A little backgrounder on that night: The reason why we wanted to go out for drinks was we wanted to take Jon (lead developer for one of the projects we’re working on whom, we have taken to passionately call “The beast from upstairs”) out to sort of get a feel of what Manila’s night life is like (something which we probably failed miserably at. For one, the bars at the Ortigas Home Depot complex is hardly representative of Manila’s nightlife and neither is a party of eight all-male, sweaty, socially inept web types)

I have written enough about the pattern my drinking nights usually take (relative humdrumness -> Dancing and singing (and crying in some occasions) -> somberness -> picking up into a crescendo of pure mayhem and inappropriateness) so I’m going to spare you from the boredom of reading about how the night progressed this time.

The turning point of the night came when a San Miguel Promo girl offered to give us a free shirt if we ordered 18 more bottles of beer. At that point, we were already feeling good and loaded but stupid John offered to pay for all 18 bottles if I agree to wear a small San Miguel ladies’ shirt for an hour–an offer which, in my state of relative inebriation, is impossible to refuse.

So yeah, Jon paid for 18 bottles of beer and, even though it was a fucking struggle, I managed to fit into a size S San Miguel Beer ladies shirt. People got their beers and had big laughs watching a 200-lb guy try to fit into a small ladies’ shirt. Everyone’s happy.

The fact that I had to wear a fucking tiny shirt for an hour is, in itself, funny. But check this out: About 45 minutes into the entire thing, I felt the need to take a leak.

Now, this bar is notorious for the long lines of people waiting to use the restrooms. The place had two restrooms: one for men and another for women–which is kind of retarded considering the place packs around 200 people at any given time. The men’s restroom also only has one toilet which means only one person can use it at a time.

I found myself 6th in the line of guys waiting to use the men’s restroom. There was, surprisingly enough, no line to use the women’s restroom (This is something that baffles me to no end. Is there some sort of special sac somewhere inside a woman’s vagoo that enables them to hold in more urine than men? Because I swear, I take a leak an average of eight times in a four hour period when I’m drinking and, from what I observed, women do like two? How the fuck?).

Emboldened by a feeling of false awesomeness thanks to eight bottles of beer, I said “Fuck it, I’m going to use the women’s restroom. The fuck you looking at? You wanna start something? Dick.”

So yeah, I was in the women’s restroom swaying back and forth out of sheer drunkenness and whistling while I was doing my thing when all of a sudden, the door, which I apparently forgot to lock, swung open.

I was all like “What the fuck”, turned around to see who opened the door and why hello there, chinese-looking girl who looks like you’re 16!

And here’s a bonus tip for anyone who has any intentions of building restrooms in the near future: Do NOT, and I say again, DO NOT put huge ass mirrors in front of the restroom door and directly behind toilet seats because really, once in a while, a really drunk guy wearing a small ladies’ shirt will  decide to go in and use the ladies bathroom because there’s a long fucking line of people waiting to use the men’s bathroom; he will forget to lock the door and a young girl will walk in and immediately see the huge ass mirror where the penis of the aforementioned drunk guy is reflected in all its shriveled glory. So fuck you toilet creator at Bargos in the Ortigas Home Depot complex, fuck you and your friends!

There were a good 5 seconds of not knowing what to do between the girl and myself. On my part, do I pull up my pants midstream to cover up and end up with pee all over my pants or do I wink and say hi? On her part, does she look away and close the door or continue to look at the magnificent dwarven penis she accidentally walked in on?

The girl ended up closing the door and after I was done with my deal I walked out of the restroom and apologized to the girl (who was now in line with like 7 of her friends) saying that I badly needed to go and shit.

She didn’t respond on account of her laughing the fuck all over the place. But then again, I’d probably end up laughing too if I was a young girl and I walked in on a guy–wearing a small girl’s shirt– taking a piss with a small hairy thing that resembles Mufasa from the lion king.

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Mike Villar: Bullshit Machine from Mike Villar on Vimeo.

My company’s CEO, armed with a video camera, ambushed me while I was dicking around on Facebook and asked me what I was working on.

