The fact that 6CycleMind is getting more airplay when they should’ve just all died in shame after they committed that crime against humanity in the form of a song called Biglaan proves to a lot of us that there is indeed a god. And he hates us all.
Now all of us can turn on our car stereos on our way to work and enjoy the music of a band whose music sounds like a mix of a pretentious little imp having some sort of emotional seizure layered over sophomoric, fag-ternative-emo-rock crap. Their latest single Prinsesa, a remake of a 90’s cult hit by The Teeth, attempts to ride the bossa nova pony, fails miserably and ends up falling off, breaking its neck and becoming a quadriplegic dunce.
Much like their earlier singles Sige; the anthem for idiot construction worker fans drinking Tanduay in front of a sari-sari store with nothing but 15 pesos worth of coins in their pockets and the foreknowledge that they will be fired the day after by their Taiwanese contractors; and Sige Lang, a song only an acne-faced high school kid playing the gay best friend role to the prom queen while he secretly cries and masturbates at home while they talk on the phone could love; Prinsesa remains faithful to the trend of being 10% more annoying than the preceding single. I could imagine the band having this conversation in the studio:
Vocalist: I think we have created a masterpiece gentlemen.
Drummer: Dude, why don’t you try squeezing in an extra octave out of your voice?
Bassist: And try to sound gayer and whinier! Now THAT would make it perfect. Imagine, we remade a song that, in the first place, sucked hairy balls through a garden hose and gave it a bossa nova twist!
Guitarist: We are SO gonna sell a lot of records to our idiot fans!
Vocalist: You know what I was thinking? We should totally get naked and do things to ourselves that if the great Peter North walked in on us, he’d throw up his hands and shout! “Enough!” We should really explore our bodies!
Drummer/Bassist/Guitarist: RRRRRRrrrrape time!
Vocalist: shit.
6CycleMind’s musical career is defined by their consistency—a consistency which, sadly, means that their song writing process consists of recording the same goddamn song 30 times with little to no variation at all and spread it across two albums.
This says a lot about the credulousness of their idiot fans and the music-buying public alike. I mean, you have a band here that is a mishmash of pogi rock, grassroots poseuring, assembly line, commercialized “coolness” and abject faggotry enjoying tremendous airplay much to the dismay of the more discerning listeners like us here at The Man Blog. I swear to god, this band sucks so much that whenever any of their songs is played on the radio, I see green toxic stink rays emanating from my radio’s antenna.
I can only see two types of people listening to this trash: Idiots and fools. So a message to 6CycleMind’s idiot fans:
If you’re over 20, What the fuck are you doing listening to this crap? Did music murder your parents and the way you are exacting revenge on it is to spit on its face and insult it incessantly by listening to this…this…non-music? Fuck you.
And if you’re a beautiful high school ditz, it’s not yet too late to start listening to REAL music. When you hit college and you’re still listening to this insipid batter of pretense, you are pretty much doomed to have a life-long inclination towards horrible things and you will end up being impregnated by some jolog from Marikina and your baby would be REALLY REALLY retarded and weird. So think about that.
Whew. Anyway, to 6CycleMind and their invaluable contribution to Retard Rock- we award you the Short Bus award. Enjoy.
I am so fucking hungover right now I swear to god. Right now, I'm sitting at my new corner office with a view (and by “corner office” I mean a cramped cubicle situated between a wall and a stack of broken computer monitors; and by “view” I mean a small bay window partially obstructed by a water tank and an electric pole. I know don't tell me, my life sucks) and I feel like every time I move my head, someone is hitting me in the back of the head with a baseball bat. It's not a shiny aluminum bat either, it's like an old, decrepit one held together by friction tape. Also, the baseball bat has termites or some shit.
It also doesn't help that it's so fucking hot today. I swear to god, whenever I step out of the office I can literally touch the heat with my hands. So you could imagine me in my little cubicle, hungover as a bitch, sweating and swearing profusely staring blankly at my computer screen which has a case study with all sorts of corporate-looking graphs and charts, pretending to be hard at work when in reality, when nobody's looking, I alt + tab to a web browser where I look at pictures of young girls with nothing but ill, lustful intent. (thanks to the location of my new cubicle, it's also harder for me to duck under the table and rub my bird whenever I get turned on looking at the aforementioned pictures but let's not talk about that)
Also, to douse any suspicions about my efficiency at work, I get up and walk up and down the office holding a stack of papers muttering something under my breath about how some people not doing their jobs makes things more difficult for other people. I am an asshole.
What am I doing hungover at work in the first place, you ask?
The answer: Glorious week night drinking. Glorious.
I was out with a bunch of office people last night to attend SEO Philippines' Ituloy Angsulong awards ceremony and to say that I had a good time would be an understatement because really, any night ending with me being way too bombed and being photographed by at least ten people wearing a tiara is definitely one for the ages.
The most awesome thing about drinking with people you work with is the dynamic of co-workers getting drunk and talking about stuff with people they shouldn't be talking about stuff with; and doing really silly stuff in front of people who can make or break their careers.
