I feel cross today. I don't know why, since the world seems to be in a proper balance - what with the sun annoyingly grins its oppressing radiance, and the wind provides its irritably assuring coolness to this afternoon.

This day just doesn't make sense. And that lacking of any logical explanation annoys me more. Arrggghhh! Fuck. I feel like hitting something. Anything! I feel like punching someone until he'll cry bloody murder, because after I'm through, not even New Jersey plastic surgeon Dr. Becker will be able to put to right his nose... and my pulped knuckles.

So, in order to avoid lawsuit and exorbitant medical fees, it's best that I violate my pillow's being by liberating all the feathers through a series of stabs and slashes from my trusty scissors.

After that, I'll be forced to sleep without anything to cushion my head. My very annoyed head.

And that, will annoy me even more.

 

 

 

Hello,

This is Van from the Petridish. I know you've all been waiting for the pepper to update but apparently, she's in Antartica right now, visiting the Penguins she had for seatmates some months ago. I heard they're going to discuss some special project. Now, I have no idea what this project is going to be about, but all I can divulge is that she went right after she watched the movie Madagascar.

Of course, I could prolly provide as stand-in with this world domination thingy. But as I know I can't do it better than Pepperella, you'll just hafta wait for her. She's still out there, yanno. And one of these days, she'll pop up with a mean kick in your arses.

Sincerely,

Van of the Petridish

PS:

from http://www.pcij.org/blog/ :

Elocution 101

September 6, 2005 @ 3:47 pm · Posted by Sheila Coronel
Filed under Political Humor

 

Jude Law Admits Hot Nanny-Pampering Action

Many may have raised some eyebrows. Many may have castigated his oh-so-beautiful face. Many wanted to spank his very bad bottom for being such a naughty little boy.

As for me, I could only mutter , "Lucky nanny."

 

***

 

Yep, Jude Law is still Jude Law. And as I am no Sienna Miller, I could only wish to be some lucky nanny to get some action goin' between the two of us. Oh well.

 

P.S. For more showbiz news, you can browse the latest at  Celebrity Blogs.

Avid Reader's e-mail said: "YOU! You have something to do with that circus happening at Makati! That wasn't an EDSA 3... that's a menagerie! And I KNOW that YOU are the only kook who could turn a respectable rally of ideals into a something so showbiz!"

I don't know whether the reader's exclamation points refers to excitement or rabid protest against all things colorful and silly. No matter, I believe she is giving me a compliment. Truth is, I never sweat an armpit helping the monkeys in the goverment to round up a bunch of whiners whine down the pint-size wire-tap superstar with a lisp to resign.

It never is my style to go policticking. Especially Policticking Pinoy-style, which in my opinion, just happens to go round and round. And besides, my nail engineer (translation: manicurist) will never forgive me if I even sneeze at my 4 hour session nails, much less dip my hands into the mud.

"What's the theme color of the rally, by the way?" my secretary asked. Every fashion conscious creature in the Philippines know that important rallys - such as this - is punctuated with the hottest color. The people are out in the streets trying to bring down a president, but the crowd has to wear uniforms first to further exclaim their solidarity.

"Yellow." I replied. Yellow is a great color, but it's so last season. Cory has a lot to do with why it has become an eyesore. Opening up my file cabinet, I reached for my color pallette and my sketch book. In a perfect world, a rally never has to be the excuse to wear bad outfits.

"Ummm... what do you say we make green a statement? Military green to be exact." I asked my secretary who was, at the moment, busy watching Jesse Hahn squabble with Justin Lee on tv.

"Wfsdlfkyset,kudf". My secretary, doting as she is, immediately reduces to a pile of burbling goop when she's watching her favorite koreanovela. "So military green, it is." I muttered. And glitters too, I think. If your going to take a dull color to shine, better match it with something sparkly.

