Dogbert’s Whip

Growing up, I was always teased that I was adopted. I didn’t look like either my mom or dad, and at that time, my four other brothers had fairer complexions that contrast starkly with my moreno skin. To top it all, I was the only one in the family with chinky eyes. Until now, people would always ask if I am Chinese, Japanese, or Korean. I’d always tell people that I’m Viet-Cong; that a mysterious Viet-Cong hag left me in my parents’ doorstep in a basket a quarter of a century ago.

I’ve always envied my older brother Donny and younger brother Paul for their large expressive eyes that exuded a dark amber hue – an obvious hereditary inheritance from my mom. Even in school, my teachers would act as if they received the biggest shock of their lives when they learn about my siblings. “Magkapatid pala kayo?” they ask in a disbelieving tone.

Some of my relatives would convince themselves that I kind of looked like my dad, but their bubbles are quickly burst when they see my dad’s mirror image in my younger brother Alain. Andrei, the youngest boy in our brood, is also out of the question since he’s a cross between my parents with his large eyes and muscular legs (You should see my dad’s legs – they’re huge!).

It wasn’t until the birth of Danielle, the only girl in the family, in 1993 that I was finally convinced that I’m not the son of a Viet-Cong witch. See, Dane shares my chinky eyes and brown complexion. Apart from her eyes and skin color, however, Dane looks very much like my mom. It’s hilarious how my sister cries when she was a lot younger whenever my relatives tease her that she looks just like me.

As fate would have it, Dane and I are the only siblings in my family who inherited the dreaded “Aquino curse.” The Aquino curse for me is the hereditary skin ailment eczema. Every family in my father’s side would have a cousin who suffers from this ailment. Although eczema is not contagious, it nevertheless leaves its victims with scaly dry, itchy skin that can sometimes become raw and bleeding. I contended with eczema for two whole years in high school while convincing my peers that it won’t harm them. With aggressive steroid treatments, I recovered from it, although I still get outbreaks whenever I’m in contact with laundry detergents.

Being the science geek that I am, my bout with eczema led me to investigate my family tree in hopes of uncovering more dreaded ailments that may afflict me. After talking to oldies in my clan, I learned that my father’s side, the Aquino family, is originally from San Fernando, Pampanga. I was a bit disappointed since I was hoping to be related to Ninoy the famous hero. That would be way too cool if only Kris is not part of the equation. The carnivorous Aquinos, I soon learned, have suffered from various ailments that include hypertension, diabetes, stroke, and cardio-pulmonary diseases. With that, whenever an Aquino copulates with another, he sends his faulty genes to his offspring that would regrettably make the latter genetically predisposed to suffer ailments that have afflicted the former.

My mother’s side, the Paras family, has little knowledge about their lineage. All they know is that they’ve worked as farmers in Pampanga since time immemorial. And it showed. While most of the people in my dad’s side are borderline obese, most guys in my mom’s side are lean and broad boned. Looking at my own expanding waistline and thinking of my carnivorous ways, I’m almost always certain now that most of what I’ve inherited came from the Aquino side. Bummer.

Things turned to a skidding worse for me three years ago. At that time, I underwent a routine physical check-up for my employment as a Summer Intern for the company that I work for now. It was nothing fancy – just the usual blood tests, urine and stool samples, and the electrocardiogram (ECG) – and I was sure that being in my early 20’s, I would inevitably receive a pink slip for good health.

When the results came in about a week after my medical check up, the office nurse informed me that I was pretty much okay except for an unusual finding in my ECG. Apparently, there were abnormal beat patterns registered by my heart. Leafing through my medical history, it was evident that heart disease, hypertension, and diabetes were traced to various clan members. When I argued that I didn’t feel anything abnormal with my heart, the office nurse explained that it could be faulty voltage. But since the medical history of my kin is shady and since the company has a strong commitment to the health and welfare of all its employees (Summer Interns included), chances were not going to be taken. With that, she gave me a referral to the Heart Room of Makati Med for a 2D Sonar imaging of my blood-pumping muscle.

