pucha, pare. once. yes. just once. not the song. the movie. after the sun danced and oscar gave away the golden dicks, i just can't avoid it any longer.
add to that fucking ben afleck and matt damon videos, i am one crazed, looney looney. pass by the loo and pee some orangey-yellow stuff and i'm half past ready to go out and beat the hell out of gloria.
what, you don't know gloria? the half imp of a prez the pee-lip-hinds has? come on? come on! don't be shy. it's ok. it's ok to think that mike arroyo (*the* first gentleman who is not so gentle i wish he'd die already) is the best ventriloquist the cunt-try has ever had. they're fucking you in the butt and you just don't feel it. that's how gentle he is.
right. pucha. i'm tempted to read the papers again just so to deliver educated commentaries on this blaahg but the press even is not educated. fuck them all.
capische.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
headhunting
pucha, pare. i know. i know. no posts for a thousand years. i'm back. wb me!
so here i was, some time ago, looking for a job. i wanted a nice office. a great salary. a challenging project. maybe some people under me. guess what, they won't give those to me. so i said, ok. my resume is shitty. i'm too stupid to hold an office, much less a desk or a pen. and pucha, the only people who won't mind being under me are dead. you know, going to the graveyard (graveyard shift. har! har!) and stomping the bee-jeezus out of the dead.
so i decided to be a gardener. a gardener for the dead. i plant dead people. i'd like to see them grow into trees. and the trees, waving back at me when the wind blows on them, would look like dead people. lots of dead people copulating. then they would give birth to dead children. then i'd plant dead children.
what? silence! i kill you!
(heck. next time i'll be really be blogging about me. me as in me me. like me alive. it'd bore you to death. but hey, i'll have fun boring you and leave you as dead.)
so here i was, some time ago, looking for a job. i wanted a nice office. a great salary. a challenging project. maybe some people under me. guess what, they won't give those to me. so i said, ok. my resume is shitty. i'm too stupid to hold an office, much less a desk or a pen. and pucha, the only people who won't mind being under me are dead. you know, going to the graveyard (graveyard shift. har! har!) and stomping the bee-jeezus out of the dead.
so i decided to be a gardener. a gardener for the dead. i plant dead people. i'd like to see them grow into trees. and the trees, waving back at me when the wind blows on them, would look like dead people. lots of dead people copulating. then they would give birth to dead children. then i'd plant dead children.
what? silence! i kill you!
(heck. next time i'll be really be blogging about me. me as in me me. like me alive. it'd bore you to death. but hey, i'll have fun boring you and leave you as dead.)
Friday, February 8, 2008
soaped
pucha! pare! see the exclamations? i am purely excited. see my hard-on? no? smuy smuy eh. not fluffy tho so all's well. little brown hot-bull-dog powered by rice, ire. all rice! uhm. without the kulubot but with lots of panot. all rice!
my body clock is fucked. why? because of them darned soap that's been all over me this morning. yeah. have you seen a soap this big? yeah. this big. this small? want me to bang your eyeballs with this? let's see what's bigger, huh?
so i take out a fish that clamped its clawlike mouth to my clawlike claw. and what do i get? paksiw, pare.
i am not making much sense, am i? pucha naman. labo. inlababo kamo. wait. inlababo without a love interest? come on. i don't do dates. they're too small. apples maybe. medyo lamig the core and the seeds get in the way at times. the best to do is half a kilo of pork skewered, sugbaed (ilonggo, sugba, to grill, past tense), de skewered, put in a meduim milo can, knifed and thrusted, pucha-pare style like the back of mechanical bronco (one arm up, other hand clutching the milo can like it means the end of the world if it slips (grasping without grasping firmly is lame and won't make you come. mao-ze-dong to his concubine) and humping it like the damn animal with a crokscrew dick), pare. mainit init at greaseless pa.
chow chow! gutom lang to.
my body clock is fucked. why? because of them darned soap that's been all over me this morning. yeah. have you seen a soap this big? yeah. this big. this small? want me to bang your eyeballs with this? let's see what's bigger, huh?
