Why?:Not go to the Philippines?
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Ah, it's quite a relaxing day to go to my sister's place today. She's got three amusing little children, and a son of a bitch-turned-husband of hers supporting the three kids. She wrote on my wall yesterday that she and her husband got into a little trouble, and would like me to come over and help spruce things up a bit. So I booked a flight immediately to Philadelphia, however, my awkward typing prowess suddenly spawned a powerful case of Carpal tunnel syndrome upon my wrists, and instead of typing out "Philadelphia" into the booking company's online form, I typed "Philippines". I struggled to get my dead right wrist to move my mouse pointer to the obvious red X on my browser, but it seems that the damage was already done.
I suddenly remembered my dad's words when I struggled to run away from a running meat grinder after lying on my back on a conveyor belt, "Use your head! (sometimes added with, 'You miserable son of a bitch!'" And so I did. Using my skull, I bashed the keyboard several times until URLs of German porn sites began popping out of my browser. A rogue worm caught my PC, infected it, then decided to fuck up my computer's mom and sister.
Before I headed to the airport I told my sister that I will be delayed, but she said something about "razors" and "killing" and shit I don't know because I was too busy struggling to get my dead wrists to effectively maneuver the car without running down any children and elderly women. So far I have failed and my casualty count has reached about 53.
Upon reaching the airport, I was given the usual security procedure, I was frisked, then had to go through a screening of myself and my luggage. Joining me in the line were other Americans who have confused "Philippines" with "Philadelphia" and are now begging airport officials to have them ride a plane to Philly state. Their pleads were futile and they were greeted with a nice, American, shotgun blast to the face. I've decided to just keep quiet about my situation for I have no plans of making my face look like baked lasagna thrown at somebody's brick wall.
My plane ride was still relatively American despite my destination is somewhere God knows where. My seatmates in my aisle were common American plane passengers, on front of me is a very obese man who weighs a little bit more than the total weight of all the luggage in the plane, behind me is a teenage single mother who fails to pacify her young infant who keeps crying, drooling and vomiting all sorts of shit that God knows what on my shoulder.
My arrival was quite uneventful. I was just having a little fun in the toilet when some stewardess barged in and, after collecting herself after a brief shock session after taking sight of my wang. I told her that I was just forcing out a frozen drop of urine from my body, even though the temperature in the Philippine air was close to 30 degrees Celsius. The stewardess, apparently being Filipina, performed a slow, confused nod at my act and decided to leave me and my wang alone to our business.
To pass the time and to try and forget that I'm fucked, I've decided to take a stroll around Manila like a man with a death wish. Ah, the fresh air of the Philippines is nice. The stench of nearby marketplaces and methane coming from everybody's excessive farting is a good change from the boring evergreen scent from my woodland home back in the United States. Everyone is staring at me. It makes me feel uneasy. Is this the first time they have seen an American? I've heard from my colleagues who came to this place that all Filipinos have a strange desire to stare at white people. Yeah, it's harmless, but it just feels so weird.
I looked around the city streets and observed that almost everybody is sporting a cellphone. However, they're not iPhones (which were carried by typical white assholes back in the States) or T-Mobiles (which were carried by typical Black assholes back in the States), but the dreaded Nokia. Oh, and it's not that shitty new N97, they were usually just China-made 3310s from the last decade.
The Computer Shop
Cruising along the city one more time, I took notice of a small, rundown building on the end of a street, adjacent to a basketball court where topless men mask their festive habits of rubbing each other's bare chests by shooting hoops. Above the said building's entrance were the words, "Putanginamo Computer Shop". I immediately knew what I was up against. After reading this very informative article about the said building, I now have the knowledge to defeat the evils inside, and to properly use the computers to relay a message to the civilized folks back in America to give me a rescue, and probably send a couple of nukes to blow this shithole of a country up while they're at it.
I went inside the computer shop and approached the administrator. The conversation went on as follows:
Me: Hey. Can you help me? I need to use one of your computers and -
Admin: Putanginamo gago ka ulol mo bakla kang kanong ka ayan punta ka dun sa putanginang number 8 putanginamoka
The only understandable word I've heard from this man's mouth was "Number 8" so I guess he means the computer on the far right with the number eight slapped on the side of the computer's case. I sat down on the computer and observed the desktop. Firefox was nowhere in sight. All I have was Internet Explorer. Oh great.
I doubled clicked on the icon and out came a blitzkreig of pop-ups, all containing either fake messages about a fake anti-virus software detecting a virus, to links and flash advertisements to German porn (although more on the German porn part). I tried to ignore the pop-ups, but it was impossible. I did my best to input mail.google.com on the URL bar though.
I inputted my username and password and a pop-up appeared informing me that my credentials were now stolen and everything I added to the Internet - my credit card number, my Social Security number, my World of Warcraft account, is now stolen away from me. Probably not much. I continued to struggle against the wave of pop-ups that keep landing faster than a wave of paratroopers from WWII. I managed to click Compose Mail and entered the following:
- To: email@example.com
- Subject: HELP ME
- OH FOR THE LOVE OF FUCKING GOD MAKE IT FUCKING STOP HELP ME I'M HERE STRANDDE D IN THE MOTHERFUCCKING PHILLIPINNES SSEEND ME SIOME PLANES (W/O SNAKKES PL0X) AND NUKES RIGHT NOW
I hit send and quickly rushed out of the computer shop after handing the administrator a dollar bill. He yelled at me the same unrecognizable words earlier, however, I picked up the words "computer", "message", "new" and "email" somewhere in the confused cacophony. I have received a new message. I returned to the computer earlier and took a look.
It was from my sister.
- To: matthew@godmailPWNZOR.com
- Subject: It's over
I groped for my throat and out came the F-word in big letters. An hour of screaming later I reached for my wallet and decided that it was time to go home. I then discovered that some pantless kid took my money and is now off to use it to buy balut down the street. Oh, how great this day has been.
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