What else can there be said? Had it been Shaquille O'Neal's shoe, he would have had it.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Bush Sees Sole
Thursday, December 11, 2008
WTF
I want to put down my civility for a while. I want to put this as bluntly and as juicy as I want: why the fuck does this regime so eagerly want to change the goddamn constitution when its lame leader isn't trusted and is massively unpopular to begin with? Despite the issues of corruption haunting this band of thieves day-in and day-out, why the fuck does it grovel at the thought of doing a constitutional surgery with shining eyes, aided in no small way by their leader's son—that son of a bitch—who appears to be at the full height of cretinism? Why change the constitution when there is a better way, which is to fucking change a squatting leader? I won't apologize for my French. It's my second language.
You have a population not wanting to change the charter and yet still you maintain the gall to proclaim with sheer bravado that we have to shave the constitution from all its unnecessary hairs, whatever in hell that means. You have a country ailing from an economic cancer first and last and yet still you proudly force your way into the underbellies of Congress just to harvest the votes you need to manifest the perverted prophecy that you shall save this nation from the pits and fires of hell by no less than undoing the constitutional provisions that hold together the skins and bones of this land. You have a nation where epic corruption divides us into brittle fragments ready to break with the first breeze and yet still how much more division does this gang of gangrene garbage want by shoving to our throats a whole pile of Cha-Cha nonsense?
You want to put the feet of this archipelago back on solid ground, you do so by making full use of it instead of ravaging the soil that layeth beneath us. You want to make this country a little better for the rest of us who still have lives to live despite the death and madness swirling around us? Then don't fuck with the constitution. Put your joystick to where it should belong. You want to rid this government from the curse of corruption and all things evil? Then don't fuck with the constitution, at least not until 2010 when you are highly expected to step down from an office which you did not even earn in the first place. More importantly, healer, heal thyself.
You want to have more reasons for the people to wear a smile once in a while or at least for once in their lives since 2004? Then don't fuck with the constitution. We did not elect you to pursue your narcissistic agenda. In fact, we did not even elect you, pure and simple as that. So don't fuck with the constitution. Fuck your husband instead. Tell him to wear a condom you troll.
You want the people to listen to your mantra? Sorry but no can do. You may shed your mole or grow an inch higher, but you can't certainly defile those who dare not heed the siren call of your propaganda. You may read us incantations from your Harvard dummy's guidebook to instant salvation during the witching hour, but you can't certainly cajole us into a state of hypnosis, willingly allowing you to tinker with the constitution.
You want your son to do the job for you in Congress? Then amen to that. So be it. History will judge your family far worse than the Nazis, or something a bit closer to that, like Temujin's Mongolian horde. Each passing generation shall look at your lineage with an eye of hatred, fueled all the more by a dirge that expresses the mournful times at the height of your rule, which is most certainly the abyss of this nation's existence. And they will remember thee as a callous flesh that stuck out like a sore thumb in history. Or since dinosaurs roamed the Earth.
You want to cleanse us from the sewage of your own wrathful doing? Then do so by carrying your luggage and kissing your ass goodbye out of that throne now. Not tomorrow. Now. You want to amend the constitution, then step down from your high horse now so that we can begin business. Otherwise, your motives will remain suspect, as they have always been. Again, don't fuck the constitution while you're still there, sipping wine in a bed of roses while we wallow in agony. Don't copulate with our constitution. It's not your husband.
You want to serve this nation for good? Then don't butcher the constitution you pig. Spread peace instead of serving chaos on our plates. Eliminate the disease with an effective cure instead of injecting more diseases into the cure. Don't cut the Gordian Knot with Occam's Razor or face the litany of the people, like this. If possible, and I believe it is so, jail yourself until your knees jerk themselves off from their sockets out of senility. Go tell your son to stop putting his head between his legs just to get a panoramic view of how bad this country has become because of you. It's worse and stinks more than an asshole. And finally, don't fuck the constitution. Bitch.
With all these obscenities, I hope they—especially our greasy Congressmen—will begin to listen. Of course, every one of us is entitled to his own personal delusions. What can I say? Even fake presidents have been doing just that.