so i take out a fish that clamped its clawlike mouth to my clawlike claw. and what do i get? paksiw, pare.
i am not making much sense, am i? pucha naman. labo. inlababo kamo. wait. inlababo without a love interest? come on. i don't do dates. they're too small. apples maybe. medyo lamig the core and the seeds get in the way at times. the best to do is half a kilo of pork skewered, sugbaed (ilonggo, sugba, to grill, past tense), de skewered, put in a meduim milo can, knifed and thrusted, pucha-pare style like the back of mechanical bronco (one arm up, other hand clutching the milo can like it means the end of the world if it slips (grasping without grasping firmly is lame and won't make you come. mao-ze-dong to his concubine) and humping it like the damn animal with a crokscrew dick), pare. mainit init at greaseless pa.
chow chow! gutom lang to.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
global warming
pucha, pare. it's been hot lately and wexed and i have been chatting about global warming and how to go about it. let me educate you a bit on how to help.
global warming is brought about by libido. with all the humans in this planet, pare, i wouldn't be surprised. add in to that the birds and the bees and the animals in the trees, pare. every time a manoy gets beaten, or a pp having its dose of sunshine, or something shoved into your body where the sun doesn't shine, heat emissions occur. thus, global warming, pare. its true. my pappy told me so.
so what do we do about it? take a bath, pare. it's the best way. take a cold shower every so often if you can. the pr0n sites aren't helping much. exercise is just an excuse. fuck your brains off, but make sure the aircon is on.
oh well. the brainiac wexed thought it wouldn't help much. the baths and the airconditioning. so i said, why not just turn every fucking cooling agent on the planet on and open those damn doors so it'd be cooler outside? hah! pucha, pare. brilliant! fucking brilliant, pare! (hi jeyps! remember then arnistas, pare? pucha) fucking-A brilliantitotitos (smuy smuy gems).
well, that's not helping much too. so we set out to determine the earth's core temperature. imagine a child, just being born (congrats on the new baby, kim! ok, daddy, baby first). how do we get its temp? get a thermometer and stick it up the baby's ass. it begs the question, where exactly is the earth's ass? down there, pare. classic lit. 20000 leagues beneath the sea. yep. how do we get there? via the yellow submarine, pare. since these are modern times, it should be a nuclear yellow submarine pare. make a big one. ask the russians. nay, the vietnamese. they're good with attacks from the behind, pare.
why go nuclear? so that it can power itself without having to surface for a long time. get thet nuclear yellow sub, stick it up the earth's ass, turn the airconditioning on full. come on! the earth would have a swell time. it will swell due to something up its ass and get a cold at the same time because of the same thing! well, good luck to more earthquakes but the point is to arrest global warming. by the way, who the hell is he?
cheers, pare!
PS: when i die, bury me face down so that the rest of the world can kiss my ass. (seen somewhere in the 'net)
UPDATE: i was corrected by sonic on my thesis of the earth's ass. well, i'll pray about the truthfulness of that. i might arrive at some form of enlightenment.
more thoughts. mohamed is the architect of the first dildo? mohamedan, thy kingdom come. of course! come some more. blasted volcanoes are achuli large pps. and when they blow, orgasmic, pare. deym! the moslems are right. the buddhists are gay. the boom bays ride small motorcycles and the only numbers they know are 5 and 6. the christians... well, the christians say 'holy luuuu-yeah!'.
sori meca! kain tayo baboy. 100% pure beef na baboy, pare (thanks, tet). hostshots, anybody?
global warming is brought about by libido. with all the humans in this planet, pare, i wouldn't be surprised. add in to that the birds and the bees and the animals in the trees, pare. every time a manoy gets beaten, or a pp having its dose of sunshine, or something shoved into your body where the sun doesn't shine, heat emissions occur. thus, global warming, pare. its true. my pappy told me so.
