Originally, I started this blog just to dip my finger in the water, so to speak. That’s why, this blog is obviously aimless and kinda lost along the road. I started with a journal type entries which then mutated into a humor blog and finally, metamorphosed into – i didn’t know anymore. Things abruptly got out of hand. There were just too many things to say and write. The sperms are ogling to get out my head as fast as they could possibly impregnate the blog.

Now, I have a plan. Or at least I think I have a plan. I’d like to blog about my religious thoughts from now on. I’d like to put them in a medium where they transcend my own existence with a hope that, someday, someone would take notice.

Why religion? First, it’s what always occupies my mind. The sperms are becoming more religious by the minute. Second, I’d like to spend the rest of my life pursuing the subject as far as my finite mind would allow. A sort of personal challenge to see at what point would I truly nose bleed. Third, religion has never been a boring topic. It never ceases to arouse contentions and debate. And I have this weird urge to want to be in the middle of it all.

So, I guess I just have to use this old blog for a while as a sort of an ac hoc tool until my mind (the sperms actually) finally settles on something else.

The video below is taken from “mantraparaiso”.

Here’s another video about future civilization from “ephekto”:

"My global warming cup is getting colder by the minute."

While holding my _____, I would read words such as:

“James was here, 1985” or

“Dicky, son of a @#$%*”

Some words left vital pieces of information to start a flame such as “call me 09556898475”. One must be aware though that comfort rooms are designed to be used for people of the same sex. Ergo, the ones who leave behind their mobile numbers are 100% gay.

Obviously these words you read on the walls aren’t worth your preoccupation, but because you spend about 5 to 10 minutes urinating, you can’t avoid reading them all. There’s just nothing to do for the moment but to read these words. And if the comfort room is in your workplace or school, you get to read them every time you pee.

Because of the frequency, such reading becomes automatic. And for every automatic reading, you slap your face real hard.

“James was here, 1985”

“Dicky son of a @#$%*”

“Oh Shssh I’m reading them again!” SLAP!!!

And here’s the law of nature: when you read certain words repeatedly, you end up memorizing them. The morbid part is that these words tend to surface when you are in life and death situations: someone pokes a knife at your back and demands your wallet and all you could ever think of is:

“James was here, 1985”

“Dicky son of a @#$%*”

While I was in law school, I get to read these words myself. During exams, when I would go to the comfort room to recall the answers to some very difficult questions, there on the wall right before me:

“James was here, 1985”

“Dicky son of a @#$%*”

And I would say:

“Oh Shssh I’m reading them again!” SLAP!!!

Law school is 4 years long. And for that span of time, I have read those words countless of times already. The words were itched in my brain and so the reading became automatic. So I kinda accepted this behavior and made some few innovations. Everytime I urinated, I would say:

“Yeah, I know James. You were here squatting on that bowl in 1985”

“Sure Dicky, you’re a son of a @#$%*. Nothing will ever take that away from you”

Then graduation came, and I felt a little sad leaving James and Dicky on the walls of that school comfort room. I felt an affinity with that guy in the movie “Castaway” who cried his heart out losing “Wilson!” on the deep, cruel ocean. But I had to face a new world and a new life; that of a new lawyer.

Now on my first litigation, I went to one of the comfort rooms in the Hall of Justice to urinate. And while holding my _____, there on the comfort room wall:

“Kirk was here, 1995”

“Doug, son of a @#$%*”

For warm-ups.

What’s so special about hotdogs other than its highly suggestive name and physical appearance? It can actually be turned into a serious national sport or an Olympic game. I’m referring to a hotdog eating contest. The Associated Press recently, reported the exploits of a three-time hotdog eating contest champion, somewhere in New York, who logged his third consecutive winning streak. The hotdog eating contest is now gaining international coverage.

This game is not to be belittled. This is a high dangerous game. There is a high probability that contestants may choke to death. With such accidents, the end result would be a very undesirable sight: a man choked to death with 6 super jumbo hotdogs on his mouth and with eyes popping out of its sockets.

The mechanics of this game is simple. At the sound of the bell, contestants out-swallow each other with bundles of 6 to 7 super jumbo hotdog sticks. The mouth is pretty much abused in this case but with the help of a glass of water, the chunks of jumbo hotdogs slide through the esophagus down to the trachea. The one who eats the most number of jumbo hotdogs wins the contest.

Just like any other sports, contestants in a hotdog eating contest takes the necessary preparations to prim themselves up for the game. Since the mouth is the vital organ here, the contestants practice swallowing large objects, such as the fat part of a French bread or whole loaf bread. For warm ups, contestants swallow a roll of Kleenex bathroom tissue.

