Think about it. Lots of people tell themselves there’s some sort of universal karma going on but if there was an invisible hand of justice moving the world like that, you would expect mean people to walk into posts all the time.
There are only so many combinations of bad things that can happen to bad people without the movements of the invisible hand of justice looking too conspicuous, so at some point those posts are gonna have their fair share of “accidents.”
That wild, feral woman who gnashed her teeth at you while bulldozing you inside the train this morning–boom! Hit a post.
Your officemate who makes her day by throwing shade at you with her evil swarm of grinning trolls–boom! Hit a post.
That taxi driver who took his sweet time handing you your change because he was wishing you would just get the frick out of his vehicle and leave your money–crash! Hit a post.
But these people almost never walk or run into posts, don’t they? Nope. Because the world is unfair and what goes around, doesn’t come around. There’s no cosmic justice.
Do you realize how many posts there are in the world? I read somewhere that there are around 80,000,000 roads in the world. Say there are about 12 posts in each road, you will have close to a billion posts in the world.
But guess what? Evil folks just keep on rockin’ without their heads knockin’ into somethin’.
So just give up. You will never get your cold vengeance by waiting for that person who did you wrong to make the wrong turn and slam their face into a nice, smooth, slender post. It’s not gonna happen, dude.
There’s probably not a lot of meaning left in the world now but at least I’m not single.
Growing older, causes may die, races may be run, and the thirst for high adventure may be quenched, leaving just a musty old room filled with empty space where youthful dreams once thrived–it’s admittedly depressing and picture-perfect suicidal at times–but at least I’ve got a girlfriend.
And not to brag about it but just to illustrate my point: I have a totally magnificently bonkers girlfriend who cures all the existential ailments plaguing my being.
Case in point: I would sometimes find myself looking into the distance, pondering what the point of living is but then out of nowhere, she intentionally steps in my line of sight and ruins every deep, dark feeling of mine with her lovely smile and her awesome legs, and suddenly I forget everything about what I was being sad for in the first place. Works every time and it’s great!
I know that might sound like objectification and there’s a chance it is to a large degree but it’s the plain truth, sir, madame.
We may be victims of this oversexualized society but we are not incapable of speaking the truth in our hearts though it might be dehumanizing at times.
But I digress.
I’d honestly hate to be that guy who looks into the abyss without a girlfriend pestering him for a selfie.
Selfies with the girlfriend plug the massive black hole in one’s chest sucking the joy out of the universe (and if you don’t acknowledge you have such a black hole right between your nipples, you are nothing but a sad, lying, booger-digesting gorilla). These selfies may be distractions from the all-too-important internal conversations you have with yourself when you’re alone in your bed in the darkness but at least they’re honest-to-goodness happy distractions. If you’re happy, it can’t be all that bad.
A lot of people would say being happy is the only point of living, in fact. Precisely why some people could survive on porn, video games, and weed–those tried-and-tested packs of happiness that are more or less accessible for every man and woman. And child.
Needless to say, a real relationship is much harder to get, let alone maintain and grow. And that’s why in the grander scheme of the hedonistic scales, a girlfriend is much more valuable by far.
Because if you think about it, a girlfriend is a handy answer to that question that’s always burning in the back of your mind: that question of why the hell you’re even here? Why are you not your dad’s wasted seminal fluid dripping down the bathroom drain? Well, I guess if you’re able to make someone like your girlfriend happy (provided she’s a completely rational individual who makes choices and not in fact just a code you wrote to laugh at your every ill-delivered pun or otherwise a pot of cactus or a piece of scab you named Janet), you must have earned your stay here to some degree, have you not? You’ve got a purpose. You’re not merely your dad’s seminal fluid dripping down the bathroom drain though you might still feel that way sometimes.
Living is much easier with that question quelled. Tragic accidents, such as getting hit by a speeding car while crossing the road, can easily happen when you succumb to existential questions like that in the middle of existing. And the worst thing about such a horrific turn of events is that the newspapers would never say you were actually being philosophical in a mobile manner in that moment; they would only say you got hit by a speeding car because you’re an idiot. Which of course would be a total shame.
Not to say that a lot of mobile philosophers are not idiots because in all likelihood, they are to a large degree.
