Let’s move along.

What’s more unforgivable than the fact that I haven’t taken my team out to any form of team building activity in my three year tenure as a manager is the fact that I let one of my team members choose where we’re going to eat. An even more unforgivable mistake? I let this asshole choose.

Now, I’m not exactly a food connoisseur but I don’t have bad taste either. If I were to describe my palate, I would probably liken it to that of a college student’s. If a typical college frat boy loves it, then chances are I’d love it too. I like gallons of cooking oil on my food, I like slathers of mayonnaise on it, I love cheese and excessive amounts of condiments on it.

Also, when I go to restaurants, I have this habit of staking it out and take my time to carefully study its menu. I hate having to ask for waiter recommendations and prefer to  know what exactly what I am going to order as soon as I am seated.

For God knows what reason, this asshole chose to go to an Indian restaurant for our team lunch.

Now, before I proceed, I want to go on record that I am, in no way, racist. I love Indian culture and truth be told, one of my closest friends is Indian. (Sup, Sanjay. I haven’t forgotten about that hundred bucks I owe you. I’ll pay you soon. I know, 110 bucks it is.)

What bothered me the most about our lunch is the fact that I couldn’t pick my food in advance. This is not because of a momentary bout of indecision, but rather because of what the fuck was on their menu:

• Paneer Mumtaz
• Tawa Kheema Mutton
• Dal with Methi Leaves
• Jumbo Paper Dosa
• Chicken Bouli Handi
• Kulfe
• Kheer

My Initial thoughts on these menu items:

1. I consider myself considerably smart, well-read and cultured enough to have a working knowledge of Persian, American, Greek, Japanese and Thai cultures. But when you’re looking at a menu where the only words that ring a bell are “Chicken” and “Jumbo”, you know you’re in for one huge clusterfuck.
2. “Paneer Mumtaz” sounds like the roasted appendages of a 1980′s Indian child star and really, I don’t think I’m brave enough to try that shit out.
3. “Tawa Kheema Mutton” is absolutely balderdash. It’s like me opening a restaurant and saying that my specialty is “Beef Kukurikapu.” Utter nonsense. But of course, no one calls the restaurant out on it at the risk of being called uncultured.
4. I have a feeling that “Bouli Handi” isn’t food. It sounds more like slang for when a girl masturbates a guy and accidentally clasps his testicles tightly when he approaches orgasm. (i.e. “So Kate was down there giving me the most vicious Hand Job ever right? When I was about to come, I pulled on her hair and out of nowhere she was giving me a Bouli Handi. Next thing I know, she’s crying in the corner because I punched her in the face out of instinct.)
5. “Kheer”–Excuse me, but I think the politically correct vernacular would be “Homosexual.” Fag.

The meal was, surprisingly, delectable. I don’t know what the fuck we ended up ordering but it was this chicken stew with curry and Indian spices. It was so good I can only assume that it was made from good dreams and the laughter of innocent, orphan children.

Of course, the meal was not without food items that didn’t really do it for me. One thing, their rice had cashew nuts, raisins, peas and what tasted like motor oil. The only description I could muster after a few spoon-fulls was that it tasted like an old memory and is probably what an antique shop would taste like if it was edible. Of course, I acknowledge that this rice may be acclaimed by food critics world-wide and only I couldn’t appreciate it. I’m simply too uncultured, dumb and poor.

All in all it was a good meal. But to the owner of that restaurant: Seriously dude, turn the “authenticity” down a notch. We get it, you have a real Indian chef you flew from Hyderabad and your menu is in Indian. Just, really, tell us what the fuck’s in the food! Dammit!

Also, a “Foodie” is:

A person that spends a keen amount of attention and energy on knowing the ingredients of food, the proper preparation of food, and finds great enjoyment in top-notch ingredients and exemplary preparation.
A foodie is not necessarily a food snob, only enjoying delicacies and/or food items difficult to obtain and/or expensive foods; though, that is a variety of foodie.

I don’t know about the “finds great enjoyment in top-notch ingredients and exemplary preparation” part because really, the fact that I am hungry about 80% of all my waking hours means that I find “great enjoyment” in anything that has to do with putting things, which have flavor, in my mouth. (cock, for one, isn’t particularly tasty and, at most, only has this distinct saltiness to it. That said, I do enjoy putting cock in my mouth, but I digress)

I’m not too sure about finding “great enjoyment” in exemplary preparation too. I mean, you are reading the blog of a guy who, only 2 days ago, ate a sandwich he made hastily and sloppily with two slices of bread, cold luncheon meat and mayonnaise that apparently expired May last year.

