Man In The Mirror
My favorite Michael Jackson song, sung by my favorite male vocalist, James Morrison. Download song here.
Continue reading....
29 June 2009
24 June 2009
Mini Updates That Won't Fit In Twitter
Tonight: I just got back from watching "Virgin Labfest 5" with Euge and his friends. (No, "Virgin Labfest" isn't a chemistry experiment on women with intact hymens. It's a 12-day long showcase of "untried, untested, and unstaged" plays held annually at CCP.) Of the three plays we saw, the one I enjoyed the most was "Ang Huling Lektyur Ni Misis Reyes," a knee-slappingly hilarious soliloquy of a retiring music teacher, touching on such topics as dissonance and putting a condom on a banana. Whoever played Mrs. Reyes (I didn't get the actress' name) made me laugh for 45 minutes straight. Bravo!
Last Sunday night: Euge and I watched "The Coffin," a horror flick centered on a Thai ritual of lying in coffins to get rid of bad luck. The scary moments were few and far between, the acting was blah, and the obligatory plot twist was non-existent. But on the plus side, the lead actor (Ananda Everingham) can pass off as Piolo's equally shaggable brother. Exhibit "A" here.
Last Sunday noon: My family celebrated Father's Day by indulging in Dusit's Sunday Brunch Cross-Over Buffet. OK, maybe "indulging" isn't the right word. More like: descending on the buffet tables (note the plural form) like a biblical plague of locusts. Of the four restaurants to eat-all-you-can from, Benjarong (Thai) is easily my favorite, followed by Umu (Japanese), Tosca (Italian), and Basix, in that order. Better check your guilt and shame at the hotel door when you come here, peeps. The food is irresistable.
That's it for now. I guess this means I'm in blogging mode again.
Continue reading....
Last Sunday night: Euge and I watched "The Coffin," a horror flick centered on a Thai ritual of lying in coffins to get rid of bad luck. The scary moments were few and far between, the acting was blah, and the obligatory plot twist was non-existent. But on the plus side, the lead actor (Ananda Everingham) can pass off as Piolo's equally shaggable brother. Exhibit "A" here.
Last Sunday noon: My family celebrated Father's Day by indulging in Dusit's Sunday Brunch Cross-Over Buffet. OK, maybe "indulging" isn't the right word. More like: descending on the buffet tables (note the plural form) like a biblical plague of locusts. Of the four restaurants to eat-all-you-can from, Benjarong (Thai) is easily my favorite, followed by Umu (Japanese), Tosca (Italian), and Basix, in that order. Better check your guilt and shame at the hotel door when you come here, peeps. The food is irresistable.
That's it for now. I guess this means I'm in blogging mode again.
06 May 2009
29 April 2009
MisterHeuge Does Number One
Sunday. Mall.
There it is! The Sign. The white hieroglyphs of a man and a woman on a blue background and the word RESTROOM below them. How come I didn’t see that before? I swear I passed by this area before.
My feet started hurrying, my hands started shoving. (Sorry, kid with the yellow balloon.) You'd be jostling too if your bladder’s at bursting point and kidney stones are slowly crystallizing within your nuts. I desperately needed to pee. A minute earlier, out of desperation, I was contemplating marking my territory outside the Marks & Spencer shop window (50% Off On Selected Items.) But I held on with all my urethral strength and kept searching and searching until I finally saw The Sign. Almost there, I told my tingling penis. Almost there.
A moving object stays in motion unless acted upon by an unbalanced force (Newton’s First Law of Motion). In my case, that unbalanced force was a “Pay Before You Enter” sign just outside the Promise Land of Urinals. A toll collector with strict orders from management to exact payment stood guard. With no other choice, I dug into my pockets in search of a coin, squirming, gyrating, then hopping in place like a pogo stick. The involuntary actions of a man on the verge.
