Free Writing

Getting Old is a Train Station and You Know You’re There Because You’re There

These thoughts on old age

are dedicated to my grandmother, Lola Adoracion Sanchez.

We love you.

. . .

As I’m writing this, my good and brave and loving grandmother of 87 years old is at an intensive care unit of a hospital, battling pneumonia as her sons and daughters and her grandchildren grapple with the thought of a future that while everyone has already imagined at some point, is no less forlorn.

The news of her getting hospitalized reached me while I was on vacation in Baguio, a faraway city in the mountains in the northern part of the Philippines. I was with my girlfriend of over two years and her family–and her extended family: uncles, aunts, cousins, and nephews, some of whom I only got to talk to for the first time. I’m 32 years old; my girlfriend is 27. This was undoubtedly one of those trips that take you one big step toward that next stage in life, a stage for which I’ve honestly been ready for a long time even if my finances aren’t completely there yet.

The truth is I’m completely at peace with the fact that I’m already at that stage of life even though there’s no shortage of reports that say millennials have been putting off marriage more than any other generation before them. I am done with being single. Frick–I am done with a lot of things. I am done with drinking, horrible attempts at flirting, playing the guitar, writing haikus, screaming at authority–you name it. If I win the lottery today, I’d book the nearest church, retire, and start tending a garden.

But the news that my grandmother was in a very delicate medical situation back in Manila hit me like a ten-ton truck. Nobody’s ready for news like that, even if the possibility of losing people has been lurking in your mind for quite some time. I was launched into a pensive mood and one of the first things that popped in my head was that I really wanted my grandmother to be there when I get married, and it was painful realizing how that prospect had begun to grow colder every second, even colder than Baguio’s incredibly cold weather.

Getting Old is a Weird Thing

Getting old is a weird thing. Throughout your life, you think you’re old but you’re not. Perhaps because I’ve been an arrogant schmuck most of my life, I’ve always thought that I was old and wise for my age. In fact, way back in college in the university, I looked at everyone around me as little, fumbling children who did not know half the things I knew. Every laughably tiny academic achievement I got just furthered my belief that I had everything figured out, like life was a test and I was passing my paper before everyone else. And when I started working, I still felt like I was ahead of others in wisdom, versed in some underlying philosophical truths that most of my colleagues’ infantile brains couldn’t possibly comprehend. I basically believed that I was an old man in a young man’s body.

I was a fool. And like I said, an arrogant schmuck.

Looking back at it now, nothing was old about me then. And absolutely nothing was wise. On the contrary, I know now that everything about my way of thinking in those days screamed the rage and insecurity of youth. I wasn’t old. I was just emo as fuck.

Now it’s different and I know it. Because old age is not a thought or a self-declaration. It’s a train station and you know you’re there because… you’re there. The big sign overhead the platform says so.

My grandmother is old. And she didn’t reach that train stop one or two or five years ago like me. She’s been old for decades. I can’t even imagine waking up each morning knowing, feeling that deep-seated certainty in your very being that you’re definitely as old as the sun is hot. That there’s no denying the truth anymore. And you’re just growing older every single breath you take.

She was already around 10 or 11 years old when the Japanese army invaded and occupied the Philippines in 1941, leaving death, destruction, and despair in their wake. When I mentioned this to my mother, she told me that my grandmother actually told many stories about them having to hide from the murdering and raping Japanese soldiers in the rice fields back in those days. I immediately pictured my grandmother as a little girl in a dirty dress hiding with her family behind thick rows of rice crops under a sullen sky somewhere in the province of Bulacan, everything silent and in a stereotypical sepia filter like in the movies.

I don’t know why I never actually heard any of those stories even if we lived with my grandmother in the same compound for many, many years. Now I wish I could listen to her tell those tales herself just so I could get a glimpse of how life was back then, and maybe ask her how it feels to witness the country change so much (and change so little) before her eyes over all those long decades. There was a lot I missed and I regret it.

Getting Old is a Task

I’m writing this in the middle of the holidays, which is why it probably struck me that getting old is a lot like last-minute Christmas shopping. You’ve got a list of things to buy and things to do and you cross them out one by one, mostly because tradition says you have to and you don’t want to be a scrooge to people. Getting old is crossing out items like marriage, buying a car, having kids, moving upward in your career, settling into a nice, cozy, lazy hobby such as gardening, growing your retirement fund, etc. These are basically tasks in a long task list and you have to perform them before you can show your completed form to the one in charge and you’re given the go signal to finally check out.

