A little backgrounder on that night: The reason why we wanted to go out for drinks was we wanted to take Jon (lead developer for one of the projects we’re working on whom, we have taken to passionately call “The beast from upstairs”) out to sort of get a feel of what Manila’s night life is like (something which we probably failed miserably at. For one, the bars at the Ortigas Home Depot complex is hardly representative of Manila’s nightlife and neither is a party of eight all-male, sweaty, socially inept web types)

I have written enough about the pattern my drinking nights usually take (relative humdrumness -> Dancing and singing (and crying in some occasions) -> somberness -> picking up into a crescendo of pure mayhem and inappropriateness) so I’m going to spare you from the boredom of reading about how the night progressed this time.

The turning point of the night came when a San Miguel Promo girl offered to give us a free shirt if we ordered 18 more bottles of beer. At that point, we were already feeling good and loaded but stupid John offered to pay for all 18 bottles if I agree to wear a small San Miguel ladies’ shirt for an hour–an offer which, in my state of relative inebriation, is impossible to refuse.

So yeah, Jon paid for 18 bottles of beer and, even though it was a fucking struggle, I managed to fit into a size S San Miguel Beer ladies shirt. People got their beers and had big laughs watching a 200-lb guy try to fit into a small ladies’ shirt. Everyone’s happy.

The fact that I had to wear a fucking tiny shirt for an hour is, in itself, funny. But check this out: About 45 minutes into the entire thing, I felt the need to take a leak.

Now, this bar is notorious for the long lines of people waiting to use the restrooms. The place had two restrooms: one for men and another for women–which is kind of retarded considering the place packs around 200 people at any given time. The men’s restroom also only has one toilet which means only one person can use it at a time.

I found myself 6th in the line of guys waiting to use the men’s restroom. There was, surprisingly enough, no line to use the women’s restroom (This is something that baffles me to no end. Is there some sort of special sac somewhere inside a woman’s vagoo that enables them to hold in more urine than men? Because I swear, I take a leak an average of eight times in a four hour period when I’m drinking and, from what I observed, women do like two? How the fuck?).

Emboldened by a feeling of false awesomeness thanks to eight bottles of beer, I said “Fuck it, I’m going to use the women’s restroom. The fuck you looking at? You wanna start something? Dick.”

So yeah, I was in the women’s restroom swaying back and forth out of sheer drunkenness and whistling while I was doing my thing when all of a sudden, the door, which I apparently forgot to lock, swung open.

I was all like “What the fuck”, turned around to see who opened the door and why hello there, chinese-looking girl who looks like you’re 16!

And here’s a bonus tip for anyone who has any intentions of building restrooms in the near future: Do NOT, and I say again, DO NOT put huge ass mirrors in front of the restroom door and directly behind toilet seats because really, once in a while, a really drunk guy wearing a small ladies’ shirt will  decide to go in and use the ladies bathroom because there’s a long fucking line of people waiting to use the men’s bathroom; he will forget to lock the door and a young girl will walk in and immediately see the huge ass mirror where the penis of the aforementioned drunk guy is reflected in all its shriveled glory. So fuck you toilet creator at Bargos in the Ortigas Home Depot complex, fuck you and your friends!

There were a good 5 seconds of not knowing what to do between the girl and myself. On my part, do I pull up my pants midstream to cover up and end up with pee all over my pants or do I wink and say hi? On her part, does she look away and close the door or continue to look at the magnificent dwarven penis she accidentally walked in on?

The girl ended up closing the door and after I was done with my deal I walked out of the restroom and apologized to the girl (who was now in line with like 7 of her friends) saying that I badly needed to go and shit.

She didn’t respond on account of her laughing the fuck all over the place. But then again, I’d probably end up laughing too if I was a young girl and I walked in on a guy–wearing a small girl’s shirt– taking a piss with a small hairy thing that resembles Mufasa from the lion king.

Now, while I’m usually off of work on Mondays, Maffy gets off at around 4 in the afternoon. Realizing that I had three hours to kill after picking up the bouquet of flowers I was going to give her, I went ahead and decided to be a little productive by taking my car to the shop and have my tires replaced and a couple of other things repaired.

Big Fucking Mistake.

The tire shop closest to where I live is this abysmal, ramshackle structure that has a non-airconditioned waiting room.

