On the sixth day of christmas, my true love gave to meee…

• 6 John Wayne movies…
• 5 Clint Eastwood westerns…
• 4 Shirt underoos…
• 3 Star Wars DVD’s…
• 2 Sci-Fi books…
• 1 “swiss army” cologne…
• And a haardcover of the Little Prince!

I also gave myself a few nice threads from errorwear and elsewhere (a few less geeky ones). Good bounty this year.

How was yours?

— sergio at 12:46 PM     Comments (7)   TrackBack (0)

I own a Cancer Protection insurance policy. No shit. It will give me a considerable sum of money in the event that I find myself ailed with any form of Cancer known to man. Any, that is, except those pesky ones that people actually get sick from.

I’m not kidding. The exemptions clause on my policy is not only bigger than the rest of the contract. It makes “War and Peace” look like the puny, trifling pamphlet that it really is. It mocks the Encyclopaedia Britannica with derisive superiority whilst sitting on its throne and sniffing coke off the tits of a ten-dollar hooker. This clause is spread across several pages because, were it all written down on the same piece of paper, it would undoubtedly create a gravity well, collapse into itself, become a new universe and eventually spawn a civilisation of purple flying monkeys who would develop space travel, invade Earth and sodomize all of humanity (which, although presenting the undeniably amusing prospect of bunghole rape-age of whatever lawyer came up with said document, would —in all likelihood— not be fun).

But now for the 1 million dollar question: Why do I own this insurance? — Indeed, why do I pay a monthly fee upwards of 10 american dollars for it?

If you don’t know the answer to that, dear reader, you are surely not a regular, so allow me to introduce myself: My name is Sergio, and I am an idiot.

The reason that I own this policy, is that, put in simple and elegant terms, I have the strong, determined volition of chocolate pudding. On acid.

The lecherous, ass-raping, mother-fucking motherfuckers over at ACE Insurance Company of North America (mexican branch) called me about a year ago to let me know that American Express had the forethought and good judgement of violating my customer agreement in order to provide them with all of my data for this incredibly nifty new medical insurance against Cancer and other stuff (I take it that the other stuff provides coverage against earth-faring aquatic sea monster attack in the event of Global Marine uprising led by Aquaman, Namor or some other self-appointed king of the Sea — on Sundays only). And they were practically GIVING IT AWAY!

There is a very good reason for the existence of customer information non-disclosure clauses. It is to protect blabbing, drooling idiots from themselves. It is a very worthy reason. Those of you who were anointed —whether by divine hand or genetic lottery— with the gift of Common Sense should, like Superman, use that mighty power for good. You should strive to use it in the help and defense of those of us who, alas, are not so fortunate! I am sorry to say that in this respect, YOU FAILED ME.

The conversation between the salesperson (henceforth known as the Hellspawn) and me went more or less like this:

HS: Mister Villarreal! I have here your credit card number, home address and other personal information. I just need your confirmation to fit you with our Cancer Insurance Policy.
SV: Umm… no, I don’t really…
HS: Need I remind you that I have your home address?
SV: But, really! I don’t…
HS: (in hellish guttural shriek that promises to rain death upon the living) OH, BUT YOU WILL BUY IT, BITCH! YOU WILL BUY IT AND YOU WILL LIKE IT!!!
SV: (in full battle cry mode — otherwise known as sounding like a 5 year old scared to death girl) Aaaanngghh!! Leave me alone! Yes! Yes I want it! just leave me aloooone!!
HS: That is all we needed. You will be receiving your policy… soon (insert hellish laughter here)

You should be ashamed of yourselves.

I recently waged a fierce, bloody and drawn out battle to get rid of this insurance policy. I am thirsty, wounded and mentally exhausted from it, and I’m still not sure if the dragon was slain. More on this later.

— sergio at 05:25 PM     Comments (10)   TrackBack (0)

We’ll call her… Gabrielle. Gabrielle is smart, slender, tall-ish, and totally off her rocker. Just my type. (I met her through match.com — incidentally, I was the one who contacted her). We’re having a fairly nice date, when I ask her:

— “So, what do you do in your spare time?”
— “Lots of sports! I also practice professional weightlifting and capoeira”

Upon hearing this, I nearly spilled my beer all over her lovely “I *heart* ME” shirt.

