Friday, July 29, 2011


          How I love them. Those red, plump, round cherries—succulent and wet, rolling nicely in your mouth. You can pop them, concurrently crisp and chunky, and suck suck suck in that tangy-sweet sensation. Back in the days whenever my mother would whip up some fruit salad of sort she would open a can of del monte fruit cocktail, and I would have to compete with everyone for that lone red cherry mixed in the cocktail of pointless grapes, pineapples, and other pieces of crap. It was so alone, as alone as the pork in pork and beans. It would be years later that an elder would rebuke us. It’s not genuine cherry, he would say. It’s just a painted grape or some pedestrian fruit. Maybe he was tricking us, so he could eat the damn cherry himself. This would lead to me forgetting all about cherries.
          Until years later when I saw an X-Files episode entitled Chinga where this evil girl with an evil doll was in Dairy Queen. She had just finished her ice cream, and she went to the counter. You know what she said? She said “I want more cherries.” And the snooty counter girl told her, “You gotta ask your mom for more money, sweetie.” And girl repeated, “I WANT MORE CHERRIES!” And you know what she did when counter girl wouldn’t give her any more cherries? She (or was it her evil doll?) telekinetically made counter girl’s hair get caught in some ice cream machine which pulled her scalp out. See, if someone tells you she wants some cherries, she means she wants some fucking cherries!!!

          Recently went in the usual sponsored hotel dinners, and one of the desserts was this tiny cake on which you would put a cherry on top. I didn’t put the cherry on top—I got a plate of cherries and put the tiny cake on top! Because you don’t turn cherry into a garnish, it is food in itself and it is the food that you garnish!!!

          I apologize for the cherry rage. I just want some cherries.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Research Paper/Tabloid Mode

Pinag-uusapan lamang namin ni Smoketh nung isang araw na habang tumatanda kami at nagiging mga tinapay na may amag, or mismong amag, lalong umiiksi ang aming mga attention span. Halimbawa nagkukwentuhan kami nina Frichmond habang kumakain ng Subway sandwich, mga apat na threads na sabay-sabay ang pinag-uusapan, mapuputol sa gitna, at maaalala na lang ulit after 1 hour. Hindi ko na kayang manood ng pelikula sa TV or sa laptop, after two minutes magbubukas na ako ng window ng digital comics, o magsusulat ng blog sa isa pang window. Kung nangyari ito nung mid-90's maaari naming sisihin ang MTV, pero sa ngayon wala na yatang nanonood ng MTV. Hindi na rin pwedeng sisihin  ang text messaging and crap, mga social psychologists whatever na lang siguro ang mag susulat ng mga ganoong bagay. Ganito siguro talaga pag nagiging prune, tinapay na may amag, o mismong amag.

Siguro ang isang bagay na maaaring sisihin dito ay ang ilang taong pagpapraktis ng intense na pakikinig kunwari sa nakakataas na doktor kagaya ng fellow at consultant, or ng intense na pakikinig sa klinik habang sinasabihan ka ng lahat ng problema at nararamdaman. May nodding, may token "aaaah", may hawak konti ng kamay, hawak konti ng balikat, na sa totoo lang ang iniisip ay kung kailan ba ako makakakuha ng kornik na nasa drawer ng lamesa ko. Or baka hindi iyon cause, kundi isang manifestation mismo ng short attention span. Ang corny, may pa-ita-italics pa ng terms, para tuloy itong isang pretentious... psych paper. AHAHAHAHA.

Nung isang gabi halimbawa ay naka-download na ako sa wakas ng isang episode ng Games of Thrones. Maganda daw kasi sabi ni Ardee Lugo, Callistus Netromedev, at iba pa. Hindi ko masyado forte ang mga high-fantasy stuff, pero dahil hindi naman daw ito high-fantasy sorcerers-and-dragons stuff pinanood ko na rin. And nandito rin kasi si Boromir. After one minute ay... na-bore ako at scinroll ko na bigla sa ending ng episode. AHAHAHAHA. At (spoilers, as if) napa-mura ako sa final scene. Mabilis naman ako mapa-mura talaga, may makita lang akong ipis na lumilipad napapamura na ako nang husto. Pero sa final scene ay malutong ang mura, kung saan umakyat yung bata sa mataas na tore, at napanood nya sa bintana ng tore na nag-sesex yung dalawang characters. Nilapitan yung bata nung lalaki at... tinulak sya mula sa tore down down to the ground. Blag.

