I have spent a great deal of time observing young college girls. Before I was married (and before the court legally prohibited me to. As it turns out, “accidentally” looking at a girl through her bed room window is a criminal offense. Especially if it involves a tree and a pair of binoculars) doing so gave me, to some extent, carnal satisfaction; nowadays though, my observations lead to genuine, unadulterated fascination. However, said fascination is fleeting and usually becomes pure, searing annoyance in a span of 5 short minutes.

For a long time, I’ve failed to put a finger on what exactly it is about younger girls that annoys the living shit out of me but I think I finally figured it out. And girls, I know you probably think you’re being cute, but the shit below? It needs to stop.

Inordinate use of the phrases “Oh My God!” and “I’m going to die!”

If you’ve ever spent a fair amount of time in a Starbucks on a weeknight you will–invariably so–encounter a group of young girls who are dressed up like they’re going a party or something but never end up leaving. Instead, in the god-awfully long time spend in the coffee shop, they skank up the place(which I don’t have a problem with) talk loudly about who their favorite American Idol contestants are, what the best dates are for them and their “girlfrans” to hit “bora” and how they’re “going to die” if they don’t watch the Anberlin concert. Let me illustrate:

Girl 1: Oh my God! did you see American idol last night?
Girl 2: Oh my God, yes! Did you?
Girl 1: Oh my God yeah! I loved Pia’s performance, it’s like she’s a star!
Girl 2: I know right! But hey did you see Lauren’s hair?
Girl 1: Oh my God! It’s gorgeous! I love her curls! She’s like not my favorite favorite and she doesn’t, like have that powerful of a voice but oh my God! I’m going to die if they cut her!
Girl 2: Oh my God! I know, I’m like going to die too!
Girl 1: [Stops sucking on her lollipop and takes a sip of her drink] Oh my God, wait lang girl, CR lang ako

…

Me: [cutting my wrists with a butter knife]

10 minutes after

[Girl 3 walks in]

Girl 1 and Girl 2: Stacey!!
Girl 3: Oh my God! I miss you!
Girl 1: Oh my God, you look so good!
Girl 2: Oo nga, Oh my God you’re blooming, what are you using on your face?
Girl 3: la langz!
Girl 1: Anyway, Oh my God, we’re going to bora on saturday!
Girl 2: Oo nga, I’m going to die! I haven’t gone shopping yet!
Girl 3: Oh my God, let’s go shopping, now na!
Girls 1, 2 and 3: Forever 21!!! (with the “one” part sort of lingering on like “ooooonnneeeeeeee”)

Me: [Walks out, knocks over a table on my way out. Kicks a stray cat. Also, the cat dies.]

Okay, here’s what’s wrong here: Saying “Oh my God” once in a while as an expletive is okay and even cute to some extent. But when you use it on every sentence that comes out of your mouths, it stops being cute and becomes annoying. Not to mention it confuses us guys who silently observe you from afar.

I mean you have no idea how quickly our minds can go from “I would totally Elmer her Fudd and Pepe her LePew” one moment to “I wonder how many seconds will it take her to bleed out after I lunge at her and drive this spoon through her neck” the next. It confuses our minds and our penises!

Another thing is this little thing called intonation. I know you’re all trying to sound sophisticated by speaking English when it is clearly not your first language. It’s cute and all but you’re forgetting this little thing called intonation. Your sentences don’t have to sound interrogative all the fucking time. Sentences that convey a simple assertion should begin with a medium pitch and end with a lower one. (i.e. “She doesn’t have a powerful voice”). So don’t end with a rising intonation because a.) You’re NOT asking a question and b.) It makes you sound like a bimbo.

Lastly, you’re NOT going to die so don’t say you are. And no, missing the Taylor Swift concert will not cause you to “die” nor would not having enough time to buy new swimwear for your next trip to “Bora”

I understand that this might be a difficult thing to understand to some of you so I created a simple chart to help you out:

It tells everyone that you’re done laying down the foundations of your new life on layers upon layers of financially-stable granite. Hell, you just purchased a home for you and your wife–a home that you’d pay mortgage for for years to come–why not purchase a ~PhP 900,000 vehicle that would put you in even more debt to top it all off?