But good God! My recent obsession with food has reached new, frightening heights! Yesterday, I went to one of my wedding caterer’s food tasting events to sample the kind of pasta they offer. I was particularly keen on sampling their tomato-based pasta sauce. I know, I know, red sauce on pasta is for yuppies and homosexuals but because the last time I ate pasta with white sauce, I got a bad case of the runs. I’ve been avoiding it ever since. Besides, as a bonafide member of several international, interracial porn fan clubs, my mantra has always been “if you go white, that’s not right!” or something like that.

(alright, I just read the last sentence of that paragraph again and that didn’t really make sense nor was it funny. I’m sorry but really, shut up. This is free)

Anyway, almost as soon as I walked into the pavilion where the food tasting event was being held, a guy asked me if I wanted to try their roast beef with gravy, which as he so proudly and effeminately claimed to be “USDA beef” (whatever the fuck that means, right?”

At first, I said “No”. I mean, I know that, at food tastings, you’re supposed to sample all the food items the caterer has to offer but really, you’d have second thoughts about it if a really gay sales executive is blabbering on and on about such things as the “tenderness” and “texture” of the beef while you’re just standing there nodding like an idiot, thinking “It’s beef. What the fuck are you talking about?” and feeling compelled to say something that would make you sound like like you know what he’s talking about.

Caterer’s Sales Executive: “How are you liking the gravy so far sir? For that, we used fine herbs we imported from South America, mushrooms from China and a tinge of expensive Chilean wine”

Me: [wiping my mouth with the sleeves of my shirt] Yeah dude, it’s awesome!

Caterer’s Sales Executive: “Well that’s really funny considering what you just ate isn’t gravy. It’s actually raw sewage, soy sauce and bits of tissue paper”

Me: [saving face] But it’s delicious! You totally sold me on this! I’m getting you guys as the caterer for my wedding!

Caterer’s Sales Executive: “Sir, I would have to ask you to leave or I will be forced to call security.”

However, almost as soon as I said “no” to trying out the roast beef, the little voice in my head–the same voice that tells me stuff like “Dude, you know what would be really wicked? If you stole that kid’s bike and jump it off a bridge into the Pasig river” and “You could totally jump and fly off from this second story window. All you need to do is that blanket for a cape and some happy thoughts”–told me “Dude, do you realize you just turned down that guy’s offer for free food? Also, get some cake for me” So I acquiesed and got some roast beef from the guy, girl whatever.

It was really uncomfortable. The guy went on and on about something called “mesquite marinade” and after 5 minutes of blabbering on and on, I went ahead and said “Thank you, I’ll go around and try other stuff first, but really, the beef is great! If I do decide to get you guys as my caterer, I’ll definitely have it on my menu!” I found out that saying something to that effect is probably the only way to get these people to shut up.

And thus, began my downward spiral to gluttony. In the next hour and a half, I went around eating everything in sight and I probably had ten or so sales executives following me around asking me “Sir, can I help you?” They probably saw through me and how I’m trying to abuse the entire food tasting thing and I couldn’t blame them for that. But it did get annoying and it took every ounce of restraint I had not to snap and scream “God FUCKING Dammit! Yes I’m abusing the free food and the free flowing drinks okay!? But can’t you have a little decency in you to leave an obviously starving overweight man and his food alone for five minutes!?”

Everything ended well though. I walked away with a little more culture in me, knowing that “Spring Rolls” is just a fancy way of saying “Lumpiang Sariwa” and, after using my charm (which the caterers probably mistook for obnoxious persistence), I ended up getting tons of freebies and a good price from them.

Now, I wonder how my negotiations with the photographers and videographers will go.

When I learned that my doctor was opening up a clinic in a nearby teaching hospital, I almost felt compelled to rent an apartment in the area just so I can assuage all my fears and I can easily be transported to the emergency room in case anything does happen to me (I don’t know–Poisoned because I tried to mix Lysol with my Gran Matador? Choked because I tried to cram a deck of cards down my throat on a drunken dare? Whatever.)

