The Big One

Surely you've seen it in your feeds.

Those dire warnings about "The Big One."

Mmm. The Big One.

Everyone - from the feckless zucchini masquerading as the head of the incompetent government agency that rhymes with MDMA, to your hysterical aunt invoking anti-earthquake immunity by chanting "IN JESUS' NAME GOD WILL NOT LET IT HAPPEN" - has posted about "The Big One."

Seven point something that'll supposedly "rock the planet."

I should be so lucky to have something 7.something rock my body.

But I digress.

I'm sure Philvocs and the MMDA may have the general public's interest in mind by posting these dire warnings "to prepare for The Big One." But curiously, the effect it has on me is the opposite: instead of level-headedness and calm, each and every time I see those blaring words "PREPARE FOR THE BIG ONE" I am filled with expectations of carnage, destruction, and death, instead of competent emergency services, community cooperation, and a general maintenance of law and order.

Arguably, that's just another day in this godforsaken land.

But once more I digress.

I also get the feeling that some sectors seem to have this morbid, almost giddy anticipation of "The Big One." As though this was heaven's long-awaited crushing fist of divine righteousness come to punish us for our wickedness at last. 

Indeed. Rebar and styrofoam do not meet standard building codes.

The poor dense dears. If it's punishment you wanted, you already got it by being born Filipino.

At any rate, the only way this could be poetically-perfect for the huffing just is if "The Big One" were to hit this Good Friday, and crush all the godless heathen who decided to hit the beaches instead of contemplating their wretched lives in church.

Fat chance.

The city will be empty. Given God's wicked sense of humor, it'll probably be the pious who'll be crushed in their unrelenting piety as unreinforced churches crumble around them.

What a ball-buster it'd be to die in righteousness during Holy Week, only to find out you can't quite eyeball Jesus yet because, well, it's his annual Death Commemoration Orgy and he's busy, well, playing dead. 

Shut up, dweeb.

And I digress yet again.

Of all the natural calamities, I'm pretty sure most of us fear earthquakes the most. Typhoons have an infuriating habit of being hyped and then ending up as no-shows. Floods, like periods, are mostly wet, sloppy inconveniences. But there's something about literally having the earth move under your feet that triggers a primal fear. I guess it's because we're flightless creatures who cannot launch ourselves into the skies while Gaia has an orgasm.

But more than I fear earthquakes, I fear the incompetence of my countrymen. Especially those who purport to be in "public service." For all their blather, if and when "The Big One" strikes, I'm pretty sure Manila will descend quickly into lawlessness, chaos, and murder - and probably stay there till Christ returns.

Again, just another day in paradise. But this time with the city literally reduced to rubble. The only bright side is that the government will have more ghost voters to usher in the next plague upon this benighted land.

What's the point of this ramble over rumble?

Ah.

As the government and your sainted aunts keep screeching at us "to prepare for The Big One", I think my dear red-headed hellion Red Sonja said it best  :

"And now, you music-makers from hell - if I'm to die in this temple of abominations, at least I'll go down in SILENCE!!"


A-fuckin-men.

Scrooge

Yeah, so this is Christmas.

And where there's Christmas, there's namamasko.


I know it's been said that Christmas has become commercialized. Well, color me red and call me Rudolph's nose.

I'm not here to discuss how Santa has upstaged Jesus in this year-end celebration. Nor how Christmas has become less a religious holiday celebrating the birth of the Christian savior, and more of a secular bacchanal: an excuse for merriment and gift-giving.

And before we speak of gifts and the merriment they bring, watch the video below:

Coming off from the video's basic premise, I ask you now: can money - and the material goods it can bring - spread happiness, then?

On one of the message boards I frequent, I got called an asshole for posting that the reason I never gave my multi-millionaire business colleague/frenemy anything for the holidays - ever - is because I came up with my First Equation of Holiday Gift-Giving, as follows:


What do you give the man who has everything?

Give him the one thing he doesn't have.

Which is: nothing.


The berater's point was that gift-giving was not a matter of things; rather, it was the thought behind those things.

I countered with my Second Equation of Holiday Gift-Giving:



They say it's the thought that counts.

So I thought of giving you a present.

That's what counts, right?


Of course, things quickly went south from there, but my innate orneriness aside, the social chastisement I got gave me room for pause.



Am I really a Scrooge?


But no, said the Gollum to my Smeagol. We's helps so many peoples every year, precious. We's gives them loans they never pay back, yesss. They's always asssksss uss for help, precious, allllwaysssss usssss. And they always says the same things, always the same problems, even if it isn't Christmas, all-year round they askssss, precious, they asksss and askssss and askkksssss ussssss.

