How about such a shitty week where grand money-making schemes permeate every minute of your consciousness because you know, that come month end, the credit card companies are going to lay down the hurt on you and the only way you’re going to get out of it is by either becoming a full-time criminal, taking up a new identity somewhere in the Ilocos region working as a dynamite fisherman or fake your own death altogether?

Well, ladies and gentlemen, that was the sort of week I had last week. So, naturally, I did what I know best to alleviate the sheer frustration I felt and that is to drink my self fuck silly.

On Sunday, I called my friend Jay who I knew was going to be drinking with my other friend Marco and his wife. Sure enough, the three of them were at Jay’s house popping bottles of Red Horse I joined them for a few bottles and after getting a good buzz going, I invited them out to a nearby local grill for a change of ambiance.

This was when things started to head down the pits.

I should’ve expecte this. I mean you put three of the toughest drinkers this side of Fairview in a grill that had a promo that entitles you three 500ml bottles of Red Horse* for a hundred bucks. We were the only patrons in the grill so we controlled what sort of music the joint played (I brought my iPod). We knew the grill manager and we were getting free alcohol left and right. Everyone of us were having problems that range from babies to girlfriends. Seriously, I can not think of a more perfect recipe for a clusterfuck of disasters.

(*Second time I mentioned Red Horse in this post. Seriously, if any of you Red Horse people are reading this, I am quite disappointed at the fact that I don’t have an endorsement deal with you guys yet. Think about it: Internet Celebrity + Red Horse = Huge Success. Just think about it.)

What ensued were hours of good old-fashioned power drinking. Three dudes, two of whom suffer from mild alcoholism and substance dependence, swinging glasses and glasses of beer down like how real men should do it–really fat, angry men who are mad at mothers-in-law, the price of diapers, harpy women and no-good politicians (well not really politicians. I just threw it in there because I realized the things we’re mad about aren’t really socially significant)

I don’t know if it’s because I didn’t eat a proper dinner but I got shit-faced quick and I mean quick. I practically had the alcohol tolerance of an infant and was belting out Aerosmith on the Videoke machine at the latter part of the night. As what’s expected of a champion alcoholic like myself, I lost track of time. When I saw that it was almost midnight, I said goodbye to everyone, left money on the table which I thought, at that time, covered what I consumed (I realized the next morning that 1,700 bucks wasn’t nearly “fair” considering all I had was 7 bottles of Red Horse. So Jay and Marco, if you’re reading this, you fucking owe me), got in my car and started driving home.

I was practically running on empty though, so I hit the nearest gas station to fill my car up. I also badly needed to take a leak at that point so I stepped out of my car and headed towards the rest rooms. Because my brain was half-filled with beer and some weird, inexplicable sense of immortality and vigor, I switched from walking to the rest room to running to the rest room.

Bad fucking idea.

If you’ve been to any gasoline station in Metro Manila, you’d know that the ceramic tiles leading to them are usually covered in a messy soup made up of bus conductor piss, mud, semen (maybe, I dunno), and gasoline.

The last thing I saw as I rounded a corner before I lost my balance was my right leg shooting up. This was followed by my lower back and my other leg hitting the floor covered with the aforementioned putrid water with a loud thump.

It took me a couple of seconds to realize what had happened. I wanted to laugh but the pain in my lower back made me want to cry at the same time. It was a fucking weird feeling. Several other customers went by pretending not to notice me and trying hard not to laugh. They were followed by two forecourt attendants who were yelling at each other in bisaya while trying to help me out. I’m not sure what they were saying but if I were to hazard a guess, they were probably saying something to the effect of “It’s either he’s too fat or too drunk to walk padi! Well he does look like a rich kid so let’s help him up! He might give us coins! Also, kinantot ko asawa mo kagabi padi!”

As I lay there soaked in urine, gasoline, water and what not I had a flashback of my High School graduation day: I graduated with one of the highest honors in my district and now, eleven years later, I am rolling around in sewage being helped up by two bisaya gasoline boys.

The lesson here: Sometimes, you are not introduced to the concept of humility until you are piss drunk, your shorts soaked in urine and gasoline and until you need help from two fucking minimum wagers to get back up on your feet on a Sunday night.

Story time: When I was a boy of around thirteen, back when I was a high school sophomore, my class was supposed to do a dance number for the school’s annual foundation day. For the show, we were all supposed to dress up as vampires and do a dance number loosely based on The Backstreet Boys’ Everybody. (The Backstreet boys were pretty big when I was in High School and all the cool cats listened to their songs and shit so please don’t judge me.)