Now, besides the fact that my doctor is the best cardiologist in the country, I particularly like seeing my doctor because his medical directorship in the teaching hospital I go to means that he has a corps of hot female residents sitting in with him while he does clinic.

What I wasn’t looking forward to was having a significantly hot resident in her late 20′s hook me up to an Electrocardiogram because this, to say the least awkward. Keep in mind that I am overweight and thus, even when I have sex, my only goal is to not gain nor give pleasure but to go through the entire thing leaving as much articles of clothing possible.

Sure enough, when I came in for a checkup yesterday, and after my doctor took my blood pressure, he instructed his female resident to hook up the diodes of the ECG to my body which made me all tense and shit.

I was able to relax after a while and I was able to make small talk and crack some jokes. At this point, I was thinking everything’s going to be cool – as long as I can convince her not to make me take off my shirt.

We chewed the fat some more and got  to talking about how I used to be in med school and after a while, I realized that “hey, I’m flirting with this chick and she’s moments away from asking me to take off my shirt and seeing my horrible stretch marks and being extremely turned off if not totally repulsed.” 

“Lie down please” she said motioning me towards the bed. 

Fuck. If I remember correctly from my last checkup this is the point where she’s going to ask me to take off my shirt and feel me up with her stethoscope. So, I laid down and as she lifted my shirt to hook up the first diode, we had this conversation:

Hot Female Resident: Do you shave?

Me: [Feeling my chin] Yes, I actually shaved earlier.

Hot Female Resident: No I meant down there [Motioning to my crotch]

Me: Only when I’m expecting to get some action!

Hot Female Resident: So I’m guessing you shaved today? [biting her lip]

Then we both laughed and she gave me what could possibly have been the most intense blowjob Asia has ever seen.

Okay, that didn’t happen but it would’ve been really awesome if it did. 

What did happen was she ended up not making me take off my shirt and just hooked up the diodes underneath it. I mean, I can’t blame her. It’s not pretty under there. Last time I checked under my shirt, I found pop corn from last year’s New Year’s Eve party lodged between fat.

Another thing that happened was me getting a twenty-minute lecture about the dangers of smoking from a hot girl only two years older than I am who obviously doesn’t smoke nor drink because the one time she drank in college, she ended up going down on a lesbian coed inside her dorm’s comfort room and she has sworn off alcohol ever since.

Anyway, except for an elevated Hemoglobin count in my hematology report which, as usual, they blame on my smoking, I was told that I was healthy as a battleship physically. I wish I could say the same about the state of my mental health but I’d be lying.

Now, what does a guy have to do around here to get a cigarette and maybe a pack of chicharon? I’m dying here.

Now, I am not new to this kind of pain because I’m probably the biggest klutz this side of Asia and because I have been overweight for as far back as I can remember–in fact, there was this time a couple of years ago when I injured my ankle trundling around the University of the Philippines’ academic oval in a feeble attempt to “jog.” Apparently, my fat body (I was around 15 pounds heavier than I am now then) wasn’t used to physical activity that intense and the sheer weight of my body coupled with the awkward lumbering I tried to pass off as “jogging” were enough to strain my calcium-deprived ankles to actually dislocate it.

The thing is, today, I want to think that my bones are stronger from all the dieting I’m doing and from all the calcium I ingest from my diet food (ice cream, cheese in pizza, the almonds in my M&M’s, fiber from the Pizza box, Semen, etc.). However, on the contrary, it seems as if my bones have gone brittler and weaker and the littlest of physical activities–like bending down to plug my cell phone’s charger to a socket under my table somehow injure me.

Anyway, back to my shoulder; I could see a few reasons why my shoulder has seemingly been dislocated and why it’s hurting like a motherfucker lately. The main reason, I think, was because when I was in Subic, I somehow managed to convince myself that, despite my being overweight, riding a banana boat was a good idea.

I mean come on, how dangerous could that be right? I was all like “So I put on a life vest, I mount the innocent-looking contraption with three people who are more physically fit than I am, the thing gets tipped over, I get back on, beat my chest and tell the other people riding with me how ‘I can’t believe how fucking strong’ I am, get back on the beach and high-five everyone who was watching.” No big deal right?

Wrong.

So this guy was operating the Jet ski which was pulling the banana boat right? Every thing’s going well: I was having a blast as the thing was being pulled at incredible speed by the jet ski, I was checking out this chick’s ass in front of me, resisting the urge to actually reach forward and touch it. Every thing’s boss at that moment–until the fucking thing tipped over.