If you know me well enough, you’d know that I know jack shit about cars save for driving them. However, I was all up in the mechanic’s business making sure that he is really replacing the shit I was paying him to replace and repairing the shit I was paying him to repair–especially since how my mom kept telling me ever since I was young never to trust poor people because, in her own word’s, they “stink”, “they can’t afford a television set”, and “Here’s 500 bucks. Go back to your room and don’t play with squatters”

So, the entire time, imagine me observing the mechanic working on my car while it’s hoisted up on a lifter, engine fluid, motor oil and other shit dripping on me and touching grimy parts of my car’s under chassis just to look a little like I know what the fuck’s going on.

Fast forward to 7pm: Maffy and I walk into this swanky restaurant. I was reeking of motor oil and was wearing a hoodie which had splotches of some kind of engine fluid.

Now, because I’m generally a very insecure person, a good amount of the time we spent in the restaurant was spent with me trying to decide if I was the suckiest person in the entire establishment. Of course, “suckiest” in this context meant either “has the worst, lowest-paying job”, “looks like it’s not his first time dining at a place where entrees costs at least three times his daily rate” or “hasn’t sustained an erection long enough to satisfy a woman–or himself– for the past couple of months because of a side effect of a drug he’s taking to treat his anxiety disorder.”

The conclusion? I was, without a doubt the suckiest person in that restaurant that night. Judging solely on appearance (clothes, hygiene, grooming, confidence level, and the likelihood of having had a threesome in the past), I was definitely languishing at the bottom of the rankings. (My score being: highly unstylish, sweaty and stinky, sad and dispirited, zero unless having been “inspired” by two magazines at a furious masturbation session counts)

Anyway, because I just spent half my paycheck on a dinner that didn’t even come close to satisfying my hunger and after, sadly, winning the distinction of being the suckiest person in the restaurant in my own mind, I decided to do the only thing I know to help make things better–to drink.

Maffy and I ended up in Mag:Net cafe over at Bonifacio High Street for some beers.

Okay, here’s the thing about this entire “Rising Internet Star” deal–I rarely get recognized. I’m not saying that random people don’t come up to me and say “Hey, are you that guy with a blog? You really are fat.” They DO but it’s so fucking rare that whenever it happens, I jizz in my pants (Figuratively and literally)

Anyway, shortly after paying the bill, a guy from the table next to ours came up to me and said “Hi, are you Mike Villar?” I, hesitantly (I mean, you never know if the guy works for a credit card company I owe money to right?), said yes.

He literally exploded and said “Oh my God! We’re big fans!” motioning to the other guy he was with. He followed up with “Please, can we buy you guys beers?” Oh yes my friend, you can. Very much so.

I was pretty buzzed prior to that point and only then did I realize that the guys were JC Medina and Gabe Mercado. Apparently, the guys owned Mag:Net.

Being a star and all, I know that I should be all chill about this and act like it’s not a big deal and all, but dude it was fucking awesome. The only times I’ve been recognized like that is through friends in the same circle or some shit like that. But never had other celebrities, not to mention real, and bigger celebrities recognized me.

(I know I’m starting to sound like a total Douchebag writing this but whatever. Fuck you.)

So JC and Gabe, thank you so much for the free beers (half of which I spilled on my shirt three seconds after you left to host Rockeoke) and for joking about how you heard about how I had an 18-inch penis! Infront of  my fiancee no less! That was very classy of you, sirs!

Oh, and I’m really sorry for sort of pushing it and asking if you guys could hook me up with some free food after you already gave me free booze AND for even thinking if I should ask money for parking from you guys as well as for leaving without saying goodbye. You guys were busy hosting Rockeoke and I really had to get back home to work on my medical transcriptions. Man’s got to earn his keep yo.

*The above paragraph is a complete and utter lie. The company I work for actually invited me over to work on the user-generated content/social piece of a bad ass website we are going to launch very soon. Also, in the process, I got denied a US Visa–twice; so, the only thing “transient” and “spontaneous” about the entire thing was the fucking money ($232 to be exact) I spent on my US Visa Applications. And my ego.”

Anyway, after finally being approved a US Visa and facing a monster 12-hour flight from Manila to Los Angeles, one of the very first–and probably the most important preparation I made was to see my shrink. Long time readers of this blog know that, sometime last year, I developed this paralyzing fear of traveling on a plane. So I visited my psychiatrist and explained my situation to her adding how I noticed that I’ve become a little claustrophobic all the while trying to sound as normal as possible and being careful not to say something that exudes undertones of my intentions to abuse the shit of whatever pill she is going to prescribe me.

