One of the downsides of being an internet star like myself is that even the people you work with read your stuff. Just the other day, my officemate Sanjay was reading my "Hi I'm Mike Villar. Please love me" post and he was laughing his cute little Indian head off which is the sort of reaction I want to elicit from my readers. One thing you have to know about Sanjay is that well– he's Indian, and he's kinda slow and he has moments where he'd just say the phrase "gay for Apocalypse" over and over. What a lo-hooser!
So anyway, he came across the word ululate somewhere in my post and being that he's slow, Indian, and he's undergoing chemotherapy or something, he let out a really weird-sounding grunt, said something about well, being gay for Apocalypse and asked me what ululate means.
Admittedly, I didn't have an exact definition ready so I dictionary.com'ed his Indian ass and confidently said "It means to howl, wail or lament loudly, I can't believe you don't know what that means."
Now, everything would've been perfect if I left it at that, but no sir, I had to pretend like I'm the chauvinistic alpha male/father figure/Indian God he's always looked up to so I said:
"That's what happens when I turbo fuck a guy in the ass"
After I said that, the Kid's face was a portrait of utter disillusionment. Kinda like the face I made when I was eight and found out that contrary to what my parents have been telling me, Papa Jesus didn't give that Red Rider BB gun I've always wanted since I was five even if I prayed every single fucking night.
Now I can explain. Even with my extensive training in American English, accent neutralization and my vast experience in helping Americans get rid of their pop-ups through the telephone, I still get my words mixed up sometimes; especially the "hims, hers, shes and hes."
I would've explained this to Sanjay but I had a gut feel that acting all defensive might cast more doubt on my sexuality. So, I did what I thought was best to redeem myself. I said:
"Anyway, I have to go now. My girlfriend is waiting for me downstairs. We're so going to make love tonight man, you know, because that's what straight men do–make love to their girlfriends. Like wild, sloppy animal sex and totally not gay."
I just hope he believes me. But he's slow so he probably will.
–
Also this morning, I was talking to Darren Rowse of ProBlogger.net fame. We were talking about the possibility of him doing a review for the Web App we're launching. Everything's going smoothly until I said:
"The product's on beta right now, but I could give you a Sneeekk peeek of what we're working on."
I fucking meant "Sneak peak". He hung up on me.
My good friend, Blazing Bulalakaws guitarist and the new TMB webmaster Marco Palinar asked me to advertise Fete de la Musique in this board. Since he's going to be responsible for doing the Man-blog design reboot in November (for free) I have no choice but to oblige.
So if you guys aren't doing anything on Friday, the 30th, why don't you swing by SM Mall of Asia and watch these great indie acts perform?
If you're lucky, you'd be able to catch a glimpse of Man Blog celebrities such as myself, Adam Mordo and former TMB site-guy Jolo Santos. And if I'm in a particularly horny mood, I'd even let you sit on my lap and have your picture taken with me. If you happen to be a really hot chick, I just might even ask you to give me a handjob.
Then we could have a grand time throwing soda cans at Slapshock while they perform!
ladies, remember that date I was teling you about last week? Well why don't you go to the salon, wear your favorite clothes and totally rock that layered hair you love so much because I, Mike "Fucking" Villar, totally blew it, which means I'm not going to be in any relationship anytime soon, and I'm available for you to take and rub to your bosom.
You might be asking "How can Mike possibly fuck that one up? That chick was so into him!" and I honestly do not have an answer for you because I too, am pretty surprised at how things turned out.
I mean, I had everything planned out. From the topics I was going to talk to her about on the way to the restaurant to the sustained tone of voice akin to somebody who's on a constant state of arousal, I was pretty sure it was going to be an easy lay.
I imagine myself sitting infront of her, stimulating that big erogenous zone of her's that is her brain by talking about Kant's Groundwork for Metaphysics of Morals; she'll be impressed. She'll start to utter murmuring sounds not unlike a pigeon while biting her lip; I'll feel and resist the urge to reach down my pants to pat my bird and beg it not to fail me this time.
