More Randomness.

Saturday, September 30, 2006

So I was talking with a friend about the myth of urinating during intercourse as a way of birth control. He told me that a vet friend of his mentioned that if a male dog urinates during sex with a female dog, contraception will happen and the female dog will not get pregnant. He then followed up with the idea that this has never been proven with female humans.

I paused for a few seconds and then asked, "Why the fuck would a male dog want to have sex with a female human?"

Absolut Randomness

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

I hate poems, I've posted enough articles about that. Occassionally though, I end up writing poetry in files where they're not supposed to be out of just plain braindeadness. These three poems I've recovered from files I created when I was still in my previous company. Most of them, stuff I wrote when I was in a state of emotional instability (i.e. temporal retardation) .

Last Train

It's your presence that makes me forget the time,
messses up all things I have in mind
and when I wake up, it's always in vain.
you've already departed on the last train.

Didn't see you off, couldnt even follow
But I'm not crying, oh no not me.
For as long as there's tomorrow
You'll never be one ride farther than here.

This one I found as a comment inside a very long program. Don't ask why it's there. I don't know either.

Hey, Sandman

Don't take me away, o sandman without song
Let me wait for a while
Let me dream of peace beside the phone
If it rings I'll smile and sigh

Dont take me away, o sandman without rose
Let me listen to her heart
Let me lay still in her bosom, frozen
It's beating. We're not apart

Dont take me away, o sandman without pain
Not while I share my life
Not in my nakedness and sane,
and see her fading with my time

Sleep that you offer, sandman of peace
this temptation of another land,
A brick wall where my body can list
I decline, my time is now and here

Dont take me away, sandman, old friend
from bliss that leaves me in decay
I'll catch up with you when it's all done
because Im not one to give up

Sandman, sandman, sandman!
Dont let me leave without her seeing my heart
Dont let me fade into the wallpaper
Dont ever let me fall into your arms

Just this once sandman, let me be
let me pray to whoever is listening
to whoever, whoever can promise me
that she's more than just a dream

Because whenever I sleep,
the dreaming ends

This one was in a seperate file. It's a nice poem about a girl I once knew. (I'm using the word nice veeery loosely here) Nice is somewhere between biblical veneration and not puking before finishing it.


Broken Wing

I saw a bird one night
Its wing was broken
a fowl rid of flight
flowing anguish - unspoken

It sang of mellowness
but never of defeat
it searched for a nest
standing on two feet

I saw a bird one night
with the sorrow of darkness
its face showed no fright
a smile amidst the madness

It told me a story
for which heaven wept
a moment, though only
of complacency bereft

it asked for no pity
I could not give it one
for all I had was invid
of the stalwarness of sun

I saw a bird one night
Its wing was broken
Still it was quite a sight
gleaming pride golden

it has pride for it knows
that wings bear not the flight
nor the air wherever it goes
but the will to own the sky


Doppelganger, you've caught me again
stunned by your hammer and looks from within
everytime we meet you look someone else
your dogma dancing fetus in a shell

you smile the smile of a thousand faces
and live to shape up their days
you see the glint of their teeth in replies
and know theyre not meant for your eyes

Dont you ever wish you were just yourself
do you never wonder how loneliness felt?
of being unique of being alone
parading through the streets of rome

You are never alone you doppelganger
there's always some's path you walk
and in this way we'll all be different
I've mine lost in a sea of folk

Sometimes i think of what it is like
to be Adam who sees through the night
and wake up to see the realness in you
and touch and embrace what is true

Dance with me doppel dance with me forever
once twice thrice, doesnt matter
we will play ours like those of Shakespeare
and I'll even shed twice a tear

And if I depart when the hammer lifts
but the real face in mask not undone
Of this soft green grass this bed you knelt
see how much you could fool yourself

If you know me enough, you should know why I wrote this. Since I try to keep this blog as stranger-friendly as possible, I'll just leave it at that.

If I feel like it, Ill probably post something more interesting later.

Note to self: Start thinking of tunes for the pieces.

Captain Power

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

I don't know why or how it came to be, but back in the 80's having a "Captain" before your name made you sound awesome (or at least make people think you are), even if you are not part of any army or even commanding any ship. Examples of this pattern are Captain Nintendo, Captain Planet, Captain Krunch, Captain Hook and of course...

Nevermind. The title kinda spoils the answer to that.

Captain Power, power on! *cue audience clap*

First things first. For those of you born before this show went on air, or have been to retarded as a kid to understand the premise of the show, sucks to be you. But since I have long since considered myself as a candidate for the next living saint, I'll try to make this post as ingoramus friendly.

Captain Power And The Soldiers Of The Future is a TV series based on the premise that machines are able to grow out of their unstellar careers as toasters and vibrators and turn against their masters- humans. Mr. Powers and crew get cool gear to fight back and then some.

The main reason why I think this series is groundbreaking is that back then, there were no sci-fi series shows on local TV. Aguila and Valiente don't even come close (and no, for the last time, Anna Luna is not an alien). From watching huts in the province, CPASF rockets your ass into the far future you can only imagine as a kid.

Next, there were computer graphics on the show. Sure the blinking of the symbols on their bodies was epilleptic inducing but what the heck - the robots actually looked digital and for the same reason, I thought they were just awesome.

If you look at Soaron here *cough* LOTR *cough*, that's PS1-grade graphics right there. For something made for the TV back in 1987, the SFX team should be winning oscars already.

Also, unlike GI JOE or other pussy shows, people here actually die on a regular basis. Well, not really die. They get "digitized", whatever that means. I have a good hunch the machines will just convert you to hentai jpgs to be downloaded by nerds all over the world. I think that's worse than death.

As for the characters, they were also cool. Sure they look awkward now but back then, they definitley looked better than Spock and his krew (Take that you trekkie bastards). Let's see what I can remember.

There's only one girl that I remember in the show. Somebody told me there was another one but I cant remember (I'm a one-woman man ,even then).

The girl's codename is Pilot. She's the town girlfriend of the show, occassionally being rotated among the active members of the Power team sa a love interest. Dont ask me, it must be an 80's thing.

Then there's Scout. He doesn't do much other than run around in his ridiculous-looking armor (being a show from the 80's it takes a lot of silliniess to come out as ridiculous. Scout manages to enter the power team using this feat. I mean, look, it's a silver Lego astronaut! )

Scout can disguise himself as an enemy and pretty much do what an average PLDT lineman can do. Though I don't think he's up to climbing telephone posts on that thing.

Can you say Obi Wan Kenobi? I can. OBI FUCKING KENOBI. Tank is pound for pound, the most kickass member of the power team. He commands a power suit that's the basic equivalent of a lovechild of a fully armed gundam and a beer buddy.

As with any 70's/80's show, if a guy shows up with a beard, he's most certainly hauling ass with him. Tank does not fail in that sense.

Tank puts Power in Captain Power and the Soldiers of the Future.

Hawk can fly. I wanted to be him for that. But then I realized there's nothing he can do that the the Captain Power standard jet cant do. For that reason, he sucks ass and if ever the series got continued, I'm most certain he'll die a gruesome death at some point in the future.

He's basically like scout, except he flies around instead of crossdressing like Scout. Man, does Scout suck or what?

Dread is your typical bad guy. He resemble's Dr. Man of bioman if he's not acting like the douchebag Darth Vader. He doesn't do much either, but the fact that he commands all the oven toasters of the future, he rules.