While waiting for my turn in the Heart Room, I witnessed people who were captives of their heart diseases and ailments. Most of them, young or old, looked emaciated and ashen-faced. Some were even wheel chaired into the Heart Room, and when their loved ones assisted them to stand, it was as if they ran a marathon already. Surrounded with so much misery, I couldn’t believe that I was spending time inside that lab. There I was, an otherwise healthy young man who spends a great deal of time climbing mountains and hiking for hours. In my Field Geology classes, I was almost always the first person to reach the summit of a hill. I had such a great enthusiasm for life and the outdoors, and the thought of me having a heart condition was simply far fetched.

Days after my ordeal in the Heart Room of Makati Med, I was sitting inside the office of my cardiologist, eager to learn about the results of the 2D Sonar. When I thought that everything was all right, the cardiologist mumbled three words that until now, sound alien to me.

“You have a condition known as mitral valve prolapse (MVP),” the doctor informed me calmly.

“Mistral volt prop what?” I asked almost with a scratch.

“MVP is a hereditary heart condition wherein the tissues that separate the ventricles don’t close to a proper shut. This causes blood in your heart to mix up, making you prone to fatigue, infections, and abnormal heart beats.”

“WHA-AT?!?” I exclaimed in disbelief. “I feel completely healthy,” I complained.

“Well it’s probably because you’re still young and live an active lifestyle. MVP is often asymptomatic, and would just hit you when you’re like around 40. In time, you’re likely to suffer cardiac arrest or heart failure unless you maintain a healthy lifestyle,” the good ‘ol cardiologist explained as if I was taking everything all too well.

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” I asked with my head spinning.

“Spontaneous death,” she remarked. “But don’t worry; those instances are very, very rare. And actually, around 10% of the population, mostly women, suffer from MVP. So you’re not alone,” she remarked in a mocking cheerful tone that reminded me so much of Cruela De Vil.

After assuring me that I’m not really going to die anytime soon, the brutally frank cardiologist gave me the heath clearance so that I could start my work as a Summer Intern. “It’s just a desk job, right? It wouldn’t really stress your heart much,” she said as she handed the blasted piece of paper with a Jack Nicholson/Joker grin. Stepping out of Makati Med, I felt as if my knees had turned to Jell-O. I felt weak, and I couldn’t breathe well. “Oh FUDGE it!” I scolded myself. “Doctors could get it all wrong sometimes, you know.”

I kept my new found heart condition to myself all summer long since I didn’t want my parents to get worried. Once in a while, I even made fun of it. See, even if I always sucked in basketball, at least I have MVP now! It doesn’t matter if my dad was team captain of his high school basketball team, or if my middle name (Paras) and last name (Aquino) happen to be the surnames of popular PBA players. I have an “MVP Award” and nobody can take it away. Beat that!

Towards the end of my summer internship, I received a text message from my mom. Browsing through the text, I was shocked to learn that an uncle, my dad’s brother, had died of cardiac arrest. After the initial disbelief, I had a sudden realization that this MVP heart business is serious. Some people are just genetically predisposed to suffer some ailments. It sounds rather unfair but it’s how the world works.

I went home to Pampanga soon after to pay my last respects to my uncle. When I got to the funeral home, I realized that it’s like a family reunion. After chatting with my tita and patting the backs of my cousins, I scanned through the crowd and saw my mom seated in one of the benches. She signaled me with a wave as she bit through butong pakwan. After exchanging the usual pleasantries and kumustahans, my mom asked if there was anything new about me. For the next few tense minutes, I proceeded to inform her about my MVP, and all the things that the cardiologist has told me. Misty-eyed, my mom was shell-shocked, naturally. And it didn’t help that an uncle lay inside a casket a few meters from us. “But how did you get it?” she finally managed to ask me. “Oh that?” I blurted. “It’s hereditary so I pin the blame completely on you and dad.”

I was joking, of course. But then again, jokes are always half meant.

Not long ago, my best friend, the Guru of Adidas and Badminton (GAB), and I were having a discussion about the worst criticism we have ever received from anyone. GAB, being the eternal optimist at that time, couldn’t think of any. That made a lot of sense since any person who is able to tolerate my antics and whims, and in the process spends a great deal of time hanging out with me, probably does not have an evil bone in his skeletal system.

