For those of you who don’t know, the world is on the brink of a nuclear war. And while this entire thing might sound as generic as the plot of the next Tom Clancy book, the threat, ladies and gentlemen is very real.
Early this month, our communist friends over at North Korea started test-firing nuclear armaments including Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles. The United States condemned the tests as provocative and is putting pressure on other world powers to bring North Korea back to the negotiating table.
Kim Jong Il however remains steadfast and was quoted sayig “Pipapripapap ripapapa papapriipipipippipi” which when translated to English means “North Korea henceforth, will no longer only be known as the world’s top exporter of Kimchi and awful haircuts, but will go down in history as the rogue state that held the world hostage via nuclear blackmail.”
What’s bothering me however is the apparent apathy the government is exhibiting. By now, the government should be offering guides on how to survive various forms of nuclear assaults considering the proximity of our country to North Korea and how easily one of their missiles can erase our country from the face of the Earth.
I don’t know about you guys, but I am determined to survive this impending nuclear holocaust threatening our proud nation. I have decided to put my vast resources and my team of scientists to the task of compiling realistic methods for us to survive the nuclear holocaust that may or may not await us.
The first thing you have to ask yourself is whether or not that explosion you saw was indeed a nuclear blast. Now if the huge ball of heat you see is even slightly hairy, chances are you are a faggot and you are looking directly at my giant left testicle.
However, if only seconds after you saw the giant incandescent ball of heat and radiation and you go blind then feel searing pains in random parts of your body, then that my friend is a nuclear blast. Your loss of vision could be attributed to the fact that the radiation just burned out your iris and the pain you’re feeling throughout your body is the all-consuming burst of radioactive fucking death that expanded from ground zero and has made its way to you, demolishing buildings, turning wrought iron to soup and disintegrating the flesh and blood of millions of civilians in the process.
Also, bear in mind that the effects of a nuclear blast might not be instantaneous. A nucleaf blast often scatters deadly clouds of radiation hundreds of kilometers above the point of impact. It’s really hard to say exactly how radiation affects people, but most of the time, it will take days before all your hair falls off and you start to vomit blood and intestinal linings through your nose. Mutation might also occur and it’s very possible that when you emerge from your nuclear bunker, you’d look like this:
Unlike earthquakes, hiding under the table or a doorframe wouldn’t suffice. If you watched enough Rambo in your lifetime the best way to survive any fiery death is by submerging yourself in water. If you have a swimming pool, put on your favorite pair of speedos and immediately dive into it. With enough luck, the defilade created by your swimming pool will protect you from shrapnel and debris and the water would provide you with temporary protection from the heat.
This will serve to prolong your otherwise doomed life and force you to bear several minutes of unworldly pain as the water around you boils and your skin melts to reveal your internal organs which are just about ready to fly apart.
Although unproven, the effects of nuclear radiation can go as far as turning an entire city into a legion of undead mutants who feed off the guts of non-mutated survivors.
These are who you want to hang out with, nevermind that you’re not mutated yourself because, mark my word, you are doomed anyway. Superglue doll appendages to your head and follow the roving legion as they pillage the burnt, forlorn streets of your once great city to feast on the guts of survivors unfortunate enough to be outside after dark.
If you’re lucky enough to survive a nuclear blast, never discount the possibility of chemical agents suffusing the air you breathe. With this in mind, you have to find a way to filter the air you take in by creating a makeshift gas mask.
There are numerous ways of going about this like getting a plastic bag and putting it over your head while securing it by tying a rubber band or belt around your neck.
Doing this might cause you to experience nausea and eventually, weakness. Worry not, because this means that the plastic bag is working hard to protect you! You might feel the urge to pass out and begin to hallucinate or see the world around you dissolve into one surreal dream of rivers of blood, vibrating metal tentacles and giant squirrels with penises on their foreheads. It’s okay, go ahead and take a nap and wait for Jesus to wake you up.