Lastly, there's Captain Power. Not much to say about him, he's the generic good guy. If he's not hitting on Pilot, he's slapping asses with the rest of the crew.

A bisexual for a hero in the 80's era. That's groundbreaking indeed.

Anyway, the series spawned off more toys than episodes. The adults hated it because nobody hardly cried in the series (whereas everybody from Anna Luna, Mara Clara, and Valiente cry at least once an episode). The k ids were then forbidden to watch it because too many people were dying (note to self: maybe this is the reason kids nowadays are so damn violent, they grow up thinking guns just "stun" people.

The show stopped airing.

As I remember it, the rest of the Televised 80's was shrouded in darkness and sorrow.


Since I love you guys so much, here's a tubefeed of the *gasp* actual opening video for the series:

Subliminal Advertising and Russia

Monday, September 25, 2006

Remember Nigeria? Come to think of it, there's not much that I know about Russia other than its WW2 and Cold War history either. When asked about the typical russian man, I imagine a cross between an eskimo, the local drunkard and a tub of Boysen paint. The product would be somebody clothed for heavy winter with a vodka in hand and the color red all over. When asked to describe a russian woman, well, yeah - it's either a tennis player with a surname that's harder to pronounce than faith or a "russian girl" hooker.

For a country that's so damn large, I really don't know much about them. They're basically the creepy large house in your neighborhood that keeps on getting labeled as haunted because of the occassional weirdness that comes out of it. By occasional, I mean a lot more than frequent.

Case in point:

Frankly, I can't think of a better win-win way to market pencils. What kind of kid would not want a very large pencil with a pink eraser made with only the hardest of wood?

Nevermind why a kid who can't even afford to wear a shirt hold such a large pencil. Or why he has a shit-eating grin on his face. Or why he holds the pencil that way when he's obviously not erasing anything.

Or why there are splats in the background. Multi-colored, unhealthy looking splats.

You know what? I give up. I don't want to continue this article anymore. The picture says it all.

Some things are just not meant to be explained. Pretty much like why the shape of Vina Morales's boobs changes every month.

Some things we just take as a given.

I'm not sure about a lot of things in Russia. But there's one thing that I do know for sure:

I like vodka.


Sunday, September 24, 2006

My net went down last night so I called customer service and told them about it as detailed as I can, in their technical language. The guy on the other line was quick to agree that I knew what I was talking about and believed me at once. A rare thing, usually they assume that 100% of the calling population are electronically retarded.

That's a fallacy, only 98% are.

No problem there.

So anyway I gave my name, account number, and address. That done, I'd just have to wait for the next day scheduled for the techies to arrive and fix the wiring problem at the telcomms closet at our building. I hung up the phone and went to the CR.

Five minutes later, I get another call. Same guy. Same company. He asks for my contact number.

So he knows how to call me back.

I started weeping uncontrollably.

It was tragic, I tell you.

Anyway, more haruhi madness. Take two of the Lost My Music piano rendition. I tweaked a few of the chords and actually started listening carefully for how the song goes. It's not close enough to the real thing but I think I'm getting there.

This vid was actually taken a week ago. I worked some more on the continuity notes between chords for the accompaniment. Will post newer video when I get the time and motivation to connect my phone to the pc again.


Friday, September 22, 2006

I was talking to a friend earlier about superstitious beliefs they have in the family. Apparently she's not allowed to play patintero because her spirit might be taken permanently by engkanto. Of course I shared my share of superstitions that I had to live with growing up in a superstitious family environment. I've dropped a majority of those already but I still follow some of them, reasons will be stated later.

So you think you're hardcore when it comes to superstitions? Check this list out.

- If you sneeze before any road trip, you will be attracting accident.
- If you sleep with your feet facing the door, you will die.
- If you sleep face down, your parents will die.
- If you sleep with your head horizontally higher than your parents, they will die.
(granted you sleep in the same room)
- If you do any striking actions at night(hammer, knocking, pounding) at night, somebody in your family will die.
- If you dig or turn soil at night, somebody in your family will die.
- If you keep a coinbank (any coinbank), somebody in your family will die.
- If you play sungka (bantumi), either your house will get burned or your family will die.
- If you wear black, a loved one will die because death is attracted to the color of black.
- If you cut your nails at night, somebody dear to you will die.
- If you dream of losing a tooth, somebody dear to you will die.
- If you dream of fire or water, you need to bite a metal object in the morning to avoid bad luck.
- Skeletons on anything (like shirts or keychains) are bad luck.
- Turtles on anything (like shirts or keychains or toys) will give you sloth or make you slow.
- Sweeping at night will cause one of your loved ones to die.
- If somebody skips over you, you wont grow taller anymore.
- If somebody cleans up their plate before you are finished, you will never get married.
- If you cry on somebody's coffin, you will give them an agonizing afterlife.
- Walking under the ladder is bad luck.
- A broken rosary is bad luck, it needs to be disposed properly (like in a church).
- Using spoon to remove the remains from a plate is bad luck.
- If you don't pass this list to 20 of your relatives, you will die by being eaten alive by a giant carrot.

From this point of view, it actually looks like a checklist from death himself.

What's scary is that it took me less than five minutes to write all those. They're still in the "quick reference" section of my head. I didn't even include the "good luck" superstitions there. I think it's safe to say that I lived a childhood where there's much to fear, but somehow the fear came from more of not the consequences they entailed but the punishment I would be getting if I got caught violating any of those.

So you may be thinking now I may have had a troubled childhood and it may have affected my personality.


Anyway like I said, I don't follow a lot of them anymore, but I still keep certain practices alive like not walking under the ladder, not keeping coinbanks, and not cutting nails at night for practical reasons.

When I have kids, I'd probably give them these superstitions too, if only as a joke. Because hey, if it helped keep me stay very still when I was supposed to be at the wild-tasmanian-devil point of my life, it must be very effective.

Because if there's one thing worse than the boogieman going out to get you, it's doing something so damn mundane and cause the death of your entire family. (Nobody wants to go to jail, trust me. Not even kids)

Superstitions rule.

Work Work Work

Thursday, September 21, 2006

This is an actual conversation with an officemate from HK. I'm blogging now because I feel that if I don't take a break, conversations like this will be more sporadic and worse in nature.

(23:54:08) Jet: are we allowed to install a newer version of java in the server
(23:55:32) ria@ i think so
(23:56:17) ria@ what are you thinking?
(23:56:37) Jet: im thinking if hitler had to use java he'd be using the same version of java we're using right now
(23:56:40) Jet: it's that old.

Worse bit of things is that I didn't even realize the "redkinoko" roleplaying is starting to seep into my regular work. Crossover. Yikes. Let's have a little trackback shall we?

I can remember exactly one year two months ago, I was in the very same condition that I'm in right now: Nth day of straight overtime, alone in the office, beating a senseless deadline that nobody will be taking not of anyway, inside an airconless room that doesn't even have a single electric fan. (for a company earning millions out of the brains of so few, apparently we can't even afford that. One of these days I'll be bringing a coin-op electric fan just for the sake of irony. Note to self: Offer suggestion to management first thing in the morning; Get rich quickly and go to Hawaii for vacation.)

The only difference one year and two months ago was that I made sure I ate dinner back then.

Call this one labor diet. Fuck Atkins. This is the ultimate diet.