Continue here
You have a population not wanting to change the charter and yet still you maintain the gall to proclaim with sheer bravado that we have to shave the constitution from all its unnecessary hairs, whatever in hell that means. You have a country ailing from an economic cancer first and last and yet still you proudly force your way into the underbellies of Congress just to harvest the votes you need to manifest the perverted prophecy that you shall save this nation from the pits and fires of hell by no less than undoing the constitutional provisions that hold together the skins and bones of this land. You have a nation where epic corruption divides us into brittle fragments ready to break with the first breeze and yet still how much more division does this gang of gangrene garbage want by shoving to our throats a whole pile of Cha-Cha nonsense?
You want to put the feet of this archipelago back on solid ground, you do so by making full use of it instead of ravaging the soil that layeth beneath us. You want to make this country a little better for the rest of us who still have lives to live despite the death and madness swirling around us? Then don't fuck with the constitution. Put your joystick to where it should belong. You want to rid this government from the curse of corruption and all things evil? Then don't fuck with the constitution, at least not until 2010 when you are highly expected to step down from an office which you did not even earn in the first place. More importantly, healer, heal thyself.
You want to have more reasons for the people to wear a smile once in a while or at least for once in their lives since 2004? Then don't fuck with the constitution. We did not elect you to pursue your narcissistic agenda. In fact, we did not even elect you, pure and simple as that. So don't fuck with the constitution. Fuck your husband instead. Tell him to wear a condom you troll.
You want the people to listen to your mantra? Sorry but no can do. You may shed your mole or grow an inch higher, but you can't certainly defile those who dare not heed the siren call of your propaganda. You may read us incantations from your Harvard dummy's guidebook to instant salvation during the witching hour, but you can't certainly cajole us into a state of hypnosis, willingly allowing you to tinker with the constitution.
You want your son to do the job for you in Congress? Then amen to that. So be it. History will judge your family far worse than the Nazis, or something a bit closer to that, like Temujin's Mongolian horde. Each passing generation shall look at your lineage with an eye of hatred, fueled all the more by a dirge that expresses the mournful times at the height of your rule, which is most certainly the abyss of this nation's existence. And they will remember thee as a callous flesh that stuck out like a sore thumb in history. Or since dinosaurs roamed the Earth.
You want to cleanse us from the sewage of your own wrathful doing? Then do so by carrying your luggage and kissing your ass goodbye out of that throne now. Not tomorrow. Now. You want to amend the constitution, then step down from your high horse now so that we can begin business. Otherwise, your motives will remain suspect, as they have always been. Again, don't fuck the constitution while you're still there, sipping wine in a bed of roses while we wallow in agony. Don't copulate with our constitution. It's not your husband.
You want to serve this nation for good? Then don't butcher the constitution you pig. Spread peace instead of serving chaos on our plates. Eliminate the disease with an effective cure instead of injecting more diseases into the cure. Don't cut the Gordian Knot with Occam's Razor or face the litany of the people, like this. If possible, and I believe it is so, jail yourself until your knees jerk themselves off from their sockets out of senility. Go tell your son to stop putting his head between his legs just to get a panoramic view of how bad this country has become because of you. It's worse and stinks more than an asshole. And finally, don't fuck the constitution. Bitch.
With all these obscenities, I hope they—especially our greasy Congressmen—will begin to listen. Of course, every one of us is entitled to his own personal delusions. What can I say? Even fake presidents have been doing just that.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Until They Meet Again
While Pacquiao's slugfest with The Golden Boy is giving everybody else a full view of mayhem and waves of cheers, she's flying home.
On a Sunday morning, he had to endure something more than what a technical knockout can force unto life and limb.
This is the place where real men do not openly wail in pain or agony. Rather it is where they let a few drops escape from the corner of their eyes, shy enough to hide from full view what others may see as a sign of weakness but which to these men, after all, is the best sign that love is the greatest thing that has ever happened to their lives. He is one of them. And this is the airport.
