I generally avoid soiling my blog with Philippine politics but this is simply outrageous. Browsing through the Inquirer website, I came across this article about Presidential hopeful Joseph Estrada (oh yes…that same one who insulted our collective intelligence. The one we rallied in the streets to oust not too long ago. Why he is even allowed out to wreak havoc, don’t ask).
This blew my top off. Here are his words of wisdom, my friends. And if after mulling it over, you still haven’t figured out why we are where we are, then you need to bang your head against the wall. Seriously.
MANILA, Philippines—Of five presidential aspirants who spoke Tuesday on how they intended to address poverty, only Joseph Estrada said “jueteng” should be legalized.
The ousted President said millions of families were benefiting from the illegal numbers game and that he favored legalizing it “until the time we find alternative jobs for our people.”
“I am not tolerating it but I am for the legalization of jueteng,” said Estrada, who was convicted of plunder in 2007 for accepting jueteng kickbacks but was quickly pardoned by President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo.
Surely you jest, sir!
I’m confused. You see, within the realm of reason when you say you do NOT tolerate something it usually means you will take drastic measures to curtail it. NOT LEGALIZE IT! And since when did jueteng become the only viable source of income? Is that the big solution? Let the country run amok because you can’t think of anything else to alleviate poverty?
How convenient is that by the way? Seeing as he did go to jail for that same thing and all. Something’s askew, don’t you think?
Speaking of ousted presidents, at least Marcos had the decency to have a brain. He stole our money and plunged the country into debt but he didn’t add insult to injury by being completely tactless.
This here is a snapshot of my favorite joint in town called Burby’s.
If you don’t already know where that is, I won’t tell you. You might flock there en masse and we’ll never get a good table. And that’s primarily why I love it so much. They’re never really full even on Saturday nights. It’s not too high class, unlike some places where people show up to gawk and be gawked at. You can wear a t-shirt you’ve owned since high school and not feel alienated. So it’s like drinking in your own living room but at the same time you’re still out.
Not only do they have the best chicken fingers, they also serve a dark lager called Black and Tan that comes in a TALL (and I mean tall) glass. That kids, along with a side of blue flaming Devil’s Advocate will get the job done faster than you can read that sign hoisted above your head.
Oh yes! The sign. And I’m not talking about that Ace of Base song we all danced to at one point. I consider it a perk: a bar with an odd (and most likely inadvertent) sense of humor. If the conversation goes wry, it’s there to crack me up. And when I’m too intoxicated to catch the irony, I just look up at their wrought iron chandelier and stare. The only letdown is that they’re closed on Sundays. My theory is that that’s when they turn the place into a chapel and celebrate mass.
I mean how else would you explain “God is good” in the watering hole?
Considering my luck reeks unmistakably of a two-week-old sandwich, I am elated. I have never been handed a prize just for typing someone’s name before. Anyhow, I finally got around to claiming these here Ayala Museum complimentary tickets yesterday. I won them at Jessica Zafra’s blog.
There was a sheet of paper at the Information Counter where she listed the winners’ names in her precision handwriting. I signed right next to mine. That I think was part of the prize.
The cosmos relented. I can no longer claim that I have never won a raffle in my life. Time to think up a new drinking session anecdote.
The story behind the longest running in-joke is this:
One Saturday night about a year ago, we were sitting in a van on the NAIA parking lot. My best friend was to pick up a client who had just flown in from the US and I for the lack of better things to do that weekend decided to tag along.
So the client arrives, a rather portly African-American lady who we were forewarned had a reputation of being a no-nonsense sort of person. Taking care not offend her sensibilities, I sat quietly in the back seat with my other friend.
On the drive to the hotel, my best friend being the perfect hostess makes small talk. Asks her how her flight was, tells her about Manila and all that good stuff. About half an hour later, the lady turns to the back seat and asks, “Are these your daughters?”
I held myself back mid-snort.
Mind you my best friend and I were literally born hours apart from each other. It must have been really dark inside that van. It’s either that or…
It didn’t help that our entire circle of friends already referred to her as Mama Bear. It also didn’t help that I told everyone that story. Now even her older sister jokingly refers to her (rather explicitly and in public) as Mama, much to her chagrin.
In order to make up for unapologetically stoking the flames, I made this little video. I discovered this song while going through my obsessive Cass Elliot hunt. I thought it only befits this whole snafu of being mistaken for everyone’s mother.
**Just as a footnote, the great Mama Cass also sang a song called Jane The Insane Dog Lady which I thought was hilarious.