Of course, by now, you are probably thinking that I wasn't taking the whole "cheaters must be punished" demonstration seriously. Believe me, folks, I am doing my revolution in my own little way. If you would look at the economic status of our country, you'd cry. But then, of course, you don't really need to look at stock exchange rate and an update for the stability of our Peso to know that our country is spiralling down as deep as the Marianas Trench. Nowadays, people have to force themselves to squeeze some tears so they'd be able to save up from buying salt.

While people are cuddled in a gathering that a pin couldn't penetrate, I am slaving away in my drawing board in the name of commercialism. Making people BUY is POWER. Peso circulation can make the world go round again and the rally should come off as "just sales gimmick to sell and an opportunity for people to start burning their moolah." With this happening, the investors need not confuse that our country is very unstable.

"Guys, this is like Circus de Soleil of Promises with politicians as the main contortionist of minds. It's entertainment. Everything is in apple pie order." And with the showbiz people also coming to the rally, we could pull this idea off.

And since it is a known fact that there will be loads of teenagers in the rally, I know that my market worries are over. Teenagers are sucker to the "coolness factor". All I have to do is make a juicy couture and simply declare that it has the "IT" chutzpah for the occasion. Flipping open my steno, I decided to make a list for more ideas.

"Do you think glow-in-the-dark watches with built-in video camera will sell? That'll replace the candles and the camera will enable you to document your "day at a rally" for your blog."

"VDasdrkjasduy....adiaiuage"

"How about 42 hours cotton candy flavored deowhitener for armpit protection?"

"asdfnoaie, asd aweqawlje"

"Isn't it important that we sell some sort of aircon-cool chewing gum that has minty fresh flavor with anti-bacterial enzyme action to reduce possibility of sorethroat?"

"QWEasdaisuydyh.asdnayusdue"

It's futile. My secretary will continue to be so for the next 15 minutes. And frankly, the economy cannot wait for another second. In this dire times, we need an icon for the revolution for change like Mao Zedong and Che Guevarra whose communism ideals were packaged as the "IT" factor for rebelling youths. I flipped open the newspaper for some idea.

Then I found my guy:

http://news.inq7.net/lifestyle/index.php?index=1&story_id=43662

Then maybe, just maybe... after I printed his face in my military green outfits, he will be ten times more popular than Erap. Should he ever decided to run for presidency and won, then we might earn the distinction of the best dressed poor people in the world.

 

I amaze people with my wonderful imagination. People congratulate me for having such a creative mind. One psychology student once called me a "delusional showoff", but there is no question that I make people happy with these so-called hallucinations. In fact, people LOVE my so-called hallucinations. Like a jester juggling balls of comic relief, my audience always screams for an encore after every performance.

 

So.

 

What if I told you people that whatever I write have grains of truth? What if the crass absurdity really happened? What if, despite the lightness of tone, everything was done in dead serious repose?

 

What if this is the matrix and you have taken the blue pill? Or was it the red? Er... whatever pill it was that warps you back into the world of Mr. Smith's world of frowns.

 

Anyweyz.

 

You are living in a make-believe world of normality. Haven't you been acquainted to Peter Pan before you became seven? Don't you think that it's possible for pigs to fly? OR –

 

Have you not heard that my real identity is Vanessa Paradis, the wife of Johnny Depp, and not Van-of-the-sniveling-petridish?

 

Right now you are shifting from snickering to shaking your head. Uh huh. I'm crazy. More? Ok.

 

I say I'm the next POTENTATE of the UNIVERSE because at the age of six, I already hypothesized that the man in the moon's occupation was actually a cheese sculptor responsible for the moon's phases and craters.

 

At the age of seven, I declared my undying love for Optimus Prime that when he died, I decided to become a nun, sing "Climb every mountain" during prayer recess, hoped to get drafted out of the abbey to become governess to seven brats, and aspire to out-sing and out-waltz a Baroness in favor of a marriage to a taciturn Captain. Those, or listen to my true calling to RULE THE WORLD.

 

Yes, yes. You're saying I'm loony tunes. More? Ok.

