I’ve been told that this fixation with the undead is both horrible and unhealthy. I won’t argue against the alleged horror of it since taste is a matter of individual judgment—I once knew a dude who felt offended by kitsch but not by Ogrish.com, for instance—but really, unhealthy? Not the case at all, kemosabe. I don’t go around proselytizing on the streets about it. As Jesus said: a prophet has no honor in his own country. The corollary is: keep your filthy thoughts to yourself, man. What I do instead is I prepare my mind and my soul for the coming tribulation. When the scat hits the fan and you find yourself pursued by the reanimated out to eat your twat, you’ll know Uncle Squid was right all along. No, it isn’t unhealthy at all. At least not obviously. Or not as obviously as another bad habit that I have, one that has caused me a lot of pain throughout the years: screwing around in the bowels of my computer.
Curiosity has always been the strength of the Homo sapiens. Is it not inquisitive behavior that led us to awesome things such as agriculture, cooked food, civilization, and Rohypnol? Is it not the powerful impulse that compelled some caveman to eat an oyster despite the fact that it looks like an embalmed corpse’s shaved cunny? How, then, can I be faulted for flicking the finger at my computer when it tells me I shouldn’t mess with the squiggly things in my hard drive? Predictably, this habit has brought me much despair. I cannot remember how many times I have had to reformat a computer because of utter stupidity, losing extremely valuable files (like porn) in the process. If I wrote it down it’ll surely be a list longer than my embarrassingly brief catalog of sexual conquests. Curiosity, I am reminded, is part of the reason why we have more than 20,000 active nuclear weapons all over the globe. Curiosity killed the cat, the old saw goes.
Recently, I’ve had to reformat the hard drive of my laptop for the first time. I’m pretty anal about the appearance of my desktop and would spend an entire night making wallpapers and customizing everything that can be customized on my machine. I won’t go into details that are interesting only to the geekiest of computer nerds, of course. Suffice to say that somewhere along my attempt to have a truly unique desktop I made some appalling and irreversible mistakes that led to my new computer’s cherry getting popped. Actually, this time it wasn’t a big deal at all since I still have all the disks I made when I transferred the data from my old PC to this machine. About the only thing I lament is the loss of that collection of naked Nana Horiuchi pictures I downloaded from a site whose address I can’t remember.
Anyway, I was checking my files if any of them were corrupted and came across my folder of blog post backups. I thought maybe it’ll be nice to share these to you guys. These are short brainfarts from a few years ago from my Friendster blog, The Salamander. I suppose I could provide links to them since that blog is still up but knowing you’re a bunch of lazy fucks I decided to post them here in full.
May 6, 2005
The Shape of Hunger
If there is a nation ripe for an upheaval, it is ours.
Too many of us know the shape of hunger. Too little of us care.
The coffee shop urbanite doesn’t see past the mist of hot cappuccino. Or perhaps he does see but his eyes have grown dispassionate from decadence.
The bohemian understands nothing beyond his self-indulgent art. Or perhaps he does understand but has grown fond of his ivory tower.
The student is weary of revolutions.
The politician… but his has always been the path of oppression.
And then there is the hungry man. He knows that hunger is the currency of our time. It opens his eyes. It makes him bold. It unfetters his mind to the possibilities of violence. He drinks nothing but his anger. He understands no art but his hatred. He has nothing to learn but has much to teach. He has no power but that of his fists.
Give me a revolver and I’ll reshape the universe in my image. Revolution begins in the eyes.
May 17, 2005
Define irony. Little brown men strutting about with a white supremacist symbol on their banketa haute couture. It’s strange how you see our colored teenagers wearing the swastika.
Good boy says it’s all peachy. If the swastika has already been purged of its notoriety, perhaps the Buddhists can now reclaim a powerful mystical symbol that the Nazis corrupted. Besides, kids don’t really take Hitler’s swastika seriously. Then again, do you know of anyone who does nowadays? Unless, of course, you live in planet redneck. My point is that Filipino teenagers know as much about the Third Reich as they do about Isaac Asimov. Who is Isaac Asimov, you ask? Exactly my point. And so my literary pretensions rear its ugly head.
Bad boy says this is a tragedy. Ang hindi lumingon sa pinanggalingan, and all that.
Poor Adolf. The Third Reich is now a pop symbol of the jologs revolution. Now that is the ultimate defeat of the Aryan nation.
October 8, 2005
Consider the lowly appendix, an organ of no plausible function. It is the bastard child of the intestines. It sits like a worm in our bellies, invisible amidst the churning sea of our baser bodily functions. It is the sleeper terrorist in the empire of the guts, a silent citizen awaiting the Voice of the Prophet, promised a place in the right Hand of God. And when the Voice comes, it detonates in a blaze of glory and wrecks Holy Vengeance upon the infidels.
On the other hand, what if the reason why we see no practical function for the appendix is precisely because its true purpose is a spiritual one? What if the appendix is the seat of the human soul? What if those of us who have had appendectomies are now soulless?
That would be a so uncool for a lot of people.
November 28, 2005
I found myself right smack in the middle of that MRT rush hour clusterfuck with my elbow nestled between a cute bank teller’s overripe tits, my one-eyed soldier in a stiff salute against a college coed’s thong panties, and some other bloke’s cock probing my own ass. Two out of three ain’t at all bad, I tried to remind myself as my arm and my groin sang hallelujahs and my asshole warily clenched tighter. Indeed, these daily train scenes can get so horrid that if you squeeze a pretty young virgin into that moshpit she’ll hop out some stations later pregnant.
Amidst that dystopian horror, I found myself wondering if I should feel elated or violated. Ah, the Third World. Gotta love it.
February 15, 2006
Do you remember what love was like when we were young? That was a time when love was a mysterious thing, full of wonder and madness, answerable to none for love itself was the higher law. Love was God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit. And if They didn’t agree, then screw Them and the horse They rode in on.
The world must step aside because we were in love. The universe must cease to exist because we were the only universe that mattered anymore. The accumulated wisdom of the entire human race was wrong because love dictated all wisdom.
That was a time when fucking was called making love, even though the common sense of young fools said that love was not something you can make or even choose. Love, then, was as unmakable as it was inescapable. Still, we called it making love because sex was only the wealthier uncle of masturbation and fucking was the dirty dog that licked his own ‘nads in front of the house.
Thus we made love.
Before it was done, we thought our desires inevitable. The act was discussed in the dark, plotted like murder, and executed like a revolution. The deed itself was done in desperation, full of enthusiasm where style was lacking. And after it was done, we thought our sins original.
You can find more shit like this in the archives. And to make up for the fact that I haven't been posting much these past few months, here's a little extra something for the dudes (click for the full image):