The Paostian Deal

I've been commuting for over a decade now and I can almost say I had experienced all there is to be gotten from riding public utility vehicles. Experienced, not necessarily accepted.

I understand that as high-thinking and ridiculously emotional creatures most of us can not ever resist the urge to bug an ear. There is the constant need to speak and the must to ensure that what we say fall on an ear whether it's functioning or not... We are so compelled by this annoyingly fascinating characteristic that oftentimes it's a speak-or-die situation. But now I ask you:

Why perform sandwich conversations in PUJs?

You know, talk to your mate inside a moving jeepney which is absolutely normal and okay—only it's also too annoying for that total stranger sitting between the two of you.

I would have lavished in the experienced had it been Josh Hartnett to my right side and George Clooney to my left, exchanging views on what's comfy wear for them when sleeping at night, or maybe even shoe sizes. But if it's two beyond-desperate housewives yapping about their daughters' menstrual cycles or dog fleas, then for goodness sake, people, spare me from that sandwich.

I know I know I KNOW. I haven't mastered yet this new timetable I'm shouldering; thought I'd have after a month but apparently doing roundtrips to Neptune on an almost daily basis isn't as easy to absorb as dust along EDSA.

Speaking of which, question: Do belts vibrate by themselves? I mean, more locally, do buckles... pulsate? I momentarily went sardines-mode back at an MRT trip an hour ago and while I was squashed and sweating and listening to grandma Meryl's Mamma Mia rendition and helplessly abusing my neck looking in all directions to the point of sprain striving to avoid (a) damp armpits, (b) bad breath and (c) damp armpits and bad breat—pant—I swear: I felt some twitching against my left arm from something SOLID presumably the belt of another passenger.

Is this what fantasy writers call, living metal?

Be dashing back later.

In a shuttle ride.

SPOILERS.

WHAT'S HOT: James McAvoy. Move over Tobey Maguire, there's a new hot dork in town. In Narnia 1 James was cute as Mr Tumnus, the perv goat guy. Now he's cuter even with only two legs. Plus he plays with guns now and those lovely blue eyes paired with leather jackets are the best offset for the lack of a six-pack. But now that I think about it, I was so busy staring at his eyes that I forgot to check if he can act or not...

HOT: Wanted's script. While the sufficiently linear presentation had a few twists obvious to neurotic minds further-corrupted-by daily crime news and personal goals to get back at bullies in high school, the story did make up for with littered surprises, subtle humor and nice tracking.
NOT: Morgan Freeman. I think he mistook Wanted for another Almighty installment.

HOT: The positioning of gore. Think of Wanted as a Sesame Street version of Kill Bill: You know exactly when skulls will explode and blood will cover the screen and so you can synch your puke reflexes.
NOT: The gore. You people are sick.

HOT: Amazingly, Angelina. On her first scene I gasp-whispered, My gawd Nicole Richie has an actual movie? A few minutes later, Lara Croft was grinning with a gun with a tablet PC attached to it then I knew I wasn't in Neptune. In this flick Jolie didn't act. She strutted for 2 hours simply to let the world know that she's still in control. Even the fag who kept whining about why he hates aisle seats was wowed. And no wonder she went anorexic: Plus-plus-size women can't play sandwich with trucks and tunnel roofs. CG tricks or no.
NOT: Me missing a step at a 7-11 branch and almost pulling a Miriam Quiambao in front of bystanders. I think I was emulating Fox's chin-up walk and forgot I wasn't yet an expert stair strutter...

HOT: The red carpet-vibe at Shangri-la's Cineplex. In cinemas like this you don't go to the movies to watch films. You wait until everybody gets in, then PARADE yourself to the middle row just before the lights go off. Not bad for a minute of celebrity-hood, on a weekly basis.
NOT: Sitting next to a latecomer colegiala who moronically knows nothing except the words, "Euww raaats, grosssssss!"

