Testimonial Dinner Speech

Dr. Florentino S. Cayco III (my ninong Bubut), Dean Jose Sundiang, Dean Mariano Magsalin Jr., My dear Arellano Law professors, especially those who know me better than others--Atty. Tom Uribe, Atty. Jimmy Soriano, Atty. Mayet Turingan, Atty. Ed Espina and Atty. Pedro Diwa--who I respect very much and think that they are really good at what they do, if not the best here in Arellano and perhaps anywhere else; all of the patient and understanding law library staff, the friendly and very approachable staff at the Dean's office, my classmates, dear friends, ladies and gentlemen, a pleasant good evening to you all.

I clearly remember my first days in law school. I was enrolled in the executive program and had classes only on Saturdays and Sundays. Saturdays I had Persons and Family Relations with Atty. Mayet, and Statutory Construction with Atty. Agnes. On Sundays, I had Legal Research and Writing with Atty. Jean Bacorro and Criminal Law I with Atty. Pedro Diwa. Most of them, during the first meetings asked, the question "Why do you want to become a lawyer?" I gave a different answer for each one, simply because I cannot share my true reason. You see, I was working as an ordinary employee back then and I was for the most of it, frustrated with my career. I was occupied with the belief that there should be more to my life than waiting for the 15th and 30th of the month for my meager paycheck.

When I was a child, I had three (3) clear ambitions. I wanted either to become an astronaut, a priest, or a lawyer. Since I found out very early on that there is no Philippine counterpart of NASA, my dream of being the Filipino Neil Armstrong became highly improbable. Prior to adolescence, I was convinced of becoming a priest. I have witnessed my cousin Fr. Rico's Ordination and I thought that priesthood was the perfect profession for me. At home, I was consecrating our meals whenever my father wasn't around. It was really funny. I would raise a pork chop like a priest would raise the host and say "Take this all of you..." My brother and sister got a kick out of it every time I do the stunt. My father found out about it and under pain of a severe belting, he banned me from consecrating our lunches ever again. Like most middle-class Filipino children, I went to a Catholic school, and my favorite saint was St. Agustine--that's because he was practically a goon on the early part of his life and through the prayers of his mother, St. Anne, he turned and became one of the staunchest intellectual defenders of the church against heresy. St. Jorge, can you imagine that? I was about to go to seminary school but my parents were not so crazy about the idea. Instead, they sent me to the University of Santo Tomas. A little shortly after that, I turned thirteen (13) and alongside the beginnings of my mustache, and those fancy trainer bras of my female classmates, I forgot all about becoming a priest. Employing a basic process of elimination, the only ambition left for me to pursue is to become a lawyer. Here I am now. I have lived out one of my childhood dreams.

To what things do I owe my success in the Bar Examinations? I have made a Top Ten list, just like in The Late Show with David Letterman.

10. Planning--Law 29 of Robert Green's 48 Laws of Power is "Plan All the Way to the End." In preparing for the bar exams, you must plan all the way from the beginning--from the very first day of law school, not on the first day of taking review subjects, and definitely not on the very first day of pre-bar review. Atty. Diwa told us that, on the very first day I saw him bang the table with his open hand.

9. Reading--The best advice to a law student, or a bar candidate is to read. I like to read a lot so this part is not too much of a problem for me.

8. Writing--I handwrite my own notes and try to carefully and faithfully make them the best I can, so I won't need to go back to the book where I copied them. By the time I finished reading what I wrote about a dozen times, I have memorized them and I won't have to study my thick book too much.

7. Talking--I talk about what I have read with my classmates who became my good friends, not only those who also belong to ALAS, but with other students as well. A good healthy discussion helps to retain what I already know, correct what I may have misunderstood, and supply me with what I do not know.

6. Reading--Have I mentioned that reading is the best advice? I read everywhere, in my bedroom, in the library, in the ALAS office, on the stairs, underneath a tree, in the train, in the cab, in the rest room, anywhere. In fact, ever since I was a child, I cannot finish my business in the C.R. without reading something. Sometimes, I read the back of soap cartons and shampoo bottles. Reading is the only way to go. I cannot over-emphasize on this point.

5. Listening--Reading, writing, and especially talking is not enough. Often, I learn and unlearn many things by listening to professors and more so from my friends. Sometimes, you think you know but in truth, you have no idea. It's a two (2) way street: talking and listening. One talks and the other listen. Then the other talks and the other takes his turn to listen. The end result is learning the right things and unlearning the wrong things you previously thought were right. But keep an ear close to your brain. Be a skeptic. Always double check with the books. Just like in math, by checking your answers, the process is complete and you could truly say that you are correct.

