I mentioned a couple of posts back that I changed the title of this blog from The ID Configuration to The failures in life of Mike Villar: Rising Internet Star. Now, tell me if you think I did this just to look cool so I could track you down and beat you up with my raging fists of vengeance because I really am a Rising Internet Star.
Why Rising? Well let’s just say that my fame doesn’t get me recognized in bars and get offered free drinks by adoring female fans willing to fellate me until my little hooded champion gets chafed; but I do get approached by random people who tell me how they love my blog and how they never thought I was this unattractive and unfunny in real life.
So please, update your links.; and if you’re going to refer to me as something other than Rising Internet Superstar, please be a little more creative. Don’t be a tacky motherfucker and start calling me your "Blog Idol" because that’s just gay. Try something like "The Unhaver of consensual sex" or "The really fat guy who can move like lightning" or "That guy whose hair is thinning because he applies hair products too liberally." Come on people, this is not hard.
Now go away and have a good time stealing office supplies or whatever it is you do with your work days.
I have had it with my shrink. Sure, she maybe hot and all that but she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. For those of you who just tuned in, I am suffering from panic attacks and from what I was told during our numerous therapy sessions, the disorder is biological more than anything else. So no, I am not crazy—yet, and everything I’m experiencing is caused by an imbalance in my brain’s hormones or something like that.
The treatment would last 9 months at the very least and during this time, I will be taking maintenance pills that include anti-depressants, Benzodiazepines and a host of other anxiolitics which is, as with anything that involves regulated substances, is fine by me. But during our recent sessions, it seems that my shrink is systematically taking away every activity I love and enjoy:
Shrink: Hello Mikey! How are you feeling?
Me: Not too bad, not too bad, and yourself? [Copping glances at her chest while she’s writing stuff on her notebook]
Shrink: I’m great! Thanks. How’re the panic attacks? Any recurrences lately?
Me: Yeah, but I’ve learned how to deal with it—listen let’s cut to the chase shall we? I think it’s the drugs, they’re making me better. Can we like double the dosage so we can get the desired effect faster?
Shrink: Mike, there’s a reason why I prescribe regulated dosages of Xanax. Benzodiazepines can be really addictive and there’s a great chance that you’ll become dependent on them. Have you been taking it like I told you to? Every night at ten?
Me: Yeah, but you know what I found awesome? It works best when I pop one before guzzling beer AND another one before I crash into bed out of sheer drunkenness.
Shrink: …
Me: What?
Shrink: That is not healthy. And I recommend that you avoid any form of alcohol intake in the duration of this treatment.
Me: [Bursts into laughter]
Shrink: …
Me: You’re serious aren’t you?
Shrink: Yes.
Me: [Shifts uneasily in my seat] Waaaaaiittt a minute. Are you a real psychiatrist? Can I see your credentials? [Look of suspicion]
Shrink: Mike you don’t underst—
Me: No YOU don’t understand! I can give you a list of twenty people who are drinking more than I am and are doing perfectly fine. Now how much am I paying you again
Shrink: Eight hundred pesos an hour? But that’s besides the po—
Me: 800 fucking bucks an hour?! [Standing up] Do you know how many cases of beer I can buy with that? And not only will throwing an alcohol extravaganza make me feel a hell lot better but I can make my friends happy too! I can make a difference! [hitting my open palm with a fist for emphasis]
Shrink: Please settle dow—
Me: YOU settle down! Now either you fix whatever’s wrong with me right now or give me my damn drugs!
Shrink: Mike first of all, the only way to treat your condition is by religiously following the treatment program I made for you. Secondly please put your penis back in your pants. You’re only showing it to me so that I’ll touch it. You’re a grown man Mike! A grown man with an infant’s penis!
So yes, I’m breaking off my relationship with my shrink; and this decision is not solely based on the fact that she’s taking away the thing I enjoy most which is drinking, but also with the realization that I deserve something better for all the cash I’m throwing around for my condition. Paying 800 bucks an hour to take mental snapshots of a hot psychiatrist’s cleavage and masturbate to it at home aided by a picture of Tirso Cruz III I keep in my wallet isn’t worth it. Hell, I could add 200 bucks to that and get a mad, toothy beejer from my “girlfriend” at the massage parlor.
Oh my God, I’m crying.
Last time, we learned how dying could be an extremely pleasant experience. We all giggled at it’s inevitability; burst to guffaws at life’s ephemeral and transient nature; and gushed with the realization that our existence in this sad mortal coil is pointless.