(Additional parenthesesed note: Mike Villar has the distinction of putting up the first Filipino Backstreet Boys fan site back in 1995. Again, do not judge me.)

So every afternoon after school, me and my group mates convened in our group leader’s house near school to rehearse. But, being a total pussy and slightly effeminate, I avoided watching the recorded video like I avoided sending Facebook messages to women I know–or barely know to solicit sex. (wait)

A week before the actual presentation though, I realized that I had to buck up, cast my fears aside and watch the video with the group. So, I acted like a total bad ass and decided to watch the entire video–bad idea; I haven’t had a peaceful night’s sleep ever since. That final scene with the driver’s face decomposing fucked me up really good.

This, my friends, explains my aversion to Halloween. However, even though I do not enjoy Halloween per se. I do enjoy observing people who participate in (non-scary) costume parties.

For instance, I particularly enjoy watching women who dress up like degenerate sluts on Halloween. I mean, when I was younger, the girls in Halloween parties I attended kept it really simple with costumes like angels, devils, witches, Pilita Corrales, etc. Nowadays though, it seems as if society has this predilection for dressing up women with the skankiest garb for Halloween. For instance: I was in Serendra with the girlfriend and I swear to God, if I could get a blowjob for every woman I saw with a costume that conveniently draws the attention of every men within a 10-yard radius towards the wearer’s boobular region, my bird would probably be badly chafed if it hasn’t already fallen off by now.

This blows me out of the fucking water. Think about it, Halloween is actually the last you’ll probably ever see women clothed so skankily. I mean every guy out there probably loves summer because you see women doing away with jackets and sweats from the cold, rainy season and instead going with shorts, mini skirts and tank tops. All summer long we men enjoy ogling at your magnificent bodies* (boobs) burning everything into memory for furious fap sessions because we all know that once rainy season hits, we shall again be deprived of these gorgeous view.

*Except fat chicks. Absolutely no fat chicks please.

So yeah, for me, Halloween is the last hurrah as far as ogling and generally being a pervert would go. I know that a couple of weeks later, all you girls are going to be wrapped up again in sweaters and jackets. So thank you. Thanks to all the women who wore skimpy Halloween costumes especially those who made sure that you showed off more skin than necessary. It’s going to be tough, but I am optimistic that all the fap-worthy images of you I burned into my head will get me through the drought that is the Christmas season.

Okay, so my mom and I had this conversation earlier:

Mom: “So [insert neighbor's name here] is giving away one of their dog’s puppies and Ryan’s pestering me to take it.”

Me: “I don’t see a problem with it. I mean, Ryan and I like puppies; when that puppy turns into a dog in a couple of months, we’d all be thinking in retrospect that, perhaps, we might as well have gotten an old carpet and a jar of fleas because that’s what the dog’s going to be like at that time.”

Mom: “I know, but it’s really nice…”

Me: “What breed is it?”

Mom: “A Rottweiser…”

Me: “A what now?”

Mom: “A Rott-something! It’s black and it has huge paws…”

Me: “A Rottweiler you mean?”

Mom: “Yes!”

Me: “Oh you got to be fucking kidding me!”

This is going to be nothing but trouble. Don’t get me wrong here–I like dogs as much as the next dog-walking faggot you see in Eastwood or whatever but a fucking Rottweiler? A dog that is at least four times stronger than I am and, at will, can bite my face off? I don’t think so buddy boy.

You’re probably thinking: “This Mike Villar character is scared of big dogs, what a pussy!” and you probably wouldn’t be wrong in thinking it. I hate big dogs. Yes. I openly admit that I am in fact scared of any animal that weighs at least half as much as I do, a territorial carnivore and has a set of teeth designed by God to shear the flesh off of anything that looks/smells like food. But while we’re in the whole admission/confession thing, I have another confession to make: I totally boned your mom last night; it was rough and I didn’t wear a condom. Also your dad cried while he watched so I performed fellatio on him just to shut him u–no, wait!

Seriously, the reason why my mom and brother wants to have such a terrifying creature as a pet is beyond me. I mean my mom probably wants to have a pet that would do a yeoman’s job at protecting the house from would-be thieves and entertaining guests but a owning a big dog is sort of like owning a gun; you take care of it, you walk with it and clean it every day then on one of those crazy New Year’s eve parties where you get totally drunk and crazy at home, you get into a really nasty accident with it and you’re left with your face screwed up beyond recognition.