It's been a year now since I first started blogging and this blog has become witness to my slow, painful ascent to internet semi-superstardom. My first few months of blogging was spent chronicling my then fresh heartache involving my then girlfriend leaving me for a romantically alluring middle-eastern shiek whom, I found out, was very rich and had an elegantly shaped penis with a spur that latches on to a girl's uterine walls during intercourse. Okay, I made that last part about the penis up, but I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I hope you're happy with your hairy Arab guy and I hope you're getting sexed enough because I am getting more sex than I can handle. And not just normal sex mind you, but like mindblowing, hardcore threesomes with some of the country's hottest amateur masseuses. You bitch. (Please note that the part between "And" and "masseuses" is entirely false. You know, just in case my new girlfriend "#24" is reading this. I love you baby, and I want you to know that your rough, calloused hands has touched my bird in a way nobody else ever has.)
I don't know exactly how it happened, but like four months into this entire blogging thing, I found myself the darling of the third world's blogosphere. It wasn't long before the press started referring to me as "A rising internet star" and "The Hardcore Masturbinator" (by "press" I mean "me" and my friends and officemates whom I have bribed and/or harassed).
I am happy with whatever little fame I have at the moment. You see, being a rising internet star allows me to live a low-profile life yet still enjoy the occasional perks my celebrity status offers. I could still pretty much get myself wasted in any bar, break a couple of bottles, indecently expose myself, and get beaten up by the bar's staff, all without my face being plastered all over the local tabloids.
Just the same, I enjoy the sporadic instances when I'm in a party and I'll be introduced to a random guest as "the guy who came up with The Atrocities of Friendster series" (seriously guys, these are not even my best articles. Get over it) and they'll be all like "Oh really?! I love your site! I used to read it everyday until your writing got all soft" and I'll be all warm and flighty inside. Then I'll feel terrible when I overhear them a couple of minutes later saying:
Guest 1: "You see that guy over there? He's supposed to be this famous internet star, he wrote that entire Atrocities of Friendster thing."
Guest 2: "Really? Wow, I love his blog. Although, I never thought he's that unattractive and unfunny in real life, not to mention fat. Oh my God, is he okay? He looks like he's gonna have a heart attack."
Guest 1: "Or a seizure. I think his mouth is frothing."
Guest 2: "Let's get out of here pop some E and make out or something, what say you?"
Guest 1: "You know it!"
Also, the fact that I'm famous makes for a good pickup line. I have this habit of telling every woman I meet just how famous I am hoping they have questionably low morals, and in hopes that they'd let me finger fuck them because you know, girls are suckers for famous people. I haven't had any luck on this yet because more often than not, this is what happens:
Me: "Well you know, I'm sort of famous in the internet. My blog gets like 4,000 unique hits a day. I actually wrote a post about you this morning, why don't you check it out?"
Girl: "First of all, I don't even know you. Second, What the hell is a blog?"
Me: "A blog's like an online journal, and I wrote about you on it."
Girl: "That's kind of creepy."
Me: "Yeah, so can I buy you a drink?"
Girl: "no."
Me: WHY DO YOU FEAR WHAT YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!!!? [being held down by like four security personnel, crying]
Recently though, I found a way to sort of balance my internet fame and my real life fame. Remember when I told you guys about my dream of being a musician? Well I sort of found a way to make that happen. You see, I was having a drink with some of my old friends in the neighborhood and we decided to start a band. (A real band with guitars and shit. Not a girlband)
For those of you who don't know, I'm a pretty decent guitar player and I was dubbed the "most entertaining vocalist" in my high school. I don't know if being the "most entertaining" translates into having an inkling of talent but that should do.
The problem is that the band we're forming is a total genre shift from what I have gotten accustomed to. When I first started playing the guitar back when I was 16 (3 years ago), I played really easy songs from local bands like The Eraserheads, The Teeth, The Youth, and other cheesy-ass bands. After years of playing, my fingers which at first, weren't flexible enough to form the most basic chord patterns steadily developed into limber animals that moved about frets with such grace and fervor. My once weak wrists which had problems holding down 6 strings simultaneously to form barred chords became strong and steady thanks to the training they got from furious, ambidextrous masturbation.
I found myself playing more complex songs and thanks to my newfound coordination, I became the frontman for a three-piece grunge band called Nirvana.
Anyway, the problem with my band right now is that I'm not playing the guitar. They want me to fucking sing, which would've been alright if I am to sing songs within my range (like my hits: All apologies, Lithium, and Smells like teen spirit), but they want me to sing fucking Trash Metal.
