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

Read more

Why I hate wearing a tie


Yes, I know. Please just…just don’t say anything okay?

The Mix Tape…of love!

In about a week’s time, my girlfriend is celebrating her birthday. Since I am a successful, elegant urban professional, I have taken it upon myself to assemble the most romantic, most expensive gift I could ever hope to conceive: THE MIX TAPE…OF LOVE! (Yes, I know. Shut up.)

The problem with this idea, as is the problem with all the other ideas I’ve had, is that it’s half-assed. If I could write about a book about my life, a good part of it would be discussing in detail how I have always been good in starting and never finishing. My interest on things I thought I’m passionate about wane quickly. But this, dear friends is different. To say that the Mix Tape…of love! is an “interest” would be a severe understatement because recently, this has become nothing short of a full-blown obsession for me.

I want to create one of the greatest, if not THE greatest mix tape in the history of mankind. I want to concoct something so great that you’d have to be either paralyzed from the waist down or have a weird inverted penis not to get some poontang whenever you play this around women. I want to be able to make something so compelling that no woman, her sobriety notwithstanding, would be able to resist the urge to take in the awesome cock of the equally awesome guy who plays this mix tape. I want to create something so powerful that if Buddha was alive and wanted so score some curry-flavored punani, it would’ve been what he’d pop into his CD player

Read more

The Guest List: More wedding thoughts

I’ve been doing a chunk of the work I should be doing today at home over the weekend and the result? I have absolutely nothing to do right now. I have to pass the time. How(aside from the given internet hours I spend on interracial pornography and Harry Potter gay fan fiction)? Why, populating a guest list for my wedding of course!

Yes, I know it makes absolutely no sense to make a guest list for my wedding right now when I should really focus on getting sex first, or trying not to suck so much as a boyfriend first, but just hear me out.

As an addendum to my breakaway hit of a post: The Dip, Marry-ability, at this point in my life, I feel as if everyone around me is either getting married or starting a family. The number of times I’ve thought about my own wedding is well documented in this blog but this, still, totally blows me out of the water. Maybe it’s because of the fact that me and my current girlfriend are pretty much in consensus that marriage is something not in our immediate future yet or maybe it’s the fact that lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m going to make a totally negligent and sucky husband. Last Sunday though, Maffy and I attended a wedding of one of her college friends and I realized something interesting: The last couple of weddings I’ve attended typically have around 200 people as guests–ideally the groom having 100 guests and the bride another 100.

My strategy as far as weddings would go usually would be to get in, congratulate the newly weds with feigned sincerity when deep inside, I’m wishing a painful death upon them, give my gift, pig the fuck out, and get the hell out of there the first chance I get before some stupid show band-type singers start playing songs like Happy by Square Hands and your date obliges you to dance with her–something that you’re really not comfortable doing so you tell her you don’t want to, she gets upset, you get upset, you flip the fuck out and panic; knocking the wedding cake down in the process causing your date to cry because you just ruined her friend’s wedding and her friends will like stop being friends with her because her sweaty fat date wearing an awkwardly over-sized barong ruined the newly-wed’s special day. Whatever.

Read more

The Dip. Marry-ability.

For some reason or another, I have been thinking about marriage these past few days. If you’ve been reading my stuff long enough, you might go ahead and jump into conclusions about this just being a “phase” of some sort. After all, I wrote this almost a year ago.

(And really, is it my fault that the girl I proposed to lied about her job and wasn’t really a flight attendant but a dancer who trades her “services” for canned vegetable outside a clothing store in the middle east? I think not.)

But seriously, marriage is slowly beginning to present itself as a nascent position lately. This, I feel, is largely due to the fact that right now, I have the best girlfriend a guy could ever have. Before my girlfriend and I got together, my original plan was to marry whoever it is I’m dating by the time I turn 31 (preferably someone underage. And with dead parents, or parents who are drug addicts. Or both.)

Lately though, I find myself in a serious bind–or as my recent favorite author Seth Godin would call it: a Dip(or, who knows? Maybe even a cul-de-sac?). This “Dip” that I speak of is the fact that I feel that as if, right now, I have peaked. I am as marry-able as I’m ever going to get.


In fact, forget “peaking” as I think I’ve passed my peak years ago. Right now, my life is on a downward slide that will ultimately end in a mail-to-order bride, annulment, severe alcoholism and drug addiction, murder and fire.

Read more

← Previous Page — Next Page →