Now, while I’m usually off of work on Mondays, Maffy gets off at around 4 in the afternoon. Realizing that I had three hours to kill after picking up the bouquet of flowers I was going to give her, I went ahead and decided to be a little productive by taking my car to the shop and have my tires replaced and a couple of other things repaired.

Big Fucking Mistake.

The tire shop closest to where I live is this abysmal, ramshackle structure that has a non-airconditioned waiting room.

If you know me well enough, you’d know that I know jack shit about cars save for driving them. However, I was all up in the mechanic’s business making sure that he is really replacing the shit I was paying him to replace and repairing the shit I was paying him to repair–especially since how my mom kept telling me ever since I was young never to trust poor people because, in her own word’s, they “stink”, “they can’t afford a television set”, and “Here’s 500 bucks. Go back to your room and don’t play with squatters”

So, the entire time, imagine me observing the mechanic working on my car while it’s hoisted up on a lifter, engine fluid, motor oil and other shit dripping on me and touching grimy parts of my car’s under chassis just to look a little like I know what the fuck’s going on.

Fast forward to 7pm: Maffy and I walk into this swanky restaurant. I was reeking of motor oil and was wearing a hoodie which had splotches of some kind of engine fluid.

Now, because I’m generally a very insecure person, a good amount of the time we spent in the restaurant was spent with me trying to decide if I was the suckiest person in the entire establishment. Of course, “suckiest” in this context meant either “has the worst, lowest-paying job”, “looks like it’s not his first time dining at a place where entrees costs at least three times his daily rate” or “hasn’t sustained an erection long enough to satisfy a woman–or himself– for the past couple of months because of a side effect of a drug he’s taking to treat his anxiety disorder.”

The conclusion? I was, without a doubt the suckiest person in that restaurant that night. Judging solely on appearance (clothes, hygiene, grooming, confidence level, and the likelihood of having had a threesome in the past), I was definitely languishing at the bottom of the rankings. (My score being: highly unstylish, sweaty and stinky, sad and dispirited, zero unless having been “inspired” by two magazines at a furious masturbation session counts)

Anyway, because I just spent half my paycheck on a dinner that didn’t even come close to satisfying my hunger and after, sadly, winning the distinction of being the suckiest person in the restaurant in my own mind, I decided to do the only thing I know to help make things better–to drink.

Maffy and I ended up in Mag:Net cafe over at Bonifacio High Street for some beers.

Okay, here’s the thing about this entire “Rising Internet Star” deal–I rarely get recognized. I’m not saying that random people don’t come up to me and say “Hey, are you that guy with a blog? You really are fat.” They DO but it’s so fucking rare that whenever it happens, I jizz in my pants (Figuratively and literally)

Anyway, shortly after paying the bill, a guy from the table next to ours came up to me and said “Hi, are you Mike Villar?” I, hesitantly (I mean, you never know if the guy works for a credit card company I owe money to right?), said yes.

He literally exploded and said “Oh my God! We’re big fans!” motioning to the other guy he was with. He followed up with “Please, can we buy you guys beers?” Oh yes my friend, you can. Very much so.

I was pretty buzzed prior to that point and only then did I realize that the guys were JC Medina and Gabe Mercado. Apparently, the guys owned Mag:Net.

Being a star and all, I know that I should be all chill about this and act like it’s not a big deal and all, but dude it was fucking awesome. The only times I’ve been recognized like that is through friends in the same circle or some shit like that. But never had other celebrities, not to mention real, and bigger celebrities recognized me.

(I know I’m starting to sound like a total Douchebag writing this but whatever. Fuck you.)

So JC and Gabe, thank you so much for the free beers (half of which I spilled on my shirt three seconds after you left to host Rockeoke) and for joking about how you heard about how I had an 18-inch penis! Infront of  my fiancee no less! That was very classy of you, sirs!

Oh, and I’m really sorry for sort of pushing it and asking if you guys could hook me up with some free food after you already gave me free booze AND for even thinking if I should ask money for parking from you guys as well as for leaving without saying goodbye. You guys were busy hosting Rockeoke and I really had to get back home to work on my medical transcriptions. Man’s got to earn his keep yo.

As we continue to celebrate Restroom McNinja Awesomery Month here at mikevillar.com [1][2], I would like to tell you this funny thing that happened to me last weekend. Also, I lied. there’s no such thing as Restroom McNinja Awesomery month. I just couldn’t think of a better intro. Let alone, a good segue from that horrible intro you just read to my main point. Maybe I could jus—

Last Saturday, I went out for drinks with a few friends from the office. Nothing weird or different there, maybe except for the fact that I was feeling a little under the weather and was in pretty bad shape for a self-proclaimed alcohologist who’s had only three bottles of beer at 10pm on a weekend.