Once you kick off, depending on which idol you worship, you’d either be on your way to the pearly gates, reincarnated as a table or be rewarded handsomely in the afterlife for crashing a hijacked plane into a building.
Long after you’re gone, your huge gambling debts and all the illegitimate children you sired will forever haunt your posterity and cause them generations upon generations of financial suffering.
There’s only one way to prevent this from happening: and that is through a last will and testament. Most people are unaware of wills until it’s too late and miss out on all the great merriment that comes with creating one. If you think making one is boring and not worth your while, let me show you my last will and testament and you’ll be dancing to a different tune in no time.
Heya!
If you are reading this then I am either dead or I have gotten so rich and famous that I’m faking my own death because I want to retire to a tropical island I bought where natives have constructed a granite altar in my honor and offer the blood of virgins in adoration of me. If the case was the former, Do not cry for me, for I have been dead a long time ago and my corpse is probably decomposing somewhere in the basement. Given that I am dead, I would like the following items executed because you know, this is my will and people are supposed to do what it says or I’m supposed to haunt you or something.
-Michael Joseph Villar
CEO(Just play along)
Mr. Brown has sicced enough literary abominations on the world and I want the UN or whatever to call a moratorium on everything he does that involves writing.
If you cannot get the UN to act, please send out an Israeli assasin and make him stop. Stop and suffer. He can do this by kidnapping him and cutting off one of his fingers everyday. Once he runs out of fingers, he can carve rough finger-like digits out of his palms. After he runs out of those, he can carve finger-like digits from his wrists. Do this until there’s nothing left to carve.
I know for a fact that you people are all for free biscuits, coffee or whatever but please do not have it over my corpse. I didn’t die or fake my death so I could be the reason for you to get together and gamble, get drunk or whatever the fuck it is you do on funerals. I refuse to lie in a really uncomfortable coffin in a church where people I barely know lie about how much I am loved and how great a person I was to my grotesquely disfigured and already rotting face. I get it okay? You hate me, and I hate you so don’t fucking bother.
Here’s how I want my body to be disposed of: Cremate me and sprinkle my ashes over Pau’s breakfast. I’m sure you guys’ll get a laugh or two from that.
I would like all my stuff to be buried with me to ensure that my relatives and people I owe money to can’t find them. Also, I might need money in the afterlife. I mean the Greeks used to place two coins on the eyes of their dead so they could pay the ferry guy to take them across Hades right? This is a sign that there’s trade going on in the afterlife. It’s probably going to be a long trip under a tunnel or something so when I get to where ever the fuck it is I’m going, the first thing I’d want would be a beer. Also, who knows? There might be souls of dead prostitutes whose services I want to avail and they’d let me have anal sex with them. Because God knows you never wanted me to stick it in there, future wife! I hope you’re happy with all the debts I left you and the kids. Bitch.
Don’t believe the rumors. I didn’t hang myself with a belt. I was murdered. Whether I deserved to be murdered because I didn’t give him the respect he thought he deserved or I got on his case for using funny photoshopped pictures too much is out of the question, but I’m pretty sure Coco murdered me. Hey, I’m dead and this is my will so JUST DO IT, he looks really weird and uses Adobe Photoshop 6.
It’s been about a week since I declared war against my obesity and promised you, the adoring public, that I will start working out again. The main problem is that much like Fascism, the fundamentals of my great idea sounds simple enough in theory: Put on leotards, enter the gym, run like an idiot for an hour on a stupid contraption called a treadmill which goes absolutely nowhere; go home and masturbate to the reflection of my greek god physique in the mirror. What’s difficult, as with most plans, is implementation. When I made the decision to stop being a fat bastard a week ago I really meant it; I really tried to go to the gym regularly.
Okay I did it once, like you assholes really care. I came in wearing a ratty old pair of basketball shirts, high-cut Chuck Taylors and an MP3 player thinking that looking different is "trendy." Much to my chagrin, the gym I intended to work out regularly out off is brimming with sultry sex kittens sporting their sexy spandex, pedalling on their cute little stationary bikes. And if you think working out in a room filled with beautiful, physically fit women while looking like a hobo from the 1980’s isn’t reason enough for me to yield; then maybe the fact that I know absolutely nothing about gym equipment is. The gym is full of complicated-looking contraptions and most of my time is spent struggling to figure out what it is exactly the contraptions do, sitting down on a bench, whipping out my clamshell phone and pretending to talk to a business associate to look cool, giving the machine another try, then finally giving up, walking away in shame as I subtly wipe the single tear rolling down my cheek.
