30 April 2008

Shut up and don't drive

I don’t know how to ride a bike. I mean, I can “back ride” one—as long as Matthew McConaughey was driving it—I just don’t know how to use a bicycle myself. I never learned. Probably I preferred acne over knee scars and leg trauma that would haunt me when I hit 38.

On the same universe, I never really wanted to learn how to drive a car either. Unless of course a Matthew in sleepwear was in the passenger’s seat, in which case I… nah—won’t be driving either. He’ll drive and I’ll… well, I’ll take care of the gear. Or something. But, more seriously, I didn’t study driving because it is my eternal principle to avoid the worst part of modern living at all costs, no matter how naturally predisposed I am to it more than with Friend bashing: road rage. I am actually doing the world a favor.

Then this. Lately the biking industry figuratively and literally has gotten in my way. Question: When you, a seasoned bicycle user, pedal your way around, what’s your main point?

Do you want to flaunt your extra “basic” skills? Are you tired of natural efforts and now relying on machines for the rest of your life—in using sidewalks? Or do you, who are not in China, just want to enjoy your toy?

Or you’re simply a malaria-stricken chicken who’s too useless that you can’t even annoy others without the aid of thin wheels?

The other week, I was walking my own business when a bike came from opposite my direction. I saw it and the mustache driving it, of course, and like a virgin backing away from a starving rabid dog, I stepped aside to give way. As if the entire parking lot wasn’t big enough for everyone. A few seconds later the bike was three feet to my face then, in a micro moment, it swerved. Right to where I was. Then he sped off to the other direction, but I swear I could hear the leprosy-reject laugh: I had a hilarious aghast expression and it surely made his day.

A few nights later, on a well populated sidewalk, a similar thing happened. This time it was a boy on a blue bike: I was grating myself against the vendor stalls because I’d seen the bike coming my way. Just as the bike was before my face, the kid again swerved to my spot—and there was no space left for me to move to. But that’s not all: “Stupid!” I heard the uncut mole shot at me in the vernacular. For even the cockroaches underground to hear.

E kung hindi ka ba naman isa’t kalahating inutil na bobong tangang kupal na supot na kutong-lupang hayop ka (Sorry, English lovers, no can translate)—I squeeze myself into the stinky gaps between the stalls for you and your stupid bike and you still want to pass where I stand? This is a sideWALK, moron. How did your cheap mother bring you up, to be as stupid as her own cheap mom? You dumb closet fag!

Now this morning, I was crossing a street. When I reached the middle “isle”, I stopped: because I Saw A Motorbike Rushing some 50 feet away behind a traffic light and I wanted to let it pass before I continued walking. But the driver saw me too, and apparently he wanted to play Mr Nice. He slowed down as he neared, then motioned me to cross. I didn’t move. He had the entire road ahead to himself—not to mention the horde of moving metal behind him. He slowed down… to a halt in front of me. Then he said the magic word like the future impotent-prepubescent did before speeding off. WHAT THE. Is there a brotherhood of bikers out to humiliate me to oblivion or something? If there is, then they’re doing a good job pissing me off.

Confusion: I stay away from driving because I’m afraid of engaging in road rage. Yet apparently, on the other side, I can be provoked to spit lava too.

I can’t wait for teleportation to be invented. And total idiots to be banned from the streets.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 16:27 | 8 said something  
in: ,
22 April 2008

Norcism: Measure of a man 3

Woman hater: I finally know how to separate straight men from gays.

#3: Humor me.

Woman hater: It’s all about who you want to sleep with! For example, if you idolize, say, Sam Milby for his very nice built, but do not want to go down on him, you’re straight. But if you fantasize about him while you shower, then you’re gay. Are you like that?

#3: Depends on what I had for breakfast.

Woman hater: Who do you fantasize about?

#3: Lately Josh (Hartnett) has been asking me out again. Oh and Michael Johns seemed pretty lonely after getting booted from American Idol the other week…

Woman hater: Right! Because Josh is white I think he’s… big…

#3: Thanks for the information!
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 17:25 | 7 said something  
in:

Norcism: Measure of a man 2

Woman hater: Someday, I’m gonna put up my own events agency.

#3: Let me guess: Bikini fashion shows, truck shows, bodybuilding fairs, nude photo exhibits and mass tanning sessions.

Woman hater: How did you know?!