4. Dressing up--Every time an examination comes my way, I always dress up like I'm going to a child's christening. I tuck in a polo shirt, wear some nice pants and clean my shoes. It has become my habit. I tell myself "If I have a hard time on this exam, at least I look good so maybe it won't be noticed that my ears are bleeding." During the bar exams, I wore green shirts all the time. It was silly because my only reason is that the pre-dominant color in the La Salle campus is green so I had to wear green to absorb the powerful and daunting aura of the "slaughter-house." It's silly but it eventually worked.

4. Keeping friends close--Keep your friends close, and your ALAS friends even closer. I am very lucky to have such intelligent friends. From the team work in the classroom recitations, to brainstorming after reading sessions during the review, the road to the bar examinations wouldn't be as exciting, challenging and fun without my friends. Special mention goes to Atty. Ato, Atty. Jonell, Atty. Mary Ann, Atty. Babes, Atty. Agnes, Atty. Joel...and the rest of the ALAS bar candidates last year.

3. Relaxing--I relaxed by watching Koreanovelas (Jumong, Love Story in Harvard), countless movies, reading Harry Potter, Naruto, One Piece, Death Note, Bleach--walking my dogs, writing blogs, having massages every bar Saturday at the Century...whenever I think I need a break from studying, I took a break and relaxed. I believe that stress is the number one (1) enemy of the bar candidate.

2. Loving--I felt I needed a "whole lotta love" during this gruesome period and I got more than enough from my ex-girlfriend (who is now my lovely wife), my parents, my brothers and sister, my mother and father-in-law, my brother and sisters-in-law. I dedicate my passing to all my loved ones.

1. Praying--No elaboration is needed. My success is but a faint glimmer of God's everlasting glory.

Now how could I squeeze all these in a three (3) minute speech on the podium?

The Anti-Hero

Do you ever root for the villain to win? Are you at times sick of the fact that the hero always win? That's the reason why I don't like Steven Seagal and Van Damme movies. I won't pretend I haven't seen any but when I fortuitously come across one while surfing channels, sometimes I stick on it just to find out if Stiffy-Steven or Jean-Claude gets whacked in the end. And don't get me started on their outfits.

Seriously, sometimes, the antagonist in the plot is more interesting than the protagonist. Take Dr. Doom for example. In my book, he's way cooler than the Fantastic Four. He's super-strong, an evil genius, and he wears this really menacingly sick iron mask with a little dark green riding hood. In contrast, Reed Richards--apart from having a incredibly stupid sounding name--stretches. Stretch and you're a hero. That's the stupid Reed Richards character is all about. My dick stretches about three to four times its original size but I don't call it a hero. Well at least I won't go draw a comic book about it.

In the movie "Untouchables," there starred my all time favorite actor Bobby De Niro opposite Kevin Costner. Bobby was Al Capone, and the Californian Dork played Elliott Ness. I mean, come on, in the real world, can The Bodyguard shine Bobby De Niro's shoes? I didn't think so. When I first saw the movie, I wished so hard that Costner's character should die I pissed my pants a little bit. By the way, the baseball bat scene in which Capone bludgeons a mobster is loosely based on an actual 1929 incident when Capone bludgeoned three (3) mobsters to death; Albert Anselmi, Jo "Hop Toad" Giuinta and John Scalise.

Here in our country, I can't help but to root for the anti-hero, because the supposed protagonists are really crooks. The current administration is the number one crook, who holds out itself as the hero. After so many fuckin' photo-ops, even they believe that they are the goddam good guys. One law school professor, once said, "Corruption is institutionalized in the framework of our government." I believe that the government is actually against national growth. If we take a look at most successful economies, we'll discover that they began from humble entrepeneurial endeavors of people who believed in their own ablilities and had the courage to pursue their dreams. I'm talking about the pioneers, businessmen of any kind, they be inventors or bootleggers. In the old economy, the way to succeed was to "build a better mousetrap." What better way to build a better mousetrap if you don't copy the original? My father used to tell me that when he was very young, all things made in Japan were crap. Mostly, he adds, they were cheap imitations of U.S. and European made products, and they were consistently poor in quality. Of course, they were considerably cheaper so folks bought them, warts and all. How things have changed! When I was growing up, all the best products are made in Japan. The best bicycles, the best toys, the best video-games, the best everything. The Japanese built a better mousetrap. These days, China (that includes Taiwan) is the new Japan. Chinese products flood the domestic markets. As a consumer, I can clearly see the improvements in the quality of their products in less than a ten (10) year span. Some Chinese products are now competitive in quality even against the best in the market. Here's my point: The Chinese, and the Japanese before them didn't fuck the entrepeneurs. Their governments weren't busting the balls of the bootleggers for infringing copyrights and patents owned by some foreign schmucks. Their governments actually encouraged and induced local enterprise advancement, by fostering an environment conducive to business growth and expansion. Whereas in this country, the government does all it can to make a quick buck.