So the truth is, I’m really sad for all those people who just couldn’t get a girl or a guy or just a sentient humanoid being to care for them back in a completely non-platonic way. And by “non-platonic” I mean you have unholy sex once in a while and your mothers should be ashamed of ever conceiving you. It truthfully is just a total waste of time and resources to be walking this earth without such terrific company.
I know some people say being happy doesn’t require another person, and some would even post those pretty quotes on Facebook, but I call bullshit on that giant tower of stinkin’ dung heap.
Porn, video games, and weed–as good as they are–can only get you so far. Any decent, self-respecting human being would not be content to snort those basest of modern pleasures for the rest of their lives, though admittedly a lot of lives in the history of mankind have been wasted in a lot of dumber and pointless ways. But that’s no excuse.
Not even the healthy options like climbing mountains or painting in water color pastel hues are that much of a difference. The additional health benefits and skills you develop with such hobbies will definitely be appreciated but they can never guarantee peace of mind. Just between you and me, you might be better off with just the porn, but to each his own, I guess.
But seriously, from a guy who’s been through the withering deserts of singlehood for years, please believe me when I say getting a girlfriend as good as mine is absolutely worth it in every way.
Look. This discussion is obviously getting heated and emotions are running high, which is pretty understandable given the weight of the discourse and the various political /ethical /economic /spiritual /sexual implications of our opinions, but I would just like to state before things really get out of hand and we hop onto an even more complicated topic, that, in my humble opinion, you should die in a fire alone and unloved.
I mean, you are obviously a very well-read individual with some enviable knowledge of the relevant themes and facts around this particularly contentious issue before us, and by simple reasoning it’s not hard to realize that you deserve to live like other people many of whom aren’t even as knowledgeable and clever as you are, but I hope I don’t sound too arrogant or dismissive when I tell you that you being burnt to a crisp like a piece of meat that fell into a pit of fiery coals would make me supremely satisfied, indeed.
If it still sounds kind of rude, please don’t take it personally. It’s really just my honest, unbridled opinion on the matter. I assure you I do not harbor any other ill will for you aside from the fact that I wished your eyeballs were evaporating right in front of me at this very moment. Bubbles of sizzling fat popping on your face. Boiling blood frothing from your mouth and gushing out of your ears. Tongues of angry, red flames dancing all over your melting skin dripping onto the singed floor. These images in my mind are absolutely objective and I can assure you that I’m not hiding behind any agenda when I express categorically that I wished you were in a fatal smoldering situation right now.
And please also allow me to qualify that you should not only pass away horribly in a fire, but you should also be alone and unloved as this transpires.
For your information and the viewers reading my two cents on the subject, I would like to make it crystal clear that “alone and unloved” means you should perish without any real friends to comfort you or family to bid you farewell. Not even a pet. Ideally, you should have been in this extreme isolated condition for a prolonged period of time; and in fact were this fire to fail to ignite, you would still have taken your own life by some other means anyhow like drowning in a sea full of jellyfish or by a more classic method such as bathtub electrocution. I understand that these are all fair ways to cause one’s own demise but personally, I insist on my preference of you expiring in an inextinguisable inferno whilst you tear the night apart with your horrid screams of anguish.
Now that this little wishful thinking of mine is out of the way, please do go on with what you’re saying.
ZURICH – In a stunning conference today in front of the international press, evolutionary biologists from the University of Zurich reported that their studies reveal humans are evolving into none other than self-righteous, book-reading capybaras.
“We all know human beings came from prehistoric apes, and these prehistoric apes in turn came from primitive unicellular aquatic organisms. As our 8-year research into the trend of human evolution concludes, we are confidently predicting that humans will eventually evolve into self-righteous, book-reading capybaras,” the team’s head scientist Dr. Florian Bircher said.
Dr. Bircher was quick to follow up his statement when a panicked buzz began to sweep the packed room in the Zurich Marriott Hotel.
“Settle down. Settle down. I know you were expecting people to evolve into big-headed bug-eyed, grey aliens or into something like the Kardashians, but there’s absolutely no scientific evidence that supports such belief. In any case, people are too fat and lazy to evolve into something beautiful,” he added.
Capybaras, the team of scientists explained, are amazingly like human beings. These giant rodents are extremely sociable with one male usually mating with two females (yes, like a lot of men you know). Semi-aquatic, they spend lots of time in the water but they can also run really fast on the ground much like your coworker who regularly shifts between jogging and swimming in his hopelessly predictable life.
