I have a new post up on my new blog. Starting today, I am no longer going to post this updates to this blog. Please update your bookmarks. Or me hunt you down and kill you with belt. kthxbai
There are a few things I can consider myself to be definitively good at: Yeah sure I am good at alienating my friends by playing with my scrotum in front of them and sure I am good at getting free sex from young girls suffering from Down Syndrome; but if there's anything in the world I could consider myself an expert at, it's got to be Fast Food.
(Also, I lied. I'm not good at getting free sex from young girls suffering from Down Syndrome. In fact, this only happened once when my bestfriend JL's sister who happens to have Downs, mistakenly wandered into the bathroom while I was taking a poop. The rest, as they say, is history. Also, she cried so I have to give her 200 pesos to shut her up. So yeah, not free. Whatever.)
My adeptness with fastfood is fortified with such academic resilience that in the 5 years I was in college, I was able to come up with a detailed, 50-page white paper which analyzes which combination of McDonald's food items would give you more bang for your buck.
Now I know that two cheeseburgers at 35 Pesos each trumps a double cheeseburger at 69 Pesos as far as being filling is concerned.
I also know that McDonald's Katipunan uses Nestea iced tea and they prepare it in dirty plastic buckets where it is invariably spat on and stirred using the dirty hands of a pimply squatter store manager who graduated from NCBA in '98.
So, since then, I've been pretty much going with my killer two Cheeseburgers, two regular fries, large coke combination for my fastfood fix and I was more or less convinced that this combination is quite possibly the greatest food combination my Asian currency can buy. Until lately when I was introduced to KFC's glorious Garlic Chicken Steak.
For you people who haven't tuned in to local television programming for the past month or so, KFC is pitching a product called Garlic Chicken Steak and these steaks, depending on how much you value your health, can be the collective manifestation of how capitalist machinations are exploiting the public, or, in my case, HEAVEN ON FUCKING EARTH.
Why you ask? Well three reasons: 49 Pesos. Sizable chicken fillet smothered in garlic sauce. Coke.
Now I'm admittedly fat and celebrate everything that has to do with my being fat so you're probably thinking how such a modest amount of food can make a guy like me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Also, horny.
The answer dear friends, again, lies in combinations. Now the meal itself may not be much but throw in a regular Hotshots, two extra orders of rice, regular coleslaw and upgrade your drink to a large coke and you have something that costs a little over 120 Pesos yet is so fucking filling and so fucking good that one cannot talk about it without stopping to masturbate.
[I need a few minutes here]
[Ok]
This combination is so fucking awesome that sometimes I feel that there's a catch there somewhere. Like, I dunno, maybe you have to give up your soul or maybe your retarded brother when you order this combo because really, assloads of boneless chicken? Three servings of rice? Coleslaw? Large Coke? I mean come on people, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.(As I learned back in the summer of '84 when I was held captive by a bunch of Canadians and was forced to simultaneously eat, shit, drink and have sex three times a day for a year. Also, after they released me, I spoke Spanish.)
Anyway my first encounter with said combination was earlier at lunch. When the meal was served to me, I actually didn't think much of it. The garlic chicken fillet itself looks like a mishmash of something that resembles chicken, wood carvings and the piss of somebody who has hepatitis. But since I was so hungry earlier, I didn't let anything get between me and my food. Not even the fact that I saw one of the minimum wagers in the kitchen scooping rice and putting it on my plate with his bare, mangy hands.
But after I put the first spoonful of garlic chicken steak and rice in my mouth, I realized that my fortitude paid off as THE GARLIC CHICKEN STEAK TASTES LIKE WHAT CLOTHED SEX WITH JESSICA ALBA WOULD TASTE LIKE. IT WAS FUCKING HEAVEN!
In a matter of minutes, I was shimmying, happily mixing the contents of my plate and mashing it with my hands until everything looked like oat meal and eating the fuck away.
I got so into it that my officemates who were eating with me at that time probably felt a sense of envy at how happy I was with my food. Actually, envy or utter disgust. (In retrospect, it's probably disgust as I had my flaccid penis peeking out of my open zipper while doing all of this.)
So there, don't expect a lot of updates from me because I intend to devour as much of my killer Garlic Chicken Fillet combination as humanly possible and after the day ends, I'd stagger home so fucking full that I wouldn't have sufficient willpower to undress myself, pop in my Sarah McLachlan CD and take a shower as I stick two fingers up my butt; let alone, write a blog post.
So Adios fuckers.
I think I mentioned this in passing on my last post, but in case you don't remember, it was my dad's birthday last Sunday. I know I said I only got my dad a parrot-shaped lighter that makes bird sounds and lights up, but seeing that my friends, after reading my post, talked to and looked down at me with nothing but utmost disdain, I decided that my dad deserved something better than a contraption he could use to light dried cancer leaves.
