Let me explain: preparing for a wedding isn’t exactly cheap–to put things into perspective, let’s just say that in the last couple of months, I have spent half of what I earn annually booking some of the suppliers I need for my wedding.

All of this would’ve been fine If I was doing really well for myself. Well I could probably say that I sort of am but then again, let’s not forget that I am also paying for the house I bought early last year.

Add the fact that the actual preparations are taxing both mentally and emotionally into the mix and you’ve got yourself the perfect formula for an obese, manic-depressive train wreck waiting to happen. So stay the fuck clear.

Anyway, to cope with all the financial and emotional stress that are weighing heavily down on me, I’ve stepped up to take in more work and made it a point to drink myself into a coma every chance I get.

This becomes problematic when:

My Workaholism

In my wedding, I will be known to some people as the “sales pitbull” and the “douchebag screaming into his BlackBerry in English” to some. The thing is, with what I do, whenever I see a deal that needs closing, I attack it like a cheetah would attack a gazelle: Going for the lithe hind legs first before dragging the carcass back to my den for midnight snack and some necrophilic action.

My hunger for money nowadays is only dwarfed by my thirst for beer, so really, it’s only natural for me to be talking to Chinese internet moguls via my BlackBerry 24/7. If the guests in the wedding couldn’t understand the importance business and trade has in modern society, then I suggest they kick themselves back to 18th century France so they could listen to Rosseau tell them how awesome communism is and invite them to share their meager broth with him.

My Alcoholism

I cannot say this enough: I love to drink. You can blame my Ilocano genes or my dark past but the fact of the matter is I love alcohol okay? This insatiable thirst coupled an unlimited supply of booze afforded by the mobile bar I signed as one of the vendors for my wedding is a lethal combination. In my wedding, I would start off innocently enough, first swinging back the ceremonial glass of wine my future wife and I would share. Then I’ll knock back a few beers while going table to table for pictres. Then the wheels would come off–Somebody just handed me a Jaegerbomb!

Next thing I’ll remember is me putting my penis in the chocolate fondue. Another blackout. Then I’ll vaguely remember trying to rally everyone into dancing the Macarena on the dance floor. This will be followed by another blackout. Then it happens: The moment of true humiliation: I’m struggling to keep my balance on one foot holding a bottle of tequila before finally falling backwards into our wedding cake.

I wake up the next morning in a forest wearing an Igorot outfit hugging a rice cooker.

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?).

Emboldened by a feeling of false awesomeness thanks to eight bottles of beer, I said “Fuck it, I’m going to use the women’s restroom. The fuck you looking at? You wanna start something? Dick.”

So yeah, I was in the women’s restroom swaying back and forth out of sheer drunkenness and whistling while I was doing my thing when all of a sudden, the door, which I apparently forgot to lock, swung open.

I was all like “What the fuck”, turned around to see who opened the door and why hello there, chinese-looking girl who looks like you’re 16!

And here’s a bonus tip for anyone who has any intentions of building restrooms in the near future: Do NOT, and I say again, DO NOT put huge ass mirrors in front of the restroom door and directly behind toilet seats because really, once in a while, a really drunk guy wearing a small ladies’ shirt will  decide to go in and use the ladies bathroom because there’s a long fucking line of people waiting to use the men’s bathroom; he will forget to lock the door and a young girl will walk in and immediately see the huge ass mirror where the penis of the aforementioned drunk guy is reflected in all its shriveled glory. So fuck you toilet creator at Bargos in the Ortigas Home Depot complex, fuck you and your friends!

There were a good 5 seconds of not knowing what to do between the girl and myself. On my part, do I pull up my pants midstream to cover up and end up with pee all over my pants or do I wink and say hi? On her part, does she look away and close the door or continue to look at the magnificent dwarven penis she accidentally walked in on?

The girl ended up closing the door and after I was done with my deal I walked out of the restroom and apologized to the girl (who was now in line with like 7 of her friends) saying that I badly needed to go and shit.

She didn’t respond on account of her laughing the fuck all over the place. But then again, I’d probably end up laughing too if I was a young girl and I walked in on a guy–wearing a small girl’s shirt– taking a piss with a small hairy thing that resembles Mufasa from the lion king.

This is probably because, buying a billiards table tells everyone that:

• “Hey my house is big enough for a billiards table! Yours is not!”
• “My dad works for the customs bureau. I’m an illegitimate child and he only comes home every week to bone my loshang mother. Oh and we have lots of money!”
• “I’m a douche lol”

Anyway, I know the other guys Garret invited over but it’s the first time I saw the girl in the group. I have a total of 3 female friends–one of them became my girlfriend and the other two I have not seen for quite some time now.  I am seriously wanting in the female friends department and I can only assume that this is because once I find myself being close enough emotionally to any woman I end up trying to make passes at her and even go to the extent of promising her things I cannot possibly fulfill to get into her panties. And usually, when that happens, every small dollop of “friendship” I’ve managed to nurture with said woman goes down the proverbial drain.

