22 June 2011
06 April 2011
Motivational Speaker Mystica Answers The Question On Everyone's Mind...
Pearls of wisdom from my eternal muse.
25 December 2009
A Heart-Warming Christmas Carol From Mystica (Discretion is Advised)
♬♫ Oh... you...
Better watch out!
You better not cry.
You better not pout. I'm telling you why...
Santa Claus Mystica is coming to town!
♬ She's making a list.
And checking it twice.
She's gonna find out who's...
naughty and...
nice...
Mystica is coming to town!
♬ She sees you when you're sleeping.
She knows when you're awake.
She knows if you've been...
... bad or...
... good ...
... so be good for goodness' sake!
So you better watch out!
You better not cry.
You better not pout. I'm telling you why...
Mystica is coming to town...
Mystica is coming to town...
Mystica is coming to town! ♫♪
Merry Christmas po! Hihi.
Continue reading....
Better watch out!
You better not cry.
You better not pout. I'm telling you why...
♬ She's making a list.
And checking it twice.
She's gonna find out who's...
naughty and...
nice...
Mystica is coming to town!
♬ She sees you when you're sleeping.
She knows when you're awake.
She knows if you've been...
... bad or...
... good ...
... so be good for goodness' sake!
So you better watch out!
You better not cry.
You better not pout. I'm telling you why...
Mystica is coming to town...
Mystica is coming to town...
Mystica is coming to town! ♫♪
Merry Christmas po! Hihi.
25 November 2009
Second Most-Played Song In My iPod
Unofficial mash-up of Jon McLaughlin's Smack Into You & Beyonce's Smash Into You. (This one's for you.) Continue reading....
21 October 2009
Oh Note Divine!
We were two gladiators locked in a fierce battle. “OK, your turn,” Dickie said after inflicting minor injury to my ear. Finding inspiration from Braveheart (“… they may take our lives but they’ll never take… OUR FREEDOM!”) I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply and, in a high-pitched falsetto commonly associated with Chinese opera, warbled:
“Oh naaayt… Deee-VAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYN!”
Despite all the effort I put into it, the sound I made mimicked the dying yaps of a Chihuahua with a marble lodged in its trachea. That wasn’t my intention, of course. I was aiming for the long, gravity-defying whistle note Mariah Carey unleashed in her rendition of “Oh Holy Night”, that part in the final chorus where she trilled like an angel in the throes of multiple orgasms. For almost an hour, Dickie and I have been on the phone, competing to see who could come closest to that note, the sonic equivalent of Mt. Everest’s summit.
Why, you might ask, would two seemingly sane individuals engage in such a contest and risk laryngeal bleeding? For one, Dickie and I love to pit ourselves against each other. Competition is one of the four marble pillars of our enduring friendship, the other three being our passion for music, our contempt for certain talentless celebrities and our propensity tofollow stalk attractive guys at malls. Over our four-year stay in high school, we competed to see who could design the best Olympic logo (me), who could run faster (him), who could fake a cheerful demeanor towards unpleasant people more unconvincingly (him by a mile), and so on.
For another, Alvin was able to hit that note. Alvin was a gangly sophomore and a member of the school’s much maligned chorale group. One time, during an a capella performance of “If I Ever Fall in Love” at the auditorium, Alvin woke the audience up by hitting the perfect Bb6 whistle note. Dickie and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows, our thought bubbles reading: “If this dweeb can do it, so can we.” Hence, our sing-off.
After seventeen attempts to hit The Note, Dickie was, so far, the over-all leader with his uncanny vocal imitation of a heart monitor flat line beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep, which trumped my simulation of squeaking windshield wipers. Nonetheless, I was confident in my ability to come from behind and snatch victory in my next attempt. I could almost feel the whistle note surging up my respiratory system, eager to escape and shatter glassware. I cleared my throat. I opened my mouth. I sang.
Meanwhile, three houses away, Mrs. Francia, a retired piano teacher and stray cat collector, decided to make a phone call. So she picked up the receiver, placed it on her ear and, due to her random misfortune of sharing a party line with us, heard:
“... eee-VAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYN!”
