calling me names!

me: i'm sorry, god. but your son here is dickless. he should learn to stand up for himself.

jc: hey! you're talking to someone who rose from the dead here. i don't think you can do that.

me: i don't care, you're still a pu...

god: SILENCE!!! (boom!)

now i'm fanning out flames at the other end of my desk.

god: jesus, my son, i know you're the son of man... but you are still the son of me, GOD! and you better act like it or i'll give you an ass whoopin' that'll hurt so hard you'll be shitting out of your mouth for the next hundred years! (boom!)

jc: okay. here it goes... first of all, i want you to stop calling me names and stop using my name in your blog.

me: i can't promise that.

jc: secondly, i want you to accept me as your personal lord and savior.

me: i can't promise that, too.

jc: and lastly, i want you to stop masturbating in the shower every morning.

me: what???

god: so what do you have to say for yourself, mr. a?

me: okay, first of all i don't masturbate in the shower...

jc: oh, i've got video tapes to prove that. lalala-lalala-ladida.

me: shut up pussy!

jc: dad, there he goes again.

god: ENOUGH! (boom!) you will do what my son has instructed you to do. you will do it or else...
me: or else what?

god: or else i won't grant your prayer.

me: what prayer?

god: the one where you asked me to add an extra three inches to your dick! (boom!)

me: what??? that wasn't me!

jc: oh that was you alright. and i've got a videotape to prove it, too. *wink*

me: okay, whatever dude... i'll see what i can do.

god: you will refer to me as god...or heavenly father, not dude! (boom!)

me: okay, whatever god, heavenly father, sir. i'll see what i can do.

god: good. come along, jesus, let's see what osama and george dubya are up to now.

jc: oohhh goodie. but before that, can i part the red sea, dad. please. can i huh? can i?

god: oh okay, slugger.

so that's how my evening went. pretty fucking surreal if you ask me.

i'm out.

i'm an insensitive pig, i know

2005-03-07T16:49:00.000+08:00

someone made a major blunder the this morning.

a certain she (yes a woman) mistakenly furnished me a copy of a propaganda material disseminated by misguided women. thank god she wasn't a friend, or else i would've immediately hit the fucking reply button to give her a major tounge lashing. but she's not a friend. she's an officemate. and because of that i opened my drawer, took out a fresh roll of toilet paper and bit on it real hard until my rage subsided. twenty minutes and 88 gag reflexes later, i hit the fucking delete button instead.

jesus fucking christ! why did i do that? anyway, hours later, i'm still thinking about that stupid email that said something about 26 things a perfect guy would do for a lady. bullshit!

well, you know me, i'm not one who's going to back down from a perfect opportunity to make fun of people... friend or no friend. so i picked out some of the items i can remember from that stupid email and asked my evil twin brother that lives deep in my ass for his opinion. here it is.

(subtle warning: for those of you can't take a joke or are too fucking hardcore feminists, i suggest you turn away from the computer, or close this window now, or hit the "next blog" button on the upper right hand corner of this page, or visit one of my friends at the "pimpin' ain't easy section." otherwise, you can read on and label me as an insensitive, sexist, male chauvinist pig, and send me a hate mail. it's your choice. do whatever you want, but don't expect me to apologize for anything. this is my blog, afterall.)

a perfect guy would:

:: know how to make you smile when you are down -- what a way to start things off eh? jesus christ! when will women realize that they don't live on the set of a fucking romantic comedy sitcom? hey lady, you're not jennifer aniston. you're not on friends here. you're in the real world. and in the real world, the jennifer anistons and the brad pitts have problems and issues to fucking resolve. so unless making you smile involves me playing video games while you cook me a steak, you're in for a disappointment. don't you think guys ever feel "down" too? the door swings both ways, bitch!

:: try to secretly smell your hair, but you always notice -- what??? why the hell would i want to smell a woman's hair? it smells bad enough with all the sprays and perfume they use. enough with the conditioners, sprays, and cream already; those kinds of shit make my eyes water. what the hell are conditioners for anyway? to fucking condition you to have a great day at work because you have this soft, manageable hair. just an advice, ladies: drop it!

:: give you the remote control during the game -- what game? you mean a basketball game? you mean a baseball game? you mean during superfuckingbowl??? oh shit! this one is inherently stupid. a guy tunes into a game and hands over the rc to his lady? for what? i'd rather be shot in the chest with projectile diarrhea than do that. and another thing i can't comprehend, for the life of me, is why women try their best to fight for fucking attention every time a man watches a game? we were watching the evening news before that and everything was fucking fine. now it's the last two fucking minutes of regulation and you want me to massage your feet? what fucking gives?!

:: play with your hair -- again with the hair? argh!!! women never play with the hair on my back and nipples but you don't see me making a wishlist about it. now why the fucking double standard eh?

