Beach Boy Strikes Again, 1

Nothing seems to faze Bruce Bautista. One word to describe Bubba: egoist. ‘Nuff said. But I’ll explain it anyway.

He divides his time between hunting for fresh meat, talking gibberish over the phone with nefarious international clients and smoking Marlboro Reds. Obviously, he needs a life. Oh yeah, and he is open to the idea of whoring himself for a living. Juust kidding Ba. Or am I?

The life of a party, Bubba’s a staple in the Doomsville party scene. But when he threw his chunky posterior over into the Say-Boo, beers tasted like sewage water, cigarettes became stale, parties suddenly became dull, and the bully Kim grew bullier. Until Bubba moves back in, it’s impossible for the hapless Doomsvillagers to see the city’s Risorgimento.

He spits fire on anyone who’d say he’s ‘average’ because he is by no means, ‘average’. Besides who would want to be called ‘average’ anyway? Dumb question.

A callboy by profession, psychologist by vocation, and ‘love hunter’ by preoccupation. Not a lot of people knew this side of Bubba. Yes, like all of us mortals, he’s been through the battlefields of l-o-v-e, hit by the brat Cupid’s arrow, and lost himself along the way. But his disability of finding his karmic partner is merely a footnote in the biography of this aloof, arrogant, albeit endearing homo-superior (He thinks his better than than your average homo-sapien. And yes.).

His mouth is in sync with his mental faculties, capable of bursts of rhetoric at a moment’s notice. Mind and mouth; lethal combination huh? For scathing words from a very poisonous mouth, go to Bubba and boy can he deliver the goodies!

He doesn’t appreciate degrading words hurl towards his direction. And if you dare cross him, he’d be more than willing to pummel you with one of the hundred-year-old acacia trees lining Hibbard Ave. But there’s someone whom Bubba can withstand a barrage of nuclear insults from. Me. That’s my only alas against Bubba. Tee Hee.

(to be concluded…)