Careless Whisper (And Moans of a Pseudo-Doctor Sex Maniac and an FHM Star-Slut from Third World Hell)

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Hulaan ko ang laman ng bawat blog post ngayon sa makamundong Pinoy sangkablogosperyohan -- 'yung seks bidyo ni Doktor-doktorang Baboy at ni FHM Sexy Slut Star.

Kung isa kang palengkerang amoy tsismis ang hininga tulad ng pasaherong lalakeng nakasakayan ko kahapong hindi natigil sa kakabida sa kabilang linya ng cellphone kung paano raw tinira ni ano si ano sa ano niya sa ganitong posisyon at kung sino raw si ano pa na na-escabeche rin ng napakalibog na si ano, malalaman mong usap-usapan na ang kumakalat na sex video scandal ng manyak na doktor kwak-kwak at ang paawa epek na sexy pantasya ng bayang biktima kuno sa nangyaring kabalbalan.

Sa isang Ikatlong Mundong bansang may bayag ang balitang hinihimas-himas ng napakaraming usisero't usisera, mas mabilis pa sa pagkalat ng apoy sa mga barung-barong ng España ang pag-alam sa kung ano ang nagbabagang hot item ng lipunan. Kesyo bulag ka o bangag, tambay sa kanto o inutil na walang silbi sa kumpanyang pinagtatrabahuhan mo, de nunal na babaeng pandak na nakaupo sa trono o artistang naligaw ng pagkakaupo sa senado bilang payaso, lahat 'yan makikisawsaw sa usaping pinakamainit na ibinabalita sa gabi ng mga news anchor na lageng nananakot at may halak sa lalamunan ("Ekskyusmi po!").

Sang bansa ka makakakita ng senador na imbes na atupagin ang pagpapasa ng makabuluhang batas eh mas uunahin pa ang privilege speech ekek patungkol sa sex video scandal? Kagabi lang eh nasusuya na 'ko sa kakapanood ng kung sinumang hinayupak na mambabatas na idinudulog ang saltik ng dilang panis sa mga reporter patungkol sa headline ngayon. Oo nga naman, malapit na kasi ang eleksyon. Publicity rin 'yun. Kelangan ng media mileage dahil kapag nakita ang pagmumuka mo sa telebisyon, mas malaki ang tsansang maalala ka ng mga botante pagsapit ng eleksyon.

Sa ganitong mga pagkakataon, magsisilabasan din ang mga nagmamalinis na moralista. Laman ng bawat homily ng simbahan ang wag magpakababoy at wag gayahin si ano at si ano. Si Padre Damaso, mangangaral na masusunog ang kaluluwa mo sa impyerno kung hindi ka man mapunta sa purgatoryo pero kung pakaiisipin, may bahid din ng putik ang maputing pagkataong ipinagmamalaki niya. Ang mga women's rights advocates eh meron na namang dahilan para magmartsa sa maalinsangang kalye habang sumisigaw ng paulit-ulit na "Ipaglaban ang karapatan ng mga kababaihan!" maski na ayun si Nicole na ipinaglaban nila't nagpapakasarap lang sa Amerika. Ang mga madre eh magreresign sa kumbento dahil gusto rin nilang magkaroon ng sariling sex video kasama ang huwad na manggagamot na mas baboy pa pala sa ordinaryong Boy Bastos.

At ano na ang nangyari sa H1N1? Kay Jun Lozada? Ang mga kapal muks na kwestiyonableng TV ads ng mga presidentiables? Ang Con Ass? Si Nicole na sumigaw ng "Rape!" at pagkatapos eh hindi naman daw na-rape? Ang pagpapatalsik sa de nunal na babaeng nasa Malacañang? Ang pagkaka-knockout ni Manny Pakyaw kay hambog na Hatton? Natabunan na siyempre. Mas mainit kasi ang seks bidyo. Mas kaengga-engganyong pag-usapan. Mas nakakalibog panoorin. Welkam to da Pilipins! Walang ganito sa Isteyts.

Ito ang Pinoy pop culture. Hindi ka in kung hindi mo alam ang usap-usapan. Pagtatawanan ka ng lipunan kung wala kang kamuwang-muwang sa nangyayari sa buwakanginang mundong ginagalawan mo. Hindi mo pa napanood ang seks bidyo? Panis ka. Hindi mo kilala kung sino si ano at ano na nag-aanuhang sobrang ano? Wala kang kwenta. Isalaksak mo ang pagkatao mo pabalik sa puke ng ina mo.

Kung meron mang aral na kapupulutan sa pangyayaring ito, iyon eh ang pagkakatanto na walang pinagkaiba ang mga elitista't mayayaman sa ating mga normal na nilalang ng lipunan. Pare-pareho lang tayong mababaho ang utot. Pare-pareho lang tayong dumudumi ng echas sa kasilyas. Pare-parehong mahilig sa seks may tinatagong kabalbalan sa pinakaubod ng pagkatao. Kaya kayong mga nakatira sa Wack Wack at pashopping-shopping lang sa Glorietta, 'wag kayong magmalinis. Mas nakakaduwal ang mga gawi ng karamihan sa inyo.

At ano naman ang maipapayo ko sa babaeng bida sa seks bidyo? Ineng, wag kang maglupasay at umastang ikaw ang biktima sa kontrobersyang ito. Hayaan mong sabihin ko sa'yo na ang sex, hindi pwedeng mangyari kung mag-isa mo lang na ginagawa 'yun. Pagtitikol ang tawag dun. Ginusto mong makipagniig sa isang demonyong kinakain ng amag ang kukote, pwes panindigan mo ngayon ang maaaring kahinatnan ng pagtamasa niyong dalawa sa walang kasing sarap na nirvana. Kunswelo de bobo mo pa nga ngayon na mas sikat ka na kay Marian Rivera at Angel Locsin. Ibig sabihin, kung tama ang hinala kong mas maraming lalake ang magpapantasya sa'yo pagkatapos mapanood ang seks bidyo mo, gagawin kang lead female star ng istasyong kinabibilangan mo.