 

At the age of eight, my love for Optimus Prime wasn't really "undying". I moved on by hatching a terrible obsession to my brother's childhood best buddy. I figured that at single-digit age, puppy love is unheard of in the tribe of penises. So I disguised myself as a penis-wannabe and convinced that tribe that I could be trusted. I became a tsinelas-menace in tumbang preso, a prized-team mate in patintero, and an expert in climbing mango trees. And oh, much to my brother's irritation, I also tagged along their "all boy's lakad" just so I could study my obsession in closer range. This, my people, is my first experience in stalking and hunting. Baiting? Now, I didn't learn that until I was twelve – that was when the "boobs" happened.

 

Haha. I just heard you clucked your tongue. Is that good or bad? Both? Ok, I'll stop. No? Shall I go on then? Ok.

 

Nine years of age, I was so convinced that I would be QUEEN TO ALL someday that my "bully" aura was pouring out of my pores. I was very arrogant, aloof, and highfalutin-ly snobby when pissed off. I was convinced that I must be the most hated third-grader in class: turns out, ¾ of the population considered me as their bestfriend. This had me thinking that Evil is indeed attractive: you snarl yet people fawn. (Hey, I like this rule of the universe!)

 

In some flawed psychosis of men, people don't really believe that there is pure evil. Psychologists will insist in tracing childhood times and put down misbehavior as recurring retaliation from past bad experiences. Then, the superhero complex of some people would try their hands in reforming evil for the good of mankind. That, or beat them in submission and try not to kill them off. Good cannot kill. (I really am liking this rule of the universe!)

 

In the law of living, evil beats the crap out of boredom. Dismissing rules, recognizing no authorities, flashing your dick at the South Express way motorists… Why do you think nice guys bomb and bad boys rules? Right, because kissing nice guys tasted like boiled meatloaf without even a pinch of salt while bad boys will give you sensory overload.

 

More?

 

I used to brave a bathroom that has 5 kinds of creepy crawlies (e.g. centipedes, red ants, black ants, cockroaches, and bulate) and chuck out the experience as preparation for Fear Factor.

 

I used to pray by writing my prayer in a paper and burning it like offerings to heaven.

 

I was born to inhabit in high heels and has the superpowers to run in tiptoes.

 

 

I'm not prone to hallucinations and I cannot profess that my success at making you follow my post could be attributed to my so-called creativity.

 

I am mostly a serious person.

 

I'm serious right now.

 

And I'm already late for my lunch date with Jude Law.

 

PS: For the love of me, please don't tell my husband, Johnny about Jude. I can't risk a divorce because my dominatrix outfit is at stake in our prenup. Thank you.

 

PPS: to those who inquires after my secretary, don't you worry. I didn't fire her. She's just having a little vacation, having plastic surgery in Miami. I hope she'll get to fix her bulbous nose though.

 

 

Dearest People-who-will-adore-my-every-fiber-when-I-became-Queen-of-the-Universe,

 

I do realize that the world is waiting again, with purplish vein-that-is-ready-to-pop, for my next moves. Of course, if you did have an apoplexy for all those stalling I did (with regards to the Lefthands' introduction), I could have my secretary send you a basket of apples and a get-well-soon card. But knowing my secretary, you should have a bomb squad ready in case she screwed up again and send you a basket of grenades instead.

 

Well let's stop talking about my inept secretary for now. Rather, I would like to explain why I haven't done any updating the citizens of the world about all the glories I am planning to bring into this century.

 

First of all, I got sidetracked from doing my evil plans because Brad Pitt was wooing me to star with him on his movie Mr. & Mrs. Smith. Yes, people-of-the-world, before Angelina Jolie got the part (after Nicole Kidman and Catherine Zeta- Jones declined), I was slated to become Pitt's co-star. It was prolly my sexy bod after the San Diego personal training fitness regimen I did that got me the deal but sometimes, I suspect that it was something else.

