Everyone is talking about Ded Pylon. Who the fuck is that guy? Is he worth the airtime? Any of us who have watched television over the past ten (10) years have surely seen that chicken shit reporter/news anchor. But who the fuck is he, really? From my standpoint, he is nobody. A fuckin' law school drop-out. A man who talks the talk but can't really walk the walk. He has no balls, IMHO. Funny thing is he's in deep shit right now. His wife is dead, and apparently she squandered millions, and he's the number one suspect in the killing. And oh yeah, there is a killing. I don't buy any of that guacamole shit they're selling on TV. You know, the suicide crap they're peddling to the masses. I'm not saying that I know this fool killed his old lady, but I believe that he's not saying everything he knows about the "incident."
Everyone including the nasty-ass Korean shitheads in my neighborhood are talking about that goofball and the recent incident which happened in his life so I'll jump in the bandwagon, so to speak.
Five points.
First, an innocent man whose wife had just suffered a critical gunshot wound does not automatically conclude that it was an attempt at suicide and will not contact the authorities ASAP. The damned man even refuses to show his cellphone. More probable than not, Pylon has a line subscription, and whether or not he's telling the truth about calling her at the time he claimed he did will be known. Unless the Globe or Smart people will fix things up for Mr. Dickhead.
Second, when suspected, the innocent man shall not decline to take any polygraph test if he has nothing to hide. While the lie detector bullshit can be mastered by the skilled spy, to the general populace, I still think it's a fair indicator of truth or falsehood.
Third, a 9mm, caliber .380 semi-automatic pistol, such as the weapon of choice in this case is hard to cock. It has a stiff slide and ordinarily, women of a small built such as Mrs. Pylon, cannot cock the damn thing. Maybe 'twas left cocked and loaded. Then again, maybe someone else cocked the goddamned pistol and gave it to Mrs. Pylon for her to shoot herself with in the head. Maybe, someone else beside herself shot her. Maybe the one who shot her was Elvis Fuckin' Presley. Maybe God told the shooter in an ephiphany to shoot Mrs. Pylon. Maybe. One too many. One thing is for sure, though. It is Pylon's sissy-stainless Walther PPK pistol.
Fourth, everyone in the household at that time told the media and the fuckin' police that nobody heard the damn pistol going off. Nobody fuckin' heard the goddamn gunshot. A .380 ain't a BB gun. If fired inside a bathroom, however insulated that damn room may be, the shot from that gun will be heard.
Fifth, all that cleaning and mopping up shit that the household helpers did at the bathroom. Likewise, the cleaning up of the bloodied vehicle by the driver. Talk about cleaning up after your shit. This leads me to think that the killing was not planned. Therefore, the same was accidental or in the heat of passion. What's that phrase? With passion and obfuscation.
And don't get me started on Gonzales and Acosta. Both are disgraces to the legal profession in my book.
Let's move on to more productive topics. Please. For the love of God.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Believe me, Trust me
Little Mike "Mario Puzo wannabe" Winegardner made Corleone consigliere Thomas Hagen say in his books the following inadvertently interesting lines: Never trust any one who says "trust me." Do not believe any one who says "believe me."
