"Angelo, do you have gastric ulcer?"
"No, ma'am, I don't."
"Eh bat ang baho ng hininga mo?"
Such was the suggestion of Danilyn, my constant companion these days. I was mulling over whether or not I should consult my student regarding his nonexistent hygiene. Problem: Is there a tactful way of telling someone his breath smells like a rotting carcass? Dani's "brilliant" pronouncement is the only idea that's sticking out of my brain right now. She also recommended that I check the direction of the wind first before I choose the location for my talk with Angelo. That way, she said, I would avoid suffocation from his bodily gases.
I couldn't have found a better confidante. Dani is the kind of person who would show you the way to the comfort room if you said you needed comforting.
Febuary 14 is Educator's day in my school. An all-expense paid (?) outing to Eden Nature Park is the general plan. Attendance is coerced, as usual. However, the people who made those "generous" arrangements are the very ones I would rather push off a cliff than rub elbows with. They can't make me go. I'm NOT going. My job description only requires me to play the part of sycophant Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. I have to keep a smile plastered on the front part of my head and do lip service for a paid maximum of 25 hours. No more, no less. The rest of the week I have to spend doing physical therapy to my aching face.
Don't get me wrong. I love my job. I love that I'm earning for something that I enjoy doing. That's my leverage. I don't have to like the people who churn out my bi-monthly wages, I just have to take their shit until my eyes water.
Suddenly faced with the BIGGER picture, I realize Angelo's noxious emissions are nothing compared to the GREAT, BIG PILE OF FESTERING SHIT that's being served out in the workplace on a daily basis.
Enjoy your meal!
Friday 11 February 2005
Tuesday 29 April 2003
nemesis
Years ago, when I was in college, the teachers regarded me with utter dislike. I do not know if this declaration stems out purely from paranoia, but that is beside the point. One of them in particular, treated me with such loathing it could only be described as 'a burning desire to annihilate'. She was my English 5 teacher.
When she looked at me I could feel her eyes boring into my skull, as if willing it to burst so she could check if there's anything of value inside. It didn't help any that I almost always sat with two of the peskiest people God ever invented: Carlo and Paco. Whenever Mrs. G's eyes traveled in our direction, her glance, no matter how fleeting, always sent ripples up and down my spine. The two boys, it seemed, were made of some impenetratable material. They wouldn't have recognized a bazooka if Mrs. G hit them on the head with it.
To pass the time, Carlo would draw weird things in MY notebook, unleashing his inner-bitch. I would sometimes wonder why his drawings often featured guns and every manner of mutilation. "Carl," I said one time, "why don't you draw something light?" He drew Jesus on the cross.
Paco, on the other hand, would do origami from Carlo's drawings. And sometimes, much to Mrs. G's disgust, he would habitually disappear for fifteen minutes to participate in a drinking roulette at 3J's. Then he would come back again, somewhat stuporous, and sheepishly remark, "nag-chismisan pa kami ni Milady."
By the end of the semester, my notebook was reduced to six pages. But I managed to pass the subject. Mrs. G gave me a 76. Maybe she figured if she failed me, she would have 50-50 risk of seeing me again in class.
Coming out of Davao Doc after an interview last month, Mrs. G and I ran into each other. "Hey," she said, "what are you doing here?"
"I'm going to teach here." I flashed her my sweetest smile.
"What?" "Why?"
"Well, why not?" The smile never left my face.
"Are you sure?" She needed more than just convincing. She needed to know why the universe should allow me to become a part of her existence again. I was the boil that wouldn't go away.
"Yeah. See you in the halls."
When I looked back, Mrs. G was scratching the occipital region of her head.
Hah! So much for bliss. The plague is back to torment you, again and again, and again.
...and again.
When she looked at me I could feel her eyes boring into my skull, as if willing it to burst so she could check if there's anything of value inside. It didn't help any that I almost always sat with two of the peskiest people God ever invented: Carlo and Paco. Whenever Mrs. G's eyes traveled in our direction, her glance, no matter how fleeting, always sent ripples up and down my spine. The two boys, it seemed, were made of some impenetratable material. They wouldn't have recognized a bazooka if Mrs. G hit them on the head with it.
To pass the time, Carlo would draw weird things in MY notebook, unleashing his inner-bitch. I would sometimes wonder why his drawings often featured guns and every manner of mutilation. "Carl," I said one time, "why don't you draw something light?" He drew Jesus on the cross.
Paco, on the other hand, would do origami from Carlo's drawings. And sometimes, much to Mrs. G's disgust, he would habitually disappear for fifteen minutes to participate in a drinking roulette at 3J's. Then he would come back again, somewhat stuporous, and sheepishly remark, "nag-chismisan pa kami ni Milady."