My friends, that is the plan

I am not going to bore you with details of how I couldn’t afford it and how I’m planning to add to the already diverse list of jobs I do to make ends meet–a list that range from Internet Marketing Professional to Work from home telephone doctor/craigslist scammer–to make me afford it. (Mr. Ellingsworth from North Dakota, if you’re reading this, your “girlfriend” “Samantha” is still waiting for you to wire her the money you promised to lend her for her to  be able to get the ball rolling on the silk undergarment business you and her talked about)

I won’t because there’s a far bigger problem I’m faced with: I’m having severe anxiety attacks just thinking about selling my current car, a ’99 Honda Civic LX. The proceeds from the sale of my current car along with some of the money I have saved in the bank will pay for half of the new car I am planning to get.

The thought alone makes me tear up. I mean, who wouldn’t? Selling a car you’ve had for over almost a decade is kind of like taking your dog to the vet to be put to sleep. Sure, if my car was a dog it’d probably look like one of those fucked up fighting dogs with no hair and a missing eye, but it’s still the dog I went on many an adventure with. It’s my dog.

Indeed, my current car and I have been through a lot.

I remember all sorts of fun, messed up shit we went through together. Like that one semester in college when I lost the money I was supposed to pay my tuition fees with to a kid with an amputated left hand in a high-stakes Tekken game; I was in this car when I picked up a Japanese tourist from Ermita and gave him a [Sexual content involving the word "face babies" redacted upon request by the wife] in exchange for PhP 15,000 and a bag of champoy-tasting Japanese confections.

I was in this car when I came home from a night of wild partying and woke up half naked and later on realizing that I somehow thought it was a good idea to take off my shirt, take a dump on it, wrap it and make it “sit” on the passenger seat (I swear to God, I even secured “Warren Worthington the Turd” with a seatbelt). Fun times.

Or that time when cops randomly stopped me at a checkpoint and insisted that I must have drugs on me because, according to them, I look like a Chinese John Regala. They had me sit down on the curb while they searched my car. I got bored so, trying to be funny, I pretended to reach for something in my pocket and proceeded to shoot them with a gun finger. Not only didn’t they find my “joke” funny, I also got pistol whipped on the back of my head. They eventually let me go but not before one of them bought me a Cornetto from a nearby convenience store because I wouldn’t stop crying and whipping out my bird referring to it as “the .22 special I would’ve pulled if I really wanted things to get real”

The car they searched? Yep, it was this car.

So yeah, it’s going to be really hard letting go, but I will take a double dose of cowboy the fuck up and do what I have to do. But not before, as a final farewell, I write this poem on a piece of paper with green Crayola and tape it discreetly somewhere inside my old bud’s glove compartment:

Don’t be sad, I’ll be free from pain,
Never to be ill ever again,
I know you’ll miss me being there,
But all the memories you have to share.

Thankyou for being my best friend,
And all my needs that you did tend,
Try not to be sad, try not to cry,
Now’s the time to say GOODBYE.

..

What does a guy need to do to get a hug around here?

This morning, I woke up in a residential condo unit in the Pasig area next to a woman whom I later identified as Maffy, my best friend/love of my life who I publicly announced my engagement to a couple of months ago–or was it? I honestly don’t know. If you ask me what the date is, I’d say it’s mid October, 2009 because that’s what it feels like and apparently, that’s about the last time I was cognizant of anything.

Between then and now, I have no recollection whatsoever of what happened to me. I have vague, fragmented memories that, when pieced together, does not form a cohesive story, let alone one that makes sense. Let me run these memories by you guys and hopefully, you can help me make sense of them:

Memory fragment 1: I’m married?!