At sa lalakeng protagonista namang kunwari eh maamong tupa pero dinaig pa pala ang animal pagdating sa kama? Pababaunan kita ng makahulugang salita mula sa isa sa mga sikat na manunulat na si Virginia Woolf: "[The woman] is [the man’s] mirror; by diminishing her in his use of her he becomes twice his size. In the culture, he is a giant, enlarged by his conquest of her, implied or explicit."

In layman's term: Ang liit kasi ng tite mo kaya gumawa ka ng seks bidyo para gawing doble ang laki nito sa paningin ng lipunang iniiputan mo.

Postscript:

Hindi ko pa napapanood ang seks bidyo. Kung sinuman ang may kopya, paki-email na lang sa elektronikong liham tirahan ko - ssdd@i.ph. Tatanawin kong malaking utang na loob sa 'yo ang pagkakawang-gawa mong ito, kung sino ka mang naligaw ng landas dito. At oo, kung inaakala niyong wala akong kasing-libog tulad ni Boy Bastos, ako na ang nag-aabiso na hindi po ako sex pervert tulad ng doktor kwak-kwak na bida sa scandal. Kyuryus lang talaga 'ko. Pramis! Mamatay man ang kaliwang bayag ng kapitbahay niyo. Nyahahahaha! Salamas!

Off-topic:

Masyado ata akong controversial blogger dito sa makamundong Pinoy sangkablogosperyohan para kwestyunin ang pagkakasali ko sa Ten Most Influential Blogger pakontes na 'yan. Para sa kaalaman ng mga nag-nomina sakin at pati na rin sa kung sino pa ang gustong humabol sa pagnonomina sakin (nyahahaha!), nagsimula po akong tumipa ng kabalahuraan sa blogger domain na 'to neto lamang March 2009. Sana malinaw na sa lahat.

Sa kaugnay na paksa, gusto kong pasalamatan si pareng Mon sa pagnonomina sakin bilang isa sa mga Ten Influential Blogger ng Pinoy bloggywood. Salamas ng marami parekoi! Mabuhay ka!

Update

Hanglupet! May kasagutan agad ang hiling ko? Salamas kay Pareng Epfi sa pagbibigay ng link. Hmmkei. Diyan na muna kayo. May seks bidyo pa kong kelangang i-download. Mwahahaha!

Isa Pang Update

Tama ang sapantaha ko. Katawa-tawa na naman ang itsura ng mga payaso sa senado.
Bonggang Bonggang Bong Revilla kay Hayden Kho: Ano ang software na ginamit mo sa pag-download ng mga video sa computer mo?

Sagot ni Lio: Hindi ko alam kung saan mo nilagay ang common sense sa kukote mo Ginoong Senador ng mahal kong Pilipinas.

Una, ano bang software ang pinagsasabi mo? Hindi mo ba alam na maaari mong ilipat ang isang file papunta sa computer gamit ang cellphone lang. Ikalawa, Upload ang tawag dun dahil nag-tatransfer ka ng file papunta sa computer o sa Intarnetz. Download ang tawag kapag nagtransfer ka ng file galing sa computer o sa Intarnetz. Ikatlo at ang pinaka-importante sa lahat, ano ang kabutihang idudulot ng walang kwentang tanong mo sa paglutas ng kaso bukod sa media mileage na natamasa mo?

Sa Iyo Ginoong Ricky "Hitman" Hatton

Isang mapagpalayang araw sa'yo!

Sa mga oras na 'to, nawa'y nahimasmasan ka na sa 2nd Round TKO mo sa laban niyo ng aming santu-santohang si Manny Pacquiao, nakarekober sa pagkabagsak at pagkakatirik ng mga mata mong dulot ng Pambansang Kamao. Alam kong hilo pa rin ang mga bayag mo sa bilis ng mga pangyayari. Pero ganun talaga. Bukod sa titi mong umurong nang di sinasadya sa laban, may mga bagay na kelangang lunukin nang sapilitan. Sa kaso mo, kasama na riyan ang yabang at walang kasing taas na ihi mo. Makinig kang mabuti dahil nakasalalay sa liham na 'to ang kinabukasan mo bilang pipitsuging boksingero.

Unang-una, palitan mo ang bansag mo sa sarili mong imaheng walang kasing-angas pero wala rin palang binatbat. Kumbaga sa utot, eto 'yung malakas ang pasabog pero wala naman palang ibubuga; di tulad ng masamang hanging silent but deadly. Hindi ka pwedeng tawaging "Hitman" sa kadahilanang hindi ka naman naka-hit ni isang hook man lang sa pambato naming namumutiktik sa endorsements at TV commercials. Sa katunayan, ikaw pa nga ang na-HIT ni MANny. Hindi ko alam kung nagpapatawa ka pero kung ito nga ang dahilan (HIT by MANny) kung ba't yan ang pinili mong alyas (HITMAN) eh ipamumuka ko sa'yong trying-hard patawa ka. Hindi ka pwedeng bumenta bilang clown sa mga perya.

Ikalawa, uminom ka ng maraming Extra Joss bago ang laban. Ewan ko lang kung sinadya mong umakyat sa lona nang walang kalatuy-latoy o umurong lang ang pototoy mo dahil sa paspasang pagkadyot mo sa kung sino mang blonde and blue-eyed bitch diyan pero sa ginawa mong katarantaduhan kanina, dinaig mo pa ang baklang tsumutsupa tatlong beses isang araw dito sa may Recto. Bukod sa ipinahiya mo na ang buong angkan ng kumpare kong si Harry Potter, ipinangalandakan mo rin ang katotohanang ang mga Briton eh wala talagang maipagmamalaki kundi ang pagkagumon lang nila sa serbesang walang kasing sarap. Na sa tingin ko'y isang malaking kabulastugan pa rin dahil sa totoo lang, di pwedeng di pwede ang sagot ng mga Pinoy kung laklakan din lang ang umpugan.