Surprisingly unfazed and on my toes, my response was–arguably–the worst, most badly-delivered bullshit spat out by anyone who has ever lived.

Not my finest moment.

Also, my fellow manager Alvin Jimenez’s reaction at 0:07 was nothing short of priceless. It’s sort of an amalgam of raw disgust, not knowing whether to laugh politely and a pinch of pity.

(Oh and thanks to Rico Sta. Cruz for adding the score towards the end of my response. It really added drama to my monumental failure.)

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Now, while I’m usually off of work on Mondays, Maffy gets off at around 4 in the afternoon. Realizing that I had three hours to kill after picking up the bouquet of flowers I was going to give her, I went ahead and decided to be a little productive by taking my car to the shop and have my tires replaced and a couple of other things repaired.

Big Fucking Mistake.

The tire shop closest to where I live is this abysmal, ramshackle structure that has a non-airconditioned waiting room.

If you know me well enough, you’d know that I know jack shit about cars save for driving them. However, I was all up in the mechanic’s business making sure that he is really replacing the shit I was paying him to replace and repairing the shit I was paying him to repair–especially since how my mom kept telling me ever since I was young never to trust poor people because, in her own word’s, they “stink”, “they can’t afford a television set”, and “Here’s 500 bucks. Go back to your room and don’t play with squatters”

So, the entire time, imagine me observing the mechanic working on my car while it’s hoisted up on a lifter, engine fluid, motor oil and other shit dripping on me and touching grimy parts of my car’s under chassis just to look a little like I know what the fuck’s going on.

Fast forward to 7pm: Maffy and I walk into this swanky restaurant. I was reeking of motor oil and was wearing a hoodie which had splotches of some kind of engine fluid.

Now, because I’m generally a very insecure person, a good amount of the time we spent in the restaurant was spent with me trying to decide if I was the suckiest person in the entire establishment. Of course, “suckiest” in this context meant either “has the worst, lowest-paying job”, “looks like it’s not his first time dining at a place where entrees costs at least three times his daily rate” or “hasn’t sustained an erection long enough to satisfy a woman–or himself– for the past couple of months because of a side effect of a drug he’s taking to treat his anxiety disorder.”

The conclusion? I was, without a doubt the suckiest person in that restaurant that night. Judging solely on appearance (clothes, hygiene, grooming, confidence level, and the likelihood of having had a threesome in the past), I was definitely languishing at the bottom of the rankings. (My score being: highly unstylish, sweaty and stinky, sad and dispirited, zero unless having been “inspired” by two magazines at a furious masturbation session counts)

Anyway, because I just spent half my paycheck on a dinner that didn’t even come close to satisfying my hunger and after, sadly, winning the distinction of being the suckiest person in the restaurant in my own mind, I decided to do the only thing I know to help make things better–to drink.

Maffy and I ended up in Mag:Net cafe over at Bonifacio High Street for some beers.

Okay, here’s the thing about this entire “Rising Internet Star” deal–I rarely get recognized. I’m not saying that random people don’t come up to me and say “Hey, are you that guy with a blog? You really are fat.” They DO but it’s so fucking rare that whenever it happens, I jizz in my pants (Figuratively and literally)

Anyway, shortly after paying the bill, a guy from the table next to ours came up to me and said “Hi, are you Mike Villar?” I, hesitantly (I mean, you never know if the guy works for a credit card company I owe money to right?), said yes.

He literally exploded and said “Oh my God! We’re big fans!” motioning to the other guy he was with. He followed up with “Please, can we buy you guys beers?” Oh yes my friend, you can. Very much so.

I was pretty buzzed prior to that point and only then did I realize that the guys were JC Medina and Gabe Mercado. Apparently, the guys owned Mag:Net.

Being a star and all, I know that I should be all chill about this and act like it’s not a big deal and all, but dude it was fucking awesome. The only times I’ve been recognized like that is through friends in the same circle or some shit like that. But never had other celebrities, not to mention real, and bigger celebrities recognized me.

(I know I’m starting to sound like a total Douchebag writing this but whatever. Fuck you.)

