Smokes and mirrors

I believe in giving everybody the benefit of a doubt but this is just silly.

Yesterday, a Richard (or Robert, I forgot) supposedly representing Hong Kong-Shanghai Banking Corp. called me up at my house and asked me if he could have 2-3 minutes of my time to offer me “a very good opportunity.”

I was about to leave for work but what the hell.

So he started his spiel about a debt coverage which works like an insurance at a minimum cost. I know where this is all going so I asked him immediately how much it would cost me.

“It’s free,” he said.

“Really, what’s the catch?”

Turned out that he wasn’t finished, the catch is it’s free if you have no outstanding balance. And if you do, you have to pay .45 cents for every 100 of our balance. “So, if you have P10,000 in your balance, you pay about P45.

So what can I get out of it?

Simple. If in the event of death of accident, they cover your debt from their own company and whatever is left is yours or your family to keep. The terms are 50 percent in cases of dismemberment and full coverage when you get snuffed. Okay, let’s see… I’m not really much of a heavy debtor and in my monthly credit card bill, you rarely see more than P3,000 in owed tab.  

I look at my statement of account and I only owe HSBC a little more than P2,000. Say, I accidentally cut off my fingers what’s 50 percent of P2,000? Wow. That really helps. I could purchase a box of Alaxan from that. If an HSBC representative drops in the hospital to hand me the P1,000 check, I’d flick him the finger even if it was just a stump of what remained of my middle finger.

It will encourage me to maintain a balance just so I could get a paltry amount in coverage. The bigger the balance the better, right? Wrong! They didn’t say nuthin’ about interest you accrue while you have outstanding accounts to settle. I’m not good at math but I do know that lifeblood of banks offering credit card service is the interest and at 1-3 percent monthly interest, that piles up over time.   

I’m not an expert of the law or anything but I do know that you couldn’t go to prison on account of debt. Look it up, it’s there in the Constitution. So why would I be interested in a program that covers my debt in the event of death? Being six feet underground gives you that perspective and the freedom to not care.

You have to give them props for this. It’s brilliant when you think about it. It's a classic case of smokes and mirrors where they slap on layers and layers of rewards to lure the potential customer to buy into the product which, in fact,  will benefit the company itself. Simply put, the company insures your debt, which becomes its liability when you die or if you decide to forfeit anyway, using the customer's money while discouraging the customer to settle his/her account in full thereby earning interest in the process.

From somewhere I heard him ask: “So, what can you say about our program?”

“I don’t like it,” said moi. And your three minutes is up.

Pity the fool who gets taken in on this crap.

The mosquito and the scheme of things

I woke up in the dark from the incessant buzzing
Of the mosquito hovering above me,
And immediately felt a sharp pang on my left arm
Undoubtedly from her bite.
As I scratched it, I looked down irritably
Towards the mosquito coil that was glaring red and
consuming itself up a moment ago,
And all I could see is the dark floor.

Ah!….right.

The mosquito continued buzzing,
Stupidly reminding me of the roar of planes
From some World War II black-and-white movie.
Then the buzzing suddenly stopped.
I felt pain on the same spot where I just scratched,
I made sure she had her fill then slapped my
Left arm a little harder than I would like,
And pray that she’s dead.
I waited for any sign that would tell me
If I didn’t pray enough,
And just when I almost drifted back to sleep,
Just when I couldn’t hold my eyes open anymore,
She started to sing again.
I can almost hear her laughing at me
As my arm had stung again to remind
Me of my futility.
I was thinking of turning the lights on
And lighting the mosquito coil but then I
Have to stand up, put my slippers on,
Find the match…

(not to mention walking across the room
Opposite my bed to where the light switch is).

So I just groped for my blankets and
Pulled it up over my head,
Totally covering myself.
Hah! There’s no way the vampire
Can suck my blood now!

Now I can rest…
If only I can do something about this heat!
Beads of sweat has started on my forehead,
My armpits are getting sticky,
And I’m starting to get really uncomfortable…
I’m sure there’s an apt metaphor to lend
Support to some philosophy or belief
About this situation,
But it escapes me at the moment,
Besides, I blanked out after that,
From too much thinking I guess….

