What fun to live in PH
Many kababayan are thinking of leaving our bayang magiliw for America or some nice country in Europe where there are few or zero aggravations. No blackouts, no cabbies-turned-holdup-men, no lazybones interminably holding rallies instead of earning a living, and inconveniencing all who do, no hours-long traffic, no once-insiders-now-outsiders-looking-in hectoring the public aided by aging bishops (aka Pajero church dudes) to pressure termed officials to resign so they can take over.
One of those straining mightily to get out pronto is my friend Max, also a retired PR man. He is all packed and ready to zoom to the land of the free and home of the brave midmonth or thereabouts. I worry about the man, whose fingers go “crrack” when he balls his right hand into a fist. Doesn’t that indicate arthritis?
“Padre, it’s freezing like it’s the dawn of the Ice Age in America now,” I tell him. “Why immigrate there at this time? The weather there may not be hospitable to your cracking fingers.”
“Pooh, I’ll take the cold weather anytime than the hot lead from a .45 fired by some jerk who wants to relieve me of my cell phone and wallet,” grouses Max.
Another friend, Alex, comes to the table where Max and I imbibe our regular dose of caffeine every morning like certified members of the senior citizens coalition. Alex is also a retired PR man who dabbles in stock trading, hoping to parlay his retirement booty into a six- or seven-figure nest egg. But geopolitics is really his forte and love. He claims to have worked up the right strategy on how to contain world terrorism, but he is not inclined to share his brainstorm at our coffee session because, he says, none of us low IQs would understand its intricacies.
“So, Max, you’re quitting the country,” begins Alex. “I feel sorry for you. You will not witness and thrill in the unfolding of a historic event, the dawn of a new day, a new promise of an exciting future for the Philippines.”
“What are you talking about? What new day? What new promise?” Max asks, mouth agape.
“The dawn of the Transformation Era,” says Alex. “The National Transformation Council, or Nuts Pack, as it’s derisively called, has acquired a life of its own. It can no longer be stopped from transforming the country from chaotic hellhole into paradise.”
“Oh, how will the Nuts Pack accomplish that?”
“It has worked out the needed protocol. First, it’ll raise to a significant decibel level the P-Noy Resign clamor. If that level doesn’t work, it’ll raise it some more, and more, until P-Noy’s eardrums are in near-collapse and he decides, ‘What the heck, I quit!’ Then the Nuts Pack takes over.”
“The Nuts Pack? Not the VP?”
“Goodness, no! He will be persuaded to evaporate, too, exiled to retirement in the penthouse of Makati City Hall Building II or the presidential suite in Ospital ng Makati, or in a nice, humongous farm in Batangas. He will raise no ruckus over his new digs. Any of them is certainly a lot more comfy than the PNP Custodial Center at Camp Crame where the Nuts Pack plans to hold him if it gets crazier than it already is.”
“Wow, heavy!” Max exclaims.
“Wait, that’s not all the purging the Nuts Pack will effect. It will also cause the abolition of the House, the Senate, the Supreme Court and other institutions that it fancies would hinder the transformation of the country from one governed by the elite (read: elected by the people) to one governed by it.”
“But who are the geniuses behind this council that wants to turn the country upside down because they think they’ve got the answers to whatever ills are bothering us?” Max asks.
“Well, the Nuts Pack is projecting Cardinal Vidal as its leader—Chief Nut, so to speak—which I vehemently disapprove of. Unfair to drag an aged Prince of the Church into the quagmire of politics. The voluble and go-for-broke council leader, or Wail Nut, is Archbishop Arguelles, and his sacristans or gofers are Do Nut Kit and Do Nut Bert.”
“Kit! Bert!” Max squeals in horror, like he is told that at 74 he’ll again be a father.
“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet,” Alex says, trying hard to speak like his balikbayan grandson, sort of telling Max he’s not the only one who has the American connection. “Guess who’s now yelling ‘Aquino resign, Aquino resign’ at anti-P-Noy rallies. Peping, that’s who. And his wife Tingting.”
“Ninoy and Tita Cory must be turning in their graves. Anyare?” Max says, then prods Alex some more, revealing his Ilocano native curiosity about goings-on in the world of the buffoons and dunderheads: “Any more surprises?”
“Oh yes. After Mamasapano, P-Noy’s popularity has dimmed somewhat. So those who have axes to grind against him have come out of the woodwork in droves. Bishops, pundits, half-pundits, broadcast commentators, Sandigan indictees, street marchers, self-proclaimed analysts, UNA loudmouths—oh, an army of know-it-alls outshouting and outhustling each other for possession of TV microphones to denounce what they term as ‘kapalpakan ni P-Noy’ and to proclaim their brilliant ideas about how to run the country. It’s a riot, a free-for-all!”
“Ang saya! But essentially, what common thing are the Nuts Pack and kindred loose screws pushing?”
“Common thing? That P-Noy resign, quit, depart, blow, and if he refuses to go, mag-people revolt tayo to oust him, according to Peping.”
“Ay, naku, siya na lang. I’m leaving, sobrang fun to live in THIS country!” Max says, emphasizing that he identifies no more with our beloved, beleaguered PH, but with the nicest, serenest keeper of the vastest arsenal of WMDs in the world, good old USA.
Mart del Rosario ([email protected]) is a retired advertising-PR consultant.
