I recently woke up to some nameless congresswoman screaming and flailing her arms.  Certainly not the best sight to wake up to, especially when you have nothing but contempt and disgust for the people who populate the country’s legislative department.

But it’s not often that you find our congressmen and women all worked up over their legislative duties.  Most of the time, Batasan looks no different from kindergarten nap time.  Sucks doesn’t it?  It sucks even harder when you realize that they’ve got our country’s future by the balls.

Anyway.

Yes, that nameless congresswoman did seem overly excited for a … well … congresswoman.  She was screaming so loudly I thought her jugular would pop out and make a run for the hills.  If I were king of the congressmen I would’ve had her bodily carried out by security.  And bopped on the head every few seconds for good measure.

Can’t let these threats to national security have it too easy now, right?

Right?

catholic contraceptive plan: stop fucking

But that’s not the point.  I’ve been rambling for far too long I almost forgot what I was supposed to rant about.  Ah yes, the Reproductive Bill.  It’s precisely the bill that got the congresswoman all fired up and mowing through everything like some raging bull.  I like to think she’s a bull, given her bulk.

I still can’t figure out why something as obvious and common sense as approving the Reproductive Bill has to be such a drama moment for our legislators.  Again, darlings, let’s go over the basics of economics.  Resources are finite.  The population is growing by leaps and bounds.  Soon we will have too much people, fighting over a limited amount of resources.

Tell me that isn’t a sign of the apocalyptic future, Sarah Connor.

But then the Church is adamant that NO, we can’t have the Reproductive Bill approved.  The hell it shouldn’t.  When Jesus said go forth and multiply, He really should’ve qualified his statement.  Now we’re growing exponentially and there’s not enough resources to go around.  What now, Jesus?

I haven’t seen any member of the Catholic Church produce gazillions of bread and fish, so I guess that miracle’s out of the question.

The use of contraceptives isn’t abortion, unless you think preventing a sperm cell from impregnating an egg cell is tantamount to baby murder.  Do sperm cells look like babies to you?  Except for resembling a tadpole (which is a baby frog, to those who forgot their biology), I don’t think so.  And I don’t think the Church cares about the life and death of tadpoles, either.  Heartless sons of bitches.

So what now?  Almost all of our congress people are completely chicken when it comes to the Church.  Excommunication isn’t the big deal these days, it’s not getting enough votes.

But let’s see now.  With nothing but abstinence to fall back on (and we all know how successful that can be), our beloved people have gone on to produce baby after baby after baby.  It wouldn’t be such a big deal if they could independently feed their thirteen children.  The thing is they can’t.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where your taxes go.

You think the Catholic Church springs for these kids’ matriculation?  Nuh-uh.  Only dolts like us get to act like good Christians and pay for these children with our taxes.

It really won’t take a genius to figure out that we might as well flush the Reproductive Bill down the drain now.  It will never come to fruition, as long as devout zombies Christians willingly go along with the Church’s hare-brained schemes.

We might as well give up now and accept the reality that this country will soon be run by babies.  Yes, babies.  Sounds like a good formula for an Eddie Murphy movie, except it’s our GDP and pretty much everything we have at stake.

If you’ve been thinking of setting up a separate Philippines in Mars, you know, now might be a great time.

In a nutshell: I just got home, Ely had a heart attack, it was the most spectacular show I have ever seen in my entire life.

I can’t really say much right now.

At first I was pissed when I saw that even in the patron section I would not have an opportunity to touch Ely’s feet.  The crowd was pushing, I stood next to an asshole who had no idea who Marcus was and it was just … smelly.  All over the place.

But when the show started, everything was just worth it.  I screamed myself hoarse, sang along with every song and laughed at Ely’s sparse banter.

I sort of almost fainted, too, thanks to the heat and hunger.

The pain, however, was nothing compared to the shock I felt when I heard that Ely had been rushed to the hospital because of a heart attack.

I do hope Ely gets better soon, and that the band gets to perform together again.  I’ve never seen anything like it, and I doubt I will ever again.

Pinoy rock at its finest.  “Blew my mind” would be an understatement.

Get better, Ely.  I seriously love you. <3

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On a much more annoying note, I realized that a lot of those who came to the concert were not fans.  I’m not being sanctimonious and judgmental here.  I actually have proof, man.  Here’s a sample of some conversations I overheard:

Asshole 1: Uy si Marcus

Asshole 2: Sinong Marcus?

