The World According to Johnny Bravo
I am a hunk. I am your boy-next-door. I am your heartbreakingly handsome heartthrob. You adore me, don't you? You shower me with love and affection.
Looking this good is so cool, and I can't be too thankful for it. But this blessing is such a burden, too.
I just couldn't blend in with the crowd even if I wanted to. If I hide my eyes, at least, all the more that I get noticed. It's ridiculous how I find it absolutely necessary to wear my shades even at night. I can settle with wearing a cap, but if it doesn't ruin my hairstyle, people would surely notice the cap, because I only wear the best-looking cap there is or I wouldn't wear anything at all. Needless to say, people notice me next to my nice cap.
If I am this paranoid, I am paranoid about looking this good. Like the former king of pop sang, I always feel like somebody's watching me. Well, I can settle with wearing things only losers would wear, but I'm afraid my God-given beauty would shine out all the more from sheer contrast. Besides, that's the whole point - I can't be seen wearing rags.
It's just impossible for a sheik as good-looking as me to go incognito, I might as well live with my being handsome. I might as well enjoy all the attention my luck is getting.
The problem is I was born a shy boy. No, I'm serious.
Looking at all the faces around me, though, it's more than enough to make me feel confident to the point of being cocky. Thank goodness I'm just smart enough; what if I were actually intelligent? People would then start crying "Injustice!" People would hold a grudge not only against me, but also against God.
My natural endowment is such a curse I just couldn't help it but be attractive, and I mean all the time. It's as though I was obliged to live up to my image of glamour in such a way that I should look my best even when I'm only out to buy a cup of noodle at the friendly neighborhood grocer. Heck no, neither can I be seen buying a can of sardines, not in my Helmut Lang. That would imply I'm poverty-stricken. That would suggest I don't have a retinue of servants at home, and I'm having canned goods for dinner. How shameful can someone looking so good get?
Looking this cool has somewhat made me feel I'm predestined for something big. It's as though my looks can only lead me not just to superstardom but also to fabulous wealth and inescapable prestige. Looking this awesome, I've got to be successful, or I'm better off dead.
I've got to be consistent with being admirable. I've gotta be rich, period, even if I sell my body and soul to the devil. I couldn't afford to look pitiful, helpless, pathetic. I couldn't be seen doing what everyone else does. No, I can't be seen with just about anybody else - not without my sunglasses.
I am meant to be special. Being a gift to the world, the world has a duty to oblige me with the courtesy and presents befitting a heavenly being like me. By just being me, I have earned all the right to a mansion in the most exclusive village in town, a membership in the most exclusive clubs, the fanciest fleet of cars, and best of all, an entire harem to suit my discriminating taste, a chosen few who would match me in fame and beauty.
The world needs me. The world would be such an awful place without my star shining on it. And every form of pulchritude would be all the lonelier for it. So I expect the world to curtsey and swoon in my shining presence. I expect the world to love and adore and worship me. For I am their glamorous god.
I am Gollum
(Litany of a Hopeless Case)
I am an abomination. The Bible says so. I am an outcast in society. I am an embarrassment for a church that accuses me a sinner, as though sinning of an unforgivable sin. I am ashamed to go out because people hate me, and don't want to see me nor be seen with me. There's just no space for me in public. Not a soul cares for me, for I am unbearably ugly!
I am oozing not with sex appeal but aversion. I do not glow with an aura of purity and holiness, I run amuck with malice and decadence, anger and despair, like someone under demonic oppression, like someone possessed. I froth at the mouth, I stink from afar. My eyes are always on the lookout for things my bottomless lust and malice can feed on. I have the nose for gossip and scandal.
I am a scandal. No, I smell of bad blood, so I must be a vampire. Aaaaack, I am vile, vile, vile! The fires of hell flicker at my heels. I am a magnet not only to the derision of the virtuous and the righteous, but also to the judgment of a harsh God. I am awaiting eternal punishment. I feel as though my head carries a two-pronged horn. When I grope for my back, I feel a tail. When I look at my feet, I do not see toes but cloven hoofs. I am covered with scales. Yes (hissing), yes (hissing), I am evil, evil, evil!
