Archive for November, 2009

Post Pacquaio commentary. You know.

November 18, 2009 3 comments

So. Because I’m a dork, and on account of the minor incident where i damn near broke my arm, its only now that I got to watch The Pacquaio’s carnagery of this supposedly super middleweight person from the land of Dayanara Torres. Y’all prolly know this already, but yeah, it was fucking beautiful I had to wipe away a single tear that rolled ever so slowly from my eye. Potentially the most graceful thing I’ve seen in a long time that if it could wear a tutu, it might was well break into a fucking ballet routine. Ok, you fucking get the point.

Lemme tell you one thing about me: when i watch boxing, I turn into my dead lolo (my dad’s dad), who, despite his propensity to forget the most basic of things like shitting regularly or taking a bath more than once month, is our go-to guy for boxing stats. Not that I can churn out tales of the tapes or some commentator spiel like that. Quite on the contrary, nothing useful ever comes out of my mouth while watching, but, much like my lolo, I spit out expletives like a 60-year old sailor on crack.

Moving on. That first knockdown on the third round very nearly game me an orgasm. By the second knockdown on the fourth round, my nextdoor neighbor was already body-smashing my door, rushing to defend me from the akyat-bahay he imagined I was cursing at. I told him to fuck off.

After four rounds of exciting fight (coz admit it, after the fourth that was pretty much it for Tocino-face), I was ready to blog about this pretty amazing shit, but alas, my brain is refusing to cooperate and nothing remotely insightful is coming out. I can congratulate Manny, on the offchance that he might come across my blog, but decided against it coz thats just fucking retarded. This brings me to my new point: people should really stop expressing their pride being a Filipino because Manny is fucking amazing and shit like that, coz really, feeling good for a life and awesomeness that you can only dream about can only lead to two things: complete and utter disappointment that will eventually lead to suicide, or, buttloads of cash if you have millions to gamble away and a reliable bookie (which you probably dont, so thats just one thing for you). You can also get inspired and shit, uhh so yeah, good luck with that.

I think, in addition to the simple brutality of the sport that feeds our primal need to see blood, the business of boxing holds much appeal to us because of the loads of cash and serious blingage that comes with it. 13 million dollars for beating the crap out of another dude is pretty fucking spectacular. Course, with the cash and the bling comes the sex and the oh-so-amazing sex. So great fucking job, Krista Ranillo.

Admittedly, Pacman is looking mighty fine these days, coz holytits if with that amount of cash you cant make your face get from a 0 to a 10, you have a some serious problem and you should fire your plastic surgeon. Also, kill her dogs and burn her house down. If anything, I find his beard very sexy, and his overall glow uber hot.

So, Krista Ranillo, I do not believe that you are fucking Manny for the money alone. In fact, I tip my hat to you, because I dont think I will have the strength of persona to be able to hold it together if Manny, in the heat of unbearable passion, suddenly blurts out, “Yeah baby, yeah Im fucking close, I’m.. I’m.. I’mmmmmmmmmmmm cumminggggggg!!! YOUUUUUUUUUUUU KNOWWWWWWWW!!

Now you know.


The amazing tale of the freakishly tall guy who got distracted by the water sprinklers. And hits my car.

November 11, 2009 4 comments

I mean, com’on. If you’re not A) a fucking 3-year old B) a retard with an attention span of .03 milliseconds or C) being hounded by sleek mafia goons for boning the Boss’ only daughter and some bits slipped out about you spanking her and spanking her hard, which you’re pretty sure she enjoyed as much as you did on account of her shrill cries of pleasure that easily rung up some pretty serious decibels that BITCH!!
— how in the fuck can you get distracted by a motherfucking water sprinkler?

And fucking hit my car in the process?!

So. I phoned the police after this Indian guy’s truck kissed my car where it was sitting under a shade at the park two blocks from our office (Free parking. What.) I was just walking away from Stan (my car) when i heard screeching tires and a loud thud.