Besides, as far as house guests would go, who the hell finds big dogs “entertaining” anyway? I mean little yorkshire terriers named Fifi, sure; but gigantic face-eating dogs named Fletcher The Destroyer of Worlds and Eater of Faces? Not so much.

I do, however, recognize that my fear of huge dogs probably stems from my childhood. When I was a kid of around nine or ten, all of my friends around the neighborhood had huge, scary dogs. One moment I was playing a terrible Street Fighter 2 port for the Nintendo Family Computer at a friend’s house and the next, I was sitting up straight paralyzed with fear as I stare down a German Shepherd with its testicles dangling; the dog licking and sniffing the shit out of me; praying that should it choose to take a bite off of my face, it should go for the left side of my face because the right side is sort of like my “good side” and it looked good on pictures.

(By the way, German Shepherds have the cleanest looking balls as far as dogs would go. Check them out the next time you come across a Shep.)

Anyway, since my mom and my brother are pretty much decided on owning a Rottweiler, I will now start taking a shitload of pictures of my face because I give my face two months before it’s pawed off by the beast my family decided to keep as a pet.

I mean think about it, by the time the Holiday festivities start, this puppy would probably have turned into a 200lb monster that will not take kindly to an overweight guy lumbering around the house eating Koko Krunch in the middle of the night and generally being either extremely hungover or piss drunk.

Pray for me guys. Thanks.

I guess this is what you get for frequenting a barbershop that offers 70-peso haircuts. I don’t really care much about it though. I mean, besides the fact that my hairline’s receding anyway and the fact that the fucking fabric monstrosity that is my hair grows an astounding 2-inches per minute, I never wanted to be that guy who spends more than 100 pesos for a haircut and wears nauseating amounts of product to set his hair.

(If you fit any of the criteria I’ve highlighted above, then I’m sorry. I don’t think we can continue to be friends. Also, if you have man bangs or highlights and you consider yourself to be straight, I strongly feel that someone should take you into an empty warehouse and beat you within an inch of your life with a sock filled with a bar of soap and metal washers. After which, a pack of rabid, angry dogs should be let loose upon you and take turns urinating in your hair only to be called off only after you realize how retarded you look with your man bangs and highlights.)

I’m a little frustrated though. I mean, I’ve sported a generic-looking cropped haircut since way back in high school and I don’t see how hard it is for any barber to get it right.

There was actually a time when getting my haircuts were less complicated than this. When I was younger, I had one of my mom’s friend come over to the house to give me haircuts every time I feel like I need one. Unfortunately, she, “stopped being friends” with my mom. I’m not sure exactly how this happened but it might be because I kept biting my lip while she cuts my hair and kept on saying things in a deep sensual voice like “Tite Josie, do you touch Tito Romy’s hair like that too? Just asking. Your touch seems like something any man would enjoy” and “Your hands smell divine, if it’s not asking too much, I was wondering if I can smell other parts of your body too. Ideally somewhere around your inner thigh”

God, I miss Tita Josie. More importantly, I miss having an even haircut.

(*lie. I get around 4,000 page views a day–56% of which originate from the United States and 12%, interestingly enough, comes from the Middle East. Also, traffic spikes on my blog determine whether I’d be happy and functional throughout the day or end up skipping work, staying at home to play with this thing between my legs that looks like a cock, only smaller. Usually while watching new videos at iyottube.com)

I do have Web Analytics tags set up on my blog and, about a week ago, I noticed that I have a handful of visitors jumping in from The Philippine Blog Awards site. I noticed that someone* has nominated me for The Blogger’s Choice Award.

(*me)

The Philippine Web Awards isn’t exactly new to me. In fact, if you click this link, you’d know that April Last year, The Man Blog, a site I am co-founder of was a finalist for The Best Entertainment blog. In the end, we lost to a stupid blogger who writes about Pinoy Big Brother, something that resulted in me walking out of the RCBC amphitheater, the picture below being taken, and my place as the sorest loser this side of Asia being cemented in the annals of history after the aforementioned picture was used as the header for the Philippine Blog Awards website:

After the fact that I was, again, nominated in a category brimming with nominees I could so easily lose to*, my initial reaction was something to the effect of “Fuck all of you, my blog is the shiz! Who cares about your stupid award? Suck my balls! What’s the number to Yellowcab’s delivery service? I’m fucking starving here.”

(*not really. I mean ·´`·.¸.» j u l i a ·´`·.¸.» Seriously? Come on. Am I missing something here?)

