I think I've finally entered the category of Hot.
Last Wednesday, I was at the gym, when two teenage Korean boys felt me up.
Backtrack: they came in, and did their sets. They were lithe, nubile, and very slender. One of them looked like a doll, the other looked like one of those androgynous Japanese rockers. They were lifting very, very light weights, and they kept giggling. 8 reps a set, followed by 30-seconds of giggling. It was all very amusing, and uplifting, considering my other option for live entertainment was a chubby, sweaty guy who kept making weird noises. I think, I'll sign up for the giggling effeminate foreigners.
So, when they're done with their work out, they hang out outside, by the bench, smoking. I passed by the door to get my bag (the shelves are near the exit), and they waved at me to join them. So, I did.
That's when they started feeling me me up. "How long have you been working out?" said the one who looks like a Japanese crossdressing rock band vocalist. "Oh, this is really good." He was squeezing my chest.
I'm pretty sure it was devoid of malice, and they were probably just looking out for an achievable goal to set their eyes on. But whatever it was, it felt good to be felt up by strangers. The last time I was felt up by a total stranger was in the MRT, and I'm not entirely sure if it actually happened or I imagined it, having issues with my personal space and all.
Now, I have a new motivation. To work out harder, bulk up, and maybe, the next time someone feels me up in public, I'll get to charge a fee for it or something.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Best Reply to Girlfriend / Boyfriend Testing Text
As we are all guilty of doing it, so have we all experienced getting an anonymous text offering some no-strings-attached good time. After the initial thrill, what we worry about next, of course, is 'what if it's a test'?
Indeed. What if it's a prank message from a friend, pulling a fast one on us? OR worse, what if it's from our girlfriend/boyfriend testing to see how we'd react in such a situation? Is it one of those damn-if-you-do-damn-if-you-don't Alfred Hitchcock situation where everything spirals out of control as you descend to madness, murder, and mayhem?
Worry not, for there IS a certain way in which you can handle this delicate situation.
The correct response, of course, is REJECTION.
"Sorry. I can't come over to penetrate you so good you gonna be blowin bubbles out of your juicy pussy. It's not that I'm not interested, but because I'M IN LOVE WITH THE ONE I'M WITH AND I WOULDN'T DO ANYTHING TO HURT HIM/HER."
Of course, by replying so, you've turned the tables around. Now it's YOU testing THEM. If you have indeed been subjected to a prank text, then you've passed the test with flying colors.You've proven strength of character, integrity, and other values that members of the Philippine congress could only wish to possess.
However, if it's a bonafide booty call from a stranger, then you're not really rejecting them... you're spurring them on!
After all, to someone nasty, the only thing better than casual sex is forbidden casual sex.
By informing the stranger that you're taken, you've given them the idea that you're coveted but can't be achieved. You're good enough to be with someone, so that's a plus. And by rejecting the advances of a stranger, you've proven that you don't come easy.
IF the stranger is nasty enough to persist, then congratulations. A persistent booty call from a stranger can only mean slight desperation and daddy issues. Two things we're all looking for in someone we want to penetrate.
So there. Hope that helps!
Indeed. What if it's a prank message from a friend, pulling a fast one on us? OR worse, what if it's from our girlfriend/boyfriend testing to see how we'd react in such a situation? Is it one of those damn-if-you-do-damn-if-you-don't Alfred Hitchcock situation where everything spirals out of control as you descend to madness, murder, and mayhem?
Worry not, for there IS a certain way in which you can handle this delicate situation.
The correct response, of course, is REJECTION.
"Sorry. I can't come over to penetrate you so good you gonna be blowin bubbles out of your juicy pussy. It's not that I'm not interested, but because I'M IN LOVE WITH THE ONE I'M WITH AND I WOULDN'T DO ANYTHING TO HURT HIM/HER."
However, if it's a bonafide booty call from a stranger, then you're not really rejecting them... you're spurring them on!
After all, to someone nasty, the only thing better than casual sex is forbidden casual sex.
By informing the stranger that you're taken, you've given them the idea that you're coveted but can't be achieved. You're good enough to be with someone, so that's a plus. And by rejecting the advances of a stranger, you've proven that you don't come easy.
IF the stranger is nasty enough to persist, then congratulations. A persistent booty call from a stranger can only mean slight desperation and daddy issues. Two things we're all looking for in someone we want to penetrate.
So there. Hope that helps!
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Let Us Put Ourselves in the Presence of the Dark Lord Cthulhu
"Jesus Fucking Christ," my friend Earl said, hitting my harm with his puny fist. "And you call yourself a worshipper?"
I was helping him bake cupcakes for the big bonfire the next day. By helping, I mean I was trying not to jizz on his batter when he stepped out to smoke.
"What," I said. "Just because I'm non-practicing doesn't mean I've lost my faith in Cthulhu."
"But this is more than being active in the cult," he insisted. "This is fighting for our faith."
He was trying to convince me to go to the bonfire where other members of our cult were going to burn copies of the new Penguins Classic print of "The Call of Cthulhu". A lot of worshipers felt offended by the depiction of Cthulhu, drawn wearing a tuxedo, a monocle, and sporting a well-combed mustache like an ordinary mortal.