My impromptu Riverdance amused the toll collector. She chortled, that inconsiderate, sadistic troll. I bet she gets off watching terrorist beheadings on the internet. I slammed the one peso on the counter and sprinted towards the door, leaving behind the receipt stub which I can’t use for my income tax return anyway.
Door. Restroom. Urinal. I quickly unbuttoned my shorts. Too many damn buttons. If only buttons were Velcro, life would be so much easier, albeit noisier.
I hooked my briefs down, released my penis, and urinated my soul out. OK, not my soul, but all the bottomless iced tea I had over lunch. I closed my eyes as I poured warm, blond liquid unto the white, ceramic surface and felt a state of happiness Buddha would kill to achieve. Aaaaah. Listen. Can you hear that? It’s the sound of Niagara Falls, splashing down the flush-less toilet system.
The cascade became a drizzle, the drizzle became trickles, the trickles became drips, then nothing. An orgasmic shiver, registering 1.3 on the Richter scale, fizzed up my spine, causing my head to wobble like a dashboard accessory. Looking down, I saw a lone, black pubic hair stranded on the urinal. Whoever left that hasn’t trimmed since the late ‘90s.
Peripheral vision: my next-urinal neighbor peering at me and by me, I mean my penis which I’ve been shaking dry for approximately eleven seconds. I immediately stopped my pseudo-masturbation lest this blur to my right misconstrue my wrist action as Morse code for “I’m horny. Are you?” As did Adam and Eve, I promptly covered myself (damn buttons!) and headed towards the sink to practice good hygiene.
I don’t understand these toilet voyeurs. What’s so enticing with a flaccid penis in the process of micturition? Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m a placard-carrying fan of The Penis. Attached to an attractive man and fully erect, it is a thing to be worshiped and adored. But to me, a limp, urinating penis is as sexually appealing as a Coleman snout leaking water. It doesn’t turn me on. It just doesn't. Oh well. To each his own paraphilia.
I swiped my hands under the sensor, causing cold water to squirt through the faucet. My reflection in the mirror suggested a new haircut and --- oh, it’s Peeping Tom again. Um, why is he standing behind me with that look on his face, a mix of Gollum and Kathy Bates in Misery? There are other faucets here, buddy. Bald head, checkered shirt, tanned complexion. If he wasn’t a couple of inches shorter than me, I’d probably feel threatened. But due to our height gap, I was just annoyed at the invasion of my personal space.
Obviously, he’s looking for someone to hook up with. But, of all places, the mall restroom? Is Planet Romeo down for site maintenance or something?
Devil’s advocate: Well, why not? It’s a place where one gets to meet a wide variety of men. Plus, it has cubicles where consenting adults may engage in a little harmless fun.
Me: Two words: George Michael. And cubicles? Don’t you know how filthy those cramped spaces are? Aside from the semi-flushed substances in the toilet bowl, there are all sorts of nasty shit on those walls visible only under a black light. There are bacteria in those cubicles which microbiologists have yet to discover. Call me a germaphobe but I don’t want to be fellating in that kind of environment.
Devil’s advocate: Germaphobe!
Having washed my hands, I made my way towards the paper towels, still being followed by this shadow. What part of “I’m ignoring you, please get away from me” didn’t he understand? Although I must admit: a tiny fraction of me was rib-tickled at the attention I was getting. I made a mental note to go to the gym later and work on my triceps.
After drying my hands, I disposed the paper towel, turned around (briefly meeting the stalker’s eyes – creepy), and walked out. I thought he’d follow me outside but he didn’t. He remained inside, waiting perhaps for a sign.
Continue reading....
There it is! The Sign. The white hieroglyphs of a man and a woman on a blue background and the word RESTROOM below them. How come I didn’t see that before? I swear I passed by this area before.
My feet started hurrying, my hands started shoving. (Sorry, kid with the yellow balloon.) You'd be jostling too if your bladder’s at bursting point and kidney stones are slowly crystallizing within your nuts. I desperately needed to pee. A minute earlier, out of desperation, I was contemplating marking my territory outside the Marks & Spencer shop window (50% Off On Selected Items.) But I held on with all my urethral strength and kept searching and searching until I finally saw The Sign. Almost there, I told my tingling penis. Almost there.