(Asshole 2 had no clue the entire time.  He didn’t know any of the songs and he kept screaming Super Proxy.  Plus he called Jay of Kamikazee a one-hit wonder.  Weird.)

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

Girl 1: Sino yung long hair?

Girl 2: Si Marcus ata.

Girl 1: Si Marcus ba yon?  Bakit parang pumangit?

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

Lastly, after the announcement that Ely had been rushed to the hospital and the concert was being cut short:

Some guy: Hahaha, bukas patay na si Ely.

Some girl: Aaay, ang mahal pa ng pamasahe ko para pumunta dito.

Some other girl: Wala nang refund?

Real fans would’ve doubled over in tears, like we did.

Women, please.

We’ve been through this discussion several times before. You want equality and fairness, right? So why do you still expect men to give you special treatment just because you have two X chromosomes?

Seriously, women have been working to achieve equality with men for years. That’s exactly the reason why I can’t understand how women can ask for equality and still bitch when men forget to open doors for them. No, dear, you can’t ask for equal status then turn around and demand to be treated like a queen. If we say we can do anything men can do, I suppose you don’t need a man to walk on the “dangerous” side of the road for you.

If you can’t even handle crossing the street, then I suggest you stay away from any issues demanding social equality.

Just tonight I realized how society can be quite unfair … to men. I know, I know. It’s always the girls who get the raw end of the deal, and I do agree that a lot of misogynists still exist in this world. Still, I don’t think people realize how women can be catty, illogical and manipulative bitches.

Yes, bitches.

How do I know? I finished high school.

Anyway, back to my story. Yes. Tonight while waiting in line at the MRT station, a bunch of 50-ish women tried to bully their way in. We’ve been standing in line for more than thirty minutes and the gate was finally visible. Now these women have the gall to step in and just act like divas?

Oh hell no.

One guy, though, had the courage to do something most men would rather not do in public: quarrel with a woman. Especially a fifty-ish woman.

But of course he had the right to do so. The woman was in the wrong, obviously, and yet she acted like it was her divine right and people should simply give way. A shouting match ensued, with the woman throwing such memorable lines as:

“hindi ka na nahiya, kalalake mong tao”

“parang nanay mo na ako ah”

“matuto kang rumespeto sa nakakatanda”

I suppose I do not have to tell you that none of these arguments will fly in a court of law, much less a battle of logic. Non-sequitur, all of them. The guy stood his ground and refused to let the women jump queue. Now here’s the thing that really got me: other people did.

I actually took off my earphones to hear everything clearer. People were actually accosting the guy, questioning his sexual preferences just because he had the gall to enter into a shouting match with a woman.

Gender is so not the issue here, kids. It’s about whose right and whose wrong. Unfortunately, people kept harping on the fact that men should never take on women in a quarrel, and only gay dudes would do so. Now I don’t know what gay dudes have to do with this, but if a woman is wrong, by all means, whoop her ass (in the same way that errant men get to have their asses kicked).

Here’s the logic of things for all you ladies out there. When you say men should not quarrel with you because you’re female, you’re acknowledging that women are weak and will not be able to hold their own in a standoff. As such, you’re actually weakening the argument that men and women are equal.

Equality means you don’t get to have guys give up their seats for you anymore.  It means you can’t expect them to carry your heavy luggage.  If they want to, sure, thank them.  It’s kindness on their part, as equality doesn’t really require them to treat women like precious china anymore.

There’s love and respect for all human beings, but don’t think you can get away with things just because you’re a woman.  That’s equality.

Capische?

Poor guy. He did get a few shots in, though. When the woman screamed that he had no respect for her (given her age and gender), he shot back angrily, “oo, ang tanda-tanda mo na nga eh,ganyan ka pa. Matuto ka munang rumespeto”.

Nice.

As a child I always wondered how the Care Bears could stare with their bulging bellies. You know, they scream “Care Bear Stare” and shoot colorful … err … stuff out of their tummies collectively. So maybe all the staring makes No Heart uncomfortable. It would make me uncomfortable, too, if hundreds of plush toys aimed their bellies at me and cried “Care Bear Stare” in unison.

Anyway, this post really has nothing to do with Care Bears.