To be continued. Hmmm... mukang maganda.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Happy Birthday Smoketh!

We're taking a break from our regular programming of comic book wet dreaming, hell-owship rants, and nostalgification for that particular time when we weren't such bitter old prunes so we could greet Smoketh a happy birthday! We are henceforth putting on our personalized Cerebras and telepathically sending out our greets and well-wishes to Smoketh, because as Frichmond has so succinctly put it, mawala man tayo sa kalendaryo, tayo ay nasa thermometer pa rin!

And so to our ultimate source of wisdom, our ultimate absorber of rants which are too prurient even for this blog, our ultimate source of blog-worthy material, from whom we learned that we can say "I don't know!" with conviction, from whom we learned that everything can sound good and erudite with proper diction, and from whom we learned that a cherry can transform into a prune and transmogrify back into the most poppable, reddest cherry, we greet ya a very happy birthday!

Tutubi Girl

Been reading a lot of comics recently, mostly catching up on the 90's Supergirl, the train wreck but slowly recuperating Flashpoint, and a bunch of others, but what really captures my fancy is the excellent run of Grant Morrison in X-Men (New X-Men) and Joss Whedon in Astonishing X-Men. 2001 was the time when I've started to gag on anything X-Men what with the multiple cross-overs and titles of the 90's, but the runs of Morrison and Whedon are nothing short of fantastic. But we will not do a review here. Instead, we will feature a character Grant brought into picture and was later included in the recent X-Men movie, Angel. Angel is this filthy-looking girl with tutubi wings, so it must be more appropriate to call her Tutubi Girl. Tutubi Girl has dirty-looking hair, looks really mabantot, is quite nega, and she belches out some sort of goo-acid-suka concoction. Ladies and gentlemen, just because hers is the power I really want to have right now, I present to you: Tutubi Girl.

Mallet and Claw

While quietly reading some comics BOTD messaged me all of a sudden. BOTD has recently quit some high-paying job in the military-industrial complex treating lab tests such as urinalysis with a WBC of 2-4 to prepare for her upcoming downward spiral to hell (ie, residency). Also, she has taken up some side job from The Man, encoding rheuma charts of the past decades for some database or something.

The BOTD has alerted me that what should be one of the charts she was encoding but my entries back when I was an intern rotating in the rheuma OPD.
"Intense. 2 pages ang history!" she exclaimed. "And for more, meron pa sa physical examination na... (+) mallet finger!!! AHAHAHAHAAH!"

AHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA, i replied. But in my head: Why the heck would I write a two page history? And for more, what the fuck is a (+) mallet finger? More appropriately, is there really such a thing as a mallet finger, and if so, what the fuck is a mallet finger?! I have degenerated so much quite shamefully that I probably wouldn't know a mallet finger from a claw something. See, I can't even complete it, just claw something.

Recently I've been seeing a lot of Mrs. Therese doing her rheuma rounds in Pay, and she would sometimes regale me with their complicated, mind-boggling cases. Truly it must be one of the more difficult fields of med, because more than anything it would require a special sort of astuteness. I've developed quite a high degree of astuteness back in residency, but it is degenerating quickly, and rapidly plummeting to hell of paranoia. The paranoia that everything, absolutely everything... is cancer.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Negasonic Superhuman Crapahoola

Someone has created a Facebook account for our batch UP Medicine class 2006, which caused a deluge of photos. Let it be known that I hate first year medicine. Hate it. Like hell. The set-up was annoying, the schedule was annoying, I was not mentally well. First year med is one of those things that no amount of nostalgification/sepiatification can make it seem better or happier, because it’s quite hateful. The only bright spots in there were my anatomy groupies who were quite a riot, and my dorm neighbors who would give me rice, press my clothes, tolerate the music playing loudly from my room, and indulge my dream to acquire a Bat Signal. It was, at least, uphill from that year, as things started to get more fun and less neurotic the succeeding years.