A moving object stays in motion unless acted upon by an unbalanced force (Newton’s First Law of Motion). In my case, that unbalanced force was a “Pay Before You Enter” sign just outside the Promise Land of Urinals. A toll collector with strict orders from management to exact payment stood guard. With no other choice, I dug into my pockets in search of a coin, squirming, gyrating, then hopping in place like a pogo stick. The involuntary actions of a man on the verge.
My impromptu Riverdance amused the toll collector. She chortled, that inconsiderate, sadistic troll. I bet she gets off watching terrorist beheadings on the internet. I slammed the one peso on the counter and sprinted towards the door, leaving behind the receipt stub which I can’t use for my income tax return anyway.
Door. Restroom. Urinal. I quickly unbuttoned my shorts. Too many damn buttons. If only buttons were Velcro, life would be so much easier, albeit noisier.
I hooked my briefs down, released my penis, and urinated my soul out. OK, not my soul, but all the bottomless iced tea I had over lunch. I closed my eyes as I poured warm, blond liquid unto the white, ceramic surface and felt a state of happiness Buddha would kill to achieve. Aaaaah. Listen. Can you hear that? It’s the sound of Niagara Falls, splashing down the flush-less toilet system.
The cascade became a drizzle, the drizzle became trickles, the trickles became drips, then nothing. An orgasmic shiver, registering 1.3 on the Richter scale, fizzed up my spine, causing my head to wobble like a dashboard accessory. Looking down, I saw a lone, black pubic hair stranded on the urinal. Whoever left that hasn’t trimmed since the late ‘90s.
Peripheral vision: my next-urinal neighbor peering at me and by me, I mean my penis which I’ve been shaking dry for approximately eleven seconds. I immediately stopped my pseudo-masturbation lest this blur to my right misconstrue my wrist action as Morse code for “I’m horny. Are you?” As did Adam and Eve, I promptly covered myself (damn buttons!) and headed towards the sink to practice good hygiene.
I don’t understand these toilet voyeurs. What’s so enticing with a flaccid penis in the process of micturition? Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m a placard-carrying fan of The Penis. Attached to an attractive man and fully erect, it is a thing to be worshiped and adored. But to me, a limp, urinating penis is as sexually appealing as a Coleman snout leaking water. It doesn’t turn me on. It just doesn't. Oh well. To each his own paraphilia.
I swiped my hands under the sensor, causing cold water to squirt through the faucet. My reflection in the mirror suggested a new haircut and --- oh, it’s Peeping Tom again. Um, why is he standing behind me with that look on his face, a mix of Gollum and Kathy Bates in Misery? There are other faucets here, buddy. Bald head, checkered shirt, tanned complexion. If he wasn’t a couple of inches shorter than me, I’d probably feel threatened. But due to our height gap, I was just annoyed at the invasion of my personal space.
Obviously, he’s looking for someone to hook up with. But, of all places, the mall restroom? Is Planet Romeo down for site maintenance or something?
Devil’s advocate: Well, why not? It’s a place where one gets to meet a wide variety of men. Plus, it has cubicles where consenting adults may engage in a little harmless fun.
Me: Two words: George Michael. And cubicles? Don’t you know how filthy those cramped spaces are? Aside from the semi-flushed substances in the toilet bowl, there are all sorts of nasty shit on those walls visible only under a black light. There are bacteria in those cubicles which microbiologists have yet to discover. Call me a germaphobe but I don’t want to be fellating in that kind of environment.
Devil’s advocate: Germaphobe!
Having washed my hands, I made my way towards the paper towels, still being followed by this shadow. What part of “I’m ignoring you, please get away from me” didn’t he understand? Although I must admit: a tiny fraction of me was rib-tickled at the attention I was getting. I made a mental note to go to the gym later and work on my triceps.
