http://www.noynoy.ph/blog/2010/03/28/2-surveys-show-aquino-still-leads-in-pre-election-surveys/
By: Not By Iris P. Concepcion but wishes to be By Iris P. Concepcion

Two- in-One Title:

Terrace Extraterrestial Encounters
Fra Iris Lipps
By: Iris P. Concepcion

That is quite a filled-up line with my nickname splashed like cream.

How to best place your body weight when you are in the mood to experience wind at its finest.

This is my trick: I sit back in one of the side walls; put my right leg up and have it dangling in one of its corner pews.

From up here, I see chunky necks attached to heads in other higher terraces, looking at the clouds, munching food like well-fed goats, as if by staring up there, a thunderstorm will pay this blessed planet a visit that could give the ground a li'l heady shake.

But then, a mini twister came instead; whispering sweet lullabyes to the tender ears yearning for affection and you know it is from the little one's tricks, him whose line to the Almighty almost frees the tawdry notes on the side.

And you think of the unread verses by gods and the 80s band Fra Lippo Lippi whose name came from a Dylan Thomas poem. Here: Yolks turn me into a raving brainiac. Taught me to get in other lairs and have them stew in thy confessions. Hahahaha. Ah, plastic cups. I need those for my juices hon. I would hate being on the third slot also. :-)

It is that nasally overpowering band (its vocalist's pipes come not from the mouth; it comes out
through the nose).

My high school classmates worshipped this band then like they would My Melody Stickers.

I hate its vocalist's voice. It is lame, low, spiral, opaque.

On the second thought, I love the voice.

Now, let me take it back. I hate the voice.

Oh, I love the voice, now that I know better.

You flying mongrel! How could you do this to the recording industry? Very good, indeed!

You know the tune "Secrets, my big secrets."

You are truly worth MY worship. Numero Uno rocks.

PUBLIC DEBATE
By: Iris P. Concepcion

The three geat thinkers, Plato, Socrates and Aristotle carried their philosophies unto dwellings and open fields and like the oratorical pieces of today, they do suit me well.

I shall, however, whip my stick on the ignoble and the senseless. Everyone can dream; I never take that away from dreamers like myself.

But if yours is limited to middling name calling and needless arguments fit for the slums, need you please take your leave since I can always do it better (not arrogance; if you speak from the platform of truth, you shall always come out unscathed. I am a manufacturer of the f family)

If you speak from the stage without hypocrisy, the larynx just expands, enlarges and words just spill like several tongues of angels flew straight into your mouth.

It is not that my ear is discriminating. I did manage to listen to some ponkan trunks with no name, adlibs that still do not speak of issues (afraid of head-on verbal collisions on the thinking level---it is easier to manufacture trash when losing). But I am truly democratic. If I hear something funny, you shall land in this page without sweat. And I'll bring flowers to express that some stuff you do had made me laugh.

Say, they put a column where they celebrate their weeping (they always get whacked; karmic order of the Dalai Lama; that is the story so far). In their futile attempts to unsettle me, I like best those that think deep. Gutter trash makes me fall asleep. They seem to enjoy their tears. After my rabid rant, this writer at least conceded : "Hai, pirde na naman kita. Buwas naman e." (We lose again, we will try again tomorrow.) A kid with Gollum teeth dubbed my spiels as "Ma'am, ma'am". He thought I am lecturing.

And this woman who admitted to being really a maniac, at least, was forthright. Yes, Ma'am, that is 100% porn talk also. I am used to my imaginary kids' hilarious takes on their sexuality that your confession was almost anti-climactic.

Well, if you kind of shun my glibs, parry; my people do this daily thus, I am very familiar with my yardstick for excellence. Also, I have a boom mic with me. Do not infuriate him. He has a huge radar and body organ (they normally talk this way.)

I am used to their effervescent creations that is why I know from where I speak from.

Like how? I sang : "Cuckorucuckooooo!". Picking up from my nasal thread, I heard a flute playing that same tune minutes after. Fast.

You see, this is not entertainment. It is about picking up things fast and responding to it brilliantly. You must remember, I had been honed by the creators of marvel comics; even my sneezes are properly blocked and timed. It is difficult aping this mentor. He smirked at my brochure; I only realize now he wanted to barf into my stupid work.

When you find yourselves wondering what we are into, raid the art galleries; these are people who hate Powerpoint presentations with bleeding inks. In lieu of that, they do installation art.

