boombastic

pare! pucha! i am awake. or rather, i was awakened.

the elevator was quiet. there were only three persons in there. a chinese expat, myself, a whole lotta fat. i tell you pare. it seemed crowded. not because the space was small, mind you. but because of the reek of a dead rat. or i thought it was.

the quality of the pungence was devastating. even my dead kulangot which hung dearly to my very few, but thick and healthy, nose hairs was hanging on to dear death. not life. death. i wangts to stay fucking dead, mehn.

it was being called to life thru the ethers of a dead rat. or i thought it was.

hmmmm. i'm going in circles already. haven't you noticed? kumapal ang titi ko. tinigasan na pala. na excite sa amoy?

di naman amoy kyamoy. the chinese expat was ok. since he was still able to talk chinese over the phone. me, i was talking to the `langot (short for kulangot, gets?) in me to stay dead. i mean, the cute (i seldom have cute `langot. most of the time they're so big you'd think my nose just expectorated china... hmmm.. no wonder i have little space for my brain left) `langot was shouting 'please let me stay dead! please!'.

so yun. there was a mild ting-ting and the big ball of lard went out of the elevator. and lo and behold. death to my cute `langot.

i mean, let me be clear. us puchas have nothing against fat boys. just that they just need to just take a just bath just about every just day.

gets?

kapesot (i-e problems with most putangnang-mga-bisaya-yan) pare.

pucha's guide to happines

i should be smiling my gums out until they dry. it would be hard to close my mouth when that happens. i mean, pare, what would it take to make a pucha happy? huh? let me count the ways.

a pucha can be happy when he can:
1) should be able to curse anytime, anywhere on the top of his lungs. remember, a pucha is a smoker. nay. a marlboro red smoker. take your lungs out. place on some cushy surface. step on top of it. now swear like you had no lungs. remember. you are on top of it.

2) should be able to check out them mares (female horses. the pucha is a male horse. and should be big like a horse. loves red horse. red bull. and anything in between).

3) drink like there's no tomorrow. a pucha is essentially an essentialist. a pucha loves essence. like the essence of chicken. the essence of perfume. the essence of alcohol no matter what form. anything that has essence. like whispering to a horse. whispering until he is hoarse. a pucha is always haorse, since he loves to shout on top of his lungs. there is no tomorrow. there is only the essence of tomorrow. thus, a pucha, when he drinks, doesn't think of tomorrow. only the essence of tomorrow. thus, he gets drunk in the essence of tomorrow, today.

4) a pucha should shit his spirit free. breathing in the essence of the four winds. it spirals down the innards of a pucha. the spirit cannot go out of the horse like vegetable-oirgan of a pucha. only life essence is allowed to flowe out of there. yeah. like water. like water for chocolate. like chocolate to suppress primal urges. or just maybe climb up a tree and wail like a cat in heat. kasi nga mataas ang araw. kahit ikaw magrereklamo. back to the spirit. the spirit should be shit free. kung hindi, your burp will smell like shit.

five. six. seven. eight. nine.

capische! (feeling french ako ngayon. like, would you like to french kiss my armpits?)

nuninu

can't sleep. haven't posted for a while. like 3 hours ago. before that. days. weeks even. months? years? too tamad (the disease that killed the rolling stones, ie, sakit sa bato) to switch back and see my earlier than latest entry.

what to do. what to do. it's boring here. maybe it's time to go blog hopping and make okray (badedesh term for that slick, snotty (like sipon pare) organ... err.. vegetable... alright, your organ maybe a vegetable. you need the blue pill, kiddo) now i lost count of the parens i made... anyhoo...

yeah. maybe make it a weekly thing. that way, i can attract more readers. you want trash, i'll give you an ashtray. yeah.

kapisot (small kapish), pare.

jungle bells

pare! wasap? wut?!? can't hear ya. sorry.

i heard someone say that christmas is just aroungd the corner. i went to the corner. nope. no christmas there. i went to the other corner, no christmas there too. so wtf?!? wut?!?

i notice christmas trees on many corners tho. funny thing is, those are not real trees. thanks be to gawd, the pader, and the mader. no wonder our forrest are nude and therefore no more forrest. see? a nude forrest is not a forrest. a nude tourist is not a tourist. the tourist will be jailed. the tourist will become a prisoner. because the tourist thought it was free. it is a tourist because it is a neuter. and neuters don;t engage in sex. why is the tourist jailed when it is a neuter. because the neuter grew balls to get naked. see the logic? wut?!?

back to christmas trees. they are not real trees. thus, christmas is not real. it's just an appointed day where we fool kids that there's a santa. and santa is a pedophile because there are no elves. or dwarves. just kids. see? wut?!?

and reindeers that fly? no way. hmmm. if santa comes from the north pole and he brings presents to chimneys all over the world, that means he's not flying. he's falling. like from north to south falling. he just has good timing. and timing gives santa many many kids. and kids make toys. and toys make kids happy. what a tautology. wut?!?

have you seen a reindeer fall? or fall with a reindeer? no. i live in the philippines. no way there's no fall here. well, we fell for gloria. what can i say? wut?!? yeah. i said 'wut?!?'