After drying my hands, I disposed the paper towel, turned around (briefly meeting the stalker’s eyes – creepy), and walked out. I thought he’d follow me outside but he didn’t. He remained inside, waiting perhaps for a sign.
18 April 2009
Susan Boyle's "Cry Me A River"
Unless you live amongst the Yanaigua tribe in Bolivia, somewhere between the Rio Grande and Upper San Miguel, you've probably heard of Susan Boyle and her much blogged about audition in Britain's Got Talent where she, of the quadruple chins and caterpillar brows, gave a messianic rendition of I Dream A Dream to the shock and awe of book-cover-judges everywhere. (If you haven't, then put your spear down, welcome to civilization, and watch this.)
Well, it turns out that the talented Ms. Boyle recorded a song back in 1999 for a charity CD. It's a remake of "Cry Me A River", a jazzy, blues ballad originally sung by Ella Fitzgerald, not to be confused with Justin Timberlake's pop hit of the same title. Here's Susan Boyle's version of "Cry Me A River", courtesy of the Daily Record:
Enjoy!
In a stark contrast of looks and singing abilities, here's Gretchen Barretto's merciless annihilation of "Please Don't Ask Me."
Don't enjoy!
Continue reading....
Well, it turns out that the talented Ms. Boyle recorded a song back in 1999 for a charity CD. It's a remake of "Cry Me A River", a jazzy, blues ballad originally sung by Ella Fitzgerald, not to be confused with Justin Timberlake's pop hit of the same title. Here's Susan Boyle's version of "Cry Me A River", courtesy of the Daily Record:
Enjoy!
In a stark contrast of looks and singing abilities, here's Gretchen Barretto's merciless annihilation of "Please Don't Ask Me."
Don't enjoy!
16 April 2009
Holy Week in Davao
Unlike past Holy Weeks where I bled my eyes watching re-runs of 7th Heaven or ocularly molested beach bodies while innocently sipping a parasoled fruit shake in Boracay, I visited my geographical birthplace (as opposed to my literal birthplace, mom’s Fallopian tube), which, for the benefit of those who don’t have classified access to my personal records, is Davao, the land of Durian, Waling-Waling, and some endangered monkey-eating eagles.
With me in this trip was my nuclear family: father, mother, sister, brother, and iPod nano. Together, we embarked on a journey which saw us scale the zenith of Mount Apo, scuba dive for sunken WWII warships near Talomo beach, zip-line through a forest at Camp Sabros, and hand-feed hungry crocodiles with only a mesh wire separating us from the afterlife.
Or so my brother and I hoped to happen.
In reality and due to time constraints and life-insurance clauses, our excursion consisted mainly of dining out in restaurants (e.g., Mers, Jack’s Ridge, etc.); visiting my 85-year-old grandma, who, after being reminded that I’m his 30-year-old grandson, pressed that I get married and have cute, cuddly babies already “before her time comes to an end” (Talk about pressure!... Hmm, I wonder if she prefers a Vietnamese or a Malawian great grandchild...); inspecting our parents’ future retirement home, currently just a vacant lot near a virgin beach; swimming and cam-whoring in the hotel pool; and shopping for pasalubong.
Despite the absence of an adrenaline-pumping adventure, my visit to Davao was an anti-oxidizing break from urbanity and sure beats watching Charlton Heston part the Red Sea with his staff (insert dirty thought here) for the nth time.
Random photos from my journey:
Demonstrating What To Do When Your Plane Plunges
In a Death Spiral Before Exploding In Mid-Air.
Arriving at Davao International Airport.
Me: "Ah, Davao... I can almost smell durian in the air."
My bro: "Sorry, kuya. I farted."
Digos, Davao del Sur.
Tall Coconut Trees
(Boy Abunda, don't you dare dry-hump them.)
A Remote Beach.
At Grandma's House. Capiz Shell Windows.
A Black & White TV Set.
"Granny, may I watch America's Next Top Model here?"
