Echo tries to make music

This is old news, but I just want to remind everyone that Jericho Rosales is in a band. With an album. I'd like to say that Jeans, Echo's (yeah, we're close) band, follows in the pansy footsteps of fellow pogi band Hale, but every time I see Echo's three bandmates and feel no urge whatsoever to throw them against the wall and rip their clothes off (and the thought makes me want to hurl instead), hell no, they're no pogi rock band. In fact, it seems that Eat Bulaga Mr. Pogi himself Echo deliberately picked out three nasty looking dudes to be in his band because humping the life out of Heart Evangelista every freaking day just isn't enough to appease the little insecure part of him (the one that used to be a simple joe who didn't speak in English during interviews, unlike now who's all English-spokening and an artiste at that).


What the hell was EMI Philippines thinking signing up these clowns into a stable of artists that include Bamboo, Sugarfree, The Bloomfields, Urbandub, Hale... er, okay.


Anyway, apparently Mr. Pogi simpleton turned Inglisero-artsy fartsy homeboy wrote all the songs in the album. Maybe trying so fucking hard to comprehend his moneyed girlfriend's English made him believe that he's some rich kid, too, or worse, Shakespeare. And one of the songs he wrote was made into a duet with the girlfriend. Awww. Not. Check out the lyrics:

YOU’RE SO BEAUTIFUL
(Jericho Rosales)

Haaaaaaaa, haaaayayayayy...
Haaaaaaaa, haaaayayayayy...
And I can’t believe I found you
And I can’t believe I’m with you
You’re so beautiful, so beautiful
You’re so beautiful

And I found the right words to say
And I like to feel this way
It’s so beautiful, so beautiful
It’s so beautiful

And I... Hay...
And I... Hay...
I... Hay...
I... Hay...
I... Hay..
Hoooh...2x

(Instrumental)

Hoooh...2x

And I found you
And I love you
And I surrender
I surrender
I love you...
I love you...
I love you...

What the flying fuck is that? He types the word "beautiful" and the phrase "I love you" and copies and pastes it onto practically every line and that's supposed to make him an English-speaking artist-writer-musician? And he thinks breathing out loudly through his mouth is a freaking word that he just has to include it in the lyrics, like over and over again? Excuse me, but if that makes him an English-speaking artist-writer-musician, then I must be a better English-speaking artist-writer-musician!

YOU’RE EFFIN' UGLY
(Miss Diss)

Wooooo, woohoooo...
Wooooo, woohoooo...
I knew I'd find youuuu woooooh
I knew this day would come, yeeeeaaaah
You’re so ugly, so effin' ugly
You’re so effin' ugly
Fugly in short

And I found the right words to say
Because I'm witty this way
It’s so beautiful, so beautiful
It’s so beautiful
But I'm not talking about you
Woooooh...
Because you're fugly
Yiiiiiih...

And I... Hay...
And I... Hay...
I... Hay...
I... Hay...
I... Hay...
Zzzzzzz...
Ngork...
I meant
Hoooh...2x

(Instrumental)

Zzzzzzz...
Ngork...
I meant
Hoooh...2x

And I found you
Because fugliness stands out from the crowd
And I love you
Because you make me look beautiful beside you
And I surrender
I surrender
My backpack at the baggage counter
Because they'll think I'll steal groceries
From the supermarket at Megamall
Like a box of Jar matches, Dragon Katol, and all items SM Bonus
I hate you...
I hate you...
Babayoo...

WTF.

Smell this Vulva

The blonde chick from some obscure European country
preferred wearing her G-string around her legs

A few years ago, a sample of Vulva came in the office mail. We weren't sure if it was a sincere gift to all our virgin officemates who have never seen/touched/smelled a vagina in their entire lives. But anyway, so there it was, and we had no idea what it was until we read the enclosed leaflet, which said:

"Vulva Original beguiles the senses with the scent of a real vagina, thus opening up completely new vistas for enhancing your sex life. Vulva Original lets you enjoy the scent of a woman anytime you want. It's easy to use: shake the Vulva vial well, and the fluid is also transformed to optically resemble the object of every man's desire. Then apply it to the back of your hand and sniff. Your libido will take care of the rest all by itself."