kapish. time for kopee.

time to get serious

pare. pucha. wasap? wat?!? not even tuytuy's up? too bad.

anyhoo, i'm filled up to the brim i'm not even sure if i'm drunk or not. whatever which way, my way or the hiway, let's not let it get in the way.

it is time for some social commentary. wat yu say? nah. i love jessica zafra but she might choke (on her cup of coffee, not on anything else. bashtush!). i'm not out to rule the world. only the pucha-pare empire.

so, you better watch out. i'm giving you the hataw and you better not cry. i'm sick and tired of shutting up and looking like a dimwit.

at least, when i'm writing, i may sound like a dimwit. and dimwits have their stories, too.

i've been discovered

for the longest time i haven't updated this blaahg... teka. deep breathing... pucha! pare.

so musta mustasa, labanos ang kang kong. somebody who's been hanging out at peyups.com (where bright minds meet, and match, kaya p-p-yu-pi) somehow bumped into this yu-ar-el. and fuck yeah, i've been getting some traffic.

come on, dudes! you're wasting bandwidth, and time, visiting my site. what's up, UP? (tangna nyo, iihi-an ko kayo kung di kayo mag post ng comment dito. eh di sana di na lang ako nag post. kingnamehn. bigyan nyo ako ng rason para magsulat!).

hmmm. i want to stop but i want to not. so to continue... then i stop.

egis. last hirit...

UP! 2nay! p! l! ban! m! k! b! yan! (pakshit you t3ksterz!)

UP. where nothing is as lovely as a 3.

shit

tae.

i am sick

pucha, pare. i am sick, pare. i am a hot (literally) sorry assed sick person.

for several days, my left eye has been experiencing some difficulties. thus it is always crying when i sleep. and when i wake up, i knew that my left eye was crying because i have so many muta (tagalog. fecal matter of the eyes). so that's one.

my right nostril has been experiencing heavy traffic since yesterday (barado). but the mucus is not so mucousy so i let it be.

imagine, much to my delight and surprise. i woke up with a closed left eye and right nostril. in my sleep, it seems that my right hand was digging out kulangot (tagalog. fecal matter of the nose) and muta because my right index finger was salty and sweet and sour. wheeeee! sarap!

when i went down to get some water, my plema (tagalog. fecal matter of the lungs) was prime time thick and creamy. too creamy that when i tasted it, its so creamy i gag myself (like 'gaga. masarap yan. pero luwa mo. gaga.').

so yes! i am sick. and i don't mind because i haven't been for some time.

cheers, pare!

omega

amoy omega ka na naman
sumasakit na naman ang iyong balakang

eh bakit naman kasi
kahit kelan walang pasabi
kumakangkaaaang sa kangkungan

napaisip tuloy ako
kahit patay na lahat ng kuko
panay sundot ang ulo mo
paikot ikot parang tsubibo

so here i was buying a stick of yosi
attacking my nostrils feeling so kadiri
you so sounding, snoring, sleeping on your mat
your shorts so high up its showing your peklat

i imagine earlier, you were rubba-dubba-dubbing
omega, all over, your body, so very very sore-ing

watchutink you doing, chewing on some ding-dong
oh come on, meron bang ganon? kingkong!

living the life

pucha, pare. wasap? me, nothing much. just living the life. what? no life? get a life. even if it's just a lowly one.

try this one out for instance. from the remains of what has been a meal of anchovy pizza, bring it home. make sure it is cold. eat it with ice. but before that, take a walk to your nearby isaw stand. enjoy the traffic and noise and pollution. deep breathing, pare. sawsaw to the suka the crisp, newly cooked innards of your choice. you can get outwards too by the way. pig's ears and chicken skin. you discard it, the isaw stand has it.

on your way back to your place, get some ice and some fizzed drink. take out the saucy dried fish leftovers. smell it like you're getting a piece of heaven, which you are, and smile.

now, try to burp and bring out that burnt pig matter aroma. while doing so, take as much saucy dried fish with cheese in a single bite. challenging, no? but with practice comes enlightenment. enjoy that slice of heaven. live the life.

there is nothing to be worried about. well, there is. til the next paycheck arrives.

take it easy, pare.

reminder to self

pucha, pare. you are supposed to be a clueless, english speaking, hampas lupa, saucy wannabbe. you are not a sex craved, angst-driven, violence-thru-sex spewing looney.

ok. it's fine to be a looney. but a clueless, english speaking, hampas lupa, saucy wannabe looney. not a sex craved, angst-driven, violence-thru-sex spewing looney. ok? ok.

umayos ka.

a dick shunned

pucha, pare. once. yes. just once. not the song. the movie. after the sun danced and oscar gave away the golden dicks, i just can't avoid it any longer.

add to that fucking ben afleck and matt damon videos, i am one crazed, looney looney. pass by the loo and pee some orangey-yellow stuff and i'm half past ready to go out and beat the hell out of gloria.