“But the most striking similarity is that capybaras never stop eating plants because they’re hardcore herbivores. As more and more people lose their ability to eat meat without imagining the animal on the plate as their pet, you can see how vegetarianism and veganism will eventually lead to an all-grass, all-bark, all-day capybara diet,” Dr. Bircher said.
The big difference between capybaras in the wild today and these future human-capybara hybrids is that the latter will be very self-righteous. And they’ll read books.
“In all my years of debating with people as an evolutionary biologist with the highest academic honors, I still haven’t met one person who admitted they were wrong. In fact, the homeless guy I had an argument yesterday about basketball pretty much said I’m a moron and I should just kill myself because I don’t know shit about what I was talking about. Furthermore, all my friends think they’re better than me. This unique trait will definitely be passed down to our giant rodent descendants whom we project would rather commit suicide than admit someone else is right.”
“Plus they’ll read books, I should add. They wouldn’t want to be caught without a book in their webbed hands. It’s just going to be a sign of high capybara culture or something like that.”
“But in the end, they’re still rodents. So they’ll breed like rabits and live like rats, thereby pushing our kind to extinction. Oh, and by the way, they’ll be pansexual–actually, they’ll hump anything that moves.”
Dr. Bircher and his team’s study can be read in this month’s Journal of Evolutionary Biology.
I can’t believe you’re willing to go through with this when I specifically told you all this letter is going to do is insult the turd out of you, you miserable nincompoop. If you think there’s going to be anything of value here that you’ll pick up along the way, rest assured there’s zilch, dingbat. There will be no hidden meanings, no cleverly disguised metaphors, or any meta literary device in this insulting letter. Just insults after insults, you namby-pamby butt nugget.
I wish there were anything of higher importance here, blowhole, like in other open letters but there’s really none except the amount of name-calling you’re going to receive. I’m sure you’ve been called an ass or a bitch or a douche a few times throughout your pathetic waste of a life but here you’ll be called more and you’ll receive them as surely as the chicken shit, jizz bucket, and butt moocher that you are. And as long as you’re not willing to stop, guttersnipe, this letter would be happy to dish out the goodies that degenerate shit pissers like you deserve. Tell all your shaft-sock friends that it’s too late to stop the unpleasantry train because it’s hitting you right in your pizza face to shred your bug-eyed, spotty-lipped, inbred mug, so it could be fed to the dogs.
You know, some people are ordinary weasels, twits, and dweebs, but any reader like you who’s mad enough to take all of this must be a truly useless loser who’s metastisized into an irredeemable sperm dumpster with a penchant for licking turd off a hobo’s scrotum. That’s right. It’s just gonna get worse from here because this letter will now start to curse you lot of fuckwits and miscreant cumb bubbles with vicious words that could form a deadly virus that’ll spread from mouth to mouth and terminate poor mothers when their dog-kissing, blood-sucking, dirt-eating, worm-headed sons and daughters kiss them. Get out while you still can, douchewaffle.
But I guess that’s too much to ask of ass goblins like you. After all, one can usually reason with dolts and goofballs, but not with pieces of cum cake–the reprobate tribe of which you represent. One must wonder how much shit stack you’ve ingested during your lifetime that you have devolved into this hopeless state of cock gobbling. And no, this open letter doesn’t intend to throw shade about a particular gender or class of people, but it does try its best to dub you a cum-guzzling, bowl of ass soup. I don’t really have to explain to you how the last thing an insulting letter like this tries to do is be gender-sensitive. But I just did just in case you don’t get it since you’re a shit-spraying avatar of asshattery.
Let’s clarify something here. According to this letter, you’re an overstuffed peawit, dingleberry, fuck stain, turd burglar who’s also an overall cunt bag, jerk tard, vaginal bloodfart that has shit for brains. It doesn’t even need to make sense. It just has to get the point across that you’re a sperm-burping gutter slut who’s also a fuck-faced, pillow-biting brainless waste of space at the same time. You lived your life as a cheap, lying fart-knocker with your man-whoring, fuck-ball pals, and on your gravestone they’ll write “RIP Ass Maggot.” History will remember you for your lunkheadedness and for your sorry-ass vomit-fondling days.