 

At that time, I was in Chicago on a mission. As it happened, my ex-body host Van-who-lives-in-that-metaphoric-petridish, was wailing over this suicidal loser who suddenly disappeared on the surface of earth, thus making Van cry.

 

Now, I can't stand crying. Whenever I see someone crying, I have this compulsion to stuff him/her with happy brownies… if that doesn't work, I'll just have to spike the drinks with muriatic acid. But seeing Van cry disturbs me because she always does her business in private; else, she always hides in metaphors.

 

During the time that the said loser went away without a word, Van was very distraught. She quit her job, went LOA on her beloved org, cut herself from the outside world, wrote blogs that aren't so metaphorical, and stamped her forehead "Leper" in vivid red ink. As an ex-body-hostee, I have to do something about it, lest she decides to put me back inside her body again. (And she is really thinking about merging my acquiredtaste home and her petridish home)

 

I was in Chicago for a survival mission, minion readers. I just gotta see whatever happened to her loser boyfriend before she decides to control me again. No way am I ever going to go back! Ask me to stop eating chocolates for all eternity BUT I shall never ever kiss my Maker's fat ass again!!!

 

*Hyperventilates*

 

Anyweyz, my stay in Chicago was a crazy one. First, I was dropped off by the cab -that my secretary contacted for my safety - at Cabrini Green by mistake. Cabrini Green, by the way, is like Tondo… only worse. It's a housing project that's infamous for its high mortality rate (think guns, goons, and drugs) that my Prada heels and I were in danger of getting mugged. Thank goodness, there was a big casting call for "Star Wars extras" in the hood that nobody ever paid any attention to me… or so I thought.

 

Stealing stealthy away from the crowd of Star Wars fans, I bumped onto the chest of someone wearing a Chewbacca costume. Well, I don't hate Chewbacca, really, but he kinda reminds me of that chimp (from that Guatemalan Zoo I visited last year) who attached himself at my leg and humps away. Result, I spat as his face, dug my Prada at Chewy's balls, and then ran away.

 

Turns out, Brad Pitt was inside the one inside the Chewy costume and he fell in love with me. Yes, yes, dear readers… Pitt fell for me real hard that he stalked me big time.

 

In one of our telephone conversations (mistaken as the rumored Pitt-Jolie phone sex):

 

Pitt: Hello Pepperella?

 

Me: Yes. Who is this?

 

Pitt: Doesn't matter (cocky tone) All that is important is that I see you again.

 

Me muttering to myself: Pffft… not another stalker. (slams receiver)

 

(phone rings again)

 

Me: Hello?

 

Pitt: I'm sorry, that was a bad start. Actually, we met before. I was the one you kicked in the balls this afternoon and –

 

Me: If you're calling for doctor's fee, that's not my problem. I advice you put ice instead. It might refrigerate what's left of your sperms. Good day.

 

(put downs the receiver)

 

(phone rings again)

 

Me: What???

 

Pitt: I was the one in Chewbecca's costume and you kicked me in the balls so hard you –

 

Me: Listen Chewy, I'm sorry for that kick. I just hated monkeys, that's all.  Now, I don't know how you traced me, but you must've been pretty cooked up to bother contacting me about your balls.

 

Pitt: That's nothing. It's just that –

 

Me: I'll tell you what, Mr. Chewy, I'll just give you the number of my massage therapist. With his healing hands, you'll feel like a new man afterwards… that is if you don't mind a gay person touching your thingy.

 

Pitt: I didn't call for that, really. It's just that –

 

Me: Oh, don't worry about the bills. I'll take care of it. Here's his number: ******* country code 63, area code 02. I'll have him flown from Manila immediately after your call.

 

Pitt: But –

 

Me: No buts. I insist. Now, be gone. Bye.

 

(phone rings again)

 

Pitt: I WANT YOU!!!

 

Me: Oh, it's you again. (sighs) Alright, alright, let me hear what you have to say.