My uncle (Don Marcelino), together with my father (Don Bonifacio) and other friends of the family, own and operate some small business. One of these meager businesses is a Liquefied Petroleum Gas (LPG) Refilling Plant. All these businesses are, in the eyes of the law, legal. The bosses faithfully comply with all laws, rules and regulations pertinent and relevant to their businesses. All documents, permits, taxes, and what-else-the-fuck-have-you are secured and with reasonable promptitude. However, in compliance with these legal requirements, the people in government--apart from the legally mandated fees and charges--charge and collect ridiculous sums of money from the businesses to go directly into their pockets. Some describe it as the "cost of doing business," or padulas money, even if it is totally unnecessary. The main thing is this: even when you go legal, you get fucked on the ass by this government. From the City Hall to the Office of the President, all them snakes and alligators want to bleed everyone dry.

It is bad enough that local businessmen tolerate this sub rosa culture, but an even greater and previously unimaginable evil have spawned in this GMA adminstration: The Presidential Task Force. Along with the super-irresponsible television media that we have, the elite of the elite, top-of-the-foodchain crooks in government have rallied under the presidential banner to create chaos and to extract even more cash from businessmen. Under pain of prosecution and negative media exposure, these motherfuckers extort money from businesses like those belonging to my family. Our LPG refilling plant has been raided by task force after task force and featured on TV crime shows on both big channels. These task force fuckers think they are Elliot Ness and the untouchables. They climb the gates, force open the locks, shout various uneducated profanities, and brandish their cheap U.S. surplus M-16 Armalites and WWII M-14s at my father's poor employees who are there to make an honest living refilling cooking gas. One of them, my father's cook, was even sent to prison for a couple of nights after a task-force raid. Did he make the monggo stew too fuckin' salty? Everytime they do this, they only want one thing: money. The cops want money, the newsmen want money, the government lawyers want money, the judge wants money, the mayor wants money...what every single authority-type motherfucker wants is money. It is not enough anymore to simply keep their beaks wet. These birds have turned into vultures and they want flesh and blood. They are making a killing. How can legitimate business survive in an environment like this?

Perhaps it is time for us to make the jump from hero to anti-hero.

It just takes one dum sumbitch

I have a Swede friend, Rico--who was once a hardcore dogman but now turned Buddhist--who said, "Never estimate the predictability of stupidity." I thought it was one of the stupidest one-liners I've ever heard at the time, but recently I have serendipitously discovered its deep wisdom.

A couple of weeks ago, I was tricked by my wife to take along my father-in-law with me when I renew the car registration certificate at the LTO. My wife is a very smart little lady. She said it was our chance to bond. I was thinking, "Bond? Who the hell wants to bond with his father in law? Immediately, I thought of two kinds of guys: 1.The Suck-up, and 2. The Plastic-man. I am neither. On an afterthought, I realized that even these two don't really want to bond with them in-laws. The first wants something in return, usually capable of being expressed in terms of money, and the second principally operates on a pretext based on a lie. Clearly, no married male in their right minds would want to "bond" with their father-in-law.

My wife's old man said to me, "Jorge, kailangan maglagay tayo para mabilis."

I said "Uhm, okay." But then when he was not looking, I was shaking my head and smirking. I'm not implying that I am 100% corruption-free. Hell, it's sad to admit but its part of Flip culture. Deeply ingrained in our society is the tendency to cut the red-tape by slipping in some extra cash sub rosa. Nevertheless, the thought of my own father popped-up in my head. My father is the kind of classic old-school guy who would not think of making a bribe unless there is absolutely no other way around it only whenever he really needs something important done real quick without too much hassle. Simply renewing a car's registration papers is definitely not one of those things. If he founds out that I did that, he'd probably shake his head just like I did, and add that deplorable act to his list of my life's disappointments.

Once, when I was fifteen (15), I faked my age to get a student driver's license. One was required to be sixteen (16) to get one of those. One of my uncle's truck drivers was my accomplice for that particular bad deed. He was blind in one eye and had a professional driver's license. Just imagine what would happen if he went through the regular procedure in getting driver's licenses. The medical examiner would go, "cover your right eye and read to me the letters you see on that poster..." Later on, my father found out about it and although I cannot recall at this time the precise contents of his sermon, I am definitely sure that there was a long and onerous one. Perhaps it just came to the right ear and out the left.