On my part, I did an awful lot of thinking, and presto! I was able to extract the worst insult ever hurled in my face from the most obscure recesses of my cerebrum. (Of course, we tend to have selective amnesia whenever these kind of things are raised.) The funny thing is, I realized that I’ve gotten this non-compliment on a number of occasions already. I’m sure you guys are itching to know what it is, and heck, I’m ready to share it with all of you. And it is (drum roll and nail biting sound effects in the background)…

"You’re such a baby!"

Yeah, it’s such a bummer whenever I hear this. But in fairness to those who point this out, I do whine frequently about the most mundane of things. I grizzle whenever the person infront of me in the cafeteria queue is taking too long to choose his viand. I snivel about being in my mid-twenties and not being given the opportunities that I think I truly deserve.  I whimper on the slightest ailment, whether it is the common cold or the eye allergy that I developed recently. I yammer about not having another warm human being intimately by my side, to love and comfort me on demand. In fact, I would yawp about anything and everything — as long as I feel like it.

Apart from being the most cynical person she has ever encountered in her whole life, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT), my self-proclaimed techie officemate slash favorite meal companion, thinks that I’m also the whiniest baby in the Milky Way. Of course, I never agree with anything she says, and I even claim that she is as fretful, if not more fretful, than I am. To setlle the score, we decided to take an online quiz to decide who has the higher "Drama Royalty Quotient" between the two of us.

A few clicks of the mouse later, QPT and I were recipients of the same dialouge box below:

It turns out that QPT and I are more dramatic than seven out of ten people on Earth. With this in mind, I am tempted to think that both of us chose the wrong career paths. Instead of wasting our years trying to tinker with experiments in Geology and Applied Physics, we should have honed our skills in Repertory Philippines. Of course, QPT, being the whiny bratwurst that she is (*peace!* :p), argues that since she’s female, she’s entitled to be "more dramatic" than I am. Using her skewed logic, she further asserted that my Drama King Quotient of 70 is actually higher than her Drama Queen Quotient of the same score. I would counter with questions like "Whatever happend to the Women’s Liberation?" and "Where the heck is Gabriela when you need them?"

As expected, QPT waves her hand in a huff, raises her chin, contorts her face as if she gulped a liter of cane vinegar, and murmurs in a hapless yet arrogant tone that would shame even Meryl Streep and Nora Aunor: "Go away! I’m working so hard on my daunting tasks…"  It’s an instant classic that’s sure to earn her a Gawad Yarian, err, I mean a Gawad Urian in the near future.   

************************************************************************************************

Do you want to know how you fare with the rest of the world in terms of your Drama Royalty Quotient? Then visit this link: http://www.blogthings.com/dramaqueenquiz/ and find out if you’re worthy of an acting trophy.

I still have vivid a recollection of my first jeepney ride. I was in third grade, and at that time, my school bus habitually missed picking me up every morning. Whether it was the gross negligence of the school bus driver, or sheer bad luck on my side, it nevertheless earned the volatile ire of my folks and paved the way for what would turn out to be a life-long love-hate affair with the jeepney.

Ask a typical Filipino on the street and he’d probably agree that jeepneys are better off to stay in our streets despite being serious security and safety hazards. (Often, some reckless and irresponsible jeepney drivers cause traffic logjams, tragic freak accidents, and shameless smoke belching.) For one, the jeepney is a cultural phenomenon that is distinctly Pinoy. Who wouldn’t be amused with its decorated wind shields and the slogans bearing the driver’s kid’s names (i.e., Apple Marie, Erica Marie, Jun-Jun, etc.) or any catchy phrase they could think of (e.g., “Katas ng Saudi,” etc.) attached on the rear? Apart from this, jeepneys obviously offer the most cost effective means of public transport. Jeepney drivers often won’t mind that bulky bayongs and baskets are hauled inside their vehicles, and wouldn’t typically fret about how some passengers make their prepubertal children sit on their laps so they could pay for only one.       

For some of us, a jeepney ride probably causes more stress than a whole week’s worth of deadlines and paper work in the office. For one, some unscrupulous drivers and barkers would insist on squeezing sixteen passengers inside the vehicle even if the freaking chunk of metal could only fit, albeit uncomfortably, fourteen people. Next are the snooty co-passengers who feign sleep or suddenly turn deaf whenever you say: “Manong, bayad po… Paki-abot naman po ng bayad…” Then there’s always the issue of drivers failing to give you the required change or failing to make the jeep stop despite your eardrum-shattering pleas of “Para po sa may jeepney stop! Para! PARA!!! PARA!!!”