You can count his tears by your fingers, but none of your efforts to size him up by the mist that gathers in his vision can keep him from wanting and needing someone who has been his world for two years, two years that seemed like a lifetime. By the time she has boarded the plane, he sees her nowhere but still knows that she's out there somewhere. He can feel her by the scent of the air that reminds him of all the things that she is; so human, so valuable.
He stays for a bit and reflects. He gathers the sturdiest breath of courage he has from the depths of his lungs and he begins to take a few small steps. One small step for him, one giant leap for the heartless kind. His footsteps are slow and unsteady, purging the life out of him with every contact between the soles of his shoes and the tiles on the floor. Perhaps, that's how heavy a heart can be.
The smoke that rises from the tip of his lit cigarette slowly disintegrates in the thickness of the roars of the engines and the noise of the crowd that collide into a single audible force that veils not his ears. He can hear her weep with her hands pressed firmly against her face, somewhere inside that huge flying machine that has taken leagues of men and bevies of girls abroad and elsewhere. To others, that's all there is to that place, planes and nothing more. To him, it's where people struck by the moment of separation are cast into the monumental task of living life in parted ways until they meet again. The ascent to heaven must be lovely, and the clouds ought to bid her well. The descent downstairs from the departures area must be frighteningly sad, as it is and should be, and the road that will take him home will be the emptiest place in the world despite the heavy traffic. The emptiest place devoid of life, next to the room where two souls have lived their lives for more than a hundred and eighty days.
This is reality. He might see her again. He might not. All will depend on things beyond his control, even beyond hers. He can only surmise that, at the end of all these, time will undo this loneliness and bring back the one person in this world he cannot live without. He, being the agnostic that he is, would only care less if there truly is one Bathala. But miracles, they are for the hopeless and for those who search things that can hardly be found in times of solitude, happiness being one of them. But God be kind enough, might she return the soonest, then there must be a God.
Aboard a bus and on his way back to where it all began, she's already landed home. Soon, hours will turn into days, days into weeks and weeks into months. Almighty forbid, months into years even. Will he surpass this epic struggle which not even the mighty Samson can crush with his bare fists? There goes his Delilah, his source of life taken away by the necessity of time and the complexity of the situation. He can only miss her, cherish her memories and love the one who owns his world much as he owns hers. For the time being, he can only wait, too.
He has seen these types of things in the movies and they turn out to be blockbusters at the end. Oftentimes, the sad movies are, to him, the mushy ones; the ones that one can live without. But sad movies still make other people cry. Or so the song goes. This is no movie, yet it is eerily sad. This is no sad movie, and yet the gates of his eyes cannot contain the deluge of emotions pouring from the innermost recesses of who he is.
The darkest moment of the night is just before the break of day, others may add. Even the sages of earlier times say no winter lasts forever. The sheets of ice that cover the expanse of the sea will soon melt and the creatures that give life to this earth shall soon come forth. The leaves of the trees shall soon inherit the warmth of the sun, slipping cold water from the edges of their delicate shapes just to marvel at the beauty of the summer day. No winter lasts forever.
And so does summer.
Be that as it may, there is reason to hope and there is hope to reason. There is reason to hope, to hope that the tides will turn and will bring back that which has been momentarily lost. There is hope to reason, to reason that one day he will no longer have to take her to her voyage to a distant land for both of them have all the reasons in the world to stay. He does not own all the treasures life can offer, but certainly just having her again is worth more than all the diamonds money can ever buy. He does not and cannot control time, but certainly just having her again far outweighs a lifetime of solitary confinement. He does not and cannot control the wind that blows underneath the wings of that flying machine, but certainly it is more than enough to pray to someone so divine and so powerful for her eternal guidance and safety, whoever that divine and powerful being may be. There is reason to hope. There is hope to reason. She will come back.
And when she does, the last ice that withstood the fury of the blazing sun shall dissipate and finally allow summer to take its course.
Until they meet again.
Continue here
On a Sunday morning, he had to endure something more than what a technical knockout can force unto life and limb.