Only shoe-salesmen and barbers have the right to say those words. I don't even trust shoe-salesmen, or any salesman as a matter of fact. If you let a suit guy talk you into buying a thousand-dollar suit, you're a sucker. No Armani or Brooks Brothers is worth it. A good and seasoned tailor with no name can make one even better at half or even a third of the price. But whatever you do, don't fuckin wear an RTW/off-the-rack pants/jacket ensembles unless your body is abnormally perfect anatomy-wise as those male manequins we all see inside mall windows. Even if its a Ralph or Hugo Boss. You're nine out of ten better off with a fitted suit. If you're in NCR or Central Luzon, have it done at Exclusively HiS tailoring. I've been wearing their nicely-tailored shit since I was on my first year in UST High. Otherwise, you might end up looking like an old 80's movie actor with a badly fitted amerikana. Come to think of it, the only people I saw who carried their suits well during that time were anchorman Harry Gasser and character actor Eddie Garcia. All other shitheads like Tommy Abuel, Rico Puno, Dindo Fernando, Jay Ilagan, Christopher de Leon, Gabby Concepcion and all of the other celebrites of that bygone era looked like clowns. They probably bought their stupid jackets at a discount store at Hong Kong anyway, since the Jackie Chan of old looked equally ridicuous in a coat and tie.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Moving on...Priests, Ministers, Imams, or whateverthefuckelsehaveyou are perrenially guilty of this sin of saying "believe." Believe our Bible, believe our church, believe the Koran, etc., et-fuckin' cetera. IMHO, these twats are in league with con-men, and all other breeds of estafa artists. They sell the rarest comodity in this uncertain life: certainty--of salvation, of life after death, of reincarnation, of the existence of gods, devils, and saints of whatever name and form.
My father, when I was growing up, has on more than one occassion told me that "If you want to be a rich man, become a lawyer. If you want to become a richer man, become a doctor. If you want to become one of the richest men in the country, organize your own religion." In that aforementioned sequence, the number of lies told increase exponentially, and dirctly proportional to the wealth to be amassed. Think Velarde, Soriano, and not to mention the greatest organized syndicate of all time, The Roman Catholic Church.
Men fear incarceration, but they fear illness more. Nevertheless, men fear most the risk of eternal damnation. So while men pay lawyers, they pay the doctors more. And the pay the religious the most. Take a look at the Iglesia ni Cristo and their ikapu system, and several other sects and cults too insignificant to name in this post, their "flock" apportion a nice fraction of their income for their chuch and get absolutely nothing in return. If that is not a hugely profitable business, I don't know what is. I might just organize my own and call it Iglesia ni Batman. Reuben Ecleo almost succeeded in his PBMA shit during the 90's but the damn sick fucker took it way too far. He actually sold his piss in small vials and marketed it as "healing miracle oil." No shit. Way to go, dickhead.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Belief should be based on knowledge, and trust should emmanate from reason. Don't just believe me blindly, and don't trust me without seeing reason in what I exclaim. Why be a lamb when you can be a wolf?
Only shoe-salesmen and barbers have the right to say those words. I don't even trust shoe-salesmen, or any salesman as a matter of fact. If you let a suit guy talk you into buying a thousand-dollar suit, you're a sucker. No Armani or Brooks Brothers is worth it. A good and seasoned tailor with no name can make one even better at half or even a third of the price. But whatever you do, don't fuckin wear an RTW/off-the-rack pants/jacket ensembles unless your body is abnormally perfect anatomy-wise as those male manequins we all see inside mall windows. Even if its a Ralph or Hugo Boss. You're nine out of ten better off with a fitted suit. If you're in NCR or Central Luzon, have it done at Exclusively HiS tailoring. I've been wearing their nicely-tailored shit since I was on my first year in UST High. Otherwise, you might end up looking like an old 80's movie actor with a badly fitted amerikana. Come to think of it, the only people I saw who carried their suits well during that time were anchorman Harry Gasser and character actor Eddie Garcia. All other shitheads like Tommy Abuel, Rico Puno, Dindo Fernando, Jay Ilagan, Christopher de Leon, Gabby Concepcion and all of the other celebrites of that bygone era looked like clowns. They probably bought their stupid jackets at a discount store at Hong Kong anyway, since the Jackie Chan of old looked equally ridicuous in a coat and tie.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Moving on...Priests, Ministers, Imams, or whateverthefuckelsehaveyou are perrenially guilty of this sin of saying "believe." Believe our Bible, believe our church, believe the Koran, etc., et-fuckin' cetera. IMHO, these twats are in league with con-men, and all other breeds of estafa artists. They sell the rarest comodity in this uncertain life: certainty--of salvation, of life after death, of reincarnation, of the existence of gods, devils, and saints of whatever name and form.