Yesterday morning, an uncouth woman pushed me out of the bag inspection line at the MRT station. I was shocked, of course, since she actually had the gall to give me the evil eye when I tried to push back. It goes without saying that I got pissed.

Royally.

So what do I do? At first I seethe, because I lose sight of the barbarian on my way up to the platform. No sense dwelling on it, I think to myself, because I won’t be able to find her and extract revenge anyway.

But God loves me.

I got a seat inside the train and the brute was seated right across me. To channel Sheldon of the Big Bang Theory, this would be one of those circumstances that people unfamiliar with the law of large numbers would call a coincidence.

So then, lock in and engage in battle mode. It’s time for Psycho Stare™.

A little background. Psycho Stare™ was invented by my sister back in the 90s to combat leery men, tactless women and just stupid people in general. You don’t actually look the person in the eye, lest your target turn out to be some sort of hypnotist and the entire plan backfires on you. Instead, you find a spot on that person’s face and stare at it. I mean seriously, stare at it. Don’t ever take your eyes off the target area.

Now that person is bound to realize that someone is staring. When they find you staring (they think you’re actually looking them straight in the face because of the angles), they’ll start shifting uncomfortably and fidget like a trapped animal. Oh, the joy it brings never ends.

So I sat there and promptly launched the family’s patented Psycho Stare™. I chose her jaw and stared at it for five minutes. Soon enough, she realized that I’d been staring at her the whole time. She turned to the other side of the train, hoping to avoid my gaze. I caught her sneaking glances at me a few times to see whether or not I was still staring. Of course I was.

She started fidgeting and I stifled a laugh. I’m the psycho bitch around here, lady.

It helps when you intensify your stare in such a way that’ll make them even more uncomfortable. You want to squint your eyes a bit, as if you’re thinking of something. Act like you’re looking for the image of Mother Teresa in her constellation of pimples or something. That’ll drive your target absolutely nuts.

The poor woman never even knew what hit her. She was fidgeting in her seat and shifting her eyes this way and that for the entire duration of the trip.

Needless to say, yesterday morning’s ride was the best I ever had.

If there’s one thing I abhor about sociologists (there are tons of things I hate about them, but I suppose this one takes the cake), it’s that they’ve assumed the role of apologist for the poor people of this world.

There is always an excuse for crime, for drug addiction, for unemployment, and it’s never poor people’s fault. They’re sort of just driven into things all the time, without any sort of control over their lives. They have no chance at education, are forced to partake of scraps, beg for a few coins or grow up into a life of crime. They need not take responsibility for their actions, because they’re poor.

The victim mentality, in particular, is prevalent. We are poor, ergo we cannot achieve anything. We are cursed to live this hand-to-mouth existence for life. We are victims of an unjust society that forces us into the pits of poverty.

Boohoo.

I suppose I need not tell you how a lot of the people who, at the very least, enjoy financially-stable lives started out with nothing. It is not education per se that makes a man successful. My father, for one, was born in a god-forsaken village and conscripted to work in the ill-conceived iron furnaces of the Great Leap Forward. No one had anything, especially not money. He never even finished high school. Instead he left his homeland, found a job, had three kids and pretty much sold his soul to a factory just to get us through college. [Note: just in case you were wondering, no we are still not rich. Otherwise I wouldn't have to work my butt cheeks off every single day.]

Unfortunately, televised interviews with people living in the slums remind us that they embrace this concept of victimization fully. They are, after all, doomed to exist in such a dire state for life. There is no need to excel, to exert any effort, because like Sisyphus they will be thwarted.

And what is this obsession with tackiness and uncouthness?

Perhaps we can blame it on all those Robin Padilla movies. They solidified the image of the brash and uncultured goon, tough but with a heart of gold. Poverty has rendered him quite the boor: uncivilized and barbaric but still an icon. Such romanticism has made the poor people of this country unwilling to go beyond the stereotype. I am poor, ergo I must have no manners. I speak like a fishwife (unless, of course, you really are a fishwife), I lack decency and discipline. However, I am a good person deep inside.

[Digression: this "deep inside" thing riles me. If you're not good "outside" then there's probably not so much difference "deep inside".]

