The picking up women series: Self Confidence

A lot has been written about picking up women within the annals of this great blog. Adam Mordo’s seminal works discussing basic methodology as well as technique are definite must reads for every internet nerd/budding date-rapist.

Seeing that the words contained in my colleague’s aforementioned articles are nothing short of gospel and are beyond the contention lesser men(i.e. Bim and Steel), I am going to write something that wouldn’t even attempt to expound on his principles, but rather something that would act as a mere supplement to them.
Bim and his biceps
Bim, the most confident man on the Planet
Today, dear reader, I am going to talk about something called Confidence. See, before you can put the knowledge you have gained from Adam’s articles to use and start banging women left and right and throwing money for cab fare at them after you violate their vajayjays, you must first inflate your self confidence to extravagantly humorous proportions while, at the same time, paring whatever respect you have left towards women to a virtual non-existence and until such a time that you see women as nothing more than empty, rusting sardine cans. Sardine cans you can put your birds and ejaculate in.

Remember that for the most part, confidence is about mental conditioning. I have prepared three tenets for you to take to heart and internalize. Once you do, you are ready to be cozen with yourself and make yourself believe that you are actually worth a woman’s time of day.

Read more

Quasi-Girlfriend: A Weekend in the life of a Rising Internet Star

After getting shitfaced Saturday and ending up in a hotel room naked with my quasi-girlfriend Helga (whom, if I remember correctly, was very limber while I was, if I remember correctly, very flaccid), and waking up inside my parked, unlocked car somewhere in Katipunan Sunday Morning after Helga and her friends tried to poison me with Tanduay and robbed me of 7 thousand bucks and my camera; I felt like I needed Monday to be my detox day.

Not surprisingly, I ended up abandoning the entire detox idea and a handful of my friends/bandmates went out Monday night to–Drink some more. We pre-gamed a little at my friend Lesly’s house and after our collective self-confidence was augmented by the immediate effects of alcohol and narcotics, we decided to head out to this bar we used to play gigs at hoping we could meet some chicks and ultimately, get secks.

We arrived at the bar and got us a table across a group of semi-attractive nursing students who looked like they were pretty sloshed themselves. Now I cannot stress enough how this situation is PERFECT for all of us: 4 Talented musicians who used to play in this venue, a group of young, impressionable college chicks who look like they dig rock music and look like they’re going to suck your bird after you impress them with your job/car and promise them a future, and best of all: 27 Peso beers.

In order to give you a better picture of the scene, allow me to list the cast of characters:

Leslie Isip - 27. Drummer Ex Machina. Gaunt and bony, has buck teeth, and best of all–Unemployed.

James ‘Fastest Hands in the west’ Berango - 26. Guitarist. Awful sense of fashion and, also, unemployed.

JL Lingan - 24. Bass. My Best Friend. So I can’t really say anything about him besides the fact that he’s like 4 feet 10 inches tall. Also his feet stink.

Mike ‘Fucking’ Villar. 25. Lead Singer. Rising Internet Star. Marketing Strategist. Easily Earns over 70 Thousand pesos a month. Has three cars. Very good in bed. In his own mind.

Knowing that I probably had the best shot in making progress with our targets, I stood up with my beer and chatted up the waiter whom I knew (because, like I said, we used to play gigs in this place and because I owe him 500 bucks worth of Tokwa.) to check the girls out up close and maybe eavesdrop a little on their conversation. Having a good buzz, I felt like a winner and I have no doubt that if I can only interject a witty comment somewhere, the same witty comments that cemented my status as an Internet Celebrity/Avant garde comedian. In my own mind, I’d get some pussy tonight.

Unfortunately some guy who looks like he sells fish at the local market (compelte with sando, leather belt bag and all. He probably drives an owner-type jeep too. I don’t know. Whatev.) took the empty seat in the girls’ table. The guy looked like he was bombed as hell and was all over the prettiest chick saying douchebaggy stuff like “I had a girlfriend before who looks exactly like you.”

Now, judging from the reaction of the prettiest chick in the group, the situation was very uncomfortable and awkward for her. She was pretty much avoiding eye contact, shifting uncomfortably in her seat and kept silent the whole time.