My father, when I was growing up, has on more than one occassion told me that "If you want to be a rich man, become a lawyer. If you want to become a richer man, become a doctor. If you want to become one of the richest men in the country, organize your own religion." In that aforementioned sequence, the number of lies told increase exponentially, and dirctly proportional to the wealth to be amassed. Think Velarde, Soriano, and not to mention the greatest organized syndicate of all time, The Roman Catholic Church.
Men fear incarceration, but they fear illness more. Nevertheless, men fear most the risk of eternal damnation. So while men pay lawyers, they pay the doctors more. And the pay the religious the most. Take a look at the Iglesia ni Cristo and their ikapu system, and several other sects and cults too insignificant to name in this post, their "flock" apportion a nice fraction of their income for their chuch and get absolutely nothing in return. If that is not a hugely profitable business, I don't know what is. I might just organize my own and call it Iglesia ni Batman. Reuben Ecleo almost succeeded in his PBMA shit during the 90's but the damn sick fucker took it way too far. He actually sold his piss in small vials and marketed it as "healing miracle oil." No shit. Way to go, dickhead.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Belief should be based on knowledge, and trust should emmanate from reason. Don't just believe me blindly, and don't trust me without seeing reason in what I exclaim. Why be a lamb when you can be a wolf?
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Godfather Returns
There is this one guy named Mike Winegardner, who wrote a couple of books based on the Holy Bible for wiseguys (The Godfather by the late great Mario Puzo)--aptly titled The Godfather Returns and The Godfather's Revenge. I know some of you might already heard of it since these books are advertised at the back inside cover of the new editions of Don Puzo's monumental classic.
Anyway, ( came to know of their existence when I purchased two (2) The Godfather books in paperback as gifts for my father and my own (and one and only) godfather for christmas last year. Both of them have already read the novel when it first came out 'round more than thirty (30) years back, and both of them have seen all the silverscreen renditions bearing the same title, but for one reason or another, both of them are not in possession of the book before i gave them copies of the same for the holidays. Them books are relatively cheap and I was sure they'd appreciate the gesture.
I saw these Mike Whatshisfacegardner books and immediately as I picked up the first one (The Godfather Returns) one thing came into my mind like a jolt: The title surely lacks imagination. Think Batman. Even Superman. Sheez. At its back cover, it read: It is 1955. Michael Corleone has won a bloody victory in the war among New York's crime families. Now he wants to onsolidate his power, save his marriage, and take his family into legitimate businesses... With just seeing the mention of the name Michael Corleone, I found myself taking it to the cashier and paying for it.
When I came home, I started to read my own copy of The Godfather and after a couple of days, I finished it and decided to read Returns. I actually read the latter with a pen in my hand--encircling shit like corny words and writing notes on its margins. I wasn't reading it for fun ab initio, and at page nineteen (19)-the end of Chapter 1-I wrote, and I copy it here, to wit: The first chapter has some inconsistensies, the most glaring of which was Nick Geraci's "first" beat-em-up job...directed against Amerigo Bonasera's daughter's assailants. That (event) took place well after the Second Great War, as old man Bonasera only came to Don Corleone at Connie's wedding. Later, however, the author mentions something to the effect that Geraci started to learn the rackets before the war and later, during the same under (Caporegime) Tessio. Weird. It also pains me to read that the author skips time without warning, thus confusing the logic of the reader. He even mentioned (the drug) Viagra, despite the title of Book 1 being "Spring 1955." . . .not to mention that he (the author) refers to Don Corleone as plain Vito.
And on the beginning of Chapter 3, Winegardner (the author) wrote: Near the oily banks of the Detroit River, two lumpy men in silk short-sleeve shirts--one aquamarine, the other Day-Glo orange--emerged from the guest cottege...etc., etc..