what, you don't know gloria? the half imp of a prez the pee-lip-hinds has? come on? come on! don't be shy. it's ok. it's ok to think that mike arroyo (*the* first gentleman who is not so gentle i wish he'd die already) is the best ventriloquist the cunt-try has ever had. they're fucking you in the butt and you just don't feel it. that's how gentle he is.

right. pucha. i'm tempted to read the papers again just so to deliver educated commentaries on this blaahg but the press even is not educated. fuck them all.

capische.

headhunting

pucha, pare. i know. i know. no posts for a thousand years. i'm back. wb me!

so here i was, some time ago, looking for a job. i wanted a nice office. a great salary. a challenging project. maybe some people under me. guess what, they won't give those to me. so i said, ok. my resume is shitty. i'm too stupid to hold an office, much less a desk or a pen. and pucha, the only people who won't mind being under me are dead. you know, going to the graveyard (graveyard shift. har! har!) and stomping the bee-jeezus out of the dead.

so i decided to be a gardener. a gardener for the dead. i plant dead people. i'd like to see them grow into trees. and the trees, waving back at me when the wind blows on them, would look like dead people. lots of dead people copulating. then they would give birth to dead children. then i'd plant dead children.

what? silence! i kill you!

(heck. next time i'll be really be blogging about me. me as in me me. like me alive. it'd bore you to death. but hey, i'll have fun boring you and leave you as dead.)

soaped

pucha! pare! see the exclamations? i am purely excited. see my hard-on? no? smuy smuy eh. not fluffy tho so all's well. little brown hot-bull-dog powered by rice, ire. all rice! uhm. without the kulubot but with lots of panot. all rice!

my body clock is fucked. why? because of them darned soap that's been all over me this morning. yeah. have you seen a soap this big? yeah. this big. this small? want me to bang your eyeballs with this? let's see what's bigger, huh?

so i take out a fish that clamped its clawlike mouth to my clawlike claw. and what do i get? paksiw, pare.

i am not making much sense, am i? pucha naman. labo. inlababo kamo. wait. inlababo without a love interest? come on. i don't do dates. they're too small. apples maybe. medyo lamig the core and the seeds get in the way at times. the best to do is half a kilo of pork skewered, sugbaed (ilonggo, sugba, to grill, past tense), de skewered, put in a meduim milo can, knifed and thrusted, pucha-pare style like the back of mechanical bronco (one arm up, other hand clutching the milo can like it means the end of the world if it slips (grasping without grasping firmly is lame and won't make you come. mao-ze-dong to his concubine) and humping it like the damn animal with a crokscrew dick), pare. mainit init at greaseless pa.

chow chow! gutom lang to.

global warming

pucha, pare. it's been hot lately and wexed and i have been chatting about global warming and how to go about it. let me educate you a bit on how to help.

global warming is brought about by libido. with all the humans in this planet, pare, i wouldn't be surprised. add in to that the birds and the bees and the animals in the trees, pare. every time a manoy gets beaten, or a pp having its dose of sunshine, or something shoved into your body where the sun doesn't shine, heat emissions occur. thus, global warming, pare. its true. my pappy told me so.

so what do we do about it? take a bath, pare. it's the best way. take a cold shower every so often if you can. the pr0n sites aren't helping much. exercise is just an excuse. fuck your brains off, but make sure the aircon is on.

oh well. the brainiac wexed thought it wouldn't help much. the baths and the airconditioning. so i said, why not just turn every fucking cooling agent on the planet on and open those damn doors so it'd be cooler outside? hah! pucha, pare. brilliant! fucking brilliant, pare! (hi jeyps! remember then arnistas, pare? pucha) fucking-A brilliantitotitos (smuy smuy gems).

well, that's not helping much too. so we set out to determine the earth's core temperature. imagine a child, just being born (congrats on the new baby, kim! ok, daddy, baby first). how do we get its temp? get a thermometer and stick it up the baby's ass. it begs the question, where exactly is the earth's ass? down there, pare. classic lit. 20000 leagues beneath the sea. yep. how do we get there? via the yellow submarine, pare. since these are modern times, it should be a nuclear yellow submarine pare. make a big one. ask the russians. nay, the vietnamese. they're good with attacks from the behind, pare.

why go nuclear? so that it can power itself without having to surface for a long time. get thet nuclear yellow sub, stick it up the earth's ass, turn the airconditioning on full. come on! the earth would have a swell time. it will swell due to something up its ass and get a cold at the same time because of the same thing! well, good luck to more earthquakes but the point is to arrest global warming. by the way, who the hell is he?

cheers, pare!

