I was reading the obituary section of a newspaper in a quiet cafe in Los Baños the other day when I saw my childhood friend Manolo walking his cunt of a dog (which technically makes the wretched thing a bitch). I should add that Manolo is a dope-peddler and so has lots of money. Yet whenever we run into each other he never fails to expose what a fucking cheapskate he is by bumming a cigarette. To spite him back, I gave his dog a disgusted look.
"Kinda puny, isn't it?" I remarked.
"Yeah," he said around my cigarette. "But wait till he grows up. I'll let him bite your 'nads off."
I went back to reading the obituaries and tried my best to ignore him. Manolo took off his Fedora hat and fanned himself with it. Yes, he wore a Fedora hat that day. If Manolo was a car he'd be a pimp red stretch limousine with zebra stripe pleather seats and hydraulic pumps.
"Read your blog," he ventured after a while.
I grunted my reply.
"You're funny in a sick way, I guess," he continued. "What I don't understand, though, is why you want to be hated so much."
I put down the paper and looked at my friend. "Scientific tests show that when you put a handful of rats in a largish box, they will generally ignore each other. Once in a while they will seek each other for a little social sniffing or perhaps a bit of casual sex, after which they will then go their separate ways in search of food or to take care of other bodily functions. Yet if you continually put more rats in that same box, there will come a point when some rats will snap and start gnawing at other rats in a mindless display of aggression. Guess who the rat that just snapped is. And if you haven't figured out yet that I am making a profound allegory about living in Metro Manila then you're dumber than you look."
Manolo laughed. "Or you may just be a twisted motherfucker who's been morally scarred by too much whupping during his childhood. I mean, you don't even live in Metro Manila anymore. You live in this shit-slow town, fercryinoutloud."
"Still, I spend most of my days working in the big city," I replied. Then: "Okay, let me tell you a little story. Once upon a time, some broad wrote a stupid book about shitty stuff like sex from a woman's point of view, being a modern and independent woman, and whatever the fuck women enjoy reading about. Long story short, books like that caught on and publishers started calling them chick lit. Big business as women and girly men gorged on these things and went on about their lives feeling that yes, someone does understand them. Anyway, the publishers asked themselves: what would be the next big thing? The logical answer of course would be chick lit, male version. They expected to find sensitive men who would talk about their penises like women talk about their vaginas, men who would finally bare the secrets of the male heart and soul. What they found instead were retards on the blogosphere. Men like Tucker Max, Drunkasaurus Rex, Maddox. They found sites like Something Awful and Pointless Waste of Time. Egad, this... this... ABOMINATION is the male psyche!"
"Doesn't take a genius to figure that out," Manolo said.
"Quite right. Chick lit is the celebration of the sacred feminine; a flashy but largely impotent concept, I might add. The other side of the coin is nasty buffoonery. There are those who call it dick lit. Others call it fratire. That is, fraternity satire. It has yet to be named appropriately but we all recognize it for what it is when we see it. Yin to the Yang, I suppose."
We sat there for a few moments trying to digest that. Then:
"Or maybe you're just a nasty fucktard," Manolo finally said. "Do you have another cigarette?"
"No," I answered. Of course, he knew I was lying.