—So. Kamusta si Denominita?
—Umiiyak parin, every night. All night, right there beside me until she falls uconscious at four and I have to get up to work. There are times I go through days without sleep. And I spend my weekends laundrying mucussed pillow cases.
—Di parin maka-get over? That’s a pity.
—She hates it when people say that’s a pity, or give condolences, or claim to be sorry for her loss. I told her once that people meant well when they said those things. She told me to go fuck myself.
—Really? What did you do?
—I did as she told me. You know I could never refuse her.
—You did what?
—I went and fucked myself.
—Oh. Well. Did you enjoy fucking yourself?
—Very much, thank you.
—Good to hear. Pano nga pala namatay si Amadoro?
—Run over while on a donut run. Tragic. We always thought he’d be done in by the sickness first. We had a pot going.
—That’s a little insensitive.
—It is isn’t it? I know her pain must be unimaginable,and I'm sorry for her. I try to be understanding. But things have been heavy on me too. I'm sorry. You know, she still says his name in her sleep. I'm ashamed of myself. I really am.
—Olats. You don't need to be. Olats nga nun.
—Oo nga. Pero kailangang intindihin, siyempre ... Pare, teka, pa-segway lang. May napapansin ka bang mali?
—Ano yun tol? Wala naman.
—Mali talaga e, tignan mo. What are these dashes doing in front of the dialogue? And where the fuck are the quotation marks? And what the fuck are our names!?
—Easy lang tol. Wala lang yan. Di nga nababangit mga pangalan natin no? Your name is _____. Mine, I care not to mention. About the dashes: It’s a little funny if you think about it. The queer eye writing this shiznit is going through a James Joyce [who writes dialogue w/ dashes] phase. ‘Di halata sa sulat no?[Whispering:] He’s going through a big quarter-life depression of some sort.
—Gets. I think he mentioned that last week. He thinks an attempted tackle at the mountain of modernist literature—i.e., Ulysses, which was considered by some the only good thing to ever come out of the WWI years and was therefore looked upon as a masterfully rendered finger up the nose of man’s unscrupulous munchies for war, hatred, and violence—will save or at least sufficiently distract him from the pangs of his melodramatic afternoons and sleepless nights. He’s trying to drown his ‘great’ pain in something ‘greater’. Yet he knows, he's perfectly aware, that he’s resting his sanity on the words of the insane and long dead, and that Ulysses won't help him, and that love-song junkies have it better.
—His life is sad. Our lives are sad. And the ozone lair is doomed.
—It's unrighteous. Unwell. It is corn on a cob.
—As in púno ng my God?
—As in putanginang shet.
—Betamax sa pwet!
—He's unfit to live …
—Too stale to kill …
—Too bland to adore
—Two three to ignore
—Being the place that it is, the world isn’t his.
—No it isn’t. The world is mine.
—Okeeeyyy …
—And nothing is certain. But we’d like to believe otherwise as we contemplate our tombs. Remember:
—In darkest night
—In drear’est day
—When even the proudest mountains cry themselves to dust
—And your loved ones are gone
—Fear
—But fear well
—Because
—Hope
—Kontra to what they try not to say—
—Springs
—Eternal
{‘Ano ba naman yan.’ ‘Woooooo!’ ‘There goes the neighborhood.’ ‘Ano yan, Sheksfir?’ ‘Alexander Pope, bobo!’ ‘Ahhh ...’ ‘Kambing!’}
{ ... }
{Kambing!}
¶ 4:53 PM 2 Comments Links to this post
National Pride
None of our officials are rich
None have estates, factories or companies
None have accounts in Swiss banks
Nor do they want them
and can't help but be surprised.
but, here's the URL http://journalism.berkeley.edu/projects/cubans2001/story-fourwriters.html
¶ 1:23 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
Q: WTF?