Look, I see their point. I know how this depiction of the Greatest of the Elder Gods, He Who Waits And Causes The World Anxiety in His Slumber, He to Whose Sludge We Are Spawned, He Whose Almighty Tentacles Shaped the World and Shall Destroy It, could have been offensive. I imagine Saddam's children would have been offended too had their father been depicted as a soft, warm-hearted leader who ruled democratically like a shaved vagina.
Do I find this image offensive? No, BUT I can understand why some people would find it so. A lot of worshipers draw their personal strength from their faith in the great, fearless and fearsome Cthulhu. When they were starving, Cthulhu was there to give them the inspiration to sell their children to prostitution for food. When they were sick and weary, Cthulhu was there to cause them even more sickness and trouble. Indeed, there is no malaise in this world which we couldn't thank Cthulhu for. Putting that mound of pubic hair on his face is disrespectful to the great power to whose Wrath we are at the Mercy of.
Yet, we must look at the work and consider its intention before we start burning copies of the book, like in that fairy tale for children (if you haven't read "Sodom and Gomorrah" as a kid, I suggest you look for a copy now; it's an excellent, uplifting tale I first encountered when I was a 2nd Grade student in Notre Dame of Greater Manila).
Was the work meant to offend? Maybe. Or maybe it means to offend those who take Cthulhu's image lightly. Maybe it means to ask us how we've been connecting with Cthulhu lately. Maybe it means to incite us to react, stir in us reactions so strong that we would either question our faith or stand up for it.
In that sense, the work has served its purpose. As soon as the Can-toi Bishops of Cthulhu in the Philippines saw this work, they were organizing mobs and book bonfires.
But, what if we jumped the gun too soon? Was there really any harm in letting the cover art foster more discussion, provoke dialogue between those who have fallen into the cracks of disbelief and despair? Was Cthulhu's earth-shattering will ever threatened by this work?
What Would Cthulhu Do with this cover? Would he order its immediate eradication? Would he really be so petty as be affected by this?
I look at this cover, and I don't see hate for Cthulhu. Try as I may, I can't look at this artwork and see any reason to repress or suppress it. It's an artist's representation of his concept of Cthulhu, and his concept was meant to trigger reactions from the audience. Yet too soon did we deny others their right to agree or disagree with it when we decided to feed it to the Almighty Cthulhu's cleansing flame.
I may not be a practicing worshiper of Cthulhu. I haven't bled any virgins on my sheet and offered the blood to his Omni-reaching Tentacles. I can't remember the last time I beheaded an innocent, or when our family last celebrated R'lyehmas.
My faith in Cthulhu is personal. In my daily trials and tribulations, I turn to him to strike my enemies dead. When filled with envy for the success of others, I take a moment to thank Cthulhu that one of their loved ones may have mental retardation. I feel the warmth of Cthulhu's tentacles around my shoulders whenever I was feeling insecure for my failure to cause another person's complete ruin before I turn the age of thirty. And when the end comes, I believe that on Cthulhu's wings I shall soar over the razed landscape of my rival's utter destruction.
But, come on, guys. It's a fucking artwork. What harm can it do?
I was helping him bake cupcakes for the big bonfire the next day. By helping, I mean I was trying not to jizz on his batter when he stepped out to smoke.
"What," I said. "Just because I'm non-practicing doesn't mean I've lost my faith in Cthulhu."
"But this is more than being active in the cult," he insisted. "This is fighting for our faith."
Look, I see their point. I know how this depiction of the Greatest of the Elder Gods, He Who Waits And Causes The World Anxiety in His Slumber, He to Whose Sludge We Are Spawned, He Whose Almighty Tentacles Shaped the World and Shall Destroy It, could have been offensive. I imagine Saddam's children would have been offended too had their father been depicted as a soft, warm-hearted leader who ruled democratically like a shaved vagina.
Do I find this image offensive? No, BUT I can understand why some people would find it so. A lot of worshipers draw their personal strength from their faith in the great, fearless and fearsome Cthulhu. When they were starving, Cthulhu was there to give them the inspiration to sell their children to prostitution for food. When they were sick and weary, Cthulhu was there to cause them even more sickness and trouble. Indeed, there is no malaise in this world which we couldn't thank Cthulhu for. Putting that mound of pubic hair on his face is disrespectful to the great power to whose Wrath we are at the Mercy of.
Yet, we must look at the work and consider its intention before we start burning copies of the book, like in that fairy tale for children (if you haven't read "Sodom and Gomorrah" as a kid, I suggest you look for a copy now; it's an excellent, uplifting tale I first encountered when I was a 2nd Grade student in Notre Dame of Greater Manila).
Was the work meant to offend? Maybe. Or maybe it means to offend those who take Cthulhu's image lightly. Maybe it means to ask us how we've been connecting with Cthulhu lately. Maybe it means to incite us to react, stir in us reactions so strong that we would either question our faith or stand up for it.
In that sense, the work has served its purpose. As soon as the Can-toi Bishops of Cthulhu in the Philippines saw this work, they were organizing mobs and book bonfires.