HOT: The Calayans' new billboard along EDSA-Guadalupe. It's a quarter pounder yum-burger with lotsa cream cheeeeez.
NOT: A gazillion Koreans jogging along EDSA at 1AM. I'm not kidding with gazillion. A surprise "EDSA Quatro" can be an adventure for the virginal but the thought of it wasn't exactly thrilling especially when I'd already been sweating in my spare top because of the tropics. A revolution of fair-skin people IN WHITE jogging uniform is a whole other story.

HOT: Payday.
NOT: 17 days before the next.

HOT: Morgan Freeman saying, "Oh, crap".
NOT: Yeah, the gore. Huge sickleS through an old lady's chest? Sick, sick, sick!

HOT: The Loom. "Destiny chose you". "It's in your blood". "Control your fate or let it control you..."
NOT: Yeah keep encouraging closet serial killers and junior maniacs, you idiots.


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BTW this is a tribute to the "film" a torrent of which I'm saving for a fatally blank Sunday afternoon: Hottie and the Nottie. I had planned to give it a shot but on my way to the cinemas I was distracted by tummies doing somersaults at the Philippine Belly Dance Festival and so yeah Paris Hilton--correction: Pares Hilton, according to a tongue-wag in an MRT line--is still a runner-up in the Actual Talent department. Pares Hilton. The line was so stagnant I thought somebody had begun selling "rice value meals" to resist insanity.

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Speaking of dorks: Shia LaBeouf leads an action flick? Wow. The male Anne Hathaway.

This is the third time I got on a jeep with a circus fugitive playing with a Rubik’s Cube. First, scarves on a scorching 3PM. Now, rainbow-colored plastics before brunch. I would’ve tolerated a PDA from teen exhibitionists, but no, the commuting poops decided to show off their geek side. Fine, I get it, lady—you have a magnificent brain and I only have split ends. I don’t care if you can solve the fucking 3x3x3 in 2 seconds even without looking at it. But between us, I’m not the one selling rip-off make-up behind some one-level department store counter no one ever really notices. Get off my jeep.

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Speaking of stores. Why in screwed sanity are there NO trash cans in SM Mall of Asia? A million football fields in size and no bins for used tissue? What, they want the visitors to leave their DNA samples on the floor? This is why SM can never be more than a huge, over-hyped grocery store. Well I guess it could be worse, had they posted “No littering” in every corner. Gargantuan idiocy.

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Will everybody freaking-please stop playing that guy version of Always Be My Baby? Overkill. OVERKILL.

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And while you’re at it, could you also please commence the universal signature campaign to kick Cesar Montano out of the television? And of bottled water endorsements? … and into oblivion? If there’s one thing that can make taxpayers-who-deserve-good-TV-entertainment-at-least-after-office ask, “WHAT?”, in the most hardcore way imaginable, it’s Cesar Montano.

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Break-ups. Bad for the heart, good for exhalation. But, after high school, do we really still need public display of dramatic, overflowing bitterness? Everybody screws up. Admit that you did, let her go—let it go—hire 49 sluts if needed, then go find your next failure. Or a cave where you can’t bother anyone else. Ridiculously picky dweebs have very limited access to the very busy streets of Real Life.

There’s a reason why I never initiate conversations with some entities—and it’s because these beings have a hearts as brittle as their brains that they don’t sense not being liked when it bites their nipples.

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The other day, in a jeep, a tall, dark guy who looked like a tall, dark smurf sat right across me… with his thighs spread. Wait, that’s an understatement: His torso practically occupied the entire bench. WIDE. For the rest of the trip. Talk about shrimp on a platter. I wasn’t sure what message the cosmos was trying to send, but definitely I’d go for better cartoons.

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I get it that you’re a Disney-Hallmark native, I can’t help that lost cause, but what’s with “kiss your mom for me” on Mother’s Day? Are you crazy? Or plainly, icky sick? She doesn’t even know you exist, creep!

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I knew it: the flick Iron Man was a big tease. But not Clobberfield tease; more like, American Idol-winner tease. You know, you think it’s huge but it really isn’t. At all. I’m on a break from hanging out with my be-muscled friends, but watching Robert Downey Jr. trotting around with those huge cysts all over his body—while Gwyneth Paltrow whispered her lines here and there—man, I didn’t know Tony Stark was a frustrated bouncer. Chills on the spine.