In the end, she yielded and wrote me a prescription for 15 tablets of Clonazepam- a mild benzodiazepine. Well, sup.

On my way to the pharmacy, I did some crazy math: I’m going to be staying in the United States for 21 days and I only got a prescription for 15 tablets? Am I supposed to just perch myself on a rooftop and pick random people off with a rifle to cope with the 6 days I am going to be without my medication?

As I pulled my car into one of the pharmacy’s parking slots, I deliberated for a solid 20 minutes whether or not I should forge the shit out of my shrink’s prescription, which said 15 tablets and add an extra zero to make it 150 tablets. In the end, I thought better of it. I mean it probably wouldn’t help my mom who, in the first place isn’t confident with the idea of me staying in a foreign land for three weeks practically by myself, to get a call from the PDEA informing her that her son has been indicted for falsifying documents to grab a hold of mild tranquilizers he can get high off of.

My anxiety involving the entire flying thing and not having enough pills to last me my entire stay has gotten so bad that I actually contemplated threatening my doctor to prescribe me more pills.

That would’ve gone down really bad. “Hello Doctor Bondoc, this is Mike. Mike Villar, listen, remember that prescription for 15 tablets of clonazepam you gave me the other day? So I went ahead and bought all of them right? But guess what? A homeless person said he would trade me a golden barbel with magical powers for my pills. So we traded. Asshole crossed me, the barbel didn’t have magic powers, and worse–it wasn’t made of gold; it was made of aluminum foil made to look like gold. So yeah, bottomline is I don’t have my pills and I was wondering if you can refill my prescription. What do you mean no? How about if I gave you 2,000 pesos? No? Well, how about I steal your Mercedes Benz and drive it off the bridge? How does that sound? Awful, I know. And guess what, you have nobody but yourself to blame. Bye! *click*

Next: California, the city, the women. THE STRUGGLE

Although I wasn’t really in a drinking mood last night, the good news was that I was able to sit the entire thing out while making keen observations on the people who attended like a male, overweight Jane Goodall observing really drunken chimps of all shapes and sizes.

Here are some of my favorite types:

The guy who gets shitfaced before everyone else is even tipsy
This guy is the party’s go-getter in the sense that his sole motivation and inclination is to consume as much alcohol as humanly possible with little to no regard for how it’s going to end up for him.

Typically, this is the guy who has already consumed 5 bottles of beer and a couple of shots of tequila in the same amount of time it takes normal people to finish one bottle of beer and half a bag of chips.

Social drinking? What the fuck is that? This guy “socially” double fists a 500ml bottle of beer and a glass of rum at any given time during the party.

No, he hasn’t “had enough to drink” what the fuck are you? Queer? Besides, Brian is going to drive him home. He’s also totally going to vomit on Brian’s car’s upholstery and it’s going to be totally fine with him. They’re really good friends, you see.

Any party with this type of character present usually ends with the guy passing out on the table and somebody saying: “I think it’s time we all go home. Can somebody please take [Guy who gets shitfaced before everyone else is even tipsy’s name]”

Everyone is sad.

Except me of course, because I’m chatting up some random drunk girl, checking out her cleavage and regaling her with stories of my imaginary wealth.

The Douchebags whom pretty much all of the other guys in the party hate.
These are the guys who come to parties just so they can show off their tight-fitting, vertically-striped shirts which, of course, have the top buttons unbuttoned to reveal their chiseled pecs; their perfectly styled hair and their clean sneakers.

Any other guy in the party with an IQ above 50 and any girl who has a modicum of taste and class shake their heads in disgust at these guys but sadly, the people who matter to me (i.e. the really hot, albeit dumb girls) go ape shit crazy over these d-bags.

I mean come on people. I know how some girls can be really superficial but I would think that if I’m some dumb chick, I’d be thinking along the lines of “I know I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed and the only thing I have going for me is my looks. Now, with that in mind, I think I should probably hook up with someone smart and successful—you know? Someone with enough intellectual acuity to know that the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle isn’t a food item? If I do this, at least there’s going to be a good chance that my kids are going to be intelligent and wouldn’t have to suck cocks in bars to get drinks like I do.”

But sadly, I guess that’s really never what hot girls think in real life. So, if I Intend to attract women of that ilk, I think I need to pump some iron, buy gallons of hair wax and shop at The Gap or something.

