A post to appease my young readers’ parents. (Aka THE FUCK YOU post)

Okay, I received two separate emails in the last couple of months accusing me and this little site of adulating the merits of alcohol and drug abuse.

God, some people just don’t get it.

To set the record straight for my readers who are below 15 (And really if some of you are indeed below 15 years of age, get a life. I’m pretty sure there’s something better out there for you to waste your time with other than reading blogs. Doesn’t the media remind you enough of how blogs are made of raw, unharnessed evil and how they destroys lives? Why don’t you pick up a hobby? Or let your parents live their unfulfilled childhood dreams vicariously through you by excelling in school or sports?) and go on record to say that not everything about alcohol and drugs is boss.

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Guess what, I think I suffered a mild stroke las–HOLY SHIT THAT GUY WAS SHOT IN THE THROAT!

Yesterday was one of those days I had to render 14 hours to accommodate a client call I had to make. Naturally, because of the extended work hours I had to render, I was famished by the time the clock hit ten o’clock. Of course, I did what any normal, 26 year-old, overweight, highly-stressed yuppie would do–and that is order Pizza from PizzaHut, making sure there’s at least 5 tablespoons of salt in every slice and consume no less than eight slices before turning to drink what could’ve been at least 700ml’s of Pepsi.

Now, because I am perpetually in a state somnolence, I never thought any of the fact that I was literally falling asleep behind the wheel of my car on my way home from work last night. I mean seriously, this shit happens to me almost everyday. It was only after all the dizziness and blurred vision manifested that my panic level went up a notch.

After a long crawl through Commonwealth avenue, I came to the realization that I have lost most of the critical faculties that allow me to drive and think straight. For some strange reason, however, I could hear voices in my head saying shit like “If you land this plane, we will trade fuel for hostages“ ala Gary Oldman in Airforce one. (Also, I’d like it to go on record that Harrison Ford who co-starred with Gary Oldman in Airforce one is a sexy son of a bitch whose balls I wouldn’t mind touching my lips. I’d also like it to go on record that this comes from a man that has an untarnished record of heterosexuality. Except for a couple of times I “experimented” out of curiosity during that phase in my life when I didn’t believe that “S’ing” another man’s “D” makes one gay. It does. At least I know now.)

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BoLOL Recap

First of all, let me go on record that writing about vacations is really not my favorite thing to do. This is largely because 1.) I don’t want to bore you guys to shit by writing daily play by plays like “On my first day in Bohol…On my second day in Bohol…On my third day in Bohol…” because really, only boring-ass newbie bloggers do that and 2.) I’m lazy. So yeah.

Besides, my vacation is one big soup bowl of being drunk, being hung-over, gluttony and sunburn so there’s really not much I can write about. I will, however, try to write a mildly amusing, easily digestible summary for you:

Airports and Lines.

It’s been a long time since I last flew a domestic flight and, much to my surprise, long lines which I previously believed to be exclusive to Somalian food distribution lines and UN Malaria-vaccination missions also exist in Philippine airports.

Honestly, I don’t mind the wait. After all, I had my girlfriend with me and that fact makes the wait bearable. Also, the bottle of rum I imbibed the night before our flight made sure that all cognizant thought, sense of time and my manners were wiped clean from my brain.

This also meant that I was only capable of standing and moving through the line with the help of  metal barricades and basically spent most of the wait looking down women’s blouses and heinies. Not too nice.

Hot Young European Chick (HYEC)

Dear Cheryl,

I don’t know if you remember me. But we stood together waiting for our luggage over at the Tagbilaran Airport.  You also might not remember giving me your name and that’s because you didn’t. I looked at your luggage card and wrote your name down on a piece of paper. I hope you do not find this creepy because I did all this because of passion. A passion that comes from deep inside (my loins).

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you how beautiful I think you are and how you should consider flying to Manila to live with me or at least let me photograph you wearing my underwear.

The only qualm I have with all of this is that you look like and probably are 13 years old. If this is the case, let it go on record that I am only joking about taking pictures of you in my underwear. As we all know, that is illegal and if you’ve been reading my blog long enough, you’d know that Mike “Fucking” Villar absolutely respects the law.

So Cheryl, good luck with Algebra. I know it could be ball numbingly hard at times but if you study those formulas hard enough, you’ll pass. I know did.

Love,
Mikey

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Flashback: no daughters

The way I strain my myself by intrusively and troublingly thinking about marriage is well documented in this blog. I also wrote about my long-standing grudge with God, how I am disgusted at the thought of having kids one day and how he’d probably be a big power-tripping douchebag and probably give me five of them.

Lately, the more I think about marriage, I realized that the only thing that’s worse than having kids is having a daughter. I also know that this is pointless since I know that God will punish me for the lifetime of douchebaggery I lived with seven HOT daughters. (God, if you’re reading this, my only wish is that if you ever do punish me in this fashion, please take me before they start ovulating. Thank you.)

Probably the biggest thing that led to this realization is a flashback I had of one of the crazy nights I had two years ago. I was out partying with college friends one night and there was this girl in our group who is probably the perfect reason why someone would NOT want to have a daughter. No, it wasn’t the fact that she was making out with another girl; that was perfectly fine by me. Nor was it her awkward attempts at giving some guy in our group a lap dance.

It was the fact that several hours into the party, I saw her dig into her bag to pull out a bottle, reach for her San Mig light, popped a couple of pills and washed them down with her beer. This was at around 9:00pm in a nice Quezon City club. Very classy.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The last thing I’d want to do is to judge other people, especially women, for their drug use. Up until recently, I was madly inlove with all sorts of drugs. But come on, doing it publicly?  What the fuck is that? At that point, I wanted to come up to her and yell “THAT’S WHAT THE FUCKING REST ROOM IS FOR LADY!” into her ear. Instead, I just gave her 400 pesos after a few more shots to grind her behind on my crotch and ask weird questions like “Is that your bird or your pinky?”

I mean come on. The first step to helping someone is letting them help themselves.

BeerCast: Ang Show na Walang Katulad

What happens when you put 5 cases of San Miguel Beer, a group of alcoholic bloggers and a microphone together?

Well:

Seriously though, I had a blast recording this podcast and I hope we can do more of this in the future. Special thanks to San Miguel Beer for sponsoring the event; Jayvee Fernandez for making all of this possible, Lauren and Noemi Dado for letting us destroy their house, eat all their food and steal one of their figurines (Okay I did it. I’ll return it, I swear. Jeez.); and to everyone else who were part of the podcast, the show wouldn’t be half as fun without you guys.

 
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