#3: Wild, wild guess.

Woman hater: But you missed a very important part of my agency’s program.

#3: "No shirts allowed"?

Woman hater: "No gays allowed"!

#3: …

Woman hater: …

#3: Why are you telling me this?

Woman hater: ‘Coz I’ll be needing your help in attending my own events! Ha-ha-ha! Kidding!

#3: Riiiight.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 17:21 | 0 said something  
in:

Norcism: Measure of a man

Woman hater: What is the measure of a man?

#3: Inches. Sometimes, centimeters—but it takes too long to convert…

Woman hater: Now how would you know if you’re gay?

#3: When you start asking about how to spot homosexuals.

Woman hater: ...
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 17:15 | 2 said something  
in:
18 April 2008

Cheers, gramps!

Actually, I enjoy drinking. It's opening the bottles that freaks me out more. Especially when they do it with their teeth. I mean, how barbaric can you get?

I do enjoy drinking. But ONLY with Friends. And lean 6-footers with flat tummies or nice abs who will drive or take me home. So that's very selective. Other than that everything is entirely forced.

But seriously. Drinking alcohol is fine. Getting drunk is fine. How people "justify" the act is what ticks me off.

No pretensions my cute ass. Drops inhibitions my sore foot. Drinking "for" purity and all-out honesty is C-R-A-P. I can be myself even with just my own saliva. It is my problem if I can't say things the way I want when I want. On the other hand I don't treat it as a problem at all: Otherwise I'd dive into desperation and look for other human-friendly ways just to speak my mind--or heart--but that's utterly exhausting. After all, I'm not smart or intelligent, only charming. Hence the best truth I can offer is what I plainly am: fascinatingly adorable. If I don't have anything good to say, I literally keep still. If I can't say something in a sane time at a sane place, then it's forever a secret, a personal burden, if you want. And yes I can live with being a loser for that because it's my fault to begin with. I don't risk killing my liver only to share thoughts or feelings then pretend I didn't some 10 hours later. That's pure idiocy.

And if you want to waste ugly memories, try jumping in front of an angry bus, head first if you can. Close your eyes, DON'T DIE, then hope the first creatures you see when you wake up three months later have pupils or lips. You have better chances that way than with oceans of alcohol. Except with First Loves, Earth annihilation and family inheritance, forgetting is easy, for crying out loud. Why always stage a bottled-up drama? You drink. Because you want to "forget something". The following weekend, you remember that drinking session last Wednesday. And the reason why you drank. So tonight you want to drink again. See the gaddamned loop? It's sooooo uselessly old.

---

I remember family holidays when the entire Bicol region would pack our house and ruin my life. In the morning it's all running, biking, picking flowers around the village with cousins. At noon it's the grand lunch. Until 4PM. Then it's the adults' time to shine.

Beer.

Even my fabulous grandma drank like a dehydrated elephant. And I used to dislike her big time that. But what I hated so much back then was when they begin toying with the kids. And by kids, I mean me.

"Hey rat, could you get us more ice?"

"And bring extra glasses!"

"Are there barbecues left?"

"Hurry up with that ice!"

"What's that you're wearing?"

"Run to the store and get more cases!"

"Where's the ice!"

Then my grandpa would fake a bull and chase me all around the place. Complete with animal, monster sounds. I was about 7, so he looked extremely scary. And all his sons would laugh with their father's creative humor. Not to beg for sympathy, but I cried like hell during and after each episode. It was haunting. Still is.

We cremated lolo two years ago. After nicotine melted his insides. I wore red. I watched as thick, black smoke shot from a tube atop the chapel and, once again after a billion years, for the last time, I gave the stranger burning my sweetest, most sincere smile. But only for less than 9 seconds.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 09:31 | 6 said something  
in: ,
17 April 2008

Rantoms

It makes funny sense, Across the Universe’s title. And even dumb moviegoers like moi would recognize it. After T.V. Carpio sang her lovely lesbo version of I Want To Hold Your Hand, the movie does exactly that: send you across the universe. My mind was lounging with my cousins in Saturn when a sad, old, gay critique ramped down the aisle and announced, “Catastrophic!”, while Evan Rachel Wood was being dragged down the stairs by cops. Very lonely indeed, that fag. It’s a good thing Jim Sturgess was hot as his character Jude and Joe Anderson was cute as Max. At least half the popcorn was worth that huge music video of a Beatles medley masked as a movie.