Contestants also develop, with deadly accuracy, the ability to breathe while the mouth is heavily soaked with jumbo hotdogs. This act belongs actually to the category of stunts. The fine maneuver of stuffing, eating, chewing, eye popping and most importantly, breathing, is what this game all about. There’s a similarity between this game and that stunt pulled by Kill Bill in one of the luxury hotels of Thailand.

In the Philippines, we have what is called banana eating contest. The bananas used in this game are the ones exported by “Stanfilco”, the big banana export company here in the Philippines. Stanfilco bananas are quite massive and long. They range from 8 to 10 inches long with diameters of 3 inches thick. No water is allowed here, just the lubrication of one’s saliva.

With the media coverage these games are getting nowadays, I would not be surprised if the Olympic committee decides to integrate them into the roster of its official games. That would surely be fun.

This monumental discovery comes at the most unexpected moments. When the people you meet cover their eyes as if hurt by a searing light, know for sure that your hair is fast retreating. It now turns into some sort of an instrument – a deflector of some kind.

With hair loss, the person suffering therefrom realizes that there are now fewer hairstyles which are suitable to his face. The hair simply doesn’t fit squarely on the face anymore. It’s like forcing a square peg on a round hole.

Some found a remarkable remedy to this problem. They let their hair grow to a desirable length on one side so they can flip it over to cover the balding part. Someone coined a term for it: “side flip”. The only setback to this ingenuity is when a gushing wind would blow the chaffs away from the balding part and expose the shiny stump.

The solution is found on some super sticky chemicals that can be spread over the hair to keep them stuck on the skull and not blown away. These sticky chemicals are called Gels in today’s technological milestone. They are actually the current offspring of pomades. Pomades were particularly manufactured in large doses during World War I and World War II. They gained popularity in leaps and bounds during the 1950’s.

I remember as a young boy buying a sachet of pomade called “The Beatles”. A dear friend highly recommended the substance, which at that time, cost only about 2 cents. I used it liberally on my head and it felt like a lump of wax splattered on my scalp. I felt particularly cool about it, but when I walked around the school premises under the scorching sun, the “Beatles” melted down my face. When I touch my hair, the slimy phlegm of pomade was all over my fingers. That was the last time I used “The Beatles”.

Hair loss is also a moment of arrival. A balding person is initiated into an elite organization and becomes a full-fledge member thereof, albeit reluctantly. Sadly though, there are those who refuse to be ushered in to this special community. They are living in abject denial all through their worrying days.

Once I saw a fully bald person who tattooed a full, lush hair on his skull obviously with a surly purpose of misleading the general public about the true status of his hair. The resultant effect is that the head is outrageously scary. Actually, I got mixed feelings. I could not quite make up my mind whether to laugh or to feel really scared. The man looked like a Barbie doll minus the hair, with visible holes all over his skull machine gunned by the needles of the sewing machine.

Others conveniently hide behind wigs. But wigs make the person wearing it really look stupid. I can detect a wig on someone’s scalp from 5,000 miles away. Wigs look exactly like Barbie doll hairs. One cannot truly maintain an atmosphere of formality in front of a man who wears a wig. The wig simply looks awfully awkward with the human face.

A friend of mine fortunately, is not in denial. He accepted wholeheartedly the barren fact that he is finally initiated into this secret, Da Vinci type organization. So he shaves his head fully, not succumbing to the idea of allowing his hair to grow extraordinarily long on one side, to flip it over to the balding part. Although he has a monstrous mole right in the middle of his nape, he manages to shave the roots around the mole so that no blood is ever shed.

For my part, I kinda looked at this scenario from a distance and have readied myself to the eventual fate. For sure I won’t be in denial and I won’t wear a wig. And hopefully, there would be no monstrous mole on my nape to spare myself from the trouble of cutting the roots around it.

Last two days ago I had my hair cut. And this is because I passed by a barbershop. One thing I must tell you however, I will not, even for a single instant, allow the barber to decide what particular haircut I would have. I had the cruelest mistake in the past to have surrendered to the barber exactly what kind of hair cut he would bestow on my hair:

“What kind of hairstyle sir?”

“Please have your way. Just make me at least five years younger than my actual age”

When the barber had finished what he thought was his masterpiece on my head, lo and behold, I looked exactly like him. My hair now was the exact replica of his hairstyle.

“I did a crew cut on your hair sir. It’s my favorite” this barber said.

I was ash fallen. How could I face the world now? Hesitantly, I had to stay home and hibernate for five years, waiting for my hair to grow. This barber was in the cloning business and I was a willing victim. He clones his hairstyle to those who commit the mistake of saying “just make me at least five years younger…” I actually looked 30 years younger with this crewcut.