But then again, it should also be extremely stressful to be under the jeepney’s wheel. Most of these drivers don’t even own the vehicles that they are plying. Constantly stressed about coming up with the day’s boundary fee due for his operator at the end of the day, the driver also thinks of food for his family’s table, allowance and school expenses for his kids, and the occasional medical fees. And it doesn’t help that some cheeky passengers would deliberately not pay their fare or in local terms, would commit the “1-2-3.” To make things worse, jeepney drivers are easy prey for corrupt policemen and traffic aides who apprehend them for the slightest violations. At times, these shenanigans in uniform would even ask money from jeepney drivers just because they need cigarettes and merienda money. It’s either that or they confiscate the poor driver’s license for a various reasons both real and imagined.

When I started riding the jeepney way back in 1989, the minimum fare was just one peso (PhP 1.00). However, with rising inflation through the years, and with the price of oil escalating at record levels in the world market, jeepney drivers and operators inevitably demanded for fare increases in recent memory. By the early part of 2005, the minimum fare stood at PhP 5.50. Now, for more bad news – unless you’re wealthy enough to afford your own ride or exclusively ride only cabs, you’re probably aware that the minimum fare now is PhP 7.50, or roughly a 650% increase in sixteen years. Using mental math, that’s more than a 40¢ increase per year since 1989! For the budget conscious and stingy, this is enough news to induce temper flares and sleepless nights. Even an Economics flunker knows that a rise in transportation costs would eventually lead to higher prices of basic goods.

I don’t have official figures but from the looks of it, public transportation is still relatively cheap in the Philippines compared to other countries around the world. Filipinos just probably got too used to having the government deregularize oil imports, thereby making petroleum products and consequently, public transport fees like that of jeepneys cheaper. With the rapidly changing global business climate, I don’t think that the government could sustain oil deregularization, and as a result of this, Filipinos should brace themselves for more increases in the future.

Nowadays, it’s all sparks and brimstone whenever I ride a jeepney. Apparently, most passengers still have a hard time accepting the bitter truth about the fare increase. I’ve been witness to a many heated exchange between a disgruntled passenger and an equally disgruntled driver. Flimsy issues about the driver’s responsibility to post the Land Transportation Office (LTO) memorandum regarding the increase has become the most common source of conflict between the passenger and the driver. A typical verbal tirade would go this way –

Driver: Boss, 5.50 lang ang binigay nyo; kulang pa ng dalawang piso.

Passenger: Ipakita mo yung papeles mo saka kita babayaran! Xerox lang ng papel ang nandito!

Driver: (gets LTO memorandum from secret compartment) Eto…

Passenger: Sa susunod, ipaskil mo ang original dito sa jeep mo!

Driver: Ginawa ko na yan dati pero may gagong nagtanggal. Naabala pa ako dahil kumuha pa ako ng panibago sa LTO…

Passenger: Wag na nang magdahilan… nasa balita na kailangan nasa loob ng jeep ang dokumento!

– The tension inside the jeepney is so intense that it could probably cut through cardboard paper. Often, I could only look away and distract myself to get uninvolved.

As for me, I have no problem about paying an additional two pesos for each jeepney ride I now take. Quite frankly, I think the jeepney drivers and operators deserve this much increase, if not more. However, when I think about it, I probably only have this attitude since I’m lucky to have a job with a competitive salary, and probably because I have a decent understanding of world economics. For now, we’ll have no choice but to let the tensions brew and boil. Eventually, we could only hope that it simmers soon enough to let us all go on with life, and once more, share the broth of brotherhood.          

By now, you should have heard about it, too. Unless you were trapped in a desolate island off the shark-infested waters of the Mariana Islands, you should’ve heard the most famous phrase in this side of Asia. Whether these are the various conversations in bars and coffee houses, headlines in the newspapers and the evening news, or even the latest cellphone ring tone with American rapper 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” playing in the background, the apparent nasal tone of a female voice clearly stands out: “Hello, Garci!”