We'll finish eating and depending on how much the dinner was, I may or may not pick up the tab. After a brief shouting match and a scuffle that will end up with me getting my left eye clawed out; crying, we will agree to spend the night in a cheap motel (One of those econo-fan rooms, because I'd undoubtedly be broke as a motherfucker at this point) and have something that slightly resembles sex, only noisier and with more cussing.
Sometime during this, she will remove her clothes and I will remove most of mine. I will insist that I keep my shirt on because my upper body's a ghastly cellulite and body acne mess. This would be a clumsy and fumbling affair, but she won't mind because she's too caught in the iron talons of passion; that and she's sort of feeling woozy because I spiked her iced tea with Ativan earlier.
I will perform the art of cunnilingus on her all the while keeping in mind the old sailor's aphorism "Don't be afraid to get your face wet." She'll begin to ululate and shake violently out of sheer sexual pleasure. Little does she know that it's not my tongue that's probing the depths of her womanhood, but rather the 18 year-old room boy's from Ilo-ilo I sneaked in the room earlier. While all this is happening, I'll be in the toilet, masturbating on the cold bathroom floor.
We will achieve the glorious heights of pleasure simultaneously–her via the bellhop's tongue, me via my calloused right hand. I will crash beside her in the bed and fall in a contented slumber. She will try to engage me in a pleasant post-coital conversation, she'll ask me how she did but I'll ruin it by doing something stupid like comparing her performance to the 1997 Houston Rockets or something.
I'll sit up, light a cigarette and wallow in a pool of my and my lover's liquids. She'll then take this opportunity to retreat to the shower and sob softly.
So you see, that would've been nice wouldn't it? But instead I had to be a total douche and generally send the date swan diving into the asphalt within three hours of us being together.
We were having such a good time too– having a sumptuous dinner at an Italian restaurant, flirting and generally enjoying each other's company. It would've been what one would call "a good first date" but of course, the five bottles of beer I downed caused me to feel all hot and shit and what, only hours earlier, was a very fun-filled, light-hearted conversation degenerated into one that is morally depraved. The wheels came off when the conversation below took place:
Kat: Mike, you know what, we should do this more often now that I'm based in Manila again. [I'm assuming she wants me to take her home at this point]
Me: But it's only 12mn! Come on Kat don't be a party pooper! I was hoping we could hang out longer.
Kat: What do you have in mind?
Me: Well,[thinking fast] I was hoping we could watch some band perform or something. Have a few drinks maybe.
Kat: You know I don't drink Mike, besides, haven't you had enough to drink?
Me: No, I'm not even tipsy yet [knocks over a bottle of light beer with my left arm] Fuck.
Kat: Well I'd love to, but my mom expects me to be home by 1am–
Me: Come on Kat! why don't you come up with an excuse? Just say you're sleeping over a friend's house or something..
Kat: Mike, there's always next time! [smiles]
Me: No there won't.
Kat: What do you mean there won't?
Me: Well…[thinking fast part 2], I'm going to Australia next month.
Kat: Australia? Why? And when are you gonna be back?
Me: I won't be back! that's the thing! I'm going to live with my aunt and she's gonna find me a marketing gig over there [Thinking fast part 3]
Kat: Oh. [sighs] okay, maybe we could hang out a little more then.
Me: Great!
Kat: But where am I going to sleep?
Me: Well…[thinking fast part 4] I'm feeling sleepy myself, why don't we like check in somewhere and just drink in a hotel room or something?
Kat: Excuse me!?
Me: You know, a hotel room? We could drink, and maybe we could share…
Kat: Take me home.
Me: But Australia is like…
Kat: now.
So you see, I totally blew it. But it's not that bad really. I mean at least I get to retain my title as the intarweb's sexiest person or something.
Also, I'm broke as hell because my frustration that night drove me to see my "Girlfriend" from the massage parlor, a decision that cost me close to 2000 bucks.