So aside from the parrot lighter, I also treated dudders to an okay dinner at Burgoo and a movie date with mummers, my brother Ryan and my nieces Daphne and Nicole. Now, This might sound good in writing but if you have a father who'd rather eat cigarettes than eat anything with cholesterol in it, a mom who fakes an epileptic seizure whenever she sees a tab to be more than 500 pesos, a brother who has a predilection for stealing silverware and arson, and nieces who fight each other every 10 minutes; things could turn horrible very quickly.
Anyway, aside from the lighter, dinner and the movie, I decided to give my dad a…
Wait for it…
wait…
a little longer…
A BIRTHDAY CARD.
[I'll give you a few moments here to let that sink in]
Now I hate giving people birthday cards on their birthdays because first, they're incredibly chintzy, and second, like STD's, it's so hard to find the right one. But since I wanted to look all sensitive and make my dad believe that I actually love him even though I know I'm adopted, I went ahead and gave him one.
The thing is no thanks to the mighty triumvirate of being hungover, laziness and procrastination, I got around to getting him his card only an hour before we were all supposed to meet for dinner. Pressed for time, I picked up the only birthday card left in the convenience store close to where we're supposed to have dinner.
Sadly, the aforementioned card was a Disney Princess Birthday Card where cartoon illustrations of Disney princesses like Snow White, Jasmine, Ariel and Belle from Beauty and the Beast were printed in front of the card.
On the inside, it says "Picture a birthday that's bright and enchanted, Imagine your happiest wish being granted.Prepare for a day filled with magic and laughter, Followed by wishes-come-true ever after. "
Don't get me wrong, it's a nice card. But it's something one would give to a daughter or a younger sister and not to a man celebrating his 59th birthday.
To make things much worse, I decided to personalize the card a little, so using the only ballpen I could find in the glove compartment of my car (one with red ink), I wrote "Papa" under the image of Jasmine and "Michael" under Ariel's.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I feel REALLY sorry for my dad. All he ever wanted was a normal, moderately-successful son, and instead of that, he got a sexually/emotionally impotent son who gives him a Disney Card on his 59th birthday, a card that insinuates that he's an Arab Princess and him, a Mermaid.
So yes, I have demonstrated again how much I suck at life. And for this very reason, I am hoping against hope that I die early enough for me not to have any grown children lest a conversation like this happens:
My Future Son: "Papa, your birthday's coming up, what do you want me to get you?"
Future Me: "Hmmm, How about a shotgun? Our nextdoor neighbors are keeping me up all night with their stupid Videoke sessions, and I was thinking I could blast them all with a shotgun."
My Future Son: "I really don't think it's right to shoot people papa."
Future Me: "Yeah? Well I really didn't think it was right to ejaculate inside your mother when she told me she was fertile. But whatever. how's that bitch by the way? Is she dead yet or is she still going out with that Colombian drug lord?"
God, I hate my life. Can somebody just shoot me in the face right now? I'll pay.
After rereading my post about my absolute lack of financial direction, I had an epiphany. of sorts. The financial furrow I got myself into is worsening by the day and it is time to put a stop to it. And yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am going to start doing something about it.
After crying to my mom and going through a list of my itemized weekly expenses with her, we both concluded that my weekly immoderate indulgence on alcohol, cigarettes and (sometimes) prostitutes is what's killing me and it would really help if I could try and stay home on weekends instead of my usual routine of spending over 2 thousand pesos a night on beer and countless ladies' drinks.
So I yeah, I decided to give this 'staying at home on weekends to save money' thing a try last Friday. Instead of hanging out with friends after I got off work, I headed straight home, popped a Xanax and was knocked out by 10pm. I woke up around noon and ate three slices of Pizza for lunch then proceeded to nap from 1pm to 3pm. Conclusion: Sleep = awesomecakes.
But here's why this entire 'staying at home on weekends to save money' thing would never work: After I woke up around 3pm Saturday, I, naturally wasn't feeling hungover and actually felt kind of recharged. And with no sign of puke on my bedroom floor nor were there any empty cans of Century Tuna lying around my bed like they would if I got plastered the night before, I think "Hey since I didn't go out and spend money last night, I should go to the mall and spend money today."
Coincidentally, my band had a gig on Sunday and my bandmates and I were supposed to practice Saturday night, And since I felt like a winner on so many levels; two hours later, I was in the local music store with a brand new Fire Truck Red Gibson Epiphone on one hand and an authentic pair of Latin American Castanets on the other, thinking to myself "Spending over 12,000 pesos on these isn't that bad. I mean, if I drank last night, I would've easily spent over 2,000 pesos anyway! And using my awesome, infallible deductive reasoning, I got a new guitar and Castanets I probably have no use for for only 10,000 pesos! What a steal! Maybe I should drop 3 thousand pesos on booze and food to celebrate with my poverty-stricken friends later!"
God, I can't wait to have a family and watch them die of hunger.
