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)