A: Here is early take of a scene i wrote a long time ago in a galaxy far far away; i'd say it's about Take 5:
Martin said once, when stabbed by ice pick, there would be no immediate visible bloodstains. I didn’t believe him, but he insists. He’s seen it. The size and shape of the steel would gun for the inside organs but puncture as little flesh as possible, making the wound small so the blood liberated from the vessels would clot inside, leaving for the victim a hemorrhage and slow death.
Toots tried imagine the last year’s riot, people dropping like mangoes during summer from trees, the dull thuds. They’d look like they’d been punched out with fists, not wounded by blade, only to be dragged away later as dead weight.
He thought of the perps shooting shabu and gin the morning after, nearing delirium, while barangay cleaning crews and sleep-deprived residents of his neighborhood scrubbed blood from the pavement. These images and imagined stabbing sensations were never so sharply defined in Toots’ mind until the moment he knew he could be in the receiving end of something sharp, rusty, and real. The stories of criminal activity and urban violence people told over beer and highly animated hand gestures never really mattered before, the way a man being tortured in a war movie in hi-def doesn’t strike nerves anymore.
Martin said once: a .45 is fifty times larger than life, in real life.
here is a later take of same scene (excerpt pala), mga Take 24:
Anyhu, Ika ni Martini: pag nasaksak ng icepick, walang immediate visible bloodstains.
Siyempre dehins ako naniwala, but he insists. Nakita daw niya, with his “own two fucking eyes.” Sabi: “The size and shape of the steel would gun for the inside organs but puncture as little flesh as possible, making the wound small so the blood liberated from the vessels would clot inside, leaving for the victim a hemorrhage and slow death.”
Sinubukang isipin ni Toots yung mga riot nung nakaraang taon: people dropping like mangoes during summer from trees, the dull thuds. Para lang silang mga nasapak nang malufet, yun pala ay mamamatay na kasi nasaksak ng miyembro ng organisasyon ng disgruntled urban youth.
Naisip ni Toots: Putangina siguro yung mga yun, malamang nagshabu’t nag-gin lang sila kinabukasan, nagpapakawasak habang nakikikuskos ako ng kalye para alisin yung manstya ng dugo sa harap ng bahay. Dati, gusto ni Toots maging gangstah. Exciting, barilan, saksakan, yoh mama. These days, this minute, it’s slowly shifting, his opinion. These images, his imaginings of stabbing sensations, they were never so sharply defined in Toots’ mind until the moment he woke to the possibility of being in the receiving end of something sharp, rusty, and real—i.e., ngayon lang niya naisip na oo nga, masakit nga, malamang. Ang mga posebilidad nga naman. Yang mga kwento ng crimen at karahasan na yan, mga bala para sa kwentuhang lasheng, they never really mattered to Toots before like the way a torture scene in a hi-def war movie doesn’t hit any nerves anymore. —i.e., wala lang— …dati. Now he shivers a little and doesn’t volunteer to break ice.
Anyhu, ika ni Martini: a .45 is fifty times larger than life, well, in real life.
¶ 2:51 PM 2 Comments Links to this post
O: So, ano yung sinasabi mo kanina?
H: Ah, before she cut me off? I know it’s her. It’s always her. Hehe. Kaw kasi. Too busy with your tsikababe, no? ;)
O: Di naman. Hehe. I’ll text her later nalang. Wink wink. What was that?
H: Ah, yes. Man, I’m telling yeh, kahapon, I’m not lying. I met the people who saved the world.
O: Oh? Ows!? Oh? Oh?
H: Yeah. Yesterday, at the fairgrounds. The people who saved the world.
O: Oh? Ows!? Ginagawa nila dun?
H: They were shooting the homeless. Libingan lang. Giving ‘em hell.
O: Libingan?
H: Ay, sorry. Damn typos. Libangan.
O: Ah… so, nakilala mo sila. Ayus? Olats ba?
H: Yeh. Finally, I’ve met those bastards. All this time. All the damn press. They’re bastards. They’re very racist, you know? Without even knowing. And they’re gross.
O: So nakausap mo? You find out what they’re like?