Everybody had no trouble getting back on so I thought, hey this shouldn’t be hard. So, I tried to hoist myself back into the banana boat but it feels like my body weight added to the weight of the vest and all the water absorbed by my shorts made the task seem like a herculean one.

No big deal, I probably just need to rest a few minutes and try again. So I did and nothing fucking changed. I’m still in the water, panting like hell and couldn’t get myself back in the fucking thing.

This went on for a good 20 minutes. At this point everybody was trying to help me get back up–Somebody was pulling on my vest, someone was pulling my hand and another one was offering me moral support by saying stuff like “You can do it Mikey! Just a little more! [Whispering to the person in front of her] This is impossible, he’s way too fat that his life vest could barely keep him afloat. Why don’t we just leave him here? I’m sure he’ll wash up on the beach after a few hours.”

Finally, I decided to–not surprisingly–give up. I hoisted mysefl up on the Jet ski that pulled the banana boat, a feat that takes no more than a strength of a three-year-old. I was dejected. I was dispirited.

I cannot stress enough how big a blow the entire ordeal dealt to my already languishing self-esteem.

I admit, I am not what people would call “healthy.” I have difficulty tying my shoes without my mother helping me and I feel like I am at a point that I am clinically not fit enough for any form of sexual activity–including masturbation.

BUT, I do refuse to resign to the fact that I am that far off that walking more than 10 meters, getting fouled in a game of basketball, raising a spoonful of rice to my lips or talking to a woman, offering her 300 Pesos and a pack of Winston Lights to convince her to follow me to a back room where she could show me her left tit would be enough to injure my bones one way or another.

I’m SO depressed. What does a guy need to do around here for somebody to give him a KFC Famous Bowl?

Before I go any further, let me just say that last night was probably one of the toughest nights I’ve had sleeping-wise. See, I crashed right after I drove home from a mini date with the girlfriend and an entire work day of trying to take in whatever it was the trainer from my company’s leadership development program was saying while sneaking in work at the same time. Doing that shit really tires the fuck out of you.

So yeah, I crashed around 12mn, woke up around 3am and couldn’t get myself to fall back asleep thanks largely to the mild anti-depressant I use to self-medicate and treat my severe anxiety with. Right around 6am, I thought to myself “Why don’t you quit dicking around, jack off, take a shower and treat yourself to a nice big meal before getting ready for work?”

But, like most of my plans in life, the entire thing fell apart mere minutes after I thought about it. After taking a shower, I sort of fell asleep on the couch, wet towel draped around my waist and all. Not that this is a bad thing since I only had 3 hours of sleep tops anyway. At this point, I was sort of playing with the idea of ditching work for the day and just catch up on sleep. But before I can come up with a decision, my next door neighbors started revving their retarded motorcycles to start their work day.

Why the fuck not right?

Why not have God screw me over on a morning where I am about to go into the deepest sleep I’ve had in a long time like I wasn’t so sleep deprived already so I can force myself to go to work to sit around dejected as fuck inside my cubicle while wondering if I’ll ever get to have sex again without shelling out thousands of pesos for it?

And because of the severe sleep deprivation that’s been bugging me a lot lately, I, and tell me if this is weird, compensated by going overboard with my food, something which totally derailed my diet.

Just to give you an idea:

Breakfast

• Tocino with 3 cups of garlic rice
• Leftover siopao from Kowloon House
• A can of coke

Pre-Lunch Snack

• Twelve pieces of Chocolate Mallows
• Iced tea
• Nescafe Ice

I know, don’t tell me; somebody who’s supposed to be on a diet has no business even going near anything that has chocolate in it, but you don’t understand. Nobody does. The thing with chocolate is that it has this effect on me where it can turn my foul moods around in an instant.

But yeah, I guess chocolate mallows and Nescafe Ice is probably the worst combination I could’ve had now that I’m on a “Bro, if you really want to get some action soon, you best cut back on sweets. Also, you’re going to have to do something about your axillary hair and the dead skin cells on your pits. God, it looks like a bunch of mountaineers roasted a goat and had some sort of bonfire in there” mindset.

Lunch

• Beef Brisket with a cup of rice
• Double Bart Burger from Burger Machine
• A can of coke

This meal is pretty passable for someone who’s on a diet. Although, I know I shouldn’t have thrown the Double Bart Burger in there. Also, I just want to say that the sauce Burger Machine uses for their Bart Burger tastes like ketchup that was filtered through a Bisaya guy’s jockstrap.