And now a word from our sponsors

Again, I'm changing my template. I'd like to credit Jap for the header. I love it coz it reminds me of those French noveau films, Jay knows about this genre more than I do, that's why I also changed the color of my template to gray in keeping with the theme.   I can almost hear blues music in my head while looking at the header. It features a young Neruda, too,  who was quite a rake even in his waning days despite his reputation as a husband devoted to his wife.  

I couldn't find a background related to the header so I used this theme with cigarette butts instead. 

Thanks Jap man! I don't know much about photoshop since I'm a dinosaur when it comes to technology so keep the headers coming and I'll continue using them. Heheh

Okay, this is only a 15 second advertisement so Peace out! 

M2M

Now, this would be a good segue into my next topic. No, this is not about the girlie pop band headlined by Raven and whats-her-name though this is equally nasty.  

My introduction into the dark arts started innocently enough.  I have this friend who has an extensive collection of porno movies, magazines, jokes, playing cards and even toys.  This was the time when the Internet wasn't so affordable to bums like me so you could just imagine me and a couple of other boys frequenting his place. And it was quite a sacrifice on my part, too, because I don't particularly like him. hehe

Anyway, one day he handed me a nondescript cd, with the title scrapped by a coin or something sharp, I guess. He told me to check it out. That it's going to be the best porno movie I would see in my whole life. That statement right there should have warned me about the sausage-jousting I was about to witness. But how could I have guessed? When it comes to porno, he was the connoisseur and with all the Kung Fu movies I watched, nobody questions the teaching techniques of the ancient white-bearded master.  That earns you a lot of bitch-slappin' and a sermon — in subtitles no less. 

So I set out straight home and popped in the cd to the player. The movie skipped the opening credits and went straight for the jugular: two males in underwear eating apples in the sofa. I beamed. Ooohh… this is going to be a sandwich action (for the uninitiated, sandwich could mean two girls and a boy or two boys and a girl). All the elements of a porno movie are there: bad lighting, cheesy soundtrack, an exaggerated moans.  I remembered wondering aloud why the preoccupation with apples 'coz the male actors were moaning while eating up that apple like it was the first meal they've had after weeks of being stranded at sea. Well, the first actor certainly looked the part since he was emaciated judging from the ribs poking out from his sides. 

Then the other, plumpier actor did a most curious thing. He poured apple sauce to the nipple of his famished partner. Okay,  I thought, anytime now the woman will enter the picture. Probably dressed as a French maid admonishing the two men for "being naughty" and threatening to spank them. Meanwhile, the actor was rubbing that apple sauce from the thin actor's nipple and throughout his whole body. His neck, torso, arms. The apple sauce dripping towards his underwear to his erect phallus. 

I looked towards the door behind the two actors. Okay girl. You've had your fun by keeping me waiting. You can come in anytime now. From the corner of my eye, I saw the hairy sonafabitch licked the apple sauce!

WTF! They're not waiting for the girl? 

It dawned on me while the famished actor was moaning in pleasure that I've been suckered.  This is M2M or male to male action. That bastard! No wonder I didn't particularly like him. What did I do? Well, I was already there and the two actors seemed to like licking each other very much and it would be rude to stop them, and I was mildly curious. So…  

The first ten minutes was hell. I tried to be clinical about the whole thing but it's like watching a snuff film where somebody is getting whacked in video. You know the feeling that you couldn't bear to watch but your curiosity gets the better of you and you couldn't do anything else but watch? I never saw too much licking in my life. My dog didn't lick that much and he was a slobber. Then when one of the actors took into his mouth the angry phallus of his partner, my head blew and I nearly threw a shoe at the television set. 

Man! that was intense. (I wonder why I didn't turn the player off right there?)

The next 10 minutes was pure agony but for an entirely different reason. You see, as my mind protested, my pupils started to dilate; goosebumps crawled from my spine up my neck; my breathing expanded and shortened to regular breaks.

And Jimminy Cricket swelled.  

I watched entranced at the two men, fully naked on the sofa, in a missionary position and necking. My boxer shorts now a bundle of activity, like a caged animal thrashing and flaying to get out. A glint of sweat dripped from my hair to my temple even as the electric fan idly hummed behind me.  

My right hand traced my chest down to my stomach, passing over my navel.  The animal inside my underwear stopped thrashing for it knew it soon would be released. I arched my back as my hand continued its descent, down, down towards my boxer shorts. The air stilled.  