Holy shit! I’m dating Batman!!”

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I find something incredibly arousing in dating a woman who could kill me seven different ways with her bare hands (and screw Darwin! He wasn’t going out with queen of the Amazons here!).

The night goes on, and I’m really getting the impression that this girl likes me. She’s sending all kinds of signals, and I’m picking up on them like I have the Arecibo telescope mounted on the top of my head (ok, on my penis).

After a few beers, I take her home (which is on the other side of the city). When we get there, she asks me:

— “Do you want to meet Sonya?”

Sonya is a humongous boxer bitch she shares her house with. They sleep together, too (talking about dogs in English is awkward).

Sonya jumped into my arms as soon as she opened the door. Somehow, dogs always trust me more than people. That may be due to the fact that dogs have a tendency to be stupider than most people.

So you know the story. I played with her, she slobbered on my arm, lied down on her back so I could scratch her belly… jumped excitedly, tried to hump my back (I think she has a bit of an identity problem), and generally was all over me. All the while I’m thinking about doing the same things to her owner (yes, the back humping too… No, don’t ask).

The scenario was playing great for me, except for one minor detail:

I am Sergio’s colossally inflamed Bladder…”

That’s right. I was about to shed a tear from strain. That’s usually the point when my internal organs raise their voice and let their opinions be heard.

BLADDER: I’m dying here! DYING, I TELL YOU!!!

No problem, right? I’m at her place, right? And so I asked her:

— “Say, could you let me come inside for a spell, to use your bathroom?”

All my years of experience with dysfunctional relationships and unhealthy spousal mistrust did not prepare me for her answer:

— “I don’t think I’m ready for you to get to know my place yet”

BRAIN: Huh?
BLADDER: LET ME AT HER!!! I KEEL YOU BITCH! I KEEL YOU DEAD!!! DEAD I SAY!!!
BRAIN: *takes a look at biceps on the woman, calculates distance between her and door, decides against that particular course of action*

And then she smiled apologetically and held me close. You know the way. One of those hugs where your whole body comes in contact with the other person’s, and you can feel her touch all over. Those who know me may have anticipated that this is where it all goes to hell…

PENIS: Heeeelllooo, everyone!
BRAIN: Oxygen! Oxyy…
PENIS: Wow! Did you look at those LEGS?
BLADDER: Nice of you to drop by to the party. Where the hell have you been? I’m DYING here!
PENIS: Wow! Did you look at those LEGS?
BLADDER: Will you consider my feelings for once, asshole??
ASSHOLE: Hey! Leave me out of this! I don’t plan to be involved in this at all.
PENIS: They’re like… LONG! and STRONG! Wow… legs…
BLADDER: Shut up! SHUT UP! The both of you! I swear to god, if I go down, I’m taking you both with me!!
PENIS: And the boobs! They’re not really big, but boy, they’re perky! Niiice boobs…
BLADDER: That does it! I’m going nuclear! REMEMBER KEH-SAHN!!!!

That’s when my brain kicked in for just enough time to decide on an alternate course of action.

— “So, thanksalot ihadagreattime illcallyoulaterokbye!”

I gave her a quick peck on the lips and hightailed it to my car with superhuman speed.

Having absolutely no idea where I was, I just drove down the first big street I found. Eventually I made it downtown, where my bladder informed me that unless I found the prospect of peeing through a catheter for the rest of my life particularly appealing, I should stop.

BRAIN: Do you know what happens to the guys they pick up peeing on the street? Do you? They end up spending the night in jail with a cellmate named Bubba! That’s what happens!
BLADDER: Command post ready for launch! Commencing in 5!… 4!…

I brought the car to a staggering halt in the middle of a dark street and ran for the nearest tree, where I got down to business.

BLADDER: O-OOOHHHHHH… YESS…
PENIS: This is *so* not what I was looking forward to tonight…
BLADDER: YEAH, BABY!! LIKE THAT!! GIVE IT TO MEEEEE!!!
PENIS: Hey! Is this going to end anytime soon? I’ve got serious contemplation to do, you know?