But, what if we jumped the gun too soon? Was there really any harm in letting the cover art foster more discussion, provoke dialogue between those who have fallen into the cracks of disbelief and despair? Was Cthulhu's earth-shattering will ever threatened by this work?
What Would Cthulhu Do with this cover? Would he order its immediate eradication? Would he really be so petty as be affected by this?
I look at this cover, and I don't see hate for Cthulhu. Try as I may, I can't look at this artwork and see any reason to repress or suppress it. It's an artist's representation of his concept of Cthulhu, and his concept was meant to trigger reactions from the audience. Yet too soon did we deny others their right to agree or disagree with it when we decided to feed it to the Almighty Cthulhu's cleansing flame.
I may not be a practicing worshiper of Cthulhu. I haven't bled any virgins on my sheet and offered the blood to his Omni-reaching Tentacles. I can't remember the last time I beheaded an innocent, or when our family last celebrated R'lyehmas.
My faith in Cthulhu is personal. In my daily trials and tribulations, I turn to him to strike my enemies dead. When filled with envy for the success of others, I take a moment to thank Cthulhu that one of their loved ones may have mental retardation. I feel the warmth of Cthulhu's tentacles around my shoulders whenever I was feeling insecure for my failure to cause another person's complete ruin before I turn the age of thirty. And when the end comes, I believe that on Cthulhu's wings I shall soar over the razed landscape of my rival's utter destruction.
But, come on, guys. It's a fucking artwork. What harm can it do?
Thursday, September 22, 2011
On Family Reunions
"So, when are you going to get married? You're not getting any younger, you know," one of my distant aunts asked me when I was 14.
"When are you going to have kids? Why don't you have kids?" I overheard another aunt ask one of the married couples.
I don't get why some people think they're obligated to monitor other people's life choices given what little blood you actually share with them. I have grown to realize that there are questions you don't ask people because you don't know what they're going through.
You don't ask people why they're single, or why they're still childless. Not only is it not your business, it's also a dumb question to ask unless you are really wondering about how normal people function in society. People don't ask YOU why you threw your life away and married a tricycle driver before any of you were old enough to vote. People don't ask you why your vagina never seem to dry up, constantly popping out one of your pesky kids who come to beg every Christmas.
I don't come to your face and ask you about the status of your lovelife. I just assume you don't have one, because, you know, you're ugly.
"When are you going to have kids? Why don't you have kids?" I overheard another aunt ask one of the married couples.
I don't get why some people think they're obligated to monitor other people's life choices given what little blood you actually share with them. I have grown to realize that there are questions you don't ask people because you don't know what they're going through.
You don't ask people why they're single, or why they're still childless. Not only is it not your business, it's also a dumb question to ask unless you are really wondering about how normal people function in society. People don't ask YOU why you threw your life away and married a tricycle driver before any of you were old enough to vote. People don't ask you why your vagina never seem to dry up, constantly popping out one of your pesky kids who come to beg every Christmas.
I don't come to your face and ask you about the status of your lovelife. I just assume you don't have one, because, you know, you're ugly.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
All I Needed to Know, I Learned in ROTC
VINTAGE Siege Malvar! Check out my essay on being a Rayadillo, organizing a rebellion against a boodle fight, and coming home drunk on a Sunday morning. CLICK HERE. [Must have Acrobat Reader installed to read.]
The Incredible Siege Malvar
I have made a reputation of myself to be a fabulous confabulist that people find it hard to believe my stories even when I'm telling the truth.
"Oh, Trinoma did that, when I was performing for Valentine's Day in 2010, they had this helicopter hover above the mall to shower us with rose petals," I once informed the team I was brainstorming with. Which really happened. Trinoma had this shower of rose petals schedule for Valentine's Day, and due to some fortunate timing, I was on stage reciting my love poems when it arrived. It felt like I was on full rockstar mode, and my unemployed parents were in the audience giving their unwavering support. Unfortunately, no one bothered enough to capture the moment on digital video. I take this as a vote of confidence from my parents' part, that these magical moments of rose petals showering from the skies happen on my performances on a regular basis that it's not worth documenting.
These things happen to me, and it really is hard to prove, what with the questionable credibility of my word as the only basis for accepting it as true. Like that one time a gorgeous Korean boy dragged me into the coat's room of a hiphop club in Seoul, and started to assault my mouth with his. Based on how his saliva tasted like, I'm pretty sure he was drunk. Not exactly one to shy away from homoerotic episodes involving alcohol, the music of Jay-Z, and parkas that belong to strangers, I still had the good sense to push him away and inform him that, like him, I was a boy, but unlike him, I wasn't drunk. Perhaps it's because he spoke no word of English, and I may have mangled my Korean bad enough to actually spur him on, or the fact that I was wearing my hair long then, but my flat out refusal to play tongue futsal with him only provoked him to stab my tonsils with his tongue with renewed vigor. Like a politician on the last quarter of his term prior to running for re-election on a mad road reconstruction frenzy, he was hell bent on his intent to restructure my oral passageway.
I gave him some time to lose steam. After all, he was drunk, he wasn't bad looking, and for the first time, I'm making out with someone who didn't need me to laugh at his jokes. I pushed him away again, this time, using my hands, I demonstrated the physical definition of what I mean as I insisted my biological make-up. "I'm a boy, look," I said, thumping my puny chest where no mammary glands grow. "A boy!" I repeated.