This really doesn’t come much of a surprise to me as I know for a fact that I am engaged before I fell into the entire time warp shit I was in. But, it appears that I’ve now been married for three months. I found this photo while rummaging through iPhoto:

Based on this picture, the following people were in my wedding:

• Peter Juan
• Liz Lanuzo
• Lauren Dado
• TJ Cafuir
• Elymar Apao
• Jayvee Fernandez
• Rey Agapito
• Alvin Jimenez
• Luis Buenaventura
• Anne Gomez
• Noelle De Guzman
• Rico Mossesgeld
• Penny Monasterial
• The guy who played Mr. Peabody in Problem Child

I’m pretty sure I invited Pau to my wedding and even considered making him one of my secondary sponsors but, according to this picture, he didn’t make it. This is probably due to the long-standing family feud between my family and his that stemmed from a disputed hectare of land in Pangasinan. So Pau, I just want to say that it’s cool and, morally, you are obliged to share all the gold you find in that land seeing that I found it remember? During that time you and I were playing hide and seek with my lesbian leprechaun friend named Vangie? Okay?

I’m pretty sure I invited Marc too as I was considering him to be one of my groom’s men. I better find out what happened there. In fact, I better check and see if I even have a job.

So yeah, that’s totally boss and crazy weird at the same time. Boss because it feels like I didn’t have to go through all the stress usually associated with wedd–hold on, I think another memory is popping up…

Memory fragment 2: The 10% rule is bullshit

This is not so much a memory as it is knowledge. For some reason, I now know that when anyone says that 10% of the guests you invite to your wedding are not gonna show up, they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. I remember inviting 150 guests with the 10% rule in mind when the wife and I were doing the final reservation with the caterer and we ended up with 160 people attending the reception.

Don’t get me wrong, this turnout is great and I appreciate all your support, but the question that begs to be answered is: How can we have 110 people attending the actual ceremony and host 160 people in the reception? Where the fuck were the rest of you guys during the wedding ceremony? Come on!

Memory Fragment 3: I can now speak/write russian

Пища, с которой многие дорогие и лучше, чем мастурбация

Memory fragment 4: resourcefulness under duress

Because of the snafu caused by believing the 10% rule, I now know that some people will eat anything regardless of how questionable. So yeah, if the food you ate on my wedding tasted like shredded Chicken Joy topped with copious amounts of Karo Syrup and cigarette ash, that’s probably because it is. I had to have food delivered because some of you don’t know how to RSVP.

Memory fragment 5: Women (especially if they’re your wife) want you to lift the toilet seat when you take a piss but don’t want you to leave it up because, apparently, there are germs on the toilet seat so they can’t touch it but you, being a man and immune to germs, can.

I would expound on this memory if it weren’t too soon (got in a fight with the wife earlier about this one). But hey! The good news is that I’m back! And it looks like even if I blacked out or whatever, it looks like I am living an okay life. For the most part. I don’t see the point in going back in time to reliv–

thirty, flirty and thriving…thirty, flirty and thriving…thirty, flirty and thriving….thirty, flirty and thriving… WORK DAMMIT!

My stress levels, however, have gotten to a point where I strongly detest driving on account of me getting pissed off by other drivers a little too easily, and a lingering fear that the bouts of road rage I have would, someday, end up in homicides. Multiple, violent homicides.

So yeah, earlier this week I was invited to attend a press event over at hotel near where I work. Since the venue was only 3 blocks away from the office and I really want to avoid driving as much as I can, I decided to take a cab to get there.

So I flag down a cab, get in and–before I go on–a disclaimer:

A lot has been said in this blog about people from the provinces but, truth be told, I have nothing but respect for them.

I mean really, how can you not respect people who leave their quaint little home town and cross the seas to find a better life in Manila? These people do seventy-hour weeks in department stores or factories so they can buy Magic Sings so they’d have something to entertain their drunkard friends the next time they come over the small-ass apartment they’re renting.

All this while overachieving people like me get high paying jobs landing on their laps, spend their time magically turning a good chunk of their salary into alcohol and end up blowing almost PhP 5,000 pesos on various sexy girl webcam access sites because they’re stressed and miserable. And horny.

That said, it turns out that the guy who drives the cab I got into is from the province and speaks little Filipino, let alone, English. Now, I usually sit in the front passenger seat of cabs and talk to drivers a lot so, after getting in, I said “The EDSA Shangri-La” and asked him how his day has been so far.