It was the sort of soul-piercing noise one would hear in a serial killer’s dungeon: the muffled shrieking of a gagged victim who had been subjected to helium gas and was now about to be skinned alive. Not exactly the dial tone Mrs. Francia had expected. The death-scream caused Mrs. Francia to utter an obscenity (“Ay puta!”) and slam the phone, which, in turn, caused Dickie and I to explode in a gas of laughter as only two best friends could.
Continue reading....
“Oh naaayt… Deee-VAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYN!”
Despite all the effort I put into it, the sound I made mimicked the dying yaps of a Chihuahua with a marble lodged in its trachea. That wasn’t my intention, of course. I was aiming for the long, gravity-defying whistle note Mariah Carey unleashed in her rendition of “Oh Holy Night”, that part in the final chorus where she trilled like an angel in the throes of multiple orgasms. For almost an hour, Dickie and I have been on the phone, competing to see who could come closest to that note, the sonic equivalent of Mt. Everest’s summit.
Why, you might ask, would two seemingly sane individuals engage in such a contest and risk laryngeal bleeding? For one, Dickie and I love to pit ourselves against each other. Competition is one of the four marble pillars of our enduring friendship, the other three being our passion for music, our contempt for certain talentless celebrities and our propensity to
For another, Alvin was able to hit that note. Alvin was a gangly sophomore and a member of the school’s much maligned chorale group. One time, during an a capella performance of “If I Ever Fall in Love” at the auditorium, Alvin woke the audience up by hitting the perfect Bb6 whistle note. Dickie and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows, our thought bubbles reading: “If this dweeb can do it, so can we.” Hence, our sing-off.
After seventeen attempts to hit The Note, Dickie was, so far, the over-all leader with his uncanny vocal imitation of a heart monitor flat line beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep, which trumped my simulation of squeaking windshield wipers. Nonetheless, I was confident in my ability to come from behind and snatch victory in my next attempt. I could almost feel the whistle note surging up my respiratory system, eager to escape and shatter glassware. I cleared my throat. I opened my mouth. I sang.
Meanwhile, three houses away, Mrs. Francia, a retired piano teacher and stray cat collector, decided to make a phone call. So she picked up the receiver, placed it on her ear and, due to her random misfortune of sharing a party line with us, heard:
“... eee-VAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYN!”
It was the sort of soul-piercing noise one would hear in a serial killer’s dungeon: the muffled shrieking of a gagged victim who had been subjected to helium gas and was now about to be skinned alive. Not exactly the dial tone Mrs. Francia had expected. The death-scream caused Mrs. Francia to utter an obscenity (“Ay puta!”) and slam the phone, which, in turn, caused Dickie and I to explode in a gas of laughter as only two best friends could.
07 October 2009
The Moment
The sadistic retreat master knew precisely which button to push to make Class 6-A bawl like newborns. Edwin, the class jock, was the first to cry in the hot seat, prompting Julie to whisper “he’s so cute” to Mary. After him was Alex, the resident bully. He too ended up as a sobbing, hiccuping mess, much to the schadenfreude of Erwin, whose WWF magazines Alex had snitched. Even Ray, our “special” classmate, whose palette of expressions normally ranged from giddy to catatonic, was made to blink a few tears.
Then there was Ruth.
Usually self-conscious and reserved, Ruth cried in the hot seat like a grieving Palestinian widow. It was an oddly compelling sight. Fat tears, raw emotions, and nasal mucus mixed to transform Ruth’s pretty face to a puddle of inconsolable sadness. At one point, she even licked the goo that dripped from her nose, eliciting a “Yuck” from Alex, an “Oh” from Mary, and an unspoken “Damn, how can I possibly top that?” from me.
Ah, me. When my turn came, I thought of the most depressing things in a calculated bid to outdo Ruth. Things like my unrequited desire for PJ, who, according to Julie, just got a gold-plated key-chain for Wendy. Moving to a new and bigger high school after graduation and feeling out-of-place among strangers. Not getting enough parental attention. Being gay.
