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
Unlike most people, I easily consider Saturday as the worst day of the week. Allow me to explain. Due to the nature of my job, I have to hack through a work week that begins on a Tuesday and ends on Saturday. Now this would've been fine except for the fact that NOT drinking on a Friday night(A work night for me), much like NOT calling a sexual partner derogatory names or screaming profanities at her, just doesn't feel right.
My Psychiatrist's orders notwithstanding, I've discontinued taking Rivotril (a benzodiazepine , prescribed to me to keep my anxiety in check) because I decided that throwing back two bottles of strong beer before I sleep is about 10,000 shades more fun that popping a little pill that severely messes up your emotions before actually sending you to a troublesome and intermittent sleep.
Also, all of my friends booze up on Fridays and, for me, that only means one thing: Alcohol/Recreational drug-induced Coma. So usually, my Saturdays consist of oafishly trying to get ready for work as I ungracefully move from bed to shower, back to bed, and to the couch to sneak in a couple of more minutes of sleep; my body being sluggish in every sense of the word in protest of the eight liters of alcohol still coursing through my bloodstream.
What's worse than the physical backlash of my inordinate drinking are the mental ones. As you all know, I am suffering from a weird-ass form of anxiety disorder and I am taking SSRI's/Anti-depressants to cope with it. Now when you have SSRI's trying to maintain dopamine and serotonin levels in your brain and you throw in gratuitous and overweening amounts of alcohol into the fray, the result is that–well let's just say you become really fucked up.
So besides being hungover like a bitch, I also have a ragbag of rotten emotions which makes the comedown REALLY difficult to deal with. This morning, while my body desperately tried to purge itself from all the alcohol I consumed last night, my extreme mood swings caused me to cry when I saw a TV ad about coffee and caused me to feel bloodlust and made me chase the paper boy down the street and stab him in the neck because the little Visayan fucker shortchanged me by four pesos. Fucking asshole I swear to god.
Also, I need your opinion on this. We've already established that I was feeling really shitty this morning and no matter what I do, I couldn't bring myself to get to work. Now what I did was pop another bottle of Red Horse open and masturbated while listening to John Legend's - Save Room on my iPod (My new masturbation song. A song that bumped off Gwyneth Paltrow and Huey Lewis' Cruisin, my old masturbation song) and that sort of did the trick. Is this bad? Is there anything wrong with that? Is there a stronger word for "Drunkard?"
Fuck, I honestly think I'm losing it. So I strongly advise you not to be anywhere near Shaw boulevard today–unless of course you want a bullet in the leg because seriously, I feel like picking off people with a rifle from our building's rooftop.
Oh and have a great weekend!
For those of you who care to know, I turned 25 last Sunday. Twentyfuckingfive. When I was a kid of around 12, I've always thought that I'll have things going for me when I turn 25. I mean my Dad married my mom when they were 28 and 27 respectively so it's natural for me to assume that when I hit 25, I would be prepared and well on my way to a married life where I have a cover girl trophy wife who gives wicked beejers and cooks the best Kare Kare in town, two kids who aren't seriously retarded and do not have a predilection for burning up churches. I'd live in a suburban house with a ginormous lawn where I would have a gazebo which I would be power washing every weekend while my Saint Bernard named "Sneakers" plays catch with my kids. Every month, me and my family will go to exotic island vacations and me and my wife will, every once in a while, go on medical missions to help thirsty orphans in Africa. Yes, life will be peachy when I hit 25.
But instead, here I am, 25 -years-old, still living with my parents, spending 80% of my meager income on alcohol and illegal drugs, my head a stew of all sorts of mental disorders ranging from mild clinical depression to full blown panic attacks, engaged to a wonderful girl but only have less than 30,000 pesos in my savings, and practically have NOTHING to show for my 25-year existence but a blog teeming with racist/dick jokes(which gets over 4,000 page views a day but that's besides the point. Asshole).
To celebrate this tragedy called the quarter life (though I still don't understand why people refer to being 25 as 'the quarter life.' I mean, are you guys seriously aiming for 100? Because at the rate I'm going I expect to be bedridden by the time I'm 30. Yes I have 5 good years left. Birthday sex anyone?), I planned a three day all-out drinking bonanza with three different groups of people–My friends from the office, my friends from the internet, and my broke-ass hobo friends from the neighborhood.
Both the drinking bonanzas with my friends from the office and my broke-ass hobo friends from the neighborhood were quite uneventful. No wait, actually as a consequence of me speed drinking around eight bottles of Red Horse in under 3 hours (We started drinking around 7 and I had to leave around 10 since my brother was picking me up), I got way too drunk for my own good and much to the chagrin of my mother who found me sleeping butt naked on the living room floor the morning after, had this conversation with the mummers:
Mom: Oh my God, Michael! What are you doing there?! [looking away]
Me: [waking up, still drunk] What? [scratching scrotum]
Mom: Oh my God! Get dressed! Somebody might walk in and see you–exposed!
Me: Yeah, big deal. Mom can you get me a blanket? [falling back asleep]
Mom: Oh my God! What happened to you?! What did you turn into?! Oh my God!
Not my finest I know. And I apologize to Marc, Riz, Sharm, and a bunch of other people if I acted like a total dunce in front of you guys that night. Please understand that I was very tipsy that night and I couldn't really be held accountable for the things I did. Also by 'very tipsy' I meant, 'brain dead drunk and I was really planning to freeze my scrotum off by sleeping naked on the cold marble tiles of our living room'.
The drinking bonanza I had with my broke-ass hobo friends/band mates was pretty much the same story only with a different ending–an ending which involves 2 Barangay Tanods breaking up the shindig after me and my equally inebriated band mates decided that turning up the guitar amplifiers all the way up and singing a drunken version of Bohemian Rhapsody at 2 o'clock in the morning was a good idea. Also minor fisticuffs ensued after somebody accused somebody of stealing his cellphone. Such wonderful friends I have.
And The Man Blog Alcohol Celebraganza?–waittaminute! I am honestly at loss for words to describe what happened that night. It's really to soon for me to talk about it because I'm still at awe from all shades of awesomeness that happened that night. I mean there were girls kissing each other for crying out loud! Girls! Kissing! Each other! And people asking for my autograph! Good times baby, good times.
So yeah, I guess it was fun. I was kind of hurting inside though that my fiancee wasn't here to celebrate my birthday with me but it was okay. Also, I think that there's an 85% chance of my Fiancee backing out of our wedding after she reads this post. I mean I have received a lot of comments from people saying that I am someone who "Knows how to have fun". Although I think my mother and my fiancee would agree with me that the best word to describe me should be "Drunkard."
Fuck, I hate all of you right now all of a sudden.
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