At this point, despite not having any success at my attempts to communicate with my apparently drunk insta-date--who, if I may add, has spent more time trying to know me than anyone I've ever gone out with ever, my charades on my reproductive system's functions seemed to have caught the attention of the bouncer. Strong, manly arms pried us apart, and began dragging my drunk face assaulter away, 20-seconds before I began considering building a life with this intoxicated stranger and his technophonic tongue. Perhaps we'd spend Friday nights watching Korean DVDs together, and I'd fall asleep on his shoulders reading the subtitle, and I'd wake up 15 minutes before the whole thing end and he'd catch me up on the plot so far, making things up as he go along, basically merging the plot of Rosemarie's Baby with Superman: The Return and an episode of The Nanny. I am a romantic that way.
Now, I'm considering writing the club management for a copy of that night's security tapes. Perhaps I could prove once and for all that I was savagely sexually assaulted by a man more good looking that I am. That way, my credibility would be improved, and I wouldn't have a hard time convincing people that I really was part of my university's marching platoon.
"Seriously, guys, I was a rayadillo," I insisted for what felt like the 35th time that night.
What was infuriating was that no one was contesting anymore.
Which gave me this crazy idea of a tell-all memoir. What if I come up with a collection of stories that REALLY happened to me, but no one would believe to be true? What if?
What do you think? Should I go for it?
"Oh, Trinoma did that, when I was performing for Valentine's Day in 2010, they had this helicopter hover above the mall to shower us with rose petals," I once informed the team I was brainstorming with. Which really happened. Trinoma had this shower of rose petals schedule for Valentine's Day, and due to some fortunate timing, I was on stage reciting my love poems when it arrived. It felt like I was on full rockstar mode, and my unemployed parents were in the audience giving their unwavering support. Unfortunately, no one bothered enough to capture the moment on digital video. I take this as a vote of confidence from my parents' part, that these magical moments of rose petals showering from the skies happen on my performances on a regular basis that it's not worth documenting.
These things happen to me, and it really is hard to prove, what with the questionable credibility of my word as the only basis for accepting it as true. Like that one time a gorgeous Korean boy dragged me into the coat's room of a hiphop club in Seoul, and started to assault my mouth with his. Based on how his saliva tasted like, I'm pretty sure he was drunk. Not exactly one to shy away from homoerotic episodes involving alcohol, the music of Jay-Z, and parkas that belong to strangers, I still had the good sense to push him away and inform him that, like him, I was a boy, but unlike him, I wasn't drunk. Perhaps it's because he spoke no word of English, and I may have mangled my Korean bad enough to actually spur him on, or the fact that I was wearing my hair long then, but my flat out refusal to play tongue futsal with him only provoked him to stab my tonsils with his tongue with renewed vigor. Like a politician on the last quarter of his term prior to running for re-election on a mad road reconstruction frenzy, he was hell bent on his intent to restructure my oral passageway.
I gave him some time to lose steam. After all, he was drunk, he wasn't bad looking, and for the first time, I'm making out with someone who didn't need me to laugh at his jokes. I pushed him away again, this time, using my hands, I demonstrated the physical definition of what I mean as I insisted my biological make-up. "I'm a boy, look," I said, thumping my puny chest where no mammary glands grow. "A boy!" I repeated.
At this point, despite not having any success at my attempts to communicate with my apparently drunk insta-date--who, if I may add, has spent more time trying to know me than anyone I've ever gone out with ever, my charades on my reproductive system's functions seemed to have caught the attention of the bouncer. Strong, manly arms pried us apart, and began dragging my drunk face assaulter away, 20-seconds before I began considering building a life with this intoxicated stranger and his technophonic tongue. Perhaps we'd spend Friday nights watching Korean DVDs together, and I'd fall asleep on his shoulders reading the subtitle, and I'd wake up 15 minutes before the whole thing end and he'd catch me up on the plot so far, making things up as he go along, basically merging the plot of Rosemarie's Baby with Superman: The Return and an episode of The Nanny. I am a romantic that way.
Now, I'm considering writing the club management for a copy of that night's security tapes. Perhaps I could prove once and for all that I was savagely sexually assaulted by a man more good looking that I am. That way, my credibility would be improved, and I wouldn't have a hard time convincing people that I really was part of my university's marching platoon.
"Seriously, guys, I was a rayadillo," I insisted for what felt like the 35th time that night.
What was infuriating was that no one was contesting anymore.
Which gave me this crazy idea of a tell-all memoir. What if I come up with a collection of stories that REALLY happened to me, but no one would believe to be true? What if?
What do you think? Should I go for it?
Friday, September 16, 2011
Straight Boy Translator
My gay friend is having trouble with his straight boyfriend. Turns out, more than the vicious cycle of constantly passing the clap to each other, they're also having problems communicating. Brian talks swardspeak, and Owen speaks straight.
So, in an effort to help them out, I'm posting these frequently used words that might help them communicate on a more common ground.