Everything began quite uneventfully; everyone was having a grand time playing 9-ball while the booze flowed freely courtesy of Garrett whose fortitude when it comes throwing back beers is something I want to publicly praise. Seriously; as far as I know, this guy, being unemployed and all, drinks every fucking night but somehow manages to get himself out of bed at 6am everyday to help  “supervise” his family’s construction business. I, on the other hand, sleep like twelve hours a day (three at work) and on a good day, I would need to have a cup of coffee and a bottle of Cobra just to get me to open my eyes.

Like I said, the early part of the night was pretty uneventful–with everyone taking turns on the billiards table on a “challenge the winner” format. There were several new rivalries formed most notably, a rivalry between myself (2002 PSBA open 9-ball Champion, Anonas Leg) and my friend Ricky whom, at the end of the night, I lost 700 bucks and a cellphone to. (Ricky, I don’t remember exactly what happened, but dude, I still can’t believe I put my cellphone up as a bet. Dude, seriously, I need that phone).

Vulture!

While waiting for their turns on the table, everyone pretty much just sat around and threw back beers and sort of warmed up to each other. There were comments thrown by my guy friends about Rachelle (The only girl in the group) on the side along the lines of “Dude, check Rachelle out, she’s like 5′4″ at most, but I’ll totally hit that body” after a few more rounds of beer the comments degenerated into “Man, I seriously want a piece of that” and a few rounds more, it turned into “Is that Mike? why does he look like he’s teaching Garrett’s grandmother to dance?” That was that. Lustful comments aside, I would go ahead and say that up to this point, everyone was pretty much well-mannered.

It was after a few beers more that things started to look a lot like an Animal Planet special shit show–chests were beaten, antlers were locked together and the males became more and more, shall I say, competitive.

The fact that Rachelle herself was pretty much bombed didn’t exactly help the situation. Flirtatious exchanges were made and next thing I know, all my friends were circling around her like pubescent vultures, each one jockeying for position in a race for what they hoped to be a one night stand.

It’s been days after that party but not one of my friends ever admitted to having even a slight interest in Rachelle. I do know that it is true. I mean, you could tell from the look in their eyes that night, looks that say: “I am so going to have sex with this girl, it’s going to be SO rough and I will NOT wear a condom. You know? because I’m drunk and I think I’m fucking awesome. Let me get another Red Horse. After that, I’m going to fucking go for the jugular and close the deal right. fucking. here. But first, another drink.”

At that point in the night, my friend Ricky clearly had the lead. Because he fucking beat me so bad in 9-ball (out of my money no less. And my phone), He felt like this gave him some sort of divine right to teach Rachelle, who knew squat about billiards, how to play the game. This went down complete with Rachelle bent over the table and with Ricky sort of positioning himself behind her to “correct” the way she bridges the cue stick.

I know brah, ppreciate you letting me know

Perhaps, you’re asking yourself where the hell I am throughout all this. Well, my friends being vultures, I was kind of the really slow, retarded one. The one who probably decided to roll around in and eat gazelle feces because he’s resigned to the fact that the other vultures are probably going to eat every scrap of meat in a carcass, so why even bother?

I mean really, come on, I’ve always been the guy who never had a passable “game” around girls when I am with other guys. In fact, this entire scene reminded me of my early years in High School where the varsity basketball players hung out with all the hot chicks while I spent my nights speaking on the phone with these girls behind their backs trying to convince them that everyone on the varsity team were douchebags and how they deserve someone way better. Somone who knows what quadratic equations are and someone who knows that the condoms are used for birth control and not penis ornaments. Someone like me.

Besides, time and time again, I’ve written about my pathetic self-esteem–something caused by my wine cork penis and monggo testicles. Oh and don’t even get me started about how “girly” my voice sounds. So yeah, whenever I find myself in a situation where guys have to compete for a woman’s attention (i.e. Bars, clubs, “massage parlors”, and tiangges) I would most likely not even bother and capitulate to other, more confident men.

Also, I’ve got this entire “You’re not all that to begin with, so why should I even bother impressing you? Go ahead and flirt with these douchebags, see if I care. You deserve them anyway” attitude going on. But then again, this is probably just a coping mechanism of some sort that keeps my self-esteem, which is at near-fatal levels, in check.

I wish I could say there was a happier ending to this story but there isn’t one. As is the case with me everytime I get a good buzz going, I get a bad case of the munchies. So, I drove myself home, microwaved some tinola, ate, slept and woke up with bits of papaya in my hair.

No, I don’t suck. You suck.

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.