Aherm. Aherm.


So what really counts? I give even if it's against my good will. Is that worse than not giving at all?


I also don't like to think I'm Smaug hoarding gold, but I've definitely put the kibosh on the many subtle and not-so-subtle requests for Yuletide "assistance" thus far.



Maybe I am a Scrooge.


Or just bah, humbugging.

Happy holigays, anyway.

And Just Like That

...we spiral once again into the dumps. Getting to be a holiday tradition, this.


Clear triggers :  Lu's departure for the cold climes of Canada is confirmed, and irrevocable. We greet the New Year with her absence - a yawning void which I doubt very much will be filled.


My sadness aside, her leave creates new and unpleasant repercussions for my home life.

Not to go into too much detail, but let's say my days of more or less peaceful solitude may soon be over.

And in my dotage, I'm not one who greets change enthusiastically nor kindly.


It also doesn't help that I've once again become a cast member of Contagion. I'm looking at you, Mara, who valiantly suppressed your hacking cough during Rama, Hari redux, but barked like Bonnie Tyler's dog all throughout intermission.


Sigh.

Entity

Misfortune Cat print from here.

Is it just me, or have you ever thought that malas is not just some abstract concept, but a living, breathing entity? One that can be carried like a virus and spread by certain people, just like in the vernacular phrase "Ingat, baka dapuan ka ng malas." 

Superstition imbues places, objects, actions, words and dates with inherent qualities of fortune and misfortune. "Malas ang bahay na yan," we say of houses and establishments located at crossroads, or tumbok. Or places where tragedies have taken place, and succeeding inhabitants have consistently experienced strange happenings and/or reversals of fortune until they abandon said places.

"Malas ang petsang/buwan na yan,"  caution I-Ching and Feng Shui practitioners, as they calculate and divine "auspicious" dates for life-changing events such as weddings, baptisms, business launches.

If places, objects, and dates could harbor malas, could some people themselves be walking harbingers of misfortune, through their own making or not?

Your thoughts?

Hollow Ween

So for the first time in what - 3 years? - I found myself in town and unhampered by anything work-related on a Black Party night. Of course, what's known as the Malate Black Party is a relatively new phenomenon: a 3-year-old cash grab, essentially, that reduced what was once a rambunctious, giddy, open Halloween street party into a gated, bouncer-guarded, pay-per-entry abomination.

Sure, there was a loud hue and cry at the time, but like other holocausts that preceded the Appropriation of the Malate Halloween, once the cries died down all that was left was to dispose of the bodies - figuratively, of course.

It was like the Rape of the Sabines - only screechier.

I've been a Malate denizen far longer than I care to remember, and perhaps it was nostalgia that goaded me to attend last Saturday's event, despite three friends bailing on me for various reasons.* ("I'm suddenly sick because we drank till 4 in the morning", "I'm boycotting those evil greedy motherfuckers", "I saw dead people in your house while we were dressing up and now I'm not in a party mood anymore.")


Wisdom, as usual, is a function of hindsight.


From where my date and I were seated, we could not see the two shrieking banshees that were drafted in from some ancient nightmare as the evening's "hosts." Perhaps I've been away for too long, but I did not realize street parties had any need of "hosts." Unfortunately, while our location spared us from the sight of the duo, our ears were still within reach of their fingernails-across-chalkboard voices, and the constant stream of babbling stupidity backing up out of their mouths.

This is how I pictured the evening's hosts -

but without the entertainment value.

There followed a couple of "games" worthy of your local baranggay fiesta - that is, if your baranggay was sponsored by Jack Daniels or Jose Cuervo instead of Ginebra - then some well-meaning AVP about HIV or something that I'm sure enraptured the crowd the way a complex algebraic equation would delight a roomful of ADD kids.

I think I was on my second bucket of San Mig Light when Sweet-Mother-of-God-what-IS-that Lapuz ascended the stage. His voice was as silken as sandpaper on cactus lightly dusted with glass shards, his personality as charming as a government clerk five minutes before lunch break, and the entire exchange onstage as sincere and authentic as a Nigerian prince promising riches for a small favor in your Inbox.