So, yeah, you're supposed to get a hard-on from smelling it. Now before you go scrambling for your credit cards, let me warn you that the scent, nay, the stench of Vulva is based on a European woman's coochie. Think, twice-a-week baths at best, hairy armpits, scary accents. And having had the dubious honor of actually smelling the product, I tell you, a non-prositute Filipina's love canal smells a lot better than Vulva aka a European chick's peepee.


The worst thing about Vulva is how the odor clings to you like a leech in a blood bank. Co-workers who have merely touched the vial couldn't get rid of the smell even after washing their hands with soap and water. They smelled like pussies the whole day. European pussies. Unfortunately, this blog isn't scratch-and-sniff so here's the closest thing to experiencing Vulva for yourself—make your own Vulva! And I have employed the services of this trusty dude for the project:

Angus MacGyver was too shy to show his pink nail polish

Ingredients:
1 pair of running shoes
7 sacks of chili
1 angry middle-aged Arab man
1 really bad case of global warming
1 bottle of Gatorade
1 bottle of ammonia


Procedure:
The moment you see the Arab man yawning, shove the sacks of chili down his throat. Wait for the chili to digest as you wear the running shoes. Then stir a little conflict by calling the Arab man "Iraqi" or "Saddam." Make him run after you under the heat of the sun. When both of you are exhausted from all the running, allow him to drop to the ground as you try to gain back a little extra energy by drinking your Gatorade. When the Arab man falls asleep, lift his arm and get a good, long whiff of his wet armpits. Sniff the ammonia ASAP.


That's what Vulva is like. Aren't you glad you're Filipino?

Trump stomps on beauty queen's dreams

This is for entertainment purposes only and doesn’t reflect actual events of people known to author other than fictitious aspects of her silly brilliant mind. Unless you really believe that I happened to overhear someone's conversation with Le Trump. In Meheeko. Anyway, any similarities are purely coincidental and unintentional.


Somewhere in Mexico a few days before the Miss Universe 2007 pageant...


Brown-raced beauty queen (BBQ): Mr. Trump! Mr. Trump! How could this be? Why didn't I pass the preliminary round? This is unconstitutional! I graduated with honors in college! I am eloquent! I will become a future liar! Er, lawyer!

Donald Trump (BHD—Bad Hair Day): I am the god of the Miss Universe Organization. I have a wife with lovely norks.

BBQ: But Mr. Trump! I object! That has no connection whatsoever with my concern!

BHD: It's got everything to do with your petty concern. See, according to Wikipedia, the Miss Universe pageant was established in 1952—by a swimsuit company. Of course, at that time it sucked because I wasn't the god of the Miss Universe Organization back then. But anyway, yes, a swimsuit company.

BBQ: But I plead not guilty to your bizarre testimony!

BHD: I'm not done, low-pitched whiny bitch. Before I was rudely interrupted—which in my world, is enough reason for me to fire your skinny ass—as I said it was founded by a swimsuit maker. Thus, the preliminary round consists of the swimsuit competition.

BBQ: And so?

BHD: You're fired! I mean, you have no tits.

BBQ: Your reasoning is non sequitur! So what if I don't have huge gazongas? I am intelligent!

BHD: This is a beauty pageant. Read my Trump lips: bee-yoo-tee. You're a pretty girl, yes, but so is that burrito-eating hooker over there.

BBQ: Where?

BHD: There.

BBQ: Okay.

BHD: Okay.

BBQ: And?

BHD: And she's not a Miss Universe contestant. Even if she has big boobies.

BBQ: But that's exactly my argument! The distinguished panel of judges such as the "Bad Boy of Philippine Cinema" and some sexy actor grown men love wanking to can see how awesome I am! And I am a frickin' law student from our country's premier university. That should count for something.

