I spent the weekend in internet-less rural Laguna. You know, those places where we have to hunt wild boars for food and offer burnt sacrifices to Maria Makiling to prevent the dragon from eating the sun, hence delaying the end of the world and giving the tribes more time to engage in orgies and human sacrifices.
But that’s not the entire point of the article. You see, my grandparents live in that place. But that still is not my point.
You see, my aunt got married two months ago and since me and my aunt have a very small age gap (see what I did there, tita?) she finally got relieved of the pressure of getting married and stuff. And guess who the grandfolks set their eyes on next.
Clue: His name starts with “A” and ends with “de Magnaye”.
So cue clueless Ade, walking into the nipa hut (yes, they live in a nipa hut. I kid not. Well, the nipa hut’s got airconditioning. So whatev.), greeting his grandfolks like he always does. Then his grandpa, sensing a moment of weakness, drops the bomb:
“Say, Ade, when are you getting married?”
You do not ask that to a single 25-year old who has no plans of getting married just yet because 90% of the women he meets treat him as a gay best friend only straight while the remaining 10% treat him as a sexual offender.
But I realized that my grandfolks just want to see a great grandchild. You know, while they’re healthy and all. So now the pressure of giving the grandfolks a great grandchild is on. But then my track record with women kinda speaks against me. Just so you know, I need somebody who I can hoodwink into marriage mainly without resorting to drugs, violence or hypnosis.
I can go for the mail-order bride, but there’s this slight problem of me being broke and being totally unable to afford such extravagant worldly pleasures. Besides, I’m no (dreamy- no, wait) Russian Mafia Guy to even consider going for a mail-order bride. Same goes for paid companionship (Okay, prostitutes. What.), although they would probably be better in the sack and infect me with herpes and various exotic diseases. Or I can probably go for the ditz. Heck, it’ll be perfect. I can make her believe I’m some rich oil tycoon and she’d probably eat it up automatically. But thinking about it, a discussion on whether Paris Hilton’s latest album is this generation’s equivalent of The Beatles’ “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” doesn’t seem to appeal to me.
I think I’m rather fucked.
Also, on the subject of marriage, I think I can make a wonderful husband. I can go home every night drunk and all, while my loving wife takes off my shoes and makes me a turkey sammich and all. No, wait. I mean I am very loving and I’d do all the laundry and dish washing for her while she gambles away our life savings via mah jong with her noisy kumares while they (noisily) talk about the latest Piolo Pascual soap opera or the latest showbiz sex scandal.
Again. I’m fucked.
And I just realized that I should probably stop writing more because I’m lessening my chances with every single paragraph.
This is how I impress women
So, guys, what do you think?
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