By the end of the semester, my notebook was reduced to six pages. But I managed to pass the subject. Mrs. G gave me a 76. Maybe she figured if she failed me, she would have 50-50 risk of seeing me again in class.
Coming out of Davao Doc after an interview last month, Mrs. G and I ran into each other. "Hey," she said, "what are you doing here?"
"I'm going to teach here." I flashed her my sweetest smile.
"What?" "Why?"
"Well, why not?" The smile never left my face.
"Are you sure?" She needed more than just convincing. She needed to know why the universe should allow me to become a part of her existence again. I was the boil that wouldn't go away.
"Yeah. See you in the halls."
When I looked back, Mrs. G was scratching the occipital region of her head.
Hah! So much for bliss. The plague is back to torment you, again and again, and again.
...and again.
Tuesday 1 April 2003
it's raining porn!
You read it right. As I proceeded to punch the cursory keys to open my mail my eyes were accosted by couples cavorting about in very compromising positions. Looks like the pervert who used this PC before me forgot to sign out.
While I was wildly entertained for a couple of minutes I quickly regained my composure and checked my decency meter. Okay. Everything is intact.
Hey. I am not about to sit here and lie through my teeth about not having seen anything like it before. My friends and I were die-hard fans of Rosanna Roces before she became a has-been. And as she bid adieu, tasteful porn (or IS THERE such a thing) has also, mournfully, become a thing of the past. Now all that's left are saucy movies with titles such as "Buco Pandan", with no social relevance whatsoever. Just pure, hardcore, in-your-face kababuyan. Don't get me wrong. I haven't seen Buco Pandan, but my sources are VERY reliable. And while they are extremely horny creatures, they go for cinematography that leaves something to the imagination.
It's one of the proverbial 'signs of the times.' Filipinos are becoming more and more liberated. Liberated from what, you ask? Liberated from the bonds of modern day pharisees who like to dictate the rules of social acceptability or morality. Whichever applies.
I am all for liberation if it means we are going somewhere. I do hope we are. Sincerely. But the way things are in this country I can't say if we're really moving forward or just hallucinating.
Wake me up in the next century.
While I was wildly entertained for a couple of minutes I quickly regained my composure and checked my decency meter. Okay. Everything is intact.
Hey. I am not about to sit here and lie through my teeth about not having seen anything like it before. My friends and I were die-hard fans of Rosanna Roces before she became a has-been. And as she bid adieu, tasteful porn (or IS THERE such a thing) has also, mournfully, become a thing of the past. Now all that's left are saucy movies with titles such as "Buco Pandan", with no social relevance whatsoever. Just pure, hardcore, in-your-face kababuyan. Don't get me wrong. I haven't seen Buco Pandan, but my sources are VERY reliable. And while they are extremely horny creatures, they go for cinematography that leaves something to the imagination.
It's one of the proverbial 'signs of the times.' Filipinos are becoming more and more liberated. Liberated from what, you ask? Liberated from the bonds of modern day pharisees who like to dictate the rules of social acceptability or morality. Whichever applies.
I am all for liberation if it means we are going somewhere. I do hope we are. Sincerely. But the way things are in this country I can't say if we're really moving forward or just hallucinating.
Wake me up in the next century.
Sunday 30 March 2003
please and thank you
I applauded the world last night. Despite the horrific situation in the Middle East, despite the bumbling government system, despite myself, there exists a hope for mankind.
Our car's spark plug is kaput. We took the jeep to SM and back. The ride home was unexpectedly pleasant. It was the only time in the world that I took public transport and didn't mind so much the assault to my nostrils. You would think you were in another planet. The people in the jeep were kind and polite to one another. Yes, really. In place of the common cuss-words I heard the words "Sorry," "Paki," "Excuse me," and "Salamat." Really.
I've never enjoyed a jeepney ride more.
Isabela has taken to watching telenovelas. And because of it she has developed a highly amusing habit of acting out. She would say of some unfortunate situation as a kitchen spill, "Dios ko, lagot ka." In the bathroom she would laugh like Sally as I pour water over her head. Sometimes she would even lie still and say things like, "Patay na ako. Lagyan mo ako ng flowers pati lights." My daughter is only two and a half years old and already she has vivid ideas of the dark side of life.
I cannot think straight. This French guy beside me smells like a rotting corpse. I know he's French because I took a glimpse at his monitor and I read words such as "Le coe'ure" or something that spells like it. Maybe he's a French terrorist. I could feel my brain cells popping with every breath I take. Even camote-powered fart doesn't smell this bad. This is a very bad time to talk about politeness and goodwill.
Maybe some other time. I have to get out. Goodbye.
