So I'll be taking some time off of writing, and I'll be internetally invisible for a few months. No, I'm not going through any of that existentialist bullshit, nor will I spend this time off to sulk and blame myself or the world. I'm actually being proactive in going about my situation. I already have a three-step plan in motion, though they don't have to be in particular order. One may pose a difficulty, monetarily, and another will test my very weak, little girly-like threshold for pain. The third one won't be a problem. Or so I've been told my whole post-pubescent life.
I also aim to do things which I haven't done as much in a while, like visit old friends, discover new music, catch up on my TNA, wall-climb or play badminton, watch more than one movie in a day with the use of my ultra-sexy MTRCB Deputy card, and hit on the ladies that hand me my parking tickets at the mall.
Anyway. Yeah. Hiatus. It sucks that I'm temporarily giving up things like writing and wandering these forums, things which I consider to be my more significant escapes, but I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't necessary. I just need to do away with certain aspects of my life to completely clear my head and shit. Because we all need to clear our heads and shit sometimes. It says so in the Bible. Isn't that right, Buff Jesus Taking Out the Trash While Texting His Good Friend Dennis?
I have no regrets, and I wouldn't have done things any other way. I wish for a lot of things to be/have been different, though. There's a difference. It's like I now realize that no matter what I did, the results would have been the same. I wished for different results. Not "expected," but "wished for." Well I guess this is growing up. "Tab it to experience," she always said.
Anyway. Yeah. Hiatus. Starting now. But not before I leave with a song that truly reflects the meaning of my existence. I mean, if I had a Delorean, I'd go back in time to the day I was born and blast this motherfucker, John Cusack in Say Anything-style, as my Mom goes into labor, and I'd be all up in Baby Coco's face like: "You will go through plenty of shit when you grow up, but you need to get yourself together you son of a bitch, and you'll have this song to remind you of how better things can be! Now go, child! Go live your life like there's no tomorrow!"
Someone had too much sugar in their coffee this morning. The point is, Baby Coco didn't grow up to be a jackass like Sisqo. And I'm still me. Just an overly and uncharacteristically depressed me. Hence the necessity for a break. I'll be back sometime next year. And that's my Martha Stewart complex talking. I like to think ahead. So toodles, for now.
Name: Coco Collantes
Hometown: Las Piñas City
Birthday: May 9, 1984
Zodiac Sign: The Cougar
Motto: Hello, motto.
Describe yourself.
Hey, I’m Coco, and the only thing I got going for me is that I can answer more than half of the questions on Jeopardy. That’s about it. I have nothing else to offer to the ladies. Ooh, I don’t know if this helps, but I can also name all the active referees currently employed by TNA Wrestling, or the actor who played Senator Bail Organa in Episodes II and III of the Star Wars saga, or the bands that Atom Willard used to drum for before becoming a full time Angel & Airwave. What’s that you’re saying? That didn’t help at all? In fact, that only made the chances of me ever touching a woman even worse? Son of a…
Who was your first crush?
She was a childhood friend, and she was my first kiss, too. We were both around 6 years old, and we were playing Sleeping Beauty when that happened. Her family soon migrated to the States and a few years later, she was diagnosed with leukemia. I’m not kidding. But you laughed, didn’t you? Someone’s going to hell when they die. Isn’t that right, Jesus As An Assertive Businessman, Shaking Hands With A Couple of Indians?
What’s being in love like?
Being in love is when you have someone to fetch you your slippers and the day’s newspaper when you get home from work, hand-feed you with grapes, ventilate you with giant feathery fans, and serve you with pandesal and Mang Tomas at your beckon call, all whilst you stroke the ambush of Siberian tigresses sitting in your living room.
Define “pain.”
Pain is that excruciating sensation you get when a friend asks you to sit down and listen to an entire Deftones or Nine Inch Nails album.
What is your greatest dream?