Days passed and I forgot about the entire thing until I noticed more traffic coming in from the Philippine Blog Awards site–again because I was nominated for the “Blogger’s Choice Award”, at this point, I thought to myself “Shit! I have to win this award. I’ve never really won anything after I won the spelling bee back in grade school. The award sounds like something they’d serve over at Shakey’s so that’s cool. Besides, there might be a prize associated with it. I’m hoping it’s bag of anti-depressants because I’m going crazy here and I need to get high off of something and I can’t afford to see my shrink and ask her to write me xanax scripts.”

Then, I realized that, maybe besides a shiny trophy, winners get nothing. It’s not like I’m not used to getting nothing though. In fact, in last year’s TMB Christmas party, my friend Fritz gave everyone really cool gifts–somebody got an Axe, somebody got a vice grip; while I, got a huge box of nothing.

So I said, Fuck it; I would make no conscious effort to win this award because again, there is no prize involved. If winning this award means winning at least 500 pesos or Ever Bilena gift certificates, I’d be going door to door right now, prepared to offer you the best hand job you’ll ever get in your life in exchange for a vote and a link from your blog. I know, don’t tell me. It sucks for you that’s not the case here.

I did do a perfunctory review of some of the blogs I am up against which wasn’t such a good idea because now, I strongly feel that literacy, the Internet and blog-writing privileges should be limited to a small percentage of the population.

For instance, I read this post from a fellow nominee– a blog called Basta igat, sikat!:

I think I need psychotherapy or rehabilitation. Ha ha! But wait, let me try to justify things first. I have won 2 very exclusive pairs of Havaianas for the past 2 years. You see, every summer, Havaianas Philippines holds a contest. In 2007, I was one of the 50 winners and received the exclusive Take Us To The Nearest Beach pair. Then again, this year I was among the lucky 70 people to receive the limited edition Flipping for the Beach pair. These are among the highlights of my so-called Havaianas addiction.

Good God. Who the fuck reads this shit? Seriously people, at what point in your lives are you that you get entertainment in someone writing about Flip Flops, a footwear fetish or whatever? Am I missing something here? Please tell me.

I know you guys are probably tired about me talking about how depressed I am or how I masturbate as I cry while I watch a 240×300 porn video window on my laptop, but flip flops? God bless you all.

Anyway, if anything good came out of this little nomination it has to be the fact that a lot of people still appreciate my writing and blogging as an art in general.

There’s a shitload of you who actually voted for me. I mean besides my friends whom I know are just setting me up so that they could watch me crash and burn but man, I am genuinely touched by the number of votes I’ve gotten so far. Let’s not forget that this is after I did some terrible things to some of these people:

Lauren’s Vote For Mike Villar

Pau’s Vote For Mikey

Baddie’s I Believe In Mike Villar

Fritz’s My Vote Goes To Mike Villar

Euri’s Philippine Web Awards 2008

Helga Votes for Mike

Jepoy Votes for Mike

Madz for Mikey!

Liz’s vote

Ozy’s Why Mike Should Win

Marcus declares that he votes for Mike “Fucking” Villar

Noelle wants Mike to be a REAL Internet Star and get rid of “Rising”

Juice’s vote goes to Mr. Villar!

Steel thinks that Mikey is Badassery Personified

Ade’s Vote For Mike Villar!

Arc votes for Mike Villar!

Jayvee Sacramento votes for Mike

Nightdreamer votes for Mike Villar

Vote Wisely, Vote Mikey by Penny

Michelle votes for Mike Villar

My Vote goes to Mike Villar by Joel Ramos

Marco dela Torre votes for Mike Villar

A vote by notanotherblog

A vote by recordialfizz

A vote by larry

Mike Villar for President by Anne

Because Villar gets my vote by Joiz

Things I like about Mikevillar.com by CM

A vote from Azrael

From Witz

From Kang

Wow. I seriously don’t know what to say. But let me leave you with something profound: I may not be rich. But if you look at the friends you have as money, then I am the richest man in the planet. And I shall buy a red couch, those fishbowl thingers they fill up with iced tea over at Jack’s loft and maybe an HD TV and a Dakota Fanning poster. And I will pay with friend dollars.

Thank you.

What I don’t tell you enough is that I am a pretty successful mid-level executive for an US-based Internet 500 top retailer. Here’s the short version of how that happened: Because of my charm, my ambition and my intelligence, I was able to rise above considerable poverty to attend a private grade school school where I got the distinction of getting the highest National Elementary Aptitude Test score in my district.