He replied in what sounded like heavily-accented Filipino, most of which I couldn’t make any of. So I thought, no biggie, probably not a good idea to converse with somebody who doesn’t speak much Filipino. It’s all good though, as long as he takes me where I need to go.

The EDSA Shangri-La is around 10 minutes away from the office. Five minutes into the ride, I get a feeling that the guy doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going. “You can turn right on the street after San Miguel Avenue” I suggested, he looked at me with a face that couldn’t be more unenthused and nodded. I took it as a “Yes, fat chops, I’m a cab driver, I know where the fuck I’m going so why don’t you just shut the hell up and relax?” So, I leaned back on my seat and did.

As we neared the corner leading to the hotel, I said “That’s the building right there [pointing], you can drop me off where it’s safe” Again, he looked at me and nodded, and again, I leaned back and tried to relax. As we approached Shangri-La, I noticed that he wasn’t slowing down to pull over. Already missing our destination, I said “You can just drop me off right here” even if “right here” was already a hundred meters past where I was supposed to get off.

At this point, I remembered why exactly I sit in the passenger seat whenever I ride cabs–So that I can easily open a can of whoopass on the driver if he tries anything funny like say trying to Kidnap me to hold me for ransom–and really, that was what was running through my head at that point. The guy, after all, was zooming farther from where I intended to get off at 60KPH. I said, more firmly “That was my stop right there, turn the cab around..no, on second thought, I’ll just get off here. Stop the car!”

I forget what I said exactly but I finally got him to pull the cab over at the EDSA side of the far end of SM Megamall–a good block away from where I wanted to get off.

Before getting off, I explained to him, largely through an intricate sign language routine, that I was trying to get off there [pointing to the Shangri-La] and not here [pointing down] but he just looks like he doesn’t get it.

I seriously could’ve gotten further in the conversation with a stray dog and, moreso, with a chimpanzee who, I’ve been told, are slightly more intelligent.

Seriously, what the fuck was that? I respect the fact that Filipino or English probably wasn’t the guy’s first language and he’s really just trying to make a living. But come on, how much Filipino/English do you have to understand and know how to say as a Taxi driver? We’re talking just knowing what left, right, turn around, “there” and “stop” means here.

How would you like it if you came up to me and asked “Mikey, I need the revenue projection report for our Q4 Holiday campaign” and me, staring at you for a good 10 seconds before finally saying “Thank you Mario, but the princess is in another castle.”

Christ.

It was quite a transition but, eventually, we were able to adjust and run a tight, clean ship. The fact that I’m a little on the obsessive-compulsive side made sure that my part of the house (my room, my bathroom and some parts of the kitchen) were clean. Really, I can’t sit still until all my shirts are stacked neatly in the dresser or until my bathroom floor is dry after I use it.

However, while my room and bathroom are orderly, I can’t really say they’re clean. You see, I’m really good with maintaining an illusion of order but I really don’t like to go down and dirty. I’m not, for instance, a big fan of cleaning glass. I’m not one to say “You know what, I just finished drinking beer and my glass coffee table is now riddled with circular beer stains because I didn’t use a coaster. You know what, where’s the chamois and the windex? I’m going to go crazy on this bitch!”

I’m also not a big fan of making my bed after I wake up as I see it as a pointless activity considering I’m going to mess it up again in a few hours when I turn in.

This is where Annie, our new maid, comes in and does her shit. For PhP 3,000 a month, she takes care of the dirty business. She makes my bed 5 minutes after I’m out of it. She goes crazy in my bathroom with her little bottle of Zonrox and scrubs the floor until it has this delicate luster to it. She makes sure my table is clean enough to eat rice off of. I’m telling you: this girl means business.

What makes everything so much better is Annie also falls on my side of the obsessive-compulsive scale. Yesterday for instance, I came home to find all the wires connecting the peripherals of the entertainment system in my room together neatly tied and organized. I also found the mess that were my DVD’s organized into neat stacks classified by type (Playstation, XBox, movie and software). And I found my underwear piled neatly in my undergarment drawer–the newest ones on top and the oldest, most worn out ones at the bottom. It’s almost freaky.

All of this awesomeness aside, there are two fundamental problems I see getting in the way of me fully appreciating Annie.