H: A little. We were all a little drunk even by early evening. I even shot one of them homeless. In the shin. I gave ‘im hell.
O: Was it fun?
H: No. I want to kill myself. Meyn, the little I remember. God man…
O: Bakit?
H: I’m telling you… God man.
O: ???
O: Dre, dyan ka pa?
O: ???
H: My chest and my head hurt right after... I felt like I did after donating blood. I mean, they were friendly, a bit alien but friendly, but. Ummm…
O: ????
O: ????
H: Listen. (sighs.) ok
H: Hmmm... (wipes nose, a tear fills the corner of his eye but he wipes it off immediately. only now does O____ realize that H____’s hands have been shaking. O____ feels concern for his friend, and he feels a slightly unwelcome pang of nervousness. but he shrugs it off as one would sweep dandruff off a black cotton tee-shirt, and he just waits for H___ to continue.)
H: Ok...
H: Ok, ok, Listen. Our hearts, they’re the size of raised fists, they’re not made for that kind of blackness. We won’t survive, man, ano ka ba? We won’t survive in one piece or with healthy minds in our heads. We will not survive The Wonders They’ll Build All Around Us, or The Magnificent Things They Want to Achieve for The Good Of All and, not to mention, The Things They Propose We Do For Our Own Good. No way. Shit, pare. Shit Shit Shit. Putangina. I doubt we’re ready. We’re not ready. We’re not ready. I doubt we ever will be. And if we fight it
H: ...
O: So. (a long pause happens after this first ‘So’ is uttered. neither O___ or H____ feels bad about the extended dead air, please pardon the expression. they are unanimous in their unspoken gratefulness that a little quiet has now happened, before days they expect will be too fast, too loud, and it makes them both feel even just a little bit the better for it. small comfort, i know, given the situation.) So, what do you suppose we do?
H: I think we should run
[ Coming to theatres in ______ ]
(or, First sentence of screwed up chick lit story about Marie and Mark)
The Bhagavad Gita calls the human body a wound with nine openings. Marie’s justifications for her hatred of men always begin with this reference—she says it’s an insult: all they’re interested in is one (in Mark’s case, two, I mean three).
[to not be continued ... ]
It was midnight when she blew me away, to the wind, to the pieces, I was helpless. She didn't use a shotgun, but she did own a shotgun. A Remington double barrel her Lolo gave her for her birthday. Her Lolo was weird that way. His name was Paciano Marques, but he liked to be called Senior Humphrey Bogardito. He once called to me, ‘Ah, Conde Pompeyo de la Mante y Pancetta!’, and asked me to give him a neck rub with Ben Gay. When I did, he said I should marry his granddaughter. He said he could use a man willing to apply Ben Gay on another man. Two seconds later, he forgot all about me. When she told her fiancée about this, his eyebrows made sweet love to each other.
She blew me away with her guitar. It was after her grandfather’s funeral, on the patio of her household, which was asleep, except for us, after a week’s worth of crying. Nobody was crying anymore, neither was she. She decided to wear a rich crimson dress to the rite instead of black, and everybody understood, or pretended to understand. I was there because for two seconds, her Lolo wanted me to be family. She said ‘that means pamilya ka nga, Senior Conde Pompeyo de la Mante y Pancetta’.
Then, out of thin air, she drew her guitara—she was still in crimson dress—and played Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. It gave me le shivers!!!. I asked her if she wishes her Lolo could hear her. You know—right now. She said Lolo’s never even heard the song before.
‘I’m playing for us, the living. The people left behind’. That’s what she said. She was looking at me, still plucking the chords. ‘I’m playing because sometimes we need to justify sadness with something pretty?’
I offered mine: ‘It’s like that whole thing you told me about, no? Yung eating chocolates when you’re feeling down?’