The guy finally stood up and walked away to join his friend on another table and I saw my opportunity. Like a jungle cat(a really oafish, clumsy one), I walked up to the group, flashed my best “i’m-not-a-sexual-predator-so-please-don’t-mace-me” smile and, without missing a beat, said “You want me to beat him up? Because I can. Actually, we can” motioning to the table where my band mates were.

THIS was when the wheels came off.

Now, I wasn’t really expecting a grand reaction from the girls like immediately jumping me, pulling down my pants and fellating me furiously for the pretentious, swaggering courage I just displayed. What I did expect was for them to open up, say something like “Nah, it’s cool. Don’t bother.” So I can invite them to join me and my friends at our table where I could make out with all of them and watch my friends stab their penises with a fork in envy.

Instead, what happened was the girls just looked at me for a solid 5 seconds until one of them said “That guy’s my uncle. And he’s a police officer.”

Much to my muted chagrin and the eventual delight of my asshole friends who witnessed everything, I walked away as fast as I can, returned to our table, speed-drank 3 red horses and decided to call it a night.

Jesus Christ. I should really stop churning out lame ass pick up lines and instead just be honest and say something like “Um Hi, I won’t pretend to be smooth. And really, all I want is to insert my bird into your vajayjay but since I’m obviously too drunk to even walk straight, that probably wouldn’t happen. So I guess, what I want is for us to check in to a hotel where we can watch ESPN sports center, maybe make out a little, check out in the morning, part ways and never speak again. Also, you can steal my laptop and I wouldn’t mind. Or maybe we can meet up next week, sober so I can stab your mouth with my micro penis. It’s sorta just feels like brushing your teeth!”

P.S. I need your opinion on something. I realize that it might be inappropriate for me to be calling Helga my quasi-girlfriend. But really, what do you call a relationship that goes something like “We’ve been making out every time we see each other, slept together or at least tried to sleep together. I also spent 10 thousand pesos last time we were together and I think I like you until you it got weird when you bit my lower lip off and called my mother a crackhead. And a whore”

Anyone?

On Fine Dining

Thursday.  Marc, Riz, I and my company’s other department  heads went to Shangri-La Makati’s Shang Place to have dinner with our company’s CEO and the COO.

Now a couple of things you should know about me: First, I don’t like fine dining and second I don’t like fine dining in a restaurant situated inside a swanky Makati Hotel because really, fine dining in Makati makes me sad.

This is largely because of the anxiety and the feeling of vulnerability and insecurity places that are imposingly fashionable and elegant make me feel. I mean come on, these places have rich beautiful women and douchebag businessman-types all over and you know everyone’s going to get some sex at the end of the night while on a regular night, my squatter friends and I are on the other side of the metro probably sitting on the curb sniffing Ovaltine Powder trying to get fucked up because we ran out of Emperador Brandy and none of us have any money left to get some more.

My anxiety was further exacerbated when we were waiting for our table to be ready and I was treated to an exhibition of groups of successful-looking, 30-ish, expatriates talking obnoxiously about something called “Attrition” who would, from time to time, pause to eavesdrop and smile condescendingly at another group from another table because they’re only talking about “The difference between the market value of our property and the claims held against it.”

Aside from these types of people, there were also young men and women who were obviously on their first dates as I heard most of them talking about their interests and shit (and face it, if you’ve been dating a girl long enough, you should be arguing with her about why she should be on the pill so you can come inside her whenever you want and not listen to her talk about how she likes Victorian architecture. That’s just silly.) Also, it looked like the ladies were wearing shoes that cost more than my parents’ first house. So yeah, sad.

What’s sadder is after they get a good buzz going from drinking expensive-ass wine, they’d probably have this conversation:

Slutbag girl: “Hey listen, you got me dinner which probably costs more than what that guy standing there makes in a month [points at me. Standing in a corner, looking at my shoes, sweating the fuck all over the place.] But I never got around to asking you what you do.”

Douchebag guy:“I’m the Vice President for International Operations of a BPO company. I have an degree on Douchery from Stanford which I leveraged to land me this high-paying job which will pay for my Porche and my beach house in Cancun. How about you? What do you do?”

Slutbag Girl: “Well I’m an Editor for–”

Douchebag guy: “Hey listen, want to go up to my room, snort some lines and fuck? It’s going to be pretty rough and there is a good chance that I’ll spit at you and call you Apollonia.”

Slutbag Girl: “K!”