Upon reading that, I scribbled again: Only women and queers can distinguish colors with such precision. Aquamarine and light-green is the same to the straight-laced heterosexual masculine. What the hell is Day-Go orange, anyway? Now these parts really wonder about the sexual orientation of the author :)
I put down my pen after writing this, and started to casually read the book. Like one would read a John Grisham. "For entertainment purposes only". I grew tired of playing Mythbusters with Winegardner, so I went along with his take on the mighty, yet dysfunctional, Corleones.
To be continued. . .
Anyway, ( came to know of their existence when I purchased two (2) The Godfather books in paperback as gifts for my father and my own (and one and only) godfather for christmas last year. Both of them have already read the novel when it first came out 'round more than thirty (30) years back, and both of them have seen all the silverscreen renditions bearing the same title, but for one reason or another, both of them are not in possession of the book before i gave them copies of the same for the holidays. Them books are relatively cheap and I was sure they'd appreciate the gesture.
I saw these Mike Whatshisfacegardner books and immediately as I picked up the first one (The Godfather Returns) one thing came into my mind like a jolt: The title surely lacks imagination. Think Batman. Even Superman. Sheez. At its back cover, it read: It is 1955. Michael Corleone has won a bloody victory in the war among New York's crime families. Now he wants to onsolidate his power, save his marriage, and take his family into legitimate businesses... With just seeing the mention of the name Michael Corleone, I found myself taking it to the cashier and paying for it.
When I came home, I started to read my own copy of The Godfather and after a couple of days, I finished it and decided to read Returns. I actually read the latter with a pen in my hand--encircling shit like corny words and writing notes on its margins. I wasn't reading it for fun ab initio, and at page nineteen (19)-the end of Chapter 1-I wrote, and I copy it here, to wit: The first chapter has some inconsistensies, the most glaring of which was Nick Geraci's "first" beat-em-up job...directed against Amerigo Bonasera's daughter's assailants. That (event) took place well after the Second Great War, as old man Bonasera only came to Don Corleone at Connie's wedding. Later, however, the author mentions something to the effect that Geraci started to learn the rackets before the war and later, during the same under (Caporegime) Tessio. Weird. It also pains me to read that the author skips time without warning, thus confusing the logic of the reader. He even mentioned (the drug) Viagra, despite the title of Book 1 being "Spring 1955." . . .not to mention that he (the author) refers to Don Corleone as plain Vito.
And on the beginning of Chapter 3, Winegardner (the author) wrote: Near the oily banks of the Detroit River, two lumpy men in silk short-sleeve shirts--one aquamarine, the other Day-Glo orange--emerged from the guest cottege...etc., etc..
Upon reading that, I scribbled again: Only women and queers can distinguish colors with such precision. Aquamarine and light-green is the same to the straight-laced heterosexual masculine. What the hell is Day-Go orange, anyway? Now these parts really wonder about the sexual orientation of the author :)
I put down my pen after writing this, and started to casually read the book. Like one would read a John Grisham. "For entertainment purposes only". I grew tired of playing Mythbusters with Winegardner, so I went along with his take on the mighty, yet dysfunctional, Corleones.
To be continued. . .
Friday, April 10, 2009
i just saw "There will be Blood. . ."
"I am a false prophet. God is a superstition." Daniel Plainview, the Oilman, made the Rev. Eli Sunday say this in the 2007 Oscar arward winning movie, There will be Blood...
I always liked Daniel Day Lewis, especially when he played William "Bill the Butcher" Cutting on Gangs of New York. If I haven't seen Gangs, I might've concluded that his portrayal of the Daniel Plainview character in There will be Blood was the best I've seen him act. To my mind however, while he gave a splendid performance on Blood, Lewis just reprised his "Bill the Butcher" persona into Daniel Plainview. The Oilman could've held a huge meat cleaver and shouted "Wupsidaisy!"
