If any of you even listened to last week's LazyCast, you'd know that I recently had a minor vehicular accident where, thanks to glorious drunk driving, I lost the passenger side mirror of my car, and clipped a parked car along Mother Ignacia which caused a nasty scratch on my car's front bumper.
And because in the future, I again intend to drive under the influence of alcohol and hopefully, some new kick-ass recreational drug while I am being chased by half of Metro Manila's police force up North Luzon Expressway because not only am I driving under the influence, I also kidnapped a rich Chinese girl whom I'm holding for ransom and have no plans of releasing until her parents who own a seaside restaurant, give in to my request of being provided a lifetime supply of Lo Mein and Shanghai rolls; I decided to give up my hangover-nursing day (Sunday) to go to Banawe and find a cheap replacement side mirror (Of course, by "replacement" I meant "stolen") and have the headlights of my car (which was damaged in the accident as well) repaired.
Now, I might as well get this out of the way– Banawe is absolutely terrible. It's a place where disreputable, shady deals take place in plain sight. My brother, Ryan "Fucking" Villar likes this about the place though saying that it is the perfect place to develop one's street smarts. Well you know what asshole? If "Street Smarts" means being in a constant state of alertness because there's a great chance some Bisaya guy would sneak up behind you, stab you in the neck, drain your blood then urinate on your limp, lifeless body before finally selling your blood to a barbecue vendor across the street, then no, I don't think I want to develop mine.
I'm pretty sure you've all seen one of those documentaries on The Animal Planet where there's this nestling who first ventures out of the nest, accidentally falls off and lands on a river where like a gazillion piranhas make short work of it? THAT's how it feels like when you first get off your car in Banawe.
In a matter of seconds, you are instantaneously descended upon by a dozen street vendors selling all sorts of stuff ranging from window tint to young Cambodian slave girls. What's worse is that the auto parts store I decided to have my car repaired were desperately trying to make a quick buck out of me by telling me that not only do I need a new side mirror but I need a new side mirror assembly which costs 800 bucks. Not only that, after taking a quick look at my headlight bulbs, they told me that I needed new sockets because the ones I had are burnt out.
In the end, because I am a complete idiot when it comes to car care, they sold me a new side mirror assembly, expensive headlight bulbs and their corresponding sockets, something called a "Photon Inhibitor Drive", car insurance, crispy pata and several grams of coke which they claim came straight from Colombia.
So yeah, I went to Banawe thinking that I'd only be spending lose change for minor repairs but ended up spending close to 4 thousand bucks and because I'm having a hard time peeing lately, I'm also thinking I contracted syphilis from the blow job I got from a sampaguita vendor I paid 80 bucks to suck my bird while I wait for my car. It was toothy and an absolute waste of money.
Now please, leave me alone while I get high on my stash of Xanor and put copious amounts of penicillin on my bird.
Over the past few months, owing largely to my FHM writing gigs, I am learning a lot about how to interact with women. What was previously an activity that went hand in hand with huge amounts of awkwardness and consternation is slowly developing into a pleasurable, sexually arousing one (which I think are what normal guys feel when engaging in said activity).
A couple of months ago, my "game" consists of me pretending to talk loudly to a "business associate" on my mobile phone about my upcoming raise and how I don't "really need it" since I'm already earning 6 figures a month within earshot of the girl I am trying to impress; before finally circling in and initiating a conversation with her which usually ends up in a mess like this:
Me: [bottle of beer in one hand, the other in my pocket] Um Hi.
Girl: [Already creeped-out] Hello.
Me: [15 seconds of awkward silence] You look like you're into Internet stuff.
Girl: [somewhat offended] Well, not really.
Me: Um what I meant was… [panicking because "Game plan" fell apart] You know what, here you go, take my phone please just don't hurt me! [sitting down on the floor with both hands over head]
Girl: What is wrong with–
Me: I have nothing to offer you but a promise that if you marry me, I will leave you millions of pesos' worth of utility bills and a dozen slow, Half-Korean children, all named "Kippean." [Starting to cry] please don't hurt me!
Obviously, this doesn't work. In fact, the only time this approach actually worked was with my girlfriend and only because I slipped Ativan in her drink and tied her up with Nylon. We were inseparable ever since.
Anyway, like I said, I've learned a lot about girls over the past few months, the most important being that when a girl says they want something the actually mean they want something AND something else. I mean, all the hot women I interviewed for FHM said they want a guy who has a sense of humor–now, using deductive reasoning, we can conclude that:
Women want a guy who has a sense of humor, I have a great sense of humor, therefore women want me. Greatly.
Now this would actually make sense if women didn't have this inherent flaw of wanting more than what they are willing to reveal or admit. So when a woman says that she's looking for somebody who has a sense of humor, she actually means she's looking for somebody with a sense of humor AND somebody who's at least presentable.