So let me give you an update on where I currently am with this entire gym thing: Where I am is the sports bar where again, I am guzzling beer, enjoying a moment of immoderate self-indulgence and broadband Internet access. Here’s where I feel comfortable; Here I am among peers, and although I doubt if anyone of them would remember me when I bump into them where ever(Well they better; I mean picked up the tab didn’t I?), the self esteem I gained from this is more than what any gym can ever give me. I love this place, and I cherish every memory this place has given me that it has gotten to the point where I sketch the layout of the bar on a piece of paper at night and rub my bosom with it to sleep. I probably should stop now.
(The last paragraph sounds like a really bad speech, I know. Fuck you.)
–
Although I usually don’t reply to emails, I want you to know that I try to read all of them; sometimes I even print out the good ones and wipe my ass with them. But I feel that it behooves me to answer a few that I have gotten recently since I find their subjects rather intriguing. For some reason, people have been comparing me to Jessica Zafra . I don’t know much about Jessica; I know she’s a published writer and I know she hosted this talkshow with this autistic-looking DJ and this chick with an annoying accent; but other than that, she’s just another familiar-sounding name to me. The only thing we have in common is that we’re both famous (Just play along, okay?). Anyway:
From: Martin <martinjohn888@xxxxx.com>
To: Mike Villar <god@man-blog.com>
Subject: <none>
nice entry… mikey, you’re a threat to jessica zafra… 
I honestly don’t know what to make of this one. Does this mean that my writing prowess(which includes my immaculate grammar, my excellent command of comedic allegory, and my obsessive preoccupation with bulletpoints) surpasses that of Miss Zafra’s? I think not, because if this was the case, I would’ve been made a book offer already. Again publishers, my email address is god [at] man-blog [dot] com. My punctuation could use a little work and most of my ideas are unoriginal (and often plagiarized) but I can entertain for hours.
What Martin meant most probably is that I am a physical threat to Miss Zafra. Let me tell you a secret: I often blackout, and I’m known to do really strange things unbeknown to me. So I have three questions for Miss Zafra:
If you answered yes to the first two questions, I want you to know that I might be the father of the child you are bearing and I am willing to take full responsibility for it. And by full responsibility I mean I’m willing to give you two thousand pesos a month to stop bugging me; use the money for milk or gambling, I don’t care. If you, however, answered yes to the third question, I would like to make it clear that we haven’t personally met and that I don’t have any veneral disease(that I know of).
Now a question to myself: Is this post enough to warrant another restraining order?
Moving on:
From: Prozac <prozaczf@xxxxx.com>
To: Mike Villar <god@man-blog.com>
Subject: Great writing
For some insane reasons…you remind me of Jessica Zafra. lol
Unless Miss Zafra is clincally obese, has halitosis, dark underarms and likes to spend her free time slitting her wrist while listening to Sarah Mclachlan songs looped in her MP3 player, your comparison is baseless. She’s an established writer and I’m a moderately famous blogger. Such travesty.
Moving on to the not so awesome ones:
From: Lina Inverse <fatalblowjob@gmail.com
To: Mike Villar <god@man-blog.com>
Subject: PUT ME IN YOUR RETARDED EMAIL
Sir,
Personally i find ur account regarding friendster atrocities entertaining at first glimpse. However, it came to my senses, which i believe you have as well, that somehow the TITLEatrocities. There are several definitions that are somehow relative to each other such as "shockingly cruel act", "extreme cruelty", or "something very bad". Well, there are just people who wants to post themselves to be recognized by thier friends. Remember, this online activity is a way to bridge communication gap between people. There ain’t no atrocity or violence on that; it is thier art - a form of human activity - its just a way for them to express themselves that each and everyone of us must respect. I also know about certian mischiefs and anomalies in this activity such as hacking, duping and as of the like things which I believe you should consider as a form of atrocity.
You might think I was included in your list but still, I’m not. Yet, in your future works, it would be more pleasing to me if you would change the title "atrocity" to something funny even if your script is quite an insult. [If I would be included on that I would even email it to my friends]. Maybe you should try posting your own picture and let us see whether your looks are aesthetically pleasing that no one would dare to insult you
I know you wouldn’t reconsider my suggestion and prompt in an ordinary-one-word-reply, but just post it in your blogs as an retarded e-mail. Thank You!