The poor thing doesn’t speak a word of English so I kinda sign languaged to him: ‘Its ok, I will just call the police and this will be sorted out,” in wild hand and arm gestures, which can also be interpreted as “Oh, you fucking mor—, oh lookie! You have slightly myopic puppy dog eyes, and oh! your eyelids twitched, you must have a serious neurological problem you poor thing or you’re just sleepy because your boyfriend didn’t let you sleep last night, in which case Eww.” And yeah, he’s like freaking tall. Like 7 feet tall. that or i have vertigo and is looking at him standing on my head.

After roughly 15 minutes, a somewhat young-ish officer (YPO) arrived to assist us with the mundane paperwork. As procedure would have it, the police asked freakishly tall guy (FTG) what happened, and FTG proceeded to amuse us with his fucking idiocy. The following ensued:

Disclaimer: don’t you fucking accuse me of exaggerating the ‘how this guy managed to hit my parked car’ because 1) that is not cool, 2) i work in PR and 3) this is gonna pwn your face so bad so don’t you even fucking think just read.

YPO: What happen tell me.

FTG: sidaa, sidaa (means ‘straight’ in Hindi, with hand indicating that he is going straight, then, almost giving me a heart attack, he screamed) pony! Pony!! PONYYYYY!!!! (‘water’ in Hindi, then he started flailing his arms excitedly and his eyes rolled to the back of his head and i think there was a little frothing in his mouth -could be a mini vomit – but i cant be sure) POOOOONNNNNYYYY!! (while pointing towards the grassy patch in the park)

YPO and Me: what the…??? (then when he started looking possessed) Oh my fucking Allah/God (in our heads)

This went on for a good 15 minutes, after which, a breakthrough:

FTG: (Upon seeing the water sprinklers) PONNYYYY!!! PONYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!schchchchcarrkkarrcckkkarkktchshhhh (choking in his own tongue sound)

It was only then that it occured to us (also, after calling on a randon Indian person to talk to FTG and find out what the fuck is on with the arm-flailing and the eye-rolling and the overall clusterfuck of a scene he is making) that FTG got — as you prolly know by now on account of the title of the fucking blog its on top of the thing thats it im revoking your priviledge to read my blog i dont care if my readership drops to 1 (including me. fuck) — distracted by the spectacular display of grandeur and elemental artistry OF THE FUCKING WATER SPRINKLERS!!!!

I know right. Wouldn’t even believe it if I weren’t there. Fucking story of my life.

Categories: Uncategorized

Some questions. What.

Hey there. im currently blogging from my couch, yeah the same one I’ve been on since i got home last thursday night, after getting into a screamfest with a fucking moronic Indian guy or other from a horribly stinky race who decided to be a ginormous douche by insisting that I park on the farthest end of the lot to which i vehemently disagreed to on account of my hopes that I will be going out later that night, a notion that I can openly tell you now didn’t materialise. One and a half days later, I am blogging from the very same couch, stinking of cigarettes and beer and decomposing chicken bones, aching in all the places that I need to be able to get up to wash the grit off of my face, so i succumb to the possibility that the rest of the weekend might just end right here with minimal changes in bodily position but elevated levels of stench, stickiness and self-deprecation.

So as not to completely file my weekend under category: MEGA FAIL, i picked up the laptop and tried to complete this little story that I am trying to write, which obviously didn’t work out as well. As i wait for my turkey sandwich loaded by grease-soaked fries and coleslaw so thick their combined consistency will be enough to clog two or seven important arteries in my heart (what there are only four yeah fuck you smartypants) and talking myself out of another self-love session (coz really how many times can a girl pleasurestroke herself to tagalog literotica), i thought maybe i can pass the time posting some very important matter-of-life-and-death questions to pique the minds of the two of you who read my blog (ok one if I dont count myself damn you).