Ikatlo, wala talagang magandang idudulot ang masyadong pagpapasikat. Sa interbyu niyo ni Manny, puro ka satsat at pasaring, wala ka naman palang kwenta. Sabi mo ibibigay mo kay Manny ang hindi pa niya natitikman. Na kesyo ibabato mo ang tone-toneladang pressure sa kaniya. Na kesyo sa gabing magtatagpo kayo sa gitna ng boxing ring eh makakatikim si Manny ng kamaong mas mabigat pa ng 14 o 15 pounds kumpara kina Marquez o Barrera o Morales. Ano ka ngayon? Sows ka! Sa kangkungan ka rin pala pupulutin. Nangako-ngako ka pang "you are going to shock the world" eh ikaw pala ang masho-shock sa bilis ng mga pangyayari. Buwakanginang bibig yan! Kainin mo ngayon ang bayag mo, leche ka!

Ikaapat, ibitin mo nang patiwarik ang mas mayabang pa sa'yong coach mo dahil wala naman siyang ginawang makabubuti sa'yo bukod sa pagpapabango ng sarili niyang nanlilimahid na pangalan. Walang kasimbaho ang bawat pagbigkas niya ng salita sa mga presscon, na madalas sa madalas eh umaako sa lahat ng karangyaang natamasa mo. Sa tuwing bumubuka ang bibig niya upang iangat ang sariling ihi bago ang iyo, dumadagsa ang mga surot at ipis. Dumarami ang mga langaw na obyus na ipinagpalit ang gabundok na echas sa Payatas sa buwakanginang bunganga ng Mayweather Sr. na coach mo. Ganun katindi ang sangsang ng amoy na nag-uugat sa balun-balunan ng huwad na tagapayo mo. Ang mga ganitong klaseng nilalang eh walang karampatang parusa kundi bayagan hanggang sa lumabas ang kutsa-kutsarang tamod o di kaya eh ipakasta sa barakong baboy na may swine flu virus.

At utang na loob, pakisabi sa kaniyang daig pa ng grade one na umiihi sa sariling salawal ang mga likha niyang tulang walang kakwenta-kwenta at wala man lang saktong bilang ng mga kataga para tumugma ang ritmo ng mga linya, patunay na simula't sapol eh isa talaga siyang bopol na master of none:

Hey Pac, it’s over, so quit wishing on a four-leaf clover.
You will be uncrowned, with your head down,
on your chest, knowing that Ricky Hatton is the best.
I hope you know, you have got to go, it’s going to be Hitman Hatton by KO.

Ikalima, alam mo bang sa ginawa mo eh diyos-diyosan na naman pagbalik dito ng Pinas si Manny, sampu ng mga kampon niyang bitbit ang siksik-liglig na dolyares at patung-patong na namang TV commercial endorsements? Oo, natutuwa ako sa pagkapanalo niya maski papano dahil sikat na naman ang Pilipinas. Pamatid-uhaw sa nakakaumay na isyu ng palasak na korupsyon, ng walang kakwenta-kwentang mga batas at resolusyon na inihahain ng mga payaso sa Kongreso at Senado, ng pagpupumilit na pananatili ng de-nunal na babaeng pandak sa trono.

Nakatutuwa ngang isipin na sa pagbalik niya, hindi lang "bayan ng mga katulong" ni Tsip Chao o "bansa ng mga magnanakaw" ng World Bank ang pwedeng ibansag samin; maaari nang kilalanin ang Ikatlong Mundong bansang 'to bilang bayan na nagsilang sa mandirigmang may pinakamabilis na kamao sa buong mundo, ang pinakamagaling na pound-for-pound boxer na nagpatumba sa mga Mehikano't Briton. Pero alam mo ba ang kaakibat nito?

Masusuka na naman ang ulirat ko sa mga taragis na mukang nakabalandra sa lansangang kung pakatititigang maige eh naduduling na ang mga mata sa dami ng suntok na pinakawalan at tinanggap. Mauumay uli sa namumutiktik na patalastas ni Manny sa telebisyon, di bale na kung pilipit ang dila't kasing tigas ng titi kong naghuhumindig ang pagbigkas ng mga kataga. Magbibilang na naman ako ng ilang "You know" at "I mean" sa palasak na mga panayam sa kaniya ng kung sinu-sinong tao lalo na kapag nosebleed Inglesan na ang tanungan portion. Matotorete sa mga kacheapang kantang walang sawang ipapatugtog sa radyo bilang paggunita sa pagbabalik ng bayaning boksingero. Maririndi sa mga umpugan sa mga kalye at dyip at FX at maging sa putahang iyon at iyon pa rin ang taragis na topic - ang pagkapanalo ni Manny laban sa'yo sa loob lang ng humigit kumulang apat na minuto. Paulit-ulit. Paikot-ikot na pag-uusapang parang mga tanga dahil napanood na nga eh ikukuwento ule na animo'y hindi alam ang nangyari.

Huli't higit sa lahat, gusto kong magpasalamat sa'yo dahil sa ginawa mong pagkatalo, nabawasan ng limang daan ang kaha de yero ko at sa susunod na Linggo eh obligado akong magpainom sa mga lecheng sunog-bagang kabaro ko sa Pasig. Salamat talaga nang marami dahil sa kabalahuraang ginawa mo kanina, napagtanto kong size does not really matter. Nasa performance ang lahat. Nagmuka na nga akong traydor at balimbing sa sarili kong bayan dahil sa pagpanig ko sa'yo, magmumuka pa pala 'kong tangang pinagnakawan ng pera dahil sa maling Third World diskarte from hell. Kaya naman sa susunod, hindi na 'ko magpapasila sa laki. Itaga mo 'to sa kaliwang bayag mo Ginoong Hatton, kay Paquiao na ko poreber.

Manny Pacquiao for 2010, you know!

P.S.

Sarap palang bembangin ng gee-ep mo. Bloody hot British bitch. Yebah!



Update

Alam kong alam niyo na ang huling pangungusap sa blog post na 'to eh tigang na tigang sa kaseryosohan. Nagpapakatarantado lang talaga ako. Pero ano naman 'tong nabasa ko habang gumagala sa Intarnetz na malamang sa malamang nga eh may planong tumakbo 'etong si Manny sa pagka-pangulo. What. the. fuck.

Pacquiao weighed 138 pounds for the fight to 140 for Hatton, and was fighting a bigger man for the second time in a row. But nothing seems to bother the boxer who is so popular at home that there is talk of him running for president some day.