"Pare, Dude, Tol, Brod, Bro" = "Teh, Vakluh, Neng, Bro"
Straight: "Bro, wag ka nang malungkot, pare."
Gay: "Teh, wa-i ka nang krayola dyaanchi, neng."
Discreet Top: "Girl, wag ka nang mag-cry, bro.
"SHIT" = "KEMERLOU, KEMBULAR, KEME-"
Use this as a filler for words that fall in between the cracks of language. When you're lost for words, use a filler. Regular people would use "ano".
Gay: "Mga kemerlou mo nagkalat sa kembular sa dami mong keme. Kung ano anong kemer-kemerlou kasi ang kakembularan mo eh!"
Straight: "Mga shit mo nagkalat sa shit sa dami mong shit. Kung ano-anong shit kasi ang ka-shit-an mo eh!"
"WILD" = "NAKAKALURKEY"
Straight: "Wild shit, pare!"
Gay: "Nakakaloka mga kemerlane, teh!"
"TUITION" - "iPhone"
Gay: "O, beh, eto na pang-Tuition mo."
Straight: "Pare, nakadelihensya ako ng pang-iPhone!"
"School Project" - "Rubber Shoes"
Gay: "Sige, kumuha ka na lang dyan ng pang School Project mo."
Straight: "Ayuz nga eh, mura ko lang nakuha tong Rubber Shoes ko."
"Medical Bills ni Mommy" - "Cellphone"
Gay: "O sige beh, hayaan mo, gagawan ko ng paraan ang medical bills ng mommy mo."
Straight: "Ayos tong bago kong cellphone, may apps na Twitter."
Any suggestions, Dear Readers?
So, in an effort to help them out, I'm posting these frequently used words that might help them communicate on a more common ground.
"Pare, Dude, Tol, Brod, Bro" = "Teh, Vakluh, Neng, Bro"
Straight: "Bro, wag ka nang malungkot, pare."
Gay: "Teh, wa-i ka nang krayola dyaanchi, neng."
Discreet Top: "Girl, wag ka nang mag-cry, bro.
"SHIT" = "KEMERLOU, KEMBULAR, KEME-"
Use this as a filler for words that fall in between the cracks of language. When you're lost for words, use a filler. Regular people would use "ano".
Gay: "Mga kemerlou mo nagkalat sa kembular sa dami mong keme. Kung ano anong kemer-kemerlou kasi ang kakembularan mo eh!"
Straight: "Mga shit mo nagkalat sa shit sa dami mong shit. Kung ano-anong shit kasi ang ka-shit-an mo eh!"
"WILD" = "NAKAKALURKEY"
Straight: "Wild shit, pare!"
Gay: "Nakakaloka mga kemerlane, teh!"
"TUITION" - "iPhone"
Gay: "O, beh, eto na pang-Tuition mo."
Straight: "Pare, nakadelihensya ako ng pang-iPhone!"
"School Project" - "Rubber Shoes"
Gay: "Sige, kumuha ka na lang dyan ng pang School Project mo."
Straight: "Ayuz nga eh, mura ko lang nakuha tong Rubber Shoes ko."
"Medical Bills ni Mommy" - "Cellphone"
Gay: "O sige beh, hayaan mo, gagawan ko ng paraan ang medical bills ng mommy mo."
Straight: "Ayos tong bago kong cellphone, may apps na Twitter."
Any suggestions, Dear Readers?
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Siege Malvar Presents
Gusto ko maging showrunner tapos mag-aadapt ako ng mga shows from abroad into local setting tipong
Lesbian porn medieval fantasy... "Game of Tungs"
Tapos mga JeJeMon na natuyo ang utak sa kakalaro ng DotA... "The Walking Dedz"
Tsaka yung mga baklang tago sa isang ad agency sa Makati... "Mad Mhin"
#random #shit
Lesbian porn medieval fantasy... "Game of Tungs"
Tapos mga JeJeMon na natuyo ang utak sa kakalaro ng DotA... "The Walking Dedz"
Tsaka yung mga baklang tago sa isang ad agency sa Makati... "Mad Mhin"
#random #shit
Ang Bagong Batman
May proposal ako, bagong pa-uso. Sawa na kasi ako sa "Bahala na si Batman." Well, kung di nyo alam kung saan galing yung phrase na yun, it's because Batman is Crazy Prepared in his previous storylines that whatever batshit he throws (like, shooting a Robin or liquidating the entire Wayne estate to hold a hostile take-over of an entire government) you know that he's up to something, and in the end, it will work out. Kasi si Batman yun, siya na bahala, may plan si Batman.
Anyway, naisip ko lang kanina, ipa-uso yung instead of saying "bahala na si Batman", sabihin na lang natin na "Bahala na ang pangakong pagbabago ni Noynoy." Mas poetic lang.
Application in real life:
"Tsong, pano kung ma-late tayo sa meeting? Malaking account yun, gago!"
Reply: Ewan tsong, bahala na ang pangakong pagbabago ni Noynoy.
"Anong gagawin mo pag nalaman ng misis mo na may AIDS ka galing sa katulong nyo?"
Reply: Siguro, bahala na ang pangakong pagbabago ni Noynoy.