She smiled and said yes—and no no no not quite. I don’t get these things, I never did. She asked me if I loved her and before I could answer, she said she didn’t [‘I … don’t’]. She said it like she was telling me she liked Papa banana ketchup better than Del Monte tomato ketchup. First thing I think of was her fiancé, involuntary, unwelcome, never welcome thought. I remembered a clubhouse sandwich I dropped once on a sandy beach. I remembered picking it up and wanting to pick out all the grains of sand from the soiled bread. I tried to pluck some metaphor out of somewhere that midnight, anywhere. Something pretty maybe, solemn, like: unwittingly charming portrait of teenage goth bombshell. I asked her if she was talking about herself or me when she said the words ‘I … don’t’. You know, I said, didn’t love her/me. She said she wasn’t sure. Not now/anymore. She asked me if I’d hate her if she ate too much chocolate and got fat.
I said no no no. I said this too fast. Then she sang again, Julia by the Beatles. I know this song. Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it just to reach you, Julia. Prepare to be wowed: that’s her name: Julia,
I would have wanted to call her ocean child, I would have wanted to call them seashell eyes. If there’d been a cold breeze, rain and some wet T-shirts involved, I would have tried to kiss her, but there wasn’t. Nothing in the air but the quiet of two people too many things to each other to be anything together. Instead I was blown away by her voice. By the hiding atom bombs of feeling behind it, by the things bigger than us. And her sound was a tempest rising.
Ta tara tan tan, tah tara tan tan, tah tara tahn tan, tah tara taan tan!!! (1000x)
I tell her this, though not in verbatim, toned down, the way one would speak it, not write it, and not about the crying, and with just a hint of the Mozart; say it like above and she will think I am manic in some way or the other, which I am—she must not know this, although I suspect she suspects already, to the point of being certain, in which case I must not give her evidence, not a smudge. She says, stop staring at my face. She is not crying, bless her strength, she is relentless, unneedy, and beyond those words she does not speak another: but by God her sneer. It is the quietest rampage I have ever seen. I stop, like she tells me. I pass the next tired hours, even after she has gotten up and gone, looking at my feet, which have large, stocky toes and toenails that need a cleaning. I promise myself I will clean them tomorrow. I will have little else to do by then. No, I think again, an epiphany, albeit a small one, but still: I will stop writing this shite and clean them now
[This is an as accurate a transcription as could be of what Gerard said one second after kissing Mandy for the fifth time that night; it is also more or less three and a half seconds after she had asked him what he thought of the moments they spend together, and six point nine seconds before he was chastised by Mandy for being so noisy in bed and therefore getting her out of the mood.] ¶ 1:35 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
I know I would.
I walk over to her, and she doesn’t look up. I sit down, on the side of the table that is at her right; I order a beer, and she doesn’t look up.
I greet her a fine evening, I try to catch her eye, and she says nothing; but she also doesn’t move. So I stay.
I do not mind really. I am here. She is here, doing nothing, so there is no reason for me to go. It is perfectly normal, I think, for people to totally ignore things that do not fit in with their moment-per-moment view of the world. I think it is an almost automated action: to disregard things that do not matter. How are we to function as proper human beings if everything has to be taken into account? We will stumble on our tracks, be out of focus. We will go hungry for quality time with our cognitive nows. For example, if there is a war a continent and a half away that does not coincide with the dinner party you have planned for this evening, then as far as you are concerned, there is no war until somebody asks you about it. If, when you think about your neighbour killed by a motorcyclist with a shotgun the night before and are distracted from your very urgent desire to see the ocean, then you forget about the whole affair for the meantime in order to see the ocean. He is already dead, you’d think. What more can I do? Afterwards, if you feel the need to, with your new tan you will visit his gravestone.
To this woman, I think, I am maybe like a beggar; that beggar, on the road you take during a time your pockets are devoid of spare change or your consciousness wiped clean of any desire to give it. I acknowledge her presence directly, by talking to her. In a way, I beg for her attention, for her affirmation that I exist. She doesn’t give me any. This is probably because she cannot afford to give any attention right now. It would take to much effort to be congenial to this new person. She is not, to be simple, in meeting-people mode. It might, for her, even be too much effort to repel me, or to simply walk out on my behalf. I’d exist to her if she did either of those things. And, as of late, I have come to realise more and more that granting something its existence is more taxing than it sounds.