Canadian Brunettes With Perky Boobs Are Hotter Than Adamantium Claws (A Moview Review of X-Men Origins: Wolverine)

Nope, you're not mistaken. This is, indeed, a personal movie review of the much-hyped X-Men Origins: Wolverine, not some Third World porn blogging site posting pictures upon sick pictures of some nude women in all their lewd sexual positions. What you see on the left is an artistic shot (well, anything nude has always used the artistic excuse) of Lynn Collins, the actor who plays the Kayla Silverfox part in the movie, who is Wolverine's smokin' hot Canadian outlet for er...withdrawal of anger and Biogesic-induced migraines. So yeah, hear me sick sex perverts, the nude Kayla Silverfox heading this post is still tied up to this review apparently. Also, screw you for being more interested in the steamy photo than what I have to say regarding the movie itself.

I am penning this review not as some comic book geek who breathes and lives the Marvel Universe, reciting the names of every mutant imaginable with ease like The Lord's Prayer and discussing layers upon complicated layers of mythic X-Men lore but rather, as some regular dude who happens to be a certified couch potato raving or dissing films as he deems it fit and whose encounter with the epic comic book franchise goes only as deep as the memory of that X-Men TV series I've religiously watched during my pre-pubescent years sans the idiotic Tagalog dubbing, which is basically a good thing. (I mean, for chrissake, what exactly is the logic behind networks dubbing English cartoons in vernacular today? If anything, the gesture only implies how they're undermining the Pinoy viewer's intelligence; what douchebag A-holes these greedy corpo's are!)

So there we were, me and Binchee, my ever reliable drinking buddy-slash-call whoring teammate, going to the mall for some seemingly so-fuckin'-gay M2M date just because nobody else on the team would want to extend becoming adamantly awake and to watch the darn X-Men prequel (call whoring shift ended at 11AM, movie started at 2:30PM; do the Math). By the way, as I am already 15 hours awake beginning 12 MN last night, my apologies to the grammar OC readers for the typographical errors and glaring S-V disagreements and mediocre sentence run ons if there's any. I am, after all, writing this impromptu without the edits - the drooping eyelids temporarily abated by measly ounces of adamantium caffeine.

The problem with follow ups (be it prequel or sequel) of very successful movie franchises is that the film either ends up exceeding the expectations from a very loyal fanbase or it ends up falling flat on its face, receiving too much flak for gawd-knows-what reasons. It does not help that viewers are treated to very awesome, very cool, excellence par none trailers of next attractions prior to the actual flick runtime, thereby setting the mood to such comparable high demands and anticipations.

The abovementioned really really cool, really really awesome, really really coolawesome (wait...did I just create another adjective out of sheer, nerve-wracking excitement?) trailers I'm talking about are in the form of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen and Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. First, Transformers 2 promises a lot of gritty, first-rate machine mayhems between more Decepticons and Autobots. Second, judging by the epic display of eye-popping wizarding battles and jaw-dropping wand flicks, HB6 is love! Third, HB6 is love! And lastly, HB6 is love! Yeah, these are very rare instances when I take back what I said. I'm willing to be redundant to stress the point that HOLY FUCKIN' SHIT THE HB6 TRAILER IS SO AWESOME GAWDDAMN IT I CAN'T WAIT FOR JULY 18 HOLY FRACKIN' COW LOOK AT ALL THOSE INFERIS OH WOW OH WOW MY JAWS ARE DROPPING WITH ALL THOSE FREAKIN' MAGIC WAND SLASHING SWISHING CHURNING AVADA KEDAVRA STUPEFY RICTUSEMPRA HOLY SHIT SNAPE AND HIS "IT'S OVER" SNIPPET IS BLOODY CREEPY I WISH I WAS IN HOGWARTS WHAT THE FUCK I SOUND LIKE A MUGGLE RETARD YADDA YADDA YADDA.

HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HP6 IS COMING TO THIRD WORLD TOWN!

But I digress. The first few minutes in the opening credits set the tone for Wolverine's back story, building the pace of mutant-battles-his-own-mutant-existence plot. The war montage of how Wolverine and Sabretooth guard each other's back in one hellish piece of Commando action spanning four big battlefields (Civil War, World War I, World War II, and the Vietnam War) pretty much tells you how the two brothers (yes, much to my chagrin, they're brothers albeit with different surnames; what did I tell you about not being one hardcore X-Men fan?) are seemingly immortal mutants and toying on the idea of self-healing, how they end up in catfights over clawish catfights.

Between the two of them, Sabretooth undoubtedly possesses more of the animalistic blood and thereafter acts as one, which hauls both of them to Stryker's elite military group of mutants who will become America's arsenal of freakin' fighting machines. Still confused with fighting over his own demons, Wolverine pukes over the idea of becoming a killer to be a savior and becomes a Canadian hermit-slash-lumberjack, leaving the rest of the Stryker's skilled carousel freaks and eventually humping with a sex goddess girlfriend in the form of Kayla Silverfox (see nude photo above) in some some recluse mountain.

Here we see the not-too-original plot of "with great powers come great government usage" mantra. Stryker builds a not-too-ingenious plan of using Kayla Silverfox and Sabretooth to bait Wolverine from finally agreeing to be put to the Weapon X adamantium experiment. Kayla plays the part well in exchange of her sister's freedom and Sabretooth does the round-about killing spree in exchange of the adamantium claws itself, expounding the cliche of brothers getting jealous over what the other brothers have but they don't.

Sister, I soooo like your adamantium claws! Did you have that made through Gandang Mother Ricky Reyes?

From here, every piece of the rolling film becomes replays of fights over mutant fights of CGI proportions. Wolverine fights Sabretooth, Wolverine fights Agent Zero, Wolverine fights *surprise surprise* Gambit, Wolverine fights Sabretooth again, Wolverine fights botoxed and obesed obesed Blob, Wolverine fights Sabretooth some more, and finally, Wolverine culminates the hellish X-Men fighting over some Colossus arena with Weapon XI Deadpool (which leads me to asking: whatever happened to Weapons I to IX?; are Stryker's previous experiments total failures?).