Sure enough, I turned on the waterworks in a manner that evoked a leaking fire hydrant. Tissues couldn't keep up with me. But even so, I’d be the first to concede that my weepy act was only first runner-up to Ruth’s epic meltdown. She clearly had A Moment and the melodramatist in me wondered when I would ever have one myself.
January 4, 2009.
It was supposed to be a routine shower. Shampoo, soap, rinse, dry. But somewhere between shampoo and soap, things got a little, shall we say, intense. The stereo, which was hooked to my iPod, started playing Pink’s I Don’t Believe You, a ballad you’d likely hear in a TV drama after the doctor tells someone that their loved one “didn’t make it.” Not the feel-good ditty of the year. Also not the kind of song I should be listening barely a day after my three-year relationship had abruptly ended with me still confused with the reasons why.
Much as I wanted to stop the music, I couldn't. I was held hostage by the seemingly autobiographical lyrics, the lachrymose violins, and Pink's raspy pleas.
That's when the Pacific Ocean busted out of my eyes. The pain of losing something special, the reality of being alone, and the uncertainty of future happiness kicked me hard in the ballsac, leaving me huddled in a corner, wallowing in self-pity and self-loathing while Pink continued to torment me with her denials. It was the lowest point of my existence, surpassing even the time I played Cinderella’s evil step-mom for a class play with my parents in the audience. (No lack of parental attention there.) I was in The Moment.
By sheer chance (the iPod was on shuffle mode), a succession of power ballads followed. Celine Dion’s All By Myself, Mariah Carey’s Without You, and Whitney Houston’s “Will Always Love You. The Holy Trinity of Heartbreak Songs. Just when I thought I had sunk to the bottom, I found myself free-falling to a deeper abyss, awashed with saline and MAYNILAD water.
When Whitney glory-noted the final chorus, self-awareness and dementia seeped in and I began to wonder how I would appear on the big screen if my life was a tearjerker directed by Carlos Siguion-Reyna. Would the audience prefer a subtle but nuanced lamentation or wet hysterics of Vilmanian proportions? I decided to go for something in between. Thus, with tears oiling down my cheeks, I clutched my hair with one hand and raised my other hand towards the shower head, as if it was a beam of light shining down the heavens, signifying deliverance to the unwanted and unloved. (Top that, Ruth.)
Whitney’s voice gradually faded into silence and a brief lull preceded the next song. Charged with dramatic inertia, I considered biting my trembling knuckles for added effect. And then…
Aghast, I jumped, slid towards the stereo, and stopped this rather exuberant ode to the female derriere before it got to the more raunchier parts. I scrolled the iPod for tunes that would revive The Moment --- One Last Cry? Unbreak My Heart? Bohemian Rhapsody?--- but eventually gave up, realizing that The Moment had passed.
And with Sir Mix-A-Lot’s Baby Got Back as my LSS, I allowed myself to smile a little.
Continue reading....
Then there was Ruth.
Usually self-conscious and reserved, Ruth cried in the hot seat like a grieving Palestinian widow. It was an oddly compelling sight. Fat tears, raw emotions, and nasal mucus mixed to transform Ruth’s pretty face to a puddle of inconsolable sadness. At one point, she even licked the goo that dripped from her nose, eliciting a “Yuck” from Alex, an “Oh” from Mary, and an unspoken “Damn, how can I possibly top that?” from me.
Ah, me. When my turn came, I thought of the most depressing things in a calculated bid to outdo Ruth. Things like my unrequited desire for PJ, who, according to Julie, just got a gold-plated key-chain for Wendy. Moving to a new and bigger high school after graduation and feeling out-of-place among strangers. Not getting enough parental attention. Being gay.
Sure enough, I turned on the waterworks in a manner that evoked a leaking fire hydrant. Tissues couldn't keep up with me. But even so, I’d be the first to concede that my weepy act was only first runner-up to Ruth’s epic meltdown. She clearly had A Moment and the melodramatist in me wondered when I would ever have one myself.
***
January 4, 2009.