In general, however, I still like this movie. Somewhat Artsy-Fartsy but with balls. It exposes a man's weakness towards anti-sociality. I also learned that one shot with a teeny-weeny .22 can kill a man, if aimed right. Also, I would never look at a bloody bowling pin the same way again. Ever.
See it too, it's worth the knock-off DVD's price.
I always liked Daniel Day Lewis, especially when he played William "Bill the Butcher" Cutting on Gangs of New York. If I haven't seen Gangs, I might've concluded that his portrayal of the Daniel Plainview character in There will be Blood was the best I've seen him act. To my mind however, while he gave a splendid performance on Blood, Lewis just reprised his "Bill the Butcher" persona into Daniel Plainview. The Oilman could've held a huge meat cleaver and shouted "Wupsidaisy!"
In general, however, I still like this movie. Somewhat Artsy-Fartsy but with balls. It exposes a man's weakness towards anti-sociality. I also learned that one shot with a teeny-weeny .22 can kill a man, if aimed right. Also, I would never look at a bloody bowling pin the same way again. Ever.
See it too, it's worth the knock-off DVD's price.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Pimpin' with San Mig and the Almighty
I had a few drinks with God the other day. He texted me and told me to meet Him at RedMix (props to the proprietor, Dada Ong!)--a novel local little joint where the hip (them) and not-so-hip (us) crowd get aquainted. I was late. As usual. My lolo of sorts, Atty. STA, gave me a long and boring-as-hell sermon about time management a few weeks back, and here I come again, late with an appointment with the Almighty Father. Sheez.
When I arrived, God was sitting with someone else and seemed to be halfway through his second bottle of San Miguel Premium All Malt Beer. I also saw in their table some sizzling 'shrooms. Yummy. I haven't ate since morning, and it's already thirty minutes past my 3:00 'o clock appointment with the Creator. So I approached their table and made my prescence known.
Me: "Hey, God, what's going on...Uhm, I'm sorry I'm late." Although I really wasn't. I'm really getting tired of following God's every command. "Be here, do this, do that, etc., et fuckin cetera.."
God: "..." He meant, "Sit down my son, order a drink." Remember, God doesn't need to move His Holy mouth in order for you and me to understand what He wants to say. You just understand, like a command from your brain to your pinky toe.
Me: "So my Lord, who's this rocker-type dude?" I meant and motioned towards the skinny tall feller who was drinking with God, who by the way, looks like Ozzy during the late sixties--except the clothes of course. This guy dresses more like Rico-goddam-Blanco. Fit muscle shirts with very little muscle. The guy was drinking San Mig Light--a beer I can't stand for its wateriness.
God: "Do you not know him, child?" Damn it, here we go again. Would I ask if I already know? Getting to know God sometimes is a drag. It always seem that you know very little compared to Him. It's like his knowledge is the ocean and yours is capable of being held in a small pail.
Me: "Uhm, No...my Lord and dear Savior." I answered. Just to continue the flow of the nature of things. I feinted curiousity, God fulfills my heart with answers to every question.
God: "Introduce yourself, brother." God said to the young Ozzy.
Young Ozzy: "Call me Migs pare." He said in a Corinthian/Forbes accent. Then and there, I knew that this fella is Achangel St. Michael, who vanquished Satan into the depths of hell with his great Ishmaelan sword. Migs, short for San Miguel.
Me: (shaking Migs' hand) "Jorge po, boss." Migs' hands felt like cold marble. Not unlike the kind they use for mausoleums.
God: "So what are you having?" God asked me, while magicking a waiter to appear in a blink of an eye before us. God is that impatient.
Me: "Premium, of course." San Mig Premium is probably the best tasting beer in the whole damn world.
Migs: "Wala ba tayong, Chicks pare? Its so boring if its just the three of us guys here drinkin'. Classic na looser trip, 'di ba? And we're not loosers, right, pare?"