Dinner

• 2 KFC Famous bowls
• KFC Hotshots
• A brownie
• A 16 oz. glass of coke

And this is where everything fell apart. I do not remember exactly when I snapped and decided to go crazy with food but I do remember, albeit vaguely, justifying to myself why I needed to order another Famous Bowl and a brownie. I think my reasoning went along the lines of “You totally deserve it bro. After all, you didn’t get enough sleep last night. Besides, the more you eat these fatty food, the better you’re going to sleep tonight. Seriously, you can’t go wrong with this; so do yourself a solid and order another famous bowl and a brownie.”

So yeah, so much for my diet and exercising. I don’t even know why I bother to exercise by playing basketball with my friends from home. Next time, I’ll probably just bring food, sit on the sidelines and yell at everybody to “Get the fuck back down on D” with a mouthful of afritada and rice in my mouth. I’m pretty sure this will work better than the system I currently have anyway.

Off the top of my head, I should go on a diet because I think, somewhere down the cruel road of depression, panic attacks and agoraphobia I took, I developed hypochondria and I am perpetually thinking about how I could just drop dead any second. Another reason, and I think this is the reason most obese 26 year-olds have for even thinking of going on a diet, is that aside from my girlfriend, I feel like no member of the opposite sex ever finds me attractive anymore.

Don’t get me wrong here, I don’t want to lose weight so I could effectively cheat on my girlfriend but rather because I want to be seen by members of the opposite sex with the same amount of lust I feel when I look at women from Fashion TV. Also, it would be great if I could convince my girlfriend to make sweet love to me again. I mean, really, I only have vague, splintery memories of how sex feels like and from what I remember, it is rather pleasant and it’s something I wouldn’t mind having again. Please.

I’ve given this a lot of thought lately and I kinda figured out how I came to be the beach whale that I am. First of all, my family, especially on the father side, have a tendency to either be hypertensive, or really fucking fat. For the benefit of my readers who failed to graduate high school, this is what us learned people call “genetics.”

Second, and most important of all, there’s the fact that I just love to eat. For instance, there are numerous instances where I’d be standing in front of a Sbarro counter, musing on whether or not I should get a large order of stromboli with my thick slice of pizza and full order of ziti. I mean, after all, If I am not able to finish my food in one sitting, I could always have it wrapped and eat it at home. However, what usually happens is that 30 minutes after I engage myself with this contemplation and after a lot of grunting, wiping of sweat and a tears, all that remain are the plates my stromboli, pizza and ziti originally came in and shredded pieces of table napkin (yes, I know, don’t tell me. I know table napkin is not edible, but have you ever heard of that thing called “getting lost in the moment?” Also, what the fuck are you? An NBI agent? Asshole.)

Of course there’s my perennial problem of alcoholism. Because I am ignorant and uncultured, I never drink any other alcoholic drink aside from beer. And really, I fucking love beer; seriously, there were many a time when I had nothing but beer to point to/blame for making out with ugly women, saying inappropriate stuff to women and watching male-male-animal porn clips on my mobile phone while yelling at people and forcing them to listen to me talk about my untarnished record of heterosexuality. In other words, beer always had my back.

But what I found out, and this is probably common knowledge to the rest of you people, but then again you’re not too busy being famous and successful to wikipedia the shit out of such trivial things as beer like I am, that beer packs solid calories.

Actually, calories and a bunch of other crazy stuff that when taken in excess will make you say stuff like “What do you mean I can’t fly using a blanket and a coat hanger? Of course I can! All I have to do is call my good friend Ninoy Aquino and jump off that balcony over there.”

Alternatively, I can just go to the gym and sweat off all the shit I’ve been eating but come on; do you think I can afford gym membership considering I’m paying 30,000 pesos a month for a house that hasn’t even been built yet? Let’s not forget the 100,000+ pesos I owe HSBC too.

So I dunno, at this juncture, dieting is the only logical thing to do for me. The thing is I know shit about dieting but this, my good friends, is where you come in. I’m pretty sure some of you are like health buffs or something, why don’t you do me a solid here and tell me how I can go about this entire dieting thing.