I don't really know what the heck that queen and those two jesters were prattling on about at that point, because I, an obstinate relic from the Old Kingdom, was busy staring ruefully at the oddly-lifeless denizens of the New Queendom, feeling all the futility of Ozymandias.**

My baleful Sauron gaze then turned from the gathered Orcs to my companion: a handsome young heterosexual colt, just recently turned 21, in his first-ever Malate Halloween. A lean moreno yin to my out-of-shape yang, the wide-eyed ange to my jaded démon.  I had persuaded this young man to attend this Halloween party in costume, promising him that it was going to be fun and that he would be enjoying himself immensely.

I see dead people.

Little did I know we were both in for a schooling.


Despite wearing a mask to hide his identity, he was sheepish and awkward at all the attention being showered upon him by people - both gay, straight, and anything in-between - asking to have their picture taken with him all night long. Being the veteran and ex-camwhore, I was the one who had to gently prod him to be game and smile for the nice souvenir snappers.

Presently I yanked the boy through the oxymoronically-thin crowd - curiously bereft of costumed revelers - and made a beeline for the old sanctuary: Bed. But once in front of its new portals, I suddenly paused. Like a seasoned wizard who actually knew the password to the Mines of Moria - and prescient to the horrors lying in wait deep within - I changed my mind and steered my young charge, with occasional interruptions from more people wanting pictures, back to the bar from whence we came.

I guess we shall not pass, young Hobbit.

From that perch, I drowned my disappointments and sorrows in drink.

And came to the night's epiphanies.



The old Malate of yore is dead. No nostalgic pilgrimage will resurrect it. Its corps has been dismembered and scattered to the four winds, lost to age and death and other journeys, and its esprit...well, perhaps it's taken on a new form.


A reincarnation that I no longer recognize.

On a night calculated to preempt the actual All Hallows' Eve in the name of commerce, it was cruel poetry, in the end, to dance on the grave of a beloved, now forever lost in time.


Then again, perhaps it's for the best.

Because we all know what happens when you try to bring back the dead.



And it ain't pretty.

Shokot akesh.

======================


*All apparently true.


**I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half-sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survived, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

- Ozymandias, Percy Blythe Shelley

Friday the 26th

I see your terrible ad/On the cinema screen/
And i'm like/ Fahgget you

What makes you go mad?


Looking at a certain abrasive gay "comedian's" mug 40 feet high on the silver screen trying to be the unholy love child of Effie Trinket and Chi Chi LaRue while pimping out Halloween fills me with such inexplicable rage I feel like a kindred spirit to apoplectic homophobes everywhere.

As in my thought balloon bursts with a single thought: "Fagsfagsyoufuckingfags."

Scream, you screaming queen.

Also, getting long impassioned pleas on FB for financial assistance from grips I'm not even close with. Grips to whom I already gave - not lent - a couple thousand bucks, ostensibly for their ailing grandmothers.


Even though I already protested that I'm neither the BVM, Toni Rose Gayda's mother, nor what the great atheist Christopher Hitchens derisively dismissed as "a thieving, fanatical Albanian dwarf," apparently I'm still mistaken for Cielito "Mahal" del Mundo. 


In the interest of public service, let it be known that that's an "L" on my forehead, not a fucking red cross. So call Princess Punzalan's ex-husband or the good Mrs. Villar or any other politician/political wannabe who needs a photo-op for your sob stories, geeeeeez.

Here's your mother of mercy, you (^*#^@%%*(!!!

Oh, hello. Have we met?


I'm Stabby McStabberson.

And yes.



We all go a little mad sometimes.

I'm not crazy. I'm just a little unwell.

Selfishness

The last time I glanced at the mirror, I didn't look anything like this:

Mother of Helping Perps, all right.

Or this:

There will be blood, Mama Rose.

Or heaven forbid, this:

Sweet Charity is a musical, Mutha- T.

So why is it that in the span of two consecutive days, I have been besieged with entreaties for succor - particularly of the financial kind?

First was a plea for assistance from Chris, one of our grips, who work on a per-project basis. Which means they work irregularly, while bills, as we all know, are as regular as a monthly menstrual flow. 

A bloody heavy flow. 


Chris caught me on FB and private messaged me, the lack of an Invisible option proving once and for all that Zuckerberg is the devil.




"Ser, hihingi po sana ako ng tulong. Mag-aapply po sana ako sa coffee shop, kailangan ko po sana ng pera pambayad sa mga requirement."


I had given this guy a small loan before, which he has yet to pay back.


"May utang ka pa sa kin, Chris."

"Opo alam ko po yun, pero alanganin po kasi tanggap sa shooting, ser. Kaya mag-aapply na lang po ako uli sa coffee shop. Sige na po, ser, kawawa naman po ang anak ko."

