Our Local Pinocchio

WARNING: the following video has contents not suitable for morally sensitive audiences. MTRCB guidance is highly not recommended.

**sa mga hindi aware, MTRCB stands for Movie and Television Review and Classification Board. In other words, Gloria's Censorship Committee.


==part of a documentary that was banned by our very morally sensitive MTRCB.

ayaw ba nilang irepresent ang napakarespectable nating pangulo ng isang sinungaling pero good shepherd in the end na si pinocchio? well hindi talaga puwede. masyado siyang busy sa paghakot ng kayamanan ng Pinas para maisipan pa niyang magundergo ng isang makasaysayang change of heart. harhar. masyado bang subjective? nyarp

eto chismis: siya ang may pakana sa paghohorde ng nfa rice para matabunan ng rice shortage ang hinayupak niyang zte scandal.
source: ang masangsang na hangin ng maynila

kung sinong tsismoso ka man, masisikmura mo pa bang makita ang manunal na mukha ni gloria - i mean manood ng iba pang un-porny gloria scandals? okay click here
(manunal din pala ako.gulp)

photoshopped? or not

yeah i know she's unbelievably sexy and you're unbelievably horny. more unbelievably porny pics here

My Pet Warts (oh this isn't the genital one)

have you ever had warts so amazingly ugly that you wanted to stupidly cut your warts-infested whatever-unlucky-part-of-your-body-was-that just to eliminate it from your sight? i have one. but i don't have the courage to document its utter ugliness so yeah, i can't show off my wonderful pet.

just to give you a disgusting idea, i got warts samples from the net. again, FROM THE NET. NOT MINE


source
oh now i understand how a picture is worth a thousand [ugly] words.

Butchoy

so eto ang una kong napakaboring na post. tungkol ito sa not-friend kong si Butchoy. at hindi ko ito nirerecommend basahin ng mga pinoy na allergic sa english. handa ka na ba sa isang super un-porny voyage? dandandan!!!

I met Him at the most unimaginable place – Payatas; foul, filthy and everything not nice. But this is neither about the place nor about how we met. Technically though, we didn’t really “meet”. I never talked to Him. I never even smiled at Him. But this is neither about what I did nor what I didn’t do. This is about... Him.

His name was Butchoy; at least that’s how I heard them call Him. He was of my age although He was twice larger with hardly any neck visible. He had a dark complexion which made Him look even untidier with the same old shirt He wore every day. He had a round face, pale lips, and dull eyes I hardly looked at. He was just another “house boy”.

He was working for she-who-must-not-be-named; the person I intended to visit. His daily teenage life was dominated by chores; woke up not later than 4 in the morning, fetched big buckets of water from the back tank, cooked for breakfast, cleaned the house, fed the pigs, bought supplies for the sarisari store, prepared siopaos and burgers He would then sell house-to-house, manned the sarisari store till midnight, then washed the household’s laundry.

He was always dead busy running all the errands while being reprimanded for being so sluggish. Leche ka! Huwag kang babagalbagal kung ayaw mong pabalikin kita sa Mindanao. Tignan natin kung may matirhan ka dun! And even while He was eating, that didn’t save Him from assimilating merciless bawling. He was always screamed at while He was struggling to work and starving for food. Then after all the hard day’s work, He always ended fitting his large deadbeat body on a Lucky Me carton laid on the garage floor with His arms folded as His pillow and His over-sized t-shirt as His blanket.

Leche ka! Huwag kang babagalbagal kung ayaw mong pabalikin kita sa Mindanao. Tignan natin kung may matirhan ka dun! This dehumanizing place was his only “home.” No decent clothes. No decent food. No decent bed to lay down his pain. It wasn’t a shelter at all. He had nothing but these people who took him for granted.

I am perfectly aware that many others are living more miserable lives. But having someone of your age face-to-face made everything different. We were both teenagers. His miserable state kept, ironically, reflecting my indulgence. He was working and working and working while I was taking my time leisurely. He toiled day and night yet not even a soul cared if he were tired or if he had eaten anything yet. He wasn’t a robot. He needed someone to talk to. He was just in front of me and I did nothing.

There was this time when I shopped for myself and for she-who-must-not-be-named. When I arrived, He ran from the sarisari store towards the taxi I was riding. Then He helped me unload my voluminous shopping bags; none of which was for Him. It was unbearable to look at Him, with his dilapidated clothes, while he was carrying my newly bought goods. Worse, I didn’t thank Him.

Last November, while I was at a rip-roaring party with my cousins, someone was insistently ringing my phone. But I was too busy enjoying myself. I was too busy savouring the pleasure of drinking San Mig Light while nibbling some fried chicken intestines. Then I finally answered the call. Butchoy is dead. He fainted one day and got His left leg and left arm swollen. Then they brought Him to some cheap quack doctor - not because they didn’t afford a real one; they probably didn’t want to spend a fortune for a “house boy”. He had an abnormally high body temperature for three days before they decided to hospitalize Him. It was too late though. Dead on arrival. Then that’s it. No doctor. No autopsy.

He was sick. No one knew what, why or how. It was probably why He moved irritatingly slow but still running out of breath. No one cared at all.

We were both teenagers and I could have listened to His story. I could have at least smiled at Him and somehow ease Him of His burden. I could have thanked Him and gave Him candies maybe. We could have been friends. But as always, I didn’t want to get involved. As always, I tried to exude a repulsive aura. Until then, I was living a sad, reclusive life.