So JC and Gabe, thank you so much for the free beers (half of which I spilled on my shirt three seconds after you left to host Rockeoke) and for joking about how you heard about how I had an 18-inch penis! Infront of  my fiancee no less! That was very classy of you, sirs!

Oh, and I’m really sorry for sort of pushing it and asking if you guys could hook me up with some free food after you already gave me free booze AND for even thinking if I should ask money for parking from you guys as well as for leaving without saying goodbye. You guys were busy hosting Rockeoke and I really had to get back home to work on my medical transcriptions. Man’s got to earn his keep yo.

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I’m not going to get into details because really, who would want to read me explicitly describing a dream where I’m fully naked (no, wait. I wasn’t fully naked. In this dream, I was sort of insecure and had a shirt on. Really reflective of how this entire sex thing is for me in real life now that I think about it.) swimming in an ocean of sour cream and mustard while flogging a three-headed penis? Exactly.

A little background: Ever since I was prescribed anxiolytics to treat my anxiety disorder; and I’m not sure if this is a side effect or something; I’ve been having these really strange and vivid dreams that are either a) Totally non sequitur and/or b) extremely erotic. These dreams happened most frequently at a point where my anxiety was at its worst. My shrink told me that stress could be a major underlying cause of these dreams but anyway, I’m better now as far as the entire anxiety deal would go and the frequency of these dreams have been reduced drastically. At its worst, my brother would wake me up in the middle of the night because he says that I’ve been thrashing wildly in my bed while yelling “Freedom to the marshmallow people!” Not sexy at all.

What I miss the most are the erotic dreams. Those were so strikingly vivid that I would wake up in the middle of the night with the urge to light a cigarette because I’m so convinced that I just had sex with a hot eastern european model.  (It’s interesting to note that these are not wet dreams. In fact, I have never had a wet dream in my life since I discovered the fine art of masturbation as early as I was six. So, you know, I’ve been overworking my testicles so I could shoot sperm at t-shirts, walls, my face (I was able to do this once. It was great), etc. since I was in first grade. What I’m trying to say here is that I’ve never, for the life of me, had enough semen in my body to actually get a wet dream since I always “empty the chamber.”

The most awesome part of these erotic dreams has got to be the fact that, most of the time, they are not about the girlfriend or ex-girlfriends or crushes or even celebrities (which, until now, I thought were requisites for such dreams)–they’re about totally hot women I don’t even know. You can’t have it any better than that! Unless you have REAL sex with REAL eastern european models. Unfortunately for me, I’m engaged and because I want to maintain a healthy monogamous relationship (as long as I can, at least), this isn’t feasible for me.

If I were single, the girl I had a crush on in grade school whom I dreamt of recently would, undoubtedly, be the unwilling recipient of at least a dozen drunken phone calls. But since I’m not, It’s me and and my loyal friends again tonight: My iPod touch, Youporn.com and Myra-E facial moisturizer.

(I just read this post and damn– My Employability/Marketability -10 points. But whutevs. I’m awesome)

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In the Philippines, the first week of July is when classes start for a lot of schools nationwide. And, for someone like me who drives a good 56 Kilometers a day to and from work, the transition from the summer break where traffic is pleasantly light to the start of the school year where traffic reaches “I am so frustrated right now, I wanna wrap my penis around the steering wheel and karate chop it until it gets numb” levels is traumatizing to say the least.

If you’re familiar with Quezon City, you’d know that this is especially bad in the Katipunan area where several universities and colleges are located.

Anyway, earlier I found myself in a monster traffic jam on a part of Katipunan avenue where major roadwork was underway.

Now, here’s something you probably don’t know about me: I pick my nose like a 200 year-old Chinese man would. This is something I do without much regard for anything–in a drinking party with friends? I’ll send Mr. Pinky right into the mines and won’t call him back until he has enough green gold to call a haul. Bored while watching a movie with the girlfriend? In goes Mr. Pinky again. I do this shit everywhere.