What the fuck.
Anyone who has heard my voice knows that I cannot possibly pull that off, unless of course they want a Trash Metal band who has a vocalist who sounds like Joe Pesci.
Well it's too early to tell. But stay tuned for updates, because I might be the first person to successfully transition from being a famous blogger to a rockstar.
Also, if you have suggestions as to what we should name our band, email me at god @ man-blog . com; because seriously, the names I have so far suck:
Well just email me dammit. You owe me that much.
Today I celebrate my 10th anniversary as an internet denizen. This same day back in 1996, I got myself my very first internet plan for around 300 pesos a month. This package gave me 3 hours worth of internet time, 2 email addresses and 2MB of disk space to use as a sandbox for my fledgling HTML skillz.
The internet culture of 1996 was pretty much uniform in composition. Almost everybody was into IRC; everybody had their own stupid Geocities homepage; and everybody’s, mine included, favorite internet activity was downloading high resolution Pamela Anderson photos and using it as their desktop wallpaper. This, if I may, add was a very painful process which is about as enjoyable as covering a picture from a magazine with typewriting paper and moving it about an inch per minute, little by little revealing a portion of the picture.
Now it’s 2006 and the internet has gone a long way. The Internet is no longer homogeneous. In fact, it now consist of hundreds of variying quintessences and dozens of subcultures. Blogging alone has a plethora of subcultures waiting for us to explore and make fun of. (Actually we already did: here and here) This time, we’re going to turn our discerning gaze towards the people who make blogs so goddamn successful—the readers.
Now I don’t have enough the time, let alone, the patience to describe all the types of people who view blogs for you so instead, I will do my best to make this a passable article and attempt to divide people who read blogs into three main categories.
Man Blog type readers can be best described as highly cultural and intellectual—highbrows if you please. Man Blog type readers are usually in their mid 20’s to early 30’s making them somewhat the content connoiseurs of the intarwebs.
These people have spent a good part of their adolescence beating off to articles from somethingawful and have , more or less, developed a keen judgment on whether or not your blog’s content is worthy of their time.
Write about how your girlfriend broke up with you and these readers will call you a “fagort”; post what you think is a funny youtube video on your blog and they will again write “fagot” on your comment box; this time in big red letters.
Try posting what you think is a funny picture forwarded to you on your blog and these readers will systematically take away whatever desire to ever blog again remains in you by saying “Hellloooooo! 1997 called and it wants the goatse guy’s picture back you stupet fagort!”
Why don’t you post a picture of a hollywood celebrity you find hot on your blog and give these readers more reason to call you a fagort? Nevermind the fact that the average Man Blog type reader is a 30 something virgin still living with his parents, they have an uncanny ability to spot or cobble up hideous physical flaws in the most beautiful of women.
Also, bear in mind that writing about music does not work if you are targetting this demographic because these readers have, most probably, heard of whatever awesome band you’re thinking of writing about years before you did.
We’ve discussed pundits before and this group of people are not much different. These bleeding heart critics will jump at every chance they could get to cram shitloads of their political bullshit into everyone’s throats.
These people, like the Man Blog type readers are very hard to please as their political beliefs have been tempered through years of reading and posting combative politcal topics over at bulletin boards like pinoyexchange
Fortunately for the rest of us, these types of readers are either ignorant, all-rhetoric losers or just bad tempered kids who developed an anti-oppression political belief system because they were made fun of a lot because they peed sitting down.
Morans make up the individual atoms of the internet’s vast ocean of stupidity. Of the three types of blog readers, they are the easiest to please.
You could go on posting some really boring shit on your blog like how you think Super Saiyan Son Gokou is sexy, post a picture of your dog or whatever the fuck you mediocre bloggers post to pollute the internet with your lameess—It’s all the same to the Morans; they’d still comment on how “nice” your post is and how “you should visit their blog.”
Sadly, 70% of the internet is made up of these morans and the feeling of quasi-appreciation that owners of lame blogs get from these people and the misguided tolerance these types of readers have towards lameness are the primary reasons for the proliferation of substandard content on today’s blogosphere.