And believe me, I can always shush anyone with a verse. Truer to myself.

I do something in a banca that is funny, my kids laugh on the other side of the planet. It is irksome. Hahahaha. I do something terrible, all my Dads (all corners) say: "Listen!" They are that infinite.

I do not mean to pick on the methods of learning being employed but once you interact with my people, be prepared not to blush nor blabber inane things. These are webmasters with enough holograms to clean your feet from mud.

Personal experience: my kids went out with the others (the deadmen stinking). These old cadavers always wonder after: "Why do they seem so fulfilled and content without having much?" You wanna fly; fly with them; you might just find your voice gone. Brazil kaputz. I pity the faces; they looked like they just got their gums pulled out.

I, too, can bitch and I have seen men close to tears because it is NOT falsities that I speak; they are guilty for their indiscretions. Chipmunk kid, what an awful ditty. Duet galore. Mentor asked: "Who is that?" I said: "Hahahahahahaha!"

Meanwhile, I am following the lead of my retarded kid: "Eat Mom, and engage them."

I do have some cool pics that I want to post here; helped out by the visualists.

P.S. :

I suggest "Sweet DeBUSsy." Classic Sexy. :-)

THE LAME SATTIRE
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I found somewhere in a rattan chair a letter written by a mother, long drawn out to perfection for her daughter. I saw this in a makeshift seaside by those who were caught yachting and cried: "Look we are truly the best option because we are clean." Enough of the tirades.

This is the gist of such missive:

"Dear daughter,

Had I not known the temperance and magnitude of your written confessions, I could get lost in the false, lame spins of people. It is not irksome; it is pathetic. They look like they just woke up from the cemetery to protect their gonads from shrinking. They must be so stressed out in their boiler rooms.

I know your skeletal framework; every nook and cranny of your life; your indiscretions and laments. You were aped by these plastic people and I laughed; I wish to throw them your real columns but how to argue with tailenders who are already spinning out of their own radars?

Ophelia said it correctly. You are tired of your good life; you will never come for Mayon for what will it serve but revert to the waste of the past? It is redundant. They ape miserably and they are gritting their teeth for still being pulled down by decency.

Need I really go to Palawan and swim in their own fortresses? Shall I bring them their attendance cards; them whose idea of office is giving their manicured feet pampering while houses still need to get built? Oh, how they parade their mistresses using their benefactors' loot! while you, daughter, was busy writing your own debacles, out in the public, transparent as your lingerie. You could not hide your imperfections; you divulge them. That is the link that binds you with your siblings.

Remember the day you went to Church with the youngest; he who had found a way to magnetize his ears when the chorale went off bounds? Their lame proxies could never spot why the thread is strong and why you are still on top, along with the quilt.

I have seen your pairings. You stood behind people. And had sneaked things in between in silent explanation. I know your every scar, the false crease on your face.

I saw you and the youngest trailing your Mom in a mall (both your hands clasped) amid some senseless shouts. You two always looked dorky.

Your older sister even cocooned the flower in one of the metropolis' eatery filled with slackers. Had I not fed you with my own milk, I might be lost too. But sadly, I am not.

I have never heard you deconstruct anyone to forward yourself. You are hit the hardest because you know the most. Just keep the thought: I believe you. Oh, the bastions of confusions they sow for me to distrust you. But the soil had been planted; I had sired you from the beginning.

I have heard and listened to the kids you had produced creatively (which them bitters likewise wanted to discredit). But I have interacted with them; these kids had greatly transformed; I saw who handled them. I am dumbfounded as to the source of intelligence this time around.

Hey, your retard brother must be doing something right to have brought out the wonderful demeanors in them.

You are loved.

By the way, I really know the youngest. Like you, he had been cloned but I know him. Life is Huge, according to my picture of him. His circle always remembers my stories. I know it when he is mad, it is always out in the open; it is not a put-on. He shares his upsized cups of sodas with the girls and when I asked the shared one why, she said: "It is cheaper!" He does simple things like cajoling your mother once to join Singles for Christ as a prank.

Thank you kids for giving your mother a kiss everytime she gets out from a frenzied rant. It always gets her goat. I know your real voices; you, daughter, sound like a Chipmunk when truly excited.

Even your good deeds are being shredded. But then; what have they shown for themselves? Barren fields? They could not even manufacture genuine fun.

Remember, the youngest always manages to utter "I DID THAT" when he is wrong but he never says "I DID THAT" when he does something right.