The pics reminded me all of a sudden of our Physio-Biochem group. May ganun-ganun nga pala. Apparently we had to do some study of sort then, or something like that. All I remember is that it involves rats. In the group I was one of The Assets, ie, the ones who volunteered to do manual labor so we didn’t have to think. I would carry rat cages from one table to the next, volunteer to label stuff, and other blue collar stuff. Anything, just so I wouldn’t have to think. We have to be smart sometimes and reserve our heads for more important things, like figuring out the whole Phoenix-Dark Phoenix-Jean Grey-Jean Grey Manifestation-Madelyne Pryor web of crap.

In one such manual labor occasion The Assets forced a huge white rat in the supine position and tied all four extremities such that it was spread-eagled. I don’t know why. The huge white rat squirmed and squirmed and tried to escape from being tied in all fours. Negasonic Superhuman Crapahoola then ordered me… to slice the belly vertically. And so I did, like a Nazi. I thought the rat was properly sedated, but as soon as I sliced the belly open all sorts of rat intestines sloshed out like a good morning appendix. Rat woke up, maximally bent forward… and munched at its own fucking intestines.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” we all screamed. 
“Abort! Abort!” Negasonic Superhuman Crapahoola ordered.
In my head: How.
“Abort! Abort!” Negasonic Superhuman Crapahoola ordered.
 Since then we changed our subjects from live rats with emotions into emotionless balut. I think we had to count the blood vessels on the amnion or SOMETHING. Or maybe I’m just mixing things up.

Saturday, July 9, 2011


Something was announced last June that sent Voltage spraying from my nose and into the laptop screen. Out of nowhere it was announced that DC Comics is rebooting everything starting September, ie, the past 75 years will essentially be thrown in the trash for "a fresher, more accessible blather blather blather". This sent me into a fit for a few weeks. I was fangry. In my years of comic book reading I've worked my way through the most difficult storylines, I form in my head my fantasy teams everyday, I've neglected work, friends, general hygiene and stuff just to read the books they bring out no matter how crappy they might be (ie, Superman: Grounded, Wonder Woman: Odyssey). And now this. Like a wet kumot thrown to my face.

After a few weeks of rumination and fan-griness I've come to realize that instead of being very, very cross about this I could instead take this as an opportunity... to reboot This Could Be A Job For Mulder and Scully!!! Yes! Everything will be retconned, everything will start from scratch, all code names will be changed or code names could be switched for no reason whatsoever, there will be no more cursing, and such!!! I've attempted some sort of reboot back in 2008 in my old Friendster blog, and it was a total failure. I wrote in my reboot entry that henceforth I would no longer talk about the same pointless things I talk about and instead focus on the environment and oil spills and such, except the very next entry started with the sentence "Smoketh was sitting in Shrine Motherfucker 1..." so fail.

But this is the zero hour. From this point on.... things will no longer be the same. Not a hoax, not an imaginary story, because these will be the foci of the blog henceforth!!!
1. Geo-politics
2. Chemistry. A LECTURE on balancing chemical equations and stuff. Yung may small numbers sa lower right ng chemical symbol and stuff. Also vectors, but I think that's physics.
3. Well-being, health, and chakras.
4. Monster vehicles and races because they are cool.
5. The complete works of Ben Okri and Doris Lessing.

We will totally abolish the following recurrent themes/topics/styles/cheapshots which produce negativity and stuff:
1. Complaints, whinings, unified whinings, group whinings
2. Cursing. We don't like our kids looking for stuff about Mulder and Scully in the net only to stumble upon this site and read: You bad ass motherfucker! (that's a reference to the hilarious podcast Awesomed By Comics by Evie and Aaron. Fantastic podcast)
3. Anecdotes that only seem funny because there's nothing really funny going on in the hospital.
4. Comic book stuff. Because Wonder Woman and company are not real. Damn it they're not real.
5. The Fake-It-Till-We-Make-It laughter: AHAHAHAHAHAH. We'll be serious. All the days of our lives.

This reboot of This Could Be A Job For Mulder And Scully will prove to be fresher, more accessible, and more energized. Can't wait.

Elevator Ahoy

Truly it's quite disheartening that the events I find worth blogging these days happen in the elevator.