 

Pitt: Listen, Pepperella. I must have YOU! You must STAR in my next movie!

 

Me: Pffft… Chewy, I simply cannot see myself donning an Ewoks suit, ok? I know I'm petite but if you ask me that I'm gonna do serious damage to your person.

 

Pitt: Sweetheart, my balls already know what you are capable of. And it is exactly your viciousness that convinced me that I must have you in my next movie. Your pouty lips spitting like a Komodo dragon… your magnificent limb crushing my… (winces at the memory)

 

Me: Ruh-haaaayt. (rolls eyes) Look, it you're asking me out, your choice of adoring words are not getting me. And who are you to offer me a part in a movie? Some talent agent or something? Ha! Like I would go out with some sleazy grease head in a flea market suit. Let me tell you, dearie, I only go out with celebrities. Capisce?

 

Pitt: Then you'll go out with me and then star in my movie. I'm Brad Pitt.

 

Me: (snorts) You must think I'm daft. You've taken too much of my time. Good day.

 

(phone rings again)

 

Pitt: But I think I LOVE YOU!!! And you've branded me more than you can guess! I -

 

Me: FREAK!!! (shrieking)

 

Then I unhook the cord and switched off my mobile phone for the rest of the day. Tomorrow morning, I received an email coming from Van:

 

"Pepperella Dearest, It's ok to come home now. Omnipresent Him just emailed me and we're through! So you don't have to look for him now. But I'll be needing your help again… you know the usual… there was this guy and I think I nerd a new look… do you think I look better with short hair or should I just go for a perm? And oh what about … blah blah blah blah"

 

Sheesh… she just won't give up on guys huh? One guy broke her heart, then just give her a minute to recover and she'll jump on the next available seat for HeartacheVille. Tsk tsk.

 

The moment I got home, I had another bomb coming from my secretary:

 

Secretary: Oh, so you didn't accept the movie offer afterall, huh?

 

Me: What movie offer?

 

Secretary: Don't tell me Brad Pitt didn't call you yesterday??? I knew it! I knew it!! The producer guy was just another one of those crazy fans of yours that pretends to be something he isn't just so he could get his hands on your contact numbers!! Oh boss, I'm sorry. (wails) I screwed up again!!! (wails louder)

 

Me: What the hell are you talking about???

 

Secretary: (sniffs) Well, there was this guy called here while you're gone. He said you encountered Brad Pitt at the casting call for Star Wars Episode 3 extras. He said you impressed Mr. Pitt when you gave him a kicked on his *eherm* while he was wearing his Chewbacca suit. "…She kicked him so hard, her tracking ID got imprinted in his balls," he said. And oh, I believed him because he KNOWS about that tracking ID that you asked me to put in your shoes so you could track your Prada if ever you lose it. (wails) So I gave them all the information that they want while you're in Chicago!!!

 

Me: Uh oh. (paling)

 

Secretary: Yes, I screwed up. (wails ever louder) And now, we're screwed!!! They know our premises! They have your contact numbers!!! Aieeeeeeeeee!!! Who knows, they might be lurking here like some gaddamit cockroach on the prowl!!!

 

Nope, I'm the one that screwed up. But I'll be damn if I told my secretary that.

 

Let this be our teeny weeny secret,

Pepperella

I know I promised the "Lefthands' story" But due to their very busy schedule, i wasn't able to catch them to set a date for photographs. I want you, people, to have an idea how they look like.

So here I am, trying to draw what they look like. "TRY" , being the operative word.

PS: Still trying to make them look human in paper. And I think this is going to take a loooooong while.

Citizens of the Earth, you may now release your bated breath in anticipating my return. You know, sour breath and popping blue veins are sooooo unbecoming. Trust me on that.

I heard so many circulating rumors with regards to my absence - all of which are amusing, but none can be considered as truth. Popular notion running around the headlines was that I went to the States to give birth to Richard Gutierrez's child.