This, my dear reders, is the reason why yours truly, even as an avant-garde internet humorist, is not popular among women. Wait, I am. Just not in a way that would be sexually gratifying.
The sense of humor I have down pat; the "presentable" part, I'm struggling a bit with. For the life of me, I could not remember anybody complimenting me for the way I dress up. The best I've gotten was "You look like somebody going through a bitter divorce" and this is probably because I really don't spend money on clothes. My wardrobe consists of three T-shirts and two pairs of jeans I wear in heavy rotation. So when I meet up and hang out with friends I rarely see, I get a lot of "Wow! That's the same shirt you wore last [insert occasion here]" and it would've been great if they say it with genuine fascination but they usually say it with the same inflection they'd use if they were to say "Oh my God! You're fucking a kitten! It's dead!"
And because I realized that what I've written didn't make much sense and because I've been getting LOTS of negative feedback on the LazyCast, I will clear things up on ANOTHER LazyCast later just to annoy the shit out of you pissant LazyCast naysayers.
Have a great weekend. Assholes.
For the same reasons I hate people who don’t smoke, I hate doing tech reviews because first, it’s totally boring and not cool, and second it’s not going to die of cancer.
But seeing how much everybody’s talking about Twitter lately, I guess I’ll have to make an exception. The site describes twitter as:
A global community of friends and strangers answering one simple question: What are you doing? Answer on your phone, IM, or right here on the web!
And in a vastly tech-driven, socially dysfunctional world where people would rather touch plastic keys than converse with other people, Twitter’s value proposition is a rather attractive one.
Much like its predecessors, IRC and CB radio, Twitter is a venue teeming with reverse voyeurs whose chatter makes it obvious that they want nothing more than to be spied on intimately; hoping that someone will take notice of their digital thoughts kinda like a person wishing someone would peep through the open window while thay take a dump.
Not a novel concept at all, but the fun in Twitter lies in the fact that it takes voyeurism to a whole new level by allowing users to get updates on their friends via text messages sent to their mobile phones.
Much like the blogosphere, the Twitter community tends to follow the Tweets of A-listers like Robert Scoble, Jason Calacanis and Steve Rubel more because by God, if they’re A-listers their opinions must matter more in the grand scheme of things right?
With that said, I’d like to say that aside from the minor nuisance of getting more than 30 tweets on your phone when you wake up telling you what Calacanis ate for dinner or Scoble’s incessant meta-tweeting, I’m totally hooked on Twitter. So if you’d like to receive real-time updates on my life and the lives of the other Man Blog community members—updates like these:
Mikey
Pau
Ade
Liz
Thor
Steel
Benj
Miss Diss Anything
Kthx!
Now this fucking sucks. I think I'm coming down with a flu and it feels like somebody's playing a game of intense table tennis inside my head and every volley is making my head throb like mad. I can manage to stand up for less than a few minutes before my knees get all wobbly and I need to support myself by leaning against a wall and slowly sliding down groaning before finally ending up on the floor in a fetal position.
Now everybody knows how much of a hypochondriac I can be and how much of a pussy I am when it comes to coping up with illness so right now, I am pretty sure I have a weird tropical sleeping disorder which is going to kill me any minute now. I actually spent the most of my day calling everybody I know (At least the ones who're not mad at me. My best friend is actually pretty pissed at me right now) asking them to devote a few minutes of their time to go over a list of my final wishes before I kick the bucket. But for some reason, either all of them are really out or they are hiding from me because I never got to talk to any of them and none of them returned my call.
Now I feel so fucking alone that I am actually thinking of picking out random female names in my phone book, calling them and begging them to come over to nurse me back to health and endure hours of sexual come-ons or at least have phone sex with me. (This might sound pathetic but you know what they say: "Beggars can't be choosers.")
However, on account of my numerous absences from work, I do not intend to miss work tomorrow so I am doing everything I can to alleviate all my symptoms the best way I know: to pop an aspirin, drink four bottles of beer, hit up some heroin and cry profusely while watching Heroes episodes.
So since none of my friends are stepping up in a time when my life is in dark, vacuous shambles; I am going to spend the remainder of this post saying goodbye and apologizing to the people I love for the horrible ways I've touched their lives.
To my girlfriend. I love nothing else in this sick, sad little world more than I love you. I would also like to take this opportunity to say that no matter what everyone else thinks, I assure you that I am (mostly) straight. That incident in Bulacan where you saw me kissing my friend Matthew on the mouth wasn't what you thought it was. It's just that we both got pretty hammered and next thing we knew, he was touching my man boob and calling me Jennifer and I was pulling his hair and was referring to him as "El Conquistador Montague." Again, for the same reason that the incident when I wasn't able to sustain an erection when my mom secretly took me to a strip bar on my 17th birthday and asked a dancer to give me a blow job doesn't make me gay, getting erotic with a (hot) male friend IF you're drunk doesn't make one gay either. God, I love you for being so understanding.