So yun. Facing insurmountable odds, we should appeal to a higher power, and trust... manalig... magtiwala... na bahala na ang pangakong pagbabago ni Noynoy.
Anyway, naisip ko lang kanina, ipa-uso yung instead of saying "bahala na si Batman", sabihin na lang natin na "Bahala na ang pangakong pagbabago ni Noynoy." Mas poetic lang.
Application in real life:
"Tsong, pano kung ma-late tayo sa meeting? Malaking account yun, gago!"
Reply: Ewan tsong, bahala na ang pangakong pagbabago ni Noynoy.
"Anong gagawin mo pag nalaman ng misis mo na may AIDS ka galing sa katulong nyo?"
Reply: Siguro, bahala na ang pangakong pagbabago ni Noynoy.
So yun. Facing insurmountable odds, we should appeal to a higher power, and trust... manalig... magtiwala... na bahala na ang pangakong pagbabago ni Noynoy.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
VISPRINT TO HOLD EVENT FOR READERS AT SMX, MALL OF ASIA
Publisher of popular local titles to hold an
event for its readers featuring book creators in a one-day-only affair at the
SMX Convention Center, Mall of Asia.
VISPRINT, publisher of popular
book titles in the Philippines, is going to hold a one-day-only event for its
readers on Saturday, September 10, 2011. The event, dubbed as VISPRINT WIT:
WRITERS IN TALK will feature book creators—authors, illustrators, and all sorts
of storytellers—engaging readers in dialogues throughout the day.
“We’re really happy to be
doing this. Our readers have been asking for this for a long time now, so we’re
giving them what they want,” says Nida Gatus-Ramirez, Publishing Manager of
Visprint. “Our books creators will be holding workshops, and they’ll be around
the whole day to sign books and chat with their readers.”
Every title from the Visprint
catalogue will be on sale at the event at discounted prices. An upcoming title,
“DUMOT” will be on sale at limited stocks before it hits the bookstores
nationwide. Exclusive previews of upcoming titles (such as the much-awaited
sequel to Carlo Vergara’s ZsaZsa Zaturrna graphic novel, and the 4th
TRESE book) will also be on site.
Bob Ong, the publishing house’s
bestselling author, is running a social experiment called, well, “Bob Ong’s
Sowsyal Eksperiment”. Guests are invited to leave a gift and take one with them.
Any gift, any cost, any size. Bob Ong also ran a contest challenging readers to
match 9 anonymous facts about 9 authors from Visprint... prompting readers to
speculate that the elusive Bob Ong is about to release his 9th book
on the day of the event.
VISPRINT WIT: Writers in Talk
will be held at the SMX Convention Center in SM Mall of Asia, Meeting Rooms 7,
8, and 9, on Saturday, September 10, 2011. For more details, visit http://www.Visprint.net
About VISPRINT: Visprint is
the publisher of several bestselling local titles. Their catalogue includes
novels, graphic novels, collections of essays, non-fiction, comic strip
collections, and an award-winning title from Alan Navarra that defies all known
categories except that it’s a damn good one.
Some of their titles have been
translated into other media, including a musical, movies, and a short film.
These are: Ang Kagilagilalas na
Pakikipagsapalaran ni ZsaZsa Zaturrnah, Ligo Na U Lapit Na Me, and TRESE.
VISPRINT WIT: Writers in Talk
is the first of an annual celebration that aims to bring readers closer to
their favorite authors. For a complete listing and schedule of the
workshops/discussions, visit their website. http://www.Visprint.net
Sunday, August 14, 2011
0969-000-WANK
"I'm watching porn right now," said the gruff voice over the line when I picked up the call. It's 3 in the morning, and the caller ID says it was my friend Jayvee.
I flopped back to bed. "There's blood in my stool," I replied, thinking we were playing some sharing game with rules that we'd be making up as we go along. I decided I was too sleepy to play along. "Good night."
Jayvee called again. "Why did you drop the line? I said I'm watching porn."
"Are you... Is this a dirty phone call?" Jayvee and I had been friends since high school. Although the prospect of phone sex with another man is somewhat titillating, I had no intention of doing it with Jayvee who practically nursed on the same breasts that nourished me, which is to say, his mother, our 3rd year Chemistry teacher. Also, he was fat. I had always imagined my first phone sex with another man to be with Ryan Reynolds, or someone really old but ridiculously rich, like Hugh Hefner, or 70-year old me from the future on one of those time-crossing mobile phones of 2052. "Please tell me you're watching gay porn, because the only thing that would make this phone call weirder-er is if you're watching Slutty Slitz, and one of the Japanese lolita girls reminded you of me."
"No," he said, sounding disgusted. I was offended. Jayvee once had helped their dog masturbate, and for him to take that tone of disgust with the idea of having phone sex with me says something about how he perceived I would rank in his Fuckability Ladder.
I flopped back to bed. "There's blood in my stool," I replied, thinking we were playing some sharing game with rules that we'd be making up as we go along. I decided I was too sleepy to play along. "Good night."
Jayvee called again. "Why did you drop the line? I said I'm watching porn."