Where is your spot now daughter? That is a comfortable place. Give my hugs to your crazy brother; a pinch off the old block. His eyes kind of twinkle like his mother , don't you think?

Always,

Mother

ISAAC NEWTON (at St. Pierre de Boatie) ON THE THEORETICAL FRAMEWORK OF SATELLITE DISHES DONE A LA CARTE I.E., PEASANT PRESENTATION
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I was writing yesterday for a clincher to my sports piece (a dormant travelogue) and was informed in the process that Marie Croissant has 100 fathers. Never mind the headsplitting grammar. Of course I like my surrogate father in the slouching back form; and the goodlooking wavy-haired one. My other Dad who is strong and sturdy and exceptionally handsome has some pearl-keeping to do that is why he was not around. He is somewhere in Pakistan doing charity work at present.

Anyway, they gave out ribbons and Ms. Croissant got points for good behavior I think and some hilarious citation like The Most Gorgeous. Hihihihihihi said my cranium. Kinder stuff.

I suggest these other tags for tots:

The most well-shaped legs.
The best tweezed eyebrows.
The deepest buttonhole.
The most amazing hands(with 25 fingers, imagine)
The grinniest dimples.
The most delicious armpits.
The cleanest ears.
The best backbone.
The most salacious smile.
The most infectious smile (gee).

On the flipside, this list is better:

The most obnoxious.
The most hostile.
The most ridiculous.
The most hair in the body.
The most tattoed.
The most trying hard (cling hahehihohu, this is easy).
The dirtiest fingernails.
The loudest fart.
The most thunderbolt-lightning laugh.
The crookedest guffaw.

Anyway, back to the story of my title.

This Newton's story is simple. At least to me who has already eaten 1/3 of his cranium at this very second.

This kind of scientist does not talk much. I suggest the Philippine Science High School hire him as special envoy to applied physics.

Here:

He cut a particular staple (food) in white wire (this was truly exceptionally done). He lined up arrows (carved slippers, wood-shaped like plane cum banca) and my curiousity certainly appealed to my sense of inquisitiveness as I asked him pointblank: "What are these for?"

His answer bore the true hallmark of a galaxy herdsman(he looks like an Ondoy victim) that I thought for a moment, tripled the brows on my face.

It is astounding; his answer. I could feel it in my throat itching.

What is it? What is it? There goes the nagging question.

Relax. Let me describe his wares first.

Apart from a perfectly shaped rice (staple) formed like a dome which he cut perfectly and which he placed in a Star Trooper spaceship, submerged in water after, he had a tattered backpack filled with bottles. I asked my number two query: "What is that?"

To the first question, his answer had the fierce rigidity of Neil Armstrong. Remember I asked him : What are these? pointing at the things I first described here.

His reply, to my astonishment, could slap the wandering passersby, had they looked farther.

His croaky answer:

"Radar."

Holy freaking s***t. He said it without looking up. He placed the order of these things in greatly- colored formats. I saw that he placed the blue slipper-radar first. He is a an unnatural old dude with a verbally-challenged, one-word vocabulary. Intelligent design!

To the second query, about the submerged thing, he replied: "Taga".

I did not catch the vernacular. I think it means "bait" in English.

My God I said; no wonder his watchers could not fathom him. It is from this croaky scientist that I truly got my lesson.

Better than the book sketches. Maker of Spiderman In A Rare Scientific Performance.

Rock and Roll!

POEM I READ ON A TERRACE
By: Iris P. Concepcion

This was written by a poet, Ophelia Dimalanta who is quite a celestial sight at my University of Santo Tomas classroom in the '80s. I was under one of her classes but I doubt if she remembers me.

She was advising for Flame staffers then(this was exceptionally edited). This was printed in that student magazine in October 1984. This was her opening note:

"Driving through North Bay Boulevard, coming from the town proper of Navotas, one cannot miss the stench, and then, the sight: a mountain of garbage gathered through the years, its sides filled up with forlorn-looking shanties of all makes and patches."

I am just quoting a portion of the poem; it is quite long. It is about the Smoky Mountain, where comfortable houses should have been built. They could have seized it, transforming what it represented, where "urban rejects are ejected" ; but they'd rather play dumb in meetings when grilled by the head where the funds went.

I shall start from third stanza.I hope the writer wouldn't mind my quoting her here; but it is my bloodline pumping. People like her must be spoken about, written about, seen.