BHD: I don't give a flying fuck if you're a law student from your third-world premier university. You're as flat as your sash. You can't properly fill a swimsuit unless you stuff it with torn pages from your law books. Or pieces of uncooked chicken thighs.

BBQ: How about the preliminary one-on-one interview, then? I delivered our valedictory speech, you know! Didn't I do well what with my intellectual reasoning and all?

BHD: Leave the declamation shtick to the Little Miss Philippines talent portion. You have no jugs.

BBQ: But cross examine me if you will, and you'll see that I'm the total package apt for the Miss Universe title!

BHD: The total package minus the funbags.

BBQ: You're unfair! This can't be! I'm an achiever! I will not sleep at night knowing I didn't ace something! I do not settle for anything less than excellent because I am on a plane beyond the mundane! Mediocrity is the pits! "Okay" is never all right! I am an outstanding member of society and I cannot settle for being a fucking Miss Universe reject! Mr. Trump! May I just remind you, I am an honors graduate! A law student! A Promil child, if you must!

BHD: Well, now that you've mentioned it, despite your non-existent rack, I think you'd do well...

BBQ: See? I told you! I'm that brainy I know everything!

BHD: ...in The Apprentice.

Kinky keyboard

Those crazy Japs are at it again! This time, though, I'm not too sure if this should be considered more of a sex toy rather than a gadget. Whatever. Either way, say hello to the nifty-kinky Angel Kitty french maid USB keyboard. The costume comes with a built-in silicon keyboard for your girlfriend to wear and for you to actually use with your Windows computer. And here's how it's going to look like on your computer table:




Are you thinking what I'm thinking? I'm thinking...you won't get anything done with your girlfriend sprawled all over your work desk that way. You can't possibly see the monitor clearly with the freaking keyboard perpendicular to it. The only way you can accomplish anything is by making sure she lays herself on the table in such a way that the keyboard is parallel to the computer screen—which is with one leg propped up on each of your shoulders.


And with the gates of heaven wide open in front of you, why, surely you'd be driven to work harder on those mind-numbing graphs and other dreary paperwork! Okay, maybe not.

James Yap dog-styles some chick

"Duh... uh... ngggguh... huhhhh..."

So right now in showbiz, the only thing louder than Kris Aquino's mouth is news that her basketball player husband, James Yap, cheated on her with some nurse named Hope. Okay, fine, pretend all you want that you don't give a shit about this bit of gossip, but do continue to read this post for its entertainment value, LOL.


Well, for one, take a look at this article about the issue; it's the funniest shit I've ever read after Sammy's interview and my most recent post.

"Sa pag-uusap nila ng Startalk host na si Lolit Solis at entertainment writer na si Gorgy Rula, nag-ala-Monica Lewinsky si Hope nang aminin nito na literal na 'nilunok' niya ang lahat sa tuwing nagkakaroon sila ni James ng physical contact.

Si Monica ang intern na nagkaroon noon ng relasyon kay former US President Bill Clinton at nagdetalye sa media ng oral sex act niya sa asawa ni former First Lady Hilary Clinton." -from PEP.ph

The story already got me at "nilunok," but the whole explanation about Monica Lewinsky was a real hoot. Oh, and here's the best part...

"Hindi malaman ni Lolit ang magiging reaksyon sa naging sagot ni Hope nang itanong niya kung paano nila nairaos ni James sa loob ng isang maliit na kuwarto ang kanilang makamundo na pagnanasa. Ang sagot ng straightforward at honest na si Hope? 'Dog-style po, Manay.'"

How Xerex the way they wrote it! But you know, honestly, I feel bad for Kris. After all the shit she's been through, this is just way too much considering she's pregnant. And she's Kris fucking Aquino. Aquino! So, James Yap, let it be known that you're a fucking douche. Off with your cock!