After high school, because of my shrewd, devious influence, I was able to get into the medical program of one of the better medical universities in the country where, after two years, because of the unhealthy obsession I had for video games, I dropped out and easily got a Marketing degree from a not-so-prestigious business school.

Finally, because of sheer luck, a kind job market and alcohol-induced casual calmness which employers mistook for confidence I was able to land key positions and jobs that got me where I am today.

In the jobs I had, I learned a great deal about Customer Relations Management, Account Management, Internet Advertising and Internet Marketing. So yeah, I guess what I’m saying is that I’m pretty competent at what I do but, I am, in no means, a guru. I mean, if I were to summarize my entire academic and professional life with just several words, the words I’d use would probably be “Winging”, “bluffing” and “bullshit” also “not”, “having”, “consensual” and “sex”

So, you could only imagine my surprise when I was given a speaking gig over at the 2008 Search Engine Marketing Conference. I cannot stress enough the monumental lapse in judgment the person who decided to include me in the list of the “brightest stars of the local marketing scene” they have as speakers. I actually imagine the planning meeting the organizers of this event had to have gone something like this:

Organizer 1: “So I managed to get a senior management guy from Yahoo! Southeast Asia to present for us. How about you guys?

Organizer 2: “Well, I got a prominent managing director from a Thailand-based Interactive marketing firm to confirm. Anyone else?”

Organizer 3: “Well I managed to get this local internet celebrity who does marketing work for a US-based internet retailer. I heard he does nothing at work but make personal phone calls and running a small sports betting operation from his cubicle. But he’s REALLY funny and people get a kick out of seeing him fail so I think it’s a good idea.”

Organizer 1: “I like it! You know what else we can do? Maybe we can put him on a panel with SEO experts so people could be entertained watching him make a complete tool out of himself!”

[Organizer 1 and Organizer 2 exchange high fives]

Organizer 3: “So are we done here? You guys want to snort some lines and get fucked up somewhere?”

Organizer 1 and 2: “k!”

Fast forward to Tuesday, with my armpits assured of dryness thanks to the sheets of newspaper I crammed in them and with 2 tablets of xanax in one hand and my crotch in the other, I went up to the podium confident that my talk would go hitch-free. After all, I’ve talked about my topic dozens of times before.

My talk was pretty uneventful a couple of slides into it, I started off with one of my killer jokes I’m notorioulsy known for and several more jokes later, I was literally bringing the house down. Everything was going fine until somewhere in my tenth slide when I realized that the images in my presentation were NOT displaying. AT ALL.

Now, I have a dilemma in my hands. I was talking about CPM and creating the perfect banner ad and people, naturally, were expecting to see examples.

I was in full panic mode at that point. I saw two possible routes I could take at that point: one, I could start apologizing profusely and maybe promise all the people in the room a 500 peso refund off the 9,500 pesos they paid for admission or two, I could pull off a Michael Jordan Flu game push through with my presentation and drop 38 points on the audience’s collective asses. I took the second route.

So, I digged through my arsenal of sure-fire jokes and charmed my way through the entire thing–something which apparently worked really well.

So yeah, to all of you who attended SEMCON 2008 and had the misfortune of witnessing my talk, I apologize profusely to you. In my defense, it wasn’t entirely my fault. It was Microsoft Powerpoint’s fault that it couldn’t render something I made out of Apple iWork’s Keynote application properly. Also, partly, it was NingNing, our maid’s fault because she couldn’t follow simple instructions. (The night before my talk, a couple of friends invited me for a few drinks and I asked NingNing to embed the images I am going to use on my presentation on keynote. I told her explicitly to use the Insert > Images > From file menu but I guess she thinks she knows better and drag and dropped the things into the slides. I guess we all know why she’s a fucking maid and why I’m a Senior Marketing Manager. Fucking idiot I swear.)

Anyway, I leave you all with a video of the epic failure that was my SEMCON 2008 talk:

SEMCON 2008 Excerpt - Beyond CPM from Mike Villar on Vimeo.

I seriously feel like I’d be more “in my element” in a Mexican jail cell than in clubs, because at least I watch those prison documentaries they run on National Geographic, I find Mexican men attractive and experimented with anal sex at one point in my life.

I’m not exactly as adept in dealing with people who wear their collars up, use too much hair product and have dragons printed all over their pants who dance with attractive women while nursing cocktails

God, I hate clubs. And the fort.

Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not claiming to be the “It guy” of Quezon city and its non-bars or whatever. It’s not like I hung out with Kuya Germs and banged starlets  left and right after hours of clubbing and doing drugs but I feel perfectly comfortable in QC bars. I could buy a couple of Red Horses from the Sari-sari store across our house and then go out and to one of the hole in the wall bars within ten kilometers of our village. Or, I could even drink alone in the porch, send SMS’s to my drinking buddies and, within minutes, have multiple options in terms of where to go via friends who are already out drinking.

(Also, Kuya Germs? What the fuck? I probably thought of him because he seemed like a guy who’s into the same shit I’m into–like luxury, drinking, drugs, and women. Well not really, come to think of it)

Anyway, if there’s one thing I came to realize that night, it has to be the fact that I will never, EVER, have the chance to have sex with women who frequent clubs like the one we went to.

The women are incredibly HOT, I’ll give them that. The thing is, I’m never gonna have none of them. The only circumstances I could ever see myself having sex with any of them under involve a couple of tablets of Ativan, Ajinomoto, lots of alcohol, a black garbage bag and a dull knife. Otherwise, it’s just not possible.

The reason being is because, if you know me well enough, I am:

• Considerably witty
• relatively famous on the Internet
• moderately successful

However, I am also:

• An emotional wreck
• really fat
• unathletic
• ugly

In clubs like these, there is nothing that can compensate for physical deficiencies–no wittiness, no mention of anything intelligent. None. If I did try to talk to those women, it would probably go like this:

Me: “What do I do? Let’s see. Well I make retail websites perform better using avant garde internet marketing techniques. My hobbies are improving myself, waiting for women to finish shopping and saying sorry a lot.”

Girl: [Not paying attention, checking out a douchbag with the topmost 3 buttons of his shirt unbuttoned behind me] “Um, sorry I wasn’t really paying attention. How many pounds can you bench press again?”

Me: “What I’m saying is that I beat Jesus in a game of Trivia Pursuit back in 1988 and guess what? Whenever a girl sucks my dick, Angels magically deposit 70,000 pesos to her bank account”

Girl: [On the phone] “Oh my God! you won’t believe who I saw! Sam fucking Milby! I know right! Anyway, I’ll tell you more later!” [Turning back to me] “How many pounds again?”

So yes, until girls like these become more desperate, I shall only be establishing sexual relationships with them during one of my five daily masturbation sessions. Whatever.

See, my company is sending me over to attend The Affiliate Summit in New York  and, for some reason, I’m certain that I will die a fiery, horrible death during the flight.

Now, this fear might have something to do with my anxiety and panic disorder but I’m also willing to bet that this is what happens when you’ve let yourself go as much as I did and list your favorite past time as chowing down around twenty hot dogs and chasing them down with a liter of Gran Matador with your drunk friends every other night.

But, if there’s any good that came out of my recent session with my psychiatrist is that I have fresh prescriptions for a potent benzodiazepine which means that I will be heavily drugged up during my flight. However, based on the trend my life has taken these past few years and because of a tiff I’ve had with God after a bet we made over a Jai Alai game five years ago, I’m pretty sure he’s just setting me up and loading me with success now so that, in the future, he could watch me come crashing down hard kicking, screaming and cursing along the way.

In fact, the motivation I’ve had lately (which came out of nowhere if I may add) to live healthily (For those of you who just tuned in, I’ve been on a consistent diet and going to the gym lately) the last couple of months feels so highly suspect that I wouldn’t be surprised if my doctor tells me “Wow you lost 40 lbs since you last weighed in and it looks like you’re in the best physical shape. It also looks like you’re free of the chronic panic and anxiety disorders you’ve been previously diagnosed with. But wait, it looks like you’ve been infected with a rare tropical virus that will kill you within two weeks. No, there is no cure. And yes, you should probably drop by the price club on your way home and get a hold of a case of Emperador because, buddy, you have a lot of catching to do. Please stop crying.”

Again, since God is a sadistic voyeur who gets off watching me fail, I could imagine a similar scenario happening on my flight: Like six hours into it while the plane is over the Pacific ocean or something, volcanic dust from God knows where will clog up one of the engines and cause the plane to violently shake and eventually be sent into an abrupt, steep descent. Passengers flip the fuck out and panic–some even begin saying their prayers and this one guy even makes out with this hot girl beside him because, I don’t know, I guess he’s a perv and I guess making out (and masturbating) are the final things he wanted to do before he leaves this world. I wake up, say “Oh come on!” and cram like ten of my pills into my mouth and swallow them because I’m a douche and I’d rather die by my own hand. Then, all of a sudden, the plane levels and starts to climb; the Captain comes out of the cockpit and announces that we’ll make it and everything’s going to be fine. Everyone cheers, hugs and exchange highfives!