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Speaking of AI. I’m standing my ground: David Archuleta must die. If the voting people will get rid of Syesha Mercado this week, then I’m okay with letting the airy David Cook win. But the US seems to burst with dumb colegialas-who-fall-for-closet-fags that my wish could remain just a wish… In that case, here’s another wish: rename the show, American Twink.

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Acid rain has been pouring since 1852. Now you cancel weekend pot sessions because of a drizzle. What, we’re ashamed of our gremlinealogy now?

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Adam Levine is steamy cute, alright. But somehow I just can’t forgive him for sounding too Chipmunk-y sometimes.

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At work, when you’re asked for a “purpose” for a vacation leave and a “reason” for a sick leave, what do you, uh, say? For real. It’s bugging me.

---

So after 8 months “trying it” in the company’s marketing group, our try-hardest president has tasked me with his most idiotic of-utmost-priority to-do shit: put pictures on a Friendster profile background. I know. I’m too astounded to describe my feelings further. But I guess I have something new to say in my next job interview: that I finished AB Friendster.

I don’t know how to ride a bike. I mean, I can “back ride” one—as long as Matthew McConaughey was driving it—I just don’t know how to use a bicycle myself. I never learned. Probably I preferred acne over knee scars and leg trauma that would haunt me when I hit 38.

On the same universe, I never really wanted to learn how to drive a car either. Unless of course a Matthew in sleepwear was in the passenger’s seat, in which case I… nah—won’t be driving either. He’ll drive and I’ll… well, I’ll take care of the gear. Or something. But, more seriously, I didn’t study driving because it is my eternal principle to avoid the worst part of modern living at all costs, no matter how naturally predisposed I am to it more than with Friend bashing: road rage. I am actually doing the world a favor.

Then this. Lately the biking industry figuratively and literally has gotten in my way. Question: When you, a seasoned bicycle user, pedal your way around, what’s your main point?

Do you want to flaunt your extra “basic” skills? Are you tired of natural efforts and now relying on machines for the rest of your life—in using sidewalks? Or do you, who are not in China, just want to enjoy your toy?

Or you’re simply a malaria-stricken chicken who’s too useless that you can’t even annoy others without the aid of thin wheels?

The other week, I was walking my own business when a bike came from opposite my direction. I saw it and the mustache driving it, of course, and like a virgin backing away from a starving rabid dog, I stepped aside to give way. As if the entire parking lot wasn’t big enough for everyone. A few seconds later the bike was three feet to my face then, in a micro moment, it swerved. Right to where I was. Then he sped off to the other direction, but I swear I could hear the leprosy-reject laugh: I had a hilarious aghast expression and it surely made his day.

A few nights later, on a well populated sidewalk, a similar thing happened. This time it was a boy on a blue bike: I was grating myself against the vendor stalls because I’d seen the bike coming my way. Just as the bike was before my face, the kid again swerved to my spot—and there was no space left for me to move to. But that’s not all: “Stupid!” I heard the uncut mole shot at me in the vernacular. For even the cockroaches underground to hear.

E kung hindi ka ba naman isa’t kalahating inutil na bobong tangang kupal na supot na kutong-lupang hayop ka (Sorry, English lovers, no can translate)—I squeeze myself into the stinky gaps between the stalls for you and your stupid bike and you still want to pass where I stand? This is a sideWALK, moron. How did your cheap mother bring you up, to be as stupid as her own cheap mom? You dumb closet fag!

Now this morning, I was crossing a street. When I reached the middle “isle”, I stopped: because I Saw A Motorbike Rushing some 50 feet away behind a traffic light and I wanted to let it pass before I continued walking. But the driver saw me too, and apparently he wanted to play Mr Nice. He slowed down as he neared, then motioned me to cross. I didn’t move. He had the entire road ahead to himself—not to mention the horde of moving metal behind him. He slowed down… to a halt in front of me. Then he said the magic word like the future impotent-prepubescent did before speeding off. WHAT THE. Is there a brotherhood of bikers out to humiliate me to oblivion or something? If there is, then they’re doing a good job pissing me off.