Our car's spark plug is kaput. We took the jeep to SM and back. The ride home was unexpectedly pleasant. It was the only time in the world that I took public transport and didn't mind so much the assault to my nostrils. You would think you were in another planet. The people in the jeep were kind and polite to one another. Yes, really. In place of the common cuss-words I heard the words "Sorry," "Paki," "Excuse me," and "Salamat." Really.
I've never enjoyed a jeepney ride more.
Isabela has taken to watching telenovelas. And because of it she has developed a highly amusing habit of acting out. She would say of some unfortunate situation as a kitchen spill, "Dios ko, lagot ka." In the bathroom she would laugh like Sally as I pour water over her head. Sometimes she would even lie still and say things like, "Patay na ako. Lagyan mo ako ng flowers pati lights." My daughter is only two and a half years old and already she has vivid ideas of the dark side of life.
I cannot think straight. This French guy beside me smells like a rotting corpse. I know he's French because I took a glimpse at his monitor and I read words such as "Le coe'ure" or something that spells like it. Maybe he's a French terrorist. I could feel my brain cells popping with every breath I take. Even camote-powered fart doesn't smell this bad. This is a very bad time to talk about politeness and goodwill.
Maybe some other time. I have to get out. Goodbye.
Friday 28 March 2003
pilipinas: asan pa nga ba?
"Welcome to Dumoy Baranggay," the sign said. Deplorable. Dilapidated. It's quite an infliction to the senses. You would wonder whether there were funds being forwarded here. Might have been a re-routing of some sort. Yeah. Directly to the pockets of the esteemed officials you voted for last election.
If I were someone powerful, and I REALLY wish I was, I would change the way things are in this country. I would declare martial law and eliminate the terrorists, the corruptors, the criminals, and yes, even the rallyists I see on tv everyday. Why do I bother with these unhealthy thoughts? Because, apart from an inexhaustible amount of dry wit, homicidal thoughts are all I have.
Have you seen the wedding of Ruffa the other day? I have. And I must say it was too extravagant for good taste. The flowers alone must have cost a fortune. Sixty varieties flown in from twelve countries. And the cake! Ten feet high embellished with Swarovski crystals and 23-carat gold! I heard it took a month to put together. Anyway, there was Ruffa, looking all pretty and I must say extremely relieved because her groom showed up despite the situation in Turkey, walking down the aisle while wisps of billowing smoke followed her to the altar. How tsk, romantic. It was almost biblical. After the cermonies the whole wedding party partook of the banquet as served by Le Souffle. Ubber chic. My guess is anywhere between three million bucks.
You could donate an entire school for that amount. But perhaps I am just sour-graping. Lord knows what I would do if I looked like Ruffa and had somebody like Ylmaz to suck my toes every morning.
This is what I am getting at. The Philippines is where you find the richest of the rich and the poorest of the poor in a single setting. You see the huge chasm that divides them. And you'd give anything to fill it. Like arrange for some people to get killed. And the poor shall inherit the earth.
Good day to you.
If I were someone powerful, and I REALLY wish I was, I would change the way things are in this country. I would declare martial law and eliminate the terrorists, the corruptors, the criminals, and yes, even the rallyists I see on tv everyday. Why do I bother with these unhealthy thoughts? Because, apart from an inexhaustible amount of dry wit, homicidal thoughts are all I have.
Have you seen the wedding of Ruffa the other day? I have. And I must say it was too extravagant for good taste. The flowers alone must have cost a fortune. Sixty varieties flown in from twelve countries. And the cake! Ten feet high embellished with Swarovski crystals and 23-carat gold! I heard it took a month to put together. Anyway, there was Ruffa, looking all pretty and I must say extremely relieved because her groom showed up despite the situation in Turkey, walking down the aisle while wisps of billowing smoke followed her to the altar. How tsk, romantic. It was almost biblical. After the cermonies the whole wedding party partook of the banquet as served by Le Souffle. Ubber chic. My guess is anywhere between three million bucks.
You could donate an entire school for that amount. But perhaps I am just sour-graping. Lord knows what I would do if I looked like Ruffa and had somebody like Ylmaz to suck my toes every morning.
This is what I am getting at. The Philippines is where you find the richest of the rich and the poorest of the poor in a single setting. You see the huge chasm that divides them. And you'd give anything to fill it. Like arrange for some people to get killed. And the poor shall inherit the earth.
Good day to you.
Monday 24 March 2003
ruffa and other grim possibilities
I am so in touch with the showbiz world. Tomorrow, Ruffa ( of the infamous 'take it, take it' fiasco) is going to get married. Meanwhile, the Turkish airspace is abuzz with all sorts of American flying war-thingys. Ruffa's groom is stuck. The wedding is going to be held in the Philippines. Unless Ruffa's sweetcakes is an energetic swimmer, there isn't going to be a wedding.