I am in essence a zombie, one among the living dead. I am a weak and wretched soul, rotten to the core. Oh, there are creatures that keep me company, after all; I count among them snakes, scorpions, rats, bats and all other sorts of creeps. Together we all smolder amidst smoke, ember and tinder.
I am jeered at, leered at, insulted like a slut. All the incurable diseases of men are being heaped on me, as though I carry the plague with me. Yes, they see me as a curse, they all see me as bad luck, untouchable like a leper. In my doomed and condemned state, no consolation is ever forthcoming.
The world is already a living hell for me, should I go to hell all over again? Should my punishment on earth be punished once again with eternal retribution?
So I am serving out my sentence now, will I not be saved still? If all suffering is essentially a penalty, can I then assume I am being redeemed?
Mein Kampf: An Ode to the Fascists of the World
That's what I shout every time I enter my bathroom. No matter how much Baygon and Lysol I use, bugs and critters of every kind continue to plague this part of my apartment. They annoy me so much that I consider a repeat of the Rwandan genocide or the Holocaust.
But neither form of torture would do. I need to turn mass killing into entertainment. I roar, "Here I come!" These critters awake the inner Abu Sayyaf in me. What are mice, roaches, mosquitoes, ants and earthworms, anyway? Why are there snails that harbor schistosomiasis, tse-tse flies that harbor sleeping disease-causing trypanosomes, nematodes that breed elephantiasis and leishmaniasis, scorpions and snakes that sting and bite, tapeworms that suck our vitamins, microbes that harbor leprosy, dengue, malaria, tuberculosis, Ebola, AIDS?
I have an answer to that: They are necessary evils in a fallen world! Pests! Parasites! Inferior creatures that must be exterminated at all cost! They serve no purpose except to offend, to be an obstacle to the enjoyment of life! We must eliminate germs from our superior race if we are to rule the planet, if we are to redeem ourselves, free from all these evils!
But, wait, if a nuclear war breaks out, who would survive but...them?
Aaargh! Evil dictators of the world, unite! I need your help!
Oh, but slaughtering these vermin can be fun. I can turn the bathroom into a giant gas chamber by emptying cans of noxious spray just to turn mosquitoes into strutting carcasses. There is joy in throwing mice right into the toilet bowl, flushing them quick into the septic tank, there to be tortured like they’ve never been in their unfortunate lives. I have kidnapped a stray cat for this purpose, too.
There is morbid fascination in vivisecting earthworms down to their deepest entrails. Enjoyment can be had in torturing these worms with a pinch of salt, or drops of soap suds or shampoo then torching them with a lighted match. Watch how they wriggle in pain, how they involuntarily secrete a kind of protective mucus for momentary relief. That's fine by me! That would only prolong their squirming agony, no sweat. That gives me enough time to reach out for the blade, and slice each segment thin like a julienned celery, that is, if my feet are not in the mood for some uncomplicated squishing.
Come to think of it, I am just being merciful to these worms, for I reserve my total revulsion for roaches. Yes, roaches! Roaches are ugly, ugly, ugly and I could feel how they have nothing but total revulsion for me. You don’t know the meaning of gross or icky or abhorrent if you haven’t been mistaken for food by a roach, flying like a kamikaze pilot right into your face in a blitzkrieg attack. These little devils are so monstrous, hateful, offensive, execrable in everything - look, smell, anatomy, touch. They deserve nothing but instant death! Or, better yet, evisceration - or anything as slow, as contrived and as complicated as a laboratory dissection. Who says animals like these have rights? The hell with animal rights!
The best results for roaches, though, is not torture, but beheading, instant decapitation. Step on the roach’s entire length, squishing on the head first. Listen to that exciting crunch. Next, squash its belly and listen how its bodily humor squirts or spurts. Remove your foot. Revel at the sight of gooey gray and blobs of black and white. Watch the animal squiggle helplessly. Give it a few drops of alcohol or gasoline or hydrochloric or sulfuric acid. Watch it cling to dear life desperately disemboweled, absolutely without recourse to mercy. In split seconds, wait for the ugliness to heave its last sigh, as you clench your jaws, gnash your teeth in naked fury. Then cry, cry for joy! Savor the moment of sweet revenge!
