Successfully avoiding NaNoWriMo for years.
Section: The Fag Squad
Editor: Mike Villar | Supposedly Under: the-fag-squad | Email this
Over at The Man Blog, we have written enough material on picking up women, dating and relationships to make tomes that can fill entire library wings.
What we haven’t had the chance to write about, and something we’ve been feeling remiss about, are breakups.
I mean all of us, at one point or another, will go through breakups. It’s simply one of those inevitable things in life—like getting born and going through…a breakup.
When the wheels of a relationship come off, there’s usually not a lot either party can do but attempt to move on with as less pain as possible and hope for the best.
Or they could turn those frowns upside down into evil, weird-looking smirks and use this guide to get the most fun out of breakups and make it a really awesome experience instead! So, if you’re ready, take the amulet key hanging from your neck and insert it in the slot in front of you.
Editor: Adrian Magnaye | Supposedly Under: the-fag-squad | Email this
This is probably my second collaborative blog entry with anybody, and I’m liking it. Well, Kring and I got tired of whining to each other about how sucky our respective love lives are, so we decided to collaborate and whine to you. So yeah, bear with us on the emoness and all. It is Valentine’s after all.
KRING: I’ve been single for the past 22 years and I think I’ve somehow flaunted that fact like a tiara on my head. To me, NBSB = high standards. Not. In reality, I’ve cried a little too much thinking that maybe, just maybe, I’m not good enough. You see, guys only started asking me out last year. Hell, I had my first real kiss just before the 2007 elections and I have never received a love letter in my life. Not even anything that says “I crush you. Pautang naman ng pamasahe…” (I have a crush on you. Can I borrow fare money?)
ADE: I actually did that to someone. Y’see, I was broke way back in college and I needed money REAL badly. So I like looked for the ugliest fattest, richest girl I could find. So I wrote the mushiest love letter I could think of and then five paragraphs on I asked for a hundred bucks so I could afford to eat lunch. And then she probably fell in love with me then and there. Yeah, I got my lunch money but I spent the next three years of college with a fat girl hiding in the bushes everywhere I go. Also, it was scary- wait aren’t we writing about the Broccoli of Dating? Yeah, so I just got my 20th Valentine’s Day date rejection. And my fifth restraining order.
Editor: Mike Villar | Supposedly Under: the-fag-squad | Email this
In about a week’s time, my girlfriend is celebrating her birthday. Since I am a successful, elegant urban professional, I have taken it upon myself to assemble the most romantic, most expensive gift I could ever hope to conceive: THE MIX TAPE…OF LOVE! (Yes, I know. Shut up.)
The problem with this idea, as is the problem with all the other ideas I’ve had, is that it’s half-assed. If I could write about a book about my life, a good part of it would be discussing in detail how I have always been good in starting and never finishing. My interest on things I thought I’m passionate about wane quickly. But this, dear friends is different. To say that the Mix Tape…of love! is an “interest” would be a severe understatement because recently, this has become nothing short of a full-blown obsession for me.
I want to create one of the greatest, if not THE greatest mix tape in the history of mankind. I want to concoct something so great that you’d have to be either paralyzed from the waist down or have a weird inverted penis not to get some poontang whenever you play this around women. I want to be able to make something so compelling that no woman, her sobriety notwithstanding, would be able to resist the urge to take in the awesome cock of the equally awesome guy who plays this mix tape. I want to create something so powerful that if Buddha was alive and wanted so score some curry-flavored punani, it would’ve been what he’d pop into his CD player
Editor: Mike Villar | Supposedly Under: the-fag-squad | Email this
For some reason or another, I have been thinking about marriage these past few days. If you’ve been reading my stuff long enough, you might go ahead and jump into conclusions about this just being a “phase” of some sort. After all, I wrote this almost a year ago.
(And really, is it my fault that the girl I proposed to lied about her job and wasn’t really a flight attendant but a dancer who trades her “services” for canned vegetable outside a clothing store in the middle east? I think not.)
But seriously, marriage is slowly beginning to present itself as a nascent position lately. This, I feel, is largely due to the fact that right now, I have the best girlfriend a guy could ever have. Before my girlfriend and I got together, my original plan was to marry whoever it is I’m dating by the time I turn 31 (preferably someone underage. And with dead parents, or parents who are drug addicts. Or both.)
Lately though, I find myself in a serious bind—or as my recent favorite author Seth Godin would call it: a Dip(or, who knows? Maybe even a cul-de-sac?). This “Dip” that I speak of is the fact that I feel that as if, right now, I have peaked. I am as marry-able as I’m ever going to get.
In fact, forget “peaking” as I think I’ve passed my peak years ago. Right now, my life is on a downward slide that will ultimately end in a mail-to-order bride, annulment, severe alcoholism and drug addiction, murder and fire.
Editor: Lauren Dado | Supposedly Under: the-fag-squad | Email this
A Pearl Boy is the most straight-arrow, conventional guy you can ever come across. They are uncomplicated creatures who enjoy manly activities like going to the gym, watching basketball (or other sports), going clubbing, taking pictures of themselves (to post in their Friendster), collecting girls (to put in their Friendster), taking pictures of themselves with lots of girls (to post in their Friendster), flirting with girls, dating girls, talking to girls, etc. Congratulations, you have just fallen in love with a Pearl Boy!
Pearl boys are also known as “douchebags”
