Wanting Pussy

I have decided to get a new cat since my pet Joey Tribianni died a couple of months ago. Joey was a deaf albino cat and was a fantastic predator of mice. That was until he went back to the mud as vikings used to say about the dead.

Not my cat but the kitty's got mad skillz! My future cat ought to learn the same.

I am now choosing between purchasing a Persian or Siamese breed from Arranque market because apparently that's where the cheap pets are. I wouldn't want to aggravate my brother's rhinitis so I might have to go Siamese. They prolly sell them cheap to compensate for the inclusion of fleas, intestinal worms and all sorts of diseases hidden under their cuteness.

Or I might actually adopt a cat from the animal welfare society (PAWS). For an adoption fee of 500 pesos, I get myself a dewormed, spayed and vaccinated cat. It's so much cheaper, and it's an altruistic act that I've so very little of lately. The cat is definitely just your average street cat. Sans fleas, but with what it might have gone through, it might be carring some emotional baggage.


Nasabon ako last friday ng boss ng boss ng boss ko. I felt my weiner slowly turn into pussy. I felt so accomplished.

Johnny Cursive's Coolest Straight Friends

I went out on a double date with sidekick, my straight best friend Adren and his girlfriend Martha last Saturday to celebrate Adren’s 25th birthday. We started off with dinner at Tijuana’s in Ortigas (excellent enchiladas) and proceeded to the Home Depot area in Julia Vargas to hop through the different bars there. A couple of beers and tequila shots per bar then headed out to the next one to sample the music and make sure the place was cool enough for us to linger and spend a few extra on additional shots.

Prior to the bar hopping, I have already told Martha and Adren that there’s a gay club right there and I joked about bringing them. Apparently that got them excited. After hopping through around 4 bars, I hung out with my straight best friends and my sidekick in a gay club. I’m happy they enjoyed it. How can they not? There was a freaking aerialist trying to be Pink. And one performer looked like a guy we made fun of in high school, but in drag. The music was excellent according to sidekick and the straight couple. It pretty much just sounded like the same toogs toogs music to me but sidekick, Martha and Adren could appreciate the nuances. I don't get it. And I thought I was the one with the music experience.

Adren was alright with gay guys checking him out, God bless him. I guess the boy is used to it because he gets it anywhere. Martha, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoyed the go-go boys. I have the coolest sidekick and straight best friends ever.

It helped that the O-bar in Ortigas is docile in comparison because I probably wouldn’t bring my straight friends to Malate just yet. If Adren gets groped, Imma open a can of whoop-ass.

Stripclub Field Trip

The experience was...interesting. And weird. I went to a stripclub with K and sidekick in a spur of the moment insanity last night.

It was one hour past midnight. We didn't park in front of the establishment, of course. We parked several meters away then came out of the car looking nervous. 3 decent boys huddled together looking like we were discussing our respective girlfriends, where in fact we were three girl frieeends on a girls' night out. Sidekick picked up a cigarette and started smoking to calm the nerves. K was pale as hell. It took us longer than 30 minutes to get inside. I was laughing at how preposterous the three of us looked. We were all convincing ourselves that it was going to be OK.

"Puta tara ano game na?"

"Teka yosi muna ko"

"Ok taralets.. ay puta atras may mga babae sa tapat. Ayoko na di ko kaya, baka may makakilala sa akin sa loob," K was petrified.

K was being the first to be a wuss. We parked the car in a different location but it didn't really make any difference, except it gave us more time to think if we really wanted to come in. Then it was sidekick's turn to be scared.

"Sigurado ba talaga kayo?" Sidekick croaked.

I convinced myself that it was just like going inside one of those bars in Malate. K had a different way of convincing himself that it's not going to be a big deal:

"Isipin nyo nalang parang pakikipagseks lang sa chaka yan. Andiyan na yan eh. Game!" K had a point.

We came in with a confident conviction, like we owned the place. Then we were asked if we wanted to sit directly in front of the stage where it was vacant. "Ay hindi po ayaw po namin dun!" We instantly chickened just like that. We were seated a couple of tables away from the stage where it was dark enough. It was a small establishment so the stage was only a few feet from where we sat.

It was like watching a bad play. The strobe lights pushed me to the brink of a seizure and the emcee in the DJ's booth was just as bad. But curiosity had the three of us glued to the stage most of the time. One out of 5 boys was goodlooking, and 1 out of 7 could dance. We all got entertained by this one dancer who looked good and danced really well. Sidekick admired his lines and his strength; I admired his on-time muscle contractions and connection to the music and the audience. The dude was a real performer; it wasn't necessary for him to carry a stiffy under a tiny thong and stick it out for a few seconds, but he did it anyway as a bonus. K was just drooling the entire time.

I still had the most fun outside the stripclub in those 30 minutes that we were all mortified about going inside. 3 scared little boys we were.

Johnny Cursive can’t cook.

Back in college I ascertained during my lunch break in KFC that their yummy coleslaw was made distinct by having 7-Up as an ingredient. So my friend made coleslaw with 7-Up. The taste was undeniably KFC coleslaw. He had a face that looked like he discovered the Rosetta stone, so I told him no, I’m not gonna start guessing the first of KFC’s eleven secret herbs and spices.

I guess I could imagine what herb works well with a dish. But I can’t cook. I don’t know how I’m surviving as a 25-year old who can neither drive nor cook. So a couple of weeks ago, I decided to do something about it. I cooked instant pancit canton and added carrots and baguio beans. I finished the entire plate convincing myself that I did well. I had to finish it quick before anybody saw what the heck I was doing. I needed to start somewhere but I guess I’ve go a long way to go. Sigh. I’d rather learn how to play the guitar.


In my group in high school cooking class I’d be the one that washed the dishes. I didn’t do too well in that either, but at least it was far from the stove. When the time came that I needed to cook, I put 5 spoonfuls of sugar in the puttanesca sauce according to the instructions and stirred the mixture as it simmered. That was my only task. Easy enough. I looked up at the cupboard and thought, “how the fuck did the sugar jar get all the way up there?” Apparently, I put 5 spoonfuls of iodized salt in the puttanesca sauce.


I didn’t let my group know in fear of getting beaten up. After all, nobody brings baon on the day of cooking class because we’d cook our lunches in school. So I asked the teacher to help me neutralize the damage and she threw in a gallon of milk and heaps of sugar into the whole thing. My group still didn’t know; they were busy preparing the other dishes. Our puttanesca turned out looking like orange sardine sauce that tasted like mermaid-flavored snot.

We all starved that day. And because this was the first puttanesca my group has ever tasted in our lives, it has also been our last.