To my family. No, wait. I don't love them.
To the people who read this blog. I don't know why the hell you still come back to read this blog. I've been writing this shit for almost two years now with very little material to work with. Honestly who would've thought that we'd make it through more than three months with nothing but jokes about masturbation, copious drinking and failure with women? Well we did, and because of that I love you. From afar. Behind a computer. A mug of beer in my left hand and (somebody else's) penis in my right.
And with that said, I bid all of thee farewell. We had a good run didn't we? Please?
LazyCast March 15, 2007
I am officially fucketyfucked. Why? Well you see, yesterday, I came to work and we were having some major hiccups with the office internet connection. Now I usually wouldn't give a rat's with regards to stuff like these I mean come on, we are an internet company and for us, No Internet = No Work which is all shades of awesome as far as I'm concerned. Besides, amongst the workforce of 50 in the office, for some reason, my station was one of the few to have uninterrupted internet access. So yeah, I pretty much spent my workday yesterday downloading all sorts of interracial/interspecies porn while the rest of my officemates tried to get their work done offline (suckers).
The wheels came off when the IT guys told us that the cause of the aforementioned connection hiccups was some sort of spyware/malware running amuck in our system. I am about 88% sure that this is my fault because I regularly download useless software to keep me entertained while I work. I have this thing called Bonzi Buddy which is a software that makes a purple gorilla appear at random positions on my desktop, I don't know exactly what it's for but it's entertaining. Also, I have a similar program which makes a partially nude girl appear on random positions on my desktop and dances sexily, the pace of her dance varying depending on what type of music I play on iTunes! So when I play something like say The Pussycat Dolls' Stick wit U she kinda puts on this slow sexy grind and when I switch to an Arctic Monkeys song, she kinda shimmies wildly and takes off her bra! Needless to say, in between all of these, I sometimes slip my right hand in my pocket and proceed to discreetly rub my bird from there–and when I get aroused enough, I take my business to the office john for the crescendo and the big finish which usually ends up with me blowing my jiz into a trash bin filled with used tissue paper and sanitary napkins.
Anyway, I digress. What happened was the IT guys asked us to install some sort of Spyware remover on our machines but being the huge computer idiot that I am, I wasn't able to successfully do so and instead, I asked somebody from the IT department to install it on my machine for me. Big mistake.
The IT guys can get really forensic in terms of monitoring activities on our machines and really, all of these would've been fine if I don't download an average of 5 porn clips a day or write really long emails to my friends and if I don't send numerous incriminating IM messages to my coworkers.
I'm fucking panicking here I swear to God. As I write this from my laptop, the IT guys are scanning my office machine and without a doubt, they will find my stash of porn, my browser, email and IM history and it's only a matter of minutes now before my boss calls me into his office and a conversation like this happens:
Boss: Mike, have a seat.
Me: Um, okay, what's this about?
Boss: [Holding a printout] I would like to read this email to you and I would like to ask for an explanation from you regarding its content.
Me: [shifting uneasily in my seat] Okay.
Boss: Okay here it goes: "Pare, check out the newly hired foxes across our row. You see that one wearing a blue blazer? She's fucking hot! She looks like a lankier version of Kyla and from where I sit, I can see her panties and her butt crack. I'm fucking masturbating to this later I swear to God. She has bad skin though but I'd still fucking hit it. Anyway, are we still on for later? Maybe we could ask them to join us for a drink and I could put vetsin on her beer while you distract her and hopefully I'd get to fuck something else other than my [pauses for dramatic effect] refrigerator tonight. Whatever dude, just let me know! Also, did you notice that [insert boss' name here] smells like vomit? Fucking drunkard."
Also I'd like to know why you felt it necessary to write this email at 11am on a Monday.
Me: Before I answer that, can I ask you something?
Boss: Go ahead.
Me: If you fire me now, am I still entitled to severance pay?
Boss: No.
Me: Shit.
Boss: "Shit" is right.
Anyway, I'd like to write more about this but I think I'm already in enough trouble. Besides, I'm busy flipping the fuck out and calling everybody I know for job openings in their companies because I'm quite sure that I'd lose my job before this day ends. Please pray for me.
The good news is that I'm starting a podcast which I'm going to call the LazyCast mainly because I'm probably going to do this only when I don't feel like writing (which is practically everyday). Anyway, here's the pilot episode. Do let me know what you think of it or whether or not I should continue doing this because based on what I'm told, my voice sounds like a combination of "Irish/Midwestern/Girly/SuperGay" which, I'm sure, translates to "Annoying." Fuck you all.
LazyCast March 15, 2007
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