By now, you guys probably know about my friend Marco. For those of you who don’t, Marco is in a band and from what I can tell, being in a band entails having two of the most awesome perks in the whole fucking world: 1) Performing in fuckloads of concerts, being gawked at by random Marikina Orcs (a term I use to describe those scummy-looking kids from Marikina; you know, those who wear ratty old jeans with black band shirts of some random Emo band. Also, I’m really not sure if they’re from Marikina but who the fuck cares?) 2) Having the privilege of dragging your friends to the same concerts and have the same orcs gawk and throw silly, offensive remarks at them.
Case in point: Last Friday’s Fete de la Musique 2006 which was held in the SM Mall of Asia in Pasay city. Fete is supposedly one of the most anticipated musical event in the country and apparently is the one single day when all the smelly Marikina orcs scrounge up a few bucks from their parents, liberally apply hair product on their hair, rock their decrepit skateboards and troop towards that loud source of music like stoned, foul-smelling lemmings dude pare chong.
Anyway, I was backstage waiting for Marco’s band to come up on stage, totally rocking out to the music of other great indie bands, scoping out the field for chicks who look like they have questionably low morals and who look like they’re going to let me stick three fingers up their heinies if I tell them I’m like part of a band and they should totally do me because fucking musicians makes them cool or something; when I had an epiphany— a revelatory, intuitive realization that would forever change how I live my life…
[blank space for effect]
I want to be a musician.
[blank space for laughter, tears or whatever]
No seriously, I want to be a fucking rock star man. I mean, I think it’s a sound idea. I’ve played numerous gigs when I was in my sophomore year of High school and I’m a semi-talented guitarist/singer who occasionally impresses girls with my repertoire of Righteous Brothers and Madonna songs.
So yes, if I put my mind into it, I could definitely make it big in the rock scene. The problem is my musical taste has evolved a lot since high school. Actually, nowadays, I find rock music too loud, angsty and pretentious. And I know a lot of you would probably stop reading this blog after I say this but what the hell, I find myself listening a lot to girl groups.
I don’t know what the fuck happened, but every time I hear Destiny’s child’s Cater to you play on my music player, I get all warm and flighty inside.
In my head, I envision my old high school’s amphitheater filled to the brim with proud parents for the yearly foundation day exercises. I imagine my dad sitting beside my mom, camera in hand waiting for his eldest son to do him proud. I then picture the curtains parting and I’m standing there, barely visible through the smoke and colorful lights.
I step up with two girls to the microphone and bust a wicked impression of Beyonce Knowles, complete with a skimpy gold dress:
Let me cater to you
Cause baby this is your day
Do anything for my man
Baby you blow me away
I got your slippers, your dinner,
your desert and so much more
anything you want just let me
cater to you. Insipre me from
the heart, can't nothing tear us
apart…
At this point, I could imagine a single, silent tear rolling down my dad's cheek but it's not because of my vocal range or what I have achieved in such a short span of time but rather because of the realization that somewhere he failed as a father. He failed so miserably that his eldest son is now on stage singing a song about fetching the slippers of a balding 40 year old wife beater with a bunch of skanky high school hoes.
Christ I'm crying.
A lot of people ask me how it feels to be overwhelmed by a deluge of both praise and hate mail. Well, it’s indescribable really: You know that feeling when you take a dump, look down the bowl and you see a huge-ass turd? It’s like that. You feel fulfilled but at the same time, dirty.
I mean, how would you feel if you get emails like this everyday?
You emulate a young kid who teases his classmates nothing more than “pangit ka.” Very immature indeed. Anyways, you did get a lot of comments from readers for your article.
Making use of a provocative write-up to get publicity. Good or bad publicity is still publicity. Well, your name’s a bit famous now. Too bad, a lot might be putting you in their list of assholes.
For an article that can be written by a grade school student… You did get a lot of hits for your homepage… well mabye that’s the only reason you made your article. None the less, very immature and superficial.
Hope that God will judge you by the way you dress, comb your hair, scent of your perfume and the way you stand and smile.
superfluous, pretentious and hifalutin words; a trifling attempt to abase my writing which, as we all know, is immaculate. Yes, this is profoundly annoying to me if that’s what you’re wondering about, but it’s more of how the message is composed and less about what the actual message is.
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