*snort*

Excuse me, livid fans, much as it is true that Richard Gutierrez was hanging out in my place very often before I went into hiatus, you may rest assured that the Richard-Angel tandem is safe from me. You see, Richard is an avid fan of mine and he was negotiating the terms of serving under my dominion. Much as I would love to recruit him since he has the power of looking cute even under 24-hour media surveillance, I have to reject him because he always parade around my company wearing his Mulawin costume. Call me superficial but really, being attach to a costume is so...so... dorky. Very uncool. And besides, who wants to be seen having an overgrown chicken strutting his feathered tushie beside you?

It was also true that I went to the US of A during my hiatus. But just to clarify, I did not give birth to anyone's baby. No, neither did I undergo a top-secret rhynoplasty in there. My nose is perfection in its petite structure, thank you very much. And "pango" is so underrated that when I conquer the world, I will make "flat nose" the totem pole of beauty and "straight nose" an eyesore. Nor did I ever planned having a thigh-liposuction for I am told by a minion that chicken drumstick is trillion times juicier than a celery stick. And yeah, nothing in this world could ever make me go under the knife to sculp cheekbones on my face for I know that these very cheeks will stop me from demanding botox twenty years from now. Of course nothing cou--

Right, right. We are veering away from the topic.

To tell you the truth, I was there to work on my world domination plan. I've been in hibernation, pigging out on Argentina Cornbeef and Bluebay Tuna in between euphoric Jude Law dreams for so long that I feel the need to exercise my swelling butt before I get preserved alive by the outrageously increasing salt content in my body. Of course, my initial plan was to go to J Lo's gym to work out on toning my butt, but then my nincompoop of an assistant was too busy watching Stairway to Heaven while arranging my flight and accomodation. Result? I boarded a cargo plane going to Alaska with penguins for seatmates and a free workout video of the Red Guy with no pants  in lieu of a J Lo Gym treatment. And to add insult to injury, the only meal there was in my igloo accomodation was Canned Salted Tuna. I could've gone to another igloo that serves Grilled Seaweeds but I was told that the penguins already occupied that place. Dang!

I am in Chionophobic* Hell - dressed in hot pink Lycra and armed only a deodorant and foot perfume in my tote bag. How delightful.

Thank goodness for my roommate, he told me the secret Alaskan way of "keeping warm". Jessica Zafra was right, Pinoys are all over the world, we could practically overthrow the other races like cockroaches ruling the roast of a messy kitchen: in this case, Pinoys are a-plenty in Alaska. And Pinoys, having the super powers of txt-ability, are all equipt with the latest MMS-featured cellphones with hyperthreading mini-satellite dish for an accessory and kaleidoscopic backlight. Porn after Porn, they download to their 500 GB memory stick's delight. "Hmmm," I melted while watching the clip of Superman taking of his blue brief, leaving his red Spandex on. Then -

I... I... I... saw Mahal's bathroom scene. Aaaaaaaaaaieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!

It was horrible... like I was watching a transvestite leprechaun on St. Patrick's Day - wet and naked.

Then it dawned on me: that was a message from my forefathers. A wake-up call from my lagging career as a world dominator. With that, I just knew what to do. Dialing my nincompoop secretary's number, I ordered her to contact "The Lefthands" (my Lap-doggish Minions. They worship me like dogs to a bone shrine) hotline and tell them my bidding.

But a nincompoop is a nincompoop, she mistakenly called my brain surgeon and ordered an appointment for my lobotomy.


**********
Note:: Chionophobic* - fear of snow.

*********

UP NEXT: The Lefthands

This is the page where Vanessa Academia entertains her delusions of grandeur. If you are unfortunate enough to drop by and for some weird reason, you were drawn to read, pray that you don't feel nauseous afterwards. I was told that this really has that kind of effect on persistent readers. Please don't say that I didn't warn you.

IFor more nauseous side effects, by all means, visit this blog:  http://thispetridishlife.blogdrive.com

 
The Sogo Hotel Iconic Picture.