Paul Maxben
To the shitty clowns who come in on here reading this with a shitty ass judgmental psyche over gays, here’s what; you are a fucking turkey, a god-forsaken birdbrain. Let me articulate what I phrased back at the very bottom of Part 1:
Books are plenty but stupidity still proliferates. It’s impossible to educate an ignorant fucking moron whose brain is as tiny as a maggot’s fucking testicle. You can’t explain the heterogeneous biological origins of homosexuality to an idiot who refuses to fathom even the basic of science.
Hi Ben, I love you.
I last posted on 9th Aug 2019. Two weeks have passed. I was busy reading stuffs and writing on my other blog and even though I was busy with all that shit, I was busy thinking about you too, Ben. It’s not that I wanted to keep myself busy thinking about you, it’s just that it all comes to me naturally. Every second is a thought of you and I can’t fucking pause it not even for a millisecond.
I’m deviating a bit here… today is a fucking Friday and may be you’re currently fasting for your Tinkerbell dogma’s sake – meat off the lip, no fucking meat on a fucking Friday – and this Tinkerbell’s fucking shit is a complete fucking bullshit for a divine zombie who was never actually existed, historically. Because I myself can I say that I ever met Santa fucking Claus and dumbass asses would fall into believing such a crap if they were convinced much.
But hey… I’m sure you masturbated yesterday, like “sometimes on our Thursday nights” as we used to once in a while remember? After the Holy Hours? And sometimes we too had our tasty “meat in the lip” on a Thursday night. Yeah, dick sucking, blowjob. I was your lover who used to swallow your sperms, Ben. And I’m wondering who’s that lucky ass shit that sucks your dick and swallows your sperms now, Ben. I’m jealous.
But this picture below describes us well enough when we were still lovers. Wet lollipops.
*Sigh*… rehearsing what I just said – but may be right now, a someone new has entered your life and this new someone is lollipopping your wet lollipop which I used to lollipopped till you cum your tasty creamy milky white milk out when you hit the cliMAX, into my mouth, down my throat, my super secretive Ben.
But anyways, you’re fasting on a fucking Friday. Fast on the fuck on then.
I’m still chewing on chicken fillets on Fridays because it’s 2019 and I don’t feel like participating in a stupid bronze-age ideology of having imaginary friends in the sky.
But you have job to do Ben, you’re a Catholic priest anyway. Your job is to keep preaching fairy tales, waving hands and sprinkling magical waters and in return, for your own satisfying reward are the many, many great and valuable papers and cents right into your pocket and bank.
Yeah, continuing the absurdity of a 2000 year-old myth, for the shiny figures. But it’s all good, it’s a very good fortune for your burlap bag. Shining shimmering papers to buy gifts for your someone new.
Sorry Ben, I should have focused writing what I should down on this Part 2 but instead in the above paragraphs I’ve written shit I shouldn’t have but I thought I should. But I love you. I fucking love you.
Now here’s a sequel to Part 1 that I previously wrote. This one right here is the road journey that I continued on your last birthday back in July, 2019.
I left Ranau after spending like 2 hours lingering in that small town. It was raining in one part of the quiet road as I drove my way back and while I was driving I thought, may be I should go and have a look at that Catholic’s quiet sanctuary of Karmel in Kaingaran in Tambunan that the church folks often talk about.
First of Ben, I intended to go there not for halleluyaying some fictional and imaginary deities. I didn’t go there to ask your Imaginary Immaculate Supreme Maternal Queen of Whatever-Whatever-Whatever for a miracle to bring you back into my life. I didn’t go there for any of the holy-thou-art lord-help-me-bullshit or ask-a-genie buffalo dung dung.
I just needed to go to a fucking quiet place to calm my fucking head that you have fucked up way too fucking much. Even so, still I love you even fucking more, Max Benhor Hontor. I’m such a fucked up piece of fuck, but fuck it.
I got there at the Karmel thingy for the first time in my entire fucked up life. Shit, I love the surrounding forest there, it was cool. Bird chirped, wind rushed and whistled and leaves swished and rustled but the tunnel of my butt that you tasted and penetrated, it burped. The coke I had in KFC had me farted quite a lot.
I went down the ghost-like grotto and had a stupid conversation with the giant barbie doll dressed in a robe but it didn’t talk back unfortunately. Well I did ask, I said, “If you were real, then bring my boyfriend, my handsome husband Ben back. Reunite us and help us rebuild”. But the incredibly large lady statue just stood there not moving at all. Not one bit. Not an inch. Not a word.
The statue’s eyes opened wide and didn’t even blink. The eyes stared and gazed deep into my soul attempting to cast out the mighty reigns of a pre-eminent hell in me but only to find out that I myself am hell. What a nice conversation, I chuckled to myself for having a weird ass conversation with a weird ass barbie doll. Now I’m laughing at the fuck I was even doing.
I sat there quite a while and when I got bored sitting my ass around, I started pick up all the rubbish that the pilgrims left and trashed to rot in there. Stupid pilgrims. Please do not fucking litter.
I collected lots of century-old rubbish and gladly there was a blue plastic bag dumped there near the bush, I used it to trash all the rubbish in. Since it’s a hell of a long way down to the grotto and all the halleluyaying sisters perhaps are busy with their daily dusk to dawn thoughts and prayers that not even once in the history of miracle prayers have ever ended a world hunger or war so call it ineffectual, may be no one would come down there to collect the trash so I’d just brought the garbage along with me to the car to dump it off when I get home.
Looking at the all trashes there. Fuck. Just like me, a fucking garbage, that you fucking dumped and fucking trashed away, Max Benhor Hontor. I do hope someone would come over to pick me the fucking garbage up. Wholeheartedly, I hope that it will be you. But to hoping that it’ll be you is a hopeless hope so fuck it very fucking much.
But shit, I love you Ben. I really do. And I like this place too. I’ll come over to this place every year on your birthday upon returning from Ranau. Every fucking year I’ll fucking will.
Zoom that picture in. Love the beam. Happy birthday, Ben.
I drove my ass off the beautiful and quiet place of Karmel after spending quite a good and quiet time there and while I was driving, a lovely strip of rainbow – which is also an international gay symbol (LGBTQ symbol) – bid me farewell.
May be the giant lady barbie doll have heard the fucking painfulness of a heartbreak of a hell-bound atheistic me, a heathen who is literally cursed with the cerebral of a Stark, a heathen who’ve read and understood the falsities of the entire so-called ‘book of all’. Fuck, I can’t even relate this to the shit I’m trying to convey. What the fuck. Whatever.
But yeah, the heartbreak. The heartbreak that pains me deep within since the very day you dumped me like a fucking garbage Ben. It hurts like hell. The pain is fucking tormenting every single fucking second. It’s an agony I still manage to hide behind a forced smile.
Breathing in… *sigh*, breathed out. Now let me sing you a song, Ben dear.
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you, Ben dear. Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday, sweetheart. I will always love you, Ben. Remember that, always.
Your lover – your nephew,
Paul.
Sacred Heart Cathedral Parish, Kota Kinabalu.
Katedral Hati Kudus, Kota Kinabalu.
St. Paul Catholic Church Dontozidon, Penampang.
St. Peter Claver Catholic Church, Ranau.
St. John Catholic Church, Tuaran.
Our Lady Queen of Peace Catholic Church, Kobusak.
St. John The Baptist Catholic Church, Kopungit.
Katolik Sabah.
Sabah Catholic.
Catholic priest, Reverend Fr. Maxmilliano (Max) Benhor Hontor.