The lady is nursing a bottle of very strong beer. It isn’t usual for people her age—or in fact her gender—to nurse beers of that calibre. It makes me think of Bambini models sporting Kalashnikovs. I look at her face and find that she isn’t as old as I first thought her out to be. She looks worn enough to be mistaken for a woman in her late fifties, but in fact, it is more likely, upon closer inspection, that she had just entered the very middle ages of 39 to 45. Her hair is salt and pepper, and wrinkles have started their supposedly permanent occupancy of her face; but there is a quality to them, a manner in which these signs of ageing seem to be stamped on her instead of incorporated as a part of her, that make them seem like they have arrived too early for the closing party. She is not old, I conclude, but tired. Beautiful also, but tired. She strikes me, I just realise, as the type of lady one would like to just walk up to in a social event. I imagine the legion, now I included, that has attempted to reel themselves into her sphere of attention at one point of time or another, each of us made brave anew by a confident but inviting countenance that, for all I know isn’t intentional. I had thought of her as old, and yet she still interested me as a companion for a drink. If you consider things, what happened tonight is definitely not an isolated occurrence. I try to imagine a gathering of all the men that have approached her uninvited. We would be of different age groups, of different styles and maybe even of various nationalities. We would talk of what we have accomplished in terms of success with her, how in-deep we have managed to penetrate her formidable social defences. As far as things are going, I would be the dunce of the evening. I didn’t even get her to talk. Then the others would laugh at me, they would pity me and stroke their egos in one synchronised motion. They would be pompous, those jackasses, their laughs would be loud and unforgiving and irritating like a party of 20 15-year olds in a theatre, watching a film running for best picture nominations from the Academy. Their snickering and swaggering, their incessant offers of cocktails and companionship, their gold watches and musky smells—I’m surprised the lady even manages to still step out of the house. Those men, they would have been the reason why this fine lady, right now, has nothing to offer me except a very impressive denial of my being here. She is, as I have observed, tired, worn out, jaded if you will. She drinks a little of her very strong beer with a movement so subtle a corpse could have done it in a funeral without alarming anyone. Those men have sucked everything out of her, I think to myself. I catch myself, a little to my surprise, clenching my fists, angry at those men. If I would have the chance, I would like to kill those men.
For the longest time, she does not move and I start to wonder if her little drink a while ago was something I had imagined. I put my forefinger on her throat and press, to check for a pulse. Her heart is moving, but it is very slow, with the rate of a hibernating animal. She survives, but in many ways, she is dead to the world around her. I signal the waiter for another beer, and I tell him I will be paying for both our tabs. The waiter responds efficiently with the beer and asks if the lady would like anything else. I tell him she is fine for now, but keep mine coming. I say it will be a very long night, and I remind myself to tip the waiter generously. The lady blinks, or maybe I just imagine it. There really is no reason for me to leave, really.
When Randy Remington woke up this morning and found the sun to be at its most prodigious, he stepped outside and decided right then and there to melt. In order to do this he must finally become what he has always wanted to be—a blue M&M candy treat (2). Why blue, nobody knew; and in fact, nobody cared. In dinners and in long walks with conversation, his companions would always assume that Remington had a knack for the whimsical that made him such a charming personality. In all truth, he wasn’t whimsical, nor had he a personality that was charming. What is true is that this was a day he has long waited for, and his lips twitched with an honest glee. Remington justified his intentive and flimflamous blasphemy of the laws of physics and reason by saying out loud: ‘Hey, the world has been called many things, why not call it god’s mouth for once?’ The powers that be—be them the fates or the fingers of deities—found no sense in this argument, and therefore no reason to contest it. Remington melted on a spot two feet into the street and nine feet from the sofa on which he used to spend numerous restless days masturbating to the opening credits of The Young and The Restless (that’s how long he usually took). The time he spent melting was also time he spent convincing himself that the world must be god’s mouth, and can’t, for the life of him, be god’s hand, because, as everybody knows, the mouth is the filthiest part of the human body, of which god’s image serves as default template (3). Remington couldn’t imagine a place filthier than the world, and this was just one of the reasons he had nothing but fond thoughts for his spontaneous decision to just drop everything and liquefy.
