Skip to main content

Describe, prescribe

HONEST-TO-GOODNESS surveillance was carried out for more than six months… thorough extirpation spree came at the heels, each member of the official’s family— surviving next of kin, wife, sons, daughters, and grandchildren-- were sent to an early date with embalmers.

It was needless at burial rites to cue for crocodile’s tears that poured awash like cash the official had appropriated for himself over the years.

Ambuscade right after the last of his kin was interred… official was spared, though. He was pumped several clips of small caliber slugs that tore out both patellae, shredded his penis and scrotum and sent him on his knees begging his masked attackers to put him away… with a view to a reunion with kith and kin in a comfy, fiery place reserved for their kind…

His plea bargaining was politely ignored with a solemn collective salute. They wanted him to live, maybe, enjoy or endure his cache of millions… live on as a derelict.

It was a priceless gift of life—his own—that the bushwhackers were generous to bequeath him… for it was beneath human dignity to butcher a cockroach.

No mockery or scorn was meant in serving him a daily dish of flounder—palatably dainty with notes of marine depths unfathomed—and greasy slabs of pork bellies in a savory sauce the color of taxpayers’ blood and sweat… thus, his remaining days and monies were spent in a well-appointed home for the aged.

Thus, he lived in a semblance of comfy ease until he croaked his last… apparently, he grew larger than a barrel of blubber with such a prescribed diet and burped dead… many suspected it was a heart attack but there were equally valid suspicions that he didn’t have a heart.

Doc Childre and Howard Martin: "The collective energy generated from the feelings, thoughts, and attitudes of the almost six billion people on this planet creates an atmosphere or 'consciousness climate.' Surrounding us like the air we breathe, this consciousness climate affects us most strongly on energetic and emotional levels."

My dear children, that’s the flimsy excuse I can proffer as to why I don’t bother to chip in my two cents’ worth on graft and corruption… truckloads of more capable journalists and opinion makers will be sounding out volumes and summon the proverbial Furies, rail atop soapboxes and shoeboxes and slather the atmosphere with futile rage…

I’d rather pray in earnest to the angels of destruction, Kemuel and Simkiel… to do the honors and useful horror of doing the needful, maybe send several crates of .50 caliber ammo and an M-107 Barrett rifle that can take out targets a kilometer off…


Popular posts from this blog

Every single cell of my body's happy

I got this one from Carmelite Sisters from whose school three of my kids were graduated from. They have this snatch of a song that packs a fusion metal and liebeslaud beat and whose lyrics go like this:

"Every single cell of my body is happy. Every single cell of my body is well. I thank you, Lord. I feel so good. Every single cell of my body is well."

Biology-sharp nerds would readily agree with me in this digression... Over their lifetimes, cells are assaulted by a host of biological insults and injuries. The cells go through such ordeals as infection, trauma, extremes of temperature, exposure to toxins in the environment, and damage from metabolic processes-- this last item is often self-inflicted and includes a merry motley medley of smoking a deck a day of Philip Morris menthols, drinking currant-flavored vodka or suds, overindulgence in red meat or the choicest fat-marbled cuts of poultry and such carcass.

When the damage gets to a certain point, cells self-destruct. T…


Viagra au naturel

IT LOOKED eerie—a blaze of fireflies pulsing like stars in the nippy air, throbbing with mating passions. That show of lights somehow eased the shadows of a Holy Thursday night on a dry river bed a few kilometers trudge up Mount Makiling.

It’s likely that no river has lain in sleep for months on that moss-grown, boulder-strewn bed—except my 20-year old kid Kukudyu and I. We were out to spend the night, do on-site learning sessions by the next day. Usual father-and-son bonding. As the late Benjamin Franklin once begged: "Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn."

Past noon from the foot of the mountain’s northern section, it took us four hours ploughing non-stop through prickly bushes and forest undergrowth to get to that site. We got there in one bruised piece. By then, dusk was falling; the sylvan air hummed with a trill of crickets, cicadas, critters nameless in choral orison. That incessant “sh-r-r-e-eemmm---“ layered with “k-kr-r-eeengg--” …