^^ Ang akin lang naman, bilang tao, e tigilan mo na ang pangiinsulto sa kapwa mo… pero sa tingin ko nga you have your space [so much for your constituents] to degrade people, since i believe we are of different species, were human biengs and probably you’re Martians??? [dunno]
Aniwie’z, there’s no point arguing wid u though… We people, have the highest form of intelligence that is shown on how we express ourselves with respect to others… Sorry kung nagkamali ako dahil akala ko tao ka din… Nevertheless, I’m still impressed with the way you can communicate with us… But don’t think that with your lexicon, it puts you and me in the same level of genus… Definitely not…
*Make your next reply relevant and something that can prove your philosophical side… indi ung mga tanong n linihis mo ung usapan… Hahaha, I think di mo rin tlaga maexplain ung side mo… nevertheless, ill just try to understand it…
*Its nice to have a conversation with a different form of life…
*Sorry for my Bad English, I’m not literary inclined person
I’m sorry to say that I haven’t read this email primarily because there are only a few things shorter than my dick: and one of them is my attention span. Can somebody read this email and send me a summary?
And as a final note: VALIDATION OF MY FAME .
I have written before how I am suffering from panic attacks. I can’t say I’m all well now, but I’m coping. For those of you unfamiliar with Panic attacks, it’s basically a disabling episode wherin one experiences intense fear and discomfort.
The crux of the fear I’m feeling in my case is death. My episodes last no more than 30 minutes wherein I usually lose control over my general behavior and my emotions. During this period, I usually end up doing really retarded shit from running around naked to shitting on my hands and throwing it at passersby.
Also, I’ve been seeing a shrink who prescribed Xanax and a bunch of other anxiolytics (which I have been abusing and getting high on) to help me cope with the depression that comes with the panic attacks.
But in one of my therapy sessions, my shrink told me that the best way to treat my attacks is psychotherapy and cognitive-behavior therapy which involves recognizing unhelpful patterns of thinking and reacting, then replacing these with more realistic or helpful ones.
So given that thinking too much about death is what, most probably, is triggering my panic attacks, I shall now try to deal with this in a lighter perspective. Today I’m going to write about the wonders of dying. It’s a lighthearted article and is quite a pleasant departure from my usually serious articles about fat people and emo goth faggots in MySpace.
Also, the aforementioned shrink I’m seeing is hot and all but I can no longer afford her services given that I have been spending all of my money on drugs and my “girlfriend” over at the massage parlor. It’s no big deal really, my shrink doesn’t really do anything but sit there, listen to me talk about my aggrandized achievements, write stuff on her handy dandy notebook while biting her lower lip looking all cutsie and shit. So you, my friends from the internet, are going to be my new therapy. I shall go on and ramble about death like I know everything about it and you, in turn, shall leave comments about how great I am and how my grammar is immaculate. Please don’t let another moderately funny internet humor writer die! Read!
Death is the leading cause of dying in the world. It is the thing that happens after living and before becoming a zombie. There’re myriads of reasons why people die including but not limited to:
The common notion about death is that it’s inevitable and that there’s no escaping it. Death, in most cultures, is personified by a becloaked, disgusting old geezer holding a sickel called the Grim Reaper.
In truth, there is ONE way to stop death and it’s through a procedure called THE MELVIN. This is a very difficult procedure which requires great timing, a pleasing personality and stage presence. Allow fellow editor Pau and I to demonstrate how it’s done:
Mike: Dude!
Pau: What?
Mike: We’re dead!
Pau: To-hotally?
Mike: J-yeah.
Grim Reaper: [appears from a cloud of smoke]Did anybody. Say. DEAD?
Pau and Mike: THE GRIM REAPER! BOGUS!
Grim Reaper: Now follow me.
Pau: Where we going?
Grim Reaper: A place called hell.
Mike: Hell sucks! No way!
Grim Reaper: Yes way.
Pau: Grim Reaper, dude, your shoes are untied!
Grim Reaper: [Looks down at his shoes]
Pau and Mike: [Pushes Grim reaper down a cliff and into a lake of burning sulfur.]
Grim Reaper: [Wilhelm scream]
Pau and Mike: MELVINED! [Air guitar]
Unfortunately for the rest of you who are not blessed with enough awesomness to pull off a Melvin, there is no real way to make death fun. The best you can do is to stall it, try to accept it, and try to prolong your miserable existence in this mortal plane.
How do you do that?
So you see my friends, death isn’t that bad. It’s as much fun as walking in eternal damnation. Without legs! So yeah, go ahead and die now. 
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
