My blogging routine. Also, beers.

Something you should know about me: I really cannot write shit in the morning or the afternoon. I write mostly at night and in fact, I as I write this, it’s 7:08pm on a Sunday. I find it nearly impossible if not totally impossible to get any sort of work involving my brain done during work days, what with all the Flash games I play and personal phone calls I make using the phone in the HR department at work. Besides, I usually process all the masturbatory fodder I absorb from prime time TV during the day so I pretty much just feverishly masturbate from the time I wake up until the time I have to drive to work and at work (10 minute “quickies” every other hour at the office john) up until I get off. And when I do get home and finish making love to myself a few more times, I try to work on my blogging projects.

This would’ve all been fine if only my small alcohol problem doesn’t rear its ugly head every fucking time. I mean although it has always been my contention that a writer cannot be called a real writer unless he has some sort of fucked up dependency(Shakespeare was rumored to have done Opium while working on his chef-d’oeuvres and Oscar Wilde was paederastic and was into age-structured homosexuality); I’ve never quite hit the delicate balance between “being drunk enough to write in an inspired manner” and “Too hammered to even hit the right keys and JESUS CHRIST, I JUST SPILLED RHUM COLA ON MY FUCKING MACBOOK!” spot on. I know that it’s all just a matter of moderation (yes, I’m a genius) as the right amount of alcohol could practically make you better at everything–writing, talking, bowling, sex (?) but if you end up with too much in your system, you’ll end up throwing a bowling ball down some other group’s lane, you’ll end up trying to stick your bird up your girlfriend’s other hole and writing shit that more or less reads like:

I really had an awsozme day! I sasw this guy who plays Lupin and he laooked totally fcukcing gay! What a gay that richarad cguttierez guy! I mean wThat the fuck!aa!

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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?

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