Oh god, please love me.
Last wednesday, my dad managed to con me into going with him to one of his night outs with his friends. Now, for more reasons than one, this does not bode well for me. For one, all my dad's friends are terribly old: I'm not talking about 40-ish old here but rather "DOM's whose faces look like they're decomposing and I'd have a grand night picking off maggots crawling on their arms old" . And while I do not have any problem with hanging out with people like these–actually, I don't have any problem hanging out with anybody as long as beer's flowing and as long as the venue offers ample amusement for me while they talk about golf, their grandson with downs or what not. Secondly, even if the venue turns out to be okay and the beer indeed free flows, I have work early the following day and if we're going to stay there after midnight, I'm going to end up terribly late (which I did, and I made up some really lame lie about me having an appointment with my shrink. My boss totally bought it. Sucker. Just kidding if you're reading this.)
As it turns out, my dad and his friends were going to hang out in some bar in Makati where 80's cover bands perform. I'm not going to mention which bar this is because endorsements in this blog cost money and because I sort of karate chopped one of the waitresses in the back of her head after I got all drunk and shit. So yeah, I might have a restraining order coming to me in the next couple of days, but let's just wait and see. Anyway, here are a few random observations I made about Makati:
Makati is sooo uncool
I haven't been in Makati for years now so I'm not familiar with the entire night scene culture over there. Apparently, correct me if I'm wrong, you can no longer smoke inside any bar in Makati. Now this fucking sucks; I don't know how you Makati brats do it, but I can't picture myself going on a night out without being allowed to smoke whenever I want, where ever I want. I can think of a few things that match the joy brought about by guzzling down beer while smoke from a newly lit cigarette suffuses the stale air around me. I mean this might sound lame but it sure beats smoking outside the brightly lit parking lot where people are free to stare and laugh at my ugly, acne-infested mug. I simply look better in the dark. And in photoshopped pictures with a lens flare somewhere.
Makati people are soooo uncool
I don't know if it's just the fact that I work in an I.T. company where I'm used to seeing everybody go to work wearing shirts, jeans and terribly unfashionable argyle socks or maybe it's because I simply fucking hate yuppies. I mean okay, sure, you go out and party wearing your expensive long-sleeved button down shirts and Armani ties; speaking in broken, bourgeois English that annoys me to no end; but it doesn't change the fact that, on any given day, I have more money in my wallet than you assholes do (just play along). So suck it! [D Generation X crotch chop]
Also, how can you have any respect for people dancing to Spandau Ballet while drinking chi chi cocktails on a wednesday night? That's probably the gayest shit I've ever seen. And you have the chutzpah to laugh at me because I was wearing an oversized plaid shirt with sneakers, listening to my MP3 player and drinking Red Horse? Hah! Happy Faggers day Lo-hoosers!
Makati chicks are soooo hot but…
They have the worst fucking taste in the world when it comes to men. My loathing for chicks who go out with men whose faces look like windows to everything ungodly is well documented on this blog. My recent night out in makati, however, served only to stir up my hatred. For a good four hours that I was observing people in the bar, I noticed that the chicks were going out with:
Now I understand perfectly why you girls want to party with caucasians. I mean, if there's anything women look for in a guy, it's definitely a big bird. Now caucasians are the kings of the big cock castle (So I'm told. Not that I would know). And even if I find this very shallow, I'm going to let this one go because the average Filipino male (myself included) is hung like a longganisa from ilocos. So yeah, whatever.
But what breaks my heart is seeing beautiful young girls getting it on with old, balding Filipino men. I think my soul wept when I saw one hot girl who kinda looked like Jaime King make out with an old geezer who looked like an extra from an old Rudy Fernandez movie. WHY!?! WHY!??????
…
…
[Wipes semen off the screen, puts bird back in pants]
Nevermind.
