Thursday, May 20, 2010

Post-date Interrogation Guidelines For Those Playing the Role of the Understanding Guuuurlfriend

And so I went on with my post-date interrogations. In quick succession I asked these to Smirketh point blank with a straight face. Keep in mind that Smirketh was not in the proper frame of mind. At this point as I was sipping my expensive Starbucks Coffee and as she was sipping her quite cheap but luscious--or quite luscious but cheap Chillz, her brain must still be peppered with goosebumps from the major kilig strange troubled dude has induced in her. And so the questions, which should be included in the guidelines for anyone hostaged to play the girlfriend role:

1. Did you take a bath before the date?
2. Is he ugly?
3. Did you find him hot?
4. Is he hot because he just is or did you find him hot because of a particular feature, like some bushy goatie or a tight baktung shirt?
5. So he paid for the dinner, but in the spirit of feigning as the over-all encompassing concept in these sorts of activities, did you feign to lunge at the bill? Did you feign convincingly, or was the feigning too obviously token that he would immediately note that you are... (which leads to the next question)....
6. ... poor. Does he know that you are poor?
7. Does he know that you are only poor in the immediate sense but does in fact own a mansion with a surrounding moat and crocodiles in a posh village in QC?
8. Would he be turned off if he discovers that you own a mansion with a surrounding moat and crocodiles in a posh village in QC?
9. Were you feigning to giggle at his jokes? If yes, was the feigning convincing enough to make you look like a sweet, nubile teenybopper or was it fake enough to make you look like a villainous bitch?
10. Does he smoke? Did he seek medical consult, like ask you what cream would be best for his tinea pedis? Would he rather watch Titanic or Natural Born Killers?
11. You were sitting at the end table wearing pink ruffled blouse while he was wearing a green, striped shirt and you were eating roti with curry sauce, some sort of dumpling, and chicken wrapped in leaves. Did you notice anyone you know watching you? Did you notice me watching you from the concealed side glass windows?

Interestingly, Smirketh's answers were far more interesting than these blah questions, but we are out of space and I can only push Smirketh's buttons so much in two successive blog entries before she snaps my neck in fury, so this ends... for now.

Come to think of it, after an objective and systematic self-evaluation, I hereby rate my performance as a post-date understanding guuurlfriend (PUG) as: excellent. I can do this for a living. If you're a girl and you had a date and you need someone to listen to you, call me. This may sound creepy, but call me. Call me damn it!

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Hail, Smirketh!

Smirketh is wearing a hair clip today. And a pink blouse with lacy things dangling at the side. And she looked like she has taken a bath. And you know what they say about people who look like they've taken a bath--they might be post-coital, or they might be going on a date. Smirketh has vehemently denied that she is post-coital, so indeed she was on a date. This came as no surprise, really, as I have just this morning grabbed her phone and found out where this strange troubled dude would be taking her. I didn't wear any disguise--I've forgotten my fantastic Robin costume at home--but I did make silip from the side glass windows and there they were. Eating with glee, face twitching as they struggled to think of something to say, grasping at any familiar word which could be a common point of discussion, and after a few more minutes, talking about marriage. Obviously I've only imagined what they might have been talking about--they might have been talking about Star Trek for all I know and strange troubled dude might already be recruiting her to join his Star Trek club in Klingon. Yes, that must be it, they must have been talking in Klingon so I could not read their lips.

"Can you be a girlfriend and listen to my account of the date without squirming or being prejudicial?" Smirketh later asked me after her wonderful liaison with strange troubled dude (STD).
"Yes I can be a girlfriend. It's what I have been doing for you for the past 8 years," I berated her.

First dates are always awesome. They test your skills in improvising and feigning--feigning interest, feigning not to be too excited, feigning not to be too interested, feigning not to notice that the other person is not interested, feigning not to notice that the other person is feigning not to notice that you are feigning to be interested. Cool.

Hiatus Over! Just Like That. Bigla.

Because apparently, I only need to put in a token entry and I would no longer be able to shut up again.