First of these is the fact that I sort of feel sorry for her. Sorry because she is working for one of the country’s–if not Asia’s–biggest douchebags. I mean the fact that I am writing about finally getting a maid speaks volumes about me. It’s sort of like saying “Hah! Everyone, get a load of me! I have an awesome maid! This means I’m successful! My maid comes from a place that is not Metro Manila! A place where people don’t have running water and where women have to hide from armed bandits every night for them not to get raped! I’m fucking awesome!”

The second is I find it awkward that she also does our laundry. Now most of you probably don’t see anything awkward with this but then again, most of you probably use a tissue to wipe the semen off your belly after you masturbate rather than just pulling up your boxers, allowing your man juice to be absorbed by the fabric and basically just waiting for it to dry up and become hardened splotches on your underwear.

I’ve been so used to my mom doing our laundry (most of you probably think this is worse but ask any new mom if they get grossed up cleaning up after their infants shit their diapers. And arguably, semen is less gross than shit. Arguably.) that I’m having trouble coming to terms with the fact that someone’s virgin hands are going to end up touching the splotches on my boxers; Splotches that are the direct result of only the most lecherous of urges. And sometimes, random pictures of girls on Facebook.

Let me explain: preparing for a wedding isn’t exactly cheap–to put things into perspective, let’s just say that in the last couple of months, I have spent half of what I earn annually booking some of the suppliers I need for my wedding.

All of this would’ve been fine If I was doing really well for myself. Well I could probably say that I sort of am but then again, let’s not forget that I am also paying for the house I bought early last year.

Add the fact that the actual preparations are taxing both mentally and emotionally into the mix and you’ve got yourself the perfect formula for an obese, manic-depressive train wreck waiting to happen. So stay the fuck clear.

Anyway, to cope with all the financial and emotional stress that are weighing heavily down on me, I’ve stepped up to take in more work and made it a point to drink myself into a coma every chance I get.

This becomes problematic when:

My Workaholism

In my wedding, I will be known to some people as the “sales pitbull” and the “douchebag screaming into his BlackBerry in English” to some. The thing is, with what I do, whenever I see a deal that needs closing, I attack it like a cheetah would attack a gazelle: Going for the lithe hind legs first before dragging the carcass back to my den for midnight snack and some necrophilic action.

My hunger for money nowadays is only dwarfed by my thirst for beer, so really, it’s only natural for me to be talking to Chinese internet moguls via my BlackBerry 24/7. If the guests in the wedding couldn’t understand the importance business and trade has in modern society, then I suggest they kick themselves back to 18th century France so they could listen to Rosseau tell them how awesome communism is and invite them to share their meager broth with him.

My Alcoholism

I cannot say this enough: I love to drink. You can blame my Ilocano genes or my dark past but the fact of the matter is I love alcohol okay? This insatiable thirst coupled an unlimited supply of booze afforded by the mobile bar I signed as one of the vendors for my wedding is a lethal combination. In my wedding, I would start off innocently enough, first swinging back the ceremonial glass of wine my future wife and I would share. Then I’ll knock back a few beers while going table to table for pictres. Then the wheels would come off–Somebody just handed me a Jaegerbomb!

Next thing I’ll remember is me putting my penis in the chocolate fondue. Another blackout. Then I’ll vaguely remember trying to rally everyone into dancing the Macarena on the dance floor. This will be followed by another blackout. Then it happens: The moment of true humiliation: I’m struggling to keep my balance on one foot holding a bottle of tequila before finally falling backwards into our wedding cake.

I wake up the next morning in a forest wearing an Igorot outfit hugging a rice cooker.

The detestation I feel towards watching cable TV, I think, has something to do with the fact that there’s just far too much noise–too many ads and being a professional marketer who spends a great deal of his billable hours creating and optimizing such ads, I want to stay away as far as possible from them when I’m trying to relax.

When I do watch cable TV, I only watch National Geographic, and only when I’m too lazy to whip out my laptop to watch full seasons of some of the shows I follow in it.

Anyway, I was watching a National Geographic special on king cobras earlier and was, surprisingly, hooked and fascinated by the entire thing.