And so I went into the elevator in the first floor and who should happen to walk in with me but our favorite Dr. Emeritus Ras Al Ghul and a much younger consultant Chewy. Chewy is quite an authoritative figure himself, but he is dwarfed by the grandeur and all-encompassing power of Ras Al Ghul, hence the rather unimpressive code name Chewy. We all love Ras Al Ghul. Whenever he scolds us in our morning rounds we feel like 5-year olds being admonished by our lolo.

I was going to the 7th floor, so was Chewy, while Ras Al Ghul was going to the 6th.  Ras Al Ghul started to strike a conversation with Chewy.

Ras Al Ghul: Ah, Chewy, sino ba tong consultant na....
Chewy: Yes sir?
Ras Al Ghul: na.... na.... na...
Chewy: Yes sir?
Ras Al Ghul: na... ah....
Chewy: Sir?
Ras Al Ghul: ah...


Chewy: 6th floor na po.
Ras Al Ghul: Ah. Bye.

Friday, July 8, 2011

October's Very Cold

The past weeks when my gadget cords have all decided to go on strike I've contented myself with exploring further the unexplored recesses of my iPot after charging it from various computers, ie, I've finally listened to the thousands of songs demanding for my attention and fine critique. There were fantastic finds, ie, songs that weren't particularly popular or radio hits, or no one recommended them as they are buried as track 8's or 9's in someone's obscure album, but which turned out to be quite amazing. There were vomity finds, ie, songs that I used to like but now deserve to be erased not only from my iPot but from all existence. There were also regurgitant finds, ie, songs that deserve to be vomited in the right state of mind, but I secretly like them and will never allow anyone to know that I like them and I will take the secret with me to the grave. Hence, these notes:

1. My 2010 Album of the Year is October's Very Cold. Because we like Drake, we like Coldplay, and when we throw their songs in the air and allow them to mix and drop on the ground they sound fantastic. And we like that synthesized girly voice who just whisper "October's Very Cold" randomly in all the tracks.

2. Surprise of the Week: I was chatting with a friend while half-listening to a random song, and I suddenly heard the line "She take my money well I'm in need yeah she's a triflin' friend indeed". I naively thought cinocover na agad si Kanye West. I checked what song was playing and it was the ultimate sinauna song "I Got A Woman" by Ray Charles which is obviously the one being sampled in Gold Digger. Both excellent songs.

3. Career Move of the Week: If my band becomes famous in the future I would name my band something really unique which, if you type in Google or Torrents, would not be mistaken for something else. But first I need to learn how to play an instrument, learn how to sing, or form a band. Tuscaloosa Centauri has recommended the band xx to me last year, and when I started to look for the band in the net the search engine generated a lot of porn sites. Nevertheless Crystalised rules. The band always sounds lazy when they sing, but really, who is not tinatamad these days.

4. Crap of the Week: The Across The Universe soundtrack has the most over-produced, over-arranged, over-dramaticized, over-everything cover of Beatles songs. The cover of Let It Be starts quietly enough until the fourth or fifth line when the histrionic duo singing is joined by... a CHOIR! Also, you could see the tears streaming down the girl singer's face as she caterwauls. Bigay na bigay. But you don't mess with Let It Be! We like our Let It Be straight-up and served on regular platter sprinkled with bits of LSD.

Whiners, Inc.

Morning rounds in pay would be quite boring if not for my batchmates also roundsing for their specific subspecs who make it a point to make me feel that you don't have the world on your shoulders, you're not the only one developing rickets and all sorts of vitamin deficiency from eating too much pancit canton stop this infernal whinification. The other perspective, the one I'm taking more often, however, is that they all make it a point to share in the whining for one all-powerful MK unified whining. Because if we whine high-pitchedly enough and whine more often enough and unabatedly whine loud enough in solidarity the whines would cross the space-time continuum to a parallel universe where there is a unified group of whiners called Whiners, Inc.

Because we've come to realize that hellowship is not fun by any stretch of the imagination. Unlike residency which is 70% work and 30% lounging around in the callroom or going out with your fun batchmates spending your huge salary, hellowship is just zombified work. So much zombified, mechanical work, that having friends and enjoying socialization are just huge bonuses, but for the most part it is something we just need to go through and finish so we can proceed to the deeper circles of hell. 