It was supposed to be a routine shower. Shampoo, soap, rinse, dry. But somewhere between shampoo and soap, things got a little, shall we say, intense. The stereo, which was hooked to my iPod, started playing Pink’s I Don’t Believe You, a ballad you’d likely hear in a TV drama after the doctor tells someone that their loved one “didn’t make it.” Not the feel-good ditty of the year. Also not the kind of song I should be listening barely a day after my three-year relationship had abruptly ended with me still confused with the reasons why.
Much as I wanted to stop the music, I couldn't. I was held hostage by the seemingly autobiographical lyrics, the lachrymose violins, and Pink's raspy pleas.
No I don’t believe you
When you say, ‘don’t come around here no more.’
I won’t remind you
You said we wouldn’t be apart.
No I don’t believe you
When you say you don’t need me anymore.
So don’t pretend to
Not love me at all.
Just don’t stand there and watch me fall.
When you say, ‘don’t come around here no more.’
I won’t remind you
You said we wouldn’t be apart.
No I don’t believe you
When you say you don’t need me anymore.
So don’t pretend to
Not love me at all.
Just don’t stand there and watch me fall.
That's when the Pacific Ocean busted out of my eyes. The pain of losing something special, the reality of being alone, and the uncertainty of future happiness kicked me hard in the ballsac, leaving me huddled in a corner, wallowing in self-pity and self-loathing while Pink continued to torment me with her denials. It was the lowest point of my existence, surpassing even the time I played Cinderella’s evil step-mom for a class play with my parents in the audience. (No lack of parental attention there.) I was in The Moment.
By sheer chance (the iPod was on shuffle mode), a succession of power ballads followed. Celine Dion’s All By Myself, Mariah Carey’s Without You, and Whitney Houston’s “Will Always Love You. The Holy Trinity of Heartbreak Songs. Just when I thought I had sunk to the bottom, I found myself free-falling to a deeper abyss, awashed with saline and MAYNILAD water.
When Whitney glory-noted the final chorus, self-awareness and dementia seeped in and I began to wonder how I would appear on the big screen if my life was a tearjerker directed by Carlos Siguion-Reyna. Would the audience prefer a subtle but nuanced lamentation or wet hysterics of Vilmanian proportions? I decided to go for something in between. Thus, with tears oiling down my cheeks, I clutched my hair with one hand and raised my other hand towards the shower head, as if it was a beam of light shining down the heavens, signifying deliverance to the unwanted and unloved. (Top that, Ruth.)
Whitney’s voice gradually faded into silence and a brief lull preceded the next song. Charged with dramatic inertia, I considered biting my trembling knuckles for added effect. And then…
Oh. My. God.
Becky, look at her butt.
It is sooo big...
I like big butts and I cannot lie.
You other brothers can’t deny
That when a girl walks in...
Becky, look at her butt.
It is sooo big...
I like big butts and I cannot lie.
You other brothers can’t deny
That when a girl walks in...
Aghast, I jumped, slid towards the stereo, and stopped this rather exuberant ode to the female derriere before it got to the more raunchier parts. I scrolled the iPod for tunes that would revive The Moment --- One Last Cry? Unbreak My Heart? Bohemian Rhapsody?--- but eventually gave up, realizing that The Moment had passed.
And with Sir Mix-A-Lot’s Baby Got Back as my LSS, I allowed myself to smile a little.
***
Pink. "I Don't Believe You"
***
Sir Mix-A-Lot. "Baby Got Back"
Pink. "I Don't Believe You"
***
Sir Mix-A-Lot. "Baby Got Back"
16 April 2009
Holy Week in Davao
Unlike past Holy Weeks where I bled my eyes watching re-runs of 7th Heaven or ocularly molested beach bodies while innocently sipping a parasoled fruit shake in Boracay, I visited my geographical birthplace (as opposed to my literal birthplace, mom’s Fallopian tube), which, for the benefit of those who don’t have classified access to my personal records, is Davao, the land of Durian, Waling-Waling, and some endangered monkey-eating eagles.