And I don’t know if it’s just me, but when I changed up the brand of cigarettes I smoke from Winston lights to Marlboro golds, the amount of “treasure” I could pick from inside my nose has effectively doubled.

Anyway, as I was sitting through the rush hour traffic earlier while listening to music from my iPod with my windows rolled down; I felt the urge to just dig right in. I must have had my entire right arm halfway up my nostril before I decided to reel it in. Treasure finally in hand, I wiped the index finger where the fresh booger was on my car’s steering wheel. There, it would naturally harden into a decorative stud like the thousand others before it. It was great.

It took a few attempts — the piece was stickier than usual and has about the same consistency as the adhesive people use to set vinyl tiles on floors– but I was eventually successful after I rolled the thing between my index finger and my thumb a couple of times to soften its hold a little. Again, it was great.

It was only then that I became fully cognizant of the situation–I was stuck in traffic. Katipunan’s westbound side, the side I was on, had two lanes. I had my windows rolled down. There is a car right beside mine. It has its windows rolled down too. And motherfucker, is that an attractive girl on the driver’s seat? Hello!

The girl had this look on her face that told me that she had witnessed everything. From me bobbing my head to music, the moment which will henceforth be known throughout the annals of history as “The great excavation” (Which, now that I think about it, is reminiscent of that scene where Arnold Schwarzenegger was having this really huge ball extracted from his brain through his nose in Total Recall) To the initial failed attempts to add the piece to my collection and my eventual triumph.

If I read her muted expression correctly, it said “After seeing all of that, I do not know whether I should feel disgusted or pity him”

Unsure of what to do, I tinkered with my iPod a bit before finally rolling up my car’s window, and, as soon as I got the chance, pulling my car in front of her’s.

It’s been a few hours since that happened but I find myself laughing hard at the entire thing when I remember it. Somebody, a chick no less, witnessed me pick my nose with the tenacity previously only observed in mentally deranged people.

What’s worse is that I’m laughing by myself while writing about it at work. Can somebody please promote me already?

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Admissibility review is a section immigration officers send people who range from naturalized American citizens who’ve been out of the country for dubiously long periods of time to those whose identities are questionable.

I thought to myself: “Hey, it can’t be that bad, I just need to tell them that it’s normal for a lot of Filipinos to speak fluent english, idiots. And maybe I have a new passport because I didn’t need one until now and got it for the sole purpose of this trip? Again, idiots.”

Boy, was I wrong.

Admissibility review was a fucking prison. Just to give you an idea of how it was in AR, I approached an INS officer and kindly asked him if I could go out for a few minutes to buy some food because I was starving. His response was “SIT DOWN SIR!” his right hand touching his holstered sidearm to make a point. Dick.

Also, there was a time during my stay at AR when I badly needed to go to the restroom. So again, I asked an INS officer and asked if I could use the restroom; reluctantly, he said allowed me to and asked one of his colleagues to escort me and a party of Mexicans to the restroom.

And really, nothing else tells you that you’ve got it bad more than taking a piss with 5 Mexican guys while you’re being watched closely–too closely, in fact–by an armed Immigration officer.

The entire AR process stranded me for an additional 5 hours in LAX.

(Seriously, America, I know you’re still sore at my ancestors for selling you the Philippines for several million dollars and the country not turning out the way you expected it to be, but this entire AR thing is taking it a little too far.

Also, that bit I told the first immigration officer about me losing my original passport in North Korea during my stay there to take flying lessons and get explosives training was a Joke. You know, as in Ha-Ha?

Dicks.)

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*The above paragraph is a complete and utter lie. The company I work for actually invited me over to work on the user-generated content/social piece of a bad ass website we are going to launch very soon. Also, in the process, I got denied a US Visa–twice; so, the only thing “transient” and “spontaneous” about the entire thing was the fucking money ($232 to be exact) I spent on my US Visa Applications. And my ego.”

Anyway, after finally being approved a US Visa and facing a monster 12-hour flight from Manila to Los Angeles, one of the very first–and probably the most important preparation I made was to see my shrink. Long time readers of this blog know that, sometime last year, I developed this paralyzing fear of traveling on a plane. So I visited my psychiatrist and explained my situation to her adding how I noticed that I’ve become a little claustrophobic all the while trying to sound as normal as possible and being careful not to say something that exudes undertones of my intentions to abuse the shit of whatever pill she is going to prescribe me.