How long until my turkey sandwich arrives?
Coz really, this fucking thing on tv (Living Golf) is making me want to get a fork (im pretty sure there’s one under the couch since last week i was eating KFC cheesecake and watching Phantom of the Opera for the 687th fucking time and woke up with a good half of the thing squished under my fat arm and the fork no where in sight) and stick it right at my eyeballs. Golf is a fucking lame sport. I honestly think whoever invented golf was a drug addict who ran out of money to buy drugs and resorted to some heavy-duty masturbation to take his mind off of his withdrawal symptoms. Then it is most probable than this bloke just started swinging his dick back and forth trying to hit an egg or some round thing lying on his semen-stained carpet because he is fucked-up like that and voila the game of golf came to be.
Oh wait, my turkey’s here.

What the hell is going on outside the window of my kitchen?
So, since i opened the kitchen (yeah, lemme tell you about that. sometime between last week and the week before that, i locked the kitchen shut because of the suffocating smell of rotting meat and rice and small insects originating from there. believe me, its like a crematorium and a waste disposal unit had some pretty wicked sex in there and produced millions of concentrated wet farts for babies) because the smell is making it impossible for me to browse my porn without hurling my lungs out along with my 4000-calorie dinner. I only decided to open the door to turn on the lights because I kinda remembered my mum telling me that cockroaches like the dark. By that time there were already baby cockroaches crawling on the dirty dishes so I was left with no recourse but shut the door again and run to Spinney’s to get some badass cockroach juice, which then i dutifully poured all over the floor, the sink (and the dishes) and the goddamn trashbags. It was then that I heard the weird noises from outside the kitchen. It sounded like.. hmmm.. how will I put this without sounding racist: three fat Arab homos gangraping a helpless Pakistani labourer in all holes of his face. Of course, thats just a hypothesis. It kinda explains the smell too coz theres no way three weeks’ worth of trash and unwashed plates will result in a smell so revolting. Im a fucking genius.

What is up with the Germans during the fall of the Berlin Wall?
I mean, if they have grown so fucking sick of that friggin’ wall, why were they (as I’ve seen in all the footages on CNN) using a fucking katam to tear it down? What, there wasnt a freaking jackhammer handy or something? History freaks, enlighten me on this. Or not.

Oh god there’s an ipis crawling on my couch.

Categories: Uncategorized

Chapter 1

November 4, 2009 1 comment

She stubbed her half-smoked cigaretter to its premature death, thinking how in the hell did she end up in a bar in the middle of the afternoon, finishing her third round of gin tonic. Two packs worth of Marlboro Reds butts lay murdered in the ashtray sitting beside a bowl of mixed nuts in the counter. Boy, her lungs must have taken a beating and been screaming at her all the bloody while she was sitting there at the bar, in the middle of the afternoon, idly waiting for something — or someone, as it later turned out.

His stride seemed to cover two tables at a time, making him seem like a video on fast forward, aggressively moving towards the empty stool beside hers. It was his baritone voice that she noticed first, even before the words “have you been here long” sunk into her.

“No,” she lazily replied.

They met at a bar not far from the one they are in now some seven months ago, both lonely and eager to talk to somebody — anybody who will listen to their little sob stories about their sad little lives. Although he is not bad-looking at all, he felt a tinge of pity for her. For the loneliness that seems to seep through the holes of her face, with fervent concentration on her eyes, all amidst a terrifyingly beautiful face. She’s a looker alright — and we if are to believe that pretty girls dont get it tough, this particular one easily debunks that notion.

“I’m just early. I heard in the telly that its gonna rain in the afternoon, and I’m going out just the same so I dont see why I have to get wet in the process.”

“If that is not the sort of thing an unbearably lonely soul would say, I dont know what the hell is,” he thought.

They exchanged a couple of polite kisses on the cheek, then proceeded to an empty booth at the end of the hall. She ordered another gin tonic, and he got a cheeseburger and a pint of lager. “Haven’t had lunch yet, work got it the way,” he said.

She gave a kurt nod and finished her drink in one gulp.

“How did I end-up sharing a drink with this mediocre-looking bloke whose transparent eagerness could only be a telltale sign of deep and uncomplicated loneliness? More so, how did we fall in love that moment seven months ago only to come to this afternoon, at a bar not far from where we first met, with a pact to end it all tonight?”, were her thoughts, which reminded her, they have to pick up the gun.

Categories: Uncategorized