The dinner itself was pretty uneventful and I really don’t have anything funny to tell you besides the fact that the Waitresses over at Shang Place were grade-A bitches. There were numerous instances when I ordered a drink and the waitress was like “I’ll bring it to you in a couple of minutes sir” when she really meant “Sir, you obviously bought your shirt from The Surplus Shop and it couldn’t have cost you more than 100 Pesos. Also, you’re not very good looking and you sweat a lot so I think I’ll get around to bringing your drink after I alternate between serving everybody else their drinks and shooting you looks of pity and utter disgust.”

But the night’s pièce de résistance came when they served us Chinese cookies and sesame balls for dessert. Being the highly cultured person that I am, I thought the Chinese cookies were Fortune Cookies and proceeded to dig into the pastry looking for a piece of paper where my supposed fortune is printed.

The aftermath: Crumbs, fudge and icing all over my shirt and the definite, imminent end of my career.

Heaven. On Earth.

There are a few things I can consider myself to be definitively good at: Yeah sure I am good at alienating my friends by playing with my scrotum in front of them and sure I am good at getting free sex from young girls suffering from Down Syndrome; but if there’s anything in the world I could consider myself an expert at, it’s got to be Fast Food.

(Also, I lied. I’m not good at getting free sex from young girls suffering from Down Syndrome. In fact, this only happened once when my bestfriend JL’s sister who happens to have Downs, mistakenly wandered into the bathroom while I was taking a poop. The rest, as they say, is history. Also, she cried so I have to give her 200 pesos to shut her up. So yeah, not free. Whatever.)

My adeptness with fastfood is fortified with such academic resilience that in the 5 years I was in college, I was able to come up with a detailed, 50-page white paper which analyzes which combination of McDonald’s food items would give you more bang for your buck.

Now I know that two cheeseburgers at 35 Pesos each trumps a double cheeseburger at 69 Pesos as far as being filling is concerned.

I also know that McDonald’s Katipunan uses Nestea iced tea and they prepare it in dirty plastic buckets where it is invariably spat on and stirred using the dirty hands of a pimply squatter store manager who graduated from NCBA in ‘98.

So, since then, I’ve been pretty much going with my killer two Cheeseburgers, two regular fries, large coke combination for my fastfood fix and I was more or less convinced that this combination is quite possibly the greatest food combination my Asian currency can buy. Until lately when I was introduced to KFC’s glorious Garlic Chicken Steak.

For you people who haven’t tuned in to local television programming for the past month or so, KFC is pitching a product called Garlic Chicken Steak and these steaks, depending on how much you value your health, can be the collective manifestation of how capitalist machinations are exploiting the public, or, in my case, HEAVEN ON FUCKING EARTH.

Why you ask? Well three reasons: 49 Pesos. Sizable chicken fillet smothered in garlic sauce. Coke.

Now I’m admittedly fat and celebrate everything that has to do with my being fat so you’re probably thinking how such a modest amount of food can make a guy like me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Also, horny.

The answer dear friends, again, lies in combinations. Now the meal itself may not be much but throw in a regular Hotshots, two extra orders of rice, regular coleslaw and upgrade your drink to a large coke and you have something that costs a little over 120 Pesos yet is so fucking filling and so fucking good that one cannot talk about it without stopping to masturbate.

[I need a few minutes here]

[Ok]

This combination is so fucking awesome that sometimes I feel that there’s a catch there somewhere. Like, I dunno, maybe you have to give up your soul or maybe your retarded brother when you order this combo because really, assloads of boneless chicken? Three servings of rice? Coleslaw? Large Coke?  I mean come on people, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.(As I learned back in the summer of ‘84 when I was held captive by a bunch of Canadians and was forced to simultaneously eat, shit, drink and have sex three times a day for a year. Also, after they released me, I spoke Spanish.)

Anyway my first encounter with said combination was earlier at lunch. When the meal was served to me, I actually didn’t think much of it. The garlic chicken fillet itself looks like a mishmash of something that resembles chicken, wood carvings and the piss of somebody who has hepatitis. But since I was so hungry earlier, I didn’t let anything get between me and my food. Not even the fact that I saw one of the minimum wagers in the kitchen scooping rice and putting it on my plate with his bare, mangy hands.

