The Prophecy of Bill Davis

Friday, October 28, 2005

When I was a boy of around eleven, my parents came up with some sort
of behavior therapy technique called “Toilet water psychotherapy”. They
would grab me by the hair and dunk my head into a toilet bowl for two
minutes, and as my head was briefly yanked up for air, they would begin
foretelling the not so distant future. “In the near future, you can
send letters using the computer; look at naked ladies in the computer
and even write a diary on the computer; how neat is that? Also, you will come across a guy named Bill Davis,
who is like maybe an awesome religious guy who’d save your damned soul
Michael.” My mom used to say between my heavy gasps for air. “Your mom
is right son. She always is.” My dad would affirm as I flail my arms
around violently trying to free myself from his grasp and this insane
ritual.  

This harsh treatment was my parents’ response to a
stage I was going through where I simply refused to stop insisting that
I wasn’t merely a socially deficient grade school student but rather an
elite salesman from the future hired to sell something called a ‘Blog’.
I didn’t know what the fuck a ‘Blog’ was but I vaguely recall fantasies
I used to have involving me being employed with a company in a yet
undiscovered planet somewhere near Pluto. My dad often tries to snap me
out of this personality by asking me questions he assumed I could not
possibly answer like “How marketable is this ‘Blog’ thing you’re
talking about? What practical use does it have? Have you been rummaging
through my box of sex toys again?” He always believed that he was the
smartest thing in the world ever since that time he was watching Battle
of the Brains with me and my mom and he was able to successfully guess,
four out of five times, David Celdran’s first name. Asshole.

Now, twelve years later, my parents have foregone the idea of confining
me into a mental institution and are pretty much freaked out that I AM,
as a matter of fact, calling up strangers in distant lands using a
gadget called a telephone that transmits my voice over a strange thing
called ‘The Internet’, and selling them a mysterious thing called a
‘Blog.’ 

In those twelve years, two names stuck to my head:
The first was Mark Saracanlao, who was this guy who stuck his penis in
my ear when we were in High School in spite of my vehement protests.
Okay I didn’t really protest. And I paid him like two hundred pesos or
something; no, I think I actually paid him three hundred pesos but not without asking him for a blowjob. That’s the toothiest fucking blowjob I ever had that’s for sure.

The
other one is Bill Davis. Now who is this Bill Davis character whose
ambling into my meek existence has been prophesized by my mom countless
times? 

It is with utter dismay that I announce to you today
that I have, in fact, found Bill Davis and he is not the man I have
come to expect. For as long as I can remember, I have always dreamed
that our meeting would be grandiose; something along the lines of a
McDonald’s kiddie party (Outer space theme!); Bill wearing a fluffy
pink tutu and me arriving on a limousine, wearing very unflattering
white leotards. We will both feel compelled to say something but deep
inside we both know that if we did, it will ruin this magical moment we
have waited for all our lives. Instead, I will give him a subtle nod
and point to my crotch after which, he’d fellate me furiously while
humming ‘twinkle, twinkle little stars’. We will then proceed to eat McFlurry off each other’s mouths. Really awesome shit.

Alas,
life has this way of sneaking up on you and kicking you in the ass when
you least expect it. The way I found Bill was nothing close to what I
had originally envisioned. I found Bill through an email he sent to my
colleague Pete’s wife and he
wasn’t the deus ex machina my mom made me believe him to be through her
numerous divinations. He was actually a very sick, lonely American who
preys on unsuspecting Asian girls. Although this is the case, I do not
feel any morsel of anger towards him. It’s kinda like that feeling when
you’re younger and you think that your parents are the most immutably
good beings in the world until that one night you walk in on them
having sex on a countertop in the kitchen.

Traumatically
awkward I know, but I don’t hate my parents for it, pretty much the
same way I don’t hate Bill Davis; in fact, being the sex and
relationship expert that I am,  I feel that it behooves me to actually
help him out by tweaking this rather lame letter he sends around
through Friendster and MySpace. So Bill, my friend, I hope you read
this. (My comments in bold italics)

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