So me and the old man went in there, walked through a line longer than one on the first day of Marian Rivera's new movie. And no, I did not watch it, I just saw the line at the local SM mall near where I live. He started unusually politely talking to this bespectacled fat lady, who looked like a villain who popped-out of an anti-corruption poster. She had these old-fashioned rimmed glasses on, thick stockings failing to disguise the tree-trunks she had for legs, and from the looks of it, a big chubby pencil stuck-up her ass. The old man just gave all my car papers to this lady and told me to chuck the cash discreetly to her desk. The price was a few hundred Pesos more than that legally required. Somewhat feeling like a crook, I shoved the wad of cash to her desk and she told us to wait outside and wait for her call.

Since me and my wife just got recently married, she had to go through the business of changing her last name to mine's. The Civic was in still in her maiden name because at the time we bought it, we were not yet married. So I told the fat-assed LTO lady the story and asked asked her "Miss, how can we change the name on the registration papers?" She had all sorts of answers but none of them were making sense to me. I rephrased my question and asked, "Do you have a procedure on how my wife can change the name reflected on the registration papers?" Finally, and seemingly out of thin air, she gave me this answer "you have to execute a deed of sale..." As a rather annoying habit of mine, probably inherited from my father, and reinforced by some law school professors I had, I shake my head from left to right repititiously on instinct whenever I hear a wrong answer. My wife is really pissed off whenever I do that thing to her.That moment, I had no idea I was doing it. The lady, on a tone, said "Don't shake your head Mister, it's as though like you're looking down on me!"

That got on my nerve, to say the least. I broke all politeness protocol and said "Look, Miss, what you are telling me is totally wrong, one person cannot sell a thing to him or herself. In the eyes of the law, that is not a valid sale. As a graduate of law (with stress on "graduate" and "law" so she can hear perfectly), I will not and can not do that in good conscience." Hearing that, I could see her expression from something really snooty and sinister common to most government employees who think they are doing ordinary citizens tremendous favors by doing their jobs, to something more pleasant and a little bit scared and apologetic at the same time.

As I was blurting all that shit that out, I felt my soul flew outside of my body and I was looking at myslef arguing with some nincompoop. I quickly came back inside my body and smoothly came up with a fake apology. She said that that's the way they do it whenever they encounter situations identical to my wife's and then she also conjured a fake apology of her own. With that, I thought, "fuck it, let's just let the papers be as they are, I have no patience for this." So I went outside, lit a smoke and started to wait for our 2008 sticker to issue.The old man with me was left inside, probably apologizing profusely to the fat lady for my unruly behavior.

True enough, the padulas we gave cut down the time we were engaged to wait. After a little over thirty (30) minutes, My wife's maiden name was being called, and the rest of the honest sumbitches who had been waiting for half a day since morning still had their asses stuck outside the LTO office praying to God to make the assholes inside call their names so they can get the fuck out of that shitty place.

The violent side of my brain

I have hurt some guys in the past. I once whacked someone's head open and turned another guy's face into a funny looking abstract of sorts. I've done a few stuff that I should not have done but nothing that I regret. If those things happen all over again, probably, I'd do the same. Maybe I'll do better. Who knows these things? My advice to you, "take a cue from Tony Soprano, ladies and gentlemen".

It was Jesus Christ who whipped and thrashed the market stalls outside the temple. The merchants were selling all sorts of vile stuff outside the temple, at the temple steps, I don't know, maybe even inside there's a fellow going "hey, dude, want to buy a sundial... or a camel blind?" If I were Jesus, I'd do the same. I'm the son of God and you sell stuff outside my house without my permission? I should get a cut. A 40% shy on everything. The meat of the matter is, "it is reasonable to get a little bit violent when there is a need for a showing of strength. When you've got to punch someone in the nose, you've got to punch someone in the nose. Let the other fellow bleed if he deserves it". Later on in his short life here on earth, Jesus also said, "I have come not to bring peace but a sword."

Today's modern "civil" society is overflowing with hypocrisy. If you ever get mad and manifest your anger physically, you'll be instantly labeled as a sociopath. What the fuck? A sociopath? I say Fuck it! Ever since the beginning of time, man always had conflict with man. Force is a language that everyone used to understand. Hence the maxim, "Survival of the fittest--The strong shall live and the weak shall perish."

I'm not saying that it is perfectly alright to bash someone else's head with a shovel to set his thinking straight, but what I am trying to convey is that the world is fastly becoming a planet of apathethic spineless wimps, especially the Philippines. The reason why the government is so corrupt is because we as a people are sissies. I understand that we've been culturaly trained and "miseducated" (that's Renato Constantino for you) to become sissies by the colonials back in the day but hell that was ages ago, If we really had the balls, we should've bounced back by now. Look at goddam Cambodia, the country is practically destroyed by the regime of the bloody Khmer Rogue just in the 70's but they're doing better than us now. I really hate to compare but its the only way that I can make my case here. Alas! We have not.

