Just a quick note. I've got me a new "personal" blog: The Spinal Tap.
It will be more frequently updated than this one.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Thursday, March 06, 2008
The Dude
My sister owned a single morbidly obese female guinea pig (which I mentioned some years ago). It remained that way until one of the neighbors (who also happened to own a bunch of guinea pigs and had a guinea pig population boom problem) saw our single morbidly obese female guinea pig and kindly offered to donate one more. And because we’ve always been kind to neighbors with a guinea pig population boom problem we said, Sure, okay, that’s fine, what’s another useless mouth to feed, eh?
Now we have two small mammals, both fat females, who prowl the small yard in front of our house like two fur balls gnawing at whatever wooden thing there was. They live in this neat little cage whose door was always kept open so they can go in and out of it as they please. The cage also has a little handle, which might come in handy just in case a nuclear war breaks out and there arises a sudden need to quickly transport the guinea pigs to a safe, bomb-proof place.
All was well. The two matrons of our yard lived a nice, well-fed, protected straight-out-of-Disney existence. They sometimes threw sarcastic remarks our way whenever we tried to feed them my smelly fingernail clippings. But overall, life was good. At least, until the puppy came.
Well, the puppy, let’s call him Dude for convenience, was a little mischievous fellow whose sole purpose in life was to be an ultra-efficient poop-and-piss processor – place anything in its mouth and the puppy, a marvel of nature, quickly turned it into either (a) poop that stank; (b) pee that stained. Based on this alone, we suspected the puppy was probably a Filipino politician in his past life.
Suffice it to say that Dude, we had decided, needed a little strategic housebreaking. And this being the modern day of the internet, we used, in the wise words of George Bush himself, “The Google.”
However, as it turned out, trying to find accurate information on what we really wanted to accomplish was no easy feat. The following were the exact search words we used – all in the order of increasing desperation.
“How to housebreak a dog.”
“How to patiently train a dog to shit in designated places.”
“How to FORCE the dog to shit in designated places.”
“How to strike fear in the heart of dog, so he shits ONLY in designated places.”
“How to COMPLETELY STOP dog from shitting.”
“How to turn goddamn dog into fine paste using only household utensils.”
“How to instantly vaporize goddamn dog using laser built from readily available computer components.”
I don’t have to tell you that for some reason, nothing worked. So at this point, to protect our house from further poop-trefaction, it had become a cardinal rule to closely watch the puppy for the tell-tale signs of it answering the call of nature. If and when one of us humans witnesses any of the said tell-tale signs, it was our responsibility to swiftly rise to the occasion, leap into action, and whisk the Dude to a more poop-receptive place -- hopefully right in the nick of time.
One morning, as I worked furiously on my PC chasing a deadline, Dude came out of nowhere walking with that strange gait -- and the thought flashed in my head: the puppy...oh, shit! My knee-jerk reaction was to dash for it. However, somehow I tripped on something, and I fell down in dramatic slo-mo like some doomed redwood tree, my left knee hitting the concrete floor hard. I swear I heard a bone crack.
The dog came galloping up to my face and nervously stuck out his tongue, panting like crazy.
Of course, this meaningful exchange didn't actually take place. What really happened was that the dog yawped and barked and heartlessly tried to eat my hair as I lay there writhing in mind-numbing pain.
My left knee would swell and bruise and blacken and I would spend the next few days glaring at the dog. Meanwhile, there was work and more work and there was less and less time to leap into poop-related action.
Later on, Dude found a new way to amuse himself: by sexually harassing the two female, morbidly obese guinea pigs in our front yard.
Somehow, it was a tragedy waiting to happen. The universe actually aligned itself for this unspeakable development to find fruition.
First, there was my sister’s stuffed toy, which looked like a little monkey with the same body size as Dude, but for some reason Dude thought it was another dog he could actually have sex with.
Second was that the “poop-receptive place” I mentioned several paragraphs ago was actually the front yard, and the front yard, as everyone at this point realizes, was where the two fat furry garden matrons ruled and rooted.
And so Dude meets the two guinea pigs, resembling the stuffed toy he had been humping, and all hell breaks loose. Sometimes, deep in the night, you could hear the guinea pigs screaming the hopeless, painful screams of the royally fucked. We humans tried to prevent it whenever we could, but whenever we let the Dude out to answer the call of nature, he would chase the screaming guinea pigs as soon as the last piece of turd squeezed out of his asshole. And to add insult to injury, the puppy began to really, really fancy the guinea pigs’ own droppings. Look what we have here: Dude trying to rape the guinea pigs and literally eat their shit, too. Ain’t he a sweetheart!
I haven’t written a single piece of fiction in the past several months, and I feel guilty about breaking the dry spell by writing about the Dude. My left knee is still swollen. And as I write this, the Dude has just begun trying to eat my brother’s shoe. The house smells of shit. I turn on the TV, and the news also stinks of crap.