PS: when i die, bury me face down so that the rest of the world can kiss my ass. (seen somewhere in the 'net)

UPDATE: i was corrected by sonic on my thesis of the earth's ass. well, i'll pray about the truthfulness of that. i might arrive at some form of enlightenment.

more thoughts. mohamed is the architect of the first dildo? mohamedan, thy kingdom come. of course! come some more. blasted volcanoes are achuli large pps. and when they blow, orgasmic, pare. deym! the moslems are right. the buddhists are gay. the boom bays ride small motorcycles and the only numbers they know are 5 and 6. the christians... well, the christians say 'holy luuuu-yeah!'.

sori meca! kain tayo baboy. 100% pure beef na baboy, pare (thanks, tet). hostshots, anybody?

flick her ring around

pucha, pare. here i go again. and wexed thought i am sick since no post for the past two days. and the puchang-maniniyut allan almost-like-a-holy-blessing greeting me a good morning (good moaning, guys. moan some more. yeah. that's the way to do it. uh-huh uh-huh!) only to be castigated and announce that his pee-churs will be featured in a daily broad shit (talk about bodily extracts so early makes me moan some more. good moaning, butt-heads!).

oh, flick her. flick her some more. pee-churs and dreaming to be a wannabee pucha-pare maniniyot. i'd rather dream and stroke that red button. shooting without no blood. no blood no foul. gaddem. pucha.

prodigy is bleating my rockin-beats and the mammaries of them chemicals my brother left (he's still on it by the way) is coursing thru my synapses like golden lava only to be reminded that the laundry still needs to be wrung. oh, dripping dripping white fluids. bubbles of thoughts poking thru that flick-her-ring madness.

be still my beating manoy-that-has-been-beaten. thy yolk runneth over. only to be caught in the cottony-softness of the music which bleats. damn goats. stop blabbering.

so i sayeth, pare. go forth and be merry and eat that fruit from the garden of good and evil. wrench your thoughts and dry that laundry. and don't forget to multiply, pare.

my, my. aren't we colorful this morning. capische shells, pare. let's.

early morning tryst

pucha, pare. so i was up early this morning. early to bed, early to rise, make a pucha-pare have a hard on all day. kasi healthy eh. look at those sperms, mama! they'll just turn to smegma. so i am smegmatic this morning. take a hint. beware.

disclaimer: the following words need adult supervision. tipong, when you fuck, you need an adult to tell you 'don't stop. please.' see? so i'm telling you now, don't fuck with me.

so i was going thru the early friday morning ritual of going to jolly-bug and getting the jolly-bargher with the not so jolly-cashier. 'good morning, sir! welcome to...' without the smile. why don't you just spread your legs, dahling, and let's get it over with. para kang putah. umiireh pero wala naman. lech.

saw this really non-employee jolly-guy with a gun on his side. i mean, what fa duck?!? who won't be jolly in the morning if you've got a gun on your side. 'don't fuck with me even if i'm smiling.' yeah. fuck dapulis. they throw their weight around with the gun on their belts. wear your uniforms, bozos. pucha-pares would suck your guns dry, anytime. just wear the dang uniform.

next stop was the bank. since it was early, the tellers still reeked of whatever they stuff their bathrooms with. think lactacyd. hell yeah. so manoy was saying hello, can't do good morning, but it rose to the occassion.

filled in the deposit slip to pay my rent and the teller (who happened to have good looks, who's looks is inversely proportional to her IQ) was saying 'puuh-uh, kulang numbers sa account number' (see? see?). i mean, you're supposed to know better than i do. what do you think of me? thinking of making boso? you're right. but hello, hi, good morning, gaddemmit, you should know better than i do. you ask me to go ask new accounts? this damn account is older than your oldest daughter? are you married? no? fine. this account is older than your oldest pubic hair.

damyu.

saksak mo lang zero sa una. leche.

get it? fine. pucha naman. we're done. thank you. i should have banged you over the wall and let my mother take care of your cork assed carcass.

here comes the sun

pucha, pare. the sun is up and so's my tuytuy (ilonggo, to guide. pucha-pare-ilonggo, smuy tt). time to get rakin and rolin.

when i was taught about the birds and the bees, pare, it was by my father's soccers colleagues. not that my father played soccer. he just had a fetish for soccer balls. whenever he sees one, he goes berserk and bangs my mother to the wall. as in my mother's blood would be spilled all across the wall, pare. but my mother was a fan of rambo. 'yuuu druuu ferst blaaahd'. and she'll get her hunting bolo and make a necklace out of it, pare. using my father's head to forge the metal into fine links. she'd work at it night and day, day and night, all rice. and my father would be reborn into a 45 day chicken with no balls to speak of and he would be reincarnated into my father again in no time after my mother makes inasal (ilonggo, to stick a spike thru a dead, marinated 45 day old chicken like my father) out of him. i miss my mother's inasal. it tastes like my father. pucha, pare. talk about spirituality.

when i was taught about the birds and the bees, pare, they never included flowers. deym. flowers are supposed the be the subject of the birds and the bees, pare. well, not unless the bird makes a subject of the bees. and then there's the pussy, who'd eat the bird, pare. the circle of life. reincarnation and the wisdom of the soccer colleagues. wattalayf (say that with pizzas, pare. again. wattalayf.)

but but. my bird is also a flower. a sunflower, pare. it'd follow the sun. it rises on dawn. it sinks with the dust, pare.

smuy tuytuy sunflower, pare. coffee and blue skies. don't forget to put rum for that extra kick. and don't bring a soccer ball. my father might see it.