:: always hold your hands tenderly -- haven't i written a friggin' post about holding hands already? mary mother of god! how many fucking times do i have to tell you guys that excessive holding hands can be dangerous? in my opinion, excessive holding hands can only be acceptable if you're at a peace vigil. period.

:: be cute when he really wants something -- bullshit! when i want something, i go get it myself. that way i can't blame anyone but me if ever things get screwed. the only time i'd ask for favors is when i'm injured, in that case i'd yell if i want something.

:: offer you plenty of massages -- not unless the guy's a fucking masseur. if not, an offer of plenty massages would only mean he wants to fondle your boobs.

:: dance with you, even if he feels like a dork -- let's face it: there are few things in this world more stupid than dancing. and that includes break dancing, which pirates, lumber jacks, and people who were teenagers during the 80s would agree is awesome. other than that, dancing makes me envy cripples. besides, i'm already a dork even when i'm not dancing. i see no need to rub in my dorkness with feet-shuffling and shit.

:: react so cutely when you hit him and it actually hurts -- see, this is what pisses me off about women: they expect special treatment at their discretion. they want equal rights, equal pay, and equal treatment for everything EXCEPT when it comes to shit like this, then they want you to "react cutely" instead of, say, putting them in a head lock and making them eat ants and/or spiders while you give them carpet burn. why don't women react "cutely" when men hit them for a change? whooops, i forgot, that's considered fucking domestic abuse. right.

:: drive five hours just to see you for one -- any guy who would drive five hours just to see a chick for one is an asshole. if every guy drove around for five hours just to spend one with their girlfriend, we'd fill up the air with so much pollution that we'd all choke on the exhaust, get cancer, and then bake under the sun while our lungs rupture and we slowly die from internal bleeding.

:: stare at you -- i must say you guys really have this thing about seeking attention. would you rather have the guy buy you a mirror instead? because, and i think even ladies agree with me on this, we have more important things to do than just sit around and stare. i tell you, if women ran the world, we'd still be searching for the wheel.

oh man. that's it. i can't go on anymore. it's making me dizzy. i think i'd better go do something less painful than talk about this shit... like sticking my head in the oven or something.

but regardless of what i say about women, i respect them a great deal. honest. i just think it's wrong to make these stupid "perfect this perfect that" lists. because, frankly speaking, this is the reason why you women get disappointed at us men that often. you try to make up these "perfect" scenarios that we both know will never exist in the free world.

another advice to women: please keep in mind that us men are nothing but immature critters with the attention spans of a fucking turtle.

oh shit. i have a feeling my wife's going to kill me for this. hm.. that's weird. i just heard all of you say, "well i hope she fucking does, you pig!"

i'm out.

quit making faces you stupid fuck!

2005-03-05T11:54:00.000+08:00

there's this festival happenin' in our beloved city about... yep, you've guessed it... about flowers.

i think it's stupid. but nevermind me. nevermind what i think.

part of the festivities are concerts that sporadically dot the main thoroughfares of the city. did i get that right? "thoroughfares?" shit, nevermind. in fact, fuck thoroughfares!

so back to the stupid topic. the concerts. we got bands performing left and right. bands from the big city. local bands. marching bands. the works. being in a band myself back in the day (back in the day meaning about six years ago. not the fucking beattles era yah numbnuts!), i decided to catch some performances.

here are my observations:

:: bands sound better today than they do six years ago. mainly because sound system companies started sprouting like mushrooms to meet the demand. competition drove their prices to the ground. as a result, concert organizers can now afford them and at the same time can pocket more money exploiting bands. jesus fucking christ in a mohawk! some things never fucking change.

anyway, gone were the days where concert organizers (and concert goers) would just be content stacking 200 50-watt speakers on stage hooked to makeshift amplifiers and shit. everyone didn't care if you sounded like a gnome gargling two gallons of lighter fluid inside a fully tiled bathroom on a rainy afternoon. people were just there to have fun, get drunk, and of course get high. super fucking high. now you see monitors on stage. and you see living, breathing sound engineers tweaking sound mixers and knobs and buttons and shit.

:: concerts now have events organizers. they make sure every band did their soundcheck way ahead their call time; they make sure the flow of the show goes smooth like a well oiled vibrator; and they also make sure people in the audience know they're gay.

there were no events organizers during our time. the closest thing that'll resemble one would be the other band's roadie that'll signal you're up next. and if it so happens that your fucking vocalist or guitarist got so wasted before you even performed... tough luck... the next band gets your spot. it's that fucking simple.