Me: "Wala boss eh. Teka, baka I could call someone and introduce her you..." I scrambled for my cellphone and browsed for some straggler cell-numbers of girls past. I know I have erased most of them since my wife doesn't like them too much.
God: "Try that, and I'm going to do the same. I just have to get my cellphone from the car." Upon saying that, the driver-side door of a crystal-black Mercedes-Benz CLK 300 magically opened and out came flying a cellphone towards the hands of God. Cool car, I thought. God always have the coolest shit.
When I arrived, God was sitting with someone else and seemed to be halfway through his second bottle of San Miguel Premium All Malt Beer. I also saw in their table some sizzling 'shrooms. Yummy. I haven't ate since morning, and it's already thirty minutes past my 3:00 'o clock appointment with the Creator. So I approached their table and made my prescence known.
Me: "Hey, God, what's going on...Uhm, I'm sorry I'm late." Although I really wasn't. I'm really getting tired of following God's every command. "Be here, do this, do that, etc., et fuckin cetera.."
God: "..." He meant, "Sit down my son, order a drink." Remember, God doesn't need to move His Holy mouth in order for you and me to understand what He wants to say. You just understand, like a command from your brain to your pinky toe.
Me: "So my Lord, who's this rocker-type dude?" I meant and motioned towards the skinny tall feller who was drinking with God, who by the way, looks like Ozzy during the late sixties--except the clothes of course. This guy dresses more like Rico-goddam-Blanco. Fit muscle shirts with very little muscle. The guy was drinking San Mig Light--a beer I can't stand for its wateriness.
God: "Do you not know him, child?" Damn it, here we go again. Would I ask if I already know? Getting to know God sometimes is a drag. It always seem that you know very little compared to Him. It's like his knowledge is the ocean and yours is capable of being held in a small pail.
Me: "Uhm, No...my Lord and dear Savior." I answered. Just to continue the flow of the nature of things. I feinted curiousity, God fulfills my heart with answers to every question.
God: "Introduce yourself, brother." God said to the young Ozzy.
Young Ozzy: "Call me Migs pare." He said in a Corinthian/Forbes accent. Then and there, I knew that this fella is Achangel St. Michael, who vanquished Satan into the depths of hell with his great Ishmaelan sword. Migs, short for San Miguel.
Me: (shaking Migs' hand) "Jorge po, boss." Migs' hands felt like cold marble. Not unlike the kind they use for mausoleums.
God: "So what are you having?" God asked me, while magicking a waiter to appear in a blink of an eye before us. God is that impatient.
Me: "Premium, of course." San Mig Premium is probably the best tasting beer in the whole damn world.
Migs: "Wala ba tayong, Chicks pare? Its so boring if its just the three of us guys here drinkin'. Classic na looser trip, 'di ba? And we're not loosers, right, pare?"
Me: "Wala boss eh. Teka, baka I could call someone and introduce her you..." I scrambled for my cellphone and browsed for some straggler cell-numbers of girls past. I know I have erased most of them since my wife doesn't like them too much.
God: "Try that, and I'm going to do the same. I just have to get my cellphone from the car." Upon saying that, the driver-side door of a crystal-black Mercedes-Benz CLK 300 magically opened and out came flying a cellphone towards the hands of God. Cool car, I thought. God always have the coolest shit.
And there they came, out of thin air, three (3) insanely beautiful girls wearing seemingly identical little black dresses. It reminded me of the fact that God was also called "The Creator."
When they approached however, I was stunned. One of them was my lovely little wife.
"Oh, my God!" I exclaimed out loud, in disbelief and amazement at the same time.
"You shall not commit adultery." said God, "Do you not remember, my child, that is one of my commandments? Michael, basa."
Migs read a passage from a bible, which, yes, you'vve guessed it, magically appeared out of thin air: "Exodus 20:2–17, I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery...etc., etc.."
"We'll I'd be damned!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