The fat chick
Pretty self-explanatory. I avoid them at all costs. You should too.

The guy with an acoustic guitar but can’t play nor sing for shit
Because the acoustic guitar is somewhat of a novelty in real parties, this character, usually manages to attract people’s attentions and make them gather around him hoping that a wicked jam session will ensue.

The wheels fall apart almost as soon as this guy strums the first chord. He’ll usually get to the first three chords of Radiohead’s “Creep” before messing up and trying out different chords because he can’t remember what the next one is.

This is usually followed by a question for everyone listening, something like “That sounds about right doesn’t it?” before giving up and playing the intro of yet another song, usually a pop song that is getting a lot of air play.

This is enough to sustain the crowd’s attention for another 5 minutes until he struggles through the first verse of Jason Mraz’s “I’m yours” and his shit gets old.

Most of the time, I try to rectify the situation by prying the guitar away from this guy and busting out a perfect “Master of Puppets” by Metallica. At this point though, sadly, the only ones usually left in the table are fat chicks who are giving me polite applause while I dejectedly glance over the next table where the hot girls have begun playing drinking games with the douchebags.

The Comedian
This category is where I fall under. Armed with a vast arsenal of sure-fire jokes, the comedian’s oft –short-lived act can either be an extremely amusing and funny experience for the crowd or a really awkward, uncomfortable one. It’s the latter most of the time for me. Fuck my life.

The Unattractive girl who starts looking quite okay after a few bottles of beer
I really don’t want to talk about this type. It’s too soon.

To be continued…

As we continue to celebrate Restroom McNinja Awesomery Month here at mikevillar.com [1][2], I would like to tell you this funny thing that happened to me last weekend. Also, I lied. there’s no such thing as Restroom McNinja Awesomery month. I just couldn’t think of a better intro. Let alone, a good segue from that horrible intro you just read to my main point. Maybe I could jus—

Last Saturday, I went out for drinks with a few friends from the office. Nothing weird or different there, maybe except for the fact that I was feeling a little under the weather and was in pretty bad shape for a self-proclaimed alcohologist who’s had only three bottles of beer at 10pm on a weekend.

The reason why I wasn’t feeling so good, I believe, was because I had one too many bottles of beer with the fiancee the night before and was a little hungover. It didn’t help that when I woke up that morning, I went through my hungover morning ritual that involves a furious, 15 minute masturbation session, leftover adobo, some pan de sal and a 1.5 liter bottle of soda. The sleep I had the night before was spasmodic and uncomfortable.

So yeah, to recap: prior to coming for work that day, I was already hungover, my stomach was fucked up and had close to zero sleep.

On top of that, the bar we went to was pretty thronged, hot and generally uncomfortable. If you know me, you’d know that my body does not take heat very well (Especially during the times I forget to stuff my armpits with table napkins. Man, you should really see those pit stains)

I remember being a little PO’d at that point in the evening. I started to feel nauseous because of the heat and, was sweating lke a Hyberabad man in a sauna that’s cranked up to 11.

When I get this uncomfortable, I usually stay in my little corner where I generally don’t talk to anyone, and drink my face off. But really, I didn’t want to ruin the evening for myself.

So, what I did to cope was go to the restroom periodically to splash my face with water and retouch (what, and you’re so manly?)

Now the bar only had two restrooms–one for men and one for the ladies situated right beside each other so people who are waiting in line to use them, whether they’re male or female are in the same line.

As I entered the male restroom during one of my trips, a middle-aged man went in with me much to the shock of the people who were waiting in line and my muted chagrin.

“Kid, can we like go at the same time? I can’t hold this in anymore?” He said.

“No shit? You’re already in here with me” I thought to myself but ended up saying “Sure! No problem” with the chipperness and pitch akin to that of a prepubescent schoolboy.

So we went. Together. He in the toilet, and I in the urinal.

Now, let’s move on to the lesson I learned through this whole ordeal before I end up saying things I don’t mean shall we?

The lesson is: Urinating back to back with a man twice your age as he talks to you about how the country’s president is a “no good, midget thief” all while grunting, moaning and establishing eye contact with you via a mirror  is a surprisingly pleasant experience every man should experience at least once in his lifetime.

Anyway, in one of my rest room sorties in between bottles, I found myself in a line which is about five people deep. At the end of the hallway where the restrooms were was an area where people who just finished their business in the rest rooms went straight to wash their hands.

So I waited.

And waited.