---

Another example of how McDonald's fools us all: No medium-size Coke. Either you let five drops satisfy you with its small glass and 57 pieces of tube ice, or you dream of diabetes with the large glass. I believe that life can be sorted out fast by choosing only between two extremes but when I’m offered imitation iced tea in “just the right” size, more than mocking my beliefs, it’s So Annoying.

---

It’s been over seven months since I was transferred to another department in the office. But it feels so slow and it's like I’ve been moved to a thousand teams simultaneously. Multiplicity at its best—I’m practically the company whore who’s called every time a need arises. So I tried to take action:

“How do I apply for a raise?” I asked somebody in the HR department.

“I dunno. You can apply for that?”

“I think so, yeah, ‘coz I heard that you can by… Wait you should know this stuff!”

Me = Sucker.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 17:06 | 5 said something  
in: ,
16 April 2008

Babble away, for all I care.

"Drinking, they say, is the haven of the weak. We forge a persona that we only have the courage to show when we're drunk enough. We escape reality even if it would risk our health...

"But hear this: The most honest individuals are those who drink to drown.
Because they lose their social mask. No pretensions. No limits. No lies.

"That's not weakness. That's being fearless. And perhaps what other people
can never fathom is that, because of intoxication, we become pure."

...

Whatever.

A big, effing

W H A T E V A H.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 21:44 | 4 said something  
in:
13 April 2008

Dude, where's my Xio?

Well I'll tell 'ya. But it's more like a confession...

I've been busy...

Very busy...

With photo shoots!

Hence some cyber silence. But feel absofuckinlutely free to use these pegs as desktop wallpapers.
Special thanks to Sergio's Studio and BKPena.

xoxow (w means wink)

QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 19:41 | 3 said something  
in:
11 April 2008

My life as an understanding Friend 2

Alcoholica: Had lunch?

Cookie monster: Brunch, actually. Two kilos of rice.

Alcoholica: How do you it like that? You’re a midget!

Cookie monster: I usually share with my imaginary friends. Hey weren’t you supposed to go to lunch?

Alcoholica: I lost my appetite. I dunno, suddenly I feel like I’m about to vomit or something.

Cookie monster: Women are so gross. Is it your officemate?

Alcoholica: Ha-ha! No.

Cookie monster: Pregnancy? Hilary Duff?

Alcoholica: No. No!

Cookie monster: The MMDA urinals??

Alcoholica: Now you're making me puke.

Cookie monster: Did you try candies?

Alcoholica: Lotsa mints. And I’m even out!

Cookie monster: At least that makes up for all those tooth brushing you missed. Plus you don’t smoke. Hey maybe you’re unconsciously bulimic?

Alcoholica: WTF is that?

Cookie monster: You’re schizo. And the Other You wants to be a French-Brazilian supermodel. In Africa!

Alcoholica: How did I ever become your Friend?

Cookie monster: Stay away from toilets and other private cubicles!

Alcoholica: (logged off)
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 14:07 | 3 said something  
in:

My life as an understanding Friend

Alcoholica: What did you do last weekend?

Cookie monster: Lost marathon. Nothing like fueling my fear of flying. You?

Alcoholica: Batangas.

Cookie monster: For bulalo?

Alcoholica: No, we went to a beach there. Then we got lost on the way home. Seven hours!

Cookie monster: How did that happen? Isn’t Batangas supposed to be… linear?

Alcoholica: Uhm, the influence?

Cookie monster: Classic stupidity.

Alcoholica: Thanks!
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 14:00 | 0 said something  
in:

Norcism

I have an officemate and he’s best at freaking everyone out. It took us a year before finally concluding that he was hired to do just that, and it’s absolutely fine.

I have an officemate, his name is Nor. He says I’m his third favorite person in the company—his immediate superiors being the first two. Fair enough.

I have an officemate, his name is Nor, and he dreams of opening his own bar. Or club. Where bouncers double as pole dancers to save on employees’ wages. And yes the bouncers are all males.

One can’t miss Nor in the small office. Just look for signature clothes and some sun-crisped blonde streaks on a towering mass of dark brown skin and you’d be all set.

I have an officemate whose name is Nor. Yet he prefers “Norsky” most of the time. It’s cuter, he says in his deep voice, then he giggles like Ms. Clueless on-valium.

