Meme Question: What do clusterfuck corporate-enslaved bastards well within their early twenties normally do during their supposed grace-period-from-hell day off?
Meme Answer: They drink their guts out until they become inebriated like a drunken Shaolin master and salivate over one smokin’ piece of crotch in primetime TV.
First off, before you accuse us of how fuck-me-Freddy sex perverts me and my gang are, I would like to give a clarification. We only met the oh-so-yummyjeezuz-christ-can-I-please-fornicate-with-you sultry coitus goddess Cristine Reyes by accident, and not because we’re porn maniacs with hidden raping tendencies. Allow me to explain:
Me and my drinking buddies, a small clique of dead tired, underpaid Third world employees, rarely get together because we have our own bitchin’ priorities to whine our day with. Some are desperate, first time father figures who tend to become startled and disturbed whenever their just-born princess lets out a commanding what-the-heck-are-you-looking-at-can’t-you-see-I-need-milk cry; others are incarcerated boring yuppies busy slaving their way to the corporate ladder and in the process, are fast-becoming lifeless drones; and still, some are narcissistic bastards alternately preoccupied between living out the dignitary family man title from hell, polluting the Internet bandwidth with idiosyncratic whines, andfiddling with their woody wanker digging their graves through graveyard-shift jobs.
It is then something to celebrate about whenever this band of brothers find a coherent, common thread to get together and spend the time just raving and ranting over things mundane and philosophical. They are aware that occurrences such as this happen only once in a fuckin’ blue moon and thus, the imperative for some kick ass celebration. By celebration, I mean merry-making over some round table with Red Horse booze oozing with ant-sized cold sweat and slender GSM bottle necks to give you company.
So we had the dinner table arranged into some friggin’ booze haven where ambrosia and demigod liquor descended from Olympus and sat around like some rugby kids eager to grab their toxic addicting supply. We couldn’t breathe out cryptic Paraluman and other OPM melodies courtesy of Eman’s guitar prowess though as we were located in the 3rd floor of some clusterfuck apartment near España.
A digression: Just last year, during my birthday celebration, our extreme hilarity and merriment was abruptly suspended by some howling reprimand coming from an irate next-door neighbor. The old woman, who I suspect has never orgasmed over a phallic organ and will die as a never-has-been-fucked spinster, spoke in that oddly accented English that would remind you of that Bb. Pilipinas booboo and told the already tipsy booze lovers that “we are naht inna fow-rest, we are inna bell-ding!!!” (with emphasis on the exclamation points). I suspect she spoke in the American language, albeit in a horrendous enunciation at that, to impress upon us the kind of breeding she has acquired in her coitus-denied existence. The fuckin’ bastards we were, and not being impressed over her pseudo-refined upbringing, we said sorry but continued to hark strings upon strings of our brash youth’s music out and loud. And yes, her one liner was our favorite butchering subject for a week.
So avoiding the same unhealthy next-door-neighbor relations we once had and believing that one day, we will fall into the trap of coveting thy neighbor’s love-to-be-fucked wife; we opted to drink this time sans the guitar strumming. Which explained why our libidos torpedoed in alarming heights that night:
The best thing about drinking in front of the boob tube is the observation that when you and your mates have run out of things to bash about, there are always the TV’s innards to dissect. This time around, between gulps of cold Red horse booze, we kept on changing channels in the fucked up yet-to-cabled TV to find some gawddamn sensible program that would not insult our intelligence and look what we happened to chance upon. While I could say that our neuron-rich heads were not insulted, I would have to confess that it’s the “other” head that got into trouble. We managed to stumble upon primetime TV’s new coitus symbol and boy, did we get mum! Mum as in dead silent, where all you can hear are TV soap’s moans from two characters making out in the rock-hard bamboo-stringed bench and the clearing of throat of the person sitting next to you. Suddenly, you notice that nobody’s talking anymore and your groin, much to your mortification, becomes beefed up and bloated. You become uneasy in your seat, hushing your trouser snake from revolting lest someone notices it and christens you by the Totoy Tigas moniker. You crouch like Ang Lee’s famed Oscar tiger, hurt and aching, because that glorious part of your pelvic region is stiffening and wants to stab Eva Fonda’s clit.
And then the game begins: The first person who stands up and goes to the CR, after secretly drooling over Cristine Reyes’s subtly peeked cleavage and watching her in various stages of undress, will definitely earn the mocking accusations that he will release the heat in the form of self gratification. You can have no excuse at all. They will not buy the reason that you already drank too much liquor and you need to take it out of your gallbladder or else. They will just taunt you and jeer at you and call you names like the Great Masturbator this side of the planet. And so you remain with them, you remain lusting for Eva Fonda and her huge twin knockers, you remain hankering after her smooth legs and the much-desired cunt in between them, you remain watching Cristine Reyes in all her naked glory and half-wishing, half-hoping you were reprising Baron Geisler’s role instead. You remain because you are one normal guy with sexual urges and coitus convulsions. And for the love of gawd, you remain for them to prolong the agony of your already crumpled prick.
So this was how we chanced upon the new primetime TV star, one inebriated night when libidos were spurtingly orgasmic and furrowed groins were crouchingly aching. This was how this drunken bastard gang met and bonded once in a fuckin’ blue moon.
Geez…I only hope this MTRCB Laguardia keeps blind over the subtle hints of pornography. Because Eva Fonda is giving us inebriated orgiastic moans and we’re not even complaining. Now, that’s one early Christmas wish!