"Are you... Is this a dirty phone call?" Jayvee and I had been friends since high school. Although the prospect of phone sex with another man is somewhat titillating, I had no intention of doing it with Jayvee who practically nursed on the same breasts that nourished me, which is to say, his mother, our 3rd year Chemistry teacher. Also, he was fat. I had always imagined my first phone sex with another man to be with Ryan Reynolds, or someone really old but ridiculously rich, like Hugh Hefner, or 70-year old me from the future on one of those time-crossing mobile phones of 2052. "Please tell me you're watching gay porn, because the only thing that would make this phone call weirder-er is if you're watching Slutty Slitz, and one of the Japanese lolita girls reminded you of me."
"No," he said, sounding disgusted. I was offended. Jayvee once had helped their dog masturbate, and for him to take that tone of disgust with the idea of having phone sex with me says something about how he perceived I would rank in his Fuckability Ladder.
Monday, August 8, 2011
The Todo Seks Fitness Program (aka Mark Herras's Guide to Losing Weight)
Like any other person who went through a stack of Nancy Drew books as a teenager, you won't go blind from masturbating too much. In fact, in a recent Men's Health issue, there's no such thing as too much.
There is a co-relation, though, between sex and weight loss.
Alright, maybe there isn't. Yet. But one can easily be made when you think about how studies are pointing to intercourse as an effective calorie burner.
Sex is a physical activity. Locomotion and muscle action is involved. As such, when you do it over and beyond the act of reproducing your DNA, then it's technically a work-out.
Thus, one day, I went to our local gym, and proposed the most revolutionary work-out program ever deviously devised by yours truly. I'm calling it the "Todo Seks Fitness Program", and I would very much like it if Mark Herras can endorse.
Hitting a Landmark
Earlier this morning, I realized I've hit a landmark in my life.
I have achieved the eradication of my double chin.
I was masturbating to myself in the mirror when I noticed something was different. I looked more angular, and it wasn't because I was trying a particularly difficult vikram yoga position while banging myself with a spoon. After several minutes, it dawned on me. I have managed to lose enough weight to make my double chin disappear.
Yes, I know. I'm far from my goal of having the nubile body of a 17-yo college jock... beside me when I wake up every morning. But, this is certainly a step towards it. Through smart choices, intense cardio work-outs, and just a few lines of coke, I was able to achieve it. No visible abs yet, true. But at least my soft middle is no longer compartmentalizing itself into three sections when I sit to nibble on my toe nails.
So, with these recent achievements in my weight loss program, I've decided that I'm conceited enough to share a few tips.
I have achieved the eradication of my double chin.
I was masturbating to myself in the mirror when I noticed something was different. I looked more angular, and it wasn't because I was trying a particularly difficult vikram yoga position while banging myself with a spoon. After several minutes, it dawned on me. I have managed to lose enough weight to make my double chin disappear.
Yes, I know. I'm far from my goal of having the nubile body of a 17-yo college jock... beside me when I wake up every morning. But, this is certainly a step towards it. Through smart choices, intense cardio work-outs, and just a few lines of coke, I was able to achieve it. No visible abs yet, true. But at least my soft middle is no longer compartmentalizing itself into three sections when I sit to nibble on my toe nails.
So, with these recent achievements in my weight loss program, I've decided that I'm conceited enough to share a few tips.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Check it out...
Also, people are noticing my arm here. Awesome. High five, bitches.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
ABS Diary
Jogged yesterday with Angela and Uchi. Uchi and I incorporated the natural environs to our workout, doing crunches in elevated flat surfaces, doing pull ups whenever we'd see a bar over our heads.
I am currently 150+ lbs at my modest height of 5'7". That's classified as obese, says the last time I had our APE.
I am currently 150+ lbs at my modest height of 5'7". That's classified as obese, says the last time I had our APE.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Celebrity Ako, Yata
Recently, I gained a new Twitter follower: http://twitter.com/#!/ANTIChRISTYferm
Being a digital and social media guru, I was curious to find out who are these people interested in following my 140-characters-long ramblings. My modest following of 400-or-so are mostly people I know: friends, friends I've worked with, readers of my book.
Thus it is with such joy that I discovered my new Twitter follower to be a celebrity hater.
With a quick survey of his/her tweets, you'll know that the twitter account was made primarily to troll on celebrities, often giving snarky comments and replies to tweets by celebs.
And thus, being one of the few people he/she is following, I am flattered by this miscalculation of my influence. Certainly, I'm far from being as influential as the rest of the people on his/her list!
But
But what if I am?
What if this is that point in my life when people start noticing that I do have some considerable degree of influence? That with a simple tweet, I can sway a good number of people to make certain choices?
Oh, but these thoughts are too taxing. I think I'm going to rest now and eat DORITOS with PEPSI on my bed, as I think of ways to raise money so I an buy a new SAMSUNG GALAXY ACE.
Being a digital and social media guru, I was curious to find out who are these people interested in following my 140-characters-long ramblings. My modest following of 400-or-so are mostly people I know: friends, friends I've worked with, readers of my book.
Thus it is with such joy that I discovered my new Twitter follower to be a celebrity hater.
With a quick survey of his/her tweets, you'll know that the twitter account was made primarily to troll on celebrities, often giving snarky comments and replies to tweets by celebs.
