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.

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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

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Gym, gym bag, leather gym bag!

Because my family is made up of degenerate drunks and gluttons, my weight has blown up to, unprecedentedly, somewhere around the neighborhood of 205 pounds over the Holidays.

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.

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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.

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Taste Asia: A story of inebriation and lust

Last Tuesday, I invited myself to the Blogger Food Fest held at the SM Mall of Asia where I hobnobbed with other Internet celebrities and blogosphere elites. This particular event was bittersweet for me as it made me realize that I won’t be dropping the “Rising” in my “Rising Internet Star” title anytime soon. I mean, when I arrived at the venue with my entourage(read: TJ and Riz), I was stopped by the people at the registration table and told me that I wasn’t on the list and hence, can’t be allowed to go in.

Strangely enough, not everyone at the event knew me. (I think primarily because I am only well-known in my circle. You know, the circle who appreciates people like me who can’t write anything that doesn’t directly or indirectly refer to their genitalia, getting drunk, arson or racism). So yeah, instead of shaking hands and getting praised, I spent a good amount of time waiting in front of the reception table, sweating the fuck all over the place with a miserable excuse for an erection.(You know, because I can smell food from where I stood. And food turns me on.), waiting for a ticket in.

Luckily, I saw Rico and Sasha before I passed out of sheer hunger and they managed to get me and my ‘entourage’ in. First thing I grabbed my attention when I walked in the venue was that beer was free-flowing and I knew that I had to take advantage of that.

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