Contrary to what you might think, the fumes Remington discharged during this runny state of affairs were not pleasant the way a toffee shop’s smell would be pleasant. Despite the best of his hopes, deep inside, Remington really wasn’t chocolate after all, but was, in essence and cellular configuration, meat, just as his father was, and his father’s father before him, and his father’s father’s father before him, and so on and so fourth, forming an unfortunate gene-chain of protein that leads back to the centuries wherein good ways to process meat weren’t even invented yet. No, despite his polished cerulean outer appearance, Remington’s smell under the decomposing heat was pleasant the way the kitchens of Pulutan Republic: Grilled Meats and Bullalohan would fare well with the nose of a man just fresh from a night out drinking, on the prowl for something cooked and fatty.
Remington’s remains bubbled and boiled, sizzled on the pavement, and hoped, with its now most fuzzy conception of sentience, to evaporate into what most landlocked creatures would think is a favourable place—up there. The heat was, of course, hot enough to have been able to grant this primitive wish over time, had it not been overpowered by gravity’s more influential influence.
Instead, the new Remington, first a puddle, then a blue river of miniature proportions, found itself cascading downhill into a gutter, then into a sewer, were it will eventually be divided unequally and digested by subterranean rodents and curious prepubescent turtles.
Remington, had he survived the day of most untemperate temperatures longer, would have been proud of the people who were his neighbours and countrymen. In this greatest heat, they found within themselves a renewed energy once locked inside bodies too weak to handle them, and the ability to make their most exquisite deathwishes come true (4) (5) (6).
Notes
(1)
For those who are curious: the people who just so happened to have memories of at least one day with temperatures exceeding this day of burning pavements and steaming seas were septuagenarian X-pats from Japan and the Bikini Atol. Most were, to certain extents, pilots of bodies that were the human-anatomical equivalents of automotive survivors of the once popular videogame, Twisted Metal 3. Few were taken seriously; had they not been foreigners, they would have been kicked in the face for disagreeing with the locals of this country in their own country.
(2)
It was a bitter swansong statement from Remington’s first girlfriend—‘buti sana kung lasang M&Ms yan, susubuin ko siya—that planted in him the subconscious seed of desire to become an M&M milk-chocolate candy bit. Over his years of living, this seed grew within Remington, and eventually, with the power reserved only for the most primal of our thoughts, it overtook all dreams of doctorates, SUVs and interstellar cremations, and became Remington’s one true holiest of dreams, accessible—as result of the sheer amount of willpower granted to it by the dreamer—via the mere glance of a conscious thought.
(3)
Genesis 1: 26, 27 contains words to be remembered during the moments you are in your most privet and intimate self, doing things unfit for other people’s sensory consumption (like when overzealously engaging the toilet, or when masturbating to the opening credits of The Young and The Restless). The world would be a better place if everyone practised this.
(4)
Ria Cuambanco, a troubled young girl whose YouTube account was popular among the teenage daughters of upper-echelon Maynileño society, decided that day to spontaneously combust on-camera. She did so with a grace not expected of a girl on fire, whose beautiful hair was curling up into smoke and whose skin was searing from red to black under virgin yellow flames. She stood still, and kept her eyes locked on the web camera. To the smoking end, she stood upright on her seat, her roasted eyeballs still proud, giving off the illusion that within them there still was life that was angry still, and still waiting. Her last will and testament included a last-minute request for her video to be uploaded to her YouTube account, where it was immediately viewed by anyone within three degrees of friendship. All who watched were hypnotised by her staring eyes that were surrounded by fire, and burst into flames seemingly as willingly as the progenitor of what was going to be, through word of mouth and mismanaged grapevines, somewhat of an online cult of death by flames whose members are added as quickly as they are killed off. It was through these occurrences that every private and semi-private subdivision in the capital burned to the ground in a matter of five months.