A couple of minutes later a really hot girl came out of the ladies’ restroom, went by me and proceeded to wash her hands. Now, this is where it gets interesting: The dude standing in line in front of me (who looked like a total douche–tattoos, piercings and all) went ahead and chewed the rag with the girl.

I didn’t really catch everything they were talking about as I was pretty buzzed myself but what I do remember is that after what only seemed like four sentences, the guy managed to elevate his deal from friendly banter to masterful flirting replete with him subtly brushing his hand against the girl’s arm and smoothly leaning in towards her; a move which, at one point, effectively put his face within millimeters of the girl’s.

Again, I couldn’t hear exactly what the were saying to each other but I did catch the guy saying “your hands are wet” at one point before grabbing a paper towel and going in for the kill with “Let me wipe them for you”

A few seconds later I was watching them gracefully duck into the men’s restroom emerging a few minutes later looking all disheveled and shit. Both of them made no conscious effort to conceal any of this on their way out aside from slightly bowing their heads and walking from the restroom straight back to their tables.

I’ve seen this sort of thing happen in the movies before and back then, I thought that if I ever witnessed it happen right in front of me, my reaction would probably go like “Look! Everyone! That dude is either boning that chick in the restroom! Or at least making out with her! But I really think they’re fucking and shit!” or “Man, I’d totally pay 2,000 bucks right now for some action. Maybe I should call my friend Ricky and see if he could spare me some cash so I could hit the strip club”

Instead, my reaction was more along the lines of revulsion and profound disapproval–so much that I wanted to walk over to the girl’s table and say something to the effect of “What you did back there was really mature, I bet your parents would be proud to know that you spent a week night giving a dude you probably don’t even know a handjob. By the way, I’m Mike and I just wanted to ask what you think about checks and promisory notes.”

Up to this day, I honestly don’t know why I felt disgusted. Maybe it’s because I had to wait an additional 5 minutes or so to take a leak? Or maybe it’s because I am saddened by where most young people’s moral compasses point?

Or maybe it’s simply because I’m getting old and, for some reason, I don’t find doing anything lascivious inside a public restroom “cool”.

But what it is, most likely, is that I’m extremely jealous. Yes, I believe that’s it. I mean, all over the metro, young people are having adventurous sex and that night, I ended up almost throwing my laptop over our balcony because it refused to play old, scratched porn VCDs I’ve had since high school.

tss. Rising Internet Star my ass.

This is probably because, buying a billiards table tells everyone that:

• “Hey my house is big enough for a billiards table! Yours is not!”
• “My dad works for the customs bureau. I’m an illegitimate child and he only comes home every week to bone my loshang mother. Oh and we have lots of money!”
• “I’m a douche lol”

Anyway, I know the other guys Garret invited over but it’s the first time I saw the girl in the group. I have a total of 3 female friends–one of them became my girlfriend and the other two I have not seen for quite some time now.  I am seriously wanting in the female friends department and I can only assume that this is because once I find myself being close enough emotionally to any woman I end up trying to make passes at her and even go to the extent of promising her things I cannot possibly fulfill to get into her panties. And usually, when that happens, every small dollop of “friendship” I’ve managed to nurture with said woman goes down the proverbial drain.

Everything began quite uneventfully; everyone was having a grand time playing 9-ball while the booze flowed freely courtesy of Garrett whose fortitude when it comes throwing back beers is something I want to publicly praise. Seriously; as far as I know, this guy, being unemployed and all, drinks every fucking night but somehow manages to get himself out of bed at 6am everyday to help  “supervise” his family’s construction business. I, on the other hand, sleep like twelve hours a day (three at work) and on a good day, I would need to have a cup of coffee and a bottle of Cobra just to get me to open my eyes.

Like I said, the early part of the night was pretty uneventful–with everyone taking turns on the billiards table on a “challenge the winner” format. There were several new rivalries formed most notably, a rivalry between myself (2002 PSBA open 9-ball Champion, Anonas Leg) and my friend Ricky whom, at the end of the night, I lost 700 bucks and a cellphone to. (Ricky, I don’t remember exactly what happened, but dude, I still can’t believe I put my cellphone up as a bet. Dude, seriously, I need that phone).

Vulture!