For days, media has devoted as much coverage as it could to showcase the contents of wire tapped tapes containing the alleged conversations between Elections Commissioner Virgilio Garcillano (Garci) with various personalities, among them, President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo (GMA). In one interesting exchange, we hear a woman (supposedly GMA) inquiring an election official (supposedly Garci) about how she was currently faring in the vote tabulation. To some, it may be an innocuous inquiry, although common sense would dictate that it would be highly unethical for a person who seeks public office to ask for such to an elections commissioner. On the other hand, conspiracy theorists assert that it’s a blatant proof that GMA did rig the May 2004 elections to her favor.

As both administration and opposition leaders and lawmakers debate savagely over the integrity and authenticity of the tapes, the tight-lipped silence of GMA over the issue ironically casts a deafening decibel in the collective consciousness of the nation. Groups critical of GMA’s governance, from the opposition to activist groups, are quick to note that silence is tantamount to admission of guilt. They maintain that if GMA indeed has a clean conscience, it won’t be hard to admit that she is not the female voice in the tapes nor did she ever conspire to cheat in the elections.

The controversy surrounding the wire tapped tapes couldn’t have commenced in a more appropriate time. Before this entire hullabaloo began, GMA’s net approval rating in an all-time low over escalating inflation and the passage of the much criticized E-VAT law. Negative public perception of her governance was further dragged on the ground with allegations that members of her family, notably her husband Mike, congressman son Mikey, and brother-in-law Iggy, were receiving millions worth of kickbacks from the illegal numbers game jueteng. Thus, the wire tapped tapes are merely the TNT candles lighted on a cake baked on malice and treachery. The candles are bound to blow up anytime, but sadly, much of the force from that fatal blow will not be absorbed by either GMA or the powerful people who hate her, but by the millions of the common Pinoy who languish just to make ends meet.

The questionable timing of the controversial tapes, coupled with the equally questionable motives of the people who orchestrated such ploy, only gives weight to the argument that some sectors highly critical of GMA’s leadership are out to destabilize her government. If these tapes were made public days after GMA was proclaimed as president, the scale of credibility would’ve tilted to the tape hounds’ side. Instead, what we now see splashed over the news are a bunch of brats wailing for milk spilt more than a full year ago.

In retrospect, people who urge GMA to shed light on the tape scam should realize that whatever she says about the issue could be interpreted differently depending if the interpreter is a sympathizer or foe. In the process, GMA’s comments could be manipulated to sow more unrest. Perhaps the Philippines provides a clear test case why democracy does not always work.  After electing the adulterous movie actor Erap Estrada in 1998 and subsequently ousting him in a peaceful revolt three years later on corruption and inefficiency charges, Filipinos were on the brink of electing another movie superstar, the now deceased Fernando Poe Jr. (FPJ), to the highest post in 2004. It’s saddening that most of our kababayans think of the president as their proverbial Robin Hood who will save them from the rungs of poverty with just a flick of the finger.

Through it all, I’m still glad that GMA won the elections. Way back in May 2004 when most of my friends voted for either Raul Roco or Brother Eddie Villanueva, I was ridiculed as to why I voted for GMA. No, it’s not because I’m from Pampanga, nor is it because I wanted to prevent an impending FPJ presidency at all costs. It’s because I believed that GMA has the capacity to lead soundly and that she was in the best position to institute the much-needed reforms that she has already started when she inherited Estrada’s government. People should realize that reforms happen in a painstakingly slow pace. And to have a greater chance to achieve this, the status quo should be maintained.

My office mate QPT thinks that I’m the most cynical person in the world. In fact, she blames me for some of her misfortunes and occasional bouts with depression, contending that my negative outlook in life is a contagious virus that afflicts her through my constant bickering over lunch break. However, I would always counter that she sometimes shares some of my cynical ideals, and worse, would even conspire with me to come up with the most devilish of schemes.