While the actors' performance are quite commendable, their acting seems to have been overshadowed by the thinly thought-of plot, which lacks the complexities and rich-layered emotions present in other comic book films like say, The Dark Knight. As Zafra aptly puts it, there are really only a few plots in existence. X-Men Origins: Wolverine uses the Cain and Abel story, Frankenstein, and throws in a bit of Oedipus. Which is not to say entirely pathetic since for all I know, this is really how the Wolverine character grew and originated in the comic book-verse and the director only went as far as becoming faithful to the derivative. Again, let me reiterate that my knowing the entire X-Men saga is only as deep as the X-Men series I watched when I was a kid.

So yeah, if you're a regular dude who craves for belligerent badass CGI fight scenes of god-like powers, then this X-Men prequel won't disappoint. The mutant fight scenes are well-choreographed, the visual imagery are a rare eye-candy, and the special effects are worth the ticket. Oh and yes, you get a glimpse of Cyclops and Professor X, and some other mutants (I think I saw Toad in one cameo; or was it Nightcrawler?). Did I already mention Gambit played some parts for a reasonably long run time?

Ngeyoarr!!! Gimme that JLC and his fuckin' Biogesic commercial! I will shred that piece of hair-receding matinee idol to pieces!

If you're a flick geek though who almost always finds something wrong every after two minutes of the film's showing, meticuolously pointing out how Wolverine's devilish hair-do seems to be inconsistent or nitpicking on the multi-powered Deadpool's death of "that's it he gets decapitated by Wolverine's toaster-hot adamantium claws and he becomes a piece of dead mutant meat?" then I'd recommend to just download the ripped copy of the film, complete with the conspicuous strings and half-baked CGI.

Lio Loco's rating: Seven out of ten one-arm-amputated Wolverine plastic toy bust

Ngeyoarrr! Kids, don't try this at home. Accidentally cutoff my other arm during sleep! Ngeyoarr!

SPOILER WARNING: READING THIS POST PRIOR TO WATCHING THE MOVIE IS STRONGLY DISCOURAGED. BLOG CONTENT INCLUDE KEY PLOT SCENES THAT MAY BE DETRIMENTAL TOWARDS YOUR GETTING A SATISFACTION-GUARANTEED MOVIE VIEWING. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. AT WHICH POINT, YOU MAY HAVE ALREADY READ THE ENTIRE REVIEW. SO YEAH. WHAT. THE. FUCK.

UPDATE

The film, apparently, had three alternate endings:

1. Stryker walks down the road with toes wounded and bloody (Before Silverfox died, she controlled Stryker to "walk until his feet bled" as opposed to just commanding him to pull the trigger on his head.). A military officer apprehends him for being responsible in one general's killing.

This is the ending that I saw during the movie.

2. Deadpool's hand is shown reaching from the rubble of the nuclear complex to touch his decapitated head, whereupon the head comes to life and makes a brief hushing sound before the scene fades to blackness.

This may be to indicate Weapon XI's further exploits in succeeding sequels of the movie.

3. Wolverine drinks in a bar in Japan and a woman approaches him. She asks whether he's drinking to forget; he responds, "to remember."

A clear indication that X-Men Origins: Wolverine's plot will have Japan as the setting. I was told that Wolverine sired a son in Japan in the original comic book story. This may be hinting at the movie closely following the comic book's story in future films.

Survey Says

On a more or less related note, here's the result of last post's survey regarding the best potential Hollywood blockbuster flick that people can't wait to see in the theaters:

1. Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince (38%)

2. Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (33%)

3. Angels and Demons (10%)

4. X-Men Origins: Wolverine (14%)

5. Dragon Ball Z Evolution (5%)

This week's survey (upper right-hand side) asks bandwidth bystanders to give their two cents' worth on which language would Lio Loco be most effective in this piece of Internet domain. Clicking is free so feel free to chip in your thoughts. Participation will be very much appreciated!

How It Actually Feels To Be in Deep Shit and Still Come Out Stinkingly Mirthful (A Movie Review of Slumdog Millionaire)

I have been addicted to movies lately and the friggin’ thought of becoming a movie critic who’d rather spot the ugly, imperfect technicalities than digest the film as a scapegoat for life’s sickening shits is making me cringe. Suddenly, I am reminded by Jessica Zafra and her obsession over Roger Federer and everything tennis, stinking sweat and all!

Perhaps the reinvigorated drive over love for the rolling film is anchored by my desire to weed out the B-listed bluff that could potentially ruin my next movie date with HER. I would have to admit the first date didn’t go rather well as we had to watch the last full show of one hideous suspense thriller, which went into the habit of cutting on and off, the image in the big screen becoming blurry in several instances, the characters speaking garbled lines like how some Wowowee deejay scratches the rolling film to produce that annoying screeching sound, thereby making the horror flick a put-on mirthful encounter instead. I would like to think I’ve learned my lesson albeit at the expense of my own pogi points. So that gives me the right to articulate a crisp R18 invective. Here goes my triple exclamation point-laden barrage:

Fuck that Haunting of Molly Suck-My-Moist-Clit Bitch from Hell movie!!! You fuckin’ ruined my first date and your fuckin’ flick poster deceived me to fuckin’ toss in my 300 bucks!!! Fuck the director and all the fuckin’ actors!!! Fuck you all, you double douchebag clusterfucks!!!

Now, give me a few minutes to breathe and compose myself.

So yes, my loyal three readers, I am spurting out another movie review yadda yadda in the hopes that the next time I take the cinema lounge with HER, we are spared from sitting through a lame plot teeming with characters from hell and scripts so badly written you’d rather make your own three-minute sex video for the Bluetooth masses. This time around, I watched a Bollywood-flavored movie and surprisingly, I found it quite good really. For a cynical, angst-ridden bastard who almost always looks at shot glasses half-empty rather than half-full, this is saying something.

Having reviewed the much ballyhooed Benjamin Button as clearly just a lame Forrest Gump copycat, I felt vindicated to hear that the Brad-Cate tandem lost to some obscure third-world actors (I don’t know, is India still considered Third World?) for the Golden Globes plum. For such rare occurrence when A-list actors in an A-list movie get ditched by unknown brown-skinned thespians, I become doubtful and ask: Is democracy really reverberating in America or are the Awards people just following through the current Ch-ch-change fad that is Barack Obama? Whatever the reason may be, the director who likewise gave us the engagingly neurotic Trainspotting and the hauntingly raw 28 Days Later deserves to be lauded for crafting such a fine film opus, an ingenuous cross and compromise of brutality and beauty, of sorrows and laughters, of suspended disbeliefs and leap of faiths.