And thus, being one of the few people he/she is following, I am flattered by this miscalculation of my influence. Certainly, I'm far from being as influential as the rest of the people on his/her list!
But
But what if I am?
What if this is that point in my life when people start noticing that I do have some considerable degree of influence? That with a simple tweet, I can sway a good number of people to make certain choices?
Oh, but these thoughts are too taxing. I think I'm going to rest now and eat DORITOS with PEPSI on my bed, as I think of ways to raise money so I an buy a new SAMSUNG GALAXY ACE.
ABS Diary 1
I'll be dedicating a good part of my Ego's Blog to the documentation and tracking of the progress of my abdominal development.
I got this brilliant idea from COACH, a special release from Men's Health Philippines. One of their tips is to keep track of your progress, so I thought, what's a better way to do it than publicly.
By tracking the development of my abdominals publicly, I'll be motivated by this age's strongest influencer: Peer Pressure. By subjecting myself to ridicule, to the public's ever critical eye, I'll be motivating myself to prove everyone wrong. That's just how my ego works, bitches. You bring me down, I'll only rise up.
So, there. This is my ABS DIARY ENTRY Numero Uno.
Current State: Around the area where a washboard should appear in a few months, loosely hang a pouch-like bodily formation. I have earned this pouch, and I have earned it hard. Now, to lose it, I'll have to push myself even harder.
How bad is the situation: My abdominal muscles are evident... But your imagination is required. So is your belief that it's there, yes, by god, it's there all right. You have to look at this pouch-like formation for a good quarter of an hour without blinking.
What I'm currently doing about it: For the past few days, my friend Angela and I have been jogging around the UP Academic Oval. We are regularly joined by various friends. People from our offices, mostly.
What am I aiming for: I want killer 6-packs, bitches. I want abs so mean, 17-yo college dudes would want to eat sushi off of it. I want your girlfriend wanting to rub her pussy on my abs, and by doing so, she'll be rewarded with the sensation akin to having the world's largest string of pearls running across her vadge. I want abs so kick ass, I can go to church shirtless and they'll all go, Oh, that's all right then, Jesus would approve. I want 6-packs so bad, Men's Health will have me on speed dial, and I'll be all, like, "Oh, this Thursday, you mean? Sorry, mate, I'm like busy with a pitch or a bitch or whatever's clever that day. I'm good on Tuesday for the cover shoot, but you have to pick me up from my office, and I don't want uglies on the set, I'm fuckin allergic to uglies, mate." And they'll be like, OH, all right, Mr. Malvar, our MH cover guy for July, we're giving in to your whims and all. I want killer abs so fuckin killer they'll kill killers, and people will go like "If ABS can kill, Siege's is the Jason Ivler of ABS." I want my abs on the cover of my next book, and people will be generally seeing me as piece of meat, thereby lowering their expectations, catching them off guard with my sudden bursts of brilliant eloquence and insight.
I got this brilliant idea from COACH, a special release from Men's Health Philippines. One of their tips is to keep track of your progress, so I thought, what's a better way to do it than publicly.
By tracking the development of my abdominals publicly, I'll be motivated by this age's strongest influencer: Peer Pressure. By subjecting myself to ridicule, to the public's ever critical eye, I'll be motivating myself to prove everyone wrong. That's just how my ego works, bitches. You bring me down, I'll only rise up.
So, there. This is my ABS DIARY ENTRY Numero Uno.
Current State: Around the area where a washboard should appear in a few months, loosely hang a pouch-like bodily formation. I have earned this pouch, and I have earned it hard. Now, to lose it, I'll have to push myself even harder.
How bad is the situation: My abdominal muscles are evident... But your imagination is required. So is your belief that it's there, yes, by god, it's there all right. You have to look at this pouch-like formation for a good quarter of an hour without blinking.
What I'm currently doing about it: For the past few days, my friend Angela and I have been jogging around the UP Academic Oval. We are regularly joined by various friends. People from our offices, mostly.
 |
| Shirtless and Swollen |
THAT's what I fucking want.
Yes, It's True
My ego is so fucking big, it has its own blog.
"Why do you need a blog for your own ego, Siege Malvar?" you wonder, because that's what you do, you wonder about my motivations, my intents, having no original motivations of your own.
I say, "meh."
SO, yeah. This is my ego's blog. I don't fucking care if you don't fucking read it, if no one does. I'm not even asking you to read my this in the first place. So fuck you if you get offended, this is my ego's blog, no one's making you read.
This is where I'll be dumping the most vapid of my thoughts, the shallowest of my concerns. This is like my brain's crap. Do you like watching crap? Are you fascinated by waste products? Then this blog's for you.
You can't possibly have an opinion of this blog that's WORSE than mine. This is the lowest crap of writing that I can possible produce, so if you call it crappy then you're reaffirming me, proves me right, which again, makes my opinion superior to yours. If you're here, reading this blog, and you're complaining coz it's crappy, it's shit, it's a waste of time, it's offensive, well guess what, I never said it's more than any of those in the fuckin first place.
So, yeah. Welcome. Read at your own risk, bitches.
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