But since castration is such an icky thought to end this post with, here's my theory on why James prefers to "dog-style" Hope. Well, if you look like this:






Then, chances are, you have no other choice but to bang chicks this way:

Friendster subtexts

The grammar police was so hungry they ate punctuation marks

Let's all admit it, we never update our Friendster profiles for self-fulfillment. We never gain joy and shed tears of happiness from reading and rereading our useless profiles. The only reason we fill in those stupid blanks is to show off. We want to broadcast how cultured we are with our high-brow interests like, I don't know, poetry, landscape photography, old churches, the stars, sunsets, raindrops, and all that cheesy artsy fartsy shit. Or how smart we are because we read Milan Kundera and pretend to understand The Unbearable Lightness of Being just to compel others to ask, "Huh? What's that?" and laugh at them because they're so unintelligent unlike intellectual you who appreciates post-modern literature. Or perhaps we want to assert how cool we are because we think Hollywood movies are pure rubbish and everything indie is the shiznit.


That being said, if you're going to use Friendster to brag about how awesome you are, then for heaven's sake, do it well. Like these actual profile answers; I can only imagine what the hell their owners really mean by posting the following information:

Exhibit No. 1

Profile owner probably meant: "In reality, Dan Brown is Jesus. And in the same way that Jesus was able to walk on water and turn it into wine, Dan Brown made a retard like myself learn to read his holy words." On the other hand, this Dan Brown fan made me laugh—not at him, but with him:

Exhibit No. 2

Profile owner probably meant: "It's true; beauty and brains go together like fried chicken (thigh part) and a flat tire."

Exhibit No. 3

Profile owner probably meant: "I never get sex unless I pay for it, have the chick blindfolded in a non-kinky way, and cup my callused hands over her mouth."

Exhibit No. 4

Profile owner probably meant: "I thought the word 'fag' was spelled e-m-o."

Exhibit No. 5

Profile owner probably meant: "Sorry, typo! What I meant was, 'I thrive on eating books' because I'm a sad, lonely tub of lard with some sort of illness that makes think stacks of books are stacks of pancakes."

Exhibit No. 6

Profile owner probably meant: "My name is Erik Santos."

Exhibit No. 7

Profile owner (a man) probably meant: "I can go both ways."

Exhibit No. 8

Profile owner probably meant what she said, but check out this douche's testimonial for her:

Exhibit No. 9

Profile owner probably meant: "I mingle with sadness, I chase melancholy, and I romance loneliness all because I fucking lost my black eyeliner and black nail polish."

Exhibit No. 10

Profile owner probably meant: "Exhibit No. 9 is my soulmate. But exhibit No. 11 is my twin brother whose mere existence embarrasses me enough to prompt me into throwing myself off a cliff and into the cold, black, hollow arms of the angel of death who summons the soothing riffs of destruction and pandemonium with just a snap of her black nail-polished fingers."

Exhibit No. 11

Shitty flooring

Actual news, folks. And I must say, I'm not shitting you.

"DETROIT - Home-buyers of tomorrow could find themselves walking across floors made from manure. Researchers at Michigan State University and the U.S. Department of Agriculture insist it's no cow pie in the sky dream.

They say that fiber from processed and sterilized cow manure could take the place of sawdust in making fiberboard, which is used to make everything from furniture to flooring to store shelves." -GMANews.tv

Bhobby refused to admit it was he who farted

I don't know with you guys, but it's probably not so bad having processed cow dung as your flooring. I mean, I could have parquet out of shredded pages off Cosmo's 69 Bachelors supplement or a torn 24x30-inch poster of this photo...




...with Sam Milby's spunk and a couple of his pubes on them and I'd just be as grossed out.


And speaking of my favorite skeleton-in-the-closet person, have you seen this Sunday's Starweek?




And I quote the accompanying article:

"For our interview and photo shoot, Sam came prepared with several changes of clothes and a make-up kit. He knew exactly what kind of make-up should be used on him."

Gee, I wonder why!

I love you, Piolo! Sam, too!

Erik's center of gravity wasn't the only thing that confused him

Now this is the actual title of the news bit: "Erik chooses Piolo and Sam over Rufa Mae." I'm not shitting you. Now I don't know about you guys, but that in itself sets off a ding in my head that there's something quite suspicious about that Erik Santos character. Not that joining and singing ballads in a singing contest on national TV isn't iffy enough. But, anyway!


