So, you really think that Miley Cyrus’ ass, which looks like a raw chicken that your mom prepares to cook for dinner, is the weirdest shit you've ever seen since you existed here on this good Earth? Or let’s say last Valentine’s Day was unforgettable yet strange because you happened to date the Unicorn of your dreams, and that you nearly drown your bed with piss. Well, not really. We know, however, that Miley’s butt deserves better recognition than Unicorns. You think so? Oh well, nevermind. Anyway, gather around, go grab some beers (or sodas for all you Jailbaits out there) and maybe some chicken lollipops as well, and hear what Uncle Felix has to say.
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| Key Ingredient Yes, 100% Miley's and just to be clear I'm Asian, not black. |
It was a cold Saturday evening, around 11, when I decided to go out and buy some cigarettes. Yes, I’m a nicotine lover, an affection that started since my high school days. During weekends, before I go to sleep, this is usually my routine–giving my lungs a reason to die before calling it a night. As I was walking the alley, particularly the part that is located at the back of our house, I noticed something different, something unusual. I thought I just saw a smoke coming from my neighbor’s house. It felt like I was in-front of the central balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican and that a new Pope has just been announced. “Habemus Papam!”
I didn't bother me at first, though. The Force in me to light a cigarette was strong. It completely consumed me, telling me to go straight and just ignore the fucking Catholics celebrating whatever symbolic cannibalism they were celebrating. I went straight to the store and bought a couple of sticks, enough to fill my lungs with parasympathomimetic alkaloid (thanks Google!). So, there was I, enjoying the pleasure that Marlboro has offered to me. After finishing two sticks, sleepiness kicked in on me. I suddenly heard my pillows sweetly calling my name. The thought of seeing smoke from my neighbor’s house didn't sink in until I was halfway near the location. I walked back home and was satisfied with my nightly regimen. Then all of a sudden, my heart started to beat fast, like Mike Portnoy was beginning to unleash his epic 24 minute drum roll. The next scene was just too much for me to handle. Shit, the smoke was real, I mean, I know it was. But that time, it was really fucking real. It was REAL. And what made it creepier is that it didn't come from the kitchen area or the backyard where an old lady might be burning some dead leaves (seriously, at that time of the night?). Nope. Dude, it fucking came out from a room! Yes, from a four-cornered room, enclosed by floors, walls and ceilings.I knew what I saw. Take note that I puffed a cigarette not weed, okay? So, I can't be fucking high, and what I saw was some serious high level shit.
That time, I can say it was not that snappy dresser Pope Benedict. The funny thing, though, was that it smelled like burning cellophane. Of course, I didn't bother investigating. After all, it’s almost midnight and seeing smoke coming from your neighbor’s room given the time of night is fucking scary not to mention inappropriate, coz' how would I know if some couple just had to had one of their hot-steamy nights? I even had the intuition that the house was not really on fire, and that there was no need to call for help. But I’m certain that there was something odd happening that night. Too odd and yeah, scary that I almost pissed and ran like a fat bitch was about to rape me.
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| Wonkette Satan's grandma was a nice church-going lady. |
When I got home, I immediately woke my mom and told her of what happened. “Hey, mom, you got to help your son out here.” I conveyed to her what I saw, and how fucking terrified I was. Then, out of nowhere, she laughed. For Christ’s sake, what’s there to laugh? I mean, which part of my story was funny or did she really think I’m under the influence of Mary Jane? “Seriously, mom,” I said to her. She then told me the story behind it and to why I became a laughing stock to her. According to my mom, the woman, who was on her late 50’s, is Mrs. Dhumavati (of course, not her real name. It’s a Hindu Goddess known as the Beholder of Smoke). My mom and Mrs. Dhumavati are in fact old time friends had the old bitch went to the coo-coo side after her husband left her. Since then, the smoke culprit had lived alone in that house for almost 8 years, enough to make her feel wild, young and free. On the other hand, she had a son who died at the age of 2 because of pneumonia. This was the very reason why her husband almost won a Guinness world record for the most drank beer in a night, saying he can’t bear the weight of the sadness because that's how adults should handle grief and then decided to leave his wife. And because of these unfortunate events, the story of her life is now worth a shot in R. L. Stine’s collections.
And here’s the part that made my hair stand on end: Before midnight strikes, she stays at her room, locks the doors and windows, making sure that no one sees her. She would then offer some food like biscuits to an altar and sings a song that no K-Pop bands have ever sang before. It sounded like a blend of Tibetan throat singing with Ozzy Osborne and a dash of Celine Dion. After seemingly 15 minutes of weird chants and outlandish twirly dancing, she would then burn cellophanes as a finale to her well-rehearsed ancient tribal performance. Well, you might be thinking she’s into a cult or shit or something, but hey, who knows? Actually, one of her servant girls, who probably have left after seeing Mrs. Dhumavati eating King Flake’s crackers with much gusto, saw the rituals that the old lady does every night. From singing Beatles-like songs to cellophane-burning rituals, she might have seen everything (and probably more) and thus decided to leave and write a book about it for Oprah to endorse.
My mom said that this was entirely a result of her being left by her loved ones while living in a very large house that continues to remind her of the ugly past she dearly wants to forget. Later, I learned that every neighbor of ours know the story of Mrs. Dhumavati and if it wasn't for the urge to smoke, would have I remained a fucking ignorant.
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| Sound on Sight That's me and William Haul during our cigarette breaks. |
I didn't write this article to discriminate any religion or anything like that nor to rationalize my smoking habits (nah, I really am rationalizing!) It’s just that I wanted to write about how sorry I was for her. I never knew her personally but from based from what little I know of her, she seemed to be a well-reputed, well-educated woman, a respected person in my little community and she lived in this nice house. I thought it would have been best for her to just leave the house and start a new life somewhere but for some reason she didn't. I guess she didn't want to let go of her misery even if it was already tormenting her because I think she came to love that misery, found comfort in it – a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome. Perhaps, all of us are like Mrs. Dhumavati in many respects, we sometimes choose to cling on to the past because we think that the past is all there is and we spite people who live in their fleeting present and their imaginary futures. And somehow, we can’t really blame these people because, ironically, that’s the only thing that makes them move forward each day. Alright, sorry if I’m starting to sound like one of those cheesy Thought Catalogue articles, let me just remind you real quick that I am a full-grown adult man and I have a wife and a kid (hey now, don’t give me that look!) It’s just that I haven’t really slept well for a week now and there’s this massive typhoon coming and I really enjoyed Miriam Defensor-Santiago’s interrogation of Janet Lim-Napoles and that I've been smoking something else now aside from cigarettes. So, to Mrs. Dhumavati, wherever you are now, I hope one day you’ll find your inner peace and be dancing in the Strawberry fields with John Lennon and Yoko Ono, Jai Guru Deva Om!
Now, to end this article in a lighter note, here’s a video of the song Across the Universe by the Beatles, chow!