So, snot gargler, it’s clear you want to see the end of this open letter no matter how many times it calls you a dick-shitting scrotum breath. On one hand, I kind of respect your dumb-headedness to go this far but overall, I’m still more shocked at your tragic monkey-fucking metamorphosis. I guess you are a true-blue queef master who has devoted your sick existence to ass piracy and professional douche-sucking while continuing to be a decorated pussy ebola and a talented shit stain. Congratulations, peepee cheeks. You are now way past wankers, yahoos, dipshits, skanks, and dongbags–you are, for better or for worse, a legit hose monster, cock nozzle, butt-munching dick trickle, and thunder cunt. You are ass-felching personified.
This open letter would love to go on for your family of dump trucks but all good things must come to an end. And thus, so long, brainless, stiff-legged, fattypants. May you continue to grow as a shining piece of monkey shit and ass clown.
In light of recent remarks by eight-division boxing world champion and Filipino congressman Manny “Pacman” Pacquiao against LGBT, calling them “worse than animals” because animals are supposedly better since they know that bolts only go into nuts, we are calling for three sanctions against Pacquiao in the name of justice and to advance affirmative action, namely:
(1) His declaration as a nuisance candidate in the Philippine senatorial elections
(2) The boycott of all his remaining endorsements after Nike’s withdrawal of their support; and last but not the least–
(3) The symbolic burning of half his mustache (official hashtag #BurnPacstache).
Now, we would love to expound on items one and two on our list but according to our research team, Facebook is already flooded with passionate theses about these rational and righteous causes by your own friends who are only too glad for an excuse to practice their almost-forgotten essay-writing techniques, so let us move on to number three; that is, the burning of half of Pacquiao’s mustache.
We know the big question on your mind right now: Why? Why call for the burning of half of Pacquiao’s mustache? Why not the full mustache?
As concisely as we could, please let us explain our position as regards this matter of tremendous consequence for the future of gender equality here in the nation–and Pacquiao being an international celebrity–around the world.
Any kind of punishment must be commensurate to the crime, and since Pacquiao said homosexuals are worse than animals, clearly with the intent of proclaiming the unfounded superiority of heterosexuals, he deserves only partial upper-lip facial-hair incineration as opposed to full upper-lip facial-hair incineration. The reason being that it has long been established that animals are in fact better than humans, and human beings are nothing less than the dregs of life’s evolution here on earth. The bases of this argument, both scientific and philosophical, are quite solid. To cite just a few examples: animals never caused climate change (the dinosaurs definitely never produced enough poisonous gas through their farts that they caused global warming and their eventual extinction; an asteroid did it for them), animals never made wonky, jam-packed trains that broke down 5 days a week, and animals never savaged their kind on social media through semi-vague passive-aggressive posts day after day.
Clearly, animals are way better than human beings–all human beings–not just homosexuals. So taking this proposition into account, we can confidently say that Pacquiao was only half-wrong in his statement.
Had he said that both heterosexuals AND homosexuals are better than animals, then we would be aggressively calling for the searing of his entire mustache, not just half of it.
Take note: this cause–while admittedly quite common and so subtle that it may be mistaken as uninspired–is strongly symbolic at the very core. Pacquiao’s mustache is not like any other facial hair worn by your average Joe. A cursory look at the boxing legend’s history reveals that the growth of his mustache runs parallel with his unhealthy obsession with his faith. Before Pacquiao turned into a raving born-again Christian pastor with outrageous ambitions of being the President of the Philippines (which may still be possible looking at how bad things are in this country), he was a normal, moderately worshipping, totally mediocre Catholic who balanced praying with equal amounts of gambling and womanizing. He was perfectly all right back in those days when it could be remembered that his mustache was only light and sparse like those found in boys just hitting puberty.
However, as his mustache grew thicker and fuzzier, Pacquiao transformed into an insatiable and violent gay-bashing machine who calls in his sleep for the automated eradication of gayness via smart machine guns in an Avenger Helicarrier. This metamorphosis is truly shocking considering that Pacquiao was previously known as some sort of a philanthropist who may have helped a lot of people, especially in Mindanao. Fast-forward to the present time and Filipinos would rather celebrate Christmas with Floyd Mayweather Jr., another sporting icon who pioneered the use of women as punching bags and speed balls.