With me in this trip was my nuclear family: father, mother, sister, brother, and iPod nano. Together, we embarked on a journey which saw us scale the zenith of Mount Apo, scuba dive for sunken WWII warships near Talomo beach, zip-line through a forest at Camp Sabros, and hand-feed hungry crocodiles with only a mesh wire separating us from the afterlife.
Or so my brother and I hoped to happen.
In reality and due to time constraints and life-insurance clauses, our excursion consisted mainly of dining out in restaurants (e.g., Mers, Jack’s Ridge, etc.); visiting my 85-year-old grandma, who, after being reminded that I’m his 30-year-old grandson, pressed that I get married and have cute, cuddly babies already “before her time comes to an end” (Talk about pressure!... Hmm, I wonder if she prefers a Vietnamese or a Malawian great grandchild...); inspecting our parents’ future retirement home, currently just a vacant lot near a virgin beach; swimming and cam-whoring in the hotel pool; and shopping for pasalubong.
Despite the absence of an adrenaline-pumping adventure, my visit to Davao was an anti-oxidizing break from urbanity and sure beats watching Charlton Heston part the Red Sea with his staff (insert dirty thought here) for the nth time.
Random photos from my journey:
Demonstrating What To Do When Your Plane Plunges
In a Death Spiral Before Exploding In Mid-Air.
Arriving at Davao International Airport.
Me: "Ah, Davao... I can almost smell durian in the air."
My bro: "Sorry, kuya. I farted."
Digos, Davao del Sur.
Tall Coconut Trees
(Boy Abunda, don't you dare dry-hump them.)
A Remote Beach.
At Grandma's House. Capiz Shell Windows.
A Black & White TV Set.
"Granny, may I watch America's Next Top Model here?"
"OMG! The neighbor's house is burning!"
"Quick!!... Take my picture!"
Shopping for a pasalubong.
"Hmm, would Eugey wear this?"
"Oh, I think he'll like these... Assorted durian candies."
Rice Wrapped In Coconut Leaves.
Mers' Jelly Rolls.
My second favorite tubular thing to put inside my mouth.
Too bad, "Poker Face" isn't part of their repertoire.
My underwater impression of a dissected frog.
About to emerge from the pool...
and now my first, frontal picture
in the history of this blog....
"Hey you guys!"
Continue reading....
With me in this trip was my nuclear family: father, mother, sister, brother, and iPod nano. Together, we embarked on a journey which saw us scale the zenith of Mount Apo, scuba dive for sunken WWII warships near Talomo beach, zip-line through a forest at Camp Sabros, and hand-feed hungry crocodiles with only a mesh wire separating us from the afterlife.
Or so my brother and I hoped to happen.
In reality and due to time constraints and life-insurance clauses, our excursion consisted mainly of dining out in restaurants (e.g., Mers, Jack’s Ridge, etc.); visiting my 85-year-old grandma, who, after being reminded that I’m his 30-year-old grandson, pressed that I get married and have cute, cuddly babies already “before her time comes to an end” (Talk about pressure!... Hmm, I wonder if she prefers a Vietnamese or a Malawian great grandchild...); inspecting our parents’ future retirement home, currently just a vacant lot near a virgin beach; swimming and cam-whoring in the hotel pool; and shopping for pasalubong.
Despite the absence of an adrenaline-pumping adventure, my visit to Davao was an anti-oxidizing break from urbanity and sure beats watching Charlton Heston part the Red Sea with his staff (insert dirty thought here) for the nth time.
Random photos from my journey:
Demonstrating What To Do When Your Plane Plunges
In a Death Spiral Before Exploding In Mid-Air.
Arriving at Davao International Airport.
Me: "Ah, Davao... I can almost smell durian in the air."
My bro: "Sorry, kuya. I farted."
Digos, Davao del Sur.
Tall Coconut Trees
(Boy Abunda, don't you dare dry-hump them.)
A Remote Beach.
At Grandma's House. Capiz Shell Windows.
A Black & White TV Set.
"Granny, may I watch America's Next Top Model here?"
"OMG! The neighbor's house is burning!"
"Quick!!... Take my picture!"
Shopping for a pasalubong.