Unless we gather our cajones and get our dicks straight and hard, all this abusive and horrible shit that's happenning to us will continue and in the end, will turn us all into fucking mindless robots. We've got to rise up, raise our clenched fists, brandish that chain, cock that automatic, and overturn all the fucking market-stalls that have been pestering our temples forever.

The Dichotomy of Life

During the Mexican-American war, two Mexican soldiers were pinned heavily under fire in a small foxhole close to the frontier. One of them, Pedro, was extremely worried about death. Pedro asked Jose (the other guy), "Amigo, what happens when I die?"

Jose answered, "Well, Two things may happen amigo...You may either go to the after-life or get reincarnated."

Jose: "If you go to the after-life, then that's good, you'll see all your loved ones who passed away...You'll see your mama there, Pedro."

Pedro: "But what if I get reincarnated?"

Jose: "Well then...two things may happen amigo. You could either be reincarnated as a man, or as a plant. If you get reincarnated as a man, then that's good, amigo, you could live a new life. Maybe, in your new life, there is no war."

Pedro: "But what if I get reincarnated as a plant?"

Jose: "Well then...two things may happen amigo. You could either be a corn-stalk, or you can become a tree. If you become a corn-stalk, then that's good amigo, you can feed the future of our great country Mexico."

Pedro: "But what if I become a tree?"

Jose: "Well then..."

Pedro: "I know, two things may happen...what is it?"

Jose: "You're right, two things may happen amigo. If you become a tree, you may either be used as lumber, or you may be used as paper. If you are used as lumber, then that's good amigo, you'll serve as the strong material for the houses in our beloved country, Mexico."

Pedro: "You sure are smart, Jose. But what if I become paper?"

Jose: "Well, still, two things may happen amigo..."

Pedro: " Two things may still happen? I'm paper and still two things may happen? Ai, caramba!"

Jose: "That is the dichotomy of life, Pedro. Yes, two things may happen. If you become paper, you may either be used as writing paper, or toilet paper. If you become writng paper, that's good amigo, you will serve as the learning material for the children of Mexico, so that they become good leaders, and wars like this could be avoided. Maybe, if you become writing paper, you'll be the piece of paper where the peace treaty is written..."

Pedro: "But what if I become toilet paper? Dios mio, Jose. My death would be in vain if I become toilet paper."

Jose: "If you become toilet paper, two things may happen, amigo. You may either be used by a man, or a woman. If you are used by a man, that's good. At the very least, you have helped to sanitize a Mexican."

Pedro: "But what if I get used by a woman?"

Jose: "You know it..."

Pedro: "Two things may happen?"

Jose: "Yes. You may either be used at the top, or you may be used at the bottom. If you get used at the top, the face, in the cheeks, in the lips, then that's good amigo."

Pedro: "But what if I get used in the bottom?"

Jose: "Well, amigo, two things may happen. You may either be used in the back or in the front. If you get used in the back, then that's good amigo. As a tissue paper, you have served your purpose."

Pedro: "...and if I get used in the front?"

Jose: "Santa Maria, Pedro, if you get used in the front by a woman, then amigo, your death will not be in vain!!!"

BANG! (Pedro gets shot)

Psychobabble

The modern world is a shrink's patient. Every little thing gets blamed on sad, dark and dreary childhood experiences. If you killed someone, maybe your uncle abused you as a child. If you turned-out an alcoholic, maybe your mother always yelled at you when you were four or five. If you're thirty-six years old and you still wet your bed when you have a nightmare, maybe your father belted you on the ass when you were growing-up. If you fart so much in public, maybe your little playmate back in '82 always did and you thought that was cool when you were ten. You know, all that motherfucking bullshit about psycho-analysis and therapy? I don't want to sound so callous and uncaring about each and everyone's personal mental tragedies, but what the fuck? Do you really need someone whom you have told your innermost emotional debaucheries to ask you "...and how does that makes you feel?" Psycho-analysis is one of the biggest rackets in the first-world. It's an industry that does not need its own cheesy infomercial to thrive. Second to organized religion, it's the most lucrative business. Prozac, Lithium, the works. They're the true gangsters. Cock-sucking dope-dealers with M.D.'s.

See, it's pretty simple to me. Some people are just fucked-up. You know, wackos. Those who end up in the street with filthy rags and no underpants. They are the one who need psycho-therapy, not the middle-aged businessman who divides his time between playing golf and counting his money. I'm guessing these yuppie brats just need some attention. They were the goddam sissies and nerds in school. Those fucking idiots suddenly don't know what to do when they realize they're too old to be collecting stamps or watching star trek. They got their heads so far up their ass the whole time they don't really know what life is.