*Meme – a colloquial term that means anything that is unimportant and irrelevant but you still take notice of it anyway for lack of anything better to do; e.g. meme surveys (those out-of-the blue, random questions that you are asked to answer) abound in Friendster bulletins
Meme Answer: They drink their guts out until they become inebriated like a drunken Shaolin master and salivate over one smokin’ piece of crotch in primetime TV.
First off, before you accuse us of how fuck-me-Freddy sex perverts me and my gang are, I would like to give a clarification. We only met the oh-so-yummy
Me and my drinking buddies, a small clique of dead tired, underpaid Third world employees, rarely get together because we have our own bitchin’ priorities to whine our day with. Some are desperate, first time father figures who tend to become startled and disturbed whenever their just-born princess lets out a commanding what-the-heck-are-you-looking-at-can’t-you-see-I-need-milk cry; others are incarcerated boring yuppies busy slaving their way to the corporate ladder and in the process, are fast-becoming lifeless drones; and still, some are narcissistic bastards alternately preoccupied between living out the dignitary family man title from hell, polluting the Internet bandwidth with idiosyncratic whines, and
It is then something to celebrate about whenever this band of brothers find a coherent, common thread to get together and spend the time just raving and ranting over things mundane and philosophical. They are aware that occurrences such as this happen only once in a fuckin’ blue moon and thus, the imperative for some kick ass celebration. By celebration, I mean merry-making over some round table with Red Horse booze oozing with ant-sized cold sweat and slender GSM bottle necks to give you company.
So we had the dinner table arranged into some friggin’ booze haven where ambrosia and demigod liquor descended from Olympus and sat around like some rugby kids eager to grab their toxic addicting supply. We couldn’t breathe out cryptic Paraluman and other OPM melodies courtesy of Eman’s guitar prowess though as we were located in the 3rd floor of some clusterfuck apartment near España.
A digression: Just last year, during my birthday celebration, our extreme hilarity and merriment was abruptly suspended by some howling reprimand coming from an irate next-door neighbor. The old woman, who I suspect has never orgasmed over a phallic organ and will die as a never-has-been-fucked spinster, spoke in that oddly accented English that would remind you of that Bb. Pilipinas booboo and told the already tipsy booze lovers that “we are naht inna fow-rest, we are inna bell-ding!!!” (with emphasis on the exclamation points). I suspect she spoke in the American language, albeit in a horrendous enunciation at that, to impress upon us the kind of breeding she has acquired in her coitus-denied existence. The fuckin’ bastards we were, and not being impressed over her pseudo-refined upbringing, we said sorry but continued to hark strings upon strings of our brash youth’s music out and loud. And yes, her one liner was our favorite butchering subject for a week.
So avoiding the same unhealthy next-door-neighbor relations we once had and believing that one day, we will fall into the trap of coveting thy neighbor’s love-to-be-fucked wife; we opted to drink this time sans the guitar strumming. Which explained why our libidos torpedoed in alarming heights that night:
The best thing about drinking in front of the boob tube is the observation that when you and your mates have run out of things to bash about, there are always the TV’s innards to dissect. This time around, between gulps of cold Red horse booze, we kept on changing channels in the fucked up yet-to-cabled TV to find some gawddamn sensible program that would not insult our intelligence and look what we happened to chance upon. While I could say that our neuron-rich heads were not insulted, I would have to confess that it’s the “other” head that got into trouble. We managed to stumble upon primetime TV’s new coitus symbol and boy, did we get mum! Mum as in dead silent, where all you can hear are TV soap’s moans from two characters making out in the rock-hard bamboo-stringed bench and the clearing of throat of the person sitting next to you. Suddenly, you notice that nobody’s talking anymore and your groin, much to your mortification, becomes beefed up and bloated. You become uneasy in your seat, hushing your trouser snake from revolting lest someone notices it and christens you by the Totoy Tigas moniker. You crouch like Ang Lee’s famed Oscar tiger, hurt and aching, because that glorious part of your pelvic region is stiffening and wants to stab Eva Fonda’s clit.
And then the game begins: The first person who stands up and goes to the CR, after secretly drooling over Cristine Reyes’s subtly peeked cleavage and watching her in various stages of undress, will definitely earn the mocking accusations that he will release the heat in the form of self gratification. You can have no excuse at all. They will not buy the reason that you already drank too much liquor and you need to take it out of your gallbladder or else. They will just taunt you and jeer at you and call you names like the Great Masturbator this side of the planet. And so you remain with them, you remain lusting for Eva Fonda and her huge twin knockers, you remain hankering after her smooth legs and the much-desired cunt in between them, you remain watching Cristine Reyes in all her naked glory and half-wishing, half-hoping you were reprising Baron Geisler’s role instead. You remain because you are one normal guy with sexual urges and coitus convulsions. And for the love of gawd, you remain for them to prolong the agony of your already crumpled prick.
So this was how we chanced upon the new primetime TV star, one inebriated night when libidos were spurtingly orgasmic and furrowed groins were crouchingly aching. This was how this drunken bastard gang met and bonded once in a fuckin’ blue moon.
Geez…I only hope this MTRCB Laguardia keeps blind over the subtle hints of pornography. Because Eva Fonda is giving us inebriated orgiastic moans and we’re not even complaining. Now, that’s one early Christmas wish!
*Meme – a colloquial term that means anything that is unimportant and irrelevant but you still take notice of it anyway for lack of anything better to do; e.g. meme surveys (those out-of-the blue, random questions that you are asked to answer) abound in Friendster bulletins