This is the place where real men do not openly wail in pain or agony. Rather it is where they let a few drops escape from the corner of their eyes, shy enough to hide from full view what others may see as a sign of weakness but which to these men, after all, is the best sign that love is the greatest thing that has ever happened to their lives. He is one of them. And this is the airport.
You can count his tears by your fingers, but none of your efforts to size him up by the mist that gathers in his vision can keep him from wanting and needing someone who has been his world for two years, two years that seemed like a lifetime. By the time she has boarded the plane, he sees her nowhere but still knows that she's out there somewhere. He can feel her by the scent of the air that reminds him of all the things that she is; so human, so valuable.
He stays for a bit and reflects. He gathers the sturdiest breath of courage he has from the depths of his lungs and he begins to take a few small steps. One small step for him, one giant leap for the heartless kind. His footsteps are slow and unsteady, purging the life out of him with every contact between the soles of his shoes and the tiles on the floor. Perhaps, that's how heavy a heart can be.
The smoke that rises from the tip of his lit cigarette slowly disintegrates in the thickness of the roars of the engines and the noise of the crowd that collide into a single audible force that veils not his ears. He can hear her weep with her hands pressed firmly against her face, somewhere inside that huge flying machine that has taken leagues of men and bevies of girls abroad and elsewhere. To others, that's all there is to that place, planes and nothing more. To him, it's where people struck by the moment of separation are cast into the monumental task of living life in parted ways until they meet again. The ascent to heaven must be lovely, and the clouds ought to bid her well. The descent downstairs from the departures area must be frighteningly sad, as it is and should be, and the road that will take him home will be the emptiest place in the world despite the heavy traffic. The emptiest place devoid of life, next to the room where two souls have lived their lives for more than a hundred and eighty days.
This is reality. He might see her again. He might not. All will depend on things beyond his control, even beyond hers. He can only surmise that, at the end of all these, time will undo this loneliness and bring back the one person in this world he cannot live without. He, being the agnostic that he is, would only care less if there truly is one Bathala. But miracles, they are for the hopeless and for those who search things that can hardly be found in times of solitude, happiness being one of them. But God be kind enough, might she return the soonest, then there must be a God.
Aboard a bus and on his way back to where it all began, she's already landed home. Soon, hours will turn into days, days into weeks and weeks into months. Almighty forbid, months into years even. Will he surpass this epic struggle which not even the mighty Samson can crush with his bare fists? There goes his Delilah, his source of life taken away by the necessity of time and the complexity of the situation. He can only miss her, cherish her memories and love the one who owns his world much as he owns hers. For the time being, he can only wait, too.
He has seen these types of things in the movies and they turn out to be blockbusters at the end. Oftentimes, the sad movies are, to him, the mushy ones; the ones that one can live without. But sad movies still make other people cry. Or so the song goes. This is no movie, yet it is eerily sad. This is no sad movie, and yet the gates of his eyes cannot contain the deluge of emotions pouring from the innermost recesses of who he is.
The darkest moment of the night is just before the break of day, others may add. Even the sages of earlier times say no winter lasts forever. The sheets of ice that cover the expanse of the sea will soon melt and the creatures that give life to this earth shall soon come forth. The leaves of the trees shall soon inherit the warmth of the sun, slipping cold water from the edges of their delicate shapes just to marvel at the beauty of the summer day. No winter lasts forever.
And so does summer.
Be that as it may, there is reason to hope and there is hope to reason. There is reason to hope, to hope that the tides will turn and will bring back that which has been momentarily lost. There is hope to reason, to reason that one day he will no longer have to take her to her voyage to a distant land for both of them have all the reasons in the world to stay. He does not own all the treasures life can offer, but certainly just having her again is worth more than all the diamonds money can ever buy. He does not and cannot control time, but certainly just having her again far outweighs a lifetime of solitary confinement. He does not and cannot control the wind that blows underneath the wings of that flying machine, but certainly it is more than enough to pray to someone so divine and so powerful for her eternal guidance and safety, whoever that divine and powerful being may be. There is reason to hope. There is hope to reason. She will come back.
And when she does, the last ice that withstood the fury of the blazing sun shall dissipate and finally allow summer to take its course.
Until they meet again.
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