(5)
Omar Opada, a portly middle-aged man living in Quezon City was waiting in line to withdraw cash over the counter in a bank that had a busted air-conditioning system at the height of sweltering noon. He sweated with such profuseness that the whole bank flooded before anyone realized what was going on. Everyone but a guard who had three children, one of which had a terminal illness of the colon, died of either drowning or dehydration in the boiling brine. When the rescue teams arrived just minutes later, they found not a dampened office, but a dry wasteland of salt and salted meat corpses. One member of the paramedics took a chance to rip an ear off one of the victims’ heads and nibbled at it. He concluded that it would be very tasty if deep fried in vegetable oil and dipped in vinegar, and took it as his social duty to tell his friends about it. As a result, the bodies were reported missing, none of the victims made it to the morgues, and the families of more than a dozen paramedics enjoyed particularly fine fried-meat dishes for five months to come.
(6)
Allen Midea, a successful bachelor in his late twenties, who grew tired of the heat that managed to crumble trees and subdue the air-conditioning of even the most advanced glass towers of Makati, decided he would take half the day off, go home, and make it snow. His house, within an hour of his arrival, became the picturesque interior of a snow globe. By three in the afternoon, he had invited every female friend he knew to join him in what he fancied to be his very own winter paradise. He invited them with pitches like ‘see for yourself’ and greeted their inquiring looks when they arrived with ‘you’ve gotta think cool, babe. Let me get you a warm beverage’. That night, while the rest of the city had the benefit of sleeping in what could have been a very moist oven, Midea and twenty-five of his friends slept in winter weather. None of them emerged for five months, after which a concerned neighbour built up the courage to ask what was going on. Inside he found a solid shrine of ice depicting what could have been the shortest orgy in the history of humanity. The efforts of authorities to thaw and break the ice from the bodies were futile; they found that anywhere within a fifteen-foot circumference of the naked, solid corpse of Allen Midea, suffered stormy winter-arctic weather conditions. When the President heard of this, she quickly made calls for the monument to be spared from what was to be a discrete disposal by way of nitroglycerine. She arranged for it to be delivered to Malacañang, wherein she had the ice statue placed in a room where she had a ridiculously expensive thermostat system installed, which she had to order all the way from the Neatherlands, but was worth every taxpayer’s peso she used to purchase it. The President used the system to heat the room with the statue, which she had come around to naming Midea’s Nymphets, in order to bring down the temperature to sub-arctic conditions whenever she wanted to impress and entertain Northern European guests. The said guests, although they appreciated that the President made efforts to mimic the colder outdoor environments of their homelands, usually opted to have meetings in plain regularly air-conditioned rooms, at least for the Madame President’s benefit. They also would never fail to say out loud that Midea’s Nymphets was an exquisite and rather unusual piece of modern art, and would usually wonder inwardly whether it was normal in a predominantly Catholic country to have fairly-realist [sculptures? Art installations?] that depicted an excessive sexual escapade of the oral and group denomination.
I look at this photo and caption as parody of the overly rampant, sexually suggestive, untastefully labelled Friendster picture, except its comedy comes from well-placed subtlety instead of crude exaggeration. Please do not think that the cuteness of the photo’s subject has escaped me, it hasn’t, and neither has the possibility that maybe this is nothing more than an almost-stolen shot of some girl in a blouse trying to enjoy the free meal she is entitled to as a guest in some soiree.
But the petite joys photos like this offer people cannot be explained with real honestly without a little bumbling involved. I would have to apologise, I guess, for sounding so psycho. This is little more than a wordy way to acknowledge that your picture just happened to make my day (as in made me laugh a laugh-with-you-type laugh) on the day I saw it.
One, two, three,
P.S.: gusto mo’ng mag-Starbucks sometime? Just Friendster me, OK? Nytnyt! c;
