Month: June 2009

I… Am… Phoeeeeeeeenix!

Smoketh has recently exhibited strange precognitive psychic powers. While at Gloria Jeans one night she was scrolling some songs in my laptop and saw a song by Michael Jackson. She immediately pointed out that: Smoketh: Grabe si Michael Jackson, muka… Read More ›

Stage Mum’s Kid Wins!

Indeed, Stage Mum’s kid wins the grand prize in the recently concluded art contest. This will therefore reinforce Stage Mum’s stagemumness, and the kid will grow up to be an uptight, grade-conscious overachiever. Or not. Who knows, the kid might… Read More ›


Been reading too much books and comic books, watching too many movies, and writing way too many stupid blog entries the past weeks that you’d wonder how I even manage to groom myself. Okay so I don’t groom myself, but… Read More ›

Now Where Were We

I told you it works. Me: Hey Hart, kamusta na si Ferrous O.D. Guy? Masakit pa rin ang tiyan?Hart: Hindi na. Okay na sya. Bati na sila. Naghahalikan na sila. And it wasn’t a hyperbole. They were, indeed, deep kissing…. Read More ›

Whine For The Day

We’re showing The Transformers this Friday, and I’m begging you to buy tickets from me. My blog invitation about Batman last year was a spectacular failure, basically because my technique sucked–I said that your money wouldn’t even suffice for a… Read More ›


A medical audit is exactly that—you present a mortality in front of bloodthirsty people and they will audit every single misstep that you did and pour sacks of salt on your already gaping cavity of guilt. Let’s cut this crap… Read More ›

Infernal Culprit

So much for shutting up. So Mrs. T is on her indefinite leave for the sake of her baby, who I think will be the savior of the universe in a John Connor kind of way, which is appropriate since… Read More ›

Drag Your Butt To Hell!

I sort of enjoy reading the stuff that I write, an enjoyment which usually expires in about 1 year, after which I get all vomity and despise my pretentious, shallow thoughts. I noted that I have been blogging quite more… Read More ›


Apparently, it works. Guy instantly got back together with girl in the backdrop of the disgusting emergency room and they smooched like they own the darn place. Because apparently, it works–I mean taking 30 slimming pills in the guise of… Read More ›


I’ve just recently discovered the joy and exhilaration of going on duty wearing tsinelas. What fun. What pure comfort. Walking back and forth, scouring the entire bleeping hospital to write my token notes that wouldn’t even get a token reading…. Read More ›

Drag You To Hell!

TT couldn’t come, he had some date. So HIV, Pyro, and I braved the storm at 10pm and went to see Drag Me to Hell and enjoyed its wonderful campiness. The gypsy woman should win an award or something, I… Read More ›

Vital Quotes

In the grand tradition of taking quotes out of context, here are more… vital quotes. “What is that? What is that I smell? It smells new! A blue ring? Where did you get a blue ring? I want one!” –… Read More ›

Damn It, Graciepoopieloop!

Was recently called at around 2 am to the recovery room to check on a post-op patient whose BP was going down. So I ran up, wore the very sterile (hee-hee-hee) hospital gown, and put on a shower cap/shoe cap… Read More ›


As I’ve blathered about in one of my old blog entries (back in Friendster, I think, when the porn spam invites were still manageable), I have a lot of doppelgangers—ie, I receive a lot of those don’t I know you… Read More ›


In The Office Raine Wilson always intros with the word “Question!” whenever he wants to ask a damn question, and I realized it is actually a common practice in real life, some way of not asking for permission without being… Read More ›

Fiction: Marth V.

Marth V. woke up feeling rejuvenated. It was probably the drugs finally draining out of him, what with 3 liters of Vitamin C that gave him gastritis and stuff. He ran out of his bedroom, manually removed his foley catheter,… Read More ›


Sitting on my table alone, because he doesn’t belong with anybody else in the eskaparate. Maybe if I could at least get Hurley and John Locke. Gratuitous entry I tells you. “You killed my father, Mr. Sawyer.”