Now don’t be fooled by the antics, as Nor—or Norsky—too has other uses. Hilarity is a given, but you’ll also be impressed by how resourceful and creative he can get. Short by one standee? He’d ask the next stranger to raise that 4x5 banner for you. Missing a copy of that report? He’d sneak out clean sheets from other desks for you to print all 93 pages again.

Got questions? You can run to Nor. At 29, he can be described as one who’s mature enough to shed light on life’s dim-lit portions… like hookers and illegal drug dealers. Or getting ripped off a freelance stint. Or bitter break-ups. Even credit card limits and how to blotter the scumbags-in-hiding responsible for those interest rates piling up every week.

I have an officemate, his name is Nor. We’re not exactly friends, but seeing as how I rank in his hit list, I think I could continue sparing a few parts of my bugged existence listening to him enjoy singing Hit Me Baby One More Time while hauling boxes 30 times my size in and out the door…

For Nor may be missing both his screws, yet in the end, if you look back, we all once fancied putting -sky to our names too.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 13:53 | 2 said something  
in:
02 April 2008

Happy birthday, everyone! 2

Now here's a few of life's galactic pranks, which affects the greater population. Some of them funny. Some of them bad. But definitely: All. Jokes.
  1. Liquor ban. Crashed an underground teen party last week. Zygotes everywhere. But there was petting. There was necking. There was nicotine overdose. And oh yeah, clean-empty beer gallons littered the effing place. Know what’s better than alcohol bans for minors? Face powder ban for bird-brain colegialas.
  2. Sarah Geronimo, Will Smith, Jim Carrey, Marvin Agustin, Raymond Gutierrez.
  3. Mall “checkpoints”. What the hell is wrong with my bag zippers and why do you keep rubbing those stupid sticks at them!!
  4. The Filipino policeman. Right, Vera?
  5. Janina San Miguel. I’m sorry. But more than the need to improve English training in schools, how long will we keep Pilipino as "just another language"? My tongue itself is impossible in English. We’ve practically dominated the globe with OFWs, so why not place Pilipino experts in pageant Q&As altogether, next to Chinese and Spanish?
  6. Facebook. Yahoo 360. And all other post-Friendster, post-Multiply wannabees.
  7. “Cigarette smoking is dangerous to your health.”
  8. Hannah Montana, Britney Spears, Kim Chiu, Gerald Anderson, Piolo Pascual, Sam Milby, Charo Santos-Concio, High School Musical 1, High School Musical 2, High School Musical 3. All the way to the 1000th. And again, Hannah Montana.
  9. “ASL”. Wait. Make that, “ASL?”.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 23:04 | 2 said something  
in: ,
01 April 2008

Happy birthday, everyone!

Yep, it’s all our day today. April Stools. Oh come on, we’d all been fools in some points in our histories. So go celebrate! I’m recounting a few of the most unforgettable… pranks… life has thrown at me. I call them pranks because they’re too stupid even I’ve ended up Moron of the Day quite a few times already. But they're all entertaining in a strange way or two. That all I can do now is look back and… sigh.

---

It was the year of debutants for our batch and so, virginity aside, girls were “becoming ladies” here and there. We staged a surprise cotillion for a gal I call Tingkulot—where we pulled a fantastic impromptu major production, with full house decors and a two-venue reception to boot! I got up late the following morning and missed the opening of the second banquet, also called breakfast. A guy named RJ, who now has two kids and lives in Valenzuela, welcomed me with a pinch of cake that had just been sliced. Which I readily bit because I was starving. I’d like to look at it as a bright side, ‘coz in rushing I forgot to brush my teeth: But on the third chew I noticed something mint-y in the thing I just put in my big mouth. Cake con Colgate. I never looked at icing the same way again.

---

My dad, despite all protests imaginable, dumped me in an exclusive school for 90-percent-testosterones in high school. After I grew up bouncing in co-education for about 8 years. At first I was scared because—who was I gonna beFriend there, the hag librarian? But soon it turned out there was nothing to be afraid of. At all. Let’s just say… with cheerleading competitions, who was I to keep complaining about the school? Oh and we were champions in our senior year. *wink*

---

Until today, I keep hearing people “explain” deviancy. How gays are simply “experiencing a phase in their lives” and “will revert back” to wanting to nail their "real" counterparts sooner or later. Even a priest made snide remarks to family acquaintances right beside me a few years back. Well don't you just love learning from perfect experts. I wanted to dye his remaining hair neon blue, but I guess wishful thinking isn’t something we deprive off morons. After all, like how an author puts it: a phase is a phase, but if you actually enjoy your life, then it’s a whole different thing. Besides, shopping is never complete without confusing mall guards. “Good evening, ma’am… uh, sir… ma’am?” Sweet.