"Hmm, would Eugey wear this?"
"Oh, I think he'll like these... Assorted durian candies."
Rice Wrapped In Coconut Leaves.
Mers' Jelly Rolls.
My second favorite tubular thing to put inside my mouth.
Too bad, "Poker Face" isn't part of their repertoire.
My underwater impression of a dissected frog.
About to emerge from the pool...
and now my first, frontal picture
in the history of this blog....
"Hey you guys!"
07 April 2009
Dhanurasana and a Badly Packed Kebab
“And now, let’s do Dhanurasana… the bow pose,” Ray, our yogini, intoned after we’ve barely survived a series of unpronounceable asanas which had us twisting our sweat-drenched bodies around like roots of an old mangrove tree. Two or three people, most probably the beginners at the back row, emitted groans of protest across the room which, by now, was at a temperature that can cause desert cacti to die.
Unfazed by the waning signs of life before him, Ray proceeded to demonstrate how easy-peasy Dhanurasana was by effortlessly metamorphosing into a human letter “U” in five seconds flat. “This pose will improve the flexibility of your spine,” our invertebrate instructor said without a flicker of irony.
Following Ralph’s unachievable example, we, dehydrated masochists, laid down flat on our bellies, bended our knees, reached behind to grasp our ankles, and, with varying degrees of failure, simultaneously raised our legs, chest, and head, eyes wide open to see what’s in front of us…
And with that one upward motion, I unintentionally became Ms. V's personal O.B. gynecologist.
Ms. V is a brash, talkative, forty-something woman who, like me, regularly attends Ray's yoga class every Saturday. But unlike me, Ms. V didn’t think it was necessary to wear undies that morning when she positioned herself right smack in front of me. This omission, coupled with her baggy shorts, our arms-length proximity, and my normal vision, gave me a panoramic view of her erogenous zones as we both attempted the bow pose.
And by "erogenous zones", I don't mean her feet. (God, how I wish it was just her feet!) I’m referring to what is known in some straight circles as the Pink Harmonica, Beef Curtains, Kate Bush, Map of Tasmania, Sausage Wallet, and Badly Packed Kebab.
On several occasions, I have prayed to God to bless me with a photographic memory with which to remember evanescent moments such as a sunset in Boracay or a crush’s smile. This was not one of those moments. Nevertheless, I managed to capture the graphic details of that peek-a-boo moment and preserve them in my brain where they would remain for nightmares to come until I finally get the courage to undergo a lobotomy.
As part of my post-traumatic stress therapy to silence the bleating lambs at night, I’m now going to describe what I have seen. There, at Ground Zero, were small, pinkish folds and protrusions of skin, a delicate origami of flesh around what appeared to be a moist wound. Ingrown and outgrown hair peppered the surrounding areas, which also bore Zebra-like stretch marks. And…. was that a black mole just below her floong-flang? I’m not certain. It could either be a mole or a dead fruit fly but for her sake, I hope it’s the former.
If those puckered lips could talk, we'd have this brief, vaginal dialogue:
V: Hey. ‘Sup?
Me: Aaaackkk!!!!
Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no personal vendetta against vaginas. Their role in the reproductive and evolutionary process is unassailable and without them, we’d just be our daddy’s dried-up sperm cell with nowhere to go but the sewage system. I have nothing but the deepest, sincerest, most profound respect for vaginas all over the world, even though they may be attached to such floozies as Denise Richards and Pamela Anderson. Vagina, we salute and honor you.
What I strongly take issue against is women coming to yoga sessions wearing epidermal lingerie and exposing their sweaty, unshaven genitalia to unsuspecting classmates who are simply trying their best to achieve that damn Dhanurasana pose in sauna-like conditions. I say, enough of such lewd conduct! Enough! The Vulva Vulgaris doesn't have to be vulgar! It’s high time that we put an end to this labial exhibitionism and bring basic human decency and underwear back to yoga studios! This is our moment, people! This is Spartaaaaaaaaa!
Now, if Ms. V was a young male model, preferably of Japanese-Brazilian origins, then Imight just reconsider my position take everything I’ve said back!