The reason why I wasn’t feeling so good, I believe, was because I had one too many bottles of beer with the fiancee the night before and was a little hungover. It didn’t help that when I woke up that morning, I went through my hungover morning ritual that involves a furious, 15 minute masturbation session, leftover adobo, some pan de sal and a 1.5 liter bottle of soda. The sleep I had the night before was spasmodic and uncomfortable.

So yeah, to recap: prior to coming for work that day, I was already hungover, my stomach was fucked up and had close to zero sleep.

On top of that, the bar we went to was pretty thronged, hot and generally uncomfortable. If you know me, you’d know that my body does not take heat very well (Especially during the times I forget to stuff my armpits with table napkins. Man, you should really see those pit stains)

I remember being a little PO’d at that point in the evening. I started to feel nauseous because of the heat and, was sweating lke a Hyberabad man in a sauna that’s cranked up to 11.

When I get this uncomfortable, I usually stay in my little corner where I generally don’t talk to anyone, and drink my face off. But really, I didn’t want to ruin the evening for myself.

So, what I did to cope was go to the restroom periodically to splash my face with water and retouch (what, and you’re so manly?)

Now the bar only had two restrooms–one for men and one for the ladies situated right beside each other so people who are waiting in line to use them, whether they’re male or female are in the same line.

As I entered the male restroom during one of my trips, a middle-aged man went in with me much to the shock of the people who were waiting in line and my muted chagrin.

“Kid, can we like go at the same time? I can’t hold this in anymore?” He said.

“No shit? You’re already in here with me” I thought to myself but ended up saying “Sure! No problem” with the chipperness and pitch akin to that of a prepubescent schoolboy.

So we went. Together. He in the toilet, and I in the urinal.

Now, let’s move on to the lesson I learned through this whole ordeal before I end up saying things I don’t mean shall we?

The lesson is: Urinating back to back with a man twice your age as he talks to you about how the country’s president is a “no good, midget thief” all while grunting, moaning and establishing eye contact with you via a mirror  is a surprisingly pleasant experience every man should experience at least once in his lifetime.

Anyway, in one of my rest room sorties in between bottles, I found myself in a line which is about five people deep. At the end of the hallway where the restrooms were was an area where people who just finished their business in the rest rooms went straight to wash their hands.

So I waited.

And waited.

A couple of minutes later a really hot girl came out of the ladies’ restroom, went by me and proceeded to wash her hands. Now, this is where it gets interesting: The dude standing in line in front of me (who looked like a total douche–tattoos, piercings and all) went ahead and chewed the rag with the girl.

I didn’t really catch everything they were talking about as I was pretty buzzed myself but what I do remember is that after what only seemed like four sentences, the guy managed to elevate his deal from friendly banter to masterful flirting replete with him subtly brushing his hand against the girl’s arm and smoothly leaning in towards her; a move which, at one point, effectively put his face within millimeters of the girl’s.

Again, I couldn’t hear exactly what the were saying to each other but I did catch the guy saying “your hands are wet” at one point before grabbing a paper towel and going in for the kill with “Let me wipe them for you”

A few seconds later I was watching them gracefully duck into the men’s restroom emerging a few minutes later looking all disheveled and shit. Both of them made no conscious effort to conceal any of this on their way out aside from slightly bowing their heads and walking from the restroom straight back to their tables.

I’ve seen this sort of thing happen in the movies before and back then, I thought that if I ever witnessed it happen right in front of me, my reaction would probably go like “Look! Everyone! That dude is either boning that chick in the restroom! Or at least making out with her! But I really think they’re fucking and shit!” or “Man, I’d totally pay 2,000 bucks right now for some action. Maybe I should call my friend Ricky and see if he could spare me some cash so I could hit the strip club”

Instead, my reaction was more along the lines of revulsion and profound disapproval–so much that I wanted to walk over to the girl’s table and say something to the effect of “What you did back there was really mature, I bet your parents would be proud to know that you spent a week night giving a dude you probably don’t even know a handjob. By the way, I’m Mike and I just wanted to ask what you think about checks and promisory notes.”

Up to this day, I honestly don’t know why I felt disgusted. Maybe it’s because I had to wait an additional 5 minutes or so to take a leak? Or maybe it’s because I am saddened by where most young people’s moral compasses point?

Or maybe it’s simply because I’m getting old and, for some reason, I don’t find doing anything lascivious inside a public restroom “cool”.

But what it is, most likely, is that I’m extremely jealous. Yes, I believe that’s it. I mean, all over the metro, young people are having adventurous sex and that night, I ended up almost throwing my laptop over our balcony because it refused to play old, scratched porn VCDs I’ve had since high school.

tss. Rising Internet Star my ass.

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.