Here’s the reel deal: We have Jamal, an 18-year-old Indian errand boy of sorts in a call center, hurled into an unusual territory as a player of the hugely popular game show “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” after a string of adventures and misadventures. He is on the verge of answering the final question to get the 20M rupees and the illiterate, teenage dirtbag that he is, he becomes suspected of cheating his way to the final round and is consequently arrested by the police.

Director Danny Boyle douches us with early drama as we witness how Jamal gets tortured by the fat lard policeman and hereon, Jamal takes us to his exhilarating life journey, filled to the brim of moving characters and rowdy panache, a distinct trademark of Bollywood movies. As he is interrogated by the police for unbelievably answering all the questions correctly, even using only one lifeline for a very simple interrogative that even a grade schooler can surely answer, the young protagonist harks back to bits and pieces of his early childhood in a series of flashbacks that apparently does not make you dizzy and nauseous but rather, makes you giddy and mirthful instead.

Suddenly, what you see isn’t exactly India and its squalor but rather, our very own Pinoy poverty, with its fetid entrails of Payatas children and blind beggars and collapsible shacks and everyday shit cakes, complete with fuckin’ flies to boot. You wonder whether the plot was really set in Mumbai, India or here in our frenzied Tondo, Manila. That I was able to relate in spite of mostly subtitled character clashes (the fresh, brilliant subtitle pop ups were really cool, by the way; I liked that they were placed strategically in all parts of the screen, instead of the stereotypical bottom-of-the-screen position) only proves how universally relevant the movie really is.

This is what a movie should strive for – people watching the flick not really because it has A-list, pedicured and spoiled Hollywood stars in the title role or because it is helmed by some contemporary toast-of-the-town director or because it is being produced by a big-budgeted film outfit but rather, because they get what the film is trying to convey and they see themselves in it, or at the very least, because they are entertained by it.

If there’s one part of the movie that I find endearingly wicked and hilariously awful, it would have to be the seven-year-old Jamal stuck in a queer dilemma that requires an immediate decision. Stuck inside a cramped Third World toilet (the kind of primitive toilet, usually found in far-flung provinces, where shit goes straight into a hapless body of water, no flushing needed) courtesy of his mischievous brother, Jamal had to decide how to get out of the four-walled wooden cubicle real quick to get the autograph of his favorite Indian action star. Pinching his nose and raising his other picture-carrying hand to save the Bollywood star’s picture from poop splotches, he thinks of the unthinkable and drowns himself in deep shit to get out of the crap booth. The result is an insanely comedic wonder of a running rascal covered entirely with slimy, stinking shit save the picture-carrying hand and waddling his way to the crowd to get the much sought-after autograph.

Maybe it just had the perfect timing. I don’t know. At a time when the entire human race is grappling over some worldwide recession and a Holocaust-inspired wars in the Middle East, people are definitely eager for some goodie-goodie I-will-survive flicks, affirming the message that in spite of you wallowing in deep shit, literally or otherwise, life can still be beautiful. But this I have to tell you: If you’re planning on a movie date with someone significant and build up pogi points over it, you might want to consider this pauper-gone-prince romantic fairy tale as a suave tool to swerve your arms at her hips, plant a kiss, and for the diabolical maniacs brimming with pirated DVD porn libido, end up in 7th heaven fornication at a nearby SOGO motel.

That’s, of course, after the credits begin to roll. You want to get your money’s worth, right?

Yes, You Could Be a 70-Year-Old Wrinkle and Still Enjoy Brothel Sex (A Movie Review of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button)

The problem with the much-ballyhooed Metro Manila Film Festival is that it insults the Pinoy demographic ’s intellect. Year after friggin’ year, producers churn out a steady supply of recycled plot of laugh-out-loud comedy scripts that border from pointblank idiocy to box-office-tested mushiness. You check the list of this year’s offering and suddenly, you understand why the movie industry is ailing like an AIDS victim. Save perhaps a few films (heck, is Baler, this year’s MMFF Best Picture even worth watching, anyway?), this year’s lineup seems to offer a formulaic comedy structure that contributes nothing to the moviegoers’ consciousness, or at the most, to the Filipino society’s identity, except give at least two hours of shallow delirium and hilarity. If this is representative of the Philippines’ movie quality, then I’d rather stab the movie industry to death. What’s next, Putangina Niyong Lahat? Sheesh.

So yes, instead of spending close to a hundred bucks and becoming more stupid sitting over some cheap hilarity parade, I retreated to watching a downloaded DVD ripped screener copy of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. (Fine, the copy is pirated, I am a DVD pirate. But tell me someone who does not subscribe to Quiapo’s milieu of Muslim Dibidi’s and I will tell you who you are. You’re from Mars, you effin’ clusterfuck!) The movie, being starred by two of Hollywood’s much sought after, A-list actors notwithstanding, is one flick that is worth the ticket and popcorn box (unless it’s being moved, I am aware its showing in the country will be this 18th). Out of the blue, you wonder why our movies, in spite of the Filipino race’s sheer ingenuity and creativeness, pale in comparison with the F. Scott Fitzgerald short story adaptation.

While I will have to admit that this will not make the cut of My Favorite Movies criterion (I am a sucker for blood and gore. Ha!), the film still very well delivers an eye candy palette of beautiful imagery that overshadows the story of a man born as a baby with 70-year-old wrinkles who curiously ages backwards. At the onset of the movie where you are delighted to a Warner Brothers logo of falling button mirage, the Fincher flick would like to promise you a colorful story which, by the title alone, would be so curious indeed you’re convinced it won’t happen in real life. So you hold on to your seat, become mesmerized by a queer fable, and get out of the movie house afterwards to sleep after being read tonight’s fairy tale from the 18th century.

