In another yoni... burst from too much screwing, a tragedy transpired.
DEEP inside of a parallel yoni… verse, no, make that burst… it’s getting harder and harder, the tear… what came first?
While pumping away in a gentle staccato and pondering on the swish and moan of juices mixing, the urgent order came to whip up a decent repast for a busload of tourists from Hongkong held hostage by a dismissed police operative… demands include (1) reinstatement in his job, (2) another chance for Kris Aquino and James Yap to reboot and reformat, (3) Boy Abunda renaming his showbiz talk show, “The Bust” and (4) bring his son over to the scene of an impending tragedy.
The Chef hissed out a piqued sigh… and grudgingly went to work even as he glanced at the sauce-splattered repro poster of Da Vinci’s “The Lust Supper” tacked on his kitchen wall… take hostages, what gumption, why, it’s much cheaper to take out hostesses, take liberties with them, no holes barred…
And no shot off a Barret M-107 .50 caliber scoped rifle can get the hostage taker… he knew his staging ground—in the middle of the Parañaque landfill area, an empty gargantuan chessboard with a commanding 360-degree view just a sneeze off wind-whacked Manila Bay, and it was pouring torrents… disastrous and a waste of precious ammo to take a shot under such uncooperative clime.
But he didn’t reckon being swamped by battalion after battalion of weeping, wailing relatives bused from the provinces… it was an all-out assault of sorts… and it was mind-numbing as spittle flew as incessant and unrelenting as Pagsanjan Falls… he never knew what hit him… there was madness to the method of wearing him down, and it must have been based on a hitherto unknown Theory of Relativity… relatives relate, relate and relate.
And he didn’t reckon the mischief The Chef dished out in the sumptuous lauriat of viands that he and his hostages from Hongkong stuffed their bellies to bursting.
Within minutes, hold ‘em Uranus, everyone was passing gas and, well… shit happens.
Well, the Chef had spiked his cookery with industrial-strength ipecac… efficacious purgative.
Uh, this thundering nasal assault is unabashedly brought to you in parts by the makers of Diatabs, UP-LBM (that’s for Los Baños-Manila) and Portalets, the portable rest room of choice by millions.
So tragic it was, a busload of blokes suffocating and defecating like nobody’s business, unwholesome odors wafting inland, shooing away hordes of the curious and furious. Unheard-of crowd control scheme, but it was working like magic.
Thus it came to pass in a parallel yoni-verse and travelers the world over came to know that part of Metro Manila as “Comfort Room Zone.”