jabokopiyowli

`cha, pare. i just started my blog with a punctuation. my english teacher will kill me. not because of the caret. maybe because all i did during her class was watch her lean over and take a peek at her panties but found a pair of shorts instead. what fa... complete hair and make-up, mega production before going out of her place and she wears shorts over her panties. talk about national treasures. wait! i learned what a gerrand is. therefore, i will go continuing (just to prove my point that i know what a gerrand is, sacrificing understandability and throwing all my grammatical worries to the wind).

a pucha-pare is supposed to be a laid back animal. however, the times become short, maybe because we (i) grow old and mine goes shorter. maybe because we just need to do so many things but the only thing we really need doing is to do as little as we can. all rice, stop. all rice, go.

let's talk multi tasking. i don't know about you guys but i challenge myself once in a while (what is the square root of 4 in 100 significant digits? 34 (what matters is the speed of which we answer, not the correctness of the answer. think. commit. move on. wrong answers are for losers. quick-shooting-from-the-hip is the pucha-pare-zen).

so, your four best activities done together-forever?

mine's taking a shit while having coffee, cigs and taking a bath. i did this just once, by the way, cause it was a pain to keep the cigs dry and my cup not running over due to the water from my bath. so i'll reduce it to three. scrap the bath. take the dump, the beans and the leaves.

what's your's? tt? you're a boy. pp? you're a girl. kk? you're a wannabee girl. ttmomaykuto? you've got a big problem, pare

chow, dooohd. jabokopiyow muna. (wexed go BLT. but BLT is serial, not mutli threaded. the others? i'll ask. brb)

pinoy bang brother

pare! pucha. (yeah. i got tired of the opening spiel. if anybody has suggestions, send them in. maybe... ) maybe i'll set up a contest. yeah. something like pinoy bang brother, pare.

yeah. and we can rent this apartment, pare. four rooms. set cameras up covering every fucking inch of the place, pare. we will exercise our vouyeuristic tendencies, pare. maybe make a movie out of it. i can see the title... 'boso'.

we can place some pucha-pares and pucha-mares so we can get excited every time somebosy says 'pucha'. or maybe have a contest contesting who made the maniest 'pucha' muras. pare. so like the elections, meeehn.

or maybe put in politicos, pare. and maybe their chichings. yeah. that would be nice. and, and, yeah. make boso with our phone cameras, pare. that would give adult manila online a run for their money, pare.

pucha. this would be a scandal factory, pare. you want a scandal, just check in to the pinoy bang brother apartment, pare.

so yeah. send in your suggested opening spiels and we'll have a raffle. don't forget your name, address, suking tindahan and a pichur of your kk or tt via cellphone.

bang, pare. bang. pucha.

aboard, mbord

pucha, pare. so i have this friend living in the states, pare. where the grass is green and the funds are high. when you get to smile and forget to sigh.

when things are keeping you down a bit. rest if you must and forget to quit. pare.

i was saying. i have this friend who lives in the states, pare. very nice guy. he doesn't forget to email once a month. doesn't forget a birthday. always sends pictures. always shares whatever new gadget was acquired. pare, he's living the life, meeehn.

while pucha-pares in the backyard just go for pares and goto, pare. this friend would send in chocolattas fit for the finest local brown girl-next-door-who's-your-daddy material. all rice!

makes me wonder, tho. he wasn't like this before, pare. and i barely knew him. i mean, bare, pare. like he was my first bading.

tarush!

bestfriends

pucha, pare. i find myself humming 'we are brothers' by one pucha-pare icon, renaldo valdes (did i get that right? basta yung dooohd sa american idol na hindi naman american).

anyhoo, several things i need to clear out before the dust settles and it goes away with the vacuum cleaning that manang conching does regularly on a base to base casis, pare.

brothers are seldom best friends. i mean, come-pucha-on. did your brother tell you you're his best friend? did you tell your brother he is your best friend? are you sure he is your brother? is he? is your mother really your mother? how old are you? see?

i did a google search for renaldo valdes and guess what?!? come on. give it a shot. did you hit me? are you wearing underwear? your balls are so big i can see it from here. wow! google achuli knows renaldo lapuz! dam doze americans. they even keep track of filipinos.

and what's with this filipino-american thing? godsmellmyass. filipinos search for reflected glory. always. i will not stand when i poo just because they claim to be filipino and because i don't have tisyu and my shet might make kalat. yuch! they have to be filipino-americans! by holly, i haven't had goli.

back to reni (can i call you reni? can i call you george? can i call you mine? uhm. strike the last question... can i call you mine?). dam yu. i've been humming your song unconsciously! are you backmasking your songs from your mouth? can you do that? can i have your autograph?

packshet when sitting. packshet when standing. what do you want me to do? blow you to kingdom come?

leave my thoughts alone! do not backmask. again. do. not. back. mask. mali. ulit. backmask. get it?

pisot (bisayang 'peace, out.' pare).

silence, please

pucha.

uhm.