The thing that totally blew me out of the water was the King Cobra’s mating ritual. Intercourse, for this particular specie of snake almost looks like a graceful, beautiful and almost lyrical dance. It was seriously so beautiful, that during the 15-minute clip showing the ritual, I needed to stop to masturbate and cry thrice.

[I am actually stopping to masturbate and cry right now. I need a minute]

[...]

[...]

So yeah, after doing it, the two King Cobras sort of just laid there intertwined, cuddling. If snakes are anything like humans–more specifically, if snakes are anything like me, I surmise that the guy snake was probably asking the girl snake to evaluate his performance while smoking an invisible snake cigarette and was about to whip out his snake wallet to pay the girl snake with snake dollars for the sex. Of course, he doesn’t have enough and the girl snake will then call her snake pimp to beat the crap out of the guy snake. The guy snake will then proceedto beg the snake pimp not to kick his ass. Eventually the two reach a compromise involving a laptop and a company-issued blackberry.

But before anything like that could happen, another male ambles into view wanting to have sex with the female cobra himself. Like hell the original male king cobra would allow that to happen, so a fight ensues. In the end, the original male loses (supposedly because he’s obese) and slithers away in utter shame and disgust.

The winning male then slithers towards the female to claim his prize and attempts to have sex with her. But something goes wrong–he smells the sperm of the original male on the female and his intention quickly shifted from having sex to committing murder (Honestly, I’d be pissed too)

The winning male then proceeded to clamp down on the females neck and rolls her around to strangle and finish her off. This went on for around 20 minutes–in between of which, I was busy switching to and from yelling “YEAH! That’s what’s up bitch!” and jacking off.

The female eventually dies of suffocation. It was an awesomely intense scene.

My feelings of sexual satisfaction and channeled machismo were short lived though. Because after killing the female king cobra, the male proceeded to eat her. whole.

At that point I was all like “What. the. fuck?”

Now, I don’t know why the hell I’m so bothered with that entire scene. Maybe because it’s just plain repulsively ugly. Or Maybe it’s because the entire episode felt like a metaphorical portent of what my married life is going to be like.

OR, more likely, maybe it reminded me of my past; specifically that “incident” in San Juan, Puerto Rico back in the summer of 1992 which involved me, a dead prostitute and Ving Rhames.

Whatever. I don’t know.

(This blog post’s word count so far: 113. See what I did there?)

You see, since around July last year, I have been coping with something that has slowly been eating away at me. If you remember, around that time, I got myself a short-lived Gym membership. What I didn’t tell you was that the training program I followed, instead of giving me delts of steel, biceps of romance and clitoris-conquering pecs; gave me some sort of weird skin disease.

Apparently, after sweating it out with squats, rows, and bench presses, you’re supposed to shower or at least wipe the sweat from your body and change into a clean shirt. But, beecause the concept of “hygiene” totally eluded me then, what I did was not shower, changed into shirts I sweated the fuck on from previous gym sessions (which I kept in a leather backpack I store in the trunk of my car) and even went on a month of gymming using only one pair of socks.

At first, the skin disease manifested itself as a patch of rashes on my right shin. I didn’t think any of it until recently when I noticed that the rashes have spread into my left thigh, my tummy, my chest and my upper arms.

Being the son of a pharmaceutical executive, and having learned the awesomeness of self-medication at a very early age, I prescribed myself some benadryl and took some pills labeled “losartan” which I found in a box stored in our garage and decided to wait and see if the pills I took would take care of the rashes.

They didn’t. Because, apparently, losartan is an angiotensin used to treat high blood pressure. Taking these pills seemed to have pissed off the fungi that’s causing my rashes and, several days ago, it punished me by aggressively spreading down my lower abdomen in an attempt to mount a siege and spread to my penis.

(Anyone else getting an erection reading this?)

This made sleeping very difficult for me. Since most of my body constantly and severely itches, I wake up in the middle of the night either applying colgate/lotion/shaving cream/turpentine into the affected regions of my body or just thrashing around violently scratching myself all over.