Confusion: I stay away from driving because I’m afraid of engaging in road rage. Yet apparently, on the other side, I can be provoked to spit lava too.

I can’t wait for teleportation to be invented. And total idiots to be banned from the streets.

Yesterday morning I sat beside a fat lady in an almost-packed jeep. Some three minutes into the trip the driver pulled over to get more passengers. He kept calling out, "Kaliwa, kanan, kaliwa, kanan (Left, right, left, right)." But we could only try to fit one more in our side. A medium-built guy climbed on.

"Kaliwa, kanan, kaliwa, kanan..." I moved a little to my right to signal the vacancy. The lady, on the other hand, was mini-hopping left-and-right. "Kaliwa, kanan, kaliwa, kanan!" I bit my lip because I didn't want to smile. The vehicle began to move but the new passenger was still waiting for a seat. "Kaliwa, kanan, kaliwa, kanan!" Manong Driver sped up.

And Mrs Hopster parted her thighs and occupied the entire space--almost panting--I felt bitter defeat. Not to mention, laughter that could very well have gotten me killed boiling up inside.

This morning, another lady almost shot a different jeepney driver out of sheer annoyance. While we were nearing the shuttle's station, he called out in the vernacular, Those who haven't paid their fare, please do it now. There was dead response. He called out again, this time adding: There's still one passenger who hasn't paid the fare, whoever you are please do so now." I was looking from end-to-end waiting for even a flinch, I was so cute, but to no avail.

Then Manong said very loudly: That one on the left side, hey did you pay up?

"Ay, mataba pala (Oh, a fat one)."

I dunno what's going on in the Plus-Size universe but yeah, the passenger took spaces for two. "May problema ho kayo, manong (You got a problem, sir)?" she retorted. I faked a cough and a yawn while looking at street signs.

Tsk, tsk. Panic. Confusion. Fatal hysterics.

I therefore conclude we need an allowance of at least two more days before going back to work after a long weekend. At least for the sake of jeepney drivers.

This morning I rode a jeep with two lovers. The guy was your average kind of bachelor--employed, clean cut and pays for his girlfriend's fare when commuting to work. Of course, in return, he gets to "touch" his girl's "bruised" leg for other motorists to see... as long as he agrees to everything she says, too. The lady, on the other hand, and naturally, was a radio disguised as a human being. Complementary angles. I gather she grew up from the tougher side of town, as she speaks... quite confidently. She got some looks too, but I soon realized that she's surnamed Can't Have It All: blessed physically... and that's it. Tall, fair skin, cute smile... and that's it. Then the lovers' talk became interesting:


A motorbike zoomed past the jeep.


I eyed Mr. Average and I knew we were both lost.


It was like the air was suddenly filled with nitrous oxide. I was liking it because what choice do I have on a Monday morning? The show continued:


The longer the traffic held us up under the peeking sun, the harder it got for me to hold back laughter. I pretended to examine every single thing on the street in a desperate move to hide my near-outburst. But there was more:



I was pulling a Linda Blair and my head was so 180-degrees I should've just stuck it outside and wait to be decapitated. She probably meant lust and love. And her man was again lost in her punyverse. But I do get her principle, sort of: Everything will be understood "as long as you know what you mean". They were simply talking about a barbarian and both knew how violent he can get--and a whore and how much she's still jealous of her while he dismisses the whole thing since he now has a new toy. So they're having a conversation and that's okay. Everything will be fine "as long as you know what you mean". She needed to keep her linguist face up No Matter What and he knew he had to support her even if it racks his brains out. Most importantly: everything may be "touched" in public... "as long as you know what you mean".

---

AND here's DAH-t girl's sister in fate. Faith.

I was never the type who'd whip out expensive gadgets from my insides in an alley, an open store, a PUJ, a PUB, other PUVs or any other place that wasn't meant for flashing privates or anything else that shouldn't be bruised unless insured.