There was even this one guy in the party whom, only within minutes of drinking was a 500 peso bet away from jumping off the balcony with his t-shirt off to prove that it would make an excellent glider kinda like what Angelina Jolie used in Tomb Raider 2 despite the fact that said guy was about 150 lbs overweight.
That guy was me.
Also, who would've thought I would live to see the day Abe Olandares got jiggy with four scorching styling gel promo girls on stage?
The rest of the night was a blur for me, I woke up this morning with a terrible headache and a bed drenched in urine. Now, here I am in the office nursing a terrible hangover, cigarette burns on my arms (I swear to God, when I find out which of you assholes tripped on me last night, it's RAPE TIME for you and your family. Just kidding) and having only 2 hours left to pull my shit together because I am, yet again, going to attempt to destroy my body with alcohol with my friends later.
Such an interesting life I live. Have a great weekend everyone!
Contrary to popular belief, bleeding edge haute couture isn’t brewed in some elitist homosexual’s Parisian shop. REAL fashion is forged with the blood, sweat and cultural puree of normal, everyday people who walk the streets. That’s right, the very same people who wear their collars up and make a total nuisance out of themselves thanks to their ubiquitous MP3 player’s ear phones which are perpetually stuck to their ears; something which, much to the dismay of other people causes them to lose what’s left of their already short attention spans.
These are the very same people who clog up the aisles over at the Greenhills shopping center, looking for sub-500 peso pants they could wear to Decades or Padi’s Point with their equally barriotic friends. These trend-setters congregate in such places in a bold effort to promote their tragedies made out of cloth which, more often than not, lead to the most contemptible kind of stupidity. In this edition of Know your Jologs, we honor these fashionistas who are in the frontlines leading the charge towards an inevitably fatal fashion disaster.
First of all we have to define what a ‘douchebag’ is. Basically, a douchebag/jolog is an individual who has an over inflated sense of self worth, compounded by a low level of intelligence, behaving ridiculously in front of colleagues with no sense of how moronic he appears. How do you spot a douchebag/jolog?
However, these characteristics are not set on stone as jologs are known to take up various shapes depending on geographic location. Since Man Blog editor Ade has done a splendid job profiling the jolog subclass known as R0KkErZZZ \m/ Let’s now take the time to train our discerning eyes towards other forms of Jologry and critique the way they embrace counter culture couture with our talons of righteousness.
In this picture, we see Jhun Jhun a Pinoy sea man who works aboard an oil tanker where he spends hours upon hours being lowered down the ship’s hull where he, little by little, chips rust away with a nail file and a spoon.
When he’s not busy doing that, he spends his time looking for love on the internet. We see him here in a beautiful Swiss garden where he waits for his internet girlfriend to arrive. She never did.
Why? Maybe it’s because of his worn out circa 1994 basketball shoes? The fact that he wore his inter-baranggay basketball Jersey for their first meeting? Or the fact that his face looks like a 500 lb Acme anvil fell smack on his face? Take your pick.
Bhoyet complains “We don’t have anymore Coca Cola yo!”
Well you know what else we don’t have Bhoyet? Bead necklaces, fake Ralph Lauren caps and fake oversized shirts because it’s not 1993.
Rhenz shows us the number of times a member of the opposite sex has attempted to talk to him. We know why Rhenz, we know why.
Jhong wanted to become a big time magazine editor. Well guess what? acid-washed slim jeans, a 150 peso shirt, a ridiculous-looking messenger bag, a bad haircut and a face that looks like you sucked on an entire crate of lemons doesn’t make you one. So now that you’re broke and all, go ahead and suck dicks for food over at Luneta. Asshole.
Ever since my fiancee left to work abroad almost four years ago, I've had this searing feeling of indignation towards Valentine's day and the people who celebrate it. Sure it's fun when you're with somebody, what with all the flowers, balloons and guaranteed sex being thrown around, but when you're somebody like me who involuntarily eschewed any form of consensual sexual interaction/contact with the opposite sex, it's an entirely different thing.
Now before you women who read this blog gorge one of my eyes out with your PMS claws and call me a douche, let me just say for the record that I did make an effort to make my fiancee feel special this V-day. I sent her a really classy, expensive notebook. Although admittedly, I only did this because she sort of raised the bar a little high back when we were still dating and it sorta became a tradition which I politely honor. I mean, if a girl is sweet enough to spell the word 'Baby' in ginormous letters with little tea candles in the middle of the University of the Philippines' sunken garden–something that almost brought me to tears not because of the sheer romance of it all but because the students hanging out in the garden started throwing all sorts of invectives at me and calling me a fag. (Fucking UP Students I swear to God. I send you all to school with my tax money and you have the chutzpah to insult me? a taxpayer? Fuck you. Fuck you all to hell!)
Suffice it to say that my fiancee's Valentine's stunt tops the best Valentine's gift I've ever given to a woman which was a savage kick to the face of my ex after we got into a fight about whether or not Rachel McAdams was hot.