I, on the other hand, am doubled up on the floor with a tummy full of antidepressants and benzodiazepines, my mouth frothing and nobody on board is a doctor or shit. I die OD’ing on my pills because I’m a douchebag and because God doesn’t really like me.

Now I’m all worried that if I indeed die within the next couple of months, the only record I have of my life besides the mildewed photo album of my childhood my mom keeps, is this blog–Pages upon pages of chronicled failure replete with ineffective penis, racist and feces jokes which I tried to pass off as humor.

So do me a favor will you? Please make sure that I enjoy considerable posthumous fame. Turn this blog into a coffee table book your grandmother and her cohorts will enjoy while they rot and await the cold embrace of death. I just want to make sure that other people besides myself and the Bisaya Sampaguita Vendor I pay to read my blog entries to me while I sit in the backseat of my car masturbating will recognize my comic erudition.

Thank you.

Mike “Fucking” Villar
March 4, 1982 - September ?, 2008

The usual place I do all of these is a Caltex Star Mart on C5 (Yes; if you really want to catch me, I mean to collect on my debts to you or what not, I’m the grumpy guy who usually grabs a C2 Green and pesters the attendant to put “more motherfucking mustard” on my German frank around 11am everyday) And, almost every day, I usually see a girl on one of the little coffee tables they have on the store with her laptop in front of her sipping a small cup of latte.

If I were to wager a guess, I’d say she’s around 24 years old. She’s around 5′3″ tall, always wears those corporate-y black stretchy pants; she sort of looks like that whore bitch girlfriend character from Cloverfield only a little more chubby.

Upon seeing her the first time a couple of weeks ago, I immediately found her attractive–but not attractive enough to be my type. If you’ve been reading this blog long enough, you’d know that I’m not into strong-featured, model-looking, corporate-type white girls. I’m more into wash and wear, mocha-colored chicks like this one.

Besides, who the hell spends her mornings in gasoline station convenience stores to “be seen” with her Macbook pro and her cheap latte? eww.

However, when you see the same, moderately attractive girl almost every day on your way to work, you develop this familiarness and come to expect some sort of corteous amity with her.

So, a week ago, after almost a week and a half of regularly seeing this girl on my way to work, I decided to try and give her a smile and a nod in greeting. I mean, afterall, we’ve been exchanging quick, awkward eye contact for quite a while now so I thought smiling and nodding would be the next logical step. Again, just so we are clear here (and by ‘we’ I actually mean ‘my girlfriend and I’), although I find this girl attractive and would definitely give her some wild penis love action (She’s female. She’s alive–the only criteria I have in terms of choosing my sexual partners) under different circumstances, I would never come up to her to flirt or anything. She is just not my type and by smiling and nodding, I was just trying to be friendly.

So went ahead and gave her my best “I’m not a sexual predator (I just look it) and I really just want to say Good day to you” smile and a nod. She looked up, established eye contact with me like she usually does, only this time it was more awkward and shorter.

It’s cool. Maybe she just wasn’t in the best of moods.

The day after that, I saw her again and as I approached the cold beverages section where the table she usually occupies is close to–warm smile and nod ready to fire–she did not even look up at me. It’s all good. Maybe she was busy.

This week, I’ve seen her twice and never did she look up at me and made eye contact like she used to–ever since I tried to smile and nod at her.

Fine.

Darling, I apologize. Trust me when I say that I will no longer show any signs of amiability towards you. What I will do instead is to hiss at you whenever I grab my bottled iced tea and who knows, because you’ve offended me, I might even spit at your shoes.

I’m sorry that I’ve made you feel awkward by being friendly and I’m sorry that my smile is enough to make you feel some kind of muted dread and fear that I might actually come up and talk to you.

Guess what though? Tomorrow, I will come up to you and tell you that I was smiling and nodding at you because some people actually like being friendly and not because I constantly use you as masturbatory fodder and I “accidentally” saw your mobile number on the brown notebook you always keep open on your table.

You fucking harpy.

(Also, I masturbated to you once. And the number I saw? Not sure if that’s even yours)

Without an authoritarian, normative system of quality control in place like that of the blogosphere’s, a microblogging personality is allowed to flutter about in spaces wherever his deluded brain would take him.