I remember Wendy Valdez, that Big Brother contestant who chalked up her indecency and uncouth attitude to poverty. She was poor, she said, and so she had no manners and acted like a general bitch. She was, after all, just being “totoo”, or true to herself. An irate viewer sent in a message to one of the radio stations. Could Wendy please stop using poverty as an excuse, the viewer said. We are poor, but we are not cheap.

Which brings us back to the essence of this long-winded rant.

Everyday, we hear these people say, we are poor, we have nothing. We deserve the government’s support. Feed us. Clothe us. Give us jobs.

In the mean time, they push out gazillions of children they cannot afford to feed, or clothe, or educate. They sic these children on the world at large, leaving the rest of the Philippines to deal with them. The Catholic Church ignores the burgeoning population, encouraging people to go forth and multiply.

Resources are finite, in case you’ve forgotten your basic economics.

With this much people to feed, we can all drive ourselves to death with work and still our taxes will never be enough to support all those pro-poor programs. Taxes should, technically speaking, be used to fund the country’s development projects. Schools, science and technology projects, investments, etc. Our money should go into improving the country as a whole.

In reality, though, all this money from our income taxes and eVat go directly to projects for the poor. Livelihood programs, free clinics, housing — there’s nothing wrong with these projects per se. It’s the fact that they’re devoted solely to a sector of society that makes it completely nuts.

Now those working for minimum wage will be exempted from paying their income tax. The burden of feeding the majority of this country now falls to us — stupid middle class workers who are not poor enough to merit compassion, and yet not rich enough to just leave this country to the dogs. We get our paychecks and find a huge chunk gone, thanks to all the poor people we have to feed.

We have no excuse.

We are not poor enough to be uncouth. We must be humble, lest the poor find us insulting and murder us all. This murderous rampage will be excused, of course, as the inevitable result of the widening social gap. If the hatred boils over and the poor decide to kill us all, it’ll be our fault, because we are selfish elitists who never cared about their existence.

And yet how much of it is really their fault?

These families rely on one bread-winner, when there are obviously four other individuals capable of working, too. They refuse work. Please do not assume that there is no work available in this country. An eighty year old man (true story) scours the streets of Makati and Ortigas for bit jobs just to take care of his family, when his own twenty year old daughter is perfectly capable of finding a stable job. It’s just that these people find it too daunting to work for such meager pay that they’d rather stay home and wait for government assistance.

This country looks down on labor. Tell someone to find a job as a factory worker, and he’ll scoff at you. It’s demeaning. It’s insulting. They’d rather not work than do something so undignified.

But there is dignity in labor. You work, you earn, you feed your family.

Unfortunately, in this country, no one wants to be a “laborer”. If I can’t be in a cushy office working as a professional, then I’d rather not work at all.

You see how those reality shows cash in on poverty. I had champorado for Noche Buena, bawl. I should win this contest even if I have no brains because I’m the poorest contestant of all. I don’t have to lift a finger, I just have to dish out the most sordid details of my poor life.

Stop making excuses. Poverty does not give you the right to sit around on your ass all day. I admire the people who, though they come from the worst of circumstances, manage to find opportunities to improve their lot in life. These people, no matter how difficult their lives had been, manage to rise above it through sheer determination and hard work. Not all poor people remain poor all their lives. Some realize that they are not chained to poverty, and that determination (and a bit of family planning) can get them far from the slums they live in.

There are poor people who realize that they can rise above it, if they do something about it. It’s not just relying on the government. You have to get up and do something. Lying around shirtless all day will not help your family. You have to act. Stop this victim mentality and start thinking of yourself as someone with potential, not someone doomed. It’s not impossible.

The communists are wrong. Egalitarianism will not work. All it will do is reduce us all to rubble.

Now, the thing with the middle class is that we’re too sedate. We work like dogs, we live far from luxurious lives, and yet we’re made to feel as if we have the obligation to take care of all these poor people. As good Christians, we should be compassionate. It’s like you should be guilty because you can afford to eat at McDonald’s and they can’t.

But it takes two to tango. You can use a forklift to pull them out, but if they themselves won’t budge, it’s a futile exercise.

I have no pity for people who sit around all day pitying themselves. If that makes me a bad Christian, then, well, yay.

Whoever coined the term “fairer sex” to describe women has obviously never been to the ladies’ room.