Anyway, after spending close to 15,000 pesos in one day, I suddenly remembered that was my dad's birthday and I really should get him something. Now you see, my family never says "I love you" too each other a lot. We show our affection for each other by buying expensive gifts. My parents got me my first car when I was 18, my mom snuck in Vina Morales in my room when I was 20 but she and I didn't end up having sex because I can't get my bird up (This could probably because I was so into drugs at that time), so I just asked her to rub my flaccid manhood until I fall asleep instead (an incident which would forever raise my sexuality as a subject of debate within the family); and only two years ago, my parents bought me an expensive-ass stereo system for my birthday.
Well that's them. Because I am both lazy and perpetually broke, I've been giving my parents cheap goldilocks cakes (mom) and lighters (dad) for the past ten years or so. This is in no way a measure of how much I love my mummers and dudders because seriously, do you think I'd give the gift of fat to my mom and lung cancer to my dad every year for 10 years if it was? Exactly.
Anyway, this year, I decided to give my dad an expensive (150 Pesos), parrot-shaped lighter! It even makes bird sounds while its eyes light up when you use it! Yay me! Yay dad! Happy birthday! I hope you enjoy your cancer!
Also, I am not going to talk about what happened in our gig. I'll let the recording below do the talking, because really, it's so horrible, it's too soon for me to talk about it. Enjoy. Assholes.
First, a confession: The first time we met each other, I felt my heart skip a beat. I know this could easily be my cheese/cholesterol-encased heart's way of warning me that I am about to suffer a mild stroke but it could also mean that I, as with what I feel towards every girl who as much as looks at me, am madly inlove with you.
You're probably saying to yourself "Wait how could you say you're inlove with me when, besides our worsening alcoholism and addiction to cocaine, we have absolutely nothing in common?" Or less likely, you're probably saying "But you're Mike 'Fucking' Villar and you're famous and shit."
Well you can't be any more wrong. If you were Chinese, your name would be Helga Wrong and you would be living in Wrong Town. You see, we actually have more in common than you think. You and I enjoy (although clearly not on the same level because I am more famous than you are. I'm an A-lister, you're a C-lister. Think Brad Pitt, and I dunno, maybe that hobag petri dish of STD's who played Dr. Beverly Crusher in Star Trek: TNG) celebrity status in the local blogosphere.
Also because you're so hot and everybody wants to touch you all over, you probably get stalked a lot. Well I had my fair share of stalkers too. The first one ended up in homicide and the second one ended in awkward clothed sex in an inn somewhere in Cabanatuan City. Not my best moment but at least he taught me how to tie a cherry stem into a knot using my tongue.
Now since there is really no way to pussyfoot around this, I might as well go out on a limb and say it: I think we should date and eventually have wild animal sex.
I know you're probably thinking "But you're ugly and creepy! Besides, you're 25 and you're still dirt poor! Also, you're not in speaking terms with your parents!" And really, all this is true and I have no excuse. (Although, really, I've been trying to reach out to my mom. I mean come on mom, It's been 6 years since I attemtped to poison you and dad. Get over it!)
But really, I am not just some boring fat guy with a blog who spends most of his time sweating in his office cubicle whining about how someone should fix the air conditioning. Also, if we date and eventually have wild animal sex, it would be a win-win situation for the both of us.
It'd be a winning situation for you because obviously, I am great with making out as you already know after we drank last Saturday. So you know, I've got the making out part down pat, Sex is an entirely different animal but we shall worry about that when we get there. Also, I'm famous and stuff so our (short-lived, and violent) relationship will be touted as THE blogger hookup of the century and we will be seen as the Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie of the local blogosphere (Although, I'm fatter and more sexually aggressive than Brad. Nothing two lines of coke can't fix.)
It's a winning situation for me because…I dunno, maybe because I can touch you in all your fun places.
Trust me, when we start dating, everything would be pure bliss. We would live a life of reclusion for two years in a log cabin somewhere in Bulacan where I will feed you with my mouth, fatten you up a bit and if things go smoothly, maybe even grow your AZN boobs a little.
After two years of intimately getting know each other, being in love, domestic violence and over-eating, we will re-emerge and return to our respective careers: You, a Corporate Travel Specialist and me, a professional Cockfighter.
So that's all I have as far as my proposal would go. I am not asking you for an answer now, in fact, I want you to think about it. But please don't think about it for over a week because I fear of what I'll do to my brother (who sleeps beside me at night) if ever I don't get to touch a woman very soon.
Waiting for your reply,
While downloading Anime,
Biting my toenails,
and rubbing my bird through my pocket,
in the office,
Mike 'Fucking' Villar
Rising Internet Star
Mike "Fucking" Villar
"a Manila-based blogger made famous by his Atrocities of Friendster series, a regular feature he publishes on his blog where he mercilessly criticizes and mocks pictures of ugly people he stumbles upon on popular social networking site, Friendster. Although a lot of people are offended by what he writes, long-time readers of his blog regard him as a brilliant satire writer."
-Taken from my WikiBios page