"Wag mo isali anak mo sa usapang ito. Haaay."

"Sige na po, ser, kahit magkano lang po."

"Chris, last time na to, ha? Pasensya na, pero nanggaling na ko sa ganito at pasong-paso na ako sa kalalabasan nito."

"Opo ser, puede pong padala na lang sa Lhuiller o sa LBC?"

"HA?!?!?!? LBCI?I Di ako marunong nyan. Bakit, di mo puede kunin dito yang hinihingi mo?"

"Nasa Malabon pa po kasi ako."

"Problema ko pa ba yan?"


To make a long story short, I acquiesced and agreed to have my maid go and wire him some money. For his coffee shop job application.



"Salamat po, ser. Puede po ba makuha uli number ninyo? Nawala na po celfone ko kasi."

"Wag mo na ako i-text."

.
.
.
.
.


"Ok po."



-----------------

The next morning, my redoubtable tech and erstwhile friend and moocher Miguel texts me asking if he could borrow P3k. He'd never asked to borrow money before and the request piqued my curiosity while simultaneously setting off my irritation :




"Can I borrow 3k from you? Subtract it na lang from the next several times you need troubleshooting on your PC."

"What for?"

"Meds"

"Quit your fucking drug use."

"It's for my asthma."

"You have asthma and you smoke. Why is this my problem?"

"Oy, I'm down from one pack a day to one stick a day na. Minsan nga wala pa if I'm not feeling well."

"So?"

"Blahblahblahblah insulin blahblahblah inhaler blahblah."

"I just handed you 1k yesterday for like, three hours' work. Get a job."

"I am applying for a job."

"And you'll lose it again the way you did the others by making St. Luke's your private Shangri-La right after you become regularized and entitled to healthcare benefits."

"Blahblahblah"

"..."


"..."




"Bukas na yan. You will live till tomorrow, won't you?"



-----------------

Nothing quite ruins my day when people asking for money is the first thing that greets me in the morning. And proving that it was once again one of those days, right after Miguel's irksome exchange, I get another text. 

It was from Ardee, an ex-employee and young unmarried father. Ardee is one of SM's legions of exploited contractuals and, while he's been lucky to have repeated contract renewals, understandably a store clerk's paycheck doesn't go very far. To augment his income as well as to discourage outright handouts, I often help Ardee by casting him as an extra in commercials, whenever possible.

Normally he texts to ask about any upcoming projects. But this time, his query was a little more direct. 

You guessed it .

And for exactly the same amount Miguel asked, too.


"Bos, patulong naman po. Naputulan kami ng tubig. Dalawang buwan na kami di nakabayad."

"Ba't pinabayaan ninyo?"

"Inuuna po namin ilaw eh"

"Eh, magkano naman kailangan mo?"

"3k po, bos"

" 3K?!?!? Ba't ang laki ng bill ninyo sa tubig?!? P3k eh dalawang buwan lang kayo paso?!?"

"Sige na po, bos, parang awa niyo na po. Wala na po kasi akong ibang malapitan, eh."



That last line was the clincher, and brought back many memories.

Bad memories.

Bad, baaaaaddddd memories.




I exploded the way Yellowstone will one day before wiping out mankind and all its requests for financial assistance once and for all.

"FUCK YOU, that elf, that dwarf, that Dunedain, 

that human, and those four midgets you rode in on!"

"Pasensya na po, bos, talaga pong gipit kasi kami at wala na po akong ibang malapitan."

"Ardee, may utang ka pa sa 'king P10k, naaalala mo?"

"Opo, di ko po nakakalimutan yun. Di pa po kasi kami nababayaran nung bumili ng lupa."

"Ang tagal niyo nang binenta yang lupa na yan, baka pinaglololoko lang kayo ng buyer ninyo."

"Pasensya na po bos, sige na po."

"Pano mo ko babayaran kaya dito?"

"Susubukan ko po talagang bayaran kayo, bos. Pasensya na po talaga."

"Paano kayo matututo, Ardee, kung puro pasensya na lang ang kinakain ko? Pasensya na rin, inubos na ni (ex-jowa) ang pasensya ko, eh, lalo na pagdating sa mga bagay na yan."

"Pasensya na po, bos."



Gahd.


-----------------

Three guesses, folks.

People say I'm "mabait."

People say I'm a generous person.

People don't know what the goddamn hell they're talking about.