A few months back, for example, QPT and I were discussing about how overrated Valentine’s Day is. As the 14^th of February approaches, people seem to be agog with bouquets of roses, love poems, and heart-shaped cakes. Those with existing relationships gush with love-sick anticipation, while the not-so-lucky singletons would frantically bug their friends and kin for potential blind dates. Maybe Valentine’s Day is a day when people would like to feel attractive and wanted, but on the contrary, we felt that the only ones who gain from this pheromone-induced frenzy are the jaded bourgeoisies themselves. If you’re confused, think of Christmas shopping in a store operated by Buddhist merchants. Being the self-proclaimed guardians of anything cynical, QPT and I decided that drastic measures had to be implemented.

For starters, QPT and I decided to engage in blind dates with total strangers. Well, not exactly total strangers since my date would come from QPT’s social circle while her date would be someone I’m acquainted with. Our plan was to treat our dates with the worst time possible, thereby making them loathe Valentine’s Day in the process. After days of trying to figure out who our potential victims would be, we narrowed our choices to:

1. QPT’s Date: the Tall Preppy Accountant (TPA) – TPA and I lived in the same dormitory in college. Back then, their (TPA and his roomies) room was the tidiest in the whole of the men’s wing. Since their room had nice curtains and free distilled water and midnight snacks to boot, I found myself to be a constant visitor of their room. We were not particularly close and inevitably lost touch after graduation. Not long ago, I bumped into him in Makati. We chatted briefly, and I learned that he is still single. For as long as I could remember, TPA has always been single, and trusting my gut, I knew he was the perfect choice for QPT.

2. My Date: the Artistic Bratty Sociologist (ABS) – QPT and ABS have known each other since high school. According to QPT, ABS is a bit weird and bratty – quite typical for an only child. ABS once insisted on footing half of the bill during one of her ill-fated dates. Obviously, her date didn’t want to, but since ABS was adamant about giving her share, the poor guy accepted her money. Afterwards, ABS resented the guy for not being insistent enough to prevent her from paying. ABS is definitely one of the most impossible personalities one could ever think of. But boy; I was definitely up for the challenge!

The battle plan was simple: QPT and I were going to be the dates from hell. On her part, QPT will play the role of a blushing colegiala who works as an encoder in our company. Like a typical pop tart, QPT will claim that she digs Britney Spears and reads Sweet Valley High novels. She would also assert that she’s conservative and religious since she goes to church whenever she can. For their date, QPT will invite TPA to watch “Let The Love Begin” and she would swoon throughout the movie at how romantic the plot is and what a handsome pair Angel Locsin and Richard Gutirrrez make. For the remainder of the night, QPT will smile shyly and agree with anything that TPA will say and ask.

For my part, I will be the ultimate cheapskate. I shall invite ABS to meet me somewhere in SM City North EDSA and bring her to a Jollibee outlet. I would then treat her to a “Regular Yum Meal” with no fries or softdrink upgrades. I would then proceed to tell her sob stories about my sorry life of poverty. We won’t watch a movie since I’m out of cash, of course, and will ask her to accompany me to the wet market in Cubao where I’ll purchase some eggs. “Paborito kasi ni Inang ang piniritong itlog sa hapunan,” I would explain to ABS. To top it all, we’re going to ride an ordinary bus or a jeepney when we make our way to the market place and when I drop her home.

While the plans were elaborately set, our blind dates did not push through, though. Despite my repeated attempts to woo TPA into dating QPT, the former never committed to it, prompting QPT to bitterly question TPA’s sexuality. My date with ABS did not materialize as well since I was unwilling to take the plunge if QPT has not done the same. Besides, I might overdo the whole charade and I’m afraid that ABS will throw a childish tantrum in the middle of Nepa-Q Mart.

In the meantime, QPT and I are still hopeful that we would eventually carry out our devious scheme sometime in the future. We’re not sure who and when, but when the time comes, we’ll make sure that our victims will regret ever going out on blind dates. Yes, it may sound too harsh and evil, but even cynics like us will find a silver lining on such undertaking.

Disclaimer: The mention of “skongkran” or squatters in this article is not meant to ridicule people who belong to this social spectrum, but rather, is a mockery directed solely on the author.

