Today’s Tangina comes to us courtesy of Mister de Santos, our correspondent who corresponds for a bigger and obviously more serious broadsheet. He has given his kind permission for us to shameless copy and paste a section from his original entry. What a great dude. 

Anyway, tangina this! Batman lives! But Charice Pempengco’s father, sadly, does not.

—-

Angel Capili Jr., confessed killer of Charice Pempengco’s father, was caught with the help of Batman.

Kapitan Batman, in this case, which is how the barangay captain who negotiated his surrender to local officials in General Trias town in Cavite Thursday, wanted to be called.

“Batman na lang. Kapitan Batman (Just Batman, Captain Batman),”  he kept insisting until reporters wary of being bawled out by their desks managed to pry his real name from him: Rolando Pagkaliwangan.

I wanted to ask him more about that but he disappeared after Laguna Governor Jeorge Ejercito handed him the reward for helping Laguna and Cavite police find Capili.

(He is Batman.)

—-

Read the rest of the entry, featuring a photo le screwdriver stabber, over here.

Today’s Tangina comes to us courtesy of Mister de Santos, our correspondent who corresponds for a bigger and obviously more serious broadsheet. He has given his kind permission for us to shameless copy and paste a section from his original entry. What a great dude. 

Anyway, tangina this! Batman lives! But Charice Pempengco’s father, sadly, does not.

—-

Angel Capili Jr., confessed killer of Charice Pempengco’s father, was caught with the help of Batman.

Kapitan Batman, in this case, which is how the barangay captain who negotiated his surrender to local officials in General Trias town in Cavite Thursday, wanted to be called.

“Batman na lang. Kapitan Batman (Just Batman, Captain Batman),”  he kept insisting until reporters wary of being bawled out by their desks managed to pry his real name from him: Rolando Pagkaliwangan.

I wanted to ask him more about that but he disappeared after Laguna Governor Jeorge Ejercito handed him the reward for helping Laguna and Cavite police find Capili.

(He is Batman.)

—-

Read the rest of the entry, featuring a photo of le screwdriver stabber, over here.

(On December 17, 2010, someone tried to pilfer my [old as fuck] iPhone at a train station. I wrote this that night. It’s still relevant.)

—-

In Which the Third World Rears Its Ugly Head

Don’t get me wrong; I hate my cellphone. It’s a bitch of an iPhone that likes to shut down on me throughout the day. But it’s mine. That matters.

This morning I was standing on the platform of the Cubao MRT station, constantly jostled and squeezed by the teeming mass of classiness waiting for the ladies’ section of the train. Three trains had come and gone without me, because of the sheer amount of bodies between me and the door. It’s cool. The lady beside me was talking to me about the absolute rudeness of people and to properly listen and empathize, I politely removed my earphones (connected to my iPhone) and stuffed them into my bag with the phone. 

The next train arrived, and being at the very edge of the platform — unsafe, I know, but with about fifty people behind me I didn’t have much choice than to stand on the yellow line — I was immediately shoved forward when the doors slid open. It was then that I felt my bag beside me being tugged back, and when I looked down, in the midst of the crowd surging around me, I saw that someone behind me had THEIR HAND IN MY BAG, FUCKING ROOTING AROUND IN THERE LIKE IT WAS A COOKIE JAR AND SHE WAS THE RUDE NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR FROM A BROKEN FAMILY

I didn’t even about it; I was livid. Pretty much just clamped my paws on their arm, dug my fingernails in, and yelled at the top of my lungs: DA FUQ U THINK U DOIN, BITCH while shaking her back and forth.

She broke away but not before getting her wrist scratched up something awful — I got lady arm meat under my nails, gross — and dashed for the stairs. Nobody did anything. When I got onto the train I started shaking. I wanted to turn around and thank everybody, errrybody, on that goddamn shuttle for 1) not doing anything and 2) being so fucking chaotic that this kind of shit gets pulled every goddamn day. 

Is it so fucking hard to form a line, people? To wait a couple more minutes for the next train rather than shoving your miserable body into the already miserable misery-ridden conglomerate of misery? 

What I’m saying is that this is bigger than my cellphone, this is bigger than my enochlophobia. This is bigger than the fact that 90% of my countrymen have no manners. Actually, is it?

I concede that my reaction (and my subsequent desire to stomp that snatcher into the ground) wasn’t polite, and here I am preaching manners and decorum and the basic ability to stand calmly behind another person without taking their stuff but whatever. Bitch had it coming.

What’s that, TDT? Two hundred followers? And one of them is a veritable pillar in the local music scene, a cray cray brilliant musician who wrote your favorite OPM song of 2008? 

Wild. Thanks, guys. Inom tayo.

If y’all come across anything you want us to check out, slip us a link in the Ass Box. In the meantime, we’ll queue a few posts for you. 

Mwahuggiez!