The movie is told first, from an ailing, prosthetics-made up Cate Blanchett’s point of view, the story’s Daisy after whom Benjamin Button has taken a puppy love liking that later on, will blossom to a decaying, tragic love story. Daisy is dying and while she awaits Death’s arrival, the almost impossibly audible 80-year-old asks her daughter to read from a diary – her father’s, Benjamin Button’s, actually – that will make up the movie’s almost three hour running. Suddenly, this scene will give you a familiar déjà vu and then you remember Titanic’s Rose’s retelling of her tragic love story with the pauper Jack.

From hereon, the narrator shifts to Benjamin Button’s point of view and you are regaled by a story of a baby that will remind you of Voldemort’s shrunken form who is abandoned by his vile father , not only because his wife dies giving birth to the unlucky child but more so because of his son’s unacceptable, hideous facial features. Baby Boy more repugnant than Hellboy is adapted by a big-hearted Black American to the protestation of the Negro lover and here we see Brad Pitt in his various digitally-mechanized forms, from the wrinkled seven-year-old with the voice of a grouchy adult diaper-laden old man to a fortyish folk finally of just the right age to fornicate with the normal fortyish Daisy to even a Botox-treated Brad Pitt in his acne-confused teens.

Benjamin grows up and, at a snail’s pace, improves on his physical appearance, leaving behind his mundane Black American-reared childhood and his first love with a young Cate Blanchett to explore the world and taste what exactly does life has to offer him. Young Daisy demands equally-young but old-looking Benjamin to send her post cards from all over the world and from this point forward, you know the narrative is destined to become one tragic love story. I gasp at how exactly this beautiful young Daisy, naïve and quite easily a virgin still, could fall in love with a creased, ugly seventyish-looking man and I become perplexed. Then again, your subconscious shoves up your ass the friggin’ truth that this is, indeed, just an Aesop fairy tale. For chrissake, it won’t happen in real life.

While Benjamin becomes a tugboat crew and becomes charmed over new interesting places, Daisy also molds her life to become a regal ballet dancer, stunning and graceful at that. Curiously, you can’t seem to take Cate Blanchett out of her TLOTR’s Lady Galadriel mold and wonder how such an Elvin deity will soon have sex with the shrunken Lord Voldemort clone wrapped in blankets as described in Book 7. You wonder, where have all the chemistry gone? And are Brad and Cate screen-compatible at all?

Throughout the course of the movie, we get to meet quirky characters who will largely make an influence on young-slash-old Benjamin Button’s take on life’s trivialities as love and death and time and waiting. We have the fucked up pastor of some pseudo-religion from Gomorrah believing to have divine powers to make crippled Benjamin walk again who later on becomes an irony of his own belief after staggering to heart attack death. We have the Negro boyfriend of Benjamin’s foster mother, Queenie, who recites some Shakespearean lines in an odd Black American accent. We have a British English-speaking tugboat captain drunkard who christens the seventeen-year-old Benjamin’s virginity (again, you must remember that Button looks like an old folk at this point) with some cheap brothel sex, dumbfounded how a 70-year-old man could live just fiddling with his own sausage and not dipping it to some hot sauce pan (the captain, after all, is Irish). We have the elegant woman whom he falls in love to while far away from his Daisy and who teaches Benjamin how to indulge adultery with some sophisticated caviar.

As the movie reaches its innuendo, director Fincher expects the moviegoers to sigh and become sappy with Benjamin and Daisy finally meeting up in their forties and now becoming compatible to a goodie goodie unconventional, dusk-till-dawn fornication. Eventually, as the premise dictates, the age clash will arise, and while Daisy matures and ages as a wine, Benjamin crawls down to an age of freckles and young masturbation overdose. The ending is poignant as it tells a love story so tragic emotions will surely run high in its closing. Young Daisy finally withers to a shrunken grannie nursing a diaper-laden baby Benjamin and she tells the audience how she felt Baby Benjamin knew her and the love that they shared as he closed his eyes to final goodbye.

Sappy and sentimental, indeed, but for a narcissistic, angst-ridden bastard in orgiastic rmoans recluse, it was too overdosed with pictures of unnecessary cinematography. For a movie that wants to tell the value of time, of life being temporal, I find it too odd for it to dwell extravagantly on extending the flick run with redundant ironies.

Benjamin Button tells us, “Mamma always said, Life is like a ticking clock — you never know when it’s gonna stop.” And then a line like that rings into your ears. Suddenly, you remember Forrest Gump and its “Life’s like a box of chocolate” gem. It’s a curious case, indeed, how such much-touted Oscar frontrunner seems to borrow much from a well-revered film classic.

Update:

Just read Jessica Zafra’s blog and apparently we share the same sentiments. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is reeking with copy-paste Forrest Gump rehash. Bleech! Run, Benjamin, Run. Harhar!

Ahhh….You Give Us Inebriating Orgiastic Moans, Eva Fonda.

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-yummy jeezuz-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, and fiddling 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

I’m Cool In Spite of the Longest Notes I’ve Ever Written in My Almost 20-Month-Long Call Center Life

I have a feeling all the Twilight cosmic powers out there connived to make my life miserable today. Or at least, tried to make my life miserable today. I am assuming this is the karmic force that they’re trying to shove up my ass for lambasting their sissy story up there in the deity status yesterday.

But no, I will not say I have been grievously affected, or at the very least, that my pessimistic spirit has been dampened by the unfortunate event that transpired today. And yes, I stand by my verdict that this much-ado-about-nothing American novel is still overrated.

While I type this, my eyes are stinging from protestations of only getting four hours doze that would mean inevitably hoarding the call center vendo with cups upon cups of Nescafe black coffee without sugar to combat the drowsiness later. While I shudder at the thought of having to sleep through a call later and mumble about troubleshooting steps incomprehensible, the crow’s feet lining around my eyes and the accompanying hollow spots below these two windows to my soul seem to remind me that I’m going to have one tough night this Saturday shift.

Allow me to relay what happened.

As you could very well remember, this morning was supposed to be our schedule for the screening of the cinematic adaptation of the wretched novel in Greenbelt. The plan was to while away the two hour grace period (we log out at 6AM; the movie starts at 8AM) by polluting the Makati air with videoke shrieks of redundant OPM covers and cheap Western pop shindigs. I didn’t know if that plan pushed through for while my teammates may have already robbed the ATM boxes of its oodles (a hefty sum withdrawn per transaction; it is our pay day and 13th month at the same time), I was being crucified inside the gawddamn call center building trying to extend my patience to the nth degree for some SOB who, in spite of the obvious Thanksgiving flair filling the air, still managed to tinker on his computer when everyone else was busy preparing to cook the friggin’ motherfuckin’ turkey.