It feels weird to be wearing slippers in the office today. See, I have this awful boil on the big toe of my right foot. Yesterday, I popped it open with a sterilized needle and proceeded to extract the gooey pus-and-blood build-up that caused me to skip work for two days. Anyway, the boil started off as a small lump that I dismissed as an insect bite last Friday morning. As the lump grew steadily inside the damp conditions of my stinky leather shoes, I also made the wrong decisions of wading through flood waters last Saturday and playing badminton, after more than a month-long hiatus, last Sunday. Alas, as I wore my shoes come Monday morning, the boil has reached Jupiter proportions and the pain was unbearable. Reaching for my cellphone, I sent an SMS to my boss that I’m going to skip work due to a “swollen toe” on my right foot. In my mind, “swollen toe” sounded so much better than “boil.” You can’t blame me if I intended to salvage my already lackluster image in the office.

After informing my boss about my “swollen toe,” I dialed a doctor friend, the Perpetual Soul Searcher (PSS), and inquired about remedies for my embarrassing condition. PSS prescribed that I should take Clindamycin, an antibiotic, at 150 mg doses, twice a day when I informed him that the surface of the boil has become tender with pus formation. PSS further advised me to extract the boil once I sense that it is “ripe” enough, making sure that I had Betadine and a sterilized needle in handy. Before our conversation ended, PSS embarked at his usual digs at me and blurted: “Ano ba yan. Para kang squatter; nagkakaroon ka ng ganyang klaseng sakit…” We were both laughing when we hanged up.

As I rode a jeepney towards the nearest drugstore, I remembered a college classmate who categorized people based on their social status. Using terms that were invented in his org, he came up with this list:

·        Coño à people from the upper class

·        Jologs à people from the middle class

·        Skongkran à people from the lower class; rough equivalent of the squatters

·        Kulabai à people more destitute than the lower class; think: taong grasa and prisoners (since they have no liberty)

·        #$@&* à name of a person that he absolutely dislikes

Basically, the list works this way: The coño cringes at the sight of the jologs. The jologs are disgusted by the presence of a skongkran. The skongkran, in turn, spits on the faces of the kulabai. And the kulabai are happy that they’re not #$@&*. It does not get simpler than that.

Reaching the Mercury Drug outlet in Philcoa, I asked the attendant who’s a registered pharmacist, by the way, for four tablets of Clindamycin. “One hundred sixty forty (PhP160.40),” he muttered, almost with a yawn. PSS has warned me that Clindamycin is a generic name and that I’m tasked to inquire and compare the costs of various brand names. Since I was too lazy to think things over, I just scavenged through my emaciated wallet, and as I passed two crumpled hundred peso bills, I realized that the freaking antibiotic costs forty pesos a pop. The attendant handed the medicine in a short while, and in my mind, the Clusivol buy line is tattooed on his forehead: “Sa panahon ngayon, bawal magkasakit.”

Leaving the drug store, I made my way to the Chowking outlet next door to appease the grumbling protestation of my stomach. I ordered a shanghai lauriat (yep, takaw mata) with a regular serving of iced tea. “Would you like some almond jelly or halo-halo to go with that, sir?,” the store’s petite cashier inquired amid cakey foundation and smudged lip stick. “No,” I quicky interjected. It was rather short but I guess my response was definitely better than “Are you insane?! I’m not Ike Lozada for crying out loud!” “That would be ninety five pesos ONLY, sir,” the Chowking cashier told me with a toothy grin. Handing out another hundred peso bill, I became aware that I was way, way luckier compared to the skongkrans. Although we suffer the same ailments, at least I get to afford a plate of stale Chinese food whenever I feel like it.

I left the restaurant with my throat feeling itchy. I tried to pin the blame on the sesame seeds of the buchi but when I recalled that most of my officemates were down with colds the week before, I felt aghast that I was about to suffer the same fate. “Oh no, not another skongkran ailment,” I groaned. Stepping inside another jeepney on my way home, I chanced on a sampaguita vendor who’s probably no older than ten years. Clutching the fragrant garlands on his rickety arms, he pleaded with passers by to purchase his wares. When no one halted to hear him out, he proceeded to wipe the gooiest and greenest snot on his dirty, rag tag shirt. As the jeepney engine started to roar, I felt a sudden urge to whack my head back to reality.

As a child, I had a schizophrenic concept of what is Christian. Exclusively educated in a school called Holy Family Academy, I was spoon-fed with Catholic ideals from the moment I persevered to jot down “Dennis Jerome P. Aquino” perfectly on brown writing pad with my ever-reliable Mongols, and up until I was a rebellious teener who abhorred Citizen’s Army Training but was passionate about campus journalism.

