Damn you for selling your soul to the shameless marketing and political gimmicks of wealthy corporate machines and surly politicians, allowing yourself to be exploited and inflicted on hapless and uncaring pedestrians and not blushing on the fact that you’re milking the cows dry with megamillion endorsement contracts. And you have the temerity to involve me in your shenanigans? Laban natin? I’m racking my brains trying to remember having signed up in a presumably long list of googly-eyed lackeys. I know that you racked bazillions just for stepping in the ring, and bazillions more to plague TV monitors with yet another ad featuring your grinning face. I need a bucket, I have to puke.
Damn you for assuming everyone cares about your bouts. Not this skunk, PacMan. I fear I maybe the last person in this blasted civilization who couldn’t give a vermin’s ass about whether you go home triumphant or a total loser. Just don’t milk out the patriotic shtick out of me. Being a bonafide cynic I don’t revel in melodramatic sentimental flag-waving shit.
Go ahead, do your thing. I am not against you fighting and winning boxing competitions. There is a certain nobility in proving your might. Go head, take on endorsement contracts. Just don’t intrude into my wayward ways: winking at me in a giant billboard while chomping on drum stick, hawking vinegar, milk, beer, etc.
If I wanted to be patriotic, I’d train to be a professional assassin and execute corrupt government officials.
If I wanted to get spooked shitless, I won’t need help from your gored face. I’d look in the mirror.
But please, allow me to have a parcel of your winnings.
The Clambering Dweeb
But like you Manny, kaya ko rin ‘to! Kaya ni Ken ‘to!