"Oh, I fucking hate my boss, he's so mean, he hates me, blah-blah-blah...yada-yada-yada..." Who the fuck cares? I mean, tell that shit to your wife, your father, your mother. You can tell sad stories to your household cat and still nothing will happen. The only ones who can help us are ourselves. It is us who makes our destinies. There is no pre-ordained bullshit in this life, because life is not fair. Nobody said it was, nor will it ever will be. Word to the wise, suck it up, take the blows, and grab life by the balls.

To me, going to a psychologist is like going to confession. You tell the other guy--a stranger--secrets and he's supposed to help you, give you advice, make your ass pray a hunderd hail maries, and what-else-the-fuck-have-you. After that, here comes that donation box, the doctor's fee, the bill for releasing your guilt which makes you less fearful of eternal damnation in hell.

If I ever have to see a shrink in the future, I think I'll make the most of it though...maybe I can come up with a million bullshit stories just to bust his balls.

The Devil and David Garcia

It was around eight to eight ten p.m. and I was walking home after I bought a couple of sticks of BBQ from the dirty street stall 'round the corner when I met him. He walked in the opposite direction towards me. He had on this ridiculous outfit. Well, them clothes would work fine on maybe Eastern Europe or fuckin' Greenland, but at this tropical heat--even during the night--a dark trench coat and a pair of gloves are as rare as virgins on Fields Avenue. His left hand had an unlit cigarette held together by his index and middle fingers. It was dark, so I couldn't make his face. Besides, he had this grey or dark blue (not really sure) hooded sweatshirt on underneath his coat and the hood was pulled over his head. As soon as we approached speaking distance, I stopped. I was thinking "who in the green hell is this joker?"

"Attorney, can I have a light?" He said.

I forgot I had a Marlboro on my mouth. I quit earlier in the morning though. I just started smoking again that evening. The nicotine delivery business is making a killing out of suckers like me who can't kick the nasty habit. I figured he knew me and maybe I know him somehow and I can't just remember who he was--I get this a lot, because in the back of my head, I conceitedly think that I have some sort of fame or infamy thing going on--so I reached for my right cargo pocket and handed out my cheap Cricket automatic. I never hand out my own cigarette to anyone whenever somebody asks for a light for their own if I can help it--especially to strangers I meet on the street. I think that's too dirty a practice even for me.

As I was handing the lighter to him, I took notice of his footwear. "What a queer choice!" I thought. He was wearing the gayest pair of gay Cole-Haan's I've ever seen. Too square and too damn clean.

I looked on his face, or where it should be, but I can't make out anything. The shadow from his hood was heavily obscuring his facial features. This is where I noticed that his cigarettes were those slim deals with orange or lemon flavors. I remember some girls from law school who smoked them artsy-fartsy type of smokes. He lit that shit up and handed me back my lighter. I don't know why, but I asked him, "So where you've been?" I was not too paying too much interest on who he was exactly, or what the heck he was doing on my street, or what the fuck he wants from me apart from the light. I was just too bored and he felt too unimportant to deserve my time. That sort of rude attitude is another bad habit of mine.

"Hell." He said.

"Excuse me?"

"Attorney, don't you recognize me?"

"As a matter of fact, I really don't." I confessed.

He pulled back his stupid hood and there it was, a face I haven't seen before in my entire life. He's Eastern European from the looks of it, alright, but he speaks perfect Californian English. You know it, the kind Filipinos do when they stay over a month in LA, or San Diego. Hell, even my sisters-in-law speak that way. The kind of English where the speaker sounds not too sure of what he's saying. A la Claire Daines, Drew Barrymore, or Ben Stiller or Keanu Reeves in Bill & Ted's. "You know, like, somewhat, what-ever..."

" Who the fuck are you?"

He just smiled. Like the fat fag on Project Runway, with his free hand hoisted on his waist. Then as I was staring at him, thinking hard if he was someone I've met before in a dog fight, two antler-like and curly spikes grew--like the way we see those bean-sprouts grow in fast-motion on National Geographic--on both sides of his forehead.

"No way!" I said.

"Yes, I am him." He said in self-satisfaction.

"Fuuuck, you're that deer guy on cable!!!"

At this point, he dropped to his knees and started bashing the earth with the bottom-side of his fists.

"No, no, no!!!" Then a whip like tail of sorts grew out from his ass, and its end resembled a harpoon blade.

"Stand up, you dumb sumbitch, I was only kidding." I said. It was embarrassing. people could've seen us. Queers, all they bring to the world is shame.

He stood up, and said, "Really? Now you recognize me?"

I said, "Yea, you're that tiger guy on the Ringling Brothers' Circus, how can I not?"

"How can I help you?" I added.

