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.

My fear of cockroaches is so intense that I could be sitting in front of a really hot woman on a date and I see a cockroach crawling (or god forbid flying) towards me–I can tell you that, at that point, all bets are off. I’m fucking getting out of that place, pay for the bill missy and, if you’re interested in comforting me and telling me that everything’s going to be alright (and maybe give me a blowjob in the process), call me. I’ll be at home hunkered in my bed under a blanket.

Anyway, last Friday, I was driving to work in my dad’s car listening to Ted Failon on AM radio with the driver side window opened halfway because, of course, I was smoking. I was on a stretch of road called Mindanao avenue, which made me somewhere around 45 minutes away from where I work in the Pasig area, when I felt something sort of tickle me on the back of my neck. I assumed it to be just the label of my shirt or something so I reached back and tried to put it back in place.

As I touched what I thought to be my shirt’s label, I thought to myself “hey this feels a little thicker than what a cloth label should be”

So I decided to pick it off my shirt and take a look at it–and there it was, lying on the palm of my right hand, a little weak after I picked it off and pinched it a little but very much alive, was a fucking cockroach.

I let out a guttural yell–a yell akin to the sound one would probably make if they walk in on their girlfriend being fucked silly by Souljaboy–and threw, nay slammed the cockroach to the car’s floor and prepared to unleash vicious stomps from my powerful left foot to kill the damn thing before it kills me.

For a good twenty seconds, I was pretty much panicking and just stomping away blindly all the while focusing on not trying to hit any cars in front of me.

Now, while traffic up Mindanao avenue was crawling, it was moving. So, after wildly delivering lethal blows with my left foot, I could only look down to see if any of them connected for a split second since I still needed to pay attention to the traffic.

I reached a red light in the North Avenue intersection and took the time to come up with a better battle assessment. I hoped to see the cockroach’s guts all over the car’s floor mat but no, there was no sign of the cockroach’s anywhere. My initial assessment was that, in the fierce battle, I managed to drive the cockroach under the mat where it was crushed or it found its way out the open window unbeknown to me.

Somewhat relieved, I rolled my window up and prepared to continue driving– then I saw it: The cockroach was still very much alive and in fact, it seems to have recovered from being rocked earlier when I picked it off my shirt. The cockroach was crawling on the driver’s door panel directly over the power window controls and looks like it was poising to take fucking flight.

Well, that’s fucking it.

At this point, the fear and panic I felt earlier was completely replaced with violent hatred. With the traffic light still red, I pulled the hand brake, jerked my door open which sent the cockroach crashing down the asphalt. Smelling blood and with a speed and physical grace that surprised even myself, I got out of the car and delivered a volley of brutal stomps to the downed insect.

The episode lasted about 10 seconds where I was screaming, sweating and maybe crying (I don’t remember) and, in the middle of it all, the traffic light turned green and the cars behind me started honking their horns at the deranged fat kid thrashing wildly in the middle of a busy street beside his SUV with a Couples for Christ sticker.

It was glorious.

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

Mom: “So 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.