Yesterday I had the most amusing time of my life watching Etta Rosales and Dr. Amanda Cruz bitch it out with each other on national television. While I am not one to question the motives of rallyists, I had my bets placed on Dr. Cruz. If words were physical blows, Etta Rosales would've ended up in one of the more expensive hospitals in Metro Manila. Clearly, she was no match for the powerful mouth of Dr. Cruz. Unless Etta's brain is a vacuum, and words just disappear in the black hole of her mind.
Considering Cruz's abandonment of tact, and Rosales' far-flung responses, I am truly suspicious of this theory.
Maybe you don't know what I am talking about.
Back to Ruffa. Why can't they just postpone the whole thing? If she really does love this Turkish millionaire, she wouldn't think twice about not risking his safety. Then again, if this Turkish millionaire really did love Ruffa, he'd be here, come hell or high water, to attend his own wedding tomorrow!
Or maybe they should just have the wedding in Turkey and exchange I do's while scuds are flying overhead! To profess your undying love for one another while the threat of danger is in the air, that would be history-making romance. Ooh, I'm such a romantic!
The moral of the story is this: If you're a very rich person living in a war zone, it really pays to have your own airspace.
Yesterday I had the most amusing time of my life watching Etta Rosales and Dr. Amanda Cruz bitch it out with each other on national television. While I am not one to question the motives of rallyists, I had my bets placed on Dr. Cruz. If words were physical blows, Etta Rosales would've ended up in one of the more expensive hospitals in Metro Manila. Clearly, she was no match for the powerful mouth of Dr. Cruz. Unless Etta's brain is a vacuum, and words just disappear in the black hole of her mind.
Considering Cruz's abandonment of tact, and Rosales' far-flung responses, I am truly suspicious of this theory.
Maybe you don't know what I am talking about.
Back to Ruffa. Why can't they just postpone the whole thing? If she really does love this Turkish millionaire, she wouldn't think twice about not risking his safety. Then again, if this Turkish millionaire really did love Ruffa, he'd be here, come hell or high water, to attend his own wedding tomorrow!
Or maybe they should just have the wedding in Turkey and exchange I do's while scuds are flying overhead! To profess your undying love for one another while the threat of danger is in the air, that would be history-making romance. Ooh, I'm such a romantic!
The moral of the story is this: If you're a very rich person living in a war zone, it really pays to have your own airspace.
Saturday 22 March 2003
free scud missiles for everyone!
Contrary to what you may be thinking, I am not about to give you my two-cents worth about the war in Iraq. I might mention, however, that there are some people I would like to SEND TO Iraq. But I am not going to ruin my morning so to hell with Satan's Spawn, et.al
As always, I was doing my laundry this morning when upon bending down to pick up something I dropped I noticed two mosquitoes clinging together in flight. It appeared to be such a difficult business as both were flying so low, and it occured to me after I have been watching them for several minutes that I was actually doing something perverted. I was intently watching two of God's creations having sex. And having just used the words God and sex in the same sentence, I conclude that I am in desperate need of a social life. I am definitely bored. And bordering on promiscuity, I might add.
In case you were wondering, yes. I killed those dengue-carriers mid-fornication. How did I know they were in fact aedes egyti? Easy. They were low-flying. And it was morning.
Last Thursday I went to the NBI to get a clearance. And as luck would have it, someone with the same name has a criminal offense. I think somewhere in those twenty minutes of disbelief I began to search my conscience if I in fact didn't kill anyone recently. I have to return next week. They have to check the files in Manila. Drat.
Oh, look! It's lunchtime! The kitchen is beckoning again. Cook or be cooked. Husband and daughter just might eat me alive if I don't come home soon.
Ciao.
As always, I was doing my laundry this morning when upon bending down to pick up something I dropped I noticed two mosquitoes clinging together in flight. It appeared to be such a difficult business as both were flying so low, and it occured to me after I have been watching them for several minutes that I was actually doing something perverted. I was intently watching two of God's creations having sex. And having just used the words God and sex in the same sentence, I conclude that I am in desperate need of a social life. I am definitely bored. And bordering on promiscuity, I might add.
In case you were wondering, yes. I killed those dengue-carriers mid-fornication. How did I know they were in fact aedes egyti? Easy. They were low-flying. And it was morning.
Last Thursday I went to the NBI to get a clearance. And as luck would have it, someone with the same name has a criminal offense. I think somewhere in those twenty minutes of disbelief I began to search my conscience if I in fact didn't kill anyone recently. I have to return next week. They have to check the files in Manila. Drat.
Oh, look! It's lunchtime! The kitchen is beckoning again. Cook or be cooked. Husband and daughter just might eat me alive if I don't come home soon.
Ciao.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)