In the interview, he says: "Kasi kaibigan ko si Piolo at saka si Sam so I have to support them." Uhm, yeah, so you pick them over your girlfriend's concert performance. Your girlfriend with huge-ass funbags. You know, this girlfriend:

[Insert gratuitous vulgar boob-related witty caption]

Oh Erik with a K, only one word comes to mind: fairy. Or anal-loving-mayonnaise. I mean, people wouldn't think you were a fudgepacker if you had chosen, say, Vic Sotto and Joey de Leon over Rufa Mae. Or Mark Caguioa and Asi Taulava over Rufa Mae. Or even Steve Jobs and uhm, 50 Cent over Rufa Mae (whut!). Anyway, what can we do? You prefer these gaysguys...

"Aaaaaaah..."

"Tsup! Tsup!"

...which shouldn't be so surprising considering this is what you love to do:

Lock jaw: inconvenient

John and Jessica sitting in a tree...

Edward Scissorhands forgot to wear eyeliner

So, apparently John Mayer and Jessica Simpson are fucking each other's brains out. Now if that first sentence is too uncouth for your goody-goody senses, what I meant was John Mayer and Jessica Simpson are dating. And probably fucking each other's brains out. Not that Jessica needs any degree of wild shagging to get her brains expelled by her body, but you get my drift.


For some reason, though, this bothers me. Because John Mayer scares me. And the thought of his fat ass crooning "Your Body Is A Wonderland" to Jessica in bed makes me picture nothing else but a sex offender about to get his filthy hands on a poor girl with a gag over her mouth. With her father (yes, the same guy who once said "[Jessica] just is sexy. If you put her in a T-shirt or you put her in a bustier, she's sexy in both. She's got double Ds! You can't cover those suckers up!") grinning, clapping, and stroking his balls beside a video camera on a tripod in the background.


I mean, can you imagine these two getting it on?




And don't get me started on how John Mayer is a talented musician and songwriter and all that fanshit. Those things don't mean shit in the sack, you know what I mean? Think of it this way: This is Jessica Simpson all oily on a really bad hair day...




And this is John Mayer being a talented musician and songwriter and all that fanshit on a really good day...

Ebay.ph sells weird/ugly shit

Miss Diss: Today we have a very special guest to help me rummage for dissable stuff on Ebay.ph.

Mr. D: And FYI, I've got nothing to do with this shit. The only reason you dragged me into this is to make sure someone at least reacts to your pseudo punchlines.

Miss Diss: Screw you. (whimpers softly)

Item No. 1

Miss Diss: You want a pair of short?

Mr. D: Kunin mo nga yung short mo dun sa samapayan.

Miss Diss: Short pants, short pants, short pants.

Mr. D: P130?! And I don't get the design. It looks like those squiggly DNA stuff on CSI.

Miss Diss: Well I can imagine Horatio Caine wearing that. You know, if you stare at it long enough, you'll see a 3D dinosaur pop out of it.

Mr. D: Uhm, not really.

Miss Diss: Okay!

Item No. 2

Mr. D: That's one ugly ass pair of P1,200 shoes. It looks like a dog mangled it.

Miss Diss: No. It looks like a mangled dog.

Mr. D: And check out the product description: "In very good pre-owned condition...very nice!"

Miss Diss: Okay, so if that's nice, then mouldy bread looks appetizing.

Mr. D: It should be called "chaka boots" instead.

Item No. 3

Miss Diss: Feliz Navidad!

Mr. D: Did you really have to?

Miss Diss: I just had to. Sorry. I can imagine a "Take A Bow" Christmas remix, too.

Mr. D: Do you even realize that half of your six or so readers were too young to even remember that matador video?

Miss Diss: And you're not one of them. Anyway! Santa looks drunk, what do you think?

Mr. D: Definitely. Or too much eggnog made him woozy.