so what do we do about it? take a bath, pare. it's the best way. take a cold shower every so often if you can. the pr0n sites aren't helping much. exercise is just an excuse. fuck your brains off, but make sure the aircon is on.
oh well. the brainiac wexed thought it wouldn't help much. the baths and the airconditioning. so i said, why not just turn every fucking cooling agent on the planet on and open those damn doors so it'd be cooler outside? hah! pucha, pare. brilliant! fucking brilliant, pare! (hi jeyps! remember then arnistas, pare? pucha) fucking-A brilliantitotitos (smuy smuy gems).
well, that's not helping much too. so we set out to determine the earth's core temperature. imagine a child, just being born (congrats on the new baby, kim! ok, daddy, baby first). how do we get its temp? get a thermometer and stick it up the baby's ass. it begs the question, where exactly is the earth's ass? down there, pare. classic lit. 20000 leagues beneath the sea. yep. how do we get there? via the yellow submarine, pare. since these are modern times, it should be a nuclear yellow submarine pare. make a big one. ask the russians. nay, the vietnamese. they're good with attacks from the behind, pare.
why go nuclear? so that it can power itself without having to surface for a long time. get thet nuclear yellow sub, stick it up the earth's ass, turn the airconditioning on full. come on! the earth would have a swell time. it will swell due to something up its ass and get a cold at the same time because of the same thing! well, good luck to more earthquakes but the point is to arrest global warming. by the way, who the hell is he?
cheers, pare!
PS: when i die, bury me face down so that the rest of the world can kiss my ass. (seen somewhere in the 'net)
UPDATE: i was corrected by sonic on my thesis of the earth's ass. well, i'll pray about the truthfulness of that. i might arrive at some form of enlightenment.
more thoughts. mohamed is the architect of the first dildo? mohamedan, thy kingdom come. of course! come some more. blasted volcanoes are achuli large pps. and when they blow, orgasmic, pare. deym! the moslems are right. the buddhists are gay. the boom bays ride small motorcycles and the only numbers they know are 5 and 6. the christians... well, the christians say 'holy luuuu-yeah!'.
sori meca! kain tayo baboy. 100% pure beef na baboy, pare (thanks, tet). hostshots, anybody?
Monday, February 4, 2008
flick her ring around
pucha, pare. here i go again. and wexed thought i am sick since no post for the past two days. and the puchang-maniniyut allan almost-like-a-holy-blessing greeting me a good morning (good moaning, guys. moan some more. yeah. that's the way to do it. uh-huh uh-huh!) only to be castigated and announce that his pee-churs will be featured in a daily broad shit (talk about bodily extracts so early makes me moan some more. good moaning, butt-heads!).
oh, flick her. flick her some more. pee-churs and dreaming to be a wannabee pucha-pare maniniyot. i'd rather dream and stroke that red button. shooting without no blood. no blood no foul. gaddem. pucha.
prodigy is bleating my rockin-beats and the mammaries of them chemicals my brother left (he's still on it by the way) is coursing thru my synapses like golden lava only to be reminded that the laundry still needs to be wrung. oh, dripping dripping white fluids. bubbles of thoughts poking thru that flick-her-ring madness.
be still my beating manoy-that-has-been-beaten. thy yolk runneth over. only to be caught in the cottony-softness of the music which bleats. damn goats. stop blabbering.
so i sayeth, pare. go forth and be merry and eat that fruit from the garden of good and evil. wrench your thoughts and dry that laundry. and don't forget to multiply, pare.
my, my. aren't we colorful this morning. capische shells, pare. let's.
oh, flick her. flick her some more. pee-churs and dreaming to be a wannabee pucha-pare maniniyot. i'd rather dream and stroke that red button. shooting without no blood. no blood no foul. gaddem. pucha.
prodigy is bleating my rockin-beats and the mammaries of them chemicals my brother left (he's still on it by the way) is coursing thru my synapses like golden lava only to be reminded that the laundry still needs to be wrung. oh, dripping dripping white fluids. bubbles of thoughts poking thru that flick-her-ring madness.
be still my beating manoy-that-has-been-beaten. thy yolk runneth over. only to be caught in the cottony-softness of the music which bleats. damn goats. stop blabbering.
so i sayeth, pare. go forth and be merry and eat that fruit from the garden of good and evil. wrench your thoughts and dry that laundry. and don't forget to multiply, pare.
my, my. aren't we colorful this morning. capische shells, pare. let's.