A typical day in school would not be complete without reciting a zillion prayers. Like robots, we would recite these prayers before and after each class, before and after meals/break time, and whenever the nuns and our teachers felt like asking for more guidance and blessings from the deities. No prayer could be complete without the ‘sign of the cross’ before and after the actual prayer. This involves touching your forehead (“In the name of the Father…”), diaphragm area (“…and of the Son…”), right shoulder (“and of the Holy Spirit…”), and the left shoulder (“…Amen.”) with your right hand. And of course, no prayer will ever be complete without the usual venerations for Mama Mary.

The moment I get home, however, it’s a totally different ball game. Growing up in a Mormon household, we were told to fold our arms, bow our heads, and close our eyes during prayer. As opposed to the Holy Trinity or “egg model” of the Catholics, we were also taught that God the Father, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit are three different entities. And no, Mama Mary is not entitled to any of our prayers. Such subtle differences are sure to cause some sort of anxiety even to adults. So imagine how a lone Mormon kid in a classroom full of Catholics could cope up with all of this. Yes, it’s very frustrating, indeed.

Apart from prayer confusions, I soon learned that unlike Catholics, Mormons are not allowed to decorate their churches and homes with crucifixes and statues of saints. Mormons are also supposed to be presentable whenever they attend Sunday service. Levi’s denims and mini skirts? No, toss them in the bin because the Mormon leaders would only prescribe buttoned shirts and slacks for men and the flowery straight dresses for the ladies. Speaking of church leadership, Mormon men can become priests by the time they’re sixteen. They’re also required to serve a mission for two years by the time they reach nineteen. And every member of the church has to get married and have babies. Bypass any of these requirements and jeopardize your chances for attaining eternal life.   

The most interesting aspect of Mormonism, for me, is its hate affair with caffeine. Along with tobacco and alcoholic beverages, Mormons are supposed to avoid Coke and other sodas, tea, and most especially, coffee. I never fully understood why we were denied to savor the bitter brew that is coffee. “It’s for health purposes,” the church leaders would preach, and even back then, I was wondering why the rest of the Earth’s populace would desecrate their temples with vile substances like Nescafe and Blend 45.

I treated coffee like an illegal drug up until the finals week of my second semester as a college freshman. Back then, my usual bedtime was not later than ten in the evening, and with a big Chemistry finals coming up, I knew I had to study doubly hard since I churned out mediocre marks the whole semester. My cousin suggested that I gulp down a cup of coffee to keep me awake for a couple of hours more. I did as instructed, and as expected, was able to keep my eyes open until the wee hours. I tossed and turned on bed soon after with caffeine, the alien chemical, wrecking havoc on my brain’s blood vessels.

I was a virtual zombie when I took the Chemistry final exam that morning. My head felt like flotsam from lack of sleep, and my heart retaliated from the caffeine surge with murderous palpitations. I managed to pass the exam, of course, and vowed to never drink another cup of coffee. But then again, promises, like they all say, are meant to be broken. Before I knew it, I was a regular coffee and tea drinker myself. Soon after, I also quit attending Sunday service.

Nowadays, I’m one of those coffee-holics who won’t function properly without a cup of hot brew every morning. I call it my “muddy gasoline (with creamer and sugar) to start off my lazy butt engine.” It’s a good thing that brewed coffee in the office is free. Otherwise, I would have spent an insane amount of money in Starbucks, Seattle’s Best, Coffee Bean, and the like. A cup of basic brew in these establishments costs around 50-100+ pesos. Fancier concoctions like mochaccinos and lattes could be as expensive as 100-200+ bucks. Imagine that! And those baristas, with their plastered smiles and fake American accents, would even have the gall ask if you would like an expensive pastry to go with your coffee selection!

I’m starting to think that the Mormons make sense. Maybe, just maybe, coffee is in fact a sin. Well, in that case, I still believe that each of us is entitled to one little sin. Some go for a bottle of beer and some would opt their luck in lotto, poker and the slot machine. In my case, I’m sticking by with coffee, my bitter sweet muddy gasoline.