We therefore call on all citizens, not just of the Philippines, but of the civilized world, for the half-burning of this prickly symbol of bigotry, so that everyone may know the seriousness of the issue at hand. However, we do clarify that this method of protest cannot and must not be undertaken without the full consent of Pacquiao. If Pacquiao cannot find it in his broken conscience to allow us the just execution of this punishment, then the burning of half his mustache in all posters and images showing his smug Christian mug would suffice.
Sound off if you agree with this petition and use the hashtag #BurnPacstache. Remember: global gender equality hangs in the balance.
All it takes is one shocking first sentence saying something like men are a waste of precious genetic material to launch everyone’s mind into a routine frenzy. I’m referring to the gender “man” by the way and not the primary species that currently populates the earth. But come to think of it, wouldn’t it be better if we were dogs because dogs are much friendlier to each other, and they’re more diverse so that some dogs don’t look like dogs at all but bears or wolves or rats, and they have much better spontaneous intercourse at the end of which they find it extremely painful to separate–unlike humans who just want to sprint toward the door the moment the deed is done? Considering everything, maybe the world is better run over by dogs.
But how about cats? Cats have the most stupid videos on the Web and they’re able to sell those videos so easily because they’re natural, straight-faced, cold-blooded mofos who are in the middle of a history-long master plan to kill their human owners and take over the earth. At some point, every thought just comes to that: how to rule everything and everyone around you. It’s like it’s hardwired into our brains to plant our flags and leave our babies on every square inch of the universe that would take them. Or even if they won’t take them, we’ll find a way to shove them down their throats because we’re extremely good at forcing our way in and surreptitiously making our way out. But we’re not all bad. We invented hot pancakes smothered in butter and maple syrup, after all.
Pancakes show the good in people. No, you don’t have to watch Schindler’s List to know we’re not too ripe for the culling; pancakes which took thousands of years to perfect illustrate why we should keep on living here without an asteroid the size of Texas bothering us out of our sleepy daydreams and early erections. But don’t worry because the whole point of progress anyway is minimizing risks: including reducing the risk of annihilation-by-asteroid to virtually null. Think about it. Calendars were devised long ago to predict the seasons, so that crops can be grown without nasty floods destroying all of that tribe-nourishing food, and computers were built to avoid costly errors by alcoholic accountants whom their loved ones left because they only loved math and alcohol, which may be the same thing at the core. Every bit of development we have achieved and aim to achieve has one ultimate goal: reduce the risk of living.
Which is why I firmly believe the very concept of chance is getting destroyed every day. You don’t have to wait for a serendipitous moment nowadays to find the love of your life; there’s an app that will help you narrow down your goals to that one perfect person who was fertilized by their parents to forge your future fetuses with you. Or basically, fuck. Oh there you go, I’ve successfully avoided mentioning that word for three full paragraphs but now I just said it and there’s no turning back. But I found that if you start saying “fuck,” you should certainly make the most out of it because grading sins or unethical behavior is probably done by brackets and saying fuck once is just as good or just as bad as saying it ten or so times but not twenty or thirty times. So fuck it. Fuck my office pantry. Fuck my neighbors’ nightly fight. Fuck Mars, there’s absolutely not a single fucker to be found on it. And fuck the moon, too, we’re not going the fuck back to that fucking natural satellite filled with fucking rocks. Fuck Bin Laden. I can somehow trace all this recent fuckery to his fucked up existence. Fuck the police. And of course, fuck the government for good measure.
All right, now that we’re done with all that cursing and we feel just a little bit more unsalvageable than before, we think of beautiful things. Like love. It’s always best to end something random with love because it’s a force that unifies by glossing over the ugliness of whatever heterogeneous mixture we’re talking about (think about your past relationships and see that I’m right). It’s the one discovery that really matters and the one legacy that our civilization would leave behind that will totally confuse the aliens that will land here on a spaceship in the year 8149. Of course, I’m assuming aliens don’t and won’t have any concept of love because if they do, then that would make them essentially no different from humans; in fact, that would absolutely make them human because love is a uniquely human emotion.
Or that’s what I’d like to believe. Must be the pancakes I ate this morning.
Cell phones, tablets, laptops–technology has forcibly pulled people away from each other, creating this gap that has made it impossible for us to truly unite as fellow human beings even in this much celebrated “social media” age. Fortunately, I have been lucky to discover a way to feel myself one with mankind, and I stumbled upon it in the least likely place you’d expect to find such deep realization–in the men’s bathroom.