(shift in seat)

(scratch head)

(more shifting)

*ahem*

(here ya go... )

phrrrrrwaaaaaack-aaack-ack-ck-h-ck-k!

pucha, pare! can you feel it? sama ba nanay? oyeah! did my tear gas tear you apart? deep breathing, pare.

grass

pucha, pare. so we decided to go out and beat the hell out of nature, pare. we searched for a good place and thought kutipot (cebuano, asshole) would be a great place as any. off we go.

the boys met at the watering hole, pare. the watering hole had a peeing hole and so we decided to take a shower of pee, pare. the trick here is, take as much air as you can and mouth the word 'pee' as long as you can while not inhaling. don't mind the fumes. it. is. ok. it's alright to shiver. think of where the pee came from and you'll all be teleported to bullacon. which is right beside kutipot.

a short trek and some swimming will get one to kutipot. now. problem. the sea which borders kutipot has sea grass, pare. and sea grass, being underwater 1) not shaved regularly 2) underwater is dark and slimy and icky.

our dear friend, tugi-fluffy-tt (aka polgas, then pol, then ka noli, then sgt sabaybunot, then 'fuck-the-whole-cast-call-me-PB'), had some reservation crossing the water gap. 'i don't want to swim. the grass is icky.' wat fa duck!?! a seasoned mountaineer doesn't swim when there are sea grassen (plural for grass, which is a collective noun for great behinds. great behinds being some sense of nostalgic history. one more time all over again redundant, pare.).

and wexed go like 'pichur pichur! at least they'll think i can swim.' true pucha pare fashion, pare.

tugi talked to a starfish. gawi talked about grass. we all gurgled beer.

LSS:

hey. mister dunkin donut. hey mister its a dunkin dunkin donut!

the chi phi pi honor society

pucha, pare. iwas bewildered to the max when i read this. i was blown away. my mind was... blown away, pare.

(give me a chi!) chi: vital energy. the breath of life. best experienced in the morning before brushing your teeth or emptying the remains of your oral cavity (ie dried saliva, phlegm or the liquid counterparts of either or both (OR or XOR, pare.). this is the fundamental cause of life and the determinant of consciousness. most of the time, you'll be unknowingly unconscious once a strong chi comes your way. morning or no. chi is life and consciousness. without it, we are nothing.

(give me a phi!) phi: the 21st letter of the greek alphabet in the 21st century. the most difficult for the palate challenged philippino to phronounce. best action viewed when done by a female. the golden ratio. a proportion which yields an irrational number. a non repeating, non terminating number which caused it to be irrational. it lost its mind. it lost itself. it lost the way along the way. an enigma for the renaissance. an enigma until now. euler's totient equation. stop asking or i will totient you. the foundation of bewilderment.

(give me a pi!) pi: another irrational. will be pronounced as 'phi' for the 'f' challenged. together with 'phi' yields a very interesting organ (phi phi anyone?). the foundation of the ferpect cirle. oh, math is fun (robert kanapi! you will go down the annals of history in its annals. oyeah). math is funny.

payt! payt! (kanyod the hips, double thrust together the words)

we shall be forever in debt to the society that we promise to help flourish and preserve. this is the chi phi pi credo.

duh-main neym, pare!

pucha, pare. i'm duh-meeehn. and i'm got a duh-main neym, pare!

so what's the BZ-ness of the loveli-ness (hi alma. may your thighs rest in pieces. when you show your thighs in public (hell, no pubic please. kaya nakalbo si joey, na shock ma-shadow) your case would not be indecent exposure but illegal logging)? nothing! a whole crap load, truck load, shit load, my load, of nothing.

just that we just acquired a new duh-main. what's my neym? pucha naman pare! (duh! tamang sagot yan. loko. pati middle name kasama) chupa pera dotdot come! pare. pucha. com.

many thanks bro. you're duh-meeehn. duh-main meeehn. duh-super best meeehn.

immaculate conception

pucha, pare. so i was thinking about the dooohd jehsus, pare. there are several theories i have playing in my mind.

one, there is no such thing as 'immaculate conception'. mother teresa should have had plenty of kids if this kind of parthenogenesis abound in humans. (pucha-pares are subhumans. we don't do ourselves pare. we just are.)

two, jehsus was the first rastafarian. not bob marley. bob marley is the carnal reincarnation incarnate of jehsus. which means that the hindii (plural of hindux, single for hindi, which is the wrong way for oo) were right all along.

three, there is no matrix. it was a false name for the spice. melange does not exist. only cinnamon, which can be found in dates. if you don't have a date (you won't get to smell cinnamon), you'll be blissfully single. so was mary when she parthenogeneticized. poor joseph's mojo. may it be in heaven blaspheming like crazy.

four, is twice two. jehsus had very high karma, thus was rereevaluated as a rock star. nay, a holy rockstar.

rastah, maaahn. pucha.

chow main arnaiz (we need to eat so eat we will.)

spelunking

pucha, pare. a long time ago in my past life, i was an adventurer. i'd love to explore the great outdoors and the great indoors, pare. dapat both para well rounded.

so, do i look like yesterday? probably not. i took a bath just this morning.

this is a laid back day. my fingers are fidgety so i thought i'd do some grooming pare. took out my brush to nurture my curly, black, one length hair. wha? how long? two centimeters, pare. pucha-pares leave nothing and anything to chance.

back to my fingers. it's the finger, pare. thanks to my fingers i never felt so clean. my cave has been degunked. and the remains of what have been cobwebs in the caverns of my nose shows itself in its boogerrrific splendor.

pare! so ickety clean pare. excuse me while i wrap this in a rubber yuckey. let them amateur forensic scientists think on this one. haw-hi!