Sure, like anyone else, I can be capable of generosity. Hell, I just recently splurged on two consecutive Broadway musicals, for the love of Lloyd-Webber, Rodgers & Hammerstein, and a certain genteel make-up artist called Ayen.

And those weren't for the effin' nosebleeds, either.



But like everyone else, mostly I'm a selfish fucking bastard.


It dawned on me rather late in life that what seem like acts of selflessness can actually be very selfish and self-serving indeed.

Why do people help other people, anyway ? The reasons are as myriad as the reasons people ask for help. 

Viva la fundación para mis niños simpaticós !

Some do it because helping makes them feel like they're good, decent people. Some do it out of a sense of obligation, drummed in by religious indoctrination. And some perform good works to improve their social standing and reputation, by being haloed as generous and kind benefactors.

Or pick some other ulterior motive, conscious or not, well-meaning or otherwise.



Thing is, the self-validation we get from helping others is, at the end of the day, selfish. 

The "good" feeling we get from helping others is, at the heart of it, selfish. 

The expiation of the guilt of not helping is, at its very essence, selfish.


Even though the by-product is, admittedly, helpful to others.



-----------------

So why do people keep thinking I'll help them out in a pinch?


Because for all the vitriol I spew in the process, I often end up handing over the money, anyway. Grumbling and grudgingly, like the all-day sucker I am. But I hand it over, and that's what frickin' matters, doesn't it?

And why?

Because refusing to help the needy - especially when asked -  makes me feel fucking guilty, even though I had no hand in the creation of their miseries.

And while I'm not some filthy billionaire, the ugly truth is, there are plenty of people less fortunate than I.

Or you, for that matter.

"Let's face it - who isn't?"

Not to say the rich aren't selfish, themselves; a common misconception. Many people expect the wealthy to be paragons of generosity, but I've known enough millionaires to know that Scrooge isn't just some literary invention. 

Then again, there are also miserly paupers.

I don't think it matters how much or how little money people have. 

We're all selfish at heart.

Because survival is self-preservation, and nothing can be more selfish than that.



-----------------

And to cap off La Diá de Caridad, at 10 p.m. I get yet another text - this time from Rico, another ex-employee and, like Ardee, a fellow SM drone.


Rico's endo was yesterday, and his birthday is coming up next week.


"Good evening, sir, musta na po kayo?"

"Mmm Rico ano na"

"Heto sir, endo na po ako. Mag-aapply po sana ako sa iba."



Here it comes.



"Sir, kakapalan ko na po mukha ko, baka puede po makautang pang apply, bayaran ko na lang po pag nakuha ko na bckpay ko kung ok lng po."


"..."


"Sir pasangla na lang po pala ng ATM ko, may darating pa naman po yun na bckpay hehe kung ok lang po."

"Ha pano yun?"

"Ahm bale 22busin ko na lng po pag may  bckpay na ako."



-----------------

If I still believed in a god, I'd say he/it helps those who help themselves.



But while waiting for incontrovertible ontological proof of the deity's existence, in the meantime, they text me instead.



Soy yo.



El Nuestro Señor de Remedios Y Ayuda Perpetua.

Humans. Wat are you doing? Humans. STAHHHHHP!!!

Windy Wednesday Weather Witch

Yeah, so the weather's not bizarre, just a bitch.

Doesn't matter; still watching Phantom tomorrow.

So there.

The World Tree

I was supposed to be on a flight to New York tomorrow - a long-overdue journey that once again has been thwarted because client protested that we had a shitload of stuff to finish this month.

This is twice in a row now that work has prevented me from moping in my second-favorite city in the world.

In the meantime, after living it up in my favorite town in the whole wide world, Diane has abandoned the dog poo-spotted streets of Paris in favor of the French countryside. The lucky girl has been retracing the steps of Monet and Van Gogh in glorious FB updates for almost two months now.

I wonder if she'll ever come home.

On the other hand, Rich has just returned from two weeks on the East Coast, taking in a Broadway play every night and, damn the bitch, also saw Madonna in concert.

Ida, meanwhile, left last Sunday for Paris and Florence, on a two-week business/pleasure trip with her sisters.

Alex may or may not be in Bangkok, or Machu Picchu, or Barbados again; the only time I'm ever sure of his whereabouts is when he checks-in on FB, with some cheeky one-liner or other.

Carlos, to my knowledge, is still somewhere wreaking havoc in the Midwest. I only know this because Ada mentioned him in passing and I wouldn't care because I hate him and hope he meets a serial killer somewhere in Omaha. 