Friday, February 1, 2008
early morning tryst
pucha, pare. so i was up early this morning. early to bed, early to rise, make a pucha-pare have a hard on all day. kasi healthy eh. look at those sperms, mama! they'll just turn to smegma. so i am smegmatic this morning. take a hint. beware.
disclaimer: the following words need adult supervision. tipong, when you fuck, you need an adult to tell you 'don't stop. please.' see? so i'm telling you now, don't fuck with me.
so i was going thru the early friday morning ritual of going to jolly-bug and getting the jolly-bargher with the not so jolly-cashier. 'good morning, sir! welcome to...' without the smile. why don't you just spread your legs, dahling, and let's get it over with. para kang putah. umiireh pero wala naman. lech.
saw this really non-employee jolly-guy with a gun on his side. i mean, what fa duck?!? who won't be jolly in the morning if you've got a gun on your side. 'don't fuck with me even if i'm smiling.' yeah. fuck dapulis. they throw their weight around with the gun on their belts. wear your uniforms, bozos. pucha-pares would suck your guns dry, anytime. just wear the dang uniform.
next stop was the bank. since it was early, the tellers still reeked of whatever they stuff their bathrooms with. think lactacyd. hell yeah. so manoy was saying hello, can't do good morning, but it rose to the occassion.
filled in the deposit slip to pay my rent and the teller (who happened to have good looks, who's looks is inversely proportional to her IQ) was saying 'puuh-uh, kulang numbers sa account number' (see? see?). i mean, you're supposed to know better than i do. what do you think of me? thinking of making boso? you're right. but hello, hi, good morning, gaddemmit, you should know better than i do. you ask me to go ask new accounts? this damn account is older than your oldest daughter? are you married? no? fine. this account is older than your oldest pubic hair.
damyu.
saksak mo lang zero sa una. leche.
get it? fine. pucha naman. we're done. thank you. i should have banged you over the wall and let my mother take care of your cork assed carcass.
disclaimer: the following words need adult supervision. tipong, when you fuck, you need an adult to tell you 'don't stop. please.' see? so i'm telling you now, don't fuck with me.
so i was going thru the early friday morning ritual of going to jolly-bug and getting the jolly-bargher with the not so jolly-cashier. 'good morning, sir! welcome to...' without the smile. why don't you just spread your legs, dahling, and let's get it over with. para kang putah. umiireh pero wala naman. lech.
saw this really non-employee jolly-guy with a gun on his side. i mean, what fa duck?!? who won't be jolly in the morning if you've got a gun on your side. 'don't fuck with me even if i'm smiling.' yeah. fuck dapulis. they throw their weight around with the gun on their belts. wear your uniforms, bozos. pucha-pares would suck your guns dry, anytime. just wear the dang uniform.
next stop was the bank. since it was early, the tellers still reeked of whatever they stuff their bathrooms with. think lactacyd. hell yeah. so manoy was saying hello, can't do good morning, but it rose to the occassion.
filled in the deposit slip to pay my rent and the teller (who happened to have good looks, who's looks is inversely proportional to her IQ) was saying 'puuh-uh, kulang numbers sa account number' (see? see?). i mean, you're supposed to know better than i do. what do you think of me? thinking of making boso? you're right. but hello, hi, good morning, gaddemmit, you should know better than i do. you ask me to go ask new accounts? this damn account is older than your oldest daughter? are you married? no? fine. this account is older than your oldest pubic hair.
damyu.
saksak mo lang zero sa una. leche.
get it? fine. pucha naman. we're done. thank you. i should have banged you over the wall and let my mother take care of your cork assed carcass.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)