(Seriously, I’m surprised no one has asked me to have sex with them at this point)

Today, faced with the imminent threat of my lower abdominal rash spreading to my penis, I decided to seek professional medical help. After living with these rashes for over a year now, I have finally decided to stand up and say “Enough!”

Although, for some odd reason, I feel like I will miss the rashes when they’re gone in a weird medical version of Stockholm, I simply cannot live with just getting three hours of sleep a night without taking more drugs–this time, ones that are in powder form and are illegal. Nobody wins if I do.

My appointment with the Dermatologist is on Saturday. And really, I wouldn’t be surprised if she takes a look at the extent to which my rashes have spread and tells me to wait in the room while she gets something from the pharmacy. Five minutes later, an orderly wielding a shotgun steps into the room and gives me a buckshot to the face without preamble. Because really, seeing my rashes as they are today leads me to believe that it’s so severe that I need to be “put to sleep” and my body cremated ASAP.

I get this nagging feeling that my employer is trying to force me into a painful transition from slack daddy extraordinaire (and party boy emeritus) to a real employee, not just someone who manifests himself as an unreasonably high salary in monthly accounting ledgers; eats up the company’s bandwidth by downloading entire Gossip Girl episodes at work, and doodles three-headed, big-busted succubi when he’s supposed to be taking notes at meetings.

This intent is corroborated best by the corporate slavery device I now constantly have in my pocket. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I, Mike Villar: Rising Internet Star, have been issued a BlackBerry.

You’re probably thinking: “Big deal, the company just gave you a shiny new toy and here you are whining like an ungrateful bitch! A fat, ungrateful bitch at that! ” And to that, my friend–who is unschooled in the ways of the corporate world and probably poor–I’ll say: you do NOT understand the ramifications of being issued a BlackBerry. Among other things, if you have one, your boss can Email, IM, call or SMS you 24/7 and expect you to reply. This wasn’t the case for me prior to being issued one as I always had the “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to call you back. My phone went dead” excuse and the “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to email you back, my DSL got cut today. You see, I was thrown in jail last night for drunk driving–whether or not I’m guilty is for the court to decide–and I used the money I’m supposed to pay my monthly DSL subscription with to post bail.” excuse.

However, when the decision that, because of the nature of the work I do for the company, I needed to be issued a BlackBerry was made, I didn’t go farther than subdued protest because I didn’t want to sound too much like a slacker.

Resistance, however, was futile since every member of my department’s senior management was being given one. To make things worse, the person who handed me my BlackBerry curve for the first time sort of looked like he expected me to start shrieking in delight like a seven year-old on Christmas who just got “Footloose” on VHS as a present (Yes, that is an accurate description of me back in the Christmas of 1989. Well, fuck you). Really? You expect me to be happy about the idea of me literally carrying my work around with me 24/7? You know what would really make me happy? Getting a blowjob from someone who doesn’t cost 700 Pesos. Or not a man. You dick.

The only “positive” thing I could see coming out of this entire BlackBerry thing is that I can see myself at a random bar swinging back my fifth bottle of beer while thumbing away on my BB–obviously trying to look more important than what I really am infront of underage girls. Then, I can see myself whipping out my other cellphone and pretending to call someone while still trying to look like I am sending an email on my BlackBerry. Then I could see myself whipping out my laptop in the bar because god knows there is nothing sexier than a man talking to someone on a phone, typing an email on his BlackBerry while composing another email on his laptop. And finally, I can see Brock Lesnar coming over from the next table and punching me in the face because I’m being a motherfucking douchebag.

But fuck. Seriously, this entire BlackBerry thing is going to take a lot of getting used to. I am really not good with this entire productivity thing and for those of you who had enough money to go to college, you’re probably familiar with the Irresistable force paradox which asks “What happens when an irresistable force meets an immovable object?”

Now, the BlackBerry is the irresistable force of productivity while I’m the immovable object of indolence. Now, what do you think happens when the BlackBerry and I inevitably clash?

That’s right: Death.

And I don’t mean I’m going to die from stress, I mean I’m going to commit some nasty murders. So watch your back.

(If my boss is reading this: By “Death” I actually meant “Death to laziness!” I mean really, let’s all be productive here for fuck’s sake)