Continue reading....
Unfazed by the waning signs of life before him, Ray proceeded to demonstrate how easy-peasy Dhanurasana was by effortlessly metamorphosing into a human letter “U” in five seconds flat. “This pose will improve the flexibility of your spine,” our invertebrate instructor said without a flicker of irony.
Following Ralph’s unachievable example, we, dehydrated masochists, laid down flat on our bellies, bended our knees, reached behind to grasp our ankles, and, with varying degrees of failure, simultaneously raised our legs, chest, and head, eyes wide open to see what’s in front of us…
And with that one upward motion, I unintentionally became Ms. V's personal O.B. gynecologist.
Ms. V is a brash, talkative, forty-something woman who, like me, regularly attends Ray's yoga class every Saturday. But unlike me, Ms. V didn’t think it was necessary to wear undies that morning when she positioned herself right smack in front of me. This omission, coupled with her baggy shorts, our arms-length proximity, and my normal vision, gave me a panoramic view of her erogenous zones as we both attempted the bow pose.
And by "erogenous zones", I don't mean her feet. (God, how I wish it was just her feet!) I’m referring to what is known in some straight circles as the Pink Harmonica, Beef Curtains, Kate Bush, Map of Tasmania, Sausage Wallet, and Badly Packed Kebab.
On several occasions, I have prayed to God to bless me with a photographic memory with which to remember evanescent moments such as a sunset in Boracay or a crush’s smile. This was not one of those moments. Nevertheless, I managed to capture the graphic details of that peek-a-boo moment and preserve them in my brain where they would remain for nightmares to come until I finally get the courage to undergo a lobotomy.
As part of my post-traumatic stress therapy to silence the bleating lambs at night, I’m now going to describe what I have seen. There, at Ground Zero, were small, pinkish folds and protrusions of skin, a delicate origami of flesh around what appeared to be a moist wound. Ingrown and outgrown hair peppered the surrounding areas, which also bore Zebra-like stretch marks. And…. was that a black mole just below her floong-flang? I’m not certain. It could either be a mole or a dead fruit fly but for her sake, I hope it’s the former.
If those puckered lips could talk, we'd have this brief, vaginal dialogue:
V: Hey. ‘Sup?
Me: Aaaackkk!!!!
Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no personal vendetta against vaginas. Their role in the reproductive and evolutionary process is unassailable and without them, we’d just be our daddy’s dried-up sperm cell with nowhere to go but the sewage system. I have nothing but the deepest, sincerest, most profound respect for vaginas all over the world, even though they may be attached to such floozies as Denise Richards and Pamela Anderson. Vagina, we salute and honor you.
What I strongly take issue against is women coming to yoga sessions wearing epidermal lingerie and exposing their sweaty, unshaven genitalia to unsuspecting classmates who are simply trying their best to achieve that damn Dhanurasana pose in sauna-like conditions. I say, enough of such lewd conduct! Enough! The Vulva Vulgaris doesn't have to be vulgar! It’s high time that we put an end to this labial exhibitionism and bring basic human decency and underwear back to yoga studios! This is our moment, people! This is Spartaaaaaaaaa!
Now, if Ms. V was a young male model, preferably of Japanese-Brazilian origins, then I
07 March 2009
Testosterone Beauties
BB GandangHari, watch out. You're not the only sexually-ambiguous glamazon in town. Meet your newest competition, mister-sister...
Barakong Beyoncé
Maskuladong Mudrabelle
Divang Di-tiyak
Kolehiyalang Kargadora
Shondang Sixpack
Dedeng WalangGatas
Eumorpho Lakas Taray
Jackie Lou Ferrigno
Maskuladong Mudrabelle
Divang Di-tiyak
Kolehiyalang Kargadora
Shondang Sixpack
Dedeng WalangGatas
Eumorpho Lakas Taray
Jackie Lou Ferrigno
Susong Schwarzenegger
Lolang The Hulk
... and Mayuming Mamamatay-Tao
Hahahahaha! Is that so?
Bring. It. Ohn.
Continue reading....
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