But since she left and because I'm very horny, lonely and bitter, nowadays, I see V-day as nothing but another stupid, fake excuse the capitalist machine takes advantage of to take money from people who somehow made themselves believe that buying items with hearts, buying flowers, cards or what not and giving it to their significant others fits the definition of "Romance." Because really, doesn't mass producing "romance" on a specific date defeat the supposed spontaneity of true love and true romance? Can't you all see that I am a very principled, sensitive guy? Why won't you have cost-free sex with me? Anyone? Okay.
Really though, just to keep myself from committing suicide out of sheer loneliness, I am planning to do something special for myself tonight. I'm thinking of checking in at a cheap three-star hotel, light little candles on the floor, whip out my laptop, watch random clips from my vast porn collection, maybe masturbate a little (probably while listening to Eddie Brickell's Good Times on my iPod) and spend a couple of hours thinking about how I can breed racist dogs. After that, I don't know. Who knows what the wonderful night holds?
Well that's a lie because I know exactly what would happen. I will end up passing out in the shower where four Visayan janitors would have to help me off the floor and feed me ridiculous amounts of chocolates to get me to stop crying so loudly. Also, the seemingly innocuous candles I lit earlier will set the entire hotel on fire and I'd end up outside the hotel, sitting on the curb, wet with a blanket over my head eating lugaw, watching firemen and people run by, saying shit like "Wow that curtain caught fire REALLY fast!" or "This hotel's fire alarm system could use a little improvement" or "Whose dick do I need to suck around here to get some more lugaw?"
Beautiful. Belated Valentine's day to all of you!
One of the worst things about my mental condition is that it makes me predisposed to experiencing crippling bouts of Dysphoria. For me, Dysphoria manifests itself as an episode–I don't even know if I could call it an episode as my dysphoric bouts last for days on the average–as a severely unpleasant, uncomfortable mood which usually rears its ugly head with a pinch of hypochondria. This means that for an entire day, I cannot help but be anxious about every fucking thing and be irrationally afraid of disease/death that at this moment, I am quite sure I am going to die because I have a minor headache which I am stubbornly insisting to be a brain hemorrhage.
Before, I alleviate this dysphoria/hypochondira the best way I know–to beat my dick like it owes me money. This usually causes me to snap out of it almost instantaneously and puts me in a state of heightened alertness. No thanks to the drugs I'm taking however, I can't even masturbate decently. I've tried everything really, from playing my favorite porn clips in my media player to imagining a Swedish midget dancing on top of a table naked (which, prior to everything, hasn't failed me) but I just can't get myself to orgasm.
I found out why. It turns out that one of the pills I'm taking (Lexapro which is escitalopram oxalate/SSRI) has some rather sad side effects. According to Wikipedia
SSRIs can cause various types of sexual dysfunction such as anorgasmia, erectile dysfunction, and diminished libido. Initial studies found that such side effects occur in less than 10% of patients, but since these studies relied on unprompted reporting, the frequency was probably underestimated. In more recent studies, doctors have specifically asked about sexual difficulties, and found that they are present in between 41%[3] and 83% of patients.[4] This dysfunction occasionally disappears spontaneously without stopping the SSRI, and in most cases resolves after discontinuance. In some cases, however, it does not; this is known as PSSD.
So you could imagine me drunk as fuck in my bathroom with my pants around my ankles, swaying back and forth furiously flogging my penis to no avail, before eventually ending up sweaty, popping a Lionel Ritchie CD in my stereo and crying myself to sleep while nursing a sore dick.
I have a brain hemorrhage my friend and I'm quite certain that this is it. My brain's bleeding out, I am anxious and aroused as hell–mostly aroused though–and I know that I am going to be checking out of this world and moving onto the next which is, if it's still not obvious, hell.
I am positive that my death is imminent, I can smell it. And on that note, I would like to thank everybody who has sent me fanmail over my short yet sweet blogging career. You have been nothing but a source of great inspiration for me and for those rare few that I checked out on Friendster or MySpace, a source of a lot of my masturbatory fantasies as well.
However, I am not one to take death lightly and I am very very bitter right now. With that said, I would like it to be known that I would haunt the shit out of everybody who has visited this site. So if you're a guy, the next time you're taking a poop and you feel a gentle tug on your left testicle, that's me. Say hello. If you're a girl, and you're in the toilet peeing, Well I don't know, I haven't thought about it yet.
So this is it my friends. I bid thee farewell but not before one last request: Please don't be cheap bastards and give biscuits, flowers or coffee on my funeral. Instead, give money. Lots of it. Because last week, I stole my mom's credit card and used it to buy drinks for everybody at the local garment factory. I mean, those guys were really good to me (except for that time they accused me of cheating on a card game and threw me off a bridge) so I decided to give something back to them before I kick the bucket. Also, I think I might've messed up on the Colombian deal I was talking to you guys about and really, once they find out that I lost 20 Kilograms of cocaine in a cockfight, nobody's going to come out a winner.
Please pray for me. I love you guys!
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