And I've never been the type who'd generously show courtesy in PUJs. Last night, on my way to the darkest place ever--the house, which pathetically stood in the middle of a block where power has been dead for about 15 hours as of this writing because of some electrical dipshit damage up some Meralco post, pant--I rode an empty jeep. And I sat comfortably, of course, resting my left thigh and knee on the clear bench. A hundred heartbeats later, a woman hopped on and splatted her enormous ass RIGHT ON MY LIMB.

Instinctively, my eyes went on ruler mode and tried to measure the gargantuan object that had hit me: Twelve feet of vacancy and it HAD to POUND my knee? I don't think so.

I summoned what remaining force I had and mightily pulled my poor joint from under the boulder. Bad enough as it was, my back also hit the corner of the jeep. It was tough, but it paid off: Lady Blob sensed my brewing Sparta, turned her head and apologized. I just wished she'd had moved her pregnant butt first, though, before syllabicating apology and waiting for a response that would never come willingly.

I gripped my bag strap, forced a smile and, as she snailed her luggage away, rolled my eyes and looked the other way, praying that I won't see a baseball bat lying on the street. Bad place, bad time...

Anyway, the gadgets. To my dismay, I can't seem to control myself and I keep on taking pictures using my phone. Alone. Normally, I'd have to be in a huddle of club bouncers before I check my 2-inch coin purse. But now, daylight or dawn, alone and in the middle of crime infested streets, I bravely use my phone which costs more than thrice my measly salary. But I can't help it! There's so many "sights" that are just too... fun... to be missed. Like a vandal that reads, BAWAL UMIHE DITO GAGO. Or a sign that says, Wanted Helfer. Or a free ad that reads: "Wanted: Lady bedspacer, MALE OR FEMALE students apply inside". See? Would you let those slip immortality through photos?

I'm gonna keep doing this. So the next time a lugger pool of an ass hits me, me and my chainsaw will be ready.

MMDA, with pen and ticket, to a traffic violator...


MMDA: Name?

Foreigner driver: Wilhelm von Corgrinski Papakovitz

MMDA: Ahhh... Next time be careful.


(Hello, HRH Jjun!)

Here's a lovely quote:

"If you run out of reasons to live, remember that someone else's life may never be complete without you in it."

Truncated, the piece is lovelier when understood for its reality:

"If you run out of reasons to live, remember that someone else's life may never be complete without you in it...

... like the BIR, Citibank, Meralco, Maynilad, McDonald's, Jollibee, the MMDA, your mom's bank account and the posonegro."

Have a fun week (of bills and VAT) ahead! :-D

You get on a jeep, looking forward to 6 PM. It's Friday. You're in your school uniform and with one look the prefect of discipline would want to adopt you. You hold out your hand and, with utmost sincerity, announce: "Manong, bayad po." The coin reaches the driver... but, seemingly longer than a drunk's orgasm, your change takes a while.

"Manong, student po 'yon," in your respectful self. Yet get a glance back, then silence. "Manong, estudyante 'yung sampung piso," you reinstate, resisting the urge to shoot Manong. Like toys in Jolly Kiddie Meals, the tension makes the other For All I Care passengers turn their heads to your direction. Bewildering, but they see no student there.

---

You ride a jeep to work. It's Friday 8AM, and you want nothing more than getting the week and/or your life over with. You--the ever honest you--scrape the bottom of your pocket for the last coin... Arm stretched and sunglasses filtering the painful sunlight, you give: "Bayad, o." Two more pit stops, then eight-fifty makes it to Manong.

You anticipated the morning traffic, hence the 4-AM bedtime you had last "night," hence the excuse to snore for the rest of the kilometers. Suddenly, a woody finger pokes your left thigh: Before you tackle the source of yucky naughtiness, you see a one-peso coin dangling from more sticks-with-human-nails... You got change. It should be a good thing--but you can't help but wonder. My fare is 8.50. Why am I getting change? Then you begin to interpret the universe:

Hey, maybe they think I'm a student or something. Wow, I really do look young! ... But wait--no--I'm not a kid anymore. I have a college degree and I actually have a job unlike that bastard she replaced me with. I am NOT a little boy! I'm bigger now and I can definitely afford a measly jeep fare! What do these self-righteous blue-collar margins take me for--a weakling who needs discount in fares? Oh I HAVE money to pay their services--maybe even enough to pay twice their daily quotas. I can't believe this is happening... No--I refuse to accept this insensitive racism. Here I am doing my best to be a dignified, responsible citizen... and they treat me like I'm a joke? The nerve! I... I...