Maybe later, I’d go out and visit the two “rape victims” in the front yard, see if they still have the same old, fiery sarcasm in them. Meanwhile, the Dude walks with that strange “I’m gonna poop” gait again, but I’m wiser this time. I’m not going to fall for that, you bastard. I now know when to recognize genuine, true-to-the-core poop. But…
Oh, shit. You win.
Now we have two small mammals, both fat females, who prowl the small yard in front of our house like two fur balls gnawing at whatever wooden thing there was. They live in this neat little cage whose door was always kept open so they can go in and out of it as they please. The cage also has a little handle, which might come in handy just in case a nuclear war breaks out and there arises a sudden need to quickly transport the guinea pigs to a safe, bomb-proof place.
All was well. The two matrons of our yard lived a nice, well-fed, protected straight-out-of-Disney existence. They sometimes threw sarcastic remarks our way whenever we tried to feed them my smelly fingernail clippings. But overall, life was good. At least, until the puppy came.
Well, the puppy, let’s call him Dude for convenience, was a little mischievous fellow whose sole purpose in life was to be an ultra-efficient poop-and-piss processor – place anything in its mouth and the puppy, a marvel of nature, quickly turned it into either (a) poop that stank; (b) pee that stained. Based on this alone, we suspected the puppy was probably a Filipino politician in his past life.
Suffice it to say that Dude, we had decided, needed a little strategic housebreaking. And this being the modern day of the internet, we used, in the wise words of George Bush himself, “The Google.”
However, as it turned out, trying to find accurate information on what we really wanted to accomplish was no easy feat. The following were the exact search words we used – all in the order of increasing desperation.
“How to housebreak a dog.”
“How to patiently train a dog to shit in designated places.”
“How to FORCE the dog to shit in designated places.”
“How to strike fear in the heart of dog, so he shits ONLY in designated places.”
“How to COMPLETELY STOP dog from shitting.”
“How to turn goddamn dog into fine paste using only household utensils.”
“How to instantly vaporize goddamn dog using laser built from readily available computer components.”
I don’t have to tell you that for some reason, nothing worked. So at this point, to protect our house from further poop-trefaction, it had become a cardinal rule to closely watch the puppy for the tell-tale signs of it answering the call of nature. If and when one of us humans witnesses any of the said tell-tale signs, it was our responsibility to swiftly rise to the occasion, leap into action, and whisk the Dude to a more poop-receptive place -- hopefully right in the nick of time.
One morning, as I worked furiously on my PC chasing a deadline, Dude came out of nowhere walking with that strange gait -- and the thought flashed in my head: the puppy...oh, shit! My knee-jerk reaction was to dash for it. However, somehow I tripped on something, and I fell down in dramatic slo-mo like some doomed redwood tree, my left knee hitting the concrete floor hard. I swear I heard a bone crack.
The dog came galloping up to my face and nervously stuck out his tongue, panting like crazy.
Dude: Now, I'm gonna tell all my friends what an idiot you are!
Me: Dude, you have no friends.
Dude: Well, let's see about that when I grow up and finally become a hot bitch!
Me: Dude, you're a male dog.
Dude: Nevertheless!!!
Of course, this meaningful exchange didn't actually take place. What really happened was that the dog yawped and barked and heartlessly tried to eat my hair as I lay there writhing in mind-numbing pain.
My left knee would swell and bruise and blacken and I would spend the next few days glaring at the dog. Meanwhile, there was work and more work and there was less and less time to leap into poop-related action.
Later on, Dude found a new way to amuse himself: by sexually harassing the two female, morbidly obese guinea pigs in our front yard.
Somehow, it was a tragedy waiting to happen. The universe actually aligned itself for this unspeakable development to find fruition.
First, there was my sister’s stuffed toy, which looked like a little monkey with the same body size as Dude, but for some reason Dude thought it was another dog he could actually have sex with.
Second was that the “poop-receptive place” I mentioned several paragraphs ago was actually the front yard, and the front yard, as everyone at this point realizes, was where the two fat furry garden matrons ruled and rooted.
And so Dude meets the two guinea pigs, resembling the stuffed toy he had been humping, and all hell breaks loose. Sometimes, deep in the night, you could hear the guinea pigs screaming the hopeless, painful screams of the royally fucked. We humans tried to prevent it whenever we could, but whenever we let the Dude out to answer the call of nature, he would chase the screaming guinea pigs as soon as the last piece of turd squeezed out of his asshole. And to add insult to injury, the puppy began to really, really fancy the guinea pigs’ own droppings. Look what we have here: Dude trying to rape the guinea pigs and literally eat their shit, too. Ain’t he a sweetheart!