One of those normal, busy days in the office, I stood up from my chair feeling a little rumble in my belly. I promptly walked away from my desk, leaving all my mundane tasks behind–all these unnecessary things and activities that have made me, us, slaves of an unrelenting system that drains our lives’ true worth. I left all of them as my buttocks began to feel like it’s going to explode.
I rushed past the toiling drones, their faces sucked into their computers and their expressionless eyes showing the depressing truth of their hollow souls. Step by step I closed in on the men’s bathroom where the turbulence in my tummy sought immediate refuge and release. My hand clasped the cold door knob… and I was in.
Pushing the cubicle doors one by one as gently as possible so as not to betray the fact that I was on the brink of an uncontrollable posterior convulsion, I checked if they were occupied. Alas! Those wretched things were filled with fellow bum bazooka warriors firing brown shells into the water. And I was overcome with the depressing burden of existence.
But suddenly… a door opened! And out came our old IT guy who had just done the dirty deed!
Even before he was fully out of the cubicle, I leapt inside like a nimble lemur in the forests of Madagascar. And then it hit me like a ten ton truck–the smell of his newly flushed shit stacks.
The air was still warm with that man’s sweat and body heat when I shut the door. As my fingers fumbled for my belt buckle and my pants dropped to the floor, I realized I have never been as close to anyone as I was when I took a lungful of that old man’s intestinal contents. It smelled like stale bread and rotting vegetables. In fact, while pooping in the noisiest way possible, it came to me that that man in that very moment wasn’t only our IT guy. He was not just that incredibly incompetent fool who always told me to restart my computer whenever it wouldn’t do as it’s supposed to do. And then suggested reformatting it as a second option. He was much more… much more. A symbol. A representative of mankind. Humanity itself.
I pressed the bidet happily to wash my crack. He and I, and lots of other men in the office pressed the same thing that day… and the thought made me smile.
Newly unearthed letters from Emilio Aguinaldo’s ancestral home in Kawit, Cavite reveal that the first Philippine President’s barber was the one to blame for every questionable and downright disgusting decision Aguinaldo had made throughout his life.
The trove of correspondences yellow with age and of priceless historical significance sheds new light on the murkier side of our country’s history from the Spanish to the Japanese occupation era. The letters were penned by Aguinaldo’s barber himself and were anonymously signed “Your loyal barber.”
The team of local historians and archaeologists who discovered the letters released some of the shocking excerpts today, such as this one written around the time Aguinaldo was retreating from the advancing American forces in Northern Luzon in 1899.
“Dear El Presidente,
Word has reached me that you and your troops, in a word, have your boots stuck in unbelievably deep excrement with your hopeless guerilla warfare against the gringos. I warned you long ago that this would happen if you keep your ridiculous and evil flattop. Please let me cut it; I will go to your location even if it costs me my life…”
According to the team’s lead historian, the key word here was “evil.” It appeared that Aguinaldo’s barber firmly believed that the iconic haircut (arguably the flattest flattop ever documented) had supernatural, almost “occult” influences on the President. Another excerpt reads:
“I tried and tried to convince you to adopt a more conventional hairstyle, perhaps a wavy, side-swept one like Dr. Rizal’s or a tidy brush-up like Apolinario Mabini’s, but you insisted on this weird, taboo flattop that my barber family has refused to offer our customers for decades.
You even went absolutely nuts when I suggested Andres Bonifacio’s neatly parted mop had more appeal to it, and suggested I was committing treason against the Republic. Your insecurity towards that man was truly boundless.”
The team’s investigation into the haircut trends in Aguinaldo’s time shows that the President sported an extremely rare hairstyle that both made him into a legend and the constant butt of jokes of Katipuneros during secret meetings.
The barber even remembers the very moment he completed cutting the infamous crown:
“I remember it like it was yesterday. As soon as I lifted my scissors, your eyes literally glowed red. It was as if the innocent boy bursting with selfless bravery turned into a conniving, power-hungry man who will stop at nothing to conquer the country for himself. All because of that cursed flattop.”
“Yes, the hair gave you immense strength and tactical knowledge that allowed you to win key battles in Cavite while Bonifacio embarrassed himself with his losses, but those victories came with a price: your soul.”