To add injury to my misfortune, I could not blame him for the crew cut on my scalp because I gave him the key to this nightmarish result. What I could do, and this I really did, was to give him just a P5.00 tip. I had planned to be generous with him by giving him P20.00. He practically forfeited his fortune of P15.00 for the simple act of beaming his favorite cut on my head.

My nightmare refused to subside. When my dear friends saw my head, I could almost read the lines screaming on their faces “What the!” What is so disconcerting is when after the instantaneous “what the!”, they would clamp their mouths with their hands. Others had the audacity of asking me whether the one who did the murderous haircut was still alive so they could perpetrate a cold and calculated revenge on my behalf.

So I became extra-careful about my haircut. Every single nip of the scissors I would interfere in the activity to have my exact instructions be carried out on my hair.

“No clippers please”

“That’s enough right there”

“Yeah that’s fine but could you please cut a litter over here?”

The barber would be fuming mad. Countless times the film “slasher” would replay itself in my mind as the barber would shave the ends of my hair strands as finishing touches. I could feel the barber entertained this idea too as I could feel his knuckles clutching my neck deeper than usual.

My last haircut about two days ago was fine though. I savor the pleasure of having triumphed over the barber on how to go about my hair. This is a battle I am armed to keep till the last strands of my hair.

In this conversation, I played a role of an innocent, antiquated, missionary-position type guy to spur these people to freely reveal what they think about the Philippine Health Bill. I accomplished this by showing awe and bewilderment for every word they said. The more “awed” I appear to these sexual gurus, the more they divulged what they believe about sex and artificial contraception.

“The Church (Roman Catholic) is really against the use of artificial contraceptives. Are you in favor of this?” I asked.

“Yeah, I agree with the Church” answered one with a poker face.

The Roman Catholic Church believes that sexual intercourse is for no other purpose than procreation. Any sexual act for any other reason than this is sin.

“You know why I hate artificial contraceptives?” he asked.

“You mean condoms?” I countered.

“Yeah, you know why?”

“Because they rob me of the pleasure” poker face sneered.

“I thought you’re going to say that it’s because sex is only for procreation” I said.

“Yeah, that too. But the reason I am against the use of condoms is because it lessens the pleasure. That’s it!” said poker face.

“Do you like your wife to be ligated?” I asked the other guy  who is a look-alike of Berting Labra.

“Definitely not!” he said.

“Why not? Don’t you like the idea of family planning?” I asked.

“Yeah, family planning is ok but if a woman is ligated, she will seek sex more often. And because I can’t possibly give it because of my age, she will definitely cheat on me.” Berting Labra answered.

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“That’s the side effect of ligation. I personally know husbands whose wives cheated on them because of the uncontrollable sexual urges as the side effect”. Berting said in a way as if stating a universal fact.

“Have you heard that the City Mayor gives P5,000 for every woman who agrees to undergo ligation?” I teased.

“That is really wrong. Remember the side effect!” poker face said.

“The City Mayor though, lowered the price down to P4,000 because it heaped the ire of the Church”. I said.

“What about vasectomy. Are you in favor of it? I teased them again.

“No, no, no, no. I will never, ever submit my precious possession to that. Never!” cried Berting Labra.

“Why not? I think it’s but fair. While we encourage women to undergo tubal ligation, we must also be willing  to undergo vasectomy. Right?” I countered.

“Yeah that may be correct. But I always considered my ability to impregnate as something sacred.”

“You mean you balls are sacred?” I asked.

“You could say that, yes.” Poker faced said.

To counter this ever increasing trend, the church’s archdioceses have set out advisories to its parishioners to make sure that the swine flu is nowhere near the altar.

As a virus, the swine flu is transmitted from person to person via the involuntary machinery of the esophagus – that is, coughing. In other words, people just cough out the swine flu from one to another. It is quite dreadful to see this activity right in the middle of the mass; it would then be the mass production of the disease.

So what’s the advisory all about? It is quite practical in its approach to the disease.

First, empty the stoups of holy water. If the stoups are empty of holy water, people would simply not dip their fingers on it, right? Not quite. People still dip their fingers on the stoup even in the absence of the holy water. In fact, the parishioners rub their fingers on the stoup, treating the stoup as stamp pads.

Second, parishioners are prohibited from wiping the holy images and statues with their hankies. What do people use their hankies for? They use it for just about anything – picking their noses, wiping extra saliva, covering their mouths when coughing and sneezing. With all these dirt and bacteria on the hankie, it is simply immoral to wipe it on the holy images and the statues.

Lastly, the holy host must not be given by mouth but only be placed in the hand of those receiving communion. This is logical because there can be occasions when the parishioner may swallow not just the holy host but the finger of the one giving it. The virus is literally licked in such case.

Recently, there has been thinking about closing the churches altogether as a drastic measure to prevent the spread of the disease. Even the church is far from being spared from this mysterious pandemic.