And before I trounced upon the whole macho family legacy I hold dear. I heard a click. It was my left hand flicking the off button in the TV remote.  I immediately got up and took a shower. 

Whew! 

I know exactly how you feel.

Relieved as hell.  

Hotlegs

It was all over the radio and newspapers. Davao City Mayor Rodrigo Duterte ordered the closure of the girlie bar Hotlegs and softened his stance a few days later after the manager and its owner promised to disallow the entry of minors in the joint and of course, abide by the 2:00 deadline on alcohols.

I wouldn’t even presume to comment about his cartwheel judgment. Though this bit of news made me recollect my early forays into these nude/semi-nude girlie bars. I think only the most hard-core pervert would find looking at naked or semi-naked girls dancing on stage erotic.

Let me walk you through what goes on inside.

We entered this darkened room with monobloc chairs and tables, draped in red cloth for a touch of elegance. I guess the red cloth was in keeping harmony with the red curtains surrounding the bar. Scanning the room, I could see people nursing their drinks (it’s P40-P60 per bottle of beer, after all) with the girls in various states of undress “entertaining” the customers.  

This gaudy theme is pretty much a portent of things to come.

As Bon Jovi’s Bed of Roses was played on the background, I saw a solitary girl, in sequins no less, dancing on a platform with a shower head protruding from the makeshift cardboard ceiling and a mirror behind her. Her long bright scarlet boots covered her knees while a skimpy skirt concealed her flabby buttocks. The only thing I could see in between the boots and the skirt was a flash of gigantic thighs that have seen better days.

When I say dance, I was being kind. It was more like thumping and thrashing, really. Like a bad cheerleading routine, the girl was doing somersaults, a series of splits, jumps, pirouettes, stunts and clapping her hands enthusiastically. Come to think of it, it’s pretty amazing how she did all those things in semi-nakedness.

As my attention drifted towards my drink I heard a loud noise.

THUD!

My heart skipped a beat and I turned to where the noise was coming from.

Oh, it was just the girl doing a cartwheel.

Excuse me if my balls got snagged in my throat. The darkened room, the gaudy interior, the kitschy soundtrack… sounds familiar? They’re just the ingredients to all slasher and psycho flicks all over the world!

How could I be aroused if any moment I thought Chuckie the doll would come barging from behind the curtains and ram an electric vibrator up my ass?

THUD!

Okay, the girl was doing splits this time. God, let this hell end.

The manager brought two girls with her to sit with us. One was a small, thin (bulimic?) girl with braces, in midriff; and the other was a buxomy girl with curves in all the wrong places. In my drunken state, I thought the thin girl with an innocent face was more tolerable.

Big mistake.

I guess I have to set the table first here. The girls earn more from the ladies drink they order, which the customer pays, than from dancing which is just part of the package deal to entice customers. Star dancers, or those who are willing to go nude all the way, generally earn more. At P100 to P120 per drink, they get 30 to 40 percent depending on the bar. To call a waiter, they just have to clap their hands. It’s non-alcoholic so they could go all night ordering the stuff.

The girl I chose? Man, she sure could clap her hands. That was her single talent I believe since I never saw her dance on stage. By the time the night was over, my pockets are as empty as my gut was later that night when I puked all my entrails into the toilet bowl.

My companion, meanwhile, had the time of his life because the girl that I rejected turned out to be a neophyte who was too shy to clap her hands. The manager had to go to our table a few times and ordered for her. So instead of paying for the ladies drink, he was busy enough necking with her.

Oh, she was good. But I was better. I knew that the only way to prevent her trigger-happy hands from clapping and calling the attention of the waiter, I had to:

1. Chop off her hands

2. Whack her with a beer bottle on the head

3. Make her my girlfriend

I opted for the third and less extreme option instead. Sure it took me a few more visits but she became my girlfriend in the end. No more numerous claps. No more empty pockets. 

I got a freebie.

The thin red line

Ever wonder how thin a line is that separates frustrate and infuriate?

If you study the etymology of both words, there’s not much correlation other than the end result. The word frustrate was conceived in 1447 from the Latin word frustatus that means to “deceive or disappoint.” Infuriate, meanwhile, was coined 200 years later from the Latin word infuriate or “to madden.”

Sure there’s no connection but when you examine the root word of frustrate which is fraus, you get the literal translation “injury or harm.” Isn’t that the consequence of rage? Sooner or later, you put yourself or others in harm’s way.