Tonipet is off to Phnom Penh with some friends over the weekend, and next weekend their heat will be on in Saigon.

And of course, D. is off to see (and be hosted by) most of our U.S. based pals on both coasts.

A trip I should've been piggybacking on, but won't be.


And while work went exceedingly well this week and I can't really complain, well...here I still am. Because for some reason client decided to pinch pennies on the last project and scrapped our usual Bangkok sortie.

"Just for this project," they said.

Right.

And I should be in Patpong tonight, idly watching the Soi 11 katoeys do their thing while generally putting my brain on Hibernate.

Instead, I sit here typing out this entry.


Yggdrassil is strong, its branches sturdy, and many, and spread far and wide.

And while these people I know currently swing to and fro on those branches, for now, I stand rooted to this spot.

And here I shall stay, until it's my turn again to grab a vine and swing off myself.

Oh, well.

After all, as Buckaroo Banzai said "No matter where you go, there you are."


-----------------

Oh. And guess who'll be planing in tonight on a four-day layover from Muspellsheim in transit to Jotunheim to witness the family's first twig of a Norwegian branch be baptized into Christianity?

This, at least, ought to be mildly interesting.

Oh, Great! Expectations

A few days ago, my parents marked their Nth wedding anniversary. (Naturally, I would've been blissfully unaware of it had not my sister The Scarlet Witch The Not-Black-Not-Widow Amora The Enchantress  helpfully texted me a knowing reminder.)

"Brother, thou must send thy salutations to thine creators, 

or suffer the consequences once again."

So yay, you crazy lovebirds, w00t w00t, thank you for making me, and legitimately at that (Nine months including June = February = Piscean Rudeboy).


And speaking of legitimacy...


Interestingly, on this day of all days, my ex-sister-in-law caught me online. And out of nowhere, casually let it slip that my nephew, Baldur the Beautiful (who had spent the past year living it up in his own little tower in my stone castle and whom I never wrote about in this blog until now) had knocked up his girlfriend.


I guess it's only fitting that the foul deed was done in the vile vixen's lair in Norway, where he spent last Christmas (at her expense, how portentous) making eggnog and other things, for this smells like the beginning of Ragnarok.

Just another typical family gathering at the Rude Realm.

My initial reaction - aside from dismay - was the same one my ex-housemate Christiane had when her Presbyterian minister husband toppled over with a heart attack in front of the entire congregation one fine Sunday : namely, "Oh, shit."

My next thought was infanticide coupled with nephew-murder.


How dare this brat threaten me with impending grandfuckingfatherhood?!??!?!?


HOW DARE HE, MIRROR?!?!?!?

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MEANING OF THIS SHIT?!?!"

*Inhale*


*Exhale*




There.


Not much better. But a little better.




Honestly, I feel like Queen Ravenna in Snow White and The Huntsman. With the advent of each new generation, I feel my own powers waning. I was once the Fair One, and then my nephew was Fairer Still. And now...now this cell-dividing... thing halfway across the world threatens to be The Even Fairer Than He And Thee.

Damn Norwegians and their...things.

A normal person might respond with joy at the tidings of the creation of new life and the continuation of the species.


I, obviously, am not a normal person.


The circumstances of this new addition to the Royal House of Rude are eerily reminiscent of those attendant to the creation of the new creator: not exactly planned, thus not exactly welcome. And of course, with every nascent incarnation of my bloodline, I become more and more obsolete, like a Geocities site running on Netscape powered by AOL. 


Like any creature worth his survival instinct, any perceived threat to my continuity must be dealt with, immediately, definitively, creatively. This must explain the fairly-recent influx of my young lovers.


By their blood (or other bodily fluids) I am regenerated.

Mmm the milky, milky goodness 
of the milk of human kindness.

Regenerators not quite as potent, though, as the white sticky fluids that course through the tumescent appendages of the male members of my family. The legend of our virility is well-deserved. I swear, all my brother needs do is look at a woman and bam! Bitch be preggers.


And now, his crotchspawn dutifully continues the family tradition. 


Color me surprised.


Hell, had I been straight, I'd probably be leaving genetic copies of myself all over creation as well.


The fact that I don't must argue for the existence of a God.


Or equally, against it.


And speaking of deities, I'm not quite sure how Odin aka My Father alias Angry Ruler of All Asgard is going to take this.


Becoming a GREAT grandfather, I mean.


Maybe he should take a hint from the playbook of Cronos, the Great Grandaddy of All Deities.

Om nom nom nom nom nom!