(this one's for gawi)

wet balls of fire

pucha, pare. so i once worked for an IT company. information technology, pare. oh yes. i was the messenger. diba diba? it's so like yahoo messenger, pare. so when i deliver a message, i shout 'yahoo!'. so IT, pare.

so yun na nga. my boss was a PMPM (post menstrual papa manager, aka mashondang virgin). her voice quivered every time she spoke. i always wondered why. being an amateur forensic scientist, i set out to find out.

my forays with forensic science was just happenstance. i was throwing away some garbage one day and found some dessicated man proteins in a rubber yuckey and i was hooked.

isang araw, i just finished my messaging duties, i was called to the grand duty of relieving the thirst of my PMPM. 'tu-uh-uh-beeehg, pu-uh-uuh.' as she lovingly called me in her 30 hertz falsetto. i got the water and handed it to her.

much to my dismay, i saw panties. one might think that this should be a bonus for beeing a yahoo, but nay! she had balls. and her balls moved! and her panties were soaked.

pucha! pare! pucha! my PMPM needed somebody on a three day viagra binge!

i had to go out since my tummy was reverse peristhalsing. 30 hertz. her frequency. the Bene Gesserit witch had me registered. tangna! so that's the reason why she ached and trembled while talking.

talk about being excited all the time. all the time, pare!

pucha!

by the way, her name's roselle. PM (private massage) me for her number. she's waiting.

boom-sha-ka-la

pucha, pare. when i was young and full of hope, i wanted so much to be a t-bak, pare. being a t-bak is a science. let me educate you on the ways and woes of the word.

when the word 't-bak' hits me, it reminds me of two things. first, it reminds me of women and how something so dull and lifeless can be intimate with them. second, and more importantly, are the street vendors.

i'll be straight. if i were to be born other than to be destined as a pucha-pare, i wish i was born in a factory of kewl fabrics and be bordaed (past tense ng borda, pare. you know, the pin-cushion thingy?) into a t-bak. how i'd be clutched in cracks and rubbed by crannies. how it would be to be (tutubi) moist in the darkness in the hallows of good and evil, bad and good. very good!

down to the second point. if i were not a pucha-pare, i will not be a street vendor. because street vendors would give agony to the t-baks! think about it. all day i'd be cramped in moistness, mostly sweat. away from darkness but will never be into the light. running low when the pleez-puliz are high. running high when there's sand caught in the t-bak.

pucha, pare. i swear, i want to be a t-bak but not with a street vendor.

UP! tunay! palaban! makabayan!

pucha, pare. i just heard that somewhere.

alto sociodad

pucha, pare. so i found myself in another wedding. but before that...

so the wifey and i were running late. we were running around 3.30 pm to catch our doggie. thus running. and we were running so hard time dilated, pare. but when we stopped, time expanded again. thus late.

todo bihis to the max so we can catch up. looking for a cab without any luck. no car today since i ordered the bulldozer to park on the fifth level parking. putcha, pare. i felt the earth rumble. i felt the earth move (under my skin. i felt the stars come tumbuling down, tumbuling down). all the tazis we owned flattened pare. good thing i keep the mazerattis and porsches and ferraris in italy. that way, bagay di ba?

so no cab. good thing there are poor people in our neighborhood so i hailed a tri-zee (tricycle, pare). 'palasyo!' i said. the tri-zee-b (tricycle briber, pare. yes. i have a lisp. di sauce pag wala) said 'where the sinful cardinal lives?' 'sakto dooohd. let's ride.'

we arrived at the mass late only to find out that the sinful cardinal was not living there anymore. i'm sure. i asked the guard!

the priest was already giving out the blood and booty. christ! dang late. good thing we arrived for the free food. god crap (holy shit) with menses (red holy shit!) never tasted so yummy. our tummies were rumbling since it was still reverberating from the concrete downpour caused by the bulldozer, pare. what do you think of me? dead-hungry?

what do you know? tita cory in yellow and her virginal pearls were a few seats away. too bad her daughter's such an oyster (put hot water, the legs spread just like that (right hand snap above right shoulder, snap lower left tummy, snap lower right hip, all in a fraction of a second. head follows snaps. tugi-fluffy-tt style)). 'pssst. tita!' her eyebrows made a show of a cock fight. tangna 'to. didn't even recognize a pucha-pare.

anyhoo, the place stank of old people, old money, old business, and a lot of cellphones. wow. never saw those kinds of models.

yaiks! before i forget, i needed to run to the tri-zee-b to to go home fast. i told him to keep the meter running.

capische, pare!

UP @ 100, take 2

pucha, pare. hahahahaha! my other article was undeniably famished by my hearty laughter. delirous. goma... i digress.

so there na nga, pare. you have the rayadillo doing their thing with their majings, diba. and the celebrities! omigosh. the big dick was there. the big nose was there. dodong was there rubbing elbows with the big body parts. ewwww.

goma... hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

pucha, pare!