And you know what’s interesting? When you detach and spell out the missing letters that separate the two words, we get S-I-N, maybe to explain the jump between plain frustration to infuriation, if we have to be all religious about the whole thing.

What’s my point? Well, I’m now teetering on the edge of a precipice – standing on the thin line between frustration and infuriation; a step away from the tempest ahead while looking back longingly at my own footprints imprinting their mark on my bruised ego.

I look at my footprints and I realize that I know each indentation and ridges all too well. I know that my right foot leaves the bigger dent because of an anomaly in the way I walk. My walk, even to the most observant eye, may appear even but that’s not true. My right heel crooked downwards by force of gravity every time I take a step as my left shoulder and hips rotate while struggling to compensate. The impression my right foot creates – from heel, instep, sole and the hallux — is deeper than my left foot.

You know how models are taught to walk the straight line? That’s how I strive to walk so that the weight of my steps shifts on the outside soles.

I brought up the subject of my walk because when I cross that thin line towards rage, my walk would be insignificant since fury has a way of making me dash like a rabid dog on crack. The rush of adrenaline you get is not unlike the lightheaded feeling of somebody who’s high on drugs.

Under the influence of anger, you don’t walk. You fly.  

Never mind the amount of destruction on fury’s trail as realization sets in after the level of adrenaline subsides. I say, that’s a collateral damage. If the government is allowed to kill civilians in its war against communist insurgency and chalk it up in the name of collateral damage, I don’t see why I can’t leave behind some bleeding hearts and battered self-worth. If you dance with the devil, prepare to get burned. Besides, I miss the rush.

As if you didn’t know, rage is addictive, too.

The gatekeepers

Okay, I’ve held on long enough on this.

The powers-that-be in the church laid down a dress code for those who want to hear mass. Under the dress code, women should not wear short skirts, skimpy shorts, sleeveless blouses, tank tops or spaghetti-strap tops and plunging necklines. Men, on the other hand, should avoid shorts and basketball jerseys (good! I could still wear my tank top, woohooo!).

Instead, women should wear long gowns (?), dresses or collared blouses while men should stick to “long-sleeved polo shirts, collared shirts, or t-shirts paired with either slacks or jeans.”

The dress code was initiated because, apparently, some parishioners were “scandalized.”

Uh, okay.

What about a sleeveless blouse that makes it scandalous? If these perverts find something arousing about a bare arm, then they shouldn’t be going to church, they should be committed to a mental institution.

The mini-skirt?  Who gets off from underwear peek-a-boo aside from the priest? The layout of the church, where every parishioner faces the pulpit would make it near impossible to look around for panties under the mini-skirt, except for the priest who’s got the VIP view that is, and I don’t hear him complaining.

Tank tops, spag straps? Please! How could you strip the girl naked in your mind (we do that, you know) while a giant image of Christ nailed to the cross is bearing down on you? Sure, there are men who possess the cojonés to actually do this inside the church but if you could do that while guilt is pounding a sledge hammer the size of a truck on your conscience, I say good luck!

These hypocrites need only to go outside the church’s door to see a mass of poverty — beggars in frayed clothes, vendors in shorts, teens peddling sampaguitas in sando (tank top if you’re rich). So now we’re going to exclude them from the collective?

What about that old woman selling candles with no bra on? Should we now flag her for immorality?

I have a better idea. Instead of chastising those who violated the dress code, I say throw out those hypocrites who were “scandalized” by the way others dress up. See, if they think the blouse of a parishioner plunges dangerously close to George W. Bush’s IQ level, then they’re not paying attention to the Eucharist in the first place.

While we’re at it, throw away those bishops, or pope or whoever issued the circular, for listening to these hypocrites. I know why they give these hypocrites their most favored ear and it’s not because they think alike. It’s because these hypocrites, garbed in their best Sunday dresses to impress other parishioners, are the church’s biggest contributors. See, they try to buy their way into heaven and the church is all too eager to advertise — in neon no less.

These people are so busy looking around for somebody to put down so they could feel good about themselves that they fail to notice a little detail about the thorn-crowned man suspended on the wall, bloodied arms outstretched, and head bowed in eternal curtsy.

That’s right fuckers, Jesus Christ is naked.