In the tradition of Vantage Point montage, let us return a few minutes before my prolonged incarceration in the freakin’ 4th floor computer station:

I have always trained my reflex to press the logout button as quick as possible when the shift is at its dying minutes because I don’t want any long calls extending my shift for that day and yes, Virginia, because I am avoiding the ominous heavy traffic when the clock strikes seven. Imagine my horrors then when two minutes before officially logging out of the phones, my AVAYA phone beeped and registered a motherfuckin’ clusterfuck call from some cursed, gawddamn Occidental state.

At first, I kept my cool and answered the call without any hesitation because it was holiday in the US and the queue was kept to its lowest; I only had three calls so far averaging around 15-17 minutes and I needed another call to at least lower down my Average Handling Time (I know, this already sounds like a call center gibberish but let me explain: Every call center agent has some metrics to meet to determine how well he is performing. AHT is one of them; you take calls in the quickest time possible, you get an A for the AHT metric. In lay man’s term, AHT is one of the subjects that you need to pass and the metric would be your class card.) .

What I assumed as a simple connectivity issue for the customer became a complicated, multi-layered issue that opened the Pandora’s box and all its evil entrails. Lo and behold, my 13 minute AHT target had gone down the drain and I found myself beating my personal best for the longest notes that I’ve ever written in my almost 20-month call center life:

►as per repeat contact rule, did not capture email address
►found the following notes from the last agent:

cant connect
661XXXXXX
Jerry Ng
ngsonthehood@XXXX.com
error in UDI
cx has RCA DCM425
powercycle
internet cable link - green
cx was trying to update
antivirus - CA
ipconfig
192.168.1.100
cx is connecting a nonXXX
linksys router
bypass router
76.87.169.132 - valid ip
ping rr ip - transferred
error code 65
sent 4, received 0 100%loss
checked CA - warning update
failed
ping www.XX.com - 100%loss
ping IP - 100%loss
ping default 76.87.160.1
gateway - 100%loss

LA North TRB397250 OUTAGE
advised cx to check internet after 2 hours
gave ticket #

►spoke with Jerry, husband of account holder
►checked udi, modem is now online
►cus is using a Linksys router not provided by ISP
►asked cus to bypass the router
►asked cus to powercycle modem
►checked physical connections, ok
►tried to access other sites, no go
►ipconfig, 192.168.100.1
►arp -a, ok
►checked physical connections, ok
►no router connected
►checked lan, ok
►both ip address, dns server address obtained automatically
►checked nic, ok
►ipconfig, 76.87.169.132
►ping yahoo.com, connection failed: error code 65
►checked firewall
►cus has ETrust Armor anti virus
►but getting warning: update failed
►asked cus to open it, no go
►same error message
►cus tried to update ETrust anti virus at the help.XX.com website, afterwhich the problem started
►will uninstall ETrust via add/remove programs
►restarted the pc
►opened ie, cus got website
►directed cus to twcurl.com to download security software
►cus not yet registered to the new security software
►authenticated mac id
►reset master email password
►registered cus for the new security software
►gave the new license key
►walked cus thru the steps of downloading and running the installer
►restarted pc
►opened ie, opening too sloooooooooooooooow
►ping yahoo.com, 68.180.206.184
►opened ie, browser still opening really slow
►asked cus if he experienced a lot of pop ups opening lately, cus said none
►checked security software, attention needed for anti-virus, anti-spyware and firewall
►asked cus to hit on secure now for the three components
►firewall secured, but anti-virus and anti-spyware still needs attention
►asked cus to open advanced settings of anti-virus
►enabled real-time protection, ok
►did the same thing with anti-spyware, no go
►anti-spyware still getting attention needed
►asked cus to hit on secure now for the anti-spyware, ok
►was able to secure all of the components
►scanned the pc for spywares, found 104 spywares
►quarantined the spywares
►opened ie, cus got website but still pretty slow
►asked cus to check the speed
►download, 9834kbps; upload, no go
►working on it for too looooooooooong now
►used a different speed test site
►download, 9836kbps; 968kbps
►informed cus that speed is okay
►optimized browser, ie7, taking a looooooooooooong time to clear the cache and cookies
►restarted pc
►checked net connection, now much faster
►connected Linksys router back
►did sequential powercycling
►opened ie, pcbd
►ipconfig, 192.168.1.101
►ping yahoo.com, no go
►explained to cus that the problem would have to be with the router
►advised cus to contact Linksys router tech support
►gave the router oem number
►cus wants to connect back directly to the modem
►bypassed router and directly connected modem
►powercycled modem
►checked connection, ok
►tried other sites, ok
►referred to online help site
►educated cus about sequential powercycling and other tips on how to optimize the speed
►cus understood
►no further assistance

I finished the call about 15 minutes before eight o’clock. At that time, my exhaustion and my hunger for snooze have taken whatever curiosity I had left to check out the movie version of the The-Sissy-Novel-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. By that time as well, I’m pretty certain my teammates are already at the Greenbelt cinemas, already giddy and all, ready to be thrilled by the kilig moments of that forgettable B-list movie about a sissy fanged boy who cannot even bite the female protagonist’s neck (for crying out loud, he IS a vampire!) and a young beautiful bitch seemingly high on marijuana for salivating over the male lead.

So what’s the next best thing to do? Being the SSDDish that I am, I smiled at all the mishap that happened (that deviously mischievous smile that told you there’s something for the inning and you would die never knowing the evil secret behind the grin), deleted the unfortunate event in my system, bore the brunt and delighted my subconscious with a sumptuous Shrimp Surfer breakfast.

I’m cool and your Twilight karmic powers cannot unleash the freakin’ crabbiness lurking within me, much more make my life miserable, because I have my bloated ATM card to dispense and nothing can change the fact that your friggin’ motherfuckin’ double douche bag recycled sissy story still sucks!