Microblogging personalities, as I see them, is much like the offspring of two celebrities–they are beautifully unmoderated, and are allowed to say anything without being afraid of criticism or reprisal.

So, are you ready to transition into a brainless fame only people who live uninteresting lives like you deserve? Are you interested in enlisting yourself into the cadre of new media hippies who garner less respect than bloggers? Well allow me to hold your hand with a guide specifically structured to send you on your first glorious steps towards polluting the internet with your asininity 140 characters at a time!

Do you want to be…

The guy who still thinks speaking in LOLcat is cool?

The difference between how people think in real life and over the internet is that in real life, people actually know and accept that they might actually be painfully unfunny. After all, there must be a reason why these people have boring desk jobs instead of bringing comedy clubs down with their golden gifts of funny!

On the internet, this perception is skewed horribly that EVERYONE actually believes they are all engineers of an unstoppable LOLcomotive.

I mean seriously, LOLcat speak had a great run but nowadays, it feels as if the joke is being gangraped by thousands of casual, wannabe internet humorists and plurk and twitter are NOT spared from this.

A normal person would have let out a chuckle or two at the joke and moved on but these people must’ve thought “CATS! THAT CAN SPEAK! AND THE JOKES ARE INTENTIONALLY MISSPELLED! I MUST INTERSPERSE EVERYTHING I SAY ONLINE WITH THIS BECAUSE IT’S JUST SO GODDAMN FUNNY! HAHA HAHA HAHA!” And so it’s not uncommon to see plurk or twitter users broadcast fuckingly annoying messages like:

• “o hai gais!”
• “o bai gais! my karma is nutrishoos!”
• “I cant say anything that’s worth your attention, but I bet you want moar. Get it? More? but I typed “moar” Oh shit this is more than 140 characters, what can I delete? I have to leave “moar” there because that’s my comedic coup de grace!”

Messages like these are spread across this digital land of LOL so the uninitiated can laugh next time they see this kind of plagiarized humor printed in big bold letters on some T-shirt in a Greenhills stall.

So yes, fuck you. You’re unfunny and so is your retarded ching-chong language nobody really gives a fuck about.

Or maybe you want to be the guy who follows 24,088 friends and is just all over the fucking place?

For this kind of Twitter-user/Plurker, the compulsion to click that “follow” button in hopes that the user would reciprocate and therefore become someone he could whore his own unoriginal, unamusing thoughts to is so great that he dreams of colorful “follow” buttons in his sleep and has a condition where his index finger involuntarily twitches as if clicking a mouse button.

For these kinds of users, whoring and getting their names out there is the name of the game. So notice how they’re on. every. fucking. thread?! When replying to a plurk or twitter message such as “I feel so sad. my grandmother whom I loved dearly passed away this morning”, it’s typical for them to churn out brilliant ripostes like

• “why?” or
• “yay!”

One theory is that users like these have like REALLY small penises which they compensate for by pumping their Karmas up and unlocking smileys because really, smileys are just so awezoms!

How about the guy who doesn’t make sense nor stays on topic that didn’t make sense in the first place for more than 10 seconds

For these types of people, logic and continuity are sworn enemies. They are in a perpetual badminton match with logic and continuity and everytime they start posting tweets or plurks that make sense, logic and continuity score a point and sends the shuttlecock flying behind a huge locker and these people have to spend a good amount of time trying to move the locker and when they do finally find the shuttlecock, it’s all dusty and they have to wipe it with their white badminton shorts. What a hassle.

So, they make a point never to let logic and continuity score. These people are going to post a tweet or plurk that goes something like “What do you gais think about the president’s System of the Nation Address?”

To which, naturally, somebody would reply “You mean STATE of the Nation Address right?”

The thread ends with this type of user saying “Anyone seen The Dark Knight Yet? I like Jack Nicklaus as the joker moar than Heath!”

Oh, I know! How about the guy who says something racist every once in a while and you couldn’t really tell whether or not they’re joking?

Users like these understand that microblogging is about pushing the envelope and diversifying the mind. Unlike those tacky bloggers who all sound alike, microblogging allows users like these to broadcast plurks or tweets about how towelheads are exploiting our educational system and how those yellow chinks are virtually running our economy.

When questioned, they hit back with sarcastic replies claiming that those who disagree with them don’t have a sense of humor and how mainstream media has eroded their ability to understand satire. Then they call you a “fucking bisaya”