Stress + no food + sauna-like environment = lost pounds.

I remember exactly one year and two months ago, I made my very first resignation letter for the same circumstances I find myself in right now. Somehow, ulcer did not least bit look like an appealing reward for hardwork. Hardcore hard-work is a myth. Good workers die young. I even remember how the verbal notification went. I remember pulling off the ultimate work-related joke of my career.

Disgruntled Kinoko: Knock Knock
Manager: Who's there?
Disgruntled Kinoko: Not me anymore.

I remember exactly losing someobody I loved just because I was too hardheaded to leave behind a job that was obviously killing me for no great cause whatsoever. (I invoke my right to be occasionally stupid).

I remember, but it's not like I can change my lot a lot if I did left earlier then or left now. That much I've learned already. I'll make do with what I got. Because dedication is a sticker you can only transfer so many times before it loses grip entirely. Right, Riina?

A day's work for a day's pay. Anything less is stealing.

That's probably the only sensible status message I've read this year. Thanks Jo. Sometimes I think whether I'm doing more than what Im getting paid for or actually doing less. I have a good answer to that everytime but I'd rather not say it here. I should start acting what's expected for somebody of my years of experience/salary. That way, everything's fair trade.


Work is never pleasant. The office is not a place for makebelieve families. If God intended man to stay 15 hours inside an office, he would have created man with a necktie attached. If work is indeed pleasant, nobody would ask to get paid.

Final JAR file has been compiled. I'm going home and sleep it off.

There are days when I think that it's manifest destiny that led me to this job of mine.

Today ain't one of those days.

Tomorrow doesn't look too good either.

Some days.

Marriage Proposals

I don't know why people find it romantic to propose in public. I personally think it's a stupid idea. First of all, what are you trying to convey by doing it publicly? That people should envy you because there's somebody willing to proclaim his undying love for you amidst a lot of people? Very nice.

Next, it's a stupid idea because this could happen to you:

The look on the guy's face is priceless. Public rejection on that scale basically makes you a bigger loser than Mig Ayesa from last season's Rockstar: INXS. He's such a douchebag, even for a Filipino.

And you'd be worse off than him.

Next person who says Flipflops gets flipped off.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Flipflops are all the rage nowadays. That's right. Bathroom slippers are now considered cool. For all the elitist flavours of fashion, people find it now "in" to be wearing the same sort of footwear even the poorest Pedro wears.

Come to think of it, Taong Grasa (trademarked) fashion is becoming more and more mainstream. From unruly hair to ripped, worn out pants, to crumpled tops, to finally flipflops. I don't know what they're trying to look like anymore. Homeless, perhaps?

Even in our university where it is forbidden to wear anything less formal than strapped sandals, students girls and boys alike walk around the campus like they're going to buy raw meat in the nearest flea market. Nevermind that the guards could catch them and start beating the shit out of them for blatantly breaking rules. That's living life dangerously. Dangerously retarded. (At least if I were a guard, that's what I'd do. I'd use my stick and beat them to death. There's no excuse for not taking down a potential pollutant of the gene pool when you have the ability to do so.)

What is it with flipflops anyway? Is it because they're comfortable? Flipflops offer no angular support for the feet. They barely pad any shock coming from steps. They're about as protective as walking barefoot or in your socks.

I'd also like to mention they get unhygienic very quickly. Flipflops give undue stress to your big toe and expose your feet to various bacteria and fungi that could result to skin diseases. More dirt crawls under your toenails because theyre exposed. The sweat from your feet directly applies to the surface of the flipflop making it a biohazard not too long after you've worn them. In short, THEY STINK.

Don't get me wrong. I do not condone usage of bathroom slippers. I use them whenever they are appropriate. But when I know I can be better off with proper shoes or sandals, I won't stick to flipflops for the sake of fashion.

And now that we're on the topic of fashion, flipflops arent attractive. Maybe flipflops would look cool if Jessica Alba is wearing the flipflops - and only the flipflops. (And only because hot girls are always attractive when theyre wearing only one item of clothing) Other wise, it makes you look very common and informal. Worn on parties, it looks disrespectful. Worn on the office, you look like an asshole. Worn else where, you're still twice the asshole you are when you're not wearing the 'flops.

Did I mention they're also noisy as hell? I guess the name "flipflop" kinda explains it all.

I remember seeing this stupid broad on tv claiming the title of a fashionista (Dont ask me, I don't know what that means either) trying to explain the logic of really expensive flipflops being sold in the mall.

"I think it's wrong to compare flipflops with your regular bathroom slippers. Flipflops are usually lighter and more fashionable, because of the bright designs. I love them so much, I think I want to wear them on my wedding day."

Part of me died after watching that. I'm still mourning up to now. Sorry for our non-filipino speakers here. I just have to say this out loud.


It's not fashionable or classy, bitch. You're just stupid. A hundred dictionaries defining what "flipflops" mean are a hundred signs that point to you as the perfect specimen of ignorance.

Flipflops suck.

Hirano Aya does it again.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

LOL. Not a real post. This if for you Fat Kat.

I _told_ you. I win.

What's In Nigeria?

(subtitle: Fuck Nigeria.)

First of all, if you gave me an unlabeled map right now and asked me to pinpoint Nigeria, I wouldn't be able to point it out even after 20 tries. I'd just estimate it somewhere between Somalia and Morocco (in case you don't know geography either, that's a shitload of covered area, in layman's terms). Simply put. I don't know fuck about the place.

What I do know is that they have a federalist government. They have a Nigerian Central Bank. And, there's some douchebag named Peter Aka living there. Why do I know these things, you ask?

The answer is simple. Emails. Lots and lots of godforsaken emails. I have a strong theory that sending scam mails is a national past time there. It's like half of the scam mails that I recieve daily is from some douche from Nigeria. Given that my email account has been active since 1998, and that the number of spam an account recieves is proportional to its age, that's a whole lot of Nigerian emails.

I keep on receiving on a very regular basis scam mails from this country, always trying to launder off some ill-placed wealth "with your assitance". It's almost like I have fanmail, except replace "fan" with "bullshit".

This week, I've recieved at least 10 emails from that country, all of them trying to launder off money from a bank, the central bank, some dead guy's wealth, stocks, securities commission, and the local brothel (I'm not sure for the last one, I think it's from another type of email) Well not to be a dick and all, but from what little I know, Nigeria isn't exactly 24 karat Shangri La. I'm not even sure how they manage to survive there without food or water, how much more spend time writing me a mail asking for "help".

Nigerians are the world's happiest people according to the World Happiness Index and they've held that record since forever. That makes them happier than the Swedes (who have the best lifestyle), the Japanese (where lolita pr0n is legal) and the Dutch (where drugs is 100% legal).

It seems they're so fun loving, they just have to waste money they could be using to buy food so they wont starve to death to pull elaborate pranks on strangers from another country they don't even know. How selfless. And by selfless, I mean retarded.

The sad part is that I know I'm not the only one getting these emails; That somewhere, across the world or across the street, there's always this greedy dumbass bitch who buys the con and falls for it hook, line, and stupid.

Nigerians should start conning people for lives. That way anybody stupid enough to fall for stuff like these don't stay stupid for long. (Because dead people can't be counted - they're dead).

And I quote...