There’s nothing “pretty” or “gentle” or “ladylike” at all when it comes to the restroom designated for female use, so you might as well drop that notion. By now, feminists have disabused us of the thought that women are the “weaker sex”. We are not weak, as you can see from MadTV’s “Lesbionic Woman” parody.

At least not all of us are.

Now I’m here to shatter yet another myth about women. Forget sugar and spice and everything nice. Women are not made of that. Women are not even spicy in a sexy way. Forget all those preconceived notions that seem to make women the sexy creatures you envision them to be.

Here’s a little secret boys: women can be slobs just like you. Even worse than you, probably.

I know, I know, when you walk past the men’s room the odor wafts out and suffocates anyone within a twenty mile radius. But men embrace that sort of disgusting characteristic with gusto. They love the “machismo” that their sweaty, smelly selves emit. It’s some sort of gross badge of manhood.

But girls? Noooo.

Girls have to smell nice all the time, with clean, manicured fingernails and perfect hair. Girls are perpetually immaculate. Poise is paramount.

But if you’ve been to the ladies’ room, well, man — it’s a whole other ballgame.

I’ve never seen as much filth in my entire life, and I live in a place where garbage collectors come around practically once every three months. The office restroom is one very good example. I can’t go into detail here for fear of spoiling your appetite, but suffice it to say that every visit to the restroom renders me practically breathless.

Or maybe I choose not to breath, but that’s pretty much the same, isn’t it?

Women, women, women — supposedly the cleaner and more responsible of the two sexes. Last time I checked, not flushing after you do your deed is not responsible. Here’s a thought:

What.the.fuck.happened.to.all.your.hygiene.lessons?

I’m sorely tempted to stand guard outside the restroom and beat up anyone who lacks restroom etiquette. My friend Mei is suggesting holding staff meetings and short courses to lessen restroom abuse.

I sort of think brutal torture and heads on pikes could get the message across a lot faster.

I love Blair Waldorf.

That’s not just a fact; I’m making a declaration. This is my heartfelt commitment to the adorable Miss Waldorf.

Given an opportunity, I would, of course, gladly trade places with her. I want her pretty, bouncy hair; her wardrobe; her phone; and, well, her money, of course.

That said, there’s a pretty huge difference between “wanting to look like her” and “actually doing something to look like her”. It’s a big gap; be careful not to fall into chasm people.

At first I thought Blair’s headband was pretty cute. I told my sister I would buy one just because. Ever the fashion expert, my sister agilely rolled her eyes to somewhere in the back of her head, smirked and pretty much told me to forget it. Look around, she said, and you’ll realize why you really shouldn’t buy those headbands.

And so look I did.

I found soon enough (after acting like Jane Goodall in a city of apes) that the new sartorial head gear of choice was none other than the ubiquitous “Blairband”. Please do not shoot me; I had nothing to do with that lame-ass semi-brain-dead moniker. Anyway, as you may have figured out by now, a “Blairband” is a cross between “Blair” and “headband”. No, it is not half-human. Yes, it is a headband that resembles the ones Blair wears in most of Gossip Girl.

It wouldn’t be as bad if people used these headbands as they normally would (i.e. push all the hair back and away from the face). Unfortunately, these people wear the “Blairbands” in a way that imitates Blair to a perfect B. With Blair, though, pretty tendrils fall gracefully and complement the poor little rich girl’s attractive face.

On the people I see around me, not so much.

What I’m about to say is nasty, as always, but quite honest.

People, why on God’s green earth would you ever assume that just because something looks good on an actor, it’ll look just as good on you? Actors have make-up artists and designers at their beck and call. No frame will be shot until the actor looks perfect. Perfect.

You, sitting on that jeepney with the wind breaking up your face — you don’t have a make-up artist. There’s no hairstylist to brush away those tendrils from your face and keep them in place. You can buy “Blairbands” and use them daily, but you’ll never look like Blair. Read my lips, baby:

Dream on.

The same goes for people who wear trench coats in this country.

This is a tropical country. You can pray for global warming to turn this country into a snow-covered arctic zone, but until then you have no business wearing Neo (or Trinity) clothes.

And yes, your futile attempts at looking like Wu Chun or some Korean guy-du-jour is pathetic. Scarves are not for men, no matter what those skinny Taiwanese/Korean/Japanese people say. You don’t look hot. You look gay.

And oh, you might want to lose the F4 hairdo, too.

That’s just so five years ago.

Loser.