But it’s not all tradition though I maintain that a lot of it is. A huge part of it is also that ticking sound in your ear that tells you the buzzer is going to ring any second now, so you have to stop horsing around and just haul your ass to your destination as soon as possible.

To illustrate, in the last 2 or 3 years, I’ve been the most active in my art (the little comicbook-style drawings I call “art”) than at any other point in my life. That’s not just something that happened out of the blue or due to a sudden massive inspiration from the magical muses of lore. It’s because–after reading about the old comicbook artists I idolize (like Brian Bolland and George Perez) growing so old that they couldn’t draw interior pages and detailed drawings anymore–I calculated that I only had barely two decades of healthy hand muscles and joints left before my skill started deteriorating physically and I couldn’t progress as an artist anymore.

The thought horrified me. I ordered a massive, unbelievably expensive book of art from abroad and worked harder than ever at trying to master anatomy, shading, lighting, and everything else that I disregarded before because I used to have all the time in the world. I began scratching the paper with my pen furiously–maniacally.

It was simple: I was running out of time. I need to produce as much art now as possible because soon I’ll never be able to do this again.

My girlfriend was laughing as she reminded me somewhat of the same thing a few days ago. Somehow it just dawned on her that I was so old (at 32) that I’d already be around 50 by the time my son or daughter goes to college. It is something quite strange for the generation of our fathers who still enjoyed some span of youth alongside their children because they married and had kids earlier.

That’s even stranger to the generation of our grandparents who made churning out babies something of an economic strategy to achieve some security for the future. In fact, my grandmother and grandfather had a total of 9 children, my dad, who’s now at 63, being the eldest. Grandma started making fine children for the world to get its hands on starting at just 24 years of age. Grandpa was just 22.

It was a different time, and you could say the earth was greener. Maybe they didn’t fuss about having children as much as we do now.

After my girlfriend pointed out how old I was to start being a father, there were a few seconds of panic when I thought maybe we should start making that baby now? Like, right now even though I was sick with flu?

I shook my head and snapped out of it.

Getting Old is Marvelling at How Childhood Went on Forever

All this is almost too much for one to ponder. More and more, it feels like every second not spent crossing out that task list of old age–not adulthood but old age–is wasted time. If something doesn’t get you nearer to marrying, getting a car, having children, getting a promotion, or building your retirement fund then it’s senseless buffoonery. Sitting here is a waste of time. Writing this is a waste of time.

But procrastination–which always feels good regardless of your age–gets you during those tiny breaks in the hysteria, and you start daydreaming. And remembering your youth.

Youth is the complete opposite of all this boring rush.

In a weird way, life feels like a minivan–wide at the back and snub-nosed at the front. My childhood days feel like they went on forever, even faint memories like playing tag with my cousins in my grandmother’s front yard felt like they went on and on–as if it took millennia for us to grow up and learn we weren’t into wounding our knees every time we fell down on the ground anymore. A day took years to give way to the night. And every morning opened up another choose-your-own-adventure chapter that you didn’t really know when it’s supposed to end or if it would end at all.

I remember my grandmother as a persistent, smiling figure in the background telling us rowdy runts not to run too fast. An older woman who reminded our mother to check if a cloth has been tucked underneath our shirt at the back to keep us from getting sick. My grandmother even took the role of mother to some of my cousins who spent so much time in her house they more or less lived there, and they were basically her children. She fed them every day and made sure they were fine and healthy. But as a kid, you didn’t appreciate those little things. You couldn’t. You’re selfish and immersed in your own colorful world of swordfights and action figures. I’d be lying if I said those weren’t the best days of my life.

Childhood is a haze of wonderful memories that get more rosy the more details you forget. My fondest memories of my grandmother place her at the center of happy family gatherings where all my many cousins and I had our rare opportunity to get together and play until the sky turned gray. She and the other faceless adults sat at a table talking about something important and we would sprint around it or hide underneath as if their world was a separate, barely recognizable one that didn’t exist for us.

I can’t help but let out a sigh when I think that we are now those faceless adults talking about something important around a table.

It’s totally unfair. Especially after discovering that the topics around that table weren’t that important after all. Jobs? Fuck off with that.

Then at some point in life, time sort of looks down at its own watch and says “Time to go now!” and everything starts moving like, well… clockwork. Days become shorter and shorter until you get numb at their passing. Years start to feel like minutes–and I guess for people at the tail end of this journey–seconds. It’s the snub-nosed part of that minivan and everything is just crushed into a hurried frenzy within that small space of opportunity that’s left.