Monday, September 18, 2006

It's been in the news. It's been on the papers. Hell, our parish priest was babbling about it during the sermon too (Yes, I still hear mass every sunday). And everybody's got opinions about the ruckus caused by the Pope criticizing the prophet Mohammed. But has anybody really bothered to read what the pope actually "said" on one of his Encyclicals? For that matter, as a Roman Catholic, have you actually read any encycical any pope has made during your lifetime?

I thought so. Well, you can't stay ignorant forever. Might as well start now.

Lecture of the Holy Father for Unibersitat en Regensburg

This is an English translation of the Deutsche speech Benedict the XVI wrote. Read it first. I'll wait right here.




Well that was fast.

Anyway, I wont go say the Pope didn't screw this one up and that he can't possibly screw up because he's infallible when he's "in session" (id est, magisterium ordinarium). Infallible my ass. Show me lightning come out of your hands first and then we talk about infallibility.

As a matter of fact I think he made a very poor source of quotes. It was basically like choosing a quote from Playboy Mansion founder Hugh Heghfner for your wedding vows. By doing so, yo just asking for it, dawg.

Anyway, if you read the article, the quote was placed in good context. Unfortunately, Pope should have also considered that not everyone can spare more than a couple of neurons to understand the whole thing. There are always people who will hear "I specifically want to ask you to get the dirty laundry and have coffee with you." and only understand "I... want... to ... get... dirty... with... you."

I wonder why nobody of his advisers ever thought of the possibility that shit will be hitting the fan when the speech went public. The fact that Mohammed's name was mentioned should have raised serious flags in the revisions phase already. I mean, you can hear Bin Laden screaming "Die America" in VHS but you wont hear him ever say "Fuck Jesus." Because he knows better than to fuck with world's most celebrated carpenter with billions of fans.

There are just some things you dont touch. Now it's the rest of the Muslim world (mostly the extrazealous ones) vs. the Pope, as dictated by the media. Latest news says the pope is upset and his apologists have explained the context at which the idea "Mohammed is an advocate of violence" was used. I'd really hate to have that job right now.

But what the hell? Why is this thing dragging on? The solution is right there. Even the narrowminded protesters know it. And it's not like we'd have to sacrifice virgins to settle the offense. What is so hard about the Pope, vicar of Christ, apologising because he'd pushed a couple of freak-out buttons with his words? Is the hat _that_ heavy for him to bow and say "I'm sorry"?

Forget about whether or not the quote was contextual. Apologies should just be there out of politeness , specially ones that stem global religious clashes that might as well be the end of us all. What would Jesus do? (aside from raising Mohammed and appear on TV doing high-fives with the guy)

Pride is a root for sin too. And you'd think being childish is only for playground games.

More Haruhi Shirts

Sunday, September 17, 2006

After a few minor setbacks, we've finally managed to produce another shirt from our print/press machine today. That basically leaves one last equipment shift before our shirts are 100% production grade. To reduce costs further, I'll be switching to Epson continuous feed instead of the current cartridge-fed system. The new press medium now makes the print rather rubbery.

We'll be testing for durability the next few days and hopefully, this one will be more superior than the first set of prototypes. HUZZAH!


Work is Work. Period.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

I don't get why people still fuss over choosing courses during college about what they want to do or what they want to become in life. Remember the "Kung san ka masaya 'te, supportahan taka" commercial? I think that's retarded.

First of all, work is not supposed to be enjoyable. Tolerable, yes. But enjoyable, no. Even if you say you do have fun at work, I know there's always something else better you would like to do where you will have more fun. Don't lie. Would you rather be doing work that you love or sitting on the couch watching TV or anything else you might find relaxing? That's right. What we have is an illusion that you're weaving around your work or some dream work you want for you to actually want to work.

Here's a thought. If I love my work so much, would I even ask to get paid for it? No. Because if I love something enough, asking money for the very act of doing what you love in return is hypocritical. The same idea applies for work.

Even if you say you love something, like say writing, and you take up journalism, somewhere along the years you spend working, you'll find that writing isn't so much fun anymore. Specially when you're doing it for money and not just "wanting to do it". You'll be forced to churn up stuff for work that you won't have created if it were just a hobby. You lose heart, because you know its hard to love something youve whored out for money. Sellout poisoning. Then you quit. You now have no job. No money. And the one thing you love, you can't love anymore.

Do you think I'm lying? Ask any friend who's worked in a company that has anything to do with porn. Porn is something that any man with hormones can enjoy. But see how these guys who work for what they enjoy react about it.

So maybe you'll ask me, what should be used to determine what field you should be entering. Go back to the primeval technique used by humans before they started turning into pussies who keep on whining about what they want.

Think of what you can do best.

That's right. Lumberjacks didn't become what they are during the middle ages. These guys chopped wood because their bodies were suitable at it. Work gets done easier because of this and as a reward, they get to go home earlier. Boom. More time for things that you really want. You dont see them making up lumberjack appreciation wards or lumberjack guild dinner just to make themselves happy. Not even coffee mugs.

Same goes for you. What do you do best? For my case, early in life I knew I just had to exploit what I could do best to maximize my potential. But apparently, masturbation had no real market so I chose computer programming instead, which pays good too.

Work is work and rest is rest. Shit is shit and chocolate is chocolate.

It'd be foolish to try and mix the pairs when they're clearly not one and the same.

Because what you want is almost always never equal to what you need.

The Real Games.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

I might have missed out on a lot of things during this lifetime. Granted, I do not consider myself as the luckiest man alive. I do not have everything. But What I do have, I count. For one, I have a complete childhood. You name a childhood game, I've played it. Hell, maybe if you challenged me right now, I'd still be able to know my pamato from my pananggulo. I'd give your top a tapyas and my spider will kill yours with one katis. Still following, bitches? I didn't think so.

Touching, tex, dampa, trumpo, gagamba and other native games - those were the kickass games of my time. I'd gladly skip 30 minutes of eating during lunchtime just to be able to dedicate my 1.5 hour lunchbreak to these games.

And you'd think, Jesus! Jet, those things are so outdated. We're like hightech now. High-tech is for the better. Right?


Unless you know what games I'm talking about, you wouldn't know why I think they're better. Now for the benefit of the ignorant and those who have learned to forget, I've made 3 pound by pound comparisons of pussified games (read: games used for training whiny bitches who will soon grow up to be emo-drenched sissies) that the kids play now over games that we used to have - the kickass games.

Comparison 1: Tamiya vs Dampa

Tamiya is a game where you buy an f'ing expensive plastic car that runs on batteries, look for an oversized track where you can place your "customized" car and let it compete against another "customized" car. Note that the word customized here is loosely used because the parts all come from the same manufacturer, the differences hardly matter, and the parts are so damn limited, you might as well stick with what you already have - that way, you spend less on parts and more on batteries that you'll be draining anyway because of the "high-torque" motors inside the plastic shells. Winner gets to be called uh well winner. That's about it.

Dampa is a game where you buy/get/scavenge for rubberbands that run on compressed air you produce by hitting the floor (dampa). The air will push the rubber forward slightly which you follow up with another cushion of air. Different stances can be used to fan air from the floor, almost as varied as martial arts techniques. You can play on any flat surface and race to the finish with anybody you see with enough rubberbands (and wind) to challenge you. First band to cross the finish line wins. Rubberband of the losing side, will then belong to the winner. That way, you're always playing for pinkslips.

Higher stakes, cheaper cost, more environmentally friendly and requires more discipline: Dampa wins.