"here in north bay boulevard
of burnt up dreams.
where a mountain huffs and puffs.
for isn't it there is fire
where there is smoke?
you cannot miss it.
a special sign post points to it,
pointing fingers propped up
in the mounds of the mind.

unbelievable, they exclaim,
as they click away from a distance.
a virtual man-made mountain.
refuse-rise terraces of north bay.

no they will not come for mayon.
there is enough of beauty
where they'd been.
it is here they click away
at something long glossed over;
for the likes of them to gloat over.
unbelievable, shaking their heads.

yes, believe,that here
in this part of god's country
exists a part of the human race
in this elevated space of mounting
rage for anyone to sniff at
poverty's all year round resort
here it may claim a permanent leasehold.
here they may not be ejected.

and at a day's end
this one dump of a space
reaches out, phases out
into a sidereal scene,
upon one angry sky.
and here is etched
a coalition of mountain-blazing
and color-chaffering
quite something to remember
this country by.
as the rest of our own smoked away
bottom-heavy world
go fuming, smouldering by."

This is my argument for creativity that goes beyond time. It is timely. I own it as a personal lament against the hypocrisy of scribblers in some parts of the halls who would rather polish their Swiss Alps boots than own up to their misdeeds. I love Ophelia; she mentored students who remain great.I am friends with two of her wards and I enjoy reading and looking at their outputs.

It is in this campus too, that I attended a church service where I almost wept at the beauty of a beloved's sermon; where I am surrounded by my own. I know them; I see them; I feel them.

I take my word of one of the quilters:

"Mom, the kids are still ONE and they love each other."

I sleep better at night keeping this in mind.

Thank you Ophelia for your enduring words. You are better than the socialites in denial. I love you for your lettered voice.

SCHNEIDER TOPS 505
By: Iris P. Concepcion

David Hasselhoff comes to mind. Admit it. The torso, curly top, the fighting brows. Still at a loss? Oopppsss. Wrong program. I meant the car named Kitt. Knight Rider.

The gloss of my title, its purity and sleekness, catchy tag, that awesome number that defines selfhood of the first word. What are you thinking? Is this a space shuttle? A speeding vehicle? A blast from a retreating cyclone?

Actually, it is a ballpen's brand.

Yes, my ballpen. I normally write in longhand all the entries that I encode in this page. Less downtime. Also, I do not like to linger in front of the computer screen as I type (am paying hourly internet use) since it means paying more.

This ballpen, functional at its best, fills in my notebook without faltering and blinking as to give me a shadowy, blotted letter; it is essentially on top of its form.

Its seatmates are priced higher (incredulously tagged at 50%-60% steeper) in a nookie peopled by salesgirls who seem to be unkind to ballpens.

I almost dropped my dress when I saw its price. Less than ten pesos. Seven, I think, I could no longer recall.

God, redeemer of the world, they don't make ballpens like this anymore.

Remember the name, FAME! Schneider's gonna live forever, Schneider's gonna learn how to fly, NAME! (I am mixing up my lyrics).

You get the Irene Cara form of thought, do you?

As of now, it has serviced my 43-page writing menu tips which I copied from a recipe magazine featuring the Bacolod Boys. They are my new icons aside from the Backstreet Boys (they're so hot off the racks, literally). I likewise used it to write my daily notes, put my signatures on documents and likewise doubled as my teething gadget.

Negrense Hotties on the Board.

They're young, they're fresh, and they're giving sisigs a twist.

I love this ballpen. And guess what?

It loves me back.

(Note: That's how NOT to write an ad).

Try again:

I love this ballpen. It writes like a car.

No. I'll try again.

I love this ballpen. It is my teething gadget.

Worse.

How about:

I love my ballpen. Why? Because it is number One, stupid.

Never mind. At least it is better than the campaign posters I saw that could pass off as some Glutathione commercial.

I think I deserve a little pat on the back after surviving the rundown of miscalls from the ocean. I am finally where I am today and that is: "I love this ballpen!"

P.S.

Five years ago, I looked through a sculpted window and a skewer's fillet hologram appeared. The first time it gladdened me I said : "What the f*****k" while sleepily foot-paddling to my little urinal chamber.

After my amazement, I peed. And looked again if the facial hologram was still there. It was still grinning.

Then I slept. Do you wish to be me?

This is one of the perks I suppose to be me.

