The violent side of my brain

I have hurt some guys in the past. I once whacked someone's head open and turned another guy's face into a funny looking abstract of sorts. I've done a few stuff that I should not have done but nothing that I regret. If those things happen all over again, probably, I'd do the same. Maybe I'll do better. Who knows these things? My advice to you, "take a cue from Tony Soprano, ladies and gentlemen".

It was Jesus Christ who whipped and thrashed the market stalls outside the temple. The merchants were selling all sorts of vile stuff outside the temple, at the temple steps, I don't know, maybe even inside there's a fellow going "hey, dude, want to buy a sundial... or a camel blind?" If I were Jesus, I'd do the same. I'm the son of God and you sell stuff outside my house without my permission? I should get a cut. A 40% shy on everything. The meat of the matter is, "it is reasonable to get a little bit violent when there is a need for a showing of strength. When you've got to punch someone in the nose, you've got to punch someone in the nose. Let the other fellow bleed if he deserves it". Later on in his short life here on earth, Jesus also said, "I have come not to bring peace but a sword."

Today's modern "civil" society is overflowing with hypocrisy. If you ever get mad and manifest your anger physically, you'll be instantly labeled as a sociopath. What the fuck? A sociopath? I say Fuck it! Ever since the beginning of time, man always had conflict with man. Force is a language that everyone used to understand. Hence the maxim, "Survival of the fittest--The strong shall live and the weak shall perish."

I'm not saying that it is perfectly alright to bash someone else's head with a shovel to set his thinking straight, but what I am trying to convey is that the world is fastly becoming a planet of apathethic spineless wimps, especially the Philippines. The reason why the government is so corrupt is because we as a people are sissies. I understand that we've been culturaly trained and "miseducated" (that's Renato Constantino for you) to become sissies by the colonials back in the day but hell that was ages ago, If we really had the balls, we should've bounced back by now. Look at goddam Cambodia, the country is practically destroyed by the regime of the bloody Khmer Rogue just in the 70's but they're doing better than us now. I really hate to compare but its the only way that I can make my case here. Alas! We have not.

Unless we gather our cajones and get our dicks straight and hard, all this abusive and horrible shit that's happenning to us will continue and in the end, will turn us all into fucking mindless robots. We've got to rise up, raise our clenched fists, brandish that chain, cock that automatic, and overturn all the fucking market-stalls that have been pestering our temples forever.

The Dichotomy of Life

During the Mexican-American war, two Mexican soldiers were pinned heavily under fire in a small foxhole close to the frontier. One of them, Pedro, was extremely worried about death. Pedro asked Jose (the other guy), "Amigo, what happens when I die?"

Jose answered, "Well, Two things may happen amigo...You may either go to the after-life or get reincarnated."

Jose: "If you go to the after-life, then that's good, you'll see all your loved ones who passed away...You'll see your mama there, Pedro."

Pedro: "But what if I get reincarnated?"

Jose: "Well then...two things may happen amigo. You could either be reincarnated as a man, or as a plant. If you get reincarnated as a man, then that's good, amigo, you could live a new life. Maybe, in your new life, there is no war."

Pedro: "But what if I get reincarnated as a plant?"

Jose: "Well then...two things may happen amigo. You could either be a corn-stalk, or you can become a tree. If you become a corn-stalk, then that's good amigo, you can feed the future of our great country Mexico."

Pedro: "But what if I become a tree?"

Jose: "Well then..."

Pedro: "I know, two things may happen...what is it?"

Jose: "You're right, two things may happen amigo. If you become a tree, you may either be used as lumber, or you may be used as paper. If you are used as lumber, then that's good amigo, you'll serve as the strong material for the houses in our beloved country, Mexico."

Pedro: "You sure are smart, Jose. But what if I become paper?"

Jose: "Well, still, two things may happen amigo..."

Pedro: " Two things may still happen? I'm paper and still two things may happen? Ai, caramba!"

Jose: "That is the dichotomy of life, Pedro. Yes, two things may happen. If you become paper, you may either be used as writing paper, or toilet paper. If you become writng paper, that's good amigo, you will serve as the learning material for the children of Mexico, so that they become good leaders, and wars like this could be avoided. Maybe, if you become writing paper, you'll be the piece of paper where the peace treaty is written..."

Pedro: "But what if I become toilet paper? Dios mio, Jose. My death would be in vain if I become toilet paper."

Jose: "If you become toilet paper, two things may happen, amigo. You may either be used by a man, or a woman. If you are used by a man, that's good. At the very least, you have helped to sanitize a Mexican."

Pedro: "But what if I get used by a woman?"

Jose: "You know it..."

Pedro: "Two things may happen?"

Jose: "Yes. You may either be used at the top, or you may be used at the bottom. If you get used at the top, the face, in the cheeks, in the lips, then that's good amigo."

Pedro: "But what if I get used in the bottom?"

Jose: "Well, amigo, two things may happen. You may either be used in the back or in the front. If you get used in the back, then that's good amigo. As a tissue paper, you have served your purpose."

Pedro: "...and if I get used in the front?"

Jose: "Santa Maria, Pedro, if you get used in the front by a woman, then amigo, your death will not be in vain!!!"

BANG! (Pedro gets shot)

Psychobabble

The modern world is a shrink's patient. Every little thing gets blamed on sad, dark and dreary childhood experiences. If you killed someone, maybe your uncle abused you as a child. If you turned-out an alcoholic, maybe your mother always yelled at you when you were four or five. If you're thirty-six years old and you still wet your bed when you have a nightmare, maybe your father belted you on the ass when you were growing-up. If you fart so much in public, maybe your little playmate back in '82 always did and you thought that was cool when you were ten. You know, all that motherfucking bullshit about psycho-analysis and therapy? I don't want to sound so callous and uncaring about each and everyone's personal mental tragedies, but what the fuck? Do you really need someone whom you have told your innermost emotional debaucheries to ask you "...and how does that makes you feel?" Psycho-analysis is one of the biggest rackets in the first-world. It's an industry that does not need its own cheesy infomercial to thrive. Second to organized religion, it's the most lucrative business. Prozac, Lithium, the works. They're the true gangsters. Cock-sucking dope-dealers with M.D.'s.

See, it's pretty simple to me. Some people are just fucked-up. You know, wackos. Those who end up in the street with filthy rags and no underpants. They are the one who need psycho-therapy, not the middle-aged businessman who divides his time between playing golf and counting his money. I'm guessing these yuppie brats just need some attention. They were the goddam sissies and nerds in school. Those fucking idiots suddenly don't know what to do when they realize they're too old to be collecting stamps or watching star trek. They got their heads so far up their ass the whole time they don't really know what life is.

"Oh, I fucking hate my boss, he's so mean, he hates me, blah-blah-blah...yada-yada-yada..." Who the fuck cares? I mean, tell that shit to your wife, your father, your mother. You can tell sad stories to your household cat and still nothing will happen. The only ones who can help us are ourselves. It is us who makes our destinies. There is no pre-ordained bullshit in this life, because life is not fair. Nobody said it was, nor will it ever will be. Word to the wise, suck it up, take the blows, and grab life by the balls.

To me, going to a psychologist is like going to confession. You tell the other guy--a stranger--secrets and he's supposed to help you, give you advice, make your ass pray a hunderd hail maries, and what-else-the-fuck-have-you. After that, here comes that donation box, the doctor's fee, the bill for releasing your guilt which makes you less fearful of eternal damnation in hell.

If I ever have to see a shrink in the future, I think I'll make the most of it though...maybe I can come up with a million bullshit stories just to bust his balls.