Now, because I am perpetually in a state somnolence, I never thought any of the fact that I was literally falling asleep behind the wheel of my car on my way home from work last night. I mean seriously, this shit happens to me almost everyday. It was only after all the dizziness and blurred vision manifested that my panic level went up a notch.

After a long crawl through Commonwealth avenue, I came to the realization that I have lost most of the critical faculties that allow me to drive and think straight. For some strange reason, however, I could hear voices in my head saying shit like “If you land this plane, we will trade fuel for hostages“ ala Gary Oldman in Airforce one. (Also, I’d like it to go on record that Harrison Ford who co-starred with Gary Oldman in Airforce one is a sexy son of a bitch whose balls I wouldn’t mind touching my lips. I’d also like it to go on record that this comes from a man that has an untarnished record of heterosexuality. Except for a couple of times I “experimented” out of curiosity during that phase in my life when I didn’t believe that “S’ing” another man’s “D” makes one gay. It does. At least I know now.)

Anyway, in what could possibly be the best decision I have made under duress, I made a U-turn to a nearby hospital where I, before reaching the emergency room, vomited a mixture of what I thought to be saliva, sotanghon and rice in the hospital parking lot.
I reached the emergency room where a portly male nurse asked me what was wrong with me and after telling him my symptoms, he asked me if I had a history of hypertension.

I didn’t know.

I mean, I suspect that I am hypertensive but never really went to see a doctor about it. I mean come on, if I do, he’s just going to say “Well fat chops, why don’t you consider cardiovascular workout in a gym or something? And I’m surprised that you’re surprised that you’re hypertensive considering you eat meals that could feed a small African village, drink around 100 bottles of Red Horse a month and smoke 2 packs of cigarettes a day. For Christ’s sake Mikey, you have to be more responsible with your health! You’re already 26 years-old! You are a man! A man with a bird the size of a baby’s!”

So I said I don’t know. He shook his head as if saying “I know you’re hypertensive just by looking at you” and took my blood pressure. The result? 160 over fucking 100.

Because I took pre-med for college, I know enough to know that blood pressure like that is critically high. And because it’s critically high, I expected to get treatment ASAP.

This did not happen.

Apparently, in hospitals people who complain about hypertension take a backseat to people who get shot in the throat by their drunk neighbors.

Anyway, after 2 hours of watching people get treated for gunshot wounds, stab wounds and a bunch of other freak accidents that range from some girl falling from a double-deck bed, busting her head open to a guy who somehow managed to impale his arm with a lead pipe, somebody finally gave me a drug that lowered my blood pressure to normal. I was then sent home with reminders to exercise more and eat right.

Eh?

Between drinking inordinately, eating twice my body weight in food and just suffering a minor stroke once in a while as a consequence, I think that’s leagues better than not having alcohol and eating salad for the rest of my life. Mmmhmm.

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.

So they finished their business in front of the counter, I paid for my food and casually headed towards the store’s glass doors to exit. In front of me was the father beach whale and the father beach whale’s who were heading towards the door as well.

The son beach whale exited the glass door without incident, the father beach whale, and this is where it gets ugly, barely cleared the door way and abruptly stopped as soon as he stepped outside to light a cigarette. Unbeknownst to him, he blocked the entire fucking door way with his fat and caused me to trip over his ginormous cankles and spill my iced coffee all over the place and not to mention my shirt.

Instead of me being the one up father beach whale’s face, he slowly (and I mean slowly. I mean come on, he’s like really fucking fat) turned around and snapped “Putang ina naman. You should really look where you’re going!” This caught me off guard so much that I found myself saying “I’m sorry” in a really small, scared to shit voice. As if that wasn’t enough, Father Beach Whale snapped “It’s all your fault! Watch where you’re going next time!” As I walked away in utter shame and disgust at myself.

That just wasn’t right. If I could like hop in a delorean and travel back to yesterday, I wouldn’t have been so polite because really, it wasn’t my fucking fault. Not only is it Father beach whale’s fault, he’s also like really fucking fat.

Instead of saying I’m sorry, I probably would’ve said “I’m really sorry you decided to stop and park your fat ass right under the door way causing me to trip over your tree-trunk leg. I’m sorry about you being fat, having an eroded sense of self-respect and clinical insecurity, things which undermined the fact that I was right. And to show you how sincere I am with my apology, would you like to take a bite of my arm? I know you’d like that because you’re like super fucking fat and all. Maybe, I’ll go back inside to spread mustard and ketchup all over my arm so you could have a grand time EATING IT.”