At that precise moment, a truck that looked suspiciously of the Federales turned the corner on the block i was standing.

BRAIN: Shit!
ASSHOLE: Noo, I’m pretty sure I would have noticed, boss. Everything’s a-ok down here!
BRAIN: Shut up, asshole! Everyone else — Abort! Abort! Emergency retreat!
BLADDER: OH. YESS! YES! YES!
PENIS: Zipper alert! Zipper alert! THE ZIPPER IS UP! I REPEAT, THE ZIPPER IS UP! Disengage!!
BLADDER: OH MY GOD YESS!!! YES! Like that, bitch!!
PENIS: …
PENIS: fuck

The truck went past me and I saw it was just some guy with his family.

To recap: At the end of the night, I ran the risk of rupturing my bladder, anal rape by a guy named Bubba, back rape by a dog named Sonya, and peed myself a little.

Will I go out with this woman again?

PENIS: Hell yeah! I mean, did you look at those LEGS?

— sergio at 02:34 PM     Comments (16)   TrackBack (0)

In women matters, I suffer from bad judgement. No, make that dangerous lack of acumen. Actually… it’s more like a hideous, consummate disregard for common sense.

I tend to hook up with deranged women. I’m not just being facetious here, either. Two of my ex girlfriends have done long stretches in mental care institutions (for reasons unrelated to my involvement with them — mostly). Another one turned out to have a brain tumor (ok, that one I had nothing to do with, and she’s ok now).

Anyway, the point is: When it comes to choosing a stable partner for romantic relationships, I suck. Badly. A random number generator hooked up to the census database could do a far better job than I have so far, and that’s without even removing the males from the data.

Which is why I joined an online dating service (yes, I have become one of those people).

In my inexhaustible wisdom, I decided that if I met women completely ouside my social circle, women whom I had had absolutely no dealings with prior to the act of asking them out, only good things could come out of it.

You may be aware by now of the fact that I am an idiot, but surprisingly enough, the results have been mixed, and so far I’ve only hit a few snags in the whole endeavour, which I will write about soon. For the time being, here is my profile (translated to English), as available in match.com:

General:

I am fun and functional. A historical, perhaps mythological figure. My boring days inspire epic poems in dead languages and whole tribes erect monuments in my honor.

I possess a multitude of national and international awards. I can rip phonebooks in half with my bare hands. When not busy achieving World Peace, I help children and small dogs.

My fortune is vast and unmeasurable. Bill Gates asks me for loans and the IMF issues bonds on my name.

I am on sale. Just for today.

Appearance:

I’m the mexican version of Quentin Tarantino.

Looking for:

I like women who are intelligent, independent and have a good sense of humor. Being creative and having an even number of limbs a plus.

— sergio at 06:55 PM     Comments (16)   TrackBack (0)

My cellphone rings at 11-something PM. On a Sunday. After spending all day as a vegetable, it surprises me to get a party/drunk/booty call at this hour, but it’s not unheard of.

New call from: Sofia
                                             Answer?”

Shit.

For a moment there I toyed with the idea of not answering. The “No” button looks so appealing sometimes, you know? (I have long been convinced that all of us should have a “LIKE HELL” button built in. It would make dissent antiseptic and much, much easier — This is one design flaw I’m sure I’ll take up to proper management when I rest underground).

*Click* - Yes.

— “Sofia… How… surprising”
— “Hi! Say, could you come outside for a minute?”
— “You’re outside??”
— “Yeah, I’m outside”

Oh, FUCK, oh, sweet fucking fuck! Now I’ve done it! She read my posts on the site, and she’s come to kill me! Kill me dead, I tell you!

— “Ok, I’ll be right there.”

I put on my coat, scribble a quick “Sofia did it. Search for proof on my computer” note, and head outside into the cold air.

When I see her, I’m suprised. To tell the truth, I half expected her to be carrying a bat (the hitting variety, not the sleeping upside-down kind). Instead, she’s wearing one of those spongy-looking jackets and carrying a Norah Jones CD.

