on summer and skin

Summer’s here! says the giant billboard near the office, as if the collective BO that greets me every time I ride the MRT at high noon isn’t enough to remind me of my most hated season of the year.

Unless I can be that stud chasing the bikini-clad girl in that billboard, or a student facing a two-month respite from school, I don’t see any reason why I should sing paeans to summer.

Really, what’s there to enjoy in 60 or more days of infernal weather?

Beaches, you say. I say fuck beaches. I hate beaches during summer like I hate phone calls during sex. The crowd of mostly preppies is one thing; the astronomical prices of beer and accommodation is another.

Beach bunnies flaunting long legs and cleavages are nice, and female Caucasians baring huge tits are fun to watch. But never in hell can these justify a San Mig Light priced at Php120 a bottle. I don’t tolerate this even in those cheap-ass Cubao whorehouses where, if you’re not careful, you’ll end up broke, not even halfway drunk, and nursing the mother of all boners at the end of the night. I should know.

Pundits who claim to know everything can say I’m sourgraping. Perhaps they’re right. I haven’t been anywhere near an ocean in years. The last one was in 2002, in Claveria, Cagayan, while on coverage for the Manila Times. I remember that fondly because it was the first time I saw the famed sunrise by the ocean. It was breathtakingly beautiful, almost postcard-perfect. It reduced me to a fanboy.

Now the heat is on, full blast, and as I sit here smoking, sweating, shaking nostalgia out of my head, I am suddenly gripped by that wonderful madman formula that says an increase in temperature is directly proportional to the scope of skin women are willing to expose.

Think short shorts.

Think tube tops.

Then consider Pagasa’s pronouncement that the temperature could hit 40° C due to El Niño.

Perhaps summer aint that bad after all.



The fantaserye that is the May 2010 elections is getting more and more interesting. Everyday there are new twists and turns, like in pro-wrestling.

Combined with sensible stories on gay boxing, drunk motorists figuring in accidents, and celebrities denying everything except their names, it makes primetime news such a happy trip.

Just last Wednesday survey favorite Noynoy Aquino suddenly found himself neck and neck with someone who is neck-deep in Jamby Madrigal. He saw the results and saw the image of Malacanang moving away from him, like a vision fading away. He and his backers are probably having nightmares in the afternoon these days.

But you have to give it to Money Villar. It takes cojones the size of Mindanao to be able to finally show up at the Senate, categorically deny that he’s a coward, and then walk out of the chamber to avoid getting grilled by his colleagues over the C-5 issue. I can almost hear the bastard whistling on his way out.

The only thing missing here is somebody coming up the ring and whacking somebody with a steel chair. But perhaps I speak too soon.

why he stinks

This shit, scavenged from Facebook, made my day.

‘use penis’

The photo that appeared in the DOH Web site when it was hacked December 29. Click photo for story.

Photo of probably the youngest fatality -- eight-month-old Angel Fatima Balanza -- in the sinking of inter-island ferry Baleno 9 last December 26. (Inquirer.net/Mindanao Post)

These two photos summarize, for me, what a crazy and depressing year 2009 has been.  Happy New Year, y’all. May 2010 have more of the crazy stuff than the depressing ones.


Judging from this survey, this nation is poised to elect a dummy kid president next year.

To use the late Philippine Star publisher Max Soliven’s word: Sanamagan!


These days I can’t help but feel like Frank Black, the tragic, glum-faced hero in Chris Carter’s classic TV series Millennium.

In the series, Frank is a retired FBI profiler obsessed with protecting his daughter Jordan from the  world’s evils. In his mission to rid the planet of serial killers and mass murderers, he was swayed into joining The Millennium Group, a secret society of criminal investigators allied with the FBI, only to find out later that the group has been corrupted by the very evil it is fighting.

It is a depressing series, and it got canceled after three seasons — proof positive that even serial killer-obsessed America has only a certain level of tolerance for the deeply morbid and the utterly bleak.

If there’s one thing I learned about that program, it’s that the fight against evil is almost always a lost cause.

I remember a friend who justified his being a gun freak to me in 2001 by noting the number of nuts out there who can kill me or my loved ones just because they can and can get away with it, or at most get a mere slap-on-the-wrist courtesy of our inept justice system. His talk left me dumbfounded. If only I had a credit card back then, I would’ve gone straight to Hahn in Ali Mall for a Remington M597 after that conversation.

Why not? It’s better to go down fighting, as they say in war.

Every time I look at my family, I am gripped with the disturbing conclusion that we are indeed at the mercy of the Jason Ivlers and Andal Ampatuans of this world. That unarmed, we are nothing but clueless little mice in the same cage with the snake just waiting to be swallowed. Preys waiting for the predator.

Fight fire with fire. Something must be done to level the playing field.

I’ve a credit card now, and Cubao is just a ride away from where I live and work, and my head is full of gunpowder as I try to come to terms with the vicious reality outside growing more vicious with every passing day.


“Man is the cruelest animal.” — Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

Rido (clan war) in itself is a senseless thing that has no place in the modern world. What makes it more barbaric and insane is when it victimizes those who do not even belong to either party, like what happened in Maguindanao last Monday. It is repulsive, to say the least. The handiwork of bottom-feeding degenerates who are no better than those filthy savages hacking each other with machetes in those godless African jungles.

It’s sad that this happened while the country is riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave brought by the international success of Manny Pacquiao and Efren Peñaflorida Jr…

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