Then get ready for an entire armada of them. Warnung! Roaches are somewhere there hiding in the crevices, waiting for their turn to disgust you with their presence. Let me warn you lest a trace of guilt creep into your heart. Remember, you have no heart. There are no War Tribunals at The Hague to contend here with. Don’t make the mistake of watching the movie Babe; watch instead Starship Troopers or Planet of the Apes. Learn from the masters, Mao, Lenin, Pol Pot, Saddam.
Everyone, enlist in the annihilation...
1999? Revised Apr. 2003
The Day My Mug Spoke the Truth
What do I do first thing as I get to the office in the morning perspiring profusely? Why, make myself a cup of 3-in-1 instant coffee, of course.
No sooner have I pressed my lips on the rim of my mug than I heard my mug make a speech. What it said embarrassed me:
I was born of an idea - no, more of envy. And this envy quickly turned into desire, a deep and strong desire, which, in turn, quickly turned into an answered prayer.
Of course I couldn't come into my master's life out of mere want - or is it obsessive need? I had to be bought first. I had to be officially owned.
I was purchased by a corporate entity which then gave me away to my master's brother as a token of some grand business meeting. It hurts me that they all called me a 'giveaway' but that's what I am.
It was inevitable, it took only a matter of minutes before my master would lay the eyes of covetousness on me one morning, his gleaming idea-turned-desire, and ask that he take me away to his office, there to be kissed from day to day.
Not a day passes by without me being slathered with detergent and rinsed and poured alternately with something hot and cold. I've tasted them all - cold orange juice, sugar-free coffee and creamer, strawberry ice cream, all sorts of soups, yes, even his adorable lips. My master is an omnivorous lot - as I am ambidextrous about hot and cold. He devours whatever he sees without much thinking. He could wolf down an entire cockroach without knowing.
I know that it helps much for his ravenous appetite that he uses me. Watch how he flashes me around with unconcealed gloating. His officemates do not fail to take notice of me; it's almost as though they were obliged to do so. They all ask where I come from and for how much I was obtained. They couldn't tell it straight that I am shiningly beautiful. I am among five or six other (older) industrial-grade rubber-and-stainless-steel mugs around, but no one feels so loved and fussed over as me.
You can sense a certain naivete in how my master brags about me, how he has desired for me, prayed much for, yet acquired so effortlessly. My master says I'm a miracle - and how I bask under that appellation! So artless is he in his boasting that he'll volunteer the information without being asked. So conceited and vain as me, my master.
Oh, there's goes another sip, another lip-locking with my master. That's my tenth today. Don't you think I'm beginning to fall for him?
The truth is, I'm the closest thing my master has to romance.
Psalm 666: Lamentations of a Pervert
I'm a pervert. I'm a lecher. Call me wacko. Call me sick. I don't give a damn sh_t..
My life-long quest is the quest for what's lewd and hot. You can't believe I said that? Yes, I'm in touch with my inner b_tch, my inner bastard.
All liars go to hell. I won't. I'm the most honest person in this world. So honest I've got no inhibitions.
All you phony motherf_ckers, listen to me. You can kiss my _ss. You can suck my d_ck. I like c_ck, I like p_ssy. I get a thrill wagging my d_ng. It's my damn hobby to j_ck off in public. In private, I'm a peeping tom. Whaddaya wanna hear?
I'm helluva havin' a great time. You don't.
Wild bimbos with gigantic g_zongas, bad boys with long schl_ngs. This is heaven! This is paradise! I'm surprised how you find it all so evil. F_ck you! What the hell is wrong with sex? What the hell is wrong with enjoying it? In all its varied friggin' splendor?
Damn, I'm so bored by you. I can't wait for my next conquest, act out my next fantasy. Sadism, masochism, transvestite sex, bestiality, fellatio, cunnilingus, rimming, name it, I've tried it. I would even eat c_m and sh_t just for kicks. Try it.
Ugh, stop puking in my face! So you believe in God, huh? Then you should believe in sex! Who created all that d_ck, all that c_nt, anyway? Who sculpted that beautiful body? Porn is art and art is porn, what's the difference?