In the end, she yielded and wrote me a prescription for 15 tablets of Clonazepam- a mild benzodiazepine. Well, sup.

On my way to the pharmacy, I did some crazy math: I’m going to be staying in the United States for 21 days and I only got a prescription for 15 tablets? Am I supposed to just perch myself on a rooftop and pick random people off with a rifle to cope with the 6 days I am going to be without my medication?

As I pulled my car into one of the pharmacy’s parking slots, I deliberated for a solid 20 minutes whether or not I should forge the shit out of my shrink’s prescription, which said 15 tablets and add an extra zero to make it 150 tablets. In the end, I thought better of it. I mean it probably wouldn’t help my mom who, in the first place isn’t confident with the idea of me staying in a foreign land for three weeks practically by myself, to get a call from the PDEA informing her that her son has been indicted for falsifying documents to grab a hold of mild tranquilizers he can get high off of.

My anxiety involving the entire flying thing and not having enough pills to last me my entire stay has gotten so bad that I actually contemplated threatening my doctor to prescribe me more pills.

That would’ve gone down really bad. “Hello Doctor Bondoc, this is Mike. Mike Villar, listen, remember that prescription for 15 tablets of clonazepam you gave me the other day? So I went ahead and bought all of them right? But guess what? A homeless person said he would trade me a golden barbel with magical powers for my pills. So we traded. Asshole crossed me, the barbel didn’t have magic powers, and worse–it wasn’t made of gold; it was made of aluminum foil made to look like gold. So yeah, bottomline is I don’t have my pills and I was wondering if you can refill my prescription. What do you mean no? How about if I gave you 2,000 pesos? No? Well, how about I steal your Mercedes Benz and drive it off the bridge? How does that sound? Awful, I know. And guess what, you have nobody but yourself to blame. Bye! *click*

Next: California, the city, the women. THE STRUGGLE

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Dear Ryan,
First of all, I want to greet you happy birthday. It’s been three months since the state of California deemed me to be an “Illegal Immigrant.” Now, I am no expert when it comes to anything that has to do with the law, let alone international law but I have something to share with you: If, in the future, you intend to start a career as an Illegal immigrant like your kuya, it’s probably not a good idea to hold a 93 year-old, wheelchair-bound woman hostage with a fork; initiate a huge police stand-off; try to escape by stealing a car–something that would result in a wild car chase that spans 7 counties; threaten to stab the old lady with the fork when you get cornered after spike strips blew off your stolen car’s front tires and end up with the police shooting you with rubber bullets and tasering the shit out of your ass.

REALLY not a good idea. (You know what else isn’t a good idea? Asking for a Helicopter from the police negotiator. Because a.) I don’t know how to fly the damn thing and b.) They sure as hell won’t give it to you. Trust me. I tried.)

Instead, you might want to ease into your career as an illegal immigrant by waiting tables at a local denny’s or pretending to be gay and applying to be a perfume sales rep for a Nordstrom’s or something.

You see, little bro, the key to success as far as being an illegal immigrant would go is to keep everything on the down low. This is especially important when you’ve been hanging out with a notorious gang of Puerto Ricans after you’ve decided to overstay your welcome to the US and the fact that you look like a Chinese-Mexican who knows how to make chemical weapons and computer viruses. See where the entire “taking an old lady hostage thing for a pack of cigarettes” took me?

To Recap: Taking the elderly hostage: NO. Getting a Job as a dental assistant in a Japanese dentist’s office: YES.

P.S.
My cellmate, Berto, says he can hook me up with fake Lebron James shoes in Mexico. Let me know if you’re interested.

Best Regards,
Mikey

Here’s a secret: Mike actually updates his Twitter and Plurk accounts more than he updates his blog! Follow him on Twitter and Plurk and see a HUGE difference in your penis size in just two weeks!