Comparison 2: Beyblade vs. Trumpo/ Basagan Trumpo

Beyblade is a game where you buy a shit-expensive plastic top that spins for no more than 5 seconds, play in an arena the size of a small pan pizza and then "duke it out" by using a springaction cord to spin the top and let it collide with another top. Game usually ends when both tops stop at the same time in a draw or when one player dies of a heartattack from all the sreaming (yes, screaming at the top makes it go faster, thanks Dave.)

Trumpo is a game where you buy a cheap handcarved wooden top that balances on 1.5 inches of cold steel nail. The wooden body is sometimes coated with candle to prevent the nails of other tops from doing damage while thumbtacks are sometimes attached to increase the spinning momentum of the top. Other tops called "Palakol" have flat nails instead of fintipped nails for more unpredictability (kangkarot movement) and chisel-like behavior against the wooden bodies of the tops. The tops are spun using one yard of lashing cord, giving the top a maximum spin time of no less than two minutes.

There are different techniques in spinning the top using the lashing cord from voltes v to the rather embarassing tirang babae. The goal is to push away tops from a handdrawn box on the battle floor area where all the tops not in turn will rest. Tops that are pushed away will be "punished". If there are no tops pushed away, any othe player can catch the top using his lashing cord (the top must be caught spinning) using a variety of techniques as well, including the one hand catch where you catch a falling top spinning at unbelievable speeds with the nail pointed at the palm of your hand.

If the top was able to push away other non-spinning tops, the pushed tops can be hammered with the other top on its wooden body for max damage (palakol types excel in shattering wooden bodies). If no top gets thrown out, another player tries to outdo the rest of the tops in a round-robin phase.

Game ends when somebody gets pierced by a nail or when a top can no longer spin from the damage it has sustained.

Obviously, the winner is the one with actual gameplay. Trumpo wins.

Comparison 3: Pokemon and Sabong ng Gagamba

Pokemon is not a game. It is a video game. You catch animals and make them fight with each other in a virtual world. Card adaptations exist but it's not too different, except cards get more expensive than multiple game catridges required to "catch them all". A lot of merchandise can be bought for htis game, but non actually let you play the game for real. Afterall, these animals are just make believe.

Sabong ng Gagamba is a lot like Pokemon. Except everything is real. You carry your monsters in your pocket, challenge any Sabongero you meet to the death, and then later collect more monsters from a bukid or a gagamba vendor who can do the collection for you.

Fighting spiders have three different classes, as with any fighting sport: payat, normal and botsog (3 pesos, 5 pesos and 8 pesos during my time, respectively). Spiders have different breeds as well, ranging from gagambang araw, rapitik, gagambang hari, gagambang pula, etc. (No, we dont play with blackwidows). You can train your spiders with basic fighitng exercises using your finger. You can make him grow stronger by feeding him cotton. Or you can grant him immunity from pain with bayabas leaves. Spiders are usually stored inside multi-partitioned matchboxes resembling "pokeballs'" of pokemon.

A fight consists of two spiders matched on a barbeque stick where they will fight anywhere from 8 inches to 3 feet above the ground. A typical match can last for as fast as 15 seconds (my record fight time for a win) and as long as 30 minutes (in a very equal match). Fights are always to the death and ends when one spider dies or gets ensnared fully by the other spider - where he will die by being eaten anyway. Losing spider becomes instant prize for the winner as food or target practice later on. Monetary bets are not unknown.

Winner of this comparison? Economic and realistic. Sabong ng gagamba wins.


Modern technology aint bad. But you want your games to be really exciting, you have to keep it real some. I swear, if I didnt play these games when I was younger, I'd probably be in a very sad state right now, like in prison, homeless, or dead.

Somebody should make an anime for these kinds of things. I'm serious. More details on a future post.

Special note:
Some rules or details may deviate from version to version but that's about the jist of those games. As Duke from GIJoe says, "Knowing is half the battle! Yo Joe!" Because here in Public Static, I don't just want you to laugh. I want you to stay educated.

Lost My Music (literally)

An adaptation of the rock song Lost My Music as performed by Hirano Aya for Suzumiya Haruhi no Yuutsu. I still haven't gotten all of the chords right and it's obvious I havent even memorised how the song goes. But I'll put it in here anyway so maybe a few months/years/centuries from now, after I have finally gotten shit right, I can look back and say "I've improved. Now I can go on with the rest of my life."

On second thought, nah. I'll probably just forget all about this.

And yes, my camera phone almost fell off the damn piano when I tried to stop it.

Finally, I'd just to say in advance I don't have any music sheets for this. If I can't read notes chances are I dont know how to write them down either. :D

Stereotypes are there for a reason...

Monday, September 11, 2006

Yesterday was the Annual UAAP Cheerleading competition. In case you don't know what that's about, that's when cheerleaders/dancers from all UAAP-league university go head to head in a
"cheer off" in a spectacle of glitz, blitz, and stupidity.

I wasn't able to watch the entire competition, but I did see enough footage to make my stomach hurt from laughing. Here are a few notes I've managed to remember about the show.

Good dancing, respectable choreography, and decent looking cheerleaders. How can that go wrong? Two words: Bad Music. I'm not a remix genius but it doesn't take much musical taste to figure out that slapstick cartoon soundeffects don't mix well with club music. Apparently this obvious fact isnt so obvious for the NU Cheerleading squad. If you cant imagine how horrible the performance got because of the bad music, imagine a bunch of cheerleaders seriously dancing with the beat of their feet matching the soundeffect of shoes stepping on turd. The immortalized whoops-I-slipped sound from roadrunner and cayote didn't help make any mistakes go unnoticed either. In the end, the whole spectacle turned into looney tunes on court, without the tunes and with twice the loon.

And you'd think it' d stop there. No. Other universities just had to follow suit, as if bad taste for music was in fact infectious. UST, FEU and Ateneo also came up with the "wacky" sound effects that made their would-have-been-stellar performances appear like a circus.

The only troupes that I saw that actually thought of using acceptable remix music is UP, who unfortunately had too much of a good thing and ended up overshooting their performance way beyond the time limit. So much so that they actually had to just run out of the stage in panic mode for fear of being disqualifed, leaving props behind in a whirlwind of chaos. The panic that ensued got so bad, I was starting to think I was watching a rally dispersal.

On a lighter note, UP, notorious for extremely beefy (read: manly) cheerleading girls showed up with more feminine ones this year. They were easily dethroned from the amazon awards by political-statement totting FEU who broke traditions by coming up with unisex uniforms and girls who look manlier than their guys.

At first I thought it was random. Because hey, maybe I'm just reading too much into things. Never mind that I thought the performers doing the cancan were guys because of their muscular builds and lack of busts. Nevermind that these superwomen were at the base of the pyramids, actually the ones doing the lifting of male cheerleaders isntead. I mean, sweet lord, if these women can lift two men, it only takes a few drops of sweat for them do grow moustache and an Adam's apple to boot.

But then again, there was FEU's music. Intro: Chicksilog by Kamikazee. That's gotta be saying something. It gets cut off after 10 seconds, afterwhich we are bombarded with Enrique Iglesias tracks sequenced in the most suggestive way possible. These guys meant business.

As if their Yellow and Green boyscout motiff wasn't enough to tell us that.