But after I put the first spoonful of garlic chicken steak and rice in my mouth, I realized that my fortitude paid off as THE GARLIC CHICKEN STEAK TASTES LIKE WHAT CLOTHED SEX WITH JESSICA ALBA WOULD TASTE LIKE. IT WAS FUCKING HEAVEN!

In a matter of minutes, I was shimmying, happily mixing the contents of my plate and mashing it with my hands until everything looked like oat meal and eating the fuck away.

I got so into it that my officemates who were eating with me at that time probably felt a sense of envy at how happy I was with my food. Actually, envy or utter disgust. (In retrospect, it’s probably disgust as I had my flaccid penis peeking out of my open zipper while doing all of this.)

So there, don’t expect a lot of updates from me because I intend to devour as much of my killer Garlic Chicken Fillet combination as humanly possible and after the day ends, I’d stagger home so fucking full that I wouldn’t have sufficient willpower to undress myself, pop in my Sarah McLachlan CD and take a shower as I stick two fingers up my butt; let alone, write a blog post.

So Adios fuckers.

Dudder’s Disney Birthday

I think I mentioned this in passing on my last post, but in case you don’t remember, it was my dad’s birthday last Sunday.  I know I said I only got my dad a parrot-shaped lighter that makes bird sounds and lights up, but seeing that my friends, after reading my post, talked to and looked down at me with nothing but utmost disdain, I decided that my dad deserved something better than a contraption he could use to light dried cancer leaves.So aside from the parrot lighter, I also treated dudders to an okay dinner at Burgoo and a movie date with mummers, my brother Ryan and my nieces Daphne and Nicole. Now, This might sound good in writing but if you have a father who’d rather eat cigarettes than eat anything with cholesterol in it, a mom who fakes an epileptic seizure whenever she sees a tab to be more than 500 pesos, a brother who has a predilection for stealing silverware and arson, and nieces who fight each other every 10 minutes; things could turn horrible very quickly.

Anyway, aside from the lighter, dinner and the movie, I decided to give my dad a…

Wait for it…

wait…

a little longer…

A BIRTHDAY CARD.

[I’ll give you a few moments here to let that sink in]

Now I hate giving people birthday cards on their birthdays because first, they’re incredibly chintzy, and second, like STD’s, it’s so hard to find the right one. But since I wanted to look all sensitive and make my dad believe that I actually love him even though I know I’m adopted, I went ahead and gave him one.

The thing is no thanks to the mighty triumvirate of being hungover, laziness and procrastination, I got around to getting him his card only  an hour before we were all supposed to meet for dinner. Pressed for time, I picked up the only birthday card left in the convenience store close to where we’re supposed to have dinner.

Sadly, the aforementioned card was a Disney Princess Birthday Card where cartoon illustrations of Disney princesses like Snow White, Jasmine, Ariel and Belle from Beauty and the Beast were printed in front of the card.

On the inside, it says “Picture a birthday that’s bright and enchanted, Imagine your happiest wish being granted.Prepare for a day filled with magic and laughter, Followed by wishes-come-true ever after. ”

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice card. But it’s something one would give to a daughter or a younger sister and not to a man celebrating his 59th birthday.

To make things much worse, I decided to personalize the card a little, so using the only ballpen I could find in the glove compartment of my car (one with red ink), I wrote “Papa” under the image of Jasmine and “Michael” under Ariel’s.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I feel REALLY sorry for my dad. All he ever wanted was a normal, moderately-successful son, and instead of that, he got a sexually/emotionally impotent son who gives him a Disney Card on his 59th birthday, a card that insinuates that he’s an Arab Princess and him, a Mermaid.

So yes, I have demonstrated again how much I suck at life. And for this very reason, I am hoping against hope that I die early enough for me not to have any grown children lest a conversation like this happens:

My Future Son: “Papa, your birthday’s coming up, what do you want me to get you?”

Future Me: “Hmmm, How about a shotgun? Our nextdoor neighbors are keeping me up all night with their stupid Videoke sessions, and I was thinking I could blast them all with a shotgun.”

My Future Son: “I really don’t think it’s right to shoot people papa.”

Future Me: “Yeah? Well I really didn’t think it was right to ejaculate inside your mother when she told me she was fertile. But whatever.  how’s that bitch by the way? Is she dead yet or is she still going out with that Colombian drug lord?”

God, I hate my life. Can somebody just shoot me in the face right now? I’ll pay.

← Previous Page — Next Page →