The barber’s beliefs–while truly extraordinary–were not without merit, said the team’s lead historian. Aguinaldo’s top was so distinctly flat that he stood out like a sore thumb in the battlefield, allowing every soldier to recognize him even far away, with the unintended effect of boosting troop morale. It was like Aguinaldo gave an inspirational dugout speech every time he took off his hat.
The shock of shocking flatness also unified Cavite revolutionaries–the “Magdalo” faction–like no other conceivable force could. The straightness of the top and the uniformity of the strands, in the eyes of revolutionaries, symbolized strength through unity. The lead historian even went as far as to suggest the flattop was the key determining factor in the 1897 Tejeros Convention at the end of which Aguinaldo was elected the first president of the Philippines and Bonifacio was relegated to the pathetic post of Director of the Interior (so much for starting the whole revolution). As is now famously known, Bonifacio deemed the elections unjust and tampered with, and his subsequent condemnation of the process resulted in him being accused of treason, and eventually being executed.
But Aguinaldo’s barber had a more interesting take on the whole event:
“I witnessed first-hand how your initial decision to commute Bonifacio’s death sentence was immediately overturned when he screamed in your face that ‘your hair was flatter than your unbelievably flat personality’ and that “no wonder we’re losing the war because our enemies are using your head as crosshairs to aim for our soldiers.'”
Apparently, the brilliant general Antonio Luna was also the recipient of Aguinaldo’s ire stemming from his crop of square hair.
“Poor Luna once broke his serious character to make an admittedly tasteless joke about what the difference was between Apolinario’s legs and your hair. The answer being that your hair stands. The savage look on your face afterwards told me that that man–as important as he was tactically to you–was as good as dead. And sure enough, a month later, Luna had more holes in him than Manila.”
The one-sided correspondences between the first President and his barber continued throughout the years as the hairstylist tirelessly implored his rogue customer to cut his hair and end the curse once and for all.
“Shame on you for surrendering to the Americans! Miguel Malvar was still fighting his heart out while you were taking an oath of allegiance to the invaders and making a secret pact to spread your laughable hairstyle among the young generation of Filipinos who will be reared in American culture. You were the one responsible for this revoltingly bad hairstyle being prescribed in our schools.”
“The demon in your hair was also whispering in your ear when you cooperated with the Japanese as you made speeches on their behalf, even radioing an appeal to Gen. Douglas MacArthur in Corregidor to surrender! If you had only let me nip your mane even an inch, you would not have uttered such unpatriotic nonsense!”
Emilio Aguinaldo never listened to his barber but he nevertheless collected some of his letters, presumably to remind him of the supernatural origins of his ‘do. Whether the barber was speaking the truth or not, it is now undeniable that one man’s bad hair changed the course of history and its ripple effects will be the subject of fierce debates in universities and scholarly journals for years to come.
A life without meaning is a life not worth living. If you wake up every day not really knowing why you should even go on and not just go back to sleep for all eternity, well, one could say without being too blunt that you’re overdue for a personal session with the good ol’ rope and bucket. To help you avoid such a gruesome ending to your days, and be a complete human being who greets the world with a sunshiny smile every morning, we have compiled tried and tested ways that will aid you in your desperate search for that elusive meaning of existence.
1. Travel around the world! — Have you ever stopped to wonder just how tiny the portion of earth you’ve covered contentedly going to and fro your office every single day? Shame on you if you haven’t even visited another country or gotten to know a different people! Everyone knows you won’t find any meaning in the same boring hellhole you’ve been living in for the past 25 years. The secret of existence is a precious nugget of knowledge only starving people in the slums of Asia and the deserts of Africa can give you. In exchange for some clean water. And chocolate bars.
2. Start living the beach life. — Did you know that all life came from the oceans? Yes, evolution tells us that we all started out as glorious sea creatures before adaptation gave us ugly legs that enabled us to walk the earth, thus, effectively condemning ourselves to centuries of toiling this godawful land. It’s high time we go back and embrace the high tide. Sell all your belongings and move to a seaside community where you’ll be in touch with your early evolutionary roots. But we don’t mean just spend your days getting a tan and riding a banana boat–that stuff is for common tourists who might as well drown themselves for living meaningless, hedonistic existences! You have to sell everything, even your clothes, and essentially… become a fish. You can start by cutting gills into your neck.