Smoketh and I have tried to make a list of present hell-ows enjoying their present state of being hell-ows. Marth has been scratched off, as he has been looking genuinely distressed the past few weeks and to his credit his whines are telepathic; Renrerenrenrenren has been walking like a kuba with dragging of the feet to further illustrate being a kuba with dragging of the feet; Frichmond, Smoketh, Uni-Horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore, Tessieloopagooparoop and I are the touchstones of Whiners, Inc. so definitely not us. We have therefore concluded that only ONE person is genuinely enjoying hell-owship, and for that we applaud him, and for that we shall out his enjoyment to the world and use his real name and not his usual code name, and that person is:

Lowe Chiong. 
You bad ass motherfucker.

Crisis On Infinite Gadgets

For the past few years I have somehow staved off my mutant abilities to destroy nearby gadgets. My first ever handheld device is the much maligned, and deservedly so, Palm Zire 71 back in 2003. It's that cute blue thing whose abilities I cannot remember, because it would break down one way or the other every two days. Len-Len Lim being my partner in everything back in clerkship has become my technological emotional vampirism receptacle, ie, he would be on the receiving end for all my endless groanings and complaints and high-pitched, incensed questions about the unit. It is to Len-Len's credit that he didn't just grab the damn thing and shove it down my throat. In 2007 while riding an ordinary bus I asked the ticket boy for my ticket. He brought out a Palm Zire 71 with a mini-printer attached to it and printed me a ticket.

Recently, however, my gadgetification proved to be quite fantastic. My first generation clunky-looking Lenovo has never broken down, and it has survived multiple drops, spilled drinks, and all sorts of physical abuse. The iPot has also been wonderful, and to quote Dickie Greenleaf in The Talented Mr. Ripley when he expressed how much he loved his new ice box: "I could fuck this ice box!" And the poverty Sun phone peddled two years ago in PGH--fantastic, fantastic buy.

Except. In the past week, for some reason, gadgetification united has decided to make inarte. And because they know that I've weathered all sorts of gadget tantrums in the past they've decided to make a different sort of inarte: all their chargers stopped working. But I wouldn't throw a fit, I said, having emotional-technologically matured from the dark days of Zire 71. I went to Rob, calmly bought all sorts of cords and sardines for dinner, and had them functioning again. Sometimes these things just want attention.


Smoketh is on some kind of leave, so we've been imagining her doing all sorts of weird stuff in Cebu. Except as I was rushing back to the dorm after I escaped the OPD who should I see sitting in one corner but.... Smoketh. Apparently she has to do some stuff for her researches, so just after a couple of days she's back. I dragged her outside to eat a sandwich, then left her so I could nap for five minutes. Napping is the best way to deal with clinginess, sense of entitlement, and the general annoyance of things, which generally characterize my daily routine. And whinification, just like that sentence, don't forget whinification.

Amazingly I was able to finish all the things I had to do while the sun was still up and I was able to join Smoketh and The Daw for dinner. 
"Let's look for cheap spaghetti," Smoketh said.
"Noodle Boy. It's swimming in oil," I said. "Now that I know I don't have retained stones I want to guzzle bottles and bottles of nefarious oil."
"It's Sbarro then," Smoketh said. 

Still file under: No Wage So Whine About Poverty we ordered for the first time some budget meal with a slice of cheese pizza and spaghetti and a cuplet of iced tea. We consumed the damn thing in two seconds.
"Lalo akong nagutom," I said.
"I want to eat more cheese," Smoketh said.

So we went out and bought from the food court stalls some corn and fries with cheese and barbecue powder. Flavored powder is fantastic, and we can make fake pizza with cheese powder, bread, and ketchup. In the midst of it all The Daw was ruminating on her plans for residency. Smoketh was ruminating on whether she should spend her remaining leave outdoors or smoke pot in their attic for one whole week. I was ruminating on where to get my next meal.

After her week-long leave was done I asked Smoketh what fun things she did.
“I stayed in bed for four days,” Smoketh said.
“Did you have sex while in bed?” I asked.
“I stayed in bed for FOUR days,” Smoketh replied.
“I see. So, did you fuck while in bed?” I asked.
And so on until everyone got bored and we left Shrine Motherfucker 1.