Pound for pound though, the "biggest" performers weren't around this year. DLSU PEP Squad was noticieably missing (went over the weight restriction?). Which is sad, because everybody loves that scene where Willy jumps over a small kid in Free Willy. I'm not implying anything. I'm just saying if cheerleading uniforms could talk, they'd be screaming "I CAAANT TAKE IT ANYMOOORE. IM BEING TORN APART BY THE PRESSUUUUURE." that or "It. came. from .behind!" ala StarWars.

Also, there are the after performance interviews that were just as interesting. I remember seeing one interview where the commentator goes to interview a cheerleading captain about the performance in English. The stupid fuck was dumbstruck and you can just see it in his face. After ten agonizing seconds, he finally replies, deciding he'd rather not risk it and answer in Filipino instead. Safe answer, bitch. Cheerleader rep is bad enough, don't make it worse.

Speaking of rep, perhaps the best highlight of the whole event comes from FEU. It was the last few seconds of their performance. The center columns started pyramiding while images of the tamaraw in plaquards appeard on the sides.

And then it appeared in giant letters - a banner that says F.E.U.

It would have been perfect.

If it did not appear inverted in front of everybody in the judge's PoV.

Nice way to screw up a good performance. 4 months of nightly practice and you screw up the "this side up" part of the finale. *sigh*

Stereotypes are there for a reason.

Manila Bay Twister Video

Saturday, September 09, 2006

My office is right in front of Manila Bay and I didn't even notice it. Damn. Somebody was shooting aimlessly again. I borrowed this video from froshie1 of

If it did have landfall beside our office it would have been hilarious. A conversation between our Manila and Hongkong office would probably sound like this:

Boss from HK: Why is your work delayed?
Me: We had to run to the cellar.
Boss from HK: What.
Me: Twister. Twister. Sadly, it blew the software we were developing out into the open see, never to return again.
Boss from HK: Oh.
Me: Be right back. I think I'm flying over Cavite now. I have to swim back.

But they probably wont buy it. What are the odds of a twister visiting Manila? We can't even invite Aerosmith to play here. (We don't want them anyway)

As for the religious side of the story, the twister is God's way of saying, "I'm pulling down the FLUSH lever but the shit just won't disappear. "

Expect lots of twister jokes from amateurs on blogs for the next N-days where N is the number of days it takes for God to get tired of their shit and send their house to Oz using the next available twister.

Taking God's Job

Friday, September 08, 2006

I won't say anything until you see the video. This is a video made in Russia during the early stages of World War 2. It simply narrates how easily one can sustain life using external apparatuses.

(or stomach, or just weak in general).

So there you have it. I don't know why but this reminds me of Full Metal Alchemist, a show about a fictional world where the science of alchemy has solved everything except the mystery of human life. The human life is a taboo for all practitioners of alchemy, and gruesome punishment awaits those who violate tradition. For some reason, I feel that this kind of experimentation crosses the fine line between cool science and mad science (maybe it's the grainy video quality or the raspy narrator's voice, I don't know)

I won't go to deliver a lenghty oration regarding morality and science, animal testing and what not because let's face it - it's because of these kinds of experiments that we have the medical technology that we are using now.

On a lighter note, I bet the scientist working with decapitated doggie (as I fondly call him) have oneliner jokes about their work that never tire. I can imagine them yelling "Don't lose your head, now." or "Fetch!" or some other dog trick command at the dog.

Yeah, yeah, it's not as funny as I would imagine.

But I bet if they do that to a dead man's wang it'd get a hardon too.

narrator: "by circulating blood in a dead man's penis, we can reactivate it so it can once again terrorize society. If we create enough of these, we can launch them to Germany and impregnate their Nazi women with Russian sperm, who in turn can give birth to soldiers who will fight the red flag and turn Germany inside out."

Okay so maybe I went a little overboard now. Just maybe. But hey, we didn't see the part two of the video. Did we?

And no, this video is not fake. Suck it up, bitches.

Piano Schmiano

Thursday, September 07, 2006

I'm sleepy and I'm tired and this is not an update. This is a post that goes to someobody who will be owing me 100 pesos in a few minutes.

Like I said, I can't play the piano but sure as hell I can make it sound as close to the real thing.

Ouido - it's the next best thing for the lazy.

My Dark Past

(subtitle: Jet does the Emo)

I was reading an article from another kickass site last night about Emos and Goths, or more collectively, contemporary garbage. The Dreth's article contained the following lines:

... I can't get over the fact the number just keeps increasing, since when did being miserable and with low self-esteem turn "cool" ? I can't lie, when I began using the internet I was kind of like that but never to the point of cutting and going to a chat room to brag about it (no, I never inflicted damage on myself). On MSN Chat (when it was open for everyone) all those with dark names would look mysterious and sometimes even seductive, granted it was only temporal stupidity I never enjoyed that small cyber-phase. Day after day it would be pretty much the same thing, you'd act depressed in the chat room and after the small chit-chat about nu-metal crap bands (still early 2002), and after that... you're pretty much a normal person. You'd laugh and talk about things from your everyday life.

So why put up a stupid-ass "dark" act at first? Because it's KEWL! Or is there any other reasonable explanation to it?

I was thinking, 8 years ago - when I first went online, wasn't I doing the same thing? I didn't want to admit it at first but at some point in time, I also wanted to be the "dark" one around. To doublecheck my case, I went to the first personal website I built years ago and began searching for clues. (and no, I don't have the best memory around to remember anything I wrote 8 years ago)

Here's a Section IX - My Character As I See It, taken from my autobiography created 1998.

If ever I was to be compared to an earthly object, I would frankly say, “I am a man likened to a Dandelion seed.” I drift high where no one notices. I observe, looking for good ground, seeing people passing by as they go along with their lives. The only people who notice are those who look. That is one of my principles in life. Punctual as I am, I always get to where am supposed to when time comes. Suppressing all winds of opposition. That’s what I am, the ever moving airborne seed.

Jesus. What principle, Jet? Being autistic and just "see" people? From how I see it now, my situation back then was so bad, I would have invented the term "intovertarded" just to describe myself. It continues:

I live by a series of truths, principles, and mottoes that I have proven true in time.
I keep these sayings for myself though I hope they will be useful to others someday.
Upon knowing these, perhaps it will supply my descriptions of myself. Let me show you
some examples.

- He who chooses to dwell in the shadows shall know the true value of light.
- Life is one crooked path of flowers and weeds.
- Happiness can never be found on the last letter of vindication.
- Beware the silent shadows of the night.
- Sometimes, the first letter of the alphabet can be found amongst the numerals.
- Truth will set you free but misuse shall bound you in shackles
- Up in the hill of knowledge, you can see the mountain of success
- Tread you way happily wanderer, for the worst lie ahead.
- Skulking in the dark will only leave you with more problems.

Here we see are early attempts of me to create autoquotations while trying to be dark at the same time. And failing at it badly. Very badly. "Beware the silent shadows of the night"? WTF. What kind of words of wisdom is that? I give up. And by "give up" I mean "hate what I'm reading right now with a passion."

The last part of the chapter finally reveals the "dark" side of me:

Such sayings guide me through my life. Some maybe just and some might be wrong but I believe that in due time, the right will be separated from the wrong. After all this how do I describe myself? I am solitary, enigmatic, creative, punctual, foolish, careless, kind (sort of..), childish and unique amongst others. One thing I can note from my character is the shifting balance of the sense of solitude. Sometimes I like being alone. When alone, I feel that I am at peace. However, when I am alone for certain periods of time, I long for the company of others. It seems as though that in this time of my life I am undergoing radical changes. Whatever comes out of these changes shall be the basis of my permanent character many years from now.