G’day mates! As many of you may know, October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, so I think it’s only fair that I stray from jokes about boobs and cancer and Mexicans, at least until November comes-a-knockin’. So I’m reposting my second-ever article for The Man Blog, and it’s called “Throwing the Perfect Ovary Punch.” What’s that you’re saying? That transition joke from breasts to ovaries was pretty lame and obvious? Haha, you know, that is kind of funny because I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, ASSHOLE.
Anyway, I’m giving a little more background on the piece. Like I said, it was my second-ever contribution to TMB (originally posted on April 7, 2006), and it came as a suggestion from Bim, whom I was pimping at that time to write for the site as well. He said: “Oh, I’m going to write about the ovary punch!” And I go: “Hey, that’s awesome, man!” I then proceeded to hold his Mom at knifepoint and basically stole the idea from him. Of course, everything was inspired by that classic Will Ferrell scene from Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy, where he threatened to punch the lovely Miss Veronica Corningstone in the ovaries and politely asked to her to go back to her home on Whore Island.
So, without further ey-doo, ladies and gentlemen, I give you “Throwing the Perfect Ovary Punch.”
Whether you’ll own up to it or not, we’ve all seen at least one of those romantic comedies where Generic Douchebag tries to get fresh with Generic Leading Lady and ends up being kicked square in the gonads. Though a boot to the balls may have been a long time coming for Generic Douchebag, a testicle-kick is, under any circumstance, uncalled for. Why? Because it’s fucking painful.
For as long as Mark Ruffalo movies are continued to be made, the ladies are permitted with unlimited low blows at the jerks who attempt to pilfer them from him. And this does not bode well for us non-Ruffalos, for our own dames will be led to believe that kicking us in the balls is fine. Because, as we all know, the male reproductive organs have super-regenerative powers. No, wait, THEY DON’T.
So how do we retaliate? An elbow to the breasts may benefit those who aren’t gifted with sizeable mammaries. And a Stone Cold Stunner is too white trash, and potentially fatal. “A tooth for a tooth; an eye for an eye,” so goes the old adage. I suggest that we even the score with something that elicits an equal amount of damage: a haymaker to the babymaker. Yes, a punch to the ol’ ovaries.
“Why not a kick? It would only be fair that both acts consist of the use of one’s feet, Mr. Coco,” you may surmise, but we’ll get back to that later. I’ve been the recipient of a shot to the crotchal region once, when I was in preschool. And by writing this, I will ensure that it never happens again, and that you, the male reader, will be endowed with the knowledge and awareness of what you should do when a situation calls for an ovary punch.
Step One: Remember, an ovary punch is strictly a retaliatory act, therefore, the process should begin with you, the victim of a punt in the marbles, in the state of falling down. Spaghetti legs are a normal consequence of getting hit in the ‘nads, which is why, as I stated earlier, an immediate vengeful kick is physically impossible. However, you should maintain your balance and land on one knee. It is very crucial to the process that this step be performed properly, by preferably positioning steadily on the knee that is on the same side as your punching hand. For example, it is advisable that a right-handed man kneels with his right leg.
Step Two: Once you’ve managed proper footing, PUNCH THAT BITCH SQUARE IN THE OVARIES.
There you go, it’s as easy as that. I feel that the world is a better, safer place for men, now that I have conveyed my manly wisdom to you. And don’t worry, I bet that the “ovary punch” will soon become a common household term, and even famous people will start doing it. In fact, someone who could really put a punch to his estranged wife’s ovaries to good use is Über-Man David Hasselhoff, who himself has some ongoing marital tribulations. So pummel away, my Little Vikings! Cheers!
The Man Blog shall be observing a week of reverent blog silence for Joseph Michael Racoma, youngest son of J. Angelo and Caren, who passed away early this morning.
To the Racoma family and to all those whose lives were touched by Joseph Michael, you have our prayers and deepest condolences.
I hail from the far kingdom of Las Pinas City, and have put an end to the debauchery of numerous monsters of the land and of the seas.
Furthermore, my scrupulous attention to detail has entitled me to garner the following honors from ages past: best in art, best marksman, and most likely to become Emperor of the Philippines.