As we like to say, sincerely or otherwise: Ganda mo, teh.

Haba ng hair mo. And by hair we mean that curl in the middle of your forehead.

One 35-year-old pageant trainer Herbert Chavez has undergone all sorts of face-fuckery (and thigh-fuckery, i.e. surgical implants) to look like… I don’t know. Someone kind of famous, I think. 

This Superman wannabe has been upgrading himself for the last sixteen years, and the mods include shaving off part of his skull, sewing in cray cray plastic tubes into his thighs, and injecting his lips with animal by-products.*

(If only it were that easy.)

Suspected of body dysmorphic disorder, which is basically a slew of high school am-I-fat-or-am-I-fat issues taken to the mental level, Herbert’s still not done eschewing his birth face. He’s already been turned down by plastic surgeons. Undaunted, as a real superhero should be, he’s gunning for an operation in Japan that’s supposed to make him taller. If I am right, and I may be wrong, this one involves breaking your femurs and inserting titanium implants. That’s right, they snap your thighs in half.

Herbert’s pretty close to his goal. If his goal is to be a walking Belo billboard, that is. Rather than a page from DC comics.

The international sites that have picked his story up express a lot of bemusement at his occupation as a pageant trainer. “Whatever that means!” they say, and they shrug their broad white shoulders. We, being Filipinos and all-around suckas for beauty queens and queens in general… we know what that means. And we love it.

(Source) And thank you, NNTSNTMR, for telling us what to Google. You are heaven-sent, just as Herbert fancies himself Krypton-sent.

Also, pictures of Herbert’s room, (1 & 2) so you know that this supposedly skin-deep vanity really does cut to the bone.

_______________

* Before you lose your shit thinking he did this all himself, these are all horrifying ways of describing plastic surgery procedures: cleft chin creation, thigh implants, and collagen injections. It’d be pretty fucking dope if he did these all himself, though. With a tire iron, ideally. Or his laser vision.**

** What? He doesn’t have laser vision? Get on this, Belo!

Hi. Welcome to a nightmare.

Imagine you have a shabu addiction. Imagine that that addiction lands you in a mental hospital, and not just any mental hospital, not those sweet and swanky white-halled Hollywood havens with pretty nurses doling out pills in little cups. This is the third world, and you’ve been pounding third-world drugs, so you get the shit-smeared National Center for Mental Health in Mandaluyong. Great. You’re there for twelve years. Upon learning you have wealthy relatives, the doctors pester you constantly to move into the care ward rather than the hospital equivalent of a holding cell, so you can receive proper treatment while you dole out the proper payment. You don’t, because you don’t want to be a burden to your family, at least any more than you already have been, with your ghetto-quality meth addiction and all. Okay.

Imagine you wake up one morning and a male nurse is straddling you in bed, his meaty hands pulling a rope tight around your throat. Weakened and malnourished, you struggle half-heartedly even as he squeezes your life — or what’s left of it — out of your wasted body. 

Float on up to the dirty ceiling, dear sad soul. Your immediate family is summoned, and they cluster around your bed. Your cousin is crying. The doctor comes in and tells them that you, sadly, have died of a heart attack. He insists they saw you collapse, that your blood pressure was cray cray low, even if your family knows you’ve never had a heart ailment. He insists they sign the papers that denies them autopsy results. They do, but then they take the case, and your cold body, to the national police.

The police, bless their hearts for once in their goddamned existence, discover the strangulation marks on your neck. They’re also sharp enough, for once in their goddamned existence, to rule out suicide, the rope welts being too low on your trachea. The PNP opens a case. The family learns there have been three other deaths similar to yours, still uninvestigated. The Department of Health gets on it, but it’s a little too late for you, isn’t it? 

Welcome to a nightmare, where people die because they can’t afford proper treatment. What is more, if you take too long to waste away, the good doctors decide to put you out of your misery and kill you anyway. Someone (who isn’t getting house visits from doctors or traveling abroad to treat pinched nerves and low hormone levels) might need your hospital bed, someone more deserving. And by deserving, we mean someone who can afford it. Welcome to the Philippines.

Rest in peace, Randy Carreon. I’m sorry this happened to you and I hope justice is served. 

There’s a tangina per day, really, but we’ve been busy. Lots of things coming up, so hang in there, jerks. 

In a town in Cotobato, a twenty-one year old destined-for-hell would-be-murderer shitfuck clobbers his ten year old cousin with a hard object, rapes her behind their house, and leaves her for dead in a shallow grave.

If that’s not tangina enough for you, she regains consciousness, claws her way out of the ground, crawls back to the town, and puts that cousinfucker in jail. (Link)

I’d insert a photo of The Walking Dead’s bicycle girl here, but that would be tasteless and you know we all are too classy for that. Now excuse me while I put my penis inside my attractive blood relative. She so qt, she just learned how to talk in complete sentences.