Miss Diss: Is it my imagination or does he have this crazy perverted expression on his face?

Mr. D: Like, "Oooh children will sit on my lap! Mwahahahaha!"

Miss Diss: I can picture him saying that with his lengua out.

Item No. 4

Mr. D: So, correct me if I'm wrong, but this person's selling a freaking paper bag?

Miss Diss: Look like it. But it's...Precious Moments. Awww...

Mr. D: And how much is the shipping fee again?

Miss Diss: Sixty-fucking-pesos.

Item No. 5

Miss Diss: This piece of paper's so heeyuge...

Mr. D: ...it can't move!

Item No. 6

Mr. D: Okay, so its product description says: "This gas mask provides you full protection from being attacked by some poisonous gases and smoke if a life threatening emergency happens in public places like hotel, shopping malls, the subway, office buildings, warehouses and the home."

Miss Diss: It's either this: You die of embarrassment wearing some ugly piece of aluminum foil on your head in a public place. Or by wearing that hideous thing, you scare the shit out of the poisonous gases and smoke.

Mr. D: The model looks like he's in hell.

Item No. 7

Miss Diss: Would you want to receive a gift like this?

Mr. D: No.

Miss Diss: Even if it contained real pills?

Mr. D: I think it's a subtle way of telling your friend to overdose on them because he or she doesn't have friends real enough to buy nicer gifts.

Miss Diss: Why's it a "wishing capsule," anyway?

Mr. D: Apparently, they "are very cute capsules that you can write your wishes for someone and give it to them or just put your own wishes on them."

Miss Diss: Okaaay.

Item No. 8

Miss Diss: Sold!

Item No. 9

Mr. D: Dude, this looks really freaky.

Miss Diss: It looks like German Moreno.

Mr. D: Walaaaang tulugaaan!

Miss Diss: Send in the clowns...

Mr. D: Can you imagine keeping this in your room?

Miss Diss: I'd hate to wake in the middle of the night with it beside me—humping my arm or something.

Mr. D: I fear its moving jaw at nighttime. For many different reasons.

Miss Diss: Hey, isn't German Moreno gay?

Item No. 10

Mr. D: I can barely even see the product. But does the chick come with the P999 package? Because if it does, it's a pretty good deal, don't you think?

Miss Diss: Beats me. Hey, look! She's got other pictures, too! "Finally! After 72,134,972 days approaching agents and Photoshopping my set cards, I'm now a product endorser!"

Mr. D: You're so mean, heartless, cruel, and all other words that pop out when you type Shift+F7 on the word "bad." You will burn in hell.

Miss Diss: I will not! I just state my observations.

Mr. D: And your observations are all evil. Picking on people, animals, and inanimate objects. Wait till I tell your six or so readers what you just bought on Ebay.ph. That pink Hello Kit...

Miss Diss: Fuck you, shut up!

Humping horses and stuff

Esteban wanted only one thing from Wind Blown

When I read about the new film about the man who died from shagging a horse, I laughed. And I was dying to know exactly how he fucked the poor animal. I mean, think of the possibilities. If you can't imagine it, then picture gay sex with someone with a printout of Black Beauty over his face. It could go either fucking way!


Of course I should've been more concerned about why he opted to screw an animal over a human—even a person who looks like a horse as long as he/she's got an actual human pee-pee. But sick person that I am and because I'm not bald Dr. Phil, I just had to be more interested in the lurid details. So, I Googled for horse porn and unfortunately, all I found was chicks eating horsecock (oh God, click that at your own risk; NSFW). No photos of men humping horses. And finding my ass (pun intended!) at a dead end not knowing anything more witty to say—which almost always means a retarded denouement—I resort to a Dr. Phil pretenduation (pretend + evaluation).


Society should not frown upon people who fuck animals (as long as it's consensual). It's not as bizarre as you think, as we encounter these kinds of people almost all the time:

Sex with rats:

Sex with anteaters:

Sex with roosters:




And on that note, might as well sex with chickens, too:




Sex with dogs:

Any other animals in mind?