What a boatload of bullshit. Alone? I couldn't even cook back then. God I cant believe I was trying so damn hard back then. I want to knuckleslap my younger self right now and pull back at the last moment to make sure the hit stings.

*long sigh*

If ever there's a redeeming value to this, it's that even then I already acknowledge that there is something very wrong with that way of thinking and that I should undergo radical changes. I knew, though not clearly at that time that I WOULD GROW OUT OF IT.

I think this phase is like masturbation. It's was enjoyable for a while to act dark and shit until you realize you're fucking with nobody but yourself. Then you just try to forget about it and move on.

And for the record, I never thought that self-mutilation is cool. Suicide is out of the question - there are enough stupid people on earth, me killing myself would offset the balance between normal people and retards to the favor of the retards. I'd rather kill off some of the retards to vent.

But I guess we're all entitled to occassional stupidity, and hopefully learn something about it in the process. What did I learn? Trying to be dark when you're clearly not is not only retarded but also RIDICULOUS to anybody from the future who'll look back and say "maan, this guy needs to get laid".

Now it's your turn.


Things I want to do before I die

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Everybody has them. For me, it's because having goals set makes procrastinating even sweeter. Just kidding, maybe I'll fix that statement next time. I've long since reconciled with the idea that with my top 10 status in the McDonalds delivery charts and bad exercise habits (read: NONE), me living past the age of 30 is an anatomical miracle.

So, I've decided to put in here stuff that I want to do before I die. See what we have in common:
1. Publish a book - I want my name on a book. I don't know why. Maybe I just want to be responsible for the death of a couple of trees. Maybe I want my name to be remembered as "that asshole who ruined the local book industry" or maybe I just want something to be remembered by the way we all mistakenly remember Machiavelli as Satan's writer.

2. Do Standup Comedy on a big bar - Not those shitty small beerhouse bars. I want a sold-out venue filled with intellectuals to actually pay money just to watch me do what I usually do for free. Hey, it's either this dream or porn acting. Take your pick.

3. Use the MRT/LRT PA System to rap/dj/pull pranks - I'd be riding the MRT and say "VITO CRUZ STATION." when I'm EDSA. I'll count how many people will actually try to get off and realize their stupidity and try to hop back in. Then I'd close the doors already so they cant come back. NICE TRY BITCHES. Also, I want to be in control of the doors in this dream. For those smart enough or deaf enough to stay, I'd sing for them and babble about how much of a bitch life can become EMO-style. I want to see how much casualty that can generate.

4. Make out with twin hotties - 'Nuff sed.

5. Create a movie (hopefully, starring the twin hotties I made out with) - Who doesn't want their stories gracing the big screen? It's like seeing your childhood dreams win over other childhood dreams. My dreams rule. Yours suck. Talk about bragging rights huh?

These are by no means comprehensive and me doing all of them doesn't mean I'll just curl up and die already. Again, these are goes I like to procrastinate from. Maybe I'll add more in the future.

And you'd might be surprised how close I am in making them come true.

Crocodile Hunter

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

I suppose by now, half of the internet blogs contain news about the Crocodile Hunter, the oh-crap-its-that-guy-again-so-let-me-switch-channels environmentalist who likes to mess with animals who, by God's intention are not to be fucked with using bare hands and short khakis.

And I'm sure 90% of them contain trite, hackneyed, "Crickey, I'm dead!" jokes.

This entry isn't one of them.

I actually liked watching his shows.

I enjoy reality TV for the sole possibility of something screwing up and see it without having to be troubled by actually being involved in the problem. Yes, I watch to see people screw up. And what better show to watch for this than man-goes-retardedly-close-to-danger expedition shows by Steve Irwin and his other crazy colleagues?

Thanks to a friend, I remember one particular episode where he dared to photograph all of the most venomous snakes in Australia with is camera. He'd trashtalk the snakes while taking photographs as though he's doing the shoot for Victoria's Secret models. "That's right, mate! Show me snake! Bare those fangs you wild slithering you! Hiss like there's no tomorrow!"

After a while a smart enough snake was able to outsmart him. The snake pretended that Croc Hunter wasnt there and started looking away. This pissed off CH so badly he actually went closer. And that's all the snake needed. The fucker landed a good bite at the hand CH tried to use to attract the snake, causing Steve Irwin to panic like a diabetic out of insulin.

Well, he lived to tell about it, but it was shit funny when you see it on TV. Like MTV's Jackass, except replace Jackass with "Steve Irwin".

Yeah, he's ridiculous. And the costume doesnt help either. But to be able to fuckwrestle a crocodile to submission, play with the deadliest of snakes and get bitten and actually live to tell about it, eat a live shark (unconfirmed), and guest in Jay Leno's tonight show, this guy has to have balls the size of Tortuga.

He's earned the right to be ridiculous by doing kickass things that not even a drunken me would try in my dreams. (For example, I will not under any circumstances touch a kangaroo's genetalia just to check if she's a she, even if there's a mammary pouch obviously indicating the gender. EVER)

Well he died, sadly. But it's not like he didn't have it coming. He was bitten so many times by snakes already (twice on camera) and escaped poison-related death so many times, to be able to live to age 44 and still be able to have kids is well above my normal definition of "lucky bastard". Luck isn't stupidity. It just has to run out.

Long live the Crocodile Hunter. He will be most certainly missed.

Gym Blues

Monday, September 04, 2006

I hate the gym. I think it's one of those places I'd rather avoid unless I'm forced into going there by being held at gunpoint by Miss Universe as my gym instructor - even then I'd still be hesitant. Don't get me wrong though, I love workout. I love the sweat and calories I could be losing if I didn't favor just thinking about how much good exercise can do for me while eating popcorn on the couch instead.

Gyms suck. You're wasting energy that could be spent doing other more worthwhile activities (like work or community service). Then you'd go on socializing with other sweatwhores doing small talk and just wasting time. And it's not like you need those shaped muscles for anything. Carpentry is dead bitches. Learn something that can earn you more than minimum wage.

And then what's up with those Black Mamba babes? You know what I mean - those big chunky muscleturds who hang out in the gym all the time looking like bastard children child of a chunky piece of cornshit and a hairless gorilla, with the potential to become pro wrestlers and drag queens at the same time.

Since when did being homosexual require large body masses anyway? Did the village people convention suddenly declare fags all over the world have to be ripped like hell to be gay? The future of this trend is a scary one. Think of the world swarming with Mr.T - gay Mr. T's who'd make short work of your ass - literally.

And then they just get to you. I can live with people. I'm not one to complain outrightly. But when they start shoving their existences down your throat, that's a different ballgame already right there.

Like when your working out and they'll go near you and ask you like some beggar looking for chump change "Pare, gusto mo spot?"

A spotter, in case you dont know, is somebody who looks out for you in case you can't take the weight of your lifting load so he can catch the weight instead of you turning into a pancake.

But I thought I'd be just fine so I say "No, I'm ok thanks."

He insists "Hindi, pare okay lang. Ako bahala sayo."

I'm really okay and I'd feel even better if he's somewhere far away from me - like in Mars or something. "Thanks na lang."