Getting Old is Slowing Down Enough to Realize That One Thing You Need

One day I was watching basketball and the announcer was talking about how rookies differed from veterans. She said “the game hasn’t slowed enough for them yet.” It stuck with me because I thought it was the perfect description of how it feels to grow old.

Discussing the biological underpinnings of why your legs start feeling like logs and your speech starts to slow down into a tired purr as you age is not at all interesting. Everything has a biological or biochemical underpinning, anyway, even supposedly mysterious forces such as love and spirituality. What is interesting to consider is how it’s so true that–along with yourself–the world slows down as your gray hair proliferates.

Events unfold in slow motion, so much so that you have plenty of time to sip a cup of coffee before another wave hits you. It gets hard to be surprised at anything. Oh, some stupid teen ran away from their home and was found in the middle of nowhere? Ok. Oh, that girl got pregnant by some dude who isn’t worth scrap? Got it. Oh, the government is screwing the masses in a new, creative way that nobody has anticipated? Noted.

99% of it zips past your ear. Ultimately, things don’t matter if they’re not on your getting-old-task-list.

You’re not jumpy anymore. When you get in a bit of trouble, you don’t think “I’m screwed.” You think “I’ll be screwed for a couple of days. After that I’ll be fine.” Everything is now situated in a chronological context. You begin to see that every issue, every object, every concept, maybe even every feeling has an expiration date, and solving problems could simply be a matter of letting it all play out until their energy is exhausted. Sit in a chair and wait. Everything’s going to be ok.

But all that time to think comes at a cost. The long pauses in between situations and decisions act like black holes that drag you into morose philosophizing. What’s happening to my grandmother has pulled me back into futile questions that I haven’t asked since I was in college, sitting in the library, reading a book about metaphysics that I didn’t completely understand. What is the purpose of suffering? Why is their pain? Is there an afterlife?

In another fleeting phase of youth, I was a self-proclaimed atheist. I found no reason to believe that there’s heaven or there’s anything that could happen after people pass away. The arrogant schmuck that I was, I found religion to be a terrible hindrance to the goal of mankind to be a more scientific lot. I thought to myself–how could we make real progress here on earth, help real people living here and now, if most of us continue to believe that the real rewards–the real life–happens only after our last breath anyway?

It’s the kind of fiery conviction a young person who hasn’t yet experienced anything of significance can be so quick to adopt.

Eventually, it was my favorite professor who taught me one of the legitimately grown-up ideas I’ve heard all my life. It was an idea, an argument so solid that years later when I sat and pondered it, it brought me back to believing in heaven. In God. And I haven’t found myself swaying since. My professor lost his mother fairly recently back then and that event shook up his beliefs and flushed out any trace of atheism or agnosticism in his system.

The idea was this: ultimately, it doesn’t matter if there’s an afterlife or not. We can’t really know that, anyway. What matters is we need there to be an afterlife. We need heaven to exist. Because it can’t all end here. Our love for all the people we lost and all the people we’re going to lose demands that this world not be the end of it all. Our love demands that we must see them again–everyone and everything we care about–after all this is over.

Our love demands heaven.

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Brain Dead Serious

If the World Were Fair, Evil Men Would Walk Into Posts All the Time

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.

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Free Writing

There’s Probably Not a Lot of Meaning Left in the World Now But at Least I’m Not Single

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.

Bonus if she also loves you.

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Brain Dead Serious

Let me Just Say that, in My Humble Opinion, You Should Die in a Fire Alone and Unloved

dieinafire

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.

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Brain Dead Serious

Scientists Reveal Human Beings Evolving into “Self-Righteous, Book-reading Capybaras”

capybara

An artist’s depiction of the future human-capybara descendant.

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.

capybara 2

The future human-capybara race will be pansexual and in fact will “hump anything that moves,” according to scientists.

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.

 

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Brain Dead Serious

An Open Letter to Anyone Who Wants to Be Insulted

open-letter

Dear Stank Face,

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.

Yours truly,

This Open Letter

 

 

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Brain Dead Serious

Justice Be Done: A Petition to Burn Off Half of Manny Pacquiao’s Mustache #BurnPacstache

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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.

pac 1

Pacquiao in his younger years had light mustache indicating normal, mild religiousness.

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.

Manny Pacquiao and Shane Mosley address the media at a press conference to promote their upcoming fight in New York

Pacquiao in his older age has grown a thick mustache signalling his destructive fanaticism.

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.

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