Rash

If you look closely at the blog posts I’ve been spewing out lately, you’ll notice that there they have been written around a central, recurring theme: Positivity. (Well not really. I did write about Roach: An Inspiring story about overcoming your fear but that’s pretty much it. I just wanted to throw the bit about the theme in there because us literary types like opening our blog posts with these things we call “intros” which, to you, the “freelance writer” type who gets paid a sad $0.10 per word on blog posts your American employers commission you to write, is the fluff you use to pad your work and increase your word count.)

(This blog post’s word count so far: 113. See what I did there?)

You see, since around July last year, I have been coping with something that has slowly been eating away at me. If you remember, around that time, I got myself a short-lived Gym membership. What I didn’t tell you was that the training program I followed, instead of giving me delts of steel, biceps of romance and clitoris-conquering pecs; gave me some sort of weird skin disease.

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Crackberry: The irresistable force paradox

I get this nagging feeling that my employer is trying to force me into a painful transition from slack daddy extraordinaire (and party boy emeritus) to a real employee, not just someone who manifests himself as an unreasonably high salary in monthly accounting ledgers; eats up the company’s bandwidth by downloading entire Gossip Girl episodes at work, and doodles three-headed, big-busted succubi when he’s supposed to be taking notes at meetings.

This intent is corroborated best by the corporate slavery device I now constantly have in my pocket. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I, Mike Villar: Rising Internet Star, have been issued a BlackBerry.

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Roach: An inspiring story about overcoming your fear

My being agnostic eliminates a lot of “fears” I would’ve otherwise had had I been subscribed staunchly to a religious belief.

For one, I am pretty much free to engage in what people who have actual religions would consider debauchery since I am not concerned with losing morality points nor, much less, eternal damnation.

And, because I consider myself a man who believes only in science, I am also not afraid of anything supernatural (i.e. ghosts, bad spirits). I, however, practice a couple of things that have something to do with some superstitious beliefs on women and how to make them enamored with you (i.e. stealing a girl’s panties and sleeping with it under your pillow until she’s convinced, magically, that she indeed wants to sleep with you. Or until she finds out you’ve stolen one of her underwear that time you took her home and asked her for a glass of water and the court slaps you with a restraining order). But then again, these doesn’t have anything to do with fear but more with desperation.

I guess what I’m saying is that I afraid of very few things. In fact, I think it’s a really short list:

1. Thunder
2. Cockroaches

Actually my fear of thunder is more of fright than anything else so I guess the only thing I’m genuinely afraid of are cockroaches; and really who isn’t? They are nasty and some of them even fly. Whoa.

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So a young girl saw my penis

There’s this bar in the Ortigas Home Depot complex that my colleagues from work and I frequent, the restrooms of which, taking into account my recent experiences, I’m starting to think is cursed(In a good way, if there’s such a thing). Let me explain.

A little backgrounder on that night: The reason why we wanted to go out for drinks was we wanted to take Jon (lead developer for one of the projects we’re working on whom, we have taken to passionately call “The beast from upstairs”) out to sort of get a feel of what Manila’s night life is like (something which we probably failed miserably at. For one, the bars at the Ortigas Home Depot complex is hardly representative of Manila’s nightlife and neither is a party of eight all-male, sweaty, socially inept web types)

I have written enough about the pattern my drinking nights usually take (relative humdrumness -> Dancing and singing (and crying in some occasions) -> somberness -> picking up into a crescendo of pure mayhem and inappropriateness) so I’m going to spare you from the boredom of reading about how the night progressed this time.

The turning point of the night came when a San Miguel Promo girl offered to give us a free shirt if we ordered 18 more bottles of beer. At that point, we were already feeling good and loaded but stupid John offered to pay for all 18 bottles if I agree to wear a small San Miguel ladies’ shirt for an hour–an offer which, in my state of relative inebriation, is impossible to refuse.

So yeah, Jon paid for 18 bottles of beer and, even though it was a fucking struggle, I managed to fit into a size S San Miguel Beer ladies shirt. People got their beers and had big laughs watching a 200-lb guy try to fit into a small ladies’ shirt. Everyone’s happy.

The fact that I had to wear a fucking tiny shirt for an hour is, in itself, funny. But check this out: About 45 minutes into the entire thing, I felt the need to take a leak.

Now, this bar is notorious for the long lines of people waiting to use the restrooms. The place had two restrooms: one for men and another for women–which is kind of retarded considering the place packs around 200 people at any given time. The men’s restroom also only has one toilet which means only one person can use it at a time.

I found myself 6th in the line of guys waiting to use the men’s restroom. There was, surprisingly enough, no line to use the women’s restroom (This is something that baffles me to no end. Is there some sort of special sac somewhere inside a woman’s vagoo that enables them to hold in more urine than men? Because I swear, I take a leak an average of eight times in a four hour period when I’m drinking and, from what I observed, women do like two? How the fuck?).

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Mike Villar: Bullshit Machine

Mike Villar: Bullshit Machine from Mike Villar on Vimeo.

My company’s CEO, armed with a video camera, ambushed me while I was dicking around on Facebook and asked me what I was working on.

Surprisingly unfazed and on my toes, my response was–arguably–the worst, most badly-delivered bullshit spat out by anyone who has ever lived.

Not my finest moment.

Also, my fellow manager Alvin Jimenez‘s reaction at 0:07 was nothing short of priceless. It’s sort of an amalgam of raw disgust, not knowing whether to laugh politely and a pinch of pity.

(Oh and thanks to Rico Sta. Cruz for adding the score towards the end of my response. It really added drama to my monumental failure.)