But he doesnt leave and just watch there, "Spot na rin ako just in case."

That's the point where I get pissed. I went on saying, or shouting if you were there, "#@$@#*#&$@*!!! Pare, sabi nang ayaw ko ng spot eh. Treadmill to. HINDI KO KAILANGAN NG SPOT."

t(' - ' t)

This may or may not have happened in real life. But if it did, I'd probably have acted that way too.

You might think I'm just being a sick paranoid fuck by thinking about all these and then blogging it for all the internet to read/accidentally read.


Crazy Dreams

Sunday, September 03, 2006

I was checking earlier the oldest surviving writings I had from highschool earlier. The only reason why I still have them is that when I first got my net back in 1998, I suddenly felt the need to transfer them from decomposing notebooks, intermediate papers and other assortments of badly archived paper (like back of test papers) to digital format and upload them online for preservation. Some of them date back to 1997 and I'm glad I got to snapshot some of my works from my childhood.

A couple of documents detail a rather strange story about a series of dreams I seemed to have been having sometime time during 4th year HS (as footnoted). I've forgotten about these and realized I was one crazy bastard back then to have dreams like these. The way it was written is obviously romanticized already since no dream can be so narratively convenient, but from the footnotes, I was quickly able to tell that most of it is actually indeed part of my dream.

Here are a couple of excerpts from the dream sequences:

I was about to cross the last street towards my parking when I heard three loud shots. I was too drunk to be startled, but soon I felt something very warm oozing out of my left leg and right chest. I suddenly lost all my strength, I was wobbly but it didn’t feel like a hangover, the feeling was something else. I stared at my hands. They were tainted by warm oozing blood. I tried to walk a few more steps and I finally blacked out and collapsed near a broken down stoplight with its orange light blinking on and off above me.

It’s funny cause though I know that I was in a mental comma, I could sense all stimuli that bombarded my body. I heard ambulance sirens, then shouts of people as if they were curing me. Then silence. The last thing I heard was a flat-liner sound made by my electrocardiogram. Suddenly, I felt my skin peeling off my body, then my flesh, then my bones. What was supposed to be an excruciating pain was now an indescribable predicament that I was experiencing.

Was I dead? Or was it just a drunkard’s illusion? I could now see my body in a bird’s eye view. I tried to shout for help, but it was as if my voice was being drowned in an endless sea of silence. Tears came rolling down my cheeks, as I was sober once more, only to realize my fate. I was dead and I couldn’t do anything about it. As I could see from what the guys from the hospital were doing, I died from bullet wounds, one of them hit my right lung and my right leg. The next events came as if time was no longer a constant. I suddenly found myself in a parched flat desert with no existence in sight for miles and miles. The sky was red and there was no wind. I was inside a black cage with weird, gothic-like engravings. I once more shouted for help, but to no avail…

I just couldn’t make any sound despite how hard I tried. I tried digging my way out of the confinement but my fingers couldn’t even touch the soil I was trying to dig, as though some invisible lamination separated me form reality. I fell to my knees. And looked upward, the roof of the cage had disappeared when I was not looking. And out from the sky descended a six-winged figure resembling angels of old times. Of course I never really saw one in my “lifetime” but I had particular interests on angels and other stuff of myth so I know their most basic of descriptions. Okay. So, he had cloth coverings all over him, including his face, it was wrapped like that of an Arabian Bedouin, as it walks in a desert. He then picked me up the way a groom would pick up his bride, the way a father would carry a sick child. Time accelerated once again as the ground started shrinking beneath us rapidly. Right then and there, my emotions were already in fray. I didn’t know what to feel next.

Then I felt as if, all of my perceptions were being distorted, I could see the angel, but nothing else. The entire scenery was empty, devoid of anything, sight, sound, and all. Even the wind did not feel like anything though my clothes were flapping like crazy. I knew by that movement that we were travelling very fast. But to nowhere. The blood in my entire body has disappeared, no pain ever bothered me since I was shot. So this was what being a soul means. I guess life is just like that, one snap and its all game over for me. I looked at the face of my winged companion. It seems that I lacked the enthusiasm to be surprised by that fact that there was no face to behold. Only a vacuum bound by the clothing wrapped around it...

Now that is what I would like to call fucked up. If I could approach my younger self right now, I would have given him a good bitchslapping for dreaming of such stupid things. And dont even go on saying these things have meanings, because I might just walk into that room of yours too right now just to bitchslap you out of that nonesense.

Still I find the idea rather... nostalgic.

100th Post Marker

Friday, September 01, 2006

I was imagining something better for this 100th post. But I know I'm drunk as hell already and chaces are, I wont be rembembering anything tomorrow morning. This will be a reminder for me. I remember calling Phibs earlier about bad writers and messaging Mai on YM about something regarding the book thingie (I cant remember) . I remember talking to Schneider, Trish, and Payne. The logs are at the office, I'll get back to you soon as I can.

It's a good day today.

Thanks for reading up to now. Normal posts will resume after this.

Course Cards - The Creative Way

Yesterday was course card day for the university beside my house. I've had my share of funny stories about coursecards but I bet what would be funner is if teachers started doing more creative ways to present those cards that contain failing grades. (for reference, we follow the american grading system of 4 being the highest and 0 being the lowest by increments of 0.5 in our college)

Scene 1 (knock knock jokes)

teacher: knock knock.
student: *nervously* who's there?
teacher: zero
student: zero, who?
teacher: *presents coursecard* NEXT!
teacher: knock knock
student2: Who's there?
teacher: 4.0
student2: *delighted* 4.0 WHO MA'AM?
teacher: *presents coursecard, 0.0* Not you. NEXT!

Scene 2 (musicals)

student: can I see my coursecard now?
teacher: I have a song for you first.
student: what song would that be.
teacher: small circle, small circle, big circle. here's mama, here's papa, saying don't cry.
student: *cries like a whiney bitch*

Scene 3 (good news, bad news)

teacher: I have good news and bad news
student: Lets start with the good news
teacher: Well despite the low grades during the first quiz, the results got offset by a very high final exam and exceptional class standing.
student: That's great! What's the bad news?
teacher: I was talking about your friend's grades. See you next term.

Scene 4 (first we teach you, then we hire you)

teacher: Sorry, you didnt make it.
student: I didnt?
teacher: yeah, but as a consolation we have something here for you.
student: A make up project?
teacher: Read it.
student: Youre giving me application forms for Jollibee and McDonalds?
teacher: Let's just call it contingeny measures.

Scene 5 (guessing game)

teacher: Let's play a little game called "guess your grade"
student: Okay...
teacher: Clue number 1: What begins with "z" and ends with "ero"?

Scene 6 (Number game)

teacher: ID number 10002024.
student: Here, sir.
teacher: What's the most common number in your ID number?
student: *fucked*

Scene 7 (TRUE STORY, ALTRIG2, Grading - Osaka Iridology style)

teacher: Look into my eyes.
student: *puzzled*
teacher: Here's your 4.0, good job.
student: (where did he get the computation for this? I thought I failed)
teacher: *facing next student* Look into my eyes
student2: *looks intently*
teacher: Here's your card.
student2: YOU FLUNKED ME?
teacher: You didn't look like you've learned enough.
student2: *fucked*

I should have been a teacher. Course Card day would be so much fun. It's like being a manager and firing all the people you hate without taking flak for it.

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