Guerilla Mike – Social Commentary and Real Talk

Above the clouds atop Mt. Kanlaon, an active volcano. Negros Occidental. Central Philippines. Swim deep oceans. Trek thick jungles. Climb forbidden mountains. Tell the story.

Guerilla Mike: Providing social commentary, real talk, and opinion.

Guerilla (var. guerrilla): an unconventional warrior; a freedom fighter; a rebel; a revolutionary. One who employs unconventional strategies and tactics, utilizing the elements of speed, surprise, and violence of action to harass and assault a larger conventional opponent.

Mike (var. mic): Writer. Warrior. Traveler. Unraveler…

Social Commentary and Real Talk with an Edge…

In the beginning, before there was light and sound, there was thought. Perhaps not too deep, but resting on the surface, or buried just below the skin. Like a germinating seed sown in soft soil, or a purulent boil festering on a pale hairy ass – both wanting, waiting to erupt; exuding either fragrance or foulness, engendering either philosophers or fools. is a site for social commentary and real talk. A place of both philosophy and foolishness; a place to make you think and laugh, and to think about why you are laughing, and to laugh about what you are thinking. A fertile orchard of fragrant philosophical fruit and a bare-naked bearded buttock of foolish foulness.

The deepness of thought and level of titillation will vary. At times there will be some lighthearted playful rimming, and at other times there will be some vigorous shoulder-deep fisting. Bring your own lube. Bite down on the pillow. And throw away those safe words. They are useless here.

Social Commentary and Real Talk for our times…

We live in the best of times, we live in the worst of times; a golden age of golden showers, a period punctuated by political pussyfooting and presidential pussy-grabbing, where black-lives-matter and the Sisters take a stand while the Brothers take a knee; where Weinstein says to Cosby “me too,” and Trump says to Stormy “et tu?” A world ripe for social commentary and real talk.

A world of moist Muscovite mattresses, backstabbing bedfellows, and patriotic pillow-talk. A fine phase of fast-food-fuckery live-streamed to androids and iOS’, in full UHD on LEDs and LCDs from CNN and BBC, with a mixed menagerie of miscreants to color our carnival: sexual abusers and porn-star accusers, climate change deniers and forest-fire fire-starters, school-shooters and hurricane-ravaged looters. A place where LeBron won’t shut up and dribble, and Kanye can’t shut up and rap. McGregor tapped out and Kavanaugh tapped the keg. Canada legalized it while Congress criticized it.

It all makes for a tantalizing fare. Fresh fish on the line. Warm blood in the water. Chunks of chum coagulating in the current. Its a fucked up feeding frenzy of fascinated fools and frightened fanatics. And we’re all masturbating right in the middle of it; as much a part of the feast as we are of the slaughter; both predator and prey – the cannibal connoisseur and the carnivorously consumed.

Young, Dumb, and full of Cum…

Our civilization is in senior year of high school. We’re all seventeen again – young, dumb, and full of cum. We’ve come far from the shitty shorts and runny noses of our prepubescent years. We got hair on our balls, a license to drive, and some walking around money. We’re on the verge of a profound metamorphosis while the sharp sword of juvenile stupidity hangs precariously over our still pimple-faced heads.

We’ve felt the pangs of unrequited love, got into some schoolyard fisticuffs, and skipped class to smoke some grass. Our civilization deep down is good, wholesome, red-blooded, and well-rounded. But we’re ready to leave this small town and get a gander at those big city lights – to take that midnight train going anywhere. We’ll soon be headed to college or embarking on that epic road-trip we’ve been planning since junior year. The human race has got places to go, things to see, and people to do.

But then, in the summer after graduation, we took the car without Dad’s permission, got drunk on beer and grain alcohol, and wrapped ourselves and our hopes and dreams around a tree. Or we got caught up in some puppy dog romance and somebody got pregnant. Things that could have been will never be, and things that were could never be again. Innocence is lost. We fucked up. We made a terrible mistake and there’s no going back. That’s the scary version of where we are right now.

Postcards from Pattaya…

Then again perhaps it won’t be so catastrophic. Maybe the cops or our girlfriend’s parents won’t wake our folks up at two o’clock in the morning with urgent knocks at the front door. Perhaps we’ll just get a tattoo during beach week and won’t tell Mom. Or maybe we’ll get a fake ID and sneak into our first strip-club and get unceremoniously kicked-out. Or perhaps we’ll take a year off and backpack through South East Asia to find ourselves.

It could be, that as a civilization, we’re going through our summer-after-senior-year; a summer of discovery and discontentment, a time of trouble-making and transcendence, a necessary festival of fuck-ups and fixes so we can finally unfurl our wings and fly. Maybe the damage we’re doing won’t be permanent. Perhaps the planet will heal from our violent abuse and the gross disparity of wealth will self-correct. Maybe war, pestilence, famine, and plague won’t be on the 4-day weather forecast. Perhaps the priests will confess and the dictators will step down. Maybe there’s still time to fix things.

As a civilization, when we look back at our Facebook timeline, will we peer at those posts from our past with fond remembrance or shuddersome dread? How many likes and shares did we get? What did the comments say? Will anything come up during our Senate hearing? Would we laughingly remember the unwise decisions we made and the lessons we learned as we look down on old faded tattoos, or found forgotten fake IDs laying beneath postcards from Pattaya and Phnom Penh? Or will we sit silently somewhere, a broken shell of what remains of what could have been, desperately trying to forget the trauma while looking down at old scars that cannot heal – wishing we could have done it differently?

Social Commentary and a Real Talk Diary of our Days… is a place of social commentary; a diary of our days written from the perspective of someone who left small towns to see big cities, wrecked his Dad’s car, gotten tattoos at beach week, went on epic road trips, gotten fake IDs, got kicked out of strip clubs, backpacked through South East Asia, went to college and went around the world. One who looks back with both pride at what he has become and with regret at what could have been.

Its purpose is to provoke; to both stimulate and irritate – the tongue tickling your sphincter and the rubber-gloved fist fondling the back of your teeth. Its an apex predator swimming towards an orgy of chum and cum. A cannibal headhunter binge watching Game of Thrones… smoking a joint… getting the munchies. It’s a wild scene. Something major is about to go down. Schroeder’s cat is in the fucking box and live-streaming on Chaturbate. Ricky is home and Lucy is nowhere to be found.

We just want to be around when the shit hits the fan. Front row seat. Raincoat and vomit bag – check. It’s going to be a great show. We might even make it out alive…

If you liked this piece, please check out my articles on the history of Pekiti-Tirsia Kali, the myths and realities of Martial Arts, the life and legacy of Stan Lee, and the history of Reggae music! Check back weekly for new pieces, and don’t forget to “like” “share” and “follow us” on social media!

Author: Guerilla Mike

Warrior. Poet. Traveler. Unraveler.

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