While waiting for their turns on the table, everyone pretty much just sat around and threw back beers and sort of warmed up to each other. There were comments thrown by my guy friends about Rachelle (The only girl in the group) on the side along the lines of “Dude, check Rachelle out, she’s like 5’4″ at most, but I’ll totally hit that body” after a few more rounds of beer the comments degenerated into “Man, I seriously want a piece of that” and a few rounds more, it turned into “Is that Mike? why does he look like he’s teaching Garrett’s grandmother to dance?” That was that. Lustful comments aside, I would go ahead and say that up to this point, everyone was pretty much well-mannered.

It was after a few beers more that things started to look a lot like an Animal Planet special shit show–chests were beaten, antlers were locked together and the males became more and more, shall I say, competitive.

The fact that Rachelle herself was pretty much bombed didn’t exactly help the situation. Flirtatious exchanges were made and next thing I know, all my friends were circling around her like pubescent vultures, each one jockeying for position in a race for what they hoped to be a one night stand.

It’s been days after that party but not one of my friends ever admitted to having even a slight interest in Rachelle. I do know that it is true. I mean, you could tell from the look in their eyes that night, looks that say: “I am so going to have sex with this girl, it’s going to be SO rough and I will NOT wear a condom. You know? because I’m drunk and I think I’m fucking awesome. Let me get another Red Horse. After that, I’m going to fucking go for the jugular and close the deal right. fucking. here. But first, another drink.”

At that point in the night, my friend Ricky clearly had the lead. Because he fucking beat me so bad in 9-ball (out of my money no less. And my phone), He felt like this gave him some sort of divine right to teach Rachelle, who knew squat about billiards, how to play the game. This went down complete with Rachelle bent over the table and with Ricky sort of positioning himself behind her to “correct” the way she bridges the cue stick.

I know brah, ppreciate you letting me know

Perhaps, you’re asking yourself where the hell I am throughout all this. Well, my friends being vultures, I was kind of the really slow, retarded one. The one who probably decided to roll around in and eat gazelle feces because he’s resigned to the fact that the other vultures are probably going to eat every scrap of meat in a carcass, so why even bother?

I mean really, come on, I’ve always been the guy who never had a passable “game” around girls when I am with other guys. In fact, this entire scene reminded me of my early years in High School where the varsity basketball players hung out with all the hot chicks while I spent my nights speaking on the phone with these girls behind their backs trying to convince them that everyone on the varsity team were douchebags and how they deserve someone way better. Somone who knows what quadratic equations are and someone who knows that the condoms are used for birth control and not penis ornaments. Someone like me.

Besides, time and time again, I’ve written about my pathetic self-esteem–something caused by my wine cork penis and monggo testicles. Oh and don’t even get me started about how “girly” my voice sounds. So yeah, whenever I find myself in a situation where guys have to compete for a woman’s attention (i.e. Bars, clubs, “massage parlors”, and tiangges) I would most likely not even bother and capitulate to other, more confident men.

Also, I’ve got this entire “You’re not all that to begin with, so why should I even bother impressing you? Go ahead and flirt with these douchebags, see if I care. You deserve them anyway” attitude going on. But then again, this is probably just a coping mechanism of some sort that keeps my self-esteem, which is at near-fatal levels, in check.

I wish I could say there was a happier ending to this story but there isn’t one. As is the case with me everytime I get a good buzz going, I get a bad case of the munchies. So, I drove myself home, microwaved some tinola, ate, slept and woke up with bits of papaya in my hair.

No, I don’t suck. You suck.

How about such a shitty week where grand money-making schemes permeate every minute of your consciousness because you know, that come month end, the credit card companies are going to lay down the hurt on you and the only way you’re going to get out of it is by either becoming a full-time criminal, taking up a new identity somewhere in the Ilocos region working as a dynamite fisherman or fake your own death altogether?

Well, ladies and gentlemen, that was the sort of week I had last week. So, naturally, I did what I know best to alleviate the sheer frustration I felt and that is to drink my self fuck silly.

On Sunday, I called my friend Jay who I knew was going to be drinking with my other friend Marco and his wife. Sure enough, the three of them were at Jay’s house popping bottles of Red Horse I joined them for a few bottles and after getting a good buzz going, I invited them out to a nearby local grill for a change of ambiance.

This was when things started to head down the pits.

I should’ve expecte this. I mean you put three of the toughest drinkers this side of Fairview in a grill that had a promo that entitles you three 500ml bottles of Red Horse* for a hundred bucks. We were the only patrons in the grill so we controlled what sort of music the joint played (I brought my iPod). We knew the grill manager and we were getting free alcohol left and right. Everyone of us were having problems that range from babies to girlfriends. Seriously, I can not think of a more perfect recipe for a clusterfuck of disasters.