By this time, he really went crazy. Like the way my Mama does when I won't immediately obey her militaristic commands when I was a little kid. "Jorge, go sleep on your room..." "Jorge, clean up the table..." "Jorge, take out the trash..." "Jorge, clean up after your dog..." Most of the time I just sat there like I've heard nothing, continued reading my book or playing my video-game.

"WAAARRRGGGHHH!!!" This time, he let it all rip. Huge bat-like black wings with a span of twelve to thirteen feet easy grew out of his back, flapping hideously in the night air, and goat like hooves tore his gay Cole-Haan's not too different when Marvel's The Hulk does his thing. The damn unholy transformation made me drop my BBQs to the ground. That sight was some scary shit. There are only two times in my life where I've been scared as all hell and this moment was one of them. The other was when I was around twelve, or thirteen, my Mama took out my father's old Springfield Armory M-1 Garand Rifle, cocked it, and pointed it at my skull and was going to really pull the trigger if my father hadn't come in the nick of time to save my naughty ass.

I ran. I ran as fast as I could into the house. The damn monster was chasing me, I reckon hovering fifteen to twenty feet in the air behind my back. As I got inside the gate, I looked back and the damn sumbitch was breathing fire as it talked some German.

"Ich bin der Teufel!"

"Ich bin der Teufel!!"

"Ich bin der Teufel!!!"

He said that shit three times. It was totally like a scene from a B-grade horror movie. He was thrashing at our gates like a madman. I went inside, got into the room and got my black clutch bag. I never thought I would actually use this thing for real but I guessed, it's now or never. I came out at the garage, where only the cheap iron gate (which my father-in-law had made for a small fortune) separated me from this deranged mutated gay clown-bat-manta ray-deer guy. I pulled out my Sig P229, released the safety latch and pointed the finest piece of hand held ordnance man has ever created into the motherfucker's face.

"Now, back off! Stupid motherfucker! This gun has cyanide tipped hollow point bullets...even a scratch would surely kill your dumb ass..." I said out of fear. The gun only has regular bullets. I'm not too sure if the ones in the magazine I put in were reloads. My father has a friend who has a friend who has his own bullet reloading machine. As you know, my father has a lot of friends who have friends.

"Ich bin der Teufel!!!" He shouted again. I cocked the slide.

"In English, motherfucker!"

"I just want you to recognize me! Don't you recognize me?" The R-18 bat-winged mutated version of Sesame Street's Cookie Monster said.

"English, God damn you!!!" I said in fury.

"I am..."

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

One, two, three...thirty four shots. Someone had shot the monster from outside the gate. The gay-bat-freak-show dropped to the ground like a manequin riddled with lead-filled holes.

I looked out the gate and saw my little brother's sporty little Civic hatch parked a few meters out, with both doors open. He had his Glock 19 out smoking and on his right side, it was God Almighty, with a Sig not unlike my own. Apparently, they emptied all of their bullets into the stranger. Seventeen bullets apiece.

"Who the fuck was that?" I asked God, and my little brother.

"He's the Devil." God said to me, without even moving His mouth. That's the way God talks. Directly into your brain. He doesn't need to move His holy mouth.

"Good God, is he dead?" I asked as the Devil's remains disintegrate into ash.

"No, he's not. He can't die. He's the Devil. He's an angel. A fallen angel." said David, my little brother who has a constantly itchy trigger finger and heavy gas pedal right foot.

"Oh..." I knew that. I asked the question out of stupidity. Then, I felt sorry for myself for not being able to fire even one lousy shot.

"I'm starving. Kuya, do you have something to eat in there?" asked David.

"I was about to have dinner...you're ate (my lovely wife) is still at work, and I bought BBQs, but I dropped them when this shit-head came along and scared the bejeezus out of me...umh... I'm Sorry, God." I explained, then pointed to the direction where I dropped the BBQs.

A little later on, the three of us decided to have supper at the Korean restaurant on the next block. Their BBQ is great, but I prayed to God not to make me eat that disgusting Kimchi. Yuch.

I am Noah

Seven days ago, God Almighty appeared to me. He said, "I am who I am, The God of your father, your father's father, the God of Jacob, Isaac, and Abraham, Ozzy Osbourne, Jimmy Page, and the God of Elvis, the King of Rock n' Roll." At first, I was doubtful because I really thought God was a little bit taller, but when He said he was the God of Elvis...believe me baby, I believed!

In the beginning, I could not look unto his face, as I was overwhelmed by the light that is bright as the noon-time sun which surrounds His face. But then he moved a little bit to the left and then I realized it was the noon-time sun that blinds my vision. I was lying down on the soft grass reading Professor Azucena's little green book on Labor Law.

