other people’s stories

There was this guy who took a shit buck naked.  Pooped in the nude.  So there he was doing the deed, when he feels something cold grazing one of his butt cheeks.  Cold and slimy.  So he checks, because it was strange (yes, stranger than shitting in the nude).  He peeps through his legs and he sees a bayawak.  A bayawak.  In the toilet bowl.  While he was shitting.  So he panics and jumps up mid - shit.  And because he was stark naked, and he was in the toilet, for Pete’s sake, he had nothing for a weapon save for his maong pants that he hung on the doorknob.  So reaches out for it.  Meanwhile, the bayawak starts crawling out of the inodoro.  The guy flops the toilet lid down and the bayawak is half in and half out of the bowl.  The guy pushes down the lid to keep the bayawak from crawling all the way out.  So he’s got the lid down with his right hand, and he’s got the jeans with his left, and his back to the sink (it’s a small toilet).  How does he get out of this shit (literally)?  He decides to call out for the maid to help him.  But the door’s locked and she won’t hear him call out.  So he lifts his right leg and uses that to keep the bayawak in.  He transfers the jeans to his now - free right hand and reaches for the doorknob with his left.  But he remembers he’s naked, and covered in his own shit, so he flushed that idea down the toilet (pun bad and intended).  Meanwhile, the bayawak is now completely out of the inodoro.  The guy starts hitting the reptile with his jeans.  Whack, whack, whack!  Then he is able to somehow wrap the jeans around the bayawak, which just sits there.  Then the guy shits some more, cleans the shit off of the toilet’s floor and walls, takes a shower, gets a towel around his waist, goes out of the toilet with bayawak in maong in hand, and gets rid of the slimy and now even more stinky reptile by releasing it into the garden.

Then there were these two girls who had just gotten to sleep after a long day of work.  One was on the bed, and the other was on the floor.  Girl A on the bed, suddenly felt little feet — paws? — on the back of her hand.  So she jerked her hand up with a little “ay!”  Almost immediately, Girl B on the floor responds with an “ay!!” of her own.  The two jump up, and one of them turns the light on.  They see a mouse the size of a pickle staring at them, quite possibly very angry at the manner it was handled.  Girl B manages to get hold of a broom and hits the little thing.  Good move, except she hit it with the wrong end, the soft end of the walis.  Whack, whack, whack, plus a final push down.  Then Girl B releases the walis and sees that the mouse stopped moving.  She and Girl A were gleeful until they saw a twitch.  From the mouse.  It was not dead; being hit with the wrong end of the broom only rendered it unconscious.  The mouse shakes its head (really), got its bearings (maybe) and ran off.  Girls A & B went back to bed, Girl A with a rolled up newspaper and Girl B with the broom, which she promised to use the proper way in case the mouse came back for revenge.  Just in case.  They had both never seen a mouse lose consciousness before.  And they’ve never seen one regain it.  There was a first time for everything.

In a related incident, a bunch of guys were having a sleep - over at a friend’s house.  One of them was not only a heavy sleeper, he was also heavy - handed, literally.  So there he was, sleeping soundly, when he feels something icky with little nails running on his hand.  He thought it was just one of his sleep - over buddies messing with him with a feather.  With his still eyes closed and a grunt (he shall NOT be roused from sleep), he grabs the icky thing and just hurls it.  The next day, they wake up and see a single streak of blood on the wall in front of the heavy sleeper’s bed.  When they stepped closer to investigate, they followed the streak of blood down to the floor, where they found a dead mouse.  The mouse never knew what hit him.  Er, never knew what he hit.

Finally, there’s this girl standing in front of RCPI in Cubao, waiting for a bus.  She was late, so she looked at her watch to check just how late she was.  Just then she felt a hand slap her wrist, in an attempt to grab the watch.  Quick of wit, the girl screams ”Ay, putangina!” and spits on the offender’s hand.  Spits. On. It.  With a big glob of laway.  Maybe the girl has acid for spit, or it was just so weird - making that the snatcher yanks his hand away and runs, runs! without looking back.  The girl saw she wasn’t that late after all.

Only one of these stories happened to me; the rest happened to other people.  But they are all true.  All true.  How can I possibly make this up?   There’ll be more soon.          

pen hecked: a tribute

This is a PILOT - S Better Retractable/Refillable JS - GP Fine Point.  It’s a cheap ballpoint pen.  Actually, I have no idea how much it is now, because I have had this particular pen for almost 9 years.  Those of you who’ve had pens and lost them not minutes after purchase know how impressive it is to have a 9  - year old pen.  Most of you have even tried the “that sticker with my name on it means it’s mine” technique and know how useless that is after a few “pahiram ballpen“s.  Nobody gives a Sheaffer that the pen has an owner.  And I know that the sticker is not the reason for my pen’s longevity; I’ve had to change stickers as often as I’ve had to re - fill the pen itself.

This ballpen has been around the (writer’s) block and back.  And forth.  I’ve brought it with me to shoots in Vigan, Tagaytay, Malacanang.  It’s been to a furniture factory, several squatters’ areas, and the Senate.  I write stories, sign checks, take down notes, doodle, make journal entries and edit scripts with it.  It’s been to America, Malaysia and Hong Kong.  One day it will go to Italy and Great Britain, France, Africa and Jamaica.  And it’s made several trips around my thumb; you know, that twirling trick with the ballpen that has become part of one’s college education.

I guess it would be far more chi - chi to say I have a Montblanc or a Parker (no matter how old it is), but I don’t think that’s half as impressive as having for nine years a ballpen that has a reputation for being walain.  I still don’t know why I haven’t lost this pen, though there have been a few close calls.  I once worked on a Senator’s TV show, and she would come to work with her expensive little bag, and there would be, oh, 5, 6 pens in it (madalas Parkers, and I’ve seen a Montblanc, too), none of which she owns.  Most people (me included) use a computer for everything, and PDAs are all the rage, but I find that I need to physically write everything down, still and too.  With this pen.  Nine years old.  It knows too much about me.  I can never lose it.