The Salamander

I never had much of an opinion regarding Malu Fernandez when she started getting flak last year due to an article she wrote for People Asia Magazine that revealed her low regard of OFWs.
I don’t actually read lifestyle articles since I think the culture
vultures who write them are a lame bunch of dilettantes trying to
supplant lack of talent with their ditzy enthusiasm in the more
decadent arts and in things urbane. When, out of curiosity, I perused
Fernandez’s damning article and some of the other crap she wrote, my
reasons for not appreciating her ilk were merely reinforced. Long story
short, she was booed all over the media, especially in the Internet. It
would’ve been a different story if she turned out to be hot since I,
like most dudes, would be willing to absolve a chick of first-degree
murder provided that she was hot. Unfortunately for her, Malu Fernandez
is about as hot as a week-old piece of penguin-turd in Antarctica.

Some days ago, Fernandez again, ah, hogged the spotlight because of an article in the Manila Standard dissing bloggers.
Bloggers. The same blokes who carried the torch of righteous
indignation for the OFWs. The fat cunt is out to recapture her fifteen
minutes of fame by spitting on the dragon’s eye. Christ have mercy on
her immortal soul. The barbaric landscape of the blogosphere surely
won’t.

BLOG ON

To be perfectly honest about it, I’m a dude with quite a few weird
kinks. One of them is this obsession with zombies and how to deal with
them. To pass the time on the train I take to plotting how I can
execute the man in front of me should he start exhibiting symptoms of
zombie virus infection (a ball-point pen through an eye socket and up
the undead brain). In the likelihood of an epidemic of the
everlastingly hungry, I’ve plotted our town out and have quite a sound
plan on how to escape, survive, and repopulate the planet (it initially
involves the steel baseball bat I keep in our bedroom, a local mall,
and the dossiers of teenagers I’ve been stalking through the Internet).
In case things go horribly, horribly wrong and my college buddies and I
find ourselves running out of food, I’ve thought out who among us
should be sacrificed for the good of the gang (sorry, Amy, most of the
menfolk in our little circle are likely to fight back). My calm
demeanor when playing particularly nasty survival-horror video
games—developed by years of desensitization through voracious
consumption of apocalyptic fiction and such media—assures me that I can
face the rise of the shamblers without panicking, thus increasing my
chances for survival. Call me a couple of cards shy of a full deck if
you will but I believe in being prepared for the possibility of an
end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it contagion. I’ve got it all covered, man.

RAMBLE ON!