So yeah, fucking beach whale. Fucking Beach whale and his beach whale son. Fucking Beach whale, his son and the stupid Tamaraw FX they rode on in. FUCK.

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

Mikey + Cheap Food + Cheap Booze = Bad motherfucking idea.

We all know how much I love eating and drinking but the eating and drinking I did in Bohol went a little overboard. I’m talking about huge main courses, dozens of alcoholic drinks AND packs and packs of cigarettes all day, everyday.

Caucasian Families are like weird.

Since the girlfriend and I were probably the only Filipino tourists in Bohol during our stay, I had a field day making fun of and stereotyping the non-Filipino tourists with us in Bohol.

From what I observed, the typical caucasian family consists of:

• A Father. Who’s arrogant, wears a gold watch, barks orders at his wife and kids from a beach chair and sunbathes to a point where his skin turns disturbingly red.
• A mother. Who usually have sagging breasts and a perfect golden tan. I swear to fucking God, caucasian women have abnormally perfect tans that it took a great deal of restraint on my part not to walk up to them, rub their skin with my fingers to see if their tans were real and asking them “Were you involved in some sort of freak nuclear accident?”
• Daughters who are in their late teens to their early twenties. Of course, these girls look like absolute sex kitten, looked like they have boyfriends who look like 50 Cent and of course, like their parents, they speak in a retarded non-English language.

Bohol is a beautiful, peaceful place.

I just want to say that I completely fell in love with the beach’s natural, non-commercialized beauty. (That has got to be the gayest thing I have ever written -Ed)

I mean as opposed to Boracay where all you see on the beach are tattooed, gym-going douchebags fucking their slutbag girlfriends while drinking cans of low-calorie beer.

That’s all I have for now. Pictures from my trip can be found here.

And because I feel like all the binge eating and drinking has taken a serious toll on my health, I am seriously contemplating whether or not I should start going to the gym seriously.

This contemplation is compounded further by the fact that I want to enroll myself to a gym for the wrong reason: the awesometastic gym bag they are giving away.

I mean, I’ve gone to the gym last year sporadically and for years, I’ve resisted working out seriously for no reason at all other than monetary. The membership in the gym I’m looking at costs somewhere around 2,300 pesos a month which is like 28,000 pesos a year. If we factor in my laziness to that number, we’re looking at 28,000 pesos a visit because if I know myself well enough, I’m going to end up paying the annual gym membership and working out only once or twice in the span of one year.

But like most of the unnecessary purchases I’ve made over the years, cost takes a back seat to the cool factor the purchase is going to add to my everyday conversations.

Conversation 1:

Girl: “Do you go to the gym?”
Old response: “[Manic laughter], wait you’re not serious are you?”
New response: “Why yes.”

Conversation 2:

Girl: “So where do you work out?”
Old response: “What did I do to you? And why are you intentionally destroying my self esteem?”
New Response: “Why, in Fitness First of course.”

Conversation 3:

Girl: “So, do you work out often?”
Old response: “[Crying] here take my wallet. In fact, take everything! [runs away]”
New response: “Once or twice. A year.”

And the free awesometastic bag? Let’s just put it this way: I feel like a homeless person everytime I try to go to the gym with the leather convention kit bag I carry around; the one that has Philippine Heart Association printed in big bold letters on the side. The look of condescension people with stylishly hip gym bags give me everytime I bring out my gym gear and the recycled bottles of C2 I fill with water from the aforementioned bag are so intense, I could almost reach out  and touch it with my hand.

As a man used to receiving pity looks, from women no less, trust me when I say that there is no better woman repellant in the gym than a totally uncool gym bag. The girl on the treadmill is all smiles until I dump all my gym gear on the floor from my seven year old, leather, makeshift gym bag. (But then again, the look of disgust on her face may not be because of my gym bag but rather because of the fact that I have my lips pursed and my arms out as if holding an invisible body and humping it as fast as physically possible. Whurrever.)

Anyway, who the fuck cares about women who go to the gym anyway? The fact that she goes to the gym just means she’s a harpy and a whore! My Ex-girlfriend went to the gym and she cheated on me a lot! Not that it matters because I don’t talk to girls anyway. Unless you count sending messages to random girls in MySpace. I should probably stop writing now.