Our Associate Editor Carlos Nobleza Posas goes off on personal rants that may or may not be factually based.

First off, Quique, you should feel honored that I’m addressing you and your meager manhood for my final rant in my final week at Guanabee. That’s right. Consider yourself the last Latino celebrity lucky enough to taste the nectar of my wrath:
after this Friday, I will no longer put the ‘ass’ in Associate Editor around here. Instead, I’ll be chasing it in Spain where I’ve predictably landed a teaching gig. (Nobody gets paid to ‘find oneself’ in foreign countries except for whiny pop stars like you.)

Your papi would know a little something about Spaniard women, right? He’s a native of the country, after all, and quite the ladies’ man. My dad says that in your dad’s heyday, women would piss themselves, they wanted Julio Iglesias so badly. (I don’t understand what loss of bladder control has to do with intense desire, either, so let’s chalk it up to those being different times.) But I’m not writing to highlight his background, no, no, no. I wanna expose the background of the woman who captivated your pops well before the groupies came a-knockin’. Meaning, yo momma.

Isabel Preysler was born in Manila and, if Wikipedia is to be believed, every Filipino parent’s dream when it came to model behavior. In fact, your mom was so well-behaved that administrators at her Catholic high school regularly chose her to play the Virgin Mary in Christmas parades. (How fitting, given she’d go on to be associated with the swarthy, Latino playboy of pop music.) That adolescent appeal blossomed into radiant beauty when she hit young adulthood; it was the kind she couldn’t help but cash in on by becoming a well-known beauty pageant queen, a paragon of purity. But her innocence ran the risk of being tainted in the Filipino capital when she started dating a local dude with a bad rep for messing around, so her folks shipped her off to Madrid. There, Isa was exoticized by met an as-yet-unknown singer named Julio at a cocktail party, and the rest is (your) history.

No doubt you know all this already, and if you don’t, then suck on it. I only jog your memory to throw it in relief with my own parents’ backstory. I’ll keep it short, cuz they’d prefer it that way and Guanabee readers probably don’t give a shit. Training to become a doctor, my Hondureño father met my Filipina mother while they worked a residency at Makati Medical Center in Manila. A playah known for taking down nurses down at the time, my pops decided to settle down for the one-of-a-kind beauty that was my moms—she, too, would wind up becoming an MD and pass the brains on to me. The point of all this is that, like you, I represent a modern Latino to the mess of people who enjoy my work. (And rightfully so.) The beauty is that not many folks know about our hybrid background, almost as if it’s a dirty little secret. So consider me the lavandero who came and aired it out, trumpeting the notion that being a mutt ethnically and/or culturally is the essence of modern Latino-ness.

But this wouldn’t be a rant if it ended on unity, harmony, and fellow feeling. (Not on my watch, at least.) So I conclude thusly: unlike you, Quique, I don’t have a baby dick. I need to make this clear since you unwittingly slandered all male Filipino-Latino mixes when you went on record saying you use “extra-small condoms.” (Does “must be the Asian in him,” sound familiar?) If anything, I happen to fill in the opposite end of the condom spectrum. And if I have to prove this to the world by bedding every single woman there is, then so be it. I’ll consider it my civic duty, a way of undoing the wrong you perpetrated. How bout we start with the tastiest attendees of one of your concerts? You owe me as much.

Earlier, Enrique Iglesias Has A Small Pee Pee. Lifestyles Offers Him A Place To Put It.
Earlier, ‘Los Rants on Guanabee