:: nobody does drugs anymore. or so i think. before you'd see people passing around joints and getting high while struggling to sing the lyrics of the songs they're hearing. now what do you see? yeah, fucking college kids in fucking signature clothes drinking fucking tazo tea. hey, people, this is a fucking rock concert, not some rotary club assembly where you can socialize and mingle. here you bang your heads till your necks hurt, not sway your little asses and groove. nobody "grooves" to papa roach songs... you treat those songs with respect by jumping up and down like a monkey in heat inside a real mosh pit. fucking posh, upper middle class crowd!

so far, those were the things i observed.

wait. ah yes. about guitarists. don't you just hate it when guitarists do their solos and start twitching their faces and shit like they're hitting all those impossible notes? i do. fuck!

they're so fucking annoying when they do shit like that. and some of them do it even when they're strumming three chords. three fucking chords like D-A-G! those notes doesn't seem too impossible. i mean, your hand wouldn't even go past the third fret of the guitar to hit them.

it's good to be animated and all during live perfomances. you can get the crowd all fired up with a little jig here and a bit of a head bang there. but the faces. argh! i mean, c'mon, to twitch and deform your face to the point of looking like joan rivers? there's gotta be some other thing you can do to show you're a fucking passionate guitar player. i don't know... breathe out fire, bite a bat's head off, have sex on stage... but don't twitch your face like that!

fucking show off!

i'm out.

hate mail

2005-03-04T15:53:00.000+08:00

just recently, a fat guy said to me:

a, i'd probably kill you in your sleep with a butter knife if given the chance.

to which i replied:

in my sleep? with a butter knife? i don't think so.

i bet your enormously fat fingers won't allow you to even hold a stupid butter knife, much less stab anyone with it. you're a loser with thick fingers that makes pigs look like they have opposable thumbs.

i suggest you take your butter knife and cut your dick with it and eat your puny pecker for dinner. i bet your dick would add up to.. say.. 0.03 points, that'll help your weight watching diet a lot.

and oh, you lost four pounds. good for you. congratulations. four pounds of what? hair? air? booger? four pounds, yeah right.. in your fucking dreams frogpussy!

but regardless of what you say to me, fuckface, i'm still your fan. and i love your work. and you make me laugh. and that's that.

stupid fucking hate mail.

i'm out.

chopsuey

2005-03-03T14:20:00.000+08:00

:: i wonder why i never get tired listening to jason mraz. the motherfuckin' dork can definitely carry a tune. and his wicked, kickass songs are a joy to listen to; they're like poetry set to music. dang! i just said the word joy! dang!

:: will there ever come a time when blogging becomes a recognized profession like a doctor, or engineer, or one of them cheesy professions? then we can give out business cards that read: mr. so and so... RB. what's RB? registered blogger.

dad: what do you want to be you grow up, junior?
dad's junior: dad, i want to become a blogger. but a different kind of blogger...
dad: how different?
dad's junior: a blogger that would write his own original ideas and not just plaigarize other blogs just to be famous.
dad: good for you, son. it's nice to know you have an ambition... and at such an early age of two.
now here's your pentium 31 alienware laptop... knock yourself out!

:: maybe 360 years from now, intellectual masturbation can become an official event in the olympics.

:: when i finally ate something healthy (two carrot sticks for crying out loud!), my stomach started grumbling and complained, "what you ate could possibly be the most horrific tasting food i've ever tasted in my entire life." i wasnt't surprised my stomach can speak. i was surprised that he watches way too much american idol for him to sound like simon cowell. dang! shut the fuck up, stomach!

:: license and registration? for what? for a fucking lawn mower??? i was doing forty. i was right on doing forty! in what alternate universe are you from?! don't answer that.

:: warm food is good for you, right? but what you're telling me is i can't water the plants with warm water. now why the fuck is that?

:: babies are such darn adorable creatures. but there's just one problem with their programming. apparently they have problem with food... real food. everytime you feed 'em, they will put up a fight. what bothers me, though, is they have no problem eating a "choo-choo" train or a boeing 747 airplane. yep, definitely something wrong with their programming.

i'm out.

i need to wake up

2005-03-03T08:30:00.000+08:00

so i have this minor problem in the morning. no, no, no. not a pedro. nothing like that.

i can't get up early for work. well... i can't wake up early, that's why. and if ever i do wake up early, i just go back to sleep. i have to be at the office by eight in the morning everyday but i wake up at around half past seven. and the ride to the office takes about half an hour.

basically i've been thinking about getting an alarm clock.

i know exactly what you're saying. "fat dumbass! of course get an alarm clock!" i know, i know... an alarm clock could very well be the most civilized manner to wake someone up in the morning. not unless you want to be drenched with boiling water. now, that'll surely wake you up.

but alarm clocks... well... let me put it this way. i'm one of them guys who hit the snooze button forty times before i decide to drag my lazy fatass out of bed. with that kind of behavior, i'd say a normal alarm clock could last a week with me.

hm... what if i get a rooster instead. yeah! a rooster in my room. that way i'd really have to get up and run around the room every morning just to shut up the cock-a-doodle-doo-ing motherfucker. plus i could do my early morning excersice rituals, too.

bah! i don't do exercise.

hm... i wonder if i could fit a cow in my room. but do cows wake up at six in the morning? shoot!

i'm out.