Don't look at me. Look at you. Don't you have the same sex drive, too?
Shed all inhibitions! Throw all caution to the wind! Get in touch with your inner sl_t! God is love and He is with us whenever we do it, amen! Yeah, free love is free-for-all, come join the fun! Don't miss out on life, or you'll be cheated dead. You don't wanna regret the orgy you passed up, do you?
Come, on, even just for once? Oh, puh-lease, excuse me while I retch! You silly bastard, of course not. You hypocrite, you're just trying to be who you are. You're not sick. Sex is healthy. It's perfectly normal. No, sex is good!
Now you're accusing me. You call me sick and you call me a sinner. Oh f_ck, which is which? Make up your mind. You call this a crime and you send me to the slammer. You call this a disease and you try to be helpful. You lock me up in the basement of a rehab.
Then you call all those stupid psychos who psych me up. Then they try to explain things away by diggin' deep into me. I feel like being f_ngered!
They'd say I was born unloved. Conceived through incest. Abused and molested as a kid. Sodomized in my teens. That's why I'm now in deep sh_t.
F_ck you! If this whole psycho thing doesn't work out still, you call an exorcist. Aaargh! I thought bondage was my most secret fantasy? Now it's called…demonic possession! Hahahahaha!
Jesus H. Christ, how you kid me. You can all go to hell!
Admit it, you j_rk, face it, you sonovab_tch. I'm a pervert, but you're a pervert, too.
I'm a good boy. Unfashionably good. I am labeled all sorts of things. Self-righteous. Holier-than-thou. Hypocrite. Prissy. Sissy. Prude. Priest. Father. Brother.
"Ang bait mo naman, sana kunin ka na ni Lord." ("You're so goody-goody, why don't you go to hell!") That's what they always say behind my back. (Gee, I'm being accursed!)
Praise the Lord! Oops, that's so uncool to say. So unhip. So effeminate.
I don't care. After all, to parrot a classic line, it's not between them and me, it's between me and God.
"What's wrong with being good?" somebody once blew his top. Oh, everything, according to the world. As though being good is not a choice. As though being good is easy. As though it doesn't require some amount of bravery, some kind of counter-cultural state of mind.
I hate being good, believe me. It tells me to be no respecter of men. It tells me to speak out bravely, assertively, consistently against what I deem wrong.
I always lose friends that way. I always lack for "good company." I always run the risk of being alone. They mistake it as being anti-social.
Being alone in my quest for goodness is something I fear most. For I am weak myself. I need support. I need inspiration. I don't want to scare people. I'm actually friendly and nice.
But they all laugh at me for even trying. As though goodness is a lost cause. I rest my case. I won't even bother to explain my side.
They all jeer at my struggles which can sometimes seem hopeless in the face of the surging tide of popular wisdom. "Be yourself," they always say. Which means, "You're only human, give in to temptation."
They don't mean, "You're only human, accept that, on your own effort, you are weak." Which is a given, a foregone conclusion for me. For I believe everything boils down to unmerited grace. That's why I choose to be careful in what I do. That's why I choose not be trapped by what I deem to be snares of the devil. I don't want to abuse that grace.
I shoot back, "Magpakatotoo ka. Magpakataao ka!" ("Be yourself. Be human.") I have this unflagging belief that fallen nature has predisposed us to human weakness, but we were meant to be good. We were born pure, unsullied, and we must constantly regain that claim.
We ought to constantly regain the "freedom to do as we ought."
The world does not understand this. Never will.
No, they know this in their hearts. It has always been there but they choose to deny it. No blindness is worse than one that is self-inflicted. They choose the "freedom" not to obey. They choose to abuse liberty.
Liberty to them means licentiousness and irresponsibility for one's actions.
They all laugh at my twisted logic. It is always I who's wrong and stupid. They watch me closely and catch me at my weak moments to prove that I'm not at peace with myself. I could have chosen to believe them so everything would be easier.
Their false accusations leave me in torment. I'm always a fair game, vulnerable to abuse. They know that I won't take revenge. But that's not true. God, no less, is my avenger. I know I shall always have the last laugh.
Saturday, May 10, 2003
Posted by R.O. at 10:22 AM