"OMG! The neighbor's house is burning!"
"Quick!!... Take my picture!"
Shopping for a pasalubong.
"Hmm, would Eugey wear this?"
"Oh, I think he'll like these... Assorted durian candies."
Rice Wrapped In Coconut Leaves.
Mers' Jelly Rolls.
My second favorite tubular thing to put inside my mouth.
Too bad, "Poker Face" isn't part of their repertoire.
My underwater impression of a dissected frog.
About to emerge from the pool...
and now my first, frontal picture
in the history of this blog....
"Hey you guys!"
Continue reading....
With me in this trip was my nuclear family: father, mother, sister, brother, and iPod nano. Together, we embarked on a journey which saw us scale the zenith of Mount Apo, scuba dive for sunken WWII warships near Talomo beach, zip-line through a forest at Camp Sabros, and hand-feed hungry crocodiles with only a mesh wire separating us from the afterlife.
Or so my brother and I hoped to happen.
In reality and due to time constraints and life-insurance clauses, our excursion consisted mainly of dining out in restaurants (e.g., Mers, Jack’s Ridge, etc.); visiting my 85-year-old grandma, who, after being reminded that I’m his 30-year-old grandson, pressed that I get married and have cute, cuddly babies already “before her time comes to an end” (Talk about pressure!... Hmm, I wonder if she prefers a Vietnamese or a Malawian great grandchild...); inspecting our parents’ future retirement home, currently just a vacant lot near a virgin beach; swimming and cam-whoring in the hotel pool; and shopping for pasalubong.
Despite the absence of an adrenaline-pumping adventure, my visit to Davao was an anti-oxidizing break from urbanity and sure beats watching Charlton Heston part the Red Sea with his staff (insert dirty thought here) for the nth time.
Random photos from my journey:
Demonstrating What To Do When Your Plane Plunges
In a Death Spiral Before Exploding In Mid-Air.
Arriving at Davao International Airport.
Me: "Ah, Davao... I can almost smell durian in the air."
My bro: "Sorry, kuya. I farted."
Digos, Davao del Sur.
Tall Coconut Trees
(Boy Abunda, don't you dare dry-hump them.)
A Remote Beach.
At Grandma's House. Capiz Shell Windows.
A Black & White TV Set.
"Granny, may I watch America's Next Top Model here?"
"OMG! The neighbor's house is burning!"
"Quick!!... Take my picture!"
Shopping for a pasalubong.
"Hmm, would Eugey wear this?"
"Oh, I think he'll like these... Assorted durian candies."
Rice Wrapped In Coconut Leaves.
Mers' Jelly Rolls.
My second favorite tubular thing to put inside my mouth.
Too bad, "Poker Face" isn't part of their repertoire.
My underwater impression of a dissected frog.
About to emerge from the pool...
and now my first, frontal picture
in the history of this blog....
"Hey you guys!"
07 April 2009
Dhanurasana and a Badly Packed Kebab
“And now, let’s do Dhanurasana… the bow pose,” Ray, our yogini, intoned after we’ve barely survived a series of unpronounceable asanas which had us twisting our sweat-drenched bodies around like roots of an old mangrove tree. Two or three people, most probably the beginners at the back row, emitted groans of protest across the room which, by now, was at a temperature that can cause desert cacti to die.
Unfazed by the waning signs of life before him, Ray proceeded to demonstrate how easy-peasy Dhanurasana was by effortlessly metamorphosing into a human letter “U” in five seconds flat. “This pose will improve the flexibility of your spine,” our invertebrate instructor said without a flicker of irony.
Following Ralph’s unachievable example, we, dehydrated masochists, laid down flat on our bellies, bended our knees, reached behind to grasp our ankles, and, with varying degrees of failure, simultaneously raised our legs, chest, and head, eyes wide open to see what’s in front of us…
And with that one upward motion, I unintentionally became Ms. V's personal O.B. gynecologist.