---

I can't decide which is more "insulting." Carpool, anyone?

(This is 2 of 2. Part one's here.)

Bro, shut up. You're too morbid, shot JM while listening to ballad songs. And he does have a good point: Why add to the immense violence ruining, um, every place on earth? As if reporting to your folks every payday wasn't enough. So the passenger, a late bloomer peacemaker of a flower child, decided she would use Manila's public transport as her stepping stone in changing the world...
But I wasn't really up for it. My mind's somewhere else... specifically:

I. Am. Craving. The last time I had pizza was a month ago--a lifetime. Three. And, apparently, some Chinese person out there is sharing my dilemma. It's been a long time since our last slices; the next one we see, we'll savor it like a... rat. Kung Hei Fat Choi!

Anyway, I also wondered how the perpetrator looks like. Or what its gender is, at least. Doesn't matter, the trio said. "What, you wanna find cures for cancer and tardiness now, too? Don't be too hard on yourself," RJ being smart. But of course, sweet as he is, he tried to cheer me up and...

How satisfying. Although I wasn't entirely convinced... You'll find out why in a few. But, since we're still celebrating our creative juices and, of course, the love for everything that's otherwise shitty, we decided to pay tribute to zoology. Yes, friends. Animals.

And what better way to pay respects to one of the most interesting subjects in the world than to couple it with biology? That's right: the much loved ecosystem. Maybe, the 40something-year old passenger has so much love for animals and life and survival on Earth. Maybe he simply wanted to remind us that "Love conquers all" isn't the only way: there's predation, parasitism and, well, Godzilla. Thanks, RJ.

...

RJ?
He was busy. My bad.

So we hope we helped his/her/its cause in some way. Better, we ask Hades, Cerberus, Medussa and the rest of the gang to watch over him/her/it, wherever he/she/it may be. Get a new marker, pal.

< - - - >

Hours later, when our foursome disbanded--perhaps, for good, but who knows?--there was still one secret waiting to be revealed. And I was the only one who knew... Should I, or shouldn't I? If I do, it would rattle everybody's world and maybe push them to question their beliefs. If I don't, well, then where's the fun in that?

One... two... three.

Have a fun, fun week!

Really. Rarely, I do. Remember the, uh, interesting piece of cr--, um, writing, the other day? Well, after some respectful thinking, insanely sincere consideration and fleeting time in the office, I've come to realize that there's much more than what we only choose to see.

Art.

Genius.

Expression.

Whoever failed to finish that vandal might had been thinking of something bigger, of creating something that would count as an invaluable contribution to public transportation and the rest of mankind.

Art.

And so, with my equally expressive buddies Marie, RJ and JM--fabulous heads, theirs--we took the noble road less traveled and tried to finish the job of that poor passenger who just didn't have enough time to accomplish his mission.

Whoever you are, sir, ma'am, this is for you.

Maybe he's bothered, RJ suggests. Maybe his self-absorbed boss hates his guts. Maybe he was getting tired of the unending fare hikes in the Philippines. Or, maybe she found out she was born a he, and her/his parents so much wanted a daughter for a first child... It's a sad world, out there.

Nah, he simply misses his hobby, JM cuts. With the looming national cigar ban in Manila, perhaps it's just right to think of nothing but nicotine until doomsday. And when you're in the center aisle in a bus soaring in the highway like the driver's large intestine couldn't hold it one microsecond longer, and you can't smoke, of course the don needs SOME form of release. In this case, a dying marker.

"Guys, it's a kid. A tomboy kid," says Marie. A 10-year old, tomboy, future-mathematician whizkid. Hell bored in the middle of a ridiculously heavy traffic before 9AM. But she could't snooze the wait away because she's too excited as well. Why? Because her favorite aunt is buying her the new Just Kickass It, I Love Pain rubber shoes today...