3. Surf! — Of course, not everyone is ready to go full fish. That’s ok. You can still be one with the water while retaining your mammalian respiratory system by surfing! Get your own surfboard and start riding the waves, contemplating the purpose of all this–everything around you–in between troughs and crests. Propelled by that strange force only the laws of physics can sufficiently explain, you can begin by pondering that question pulsating right at the very heart of this existential conundrum: why are you trying to stand on a plastic plank in the middle of a goddamn body of water? Also, why are you listening to reggae and acting all Rastafarian when you don’t really give a shit about anything except the height of your waves? These are basic philosophical puzzles that you will nonetheless fail to answer because you have the attention span of a Brazilian wax landing strip.
4. Climb mountains. — Meaning is one of the hardest things to get on earth, second only to 8 hours of sleep. So if you can’t find meaning on the seafloor, it could be on a mountaintop. Pack your mountaineering equipment and brace yourself for hours and hours of miserable walking like a Hobbit on a mission to Mordor. Hiking is a prime, literal example of the journey being more important than the destination because discovering the key to the mystery of Being lies along the arduous trek to the top. What basically happens is that you’re putting yourself in so much unnecessary pain and anguish that when you finally see there’s nothing at the top but the same crappy soil you’ve been trudging on forever and a sky that looks as plainly sky-ish as skies get, cognitive dissonance kicks in and you tell yourself blatant rubbish like “Those people down there need to see this or they’re missing out on life.” Maybe. Or maybe they can just simply look at your pictures on Facebook in the comfort of their own basements while munching on Cheetos.
5. Do yoga. — Meditation is so passé. Unless you’re ready to go full monk and burn yourself (alternative to going full fish), you’ll never find meaning in mere meditation. What you need to do is yoga. It’s deep and hip, and it’s filling your Instagram with mutant women doing cartwheels. This spiritual and ascetic discipline from India is your expressway to existential enlightenment–and the best part of it is you can do it every day after work or on weekends (if you’re a filthy casual). Stretch your muscles in various torturous ways and bend yourself in horrific shapes reminiscent of nothing less than the human centipede. The goal is to achieve complete spiritual calm in the midst of all this bodily chaos. The more farts you unintentionally release and the more bones you crack, the better. Snapping your own neck and rendering yourself in a vegetative state actually gets you nearer Nirvana because perfect immobility opens up all those stubborn chakra valves that get in the way of true self-understanding.
6. Collect things or build stuff. — The very purpose of our opposing thumbs is to enable us to hold little things that our ape cousins can’t. You’re wasting your potential as a perfect crafting machine if you keep your hands idle. So get into the building business and start disappearing for days only to randomly reemerge in the living room with a neckbeard and stinking of vomited nachos to the utter shock of others. You may also collect stuff like action figures, stamps, dried bugs, toenail clippings, and your neighbor’s underwear (if you’re that kind of sick). The point is to shut yourself in so much and drive yourself to unholy levels of unkemptness that the world will only be too happy to leave you the fuck alone. And in those long, lonely moments when your introspection is at maximum, you’ll surely stumble upon some kind of meaning to the utter madness. If not, well, at least you have a badass sailing ship replica that screams “voluntary self-castration.”
7. Fall in love! — How often have we all heard that love is the answer? Well, it doesn’t matter how many times we hear it because it’s true–love is the answer! Or rather, it’s kind of a lazy summary of the answer. The answer in its complete form is this: “You are an incomplete shell of flesh who’s pretty much useless and obviously pathetic if you are unable to find someone who has a great need to suck your face in public. Someone who has such a great appetite for sucking your face in public that he or she will do it frequently and over a lengthy period of time even as you start showing him or her the true you who’s an overall idiot and couch potato. Once you find this strange person with an insatiable need for sucking your face, never let him or her go because you’ve made it, baby, and it’s all that really matters in life.”
8. Drink. — And finally, when all else fails, drink. Gulp that alcohol down until you find some meaning at the bottom of the glass. Repeat ad infinitum if no sobering existential epiphany happens. As a last resort, you may try breaking that glass or bottle against the table and then holding the jagged teeth close to your heart. Do it quickly like you’re grabbing the hand of someone you love whom you’ve not seen in a long time. Trickling blood is a good sign life is finally leaving you, and you’ll soon be able to ask god himself just what the heck the point of living is. Of course, you’ll soon find out that everyone up there already knows the big secret; they’re laughing their butts off about it every day before sermons. Too bad none of them can actually go back and tell the tale, including you.