The highlight of the night
Okay here's the fun part. As I was downing like my eighth bottle of red horse and building up enough hatred and lust within me watching people have a good time; I received an SMS on my phone: It was Katherine. Now, for those of you who just tuned in, Katherine made a forgettable cameo on this entry. I'm sure you're too lazy to click that link, let alone read the entry so let me just explain what sort of "relationship", if you can call it that, me and Kat had:
Kat was a girl who recognized me in a college reunion during my early internet celebrity days. We flirted, we dated, one thing led to another, a fetus flushed down a toilet bowl.
I wish.
Actually, our relationship sort of ended on the first date. Well I guess it's all my fault really, having a chronic rockstar complex, I kind of preempted things by expecting her to sleep with me on the first date. The coup de grace was me reserving a hotel room and not getting to spend even one minute in it. I guess all I'm saying is that I've been a total douche. But her message totally blew me away:
Hi Mike! Are you at work? Let's meet up! I miss you so much!
I'm not going to bore you with details of our text conversation but I can tell you that I'm going out with her again this weekend. From the look of things, this has all the signs of a mind-blowing booty call. So yeah, uncle Mike's gonna get some poontang and have a wild pantless popsicle night and he wants you to go apeshit with envy!
Last weekend I randomly decided to pack my bags and go with my family and another family (whose kids are my best friends) on vacation to Subic. The thing is this trip means that I need to ditch the company outing we were supposed to have, coincidentally, on that same weekend. My boss says that this might send a wrong message and that in a lot of companies, Marketing people and engineers rarely see eye to eye and that my absence might lead them to think that Marketing people are nothing but a bunch of highbrow, overpaid primadonnas. Now this would’ve been fine if at least one of the people in my department are going but each of them have their own vacations planned out for the long weekend.
Now for the record, I want to say that my absence was neither a choice nor a statement. My presence on the trip was nothing short of being mandatory given that I’m the only person in my family who:
Besides, engineers, don’t we see each other everyday? Don’t I pester you for every small bug that comes up? Don’t I verbally abuse you when you couldn’t get the job done in time? Don’t I cry and run back to the safety of my cubicle (seeking the relative comfort my blog offers. More often than not while crying) whenever you retaliate and throw inappropriate remarks about my incompetence and my weight? So pardon me for seeing vacations as times when, for a couple of days, I could escape the monotony of my everyday life, relax and try to pick up fragments of myself which I, over the last few stressful months, got lost drudging through the routine that is work. How can I do that if I’m with you nerds even on vacation? How can I do that when every time I see you, I get reminded of work, JavaScript (or some other nerd programming language) and that burnt wire/onion/turpentine-like scent you reek badly of?
Anyway, if it’s any consolation to you guys, I didn’t really enjoy my vacation much. In fact, I didn’t enjoy my vacation at all and I’m going to tell you why:
My paralyzing bouts of panic attacks and road trips don’t mix
Long time readers of this blog know how I’ve been suffering from paralyzing bouts of panic attacks and that how I recently broke off my relationship with my shrink. I can say that this move has done me a lot of good but that’d be similar to me saying that "Mike Villar can walk up three flights of stairs without panting like a motherfucker" or "Mike Villar has had consensual sex with a non-deceased person over the last two months." Truth of the matter is, my condition has only gotten much worse. My shrink told me that benzodiazepines (which is a maintenance drug I used to take regularly) are very addictive and abrupt withdrawal from them could cause my condition to come up from behind and kick me in the ‘nads when I least expect it. True enough; the withdrawal symptoms I’ve been experiencing are about ten times more intense than my original condition.
The good news is that I’ve learned how to control and deal with my episodes. And by “control and deal with my episodes” I meant I got some junkie girl I used to date to write me fake prescriptions so I could score large doses of Xanax and pop them liberally at the onset of an attack.
The problem is that on a long road trip where you ride shotgun and all your eyes are exposed to are hours and hours worth of open road and depressing country scenery, you can’t avoid thinking about death. For those of you who don’t know, the thought of death is what primarily triggers my panic attacks. Being the anxious fat guy that I am, you could only imagine how torturous the entire trip was for me; shifting uncomfortably on my seat, secretly popping pills while my brother plays terrible rap music on the CD player.