HIV has recently dragged us to Tong Yang Hot Pot, which was my first time to eat in these cook-things-yourself restaurants, because not only is it too much of an effort, but they are also dangerous. And true enough, a bullet of boiling oil made pilansik and hit my right eye as I was attempting to fry some squid--of course it had to hit my eye, the same way it is inevitable that I would be hit by the volleyball of kids playing on the street as I am passing them, the same way it is inevitable that the person in front of me in a line in Mc Donald's would be a mother ordering for her entire family, the same fucking inevitable way that Colby would lose the next individual immunity challenge--yes, I am watching Survivor: Heroes VS Villains as I am writing this, and true enough, Colby's plates fall on the floor and break. Truly this is not a spoiler, as nobody watches the show anymore, but you all know Colby, the guy who won everything in Survivor: Australia 9 years ago, and is now back in this alumni version. The winner, just in case nobody's interested, is Sandra, who also won Survivor: Pearl Islands. Survivor: Pearl Islands was running when we were in ICC (sepia, sepia) rotating in OB. Always everything goes back to OB, because all our reminiscences (invented word) must always go back to the vagina.

Back to HIV. This was the time the winner of the IM Biggest Loser was not revealed yet and he didn't know he was Villar, but he treated us to Tong Yang for something, I can't quite remember what, HIV would treat us with the slightest provocation, for which I am very, genuinely thankful being poor and all. Untrained and totally moronic my hot plate group placed all sorts of stuff in the soup bowl, I threw in some pechay, BL threw in some fish, Pyro threw in some onions, garlic, leaks, squid, prawn, miswa, and more fish, and we all went back to frying things, faster the other group is already eating while we our meat is still bright red after hours of cooking, faster Pyro can I have that prawn, can I have that prawn please, it looks edible, I want it, I want that piece of prawn damn it!

And after hours and hours of fidgeting and watching the next table with old Chinese ladies elegantly frying stuff with ease and in an organized manner some of the tocino finally looked cooked and I grabbed some. “Wait, the soup,” someone reminded us, I think it was BL, who was perspiring quite profusely as all the steam was blowing in her direction the whole time. We were reminded that nobody has touched the soup, and that it has dried up four times. BL lifted the solid contents of the soup which have all fused and amalgamated together and mutated into some sort of swamp thing and voila, expensive gunk:

Tuesday, May 18, 2010


Was about to write some sort of, well, lie, about having gotten some kind of life to which my blogger absence could be attributed--you know the drill: studying, participating in an orgy, getting into drugs, engaging in extreme sports, the usual crap--when Walking on Water, in her latest entry, beat me to it. Not blogging means you have actually gotten a life: FALSE. Indeed, false, a falsity, a lie, a lie like the way I've been living my life, participating in Mutual UFO Network (MUFON) meetings all these years, looking at the skies for any sort of space craft, for anything, anything at all, when the truth is they are just secret weather balloons and unmarked helicopters unleashed by the military-industrial complex. Because there are no aliens, there are no aliens, damn you Whitley Streiber.

The truth is, I've discovered that it is more fun and less of an effort... reading other people's blogs. I actually get to laugh immediately, the gratification is quick and instant, and then I can go back to surfing porn. A lot of sort of interesting events have passed which I could have exploited for more--for MORE!--blogging, but I just allowed them to pass. Because as amusing they might be, not everything needs to be blogged about--do I really need to let others hear about how my seatmate in Gloria Jean's Cafe in Pan Pacific, those two lecherous Japanese dudes, were watching Japanese porn in their laptops? Obviously not. I could have made a spin and exaggerated that as they were watching porn their hands were moving so fast because they were, er, reading Cliff's Notes about the porn, but there is a limit to what people would believe. Because really, there are millions of porn out there and Cliff couldn't possibly catch up with everything to come up with detailed analyses.

Recently Google My Facebook, maintained by Tessieloopagooparoopiepoop's brother, Jose, has outrightly announced a hiatus. HTGOF and Benefit of the Daw I think are in some faraway beach, playing with dolphins and such. The only blog alerts blinking right now are my action figure update blogs, and what's the point if I have no money. Nothing to write about, nothing to read, nothing exciting to watch, not really interested in porn as I'm pretending to be, drugs are too expensive, it's too hot to even whine, I am hearing nothing but useless air, everyone seems to be getting along to make chismis out of.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Craptacularly Shameful

When you gather thousands of doctors—internal medicine specialists at that—from all over the country you would expect palpable egos trying to topple each other, but on this rare occasion—the annual convention of the Philippine College of Physicians—everyone spectacularly and unabashedly dropped their egos so that they (we) could fall in line... for free ballpens! Free paper bags!!! Free giant labada bags!!!! Free Starbucks coffee!!!!! And my favorite... free Skyflakes!!!!!! We all had our senses up, for new stuff being wheeled out of warehouse doors, so we could run after them with no poise even as they were being delivered to pharmaceutical company booths! An enterprising credit card company has sensed this kinda embarrassing collective desire for useless stuff, so the company’s rep has offered me an umbrella, and as I was about to grab the umbrella wide-eyed, trembling, soul-less, and slobbering for more--FOR MORE!--useless stuff, the rep pulled it back and replaced it with a credit card application form!!!!!