Ms. V is a brash, talkative, forty-something woman who, like me, regularly attends Ray's yoga class every Saturday. But unlike me, Ms. V didn’t think it was necessary to wear undies that morning when she positioned herself right smack in front of me. This omission, coupled with her baggy shorts, our arms-length proximity, and my normal vision, gave me a panoramic view of her erogenous zones as we both attempted the bow pose.
And by "erogenous zones", I don't mean her feet. (God, how I wish it was just her feet!) I’m referring to what is known in some straight circles as the Pink Harmonica, Beef Curtains, Kate Bush, Map of Tasmania, Sausage Wallet, and Badly Packed Kebab.
On several occasions, I have prayed to God to bless me with a photographic memory with which to remember evanescent moments such as a sunset in Boracay or a crush’s smile. This was not one of those moments. Nevertheless, I managed to capture the graphic details of that peek-a-boo moment and preserve them in my brain where they would remain for nightmares to come until I finally get the courage to undergo a lobotomy.
As part of my post-traumatic stress therapy to silence the bleating lambs at night, I’m now going to describe what I have seen. There, at Ground Zero, were small, pinkish folds and protrusions of skin, a delicate origami of flesh around what appeared to be a moist wound. Ingrown and outgrown hair peppered the surrounding areas, which also bore Zebra-like stretch marks. And…. was that a black mole just below her floong-flang? I’m not certain. It could either be a mole or a dead fruit fly but for her sake, I hope it’s the former.
If those puckered lips could talk, we'd have this brief, vaginal dialogue:
V: Hey. ‘Sup?
Me: Aaaackkk!!!!
Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no personal vendetta against vaginas. Their role in the reproductive and evolutionary process is unassailable and without them, we’d just be our daddy’s dried-up sperm cell with nowhere to go but the sewage system. I have nothing but the deepest, sincerest, most profound respect for vaginas all over the world, even though they may be attached to such floozies as Denise Richards and Pamela Anderson. Vagina, we salute and honor you.
What I strongly take issue against is women coming to yoga sessions wearing epidermal lingerie and exposing their sweaty, unshaven genitalia to unsuspecting classmates who are simply trying their best to achieve that damn Dhanurasana pose in sauna-like conditions. I say, enough of such lewd conduct! Enough! The Vulva Vulgaris doesn't have to be vulgar! It’s high time that we put an end to this labial exhibitionism and bring basic human decency and underwear back to yoga studios! This is our moment, people! This is Spartaaaaaaaaa!
Now, if Ms. V was a young male model, preferably of Japanese-Brazilian origins, then Imight just reconsider my position take everything I’ve said back!
Continue reading....
Unfazed by the waning signs of life before him, Ray proceeded to demonstrate how easy-peasy Dhanurasana was by effortlessly metamorphosing into a human letter “U” in five seconds flat. “This pose will improve the flexibility of your spine,” our invertebrate instructor said without a flicker of irony.
Following Ralph’s unachievable example, we, dehydrated masochists, laid down flat on our bellies, bended our knees, reached behind to grasp our ankles, and, with varying degrees of failure, simultaneously raised our legs, chest, and head, eyes wide open to see what’s in front of us…
And with that one upward motion, I unintentionally became Ms. V's personal O.B. gynecologist.
Ms. V is a brash, talkative, forty-something woman who, like me, regularly attends Ray's yoga class every Saturday. But unlike me, Ms. V didn’t think it was necessary to wear undies that morning when she positioned herself right smack in front of me. This omission, coupled with her baggy shorts, our arms-length proximity, and my normal vision, gave me a panoramic view of her erogenous zones as we both attempted the bow pose.
And by "erogenous zones", I don't mean her feet. (God, how I wish it was just her feet!) I’m referring to what is known in some straight circles as the Pink Harmonica, Beef Curtains, Kate Bush, Map of Tasmania, Sausage Wallet, and Badly Packed Kebab.