At one point of the trip, I have enough benzodiazepines coursing my bloodstream that I was having really weird hallucinations of me riding an obese unicorn, wearing only a bath robe and bunny slippers, yelling “We built this city!” or something really stupid like that.
Also the car’s AC was acting up and it was fucking hot. Terrible.
There’s something terribly wrong with my bird
I don’t know if it’s from holding in eight cups of coffee I drank prior to going on the trip or if I contracted some sort of venereal disease or something from having sex with my "girlfriend" over at the massage parlor but there’s something terribly wrong with my bird. I learned about this on one of our many stop overs at one of the gas stations on NLEX. I rushed to the restroom and grabbed my bird and whipped it out. To my surprise, my bird shot two streams of urine. It was uncontrollable; the other stream was wetting the wall to my left and the other one shot down at a weird angle and was wreaking havoc on my right leg. It’s not that I haven’t experienced this before, but what troubles me is that I feel a tingle of pain after I’m done with my business.
I’m sure some of your are doctors or something, help a brother out here! Does this mean that I have some sort of STD? (Again ladies, for untamed, animalistic fun, my email address is god [at] man-blog [dot] com)
My bestfriend JL is a total douche
For those of you who don’t know, before Subic was pumped in with billions of dollars worth of investment and before it was turned into a freeport, subic was home to the US 7th fleet. So you could imagine how many products of some sucky sucky 2 dollar loving came forth from all years and years of American sailors spending their passes on Brothels surrounding the base.
So yeah, there are a lot of caucasian-looking mongrels walking subic and for someone like me who’s not so used to being around white bois, my instinct was to talk to them in English. This would’ve been fine hadn’t my bestfriend been totally drunk most of the time and much to my chagrin, been making a total ass of himself. Check this conversation out:
Me: [buying a pack of cigarettes at a local sari-sari store with a caucasian guy behind the counter] Um, sir, I need three packs of Winston Reds
Whiteboi: Teka tignan ko lang kung meron…
Me: [Surprised] So you speak tagalog pala
Whiteboi: Oo naman…
JL: [Emerges from the van after taking a leak on the wheel] Hey Joe!!!! Sopi man!
Whiteboi: [kinda irritated] 60 pesos po lahat [handing me over the cigarettes]
JL: [Doing the Dgeneration X crotch chop] Suck it meyn! Sopi Joe! Sopi!
Me: [paying, walking back towards the van. Holding back tears]
Subic just plain sucks
This might make me sound like a snotty sonofabitch but if there’s one thing I learned about this entire blogging thing is that an effective way to drive traffic and readership is that it’s okay to alienate a demographic if doing so entertains a larger demographic.
Me believing staunchly in this maxim is the reason why gay people and people with down syndrome hate me so much. But hey, I’m famous! So you know, suck it!
Anyway, at the risk of alienating readers from Subic, I’m gonna go ahead and say that Subic sucks hairy balls through a straw. It’s a quaint little city where there’s nothing much to do but shop for surplus American clothes and chocolates. The beaches aren’t all that as well; the sand is rough and coarse plus the water reeks badly of oil for some reason.
Also the resort we stayed in was this swanky mediterranean-inspired club and nobody was really there but me and my party.
I mean at first I thought that having an entire beach/club to yourself is awesome but it gets boring after a while. Kinda like a movie about talking dogs, at first you think a movie with talking dogs in it would kick ass but they always end up horribly wrong.
So yeah, at first I thought "Hey cool! I’ll have an entire beach to myself! I could lie around under the sun all day without having to get distracted by people laughing at all the cellulite on my legs or people looking at me with unsophisticated wonderment because I’m playing with my uncircumcized bird while singing Spandau Ballet songs" But my entire stay in subic was about as entertaining as watching paint dry.
So yeah, enjoy your weekend fuxx0rs!
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