“Hindi libre ang ballpen na yan, chinacharge yan sa bawat gamot na nirereseta mo,” Demonicus Trifecta admonished Dead Diasphoric Dreiree. “Sa bawat ballpen na kinukuha mo, sampung piso ang nadadagdag sa bawat piraso ng... waith, is that line for Krispi Kremes? Bukas na ang Krispi Kremes booth? Krispi Kreeeeemes!!!!!”

Yes, shamefully, everyone puts their guards down in these sorts of conventions. But at least we personally paid for those TGI Fridays and Fish Co lunches. Oh wait, they were crap.


And so finally there was the annual interns’ Sunog, wherein the most reviled—REVILED!!!—personalities in the hospital were burned to the ground. No resident was really dragged out in the middle of doing an IE just so she could be hogtied and blowtorched in the basketball court—that is probably illegal—but the topnotchers did get to have an effigy thrown in a trashcan and burned—BURNED!!!—to ashes. I didn’t make it to the top ten list, obviously I’m just a small-time evil doer and would have to do better this year. Maybe I should now start writing in the chart: Do Urinalysis Now, ASAP ASAP ASAP, Now, Drop That Cup of Milo and Get Urine Sample Now, ASAP ASAP ASAP, Chow Chow! although that’s quite... long. I actually know of a lot of eviller people who deserve to be made sunog—or more appropriately, cast to hell, but for now Kyawa tops the list.

"May this wretched piece of trash burn in hell..." Queen Leader chants.
"May this wretched piece trash burn in hell!!!!" the entire batch echoes.
"Hail Satan..."
"Hisssssss.... untie the virgin and bring out the sharp objects with which to torture her!!!!"
(Wait, I think this caption is for something else entirely

Wow, that looks painful. And the hair is made of crepe paper. I love it. (thanks to whoever took these supremely fun pics, extra credit for this one for perfectly capturing the writhing in pain look! One huge gee, thanks to eliza of for directing me to them!)

"Ze pain! Zeeeee paaaaaain!!!!"

In the spirit of sepiatification, back in our batch’s supposed Sunog everyone was licking our chops as we were poised to throw out the names of people we wanted to kill, er I mean made sunog. It was fun thinking of all this nega-ness, which is strange as back then the concept of nega-ness was not even formalized in the weltenschauung (sp?). At the last minute, though, everyone turned into a new age zen guru of positivity wielding perfumed incense and Tibetan oils and decided that... no one should be made sunog after all because it is... bad! Bleeeeeeeeech! Caloy was not having any of this crap, so in a fit of rage he doused a portion of the ground in gasoline, ripped of his shirt to reveal his huge muscles, threw our entire trans box into the ground and burned the fucking trans box. At that point, however, everyone was too inebriated and naked to care.

“So I’m not flammable, but what, I’m not even warm, or, dare I say it, hot?” I asked one of my now ex-intern.
“There’s... no category for you,” I was told.

I’ve once dedicated a blog entry to my original residency batchmates when they’ve recently graduated (Smoketh, Mikey, Rina Renal, etc.), so this, teardrop, is for the very few of you jinterns who actually read this crap and some of you who’ve been in my service. Goodbye, people, and enjoy the short but wonderful state of nothingness—don’t ever complain about getting bored, because you would never be able to complain about it again. Just complain about other things, like this fucking heat. And to my poor gen med services, thank you for enduring my rounds, which is 10% teaching-teachingan and 90% failed attempts at being a sitcom writer and actor (I know, I always feel like I’m in The Office with a camera crew going around so I always feel compelled to say something stupid all the time)—good thing none of you really reads this blog, or you would have discovered that I just do an audio version of This Could Be A Job For Mulder And Scully in our daily rounds.