Ah, sweet! Exactly what she needs right now more than Seventeen, Meg and K-Zone, which her cheap mom keeps getting her. Hello! Duh, mom, duh. What junior needs is the coolest gear, the perfect shoes for the perfect game...

Rock on, dude... err... girl! Rock on! Marie and I were simply ecstatic... Then "Aren't You Supposed To Be Inhaling" RJ rudely interrupted us:

"Dudes, I'm tellin' 'ya, the guy wants to die. And he wants to take us all down with him. Look, he even invited Godzilla! He's crazy!"

That makes two of you, dude. More later.

Okay. I have no idea what this vandalism is supposed to be. I stared at it for about 10 minutes along SLEX but nada: Either it was a boring morning or I was too boring to try and unravel the mystery of... squiggled-in-dying-marker-ink graffiti.

This is yet another reason why some creatures climb slow the evolution ladder. Nobody actually knows how things need to be done, let alone what to do in the first effing place. Now we have a bus seat stained with stupidity running around the highway and everyone who will see it will be annoyed because some lunatic forgot to ruin property the civilized way. Maybe it was a closeted Neanderthal? Then it should have walked from Monumento to Muntinlupa instead, saved bucks for some art class and a brand new marker. Idiot.

So this is what we've come down to: our beloved Manong Driver finally hopping on the txtwagon enroute to entertainment. It's amusing, I'll give him that, but not as much as irritating.

It's annoying enough that u's and me's fans share Mother Earth with us, along with the youjustwaittillifeedyouadirtysock mixers of r and w, and "ko" with q:

My xtra p me. Gve q sau. ("May extra pa me. Give ko sa'yo." a.k.a. "May extra pa ako. I'll give it to you." a.k.a. "Poor beggar.")

Pwo bt aq? ("Pro bkt ako" a.k.a "Pero, bakit ako" a.k.a. "Why the fuck do you keep insisting that syntax")

Argh! It's so consuming. But I can't very well impose on them acceptable, higher-species-friendly grammar, which on the other hand threatens my phone some very sudden death after helplessly hitting a wall. Hard. And me with a heart attack from too much pent-up emotions.

Read aloud: Peeved me. Pak u.

“Why take chances if you see no hope? Why try if there is nothing to win for?”

Asks a txt message forwarded by a friend in faith.

“Sometimes, it pays to wait.” It went on…

Unfortunately, while almost everyone in the “Txting Capital of the World” has a keypad-worn-out cell phone, only some of them understand non-Pilipino figurative speech. Hence, in some weird connection, nobody waits anymore. Especially in PUJs.

Why in Madonna’s tits can’t some people wait in public vehicles? I know “Hudas Not Pay,” but come on, peeps, a little courtesy—or common sense, if you may—helps. Here are a few tips:

If your (only) seatmate has just got on the effing jeep, for blasted sakes at least let her blink first BEFORE demanding, "Bayad... Makikiabot nga." For one thing, we need to verify that it’s a human and not a be-legged fish roamind SLEX. So don’t go commoving the poor thing to get your measly fare across.

And when your money finally reaches the driver but it needs change, have the decency to wait for it. The guy’s not an ATM, you know. You can only be annoyingly persistent when (a) you’re 5 seconds away from your destination, (b) you’re 5 seconds away from your destination and you gave a 100- or 500-peso bill or (c) you’re 5 seconds away from your destination, you gave a 100- or 500-peso bill and the driver is 62 years old and two 20something ladies-in-short shorts are sitting beside him.

When getting off the ride, and it’s NOT National 100% Off On Tag Heuer Day, quit rushing. You’re in Manila and we don’t have a Disneyland here.

When your seatmate’s seatmate is dropping off, wait until there’s enough room for you to wiggle or grind your butt to the seat. Everyone deserves a comfy ride, yes, but wait at least a few more seconds to let some air soothe your genitals.

People, be civilized. It’s the least we can do to let barbarism stay in 13,000 BC.