(*Second time I mentioned Red Horse in this post. Seriously, if any of you Red Horse people are reading this, I am quite disappointed at the fact that I don’t have an endorsement deal with you guys yet. Think about it: Internet Celebrity + Red Horse = Huge Success. Just think about it.)

What ensued were hours of good old-fashioned power drinking. Three dudes, two of whom suffer from mild alcoholism and substance dependence, swinging glasses and glasses of beer down like how real men should do it–really fat, angry men who are mad at mothers-in-law, the price of diapers, harpy women and no-good politicians (well not really politicians. I just threw it in there because I realized the things we’re mad about aren’t really socially significant)

I don’t know if it’s because I didn’t eat a proper dinner but I got shit-faced quick and I mean quick. I practically had the alcohol tolerance of an infant and was belting out Aerosmith on the Videoke machine at the latter part of the night. As what’s expected of a champion alcoholic like myself, I lost track of time. When I saw that it was almost midnight, I said goodbye to everyone, left money on the table which I thought, at that time, covered what I consumed (I realized the next morning that 1,700 bucks wasn’t nearly “fair” considering all I had was 7 bottles of Red Horse. So Jay and Marco, if you’re reading this, you fucking owe me), got in my car and started driving home.

I was practically running on empty though, so I hit the nearest gas station to fill my car up. I also badly needed to take a leak at that point so I stepped out of my car and headed towards the rest rooms. Because my brain was half-filled with beer and some weird, inexplicable sense of immortality and vigor, I switched from walking to the rest room to running to the rest room.

Bad fucking idea.

If you’ve been to any gasoline station in Metro Manila, you’d know that the ceramic tiles leading to them are usually covered in a messy soup made up of bus conductor piss, mud, semen (maybe, I dunno), and gasoline.

The last thing I saw as I rounded a corner before I lost my balance was my right leg shooting up. This was followed by my lower back and my other leg hitting the floor covered with the aforementioned putrid water with a loud thump.

It took me a couple of seconds to realize what had happened. I wanted to laugh but the pain in my lower back made me want to cry at the same time. It was a fucking weird feeling. Several other customers went by pretending not to notice me and trying hard not to laugh. They were followed by two forecourt attendants who were yelling at each other in bisaya while trying to help me out. I’m not sure what they were saying but if I were to hazard a guess, they were probably saying something to the effect of “It’s either he’s too fat or too drunk to walk padi! Well he does look like a rich kid so let’s help him up! He might give us coins! Also, kinantot ko asawa mo kagabi padi!”

As I lay there soaked in urine, gasoline, water and what not I had a flashback of my High School graduation day: I graduated with one of the highest honors in my district and now, eleven years later, I am rolling around in sewage being helped up by two bisaya gasoline boys.

The lesson here: Sometimes, you are not introduced to the concept of humility until you are piss drunk, your shorts soaked in urine and gasoline and until you need help from two fucking minimum wagers to get back up on your feet on a Sunday night.

I seriously feel like I’d be more “in my element” in a Mexican jail cell than in clubs, because at least I watch those prison documentaries they run on National Geographic, I find Mexican men attractive and experimented with anal sex at one point in my life.

I’m not exactly as adept in dealing with people who wear their collars up, use too much hair product and have dragons printed all over their pants who dance with attractive women while nursing cocktails

God, I hate clubs. And the fort.

Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not claiming to be the “It guy” of Quezon city and its non-bars or whatever. It’s not like I hung out with Kuya Germs and banged starlets  left and right after hours of clubbing and doing drugs but I feel perfectly comfortable in QC bars. I could buy a couple of Red Horses from the Sari-sari store across our house and then go out and to one of the hole in the wall bars within ten kilometers of our village. Or, I could even drink alone in the porch, send SMS’s to my drinking buddies and, within minutes, have multiple options in terms of where to go via friends who are already out drinking.

(Also, Kuya Germs? What the fuck? I probably thought of him because he seemed like a guy who’s into the same shit I’m into–like luxury, drinking, drugs, and women. Well not really, come to think of it)

Anyway, if there’s one thing I came to realize that night, it has to be the fact that I will never, EVER, have the chance to have sex with women who frequent clubs like the one we went to.