I haven’t written a single piece of fiction in the past several months, and I feel guilty about breaking the dry spell by writing about the Dude. My left knee is still swollen. And as I write this, the Dude has just begun trying to eat my brother’s shoe. The house smells of shit. I turn on the TV, and the news also stinks of crap.
Maybe later, I’d go out and visit the two “rape victims” in the front yard, see if they still have the same old, fiery sarcasm in them. Meanwhile, the Dude walks with that strange “I’m gonna poop” gait again, but I’m wiser this time. I’m not going to fall for that, you bastard. I now know when to recognize genuine, true-to-the-core poop. But…
Oh, shit. You win.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
"And they're turning us into monsters"
“Wow! Ang galeng!”
– Steven Spielberg“Amputs! Ayuz! Parang tutoo!”
– Spike Lee“Sobrang ma-Force-y! Grabe!!!”
– George Lucas“Asan ang b**bs?”
– Larry Flynt
My brother Marvin and I made this little video. Alright, it was Marvin who actually did most of the work, while I just reacted in my usual anal-retentive way over his shoulders. It’s our own take on the fun happenings currently changing lives and giving a 2010-boosting exposure to everyone concerned at the Philippine Senate.
Marvin did the editing using Swishmax and Sony Vegas version 5.0. Credit goes to all the unnamed sources of the images. The song is “Kids with guns” by Gorillaz. And when you think about it, it’s quite hilarious. Darkly hilarious.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
‘And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.’ — Nietzsche
For those of you who wake up in the morning, access your blog, and think, "Hey, ain't it awesome if I post the lyrics of my most favorite song in the world ever on the blog and wow my friends? Like, today? Haller?!"
And so you do. Over and over and over again (ooops! that's a song's line right there!). Well, I'm your patron saint. Not only I'm going to post the most truly awesome song lyrics ever made in the world, I'm also posting it while actually singing it aloud and dancing that Marian Rivera dance while wearing my favorite hot pink thong. Can you beat that?
Here it goes!
***
"Around the world" by Daft Punk:
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world
Around the world, around the world.
***
Hah! Now I feel better. There's nothing more exhilarating and profound than posting song lyrics on my blog. I love it! And I'm sure you do, too! If I were gonna choose between peeing on my laptop and post song lyrics on the blog, I'll always definitely choose the latter (despite the obvious tastefully edifying possibilities with the former).
In other news of the past two weeks: been very very busy. (check). Been burned out (check). Lost a chicken (check). did something evil in the past two weeks (check). watched No Country For Old Men, reaffirmed that the universe is fucked (film's characters), and some people are very aware of that to the point of genius (Coen brothers) (check). read Amsterdam (Ian McEwan), reaffirmed that human beings are both heartless and infinitely stupid (the novel's characters, many people in the planet, me) and incredibly brilliant (Ian McEwan, the author) (check).
Three weeks ago, I was standing on an aisle in a very huge bookstore. It was 10 am when it suddenly hit me. It began as a sensation in my chest, that crept up my spine and made me wanna pee. It took seconds to articulate the thought: life is utterly short. I can ignore others when they tell me, "Hey, man, life's short." But this, not this. This is different. This has a feeling, a sense of foreboding that hasn't gone away. A sense of painful urgency, like a deadly knife stab from somebody you thought was your friend. I was standing there with that trickle of early birds like myself hovering about those books, and I was thinking, "Look at all these that I'll never ever read." The stories I'll never know. The sensations I'll never feel. Simply because human time is not enough. You're already swamped with the sheer business of living. The little time that's left after: (1) sleeping, (2) eating, (3) communicating with other humans and animals, (4) fornicating or attempting to fornicate, (5) making new enemies and friends, (6) earning a living, (7) eliminating all you've eaten, (8) pretending to be smart -- the little time that's left after fulfilling all these necessary human activities means it's not possible to consume all the good literature you can identify in one's lifetime.
Later, at home, I surveyed all the books I've bought in the past year. I looked at them with the pity you feel when somebody's going to die, and you know. So i picked some up -- Dave Sedaris, Amelie Nothomb, Thomas Harris, Dave Eggers -- and I stayed in my room just reading them. But after merely finishing Nothomb's Fear and Trembling (which was easy) and halfway through Sedaris' Dress Up Your Family In Corduroy And Jeans, I found it impossible to resist proceeding with: (1) sleeping, (2) eating, (3) communicating with other humans and animals, (4) fornicating or attempting to fornicate, (5) making new enemies and friends, (6) earning a living, (7) eliminating all you've eaten, (8) pretending to be smart.
So by now, you know I've given up. And I'm sure, that's how the rest of the world live: by just getting by. By taking whatever they can take. Enjoying the little morsels floating by them and shutting off that creeping awareness of those so many things forever out of your reach. Chuck Palahniuk has the word for us: "the all-dancing, all-singing crap of the world."
That's you and I, man. Around the world. Around the world. Around the world.
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