I am going to tell you guys a story about a “friend” but not before I lay down a disclaimer before you which, I must say, is imperative for you to fully understand: This story is not a veiled attempt to chronicle a personal experience that involves marijuana, a lot of alcohol and possibly even rape slay (I really don't remember). I would also like to remind everybody that I recently got myself a new job, so any insinuations linking my identity to that of Miggy's (The name of my “friend” which we're going to use for the purpose of this story) are not welcome. Or not true. Semantics. Thanks.
Okay so last night “Miggy” got invited to his friend Francis' birthday party. And although very tired from a week of hard work, he decided to drop by because he heard that there'll be a lot of foxy chicks in the party. You see, “Miggy” hasn't touched or been touched by a woman without the said woman being drugged up or compensated monetarily first.
A little backgrounder on Francis: He is known as the neighborhood's party needs store. Whatever you need to breathe life to an otherwise boring party, Francis has it: From expensive designer drugs to budget party staples like marijuana: chances are he has it in stock and he can give it to you at ridiculously discounted prices.
It's also worth mentioning that the quality of Francis' marijuana is probably nothing like you've ever tried before. It's kinda like a secret mutant type of marijuana bred deep in the heart of some Latin American country where it has kept Aztecs high and happy for thousands of years.
I guess what I'm saying is that the weed in Francis' party was pretty fucking awesome and there was plenty of it to go around. So, after just a couple joints and a few bottles of beer, “Miggy” in all his inebriated glory, was giving away money to the other guests in the party and was telling everybody how rich he is and how he invented a contraption he calls a 'bicycle'.
As we all know, trying to relay something you find funny while you're high out of your mind to somebody who's not is futile. The fact that “Miggy” successfully alienated and caused most if not all of the passable-looking girls in the party to leave after he whipped out his sorry excuse for a penis and put hot sauce on it is the best testament to this.
With all the bangable girls gone and with the mighty triumvirate of alcohol, marijuana and lust coursing through “Miggy's” system, he, along with a few party guests decided to head on to the local strip club to hopefully get some action. This would've been perfectly fine I guess but “Miggy”, being bombed as hell as he is had this delusion that he is rich beyond imagination going on when in reality, the money he was giving away earlier and the money he is about to spend on the strip club is the money he has to live by for two more weeks until he gets his next paycheck. Not to mention that CitiBank is about to abduct his little brother, Ryan, and hold him for ransom until he pays his five-digit credit card bill, a card that he maxed out on a “health club”called Majestic last month.
So yes ladies and gentlemen, “Miggy”, after spending close to two thousand pesos and only getting a hand job from a prostitute in a back alley out of it because he doesn't have enough cash on him, is SERIOUSLY FUCKED.
In light of this tragedy, I am now accepting donations on behalf of “Miggy”. The poor bastard's probably going to spend two weeks at work eating instant pancit canton while dodging the pity glances of his coworkers. Don't let this happen, if you have any money to spare, please don't hesitate to ping me at god [at] man-blog [dot] com and I'll make sure your donation gets to “Miggy”. He also told me he accepts sexual favors. That is all.
God I'm so fucking exhausted. And it's not because I finally reconciled with the gym and ran the treadmill for two hours nor was it because I did some incredible manly thing like lifting the refrigerator and moving it into another part of the kitchen. I am exhausted because I am fucking drunk. On a weeknight. And it is just awesome.
One of my lady friends texted me late this afternoon and invited me to her 'I quit my job to start my own business yay for me!' party and let's just say that given that I have been very stressed lately [and also because I am an alcoholic who's way beyond help], I capitalized on the offer and became responsible for at least a third of the tab (which is easily over 3,000 bucks) thanks to my beer and barchow orders.
Not that I haven't done this before. In fact, I'm probably the asian weeknight drinking champion or some shit like that. Thing is, most of the jobs I've had recently didn't require me to time in using that oppressive capitalist machine people refer to as a bundy clock. So, I can pretty much get bombed as much as I want to, come in late the morning after and just make up for the hours I was late for within the week.
Such is not the case with my current job. In here, I have to come in at exactly seven in the morning and for someone like me who made out with the security guard on my way out of the bar and nearly drowned in the Pasig river on my way home, this is not too awesome.
So if any of you people in the office read my blog and you see some hungover, sweating fat guy who reeks badly of alcohol walk in the office tomorrow without any pants on, that is me. Say hello.
Speaking of work, my new co-workers are really nice. They're very competent at what they do and have been very kind and understanding to me whenever I totally fuck up a task or something. And no, I'm not just saying this because I'm the new guy who doesn't have any friends and whose recollection of the closest thing he had to friendly banter in the two days he's been working in the company is limited to this:
Me: [coyly asking some employee about random shit. Trying to make friends] Is this the guys restroom?
Employee1: [Polite smile] Yes it is.
Me: [Trying to sneak in a little humor into the conversation] Why is it so close to the pantry then? What if I somebody takes a dump, and not just one of those run of the mill dumps too but those squishy Hershey squirt type stinkers? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Four people coincidentally having lunch in the pantry: [leaving, shaking their heads]
Me: Nnnnnnnrrrn….
Employee1: There's something terribly wrong with you. [walks away]
Me: [Crying alone in my shame and self-disgust]
So yeah you know, ask me to eat lunch with you? Anyone? Please? You don't know how it feels not to eat anything for 9 straight hours and live solely off soda, chewing gum and cigarettes, pretending to work during lunch hour while avoiding the pity looks of other employees who're having such grand times eating with their colleagues.
Also I'm going to be totally hungover tomorrow. And soon after, fired by my boss for puking all over my cubicle.
Asshole.
[Me. Not my boss. My boss is just awesome. Awesome great. If he's reading this]
I want you to listen to me and do as you're told:
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