On several occasions, I have prayed to God to bless me with a photographic memory with which to remember evanescent moments such as a sunset in Boracay or a crush’s smile. This was not one of those moments. Nevertheless, I managed to capture the graphic details of that peek-a-boo moment and preserve them in my brain where they would remain for nightmares to come until I finally get the courage to undergo a lobotomy.
As part of my post-traumatic stress therapy to silence the bleating lambs at night, I’m now going to describe what I have seen. There, at Ground Zero, were small, pinkish folds and protrusions of skin, a delicate origami of flesh around what appeared to be a moist wound. Ingrown and outgrown hair peppered the surrounding areas, which also bore Zebra-like stretch marks. And…. was that a black mole just below her floong-flang? I’m not certain. It could either be a mole or a dead fruit fly but for her sake, I hope it’s the former.
If those puckered lips could talk, we'd have this brief, vaginal dialogue:
V: Hey. ‘Sup?
Me: Aaaackkk!!!!
Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no personal vendetta against vaginas. Their role in the reproductive and evolutionary process is unassailable and without them, we’d just be our daddy’s dried-up sperm cell with nowhere to go but the sewage system. I have nothing but the deepest, sincerest, most profound respect for vaginas all over the world, even though they may be attached to such floozies as Denise Richards and Pamela Anderson. Vagina, we salute and honor you.
What I strongly take issue against is women coming to yoga sessions wearing epidermal lingerie and exposing their sweaty, unshaven genitalia to unsuspecting classmates who are simply trying their best to achieve that damn Dhanurasana pose in sauna-like conditions. I say, enough of such lewd conduct! Enough! The Vulva Vulgaris doesn't have to be vulgar! It’s high time that we put an end to this labial exhibitionism and bring basic human decency and underwear back to yoga studios! This is our moment, people! This is Spartaaaaaaaaa!
Now, if Ms. V was a young male model, preferably of Japanese-Brazilian origins, then I
01 April 2009
Someone's Coming to Manila!
Thank you, thank you, Yahweh, Krishna, Zeus, Meryl Streep, and all the other deities I've prayed and offered burnt sacrifices to, night after hopeless night!
According to news reports, (wait .......... allow me a moment to compose my quivering, reddening, and rapidly enlarging self ............ ooooh ....... aaaah ............. 5 minutes later...... mmmm .............. now, where was I?.......... oh, right.............) Leandro Okabe, the Japanese-Brazilian man-god, is heading towards 14° 35' North, 121ยบ 00 East, otherwise known as Manila, to do what Fate has destined him to do:
Read more about the genital-stimulating news here.
According to news reports, (wait .......... allow me a moment to compose my quivering, reddening, and rapidly enlarging self ............ ooooh ....... aaaah ............. 5 minutes later...... mmmm .............. now, where was I?.......... oh, right.............) Leandro Okabe, the Japanese-Brazilian man-god, is heading towards 14° 35' North, 121ยบ 00 East, otherwise known as Manila, to do what Fate has destined him to do:
An underwear ad campaign!!!
Read more about the genital-stimulating news here.
30 March 2009
Classic Ate Vi Moment
And now, it's time for a vintage Ate Vi anecdote:
Ate Vi: "Secretary Flavier, ano po mensahe niyo sa ating mga televiewers tungkol po sa mga AIDS victims?" ("Secretary Flavier, what's your message to our televiewers regarding AIDS victims?")
Secretary Flavier: "Unang una, huwag po natin silang tatawaging AIDS victims kasi hindi naman po sila mga biktima. Mas mabuti siguro pong tawagin natin silang People with AIDS." ("First of all, let's not call them AIDS victims because they're not victims. It's better to call them, People with AIDS.")
Ate Vi: "O ayan, narinig nyo yun mga televiewers. Wag daw natin silang tatawaging AIDS victims. Tawagin po natin silang People with AIDS or AIDS victims." ("So there, you've heard it, televiewers. Let's not call them AIDS victims. Let's call them People with AIDS or AIDS victims.")
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