God is about 5'8" I think. He's about as tall as me, and he has this really bad-ass silver beard like a Hell's Angel or an old-time rocker dude from the late fifties to the early sixties--the moment in time before the age of aquarius and all that flower-power bullshit. If you still don't get it, it's the age before the shitty Beatles. Now that I come to think of it, He has this uncanny resemblance to Jerry Garcia of the great band "The Ungrateful Dead." Yes, God is Hispanic.

God, when He appeared to me, was wearing regular clothes--well, sort of, anyway. He got the 501 jeans on, a grey sweater like that of Jack Bauer of "24" and really cool Nike sneakers which I havent seen before anywhere, even on the internet. That last thing got me thinking, though. Did Nike made them especially for God, or did he get the pair from the future? This question almost drove my mortal mind into the abyss of unreason. I know I could've just asked asked him but I was tad bit too shy around God. I mean, it's kind of awkward if you go "Dear God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, where did you score those really cool treads?" Maybe God has his own SM or Ayala Center up there. Who in the green hell knows? I just realized that it is the coolest thing to be. To be God. In about 3 to 5 seconds of silence, I bowed my head and pray. I prayed that someday, I'd have sneakers like God's.

As I was praying silently, God spoke. His mouth didn't move, he just looked at me-similar to the weird way when you get looked at by a cat, you know you just have to be the one to be the first to break eye contact-but I heard everything he said as clear as when I use to hear things back in the day when I used to smoke pot all the time. The words did not only have a very beautiful resonance but it had color, texture, and taste.

God said "Jorge, I will punish all mankind for they have become unworthy of my grace and favor."

I said, "Oh my God, why?"

God: "Don't interrrupt me when I am still talking!"

Me: "Oh, sorry my Dear Lord and Savior."

God: "As I have said before, I will punish all mankind for they have become unworthy of my grace and favor. Man has become overly sinful all they do is Eat, Fuck, and Sleep. They don't pray to me no more"

Me: "..."

God: "Go ahead my son, you can ask questions now."

Me: "Uhm...how will you punish mankind our Lord?"

God: "I shall let Satan to become the leader of the free world and particularly, here in your stupid little island country, a midget she-devil shall become your president."

Me: "..."

God: "You do not have any questions my son?"

Me: "Well, George W. Bush is already the U.S. president and lola Gloria is ours...I doubt that punishment would really create that big of a swirl in the dirty water, if you know what I mean..."

God: "..."

Me: "What if You let locusts eat all our crops?"

God: "Naw, I already did that with Moses. Think of something else."

Me: "A Hailstorm of brimstone and fire?"

God: "Been there...another..."

Me: "Turn the river into blood?"

God: "Done that..."

Me: "Kill all the first born with creeping death?"

God: "Look, I've already done all that shit with Moses and I don't want to repeat things that I have already done...can't you think of something else?"

Me: "Well let's see, you are God, and you have already done all of the things I could possibly think of. The two great world wars, Jack the Ripper, the Anti-pope, Khmer Rouge, that big blast in Chernobyl back in the eighties, Barry Manilow...I can't think of a punishment to man that you still haven't tried yet. It's not like you haven't been doing stuff. Isn't there something you may have done in the past that you may want to reprise? Pick some shit that people already forgot about, like Mt. Vesuvius or some really sick shit like that. I don't care. Do what you have to do, man, er, I mean, God, the Most High, Supreme Judge and Architect and Judge of all the Universe."

God: "That is right my son, I am God after all. I can repeat shit that I've already done before. What are they going to do if I do it, even if I break a covenant? Who in the hell will mankind pray to? The Devil, Beelzebub? He's too busy doing the same thing--eating, fucking, and sleeping. Why do you think I sent Him to eternal damnation, anyway?"

Me: "Uh, ok...so what do You plan to do Boss?"

Then God said, "Jorge, build an ark." Then he vanished like old Captain Kirk of the Enterprise after saying "Beam me up, Scottie" but in this case, God never said another word. He just vanished into thin air.

It could all be fine, I'd build an ark, please God and all that shit...who wouldn't? Hell, who'd dare disobey God? He could strike you down in one shot of lightning, for all we know. Nevertheless, knowing the inevitable consequences of my actions or lack of the same in the future, I disobeyed God and did not build the ark. The reason being I have less than a month to finish my preparations for the Bar Examinations. I thought, the hell with it, maybe God will ask somebody else to build another ark and maybe I could hitch a ride or something similar to that effect. What can I do, I've got priorities. It's not like was just eating, fucking and sleeping all day. I've got books to read and all sorts of shit to do. I said to myself, let another do God's dirty work. If he is God, He will understand because God is the fountain of all understanding. If He doesn't, then I need not worry, for He is not God.

Sure enough, naglakad ako sa baha the next day.