---

I am standing my ground. A fag is a fag is a fag. No matter how high you raise your collar or how tight your shirt is. Or how huge you build your mumps all over your freakish body. Get this: My bucks goes to a Roderick Paulate prancing in the rain in pink tutus and NEVER to an Arnold Schwarzenegger staging a Mariah Carey Honey music video with seven more Arnold Schwarzeneggers in a gym. More than scary, it’s eww.

---

It was kindergarten and for the first time our school was holding a kiddie camp. I was never interested in sleeping on cracked soil, much less in being a scout. But I packed for a night out all for the glory of kiddieraderie. At around 9PM, it was time to snooze. One of the “guardians”—who were themselves guarded, as they were just the school’s graders—came to our tent for some bedtime stories, and of course he brought scary tales. After that story of a corpse rising from the grave to search for her stolen finger, he pretended to be lost in thought. Oddly, he looked cute, I suddenly realized. My geek tent-mates were just staring at him, so I decided to ask him if he was okay. In a split second he began laughing like a crazed hyena that the entire camp rushed to our spot. I leapt back and was ready to rip my way out of that crazy hole when I heard him laughing at our stupid faces. Bastard. Although, I still would’ve told him he could scare me over and over and over if he wanted to…

---

At the time the Internet was first popularized in the country, of course we were all very curious about the technology. One day, a cousin, who loves all things machine-ic, asked me to sit in front of the computer... and smile. He did not mention “webcam” but he said he was going to take my picture via the computer. Translation: That I’m the biggest moron. I sat there, SMILING, and he kept telling me to be still and wait for my photo to appear on screen. The screen “moved” seconds later alright, loading something up. I was both insulted and annoyed when a picture of a brown-haired monkey appeared. We could've lost a relative at that exact moment, but the help was currently using the kitchen axe. And that’s how early my belief in the Web evaporated.

---

Contrary to public misbelief, I had a fun childhood. I had playmates in our subdivision and we spent fantastic eventful FUN days under the sun, moon and whatever hell is in between. Then one day, one eerily, strangely, mysteriously inconceivably freaky day, we all woke up with the one same thought: I do not know anyone. As. In. Nobody spoke to anyone ever again. And that was before I hit Grade 3. I’m still bewildered until today, but if we what we had was just a huge prank of the cosmos, then the cosmos scored biggie in all seven of us.

---

Speaking of neighborly love. A neighbor sicked his puppies on me one afternoon back when I was 5 or 6. He asked me to pat them first, and I did because they were sooooo cuuuute. Then suddenly, I dunno what happened, they began barking at me and even tried to snack on my porcelain legs. That uncut leper adolescent didn’t even try to stop them. Moments later the now-evil pups were chasing me crazy, with everybody else just watching in hilarity while I was almost crying and screaming for help. I did not speak to anyone for weeks. But know what made the whole thing more idiotic? I ran half a block to the main village road when I could’ve just run to the house right in front of where I’d been playing with the canines earlier. Boink.

---

As it came with the Innocence package, until the sixth grade I allowed my folks to bring me to… to… to the… barber shop. I KNOW. YUCK. Stinky place, rotten combs, rusty blades, dirty hands! Eww eww euwwwwww! One day, when I finally had the courage, I asked the… ugh, barber… NOT to touch my bangs. He declined my request, because, “Magagalit ang tatay mo (Your dad will get mad).” Then he ran his ancient scissors in a straight line… but after that I wasn’t even anywhere near Tyra Banks-nice! ‘Twas more like box-Lego-Tyra-in-a-cement-wig! I was laughing stock in school for a few weeks. THAT SONUVAPOOCH! I cursed that dimwit and his children and grandchildren and great-grandmoles with herpes, armpit acne and eternal baldness. And should the rage be rekindled, heavens help me, I will hunt down his entire line and tattoo bamboo bangs on their foreheads myself!
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 09:05 | 0 said something  
in:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)