Promotion. Or something.
There are only a few things I’m unambiguously against: Polio, couples who show blatant disregard to bitter, single people by holding hands in public places, men kissing other men, and you really should know this by now: Hard work.
(Wait, on second thought I shouldn’t hate seeing men kissing other men because I myself have kissed other men a couple of times. Like that one time my best friend JL accidentally wandered into my room in drunken stupor and mistook me for the girl he was making out with a couple of hours prior. But whatever, that only happened like 2 times and it’s not like I didn’t pay him 200 pesos on both occasions. So yeah, whatever.)
The great underwear dilemma
I am not a very big fan of briefs. I mean, I do not see anything wrong with wearing them it’s just that, and any of my ex girlfriends (or the “sex professionals” whose services I availed) can attest to this, I look abhorrently worse than I really am in them.
I do wear them sometimes and they kinda do feel comfortable (If you’re working and haven’t yet tried tucking your shirt in your briefs and putting your pants on just high enough for your briefs’ Bench waistband to stick out, you sir, do not belong in the corporate world. You belong in prison). But the sad fact is that somebody as fat as I am should not have any business rocking briefs.
Hello Sir Have a Nice Day. Oh btw, Please stop being fat
Disclaimer: I myself am fat. The sentiments enclosed in the story below are aimed to those who are really fucking fat. And when I say really fucking fat, I mean those who look like they can die at any time and those who are like over 200 lbs. (I’m at 192. So yeah.)
Everyday, after I sign off from work, I usually do this convenience store sortie thing where I indulge myself in the pleasure of consuming fatty pre-packaged delights which contain no nutritional value whatsoever. If you’re the littlest bit familiar with the Philippines, you’d know that most major gasoline stations in the Philippines are built with their own branded convenience stores. If not, then LOL YOUR FACE BECAUSE YOU SUCK!
Anyway, last night found me paying for a large Jiminy Pizza, Iced Coffee and Cadbury milk bar in the Caltex Star Mart along C5. In front of me were two really fucking fat guys whom I assumed to be father and son because not only are they both really fucking fat, they also looked alike.
House, douchebags.
If you’ve been following me on Twitter, you’d know that I am currently riding turbulent waves made of pure, molten relationship sucktitude. The funny thing is that none of the shit I’m going through has done anything to curb my obsession for getting married.
In fact, right now, I am compulsively worrying about the intricacies of getting my own house. And you really can’t blame me for doing this, after all, this douchebag got married and ended up living in a posh Eastwood condominium and this other douchebag got married and ended up living in a ritzy house in Alabang.
Now, in my current state of financial impotence, how am I supposed to get married, go to a real estate broker with a stack of old comic books, a Super Nintendo, and a jar of 5 peso coins and expect to walk away with a house that’s even livable?
I can’t.
Instead, I’ll tell you what’s bound to happen: Someday, when I finally trick a girl who has just the right amount of insecurity into marrying me, I am going to thrash around more in and inevitably allow myself to sink further down the quicksand of debt by mortgaging my life away for a house I could never afford.
For me, it’s all about posturing and I know that I’m going to spend the first twenty years of my married life living in an expensive house with no electricity, making presents made of art paper and plastic bottles every Christmas, and eating Korean-made instant noodles every meal because I got myself 8 million pesos into debt to make myself look rich.
I can’t wait!
Pitcher. Elegance. Panic.
Ever since an uncle of mine moved in with us early last year, I no longer have a room I could call my own. In lieu of a room, what I have is a little corner in the family den where a little book shelf that has all my books arranged neatly on it and a little coffee table and a nice comfortable chair is.
Let me be honest here, I seldom use this corner and whenever I do, you can be sure that I am only up to one thing: being pretentious.
When the mood strikes me, I set up my Macbook in my little corner, turn on the reading lamp and write pages upon pages of obscene inanity, some of which can be found in this very site. I also have a vase-like pitcher I fill with what I’d like to call “Mikey Blend” Iced tea. (shut up.)
I picture myself in this setting and I realize that the only thing missing from my little aristocratic pretentious corner is a velvet robe and I dunno, maybe an antique globe or something. But I’m working on those as I write this.
However, no matter how much I try to exude an aura of a mild-mannered man who loves cultured elegance, I often become unsteady and falter. Last night, one of my childhood friends whom I haven’t seen for a long time visited me and because I badly wanted to show him how cultured and elegant I was, I decided to sit him down in my little corner so he can admire the breadth of the books I’ve read and later on, bow down to my obvious, commanding intellectual superiority.
I reached for my vase-like pitcher and poured him a glass of “Mikey’s blend” iced tea. At this point, I was waiting for him to say “Mikey, you are so wise, luxurious and elegant. You belong to a rich European country. I belong in jail.”
"The personal blog of Marketing Strategist, Rising Internet Star, Man Blog editor, child pornographer, alcoholic, and cokehead-- Douchebag Jones--Err, Mike Villar!