UP @ 100

pucha, pare. UP is celebrating its 100th year (i can't spell centi.. senti... ah. pucha!).

so there we were, pare. all the pucha pares. we went to the oblation. dun sa tapat lang ha. not the main road. those were for real taga-UP pucha pares.

so we were there, pare. goma was there pare. pucha, pare. he went to UP? hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

pucha, pare.

motorbiking

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

okininam

daykingdamkam
daywilbedan
onertasitis
inheben

gibusdisday
awrdelywugiwugi
andporgibasawrtets
asweporgibawrtetors

andlidasnatintotemteshun
batdeliveraspramdadebil

pordaaaaayn
isdakiiiindam

andapawer
andgloooo (hawak kamay) ri
poreeeeee (hawak bayag) eee (pisil bayag) ber

emen emen

smegmatic personality

pucha, pare. pukingnamongkupalka!

so there i was, right? down in shangri-la, right? the one in edsa corner shaw, pare. not the one near heavens high or hell so low. so there i was. all by my lonesome. cool doohd, pare. so 'pucha', pare.

so yun na nga and there it was. lo and behold. nice chic chick. complete package. fully loaded. todo ogle to the depths tong the eyes, kung-makuha-ka-sa-tingin mode.

todo follow. todo scanning radar all the way. christmas is long gone and my lone ranger goes jingle bells.

tangna. some doohd suddenly ejaculating (look it up the dick-shun-ary, dodo) "hang sahrap ng aish teee" while looking at the chic chick's dodo. eh pukingnang-kungdikabanamangago. sobsaben-uhten. pogi ka nga, may pera ka nga. wala ka namang modo. pucha-pares unite!(because i said so.) we are against such alta sociodad lowlife! (because i am *the* pucha pare. besides, i miss rexie "state of eternal drunkenness (way ko gaagi di (pointing to 'hubog') ga direcho ko di (pointing to 'ma-oy') (i hate lisp but i need to nest parens. sowi)" demogena, ultimate lord kainam. chi phi pi, payt! payt!)

so, pare. this is an act of public service. please, gehls (kuya germs, kay ba yan?). whenever you are in the company of harsh, smegmatic, pucha-pare wannabees, please send my regards and give them a happy slap on the face. put in a twenty peso bill to send them home, too.

kupalkakingnamo. pucha, pare.

the wedding

pucha, pare. so i was in wack wack, right? and when i was entering the main building, wafts of different perfumes attacked my nostrils. you should have seen my nose flaring and the revulsion that my nose hairs experienced. it was a sight to behold (i carry a mirror with me all the time so i can check myself out. and my nose too. this is essential pucha-pare gear.)

so fine. i wore my laid back pucha-pare garb. black shirt. leather sandals. pucha-pare levi's jeans. and the folks wearing the icky perfume wore gowns and suits. what the? (regain composure... now na!)

i was invisible. those darn pucha-pare wannabees walked as if they didn't see me. i go fish out my cricket lighter. yellow. not the red one. reds are for feiry nights. yellow. stark contrast with my red marlboros. only whores smoke menthol. only weenies smoke lights. real pucha-pares smoke reds.

i light my joint and inhale til my soul's tinggil (ilonngo: clit) tingled. they finally see me. knee jerk reaction these jerks, pare. seems like they saw some big threat in me they started whispering. "who's that? why is he here?"

well, i go "i live here. and you can ask me straight." taken aback these acting-rich-kids wannabees. tangna, pare. can't believe? "ninth hole. 10 meters away from the green. 10 degrees on your left while looking at the mango tree."

hah! come pass by my tent when you have the time. i might have ice cold water while you're trying to demystify why you're such a lousy 12-under-par. i might even lend you my 7-iron. in your dreams, you can never be in my jeans.

capische! (putcha-pare spelling, din-mak shoa-zhu style)

first blaaahg

pucha, pare. welcome to my blaaagh. i'm growing old and i can't remember stuff anymore and so i thought i'd agree with my good buddy allan 'maniniyut' barredo to start this blaagh.

first things first, lest i forget what i'm supposed to blaagh about.

so the wifey and i went to wack wack last night. no, not the nocturnal, visiyan, literally-torn-in-half humans down in the visayas. the golf club. it's nice to be back in my old stomping grounds. yeah. i used to stomp the earth. technology hasn't invented the compactor back then. stomp the ground before planting bermuda grass and pissing over it so it'll grow green and lush and everything nice. only to be clubbed by them old farts wearing strange hats and costumes and speaking english as if they're pucha-pare friends.

nice too, since the tazi driver that drove the tazi (yes, redundant) knew the place. so we didn't have to look for the air-conditioned veranda. talk about verandas. aren't they supposed to be like so al fresco? only old farts can think like that. i digress.

the tazi driver, aka tony, knew mayor lim. the immediate question was 'does mayor lim know you?'. anyhoo, tony and mayor lim had a meeting some time last year in the main golf club building. reason why he knew his way around.

the nerve. the candor. the shameless name dropping. now that is a true pucha-pare. cheers to tony! and cheers to all pucha-pares.