I’ve always loved how a lot of her clothes make her look smaller than she is.

At first she’s apologetic, and tells me she even considered bringing candy to bribe me (too bad she didn’t, it would have worked). I ask for an explanation, but she doesn’t offer much except that she wanted to give me back the CD. I surprise myself by not pushing the issue further.

I surprise myself by not pushing the issue further.

And the thing is: If there is something more to this, I don’t want to know. And that’s a very recent realization. One of those states you’ve long entered but did not acknowledge until they are sitting naked in front of you, staring back at your face. Like AIDS. Or advanced leprosy.

We walk for a while. We talk about menial stuff. We both agree that routine is eating away at us. We both agree that we should do something about it. I thank her for the CD. I kiss her goodnight. I go for the cheek. I don’t know if the mouth is available, but I don’t want to find out.

I make it a point of not looking back while I walk back home.

Twenty minutes later, Norah Jones is still on Repeat.

I could almost go there…

                           Just to live in a dream”

Indeed.

— sergio at 01:56 PM     Comments (17)   TrackBack (0)

I don’t watch much TV, but whenever I’m channel flipping and I run into CSI, I can’t turn my eyes away. It may just be me, but the idea of an alternate universe where forensical geeks are not only cool, good looking and carry guns, but can also get laid from time to time just blows my mind away.

Last night at 2 AM I was silently cursing David Caruso (is it just me or is he too stoned, too distant, too redheaded, too fucking much?) for making me stay up late to find out who had decided to spill token-famous-baseball-dude’s brains all over the living room carpet in an episode that seemed oddly reminiscent of a Clue session on acid (as I recall, it was either the cute-innocent-looking-daughter —with aproppriate “wtf?” value— or Colonel Mustard, with the candlestick).

Anyway, that’s when it hit me that CSI is missing a golden opportunity for serious criminal investigation possibilities by not having tackled the Rachelle Waterman case. As you may remember, this criminal mastermind not only convinced her two psycho ex boyfriends (Milton, from Office Space and the fat Michael Jackson from the Simpsons, apparently) of kidnapping and killing her mom, but also of having sex with her (ewwww).

And she kind of gave it away in her livejournal, too.

I can picture the CSI episode in my head. It would be titled “Shitty poetry rocks / I kill my mom / Speling is tuff / haiku has too few lines / LOL”. It would be from CSI:Vegas, because Caruso is too brain dead and Gary Sinise looks evil in whatever he does. Plus, Grissom rocks.

— “I want this done and done right, Catherine. We’ll spare no expenses to find the murderous murderer who murdered this woman”
— “You’re getting too involved in this Grissom! Too involved! I don’t care if you’re commanding officer, I’ll get you off the case if you don’t tell me why you’re SO INVOLVED!”
— “Yeah, well, I kind of killed my mother when I was a kid… so there.”

*Catherine clutches at her left breast and stares at the void whilst mumbling incoherently — Her painstakingly disheveled shirt shows just enough cleavage to up ratings in Illinois, not enough to lose viewers in Iowa*

— “I… I didn’t know, Grissom…”
— “Let’s just get this done, shall we Catherine?”

*Arbitrary amount of time passes. Cut to dweeb who lives in the precinct’s basement. He’s wearing a hideous hawaiian t-shirt and his hair looks like someone barfed on it*

— “What do you have for me, Greg?”
— “Well, Grissom, I hacked into your suspect’s computer by means of highly sophisticated genetic algorithm based, buzzword compliant techniques… “

*Is seen to type Rachelle’s livejournal URL on browser’s address bar*

— “… And I got her diary. She did it”
— “That’s great, Greg! How do you know?”
— “Well, you see this entry here, titled ‘I *SO* totally killed my m0m, LOLZ!!’?”
— “Yeah…”
— “That was the first clue.”

*Grissom beams with poorly disguised paternal pride*

— “Amazing detective work, Greg. We got her!”

Seriously, I can’t even begin to fathom why the guys over at CBS haven’t come knocking at my door yet.

— sergio at 02:17 PM     Comments (21)   TrackBack (0)