The women are incredibly HOT, I’ll give them that. The thing is, I’m never gonna have none of them. The only circumstances I could ever see myself having sex with any of them under involve a couple of tablets of Ativan, Ajinomoto, lots of alcohol, a black garbage bag and a dull knife. Otherwise, it’s just not possible.

The reason being is because, if you know me well enough, I am:

• Considerably witty
• relatively famous on the Internet
• moderately successful

However, I am also:

• An emotional wreck
• really fat
• unathletic
• ugly

In clubs like these, there is nothing that can compensate for physical deficiencies–no wittiness, no mention of anything intelligent. None. If I did try to talk to those women, it would probably go like this:

Me: “What do I do? Let’s see. Well I make retail websites perform better using avant garde internet marketing techniques. My hobbies are improving myself, waiting for women to finish shopping and saying sorry a lot.”

Girl: [Not paying attention, checking out a douchbag with the topmost 3 buttons of his shirt unbuttoned behind me] “Um, sorry I wasn’t really paying attention. How many pounds can you bench press again?”

Me: “What I’m saying is that I beat Jesus in a game of Trivia Pursuit back in 1988 and guess what? Whenever a girl sucks my dick, Angels magically deposit 70,000 pesos to her bank account”

Girl: [On the phone] “Oh my God! you won’t believe who I saw! Sam fucking Milby! I know right! Anyway, I’ll tell you more later!” [Turning back to me] “How many pounds again?”

So yes, until girls like these become more desperate, I shall only be establishing sexual relationships with them during one of my five daily masturbation sessions. Whatever.

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.

Obviously, alcohol and drugs are costly. And I’m not saying that in the “It’s going to set me back a couple of hundred backs” sense but rather in the “I spent half of today getting high and drunk, spent 4,000 Pesos on alcohol and drugs and I think I need money somewhere in the neighborhood of 600,000 Pesos to get me through the rest of the day. Wait, how much jail time are we talking about for robbery with homicide? Really? What if I threw in rape and extortion in there?” sense.

Also, in case you didn’t know yet, drugs are illegal. Before you can act all cool and boss like Tito Mikey over here, you have to heavily interact and deal with a company of unscrupulous characters who’ll threaten to stab you in the mouth if you try anything funny with them or you go all erotic with one of their girlfriends even if you insist that “It’s not what it looks like” or say shit like “It wasn’t even that great. Her pubes felt like a brillo pad rubbing against my crotch”

What’s even scarier is that if the police catch you with drugs on you, you’re going to have to go to prison. (Remember: only rich and well-connected people like Tito Mikey can get caught with drugs and not go to prison)
Take it from someone who’s been sober and clean for over a year now (lie. I meant 2 days): a life of alcohol and drugs is nothing but one big clusterfuck. If you’re someone who hasn’t fucked with this shit before and intend to do so because you read on a rising internet star’s diary how totally boss is and how it makes you look cool and more fuckable in the eyes of the opposite sex; DON’T. Some of the drugs I’ve tried aren’t cool if you smoke too few or snort fewer than 5 lines, and if you get the low grade shit they sell in the side streets of Commonwealth avenue, it’s not worth it.

More importantly, if you’re an overweight, stressed 26 year old whose heart feels like it’s going to explode every time you engage yourself in physical activities that last longer than 3 minutes then you really REALLY should not fuck around with alcohol and drugs. If you do, you’re going to have a crazy, awkward night when you decide to drive yourself to a hospital emergency room at 2am on a Monday because you could’ve sworn you lost your hearing and part of your vision and think you’re going about to get a stroke and have the following conversation with the attending physician:

Physician: Sir, are you certain you’re having a stroke? Does your family have a history of heart disease or hypertension?

You: “Yes and yes”

Physician: “Have you done any drugs in the last 4 hours?”

You: [feigning a facial expression that looks somewhat offended] “What?! NO! OF COURSE NOT!”

Physician: [Suspicious. Taking notes] “Are you certain sir?”

You: [Raising hands in the sheer "ridiculousness" of it all] “Of course I’m certain! Why are you asking me all these questions?”

Physician: “So, if I were to collect urine from you and run a drug test on it, the results would be negative right?”

You: [Realizing that the game is over] “Well–you know what? You’re right. I’m high as a kite. You’re not like required to call the police or anything are you?”

Physician: “No, but I suggest you call a relative to pick you up. I don’t think you’re fit to drive.”

You: “Okay, let me call King Arthur”

So yes Kids, don’t do drugs.