PARODY IN PARADISE
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I went to an island and originally thought of staying there for three hours. Dare we not see Madonna's ex in fly suit and a Green Hornet's sidekick----nahh, make it (Fantasy Island) Ricardo Montalban's, midget support driving. My boy still nuked frankienstein though with a cast fit for the gods.

It is a maze but you wouldn't understand this bit if you do not populate my universe.

It is not the middle. It is the beginning and the end that eventually mattered.

I decided to test its waters. Changed plan and decided to swim. Got a room (within a budget) and looked at the people.

There is something wrong with the picture.

Now:

I could not complain of the immaculate seashore and the teasing bancas and whatnot-------until I picked the portion of the lacking puzzle.It is the absence of connection.

People wading in water are so detached from Nature; they walk like frozen frisbees. They speak in malicious tongues. I simply listen, get the feel of the waves. Perhaps, in another set-up, they prefer walking with shopping bags. They seem to abhor the water they are dipping themselves unto.

Then:

I saw the most ridiculous trio of girls, dark as Africa, lean as miscast supermodels pass by my observing self and it is the best comedy of errors gone right. Finally, thy passionate muses of Salem's lot learned enough and walked MY talk. I have never been prouder of their transformation. Those are your most delectable selves; when you no longer pretend.

I also saw a super heavyweight girl in a two-piece number; her bikini is not bikini. It is mother's UNDERWEAR. Feel the gong! In white, with stitched butterfly. I shall give her a hundred per cent for sheer spunk. She reminds me so much of the girl with those rolling eyes.

Like the rest of the evening spent in mischief, I stayed all night musing over how the fan on my headboard could be used by giants in sweltering heat; I remembered the better other in another time capsule saying the most ridiculous things i.e. "Bakit kayo nagbubulyawan?" He is corny that way.

I felt detached too but remembering the one finely vocalized "SHUT UP" by him when someone gave me a bad holler (he almost choked; his cheeks widened; controlling his anger)---that is when I felt so loved.

Then: someone gave me free coffee in the morning. Small thing; but it made the parody well-placed.

Finally, my people are fighting back with class and I dare say, TRUE professionalism. They are learning from this corn and they too love the cob on it.

Hats' off.

RO GAIHI SA LIWAN OWA IT BATASAN
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Loosely translated, this means: Anyone who urinates outside has no manners.

It just sounds great, in intent and purpose, in the vernacular of my dear, departed father.

A friend told me I must be out of my wits (I am paraphrasing his lament) having ended up in his hometown-neighboring island at this time, but here, I saw some interesting destinations I had captured in my phone camera i.e.:

1. A cathedral with flat t.v. screens inside. These are in lieu of projectors for the singing portions in masses.

2. A long bygone period of mannequins dolled-up and displayed in glasses like what the old "sastres" would do. I had a pic of a woman "rebulto" in gold, shining bra.

3. Being served by a gracious waiter (gay) inside a restaurant with flourescents shaped like spaceships. I devoured the tastiest and most delicious "sisig" I've had in my whole life in this place. Its serving was huge. I had the remaining portion wrapped. I surprised the waiter with a glutton request of putting additional portions to my food loot. Gladly, he obliged with the whisper : "I added more"; meaning, it could be eaten by three additional people. That's the reason I could not name this hole-in-the-wall eating hide.

4. I bought pyjamas that come in three pieces at less than a hundred inside a mall that has the greatest male's emblem (in my book) on it. It is like my thrift shop but with an airconditioning unit.

5. I again walked, confident even without directions, following nothing but the yellow ribbons.

You do not realize how many galleries I need to pass to get this thread through.

But then, you just have to read it.

I am just thankful for the helping hands who had helped me out as I stride past the slashed points. I am gladdened by the recent turn-out of base pulsing and I see encouraging bursts of sunshine despite all the conditioning of wan-ness in this recent kaleidoscope.

Thank you.

PACQUIAO IS NUMERO UNO........AGAIN!!!!!
By: Iris P.Concepcion

I have lost my voice for a while but I gloat, addressed to the trying hard conehead.

Your fans are, at least, kissing via their foreheads. Nice pick-up.

But you are the loser and that cocky rooster of yours. Clottey blinked and never woke up. Thus this hearty:

Hahahahahahahhahahahahaha.

Eat my freaking shorts. You are so toast, burnt, gone. I have to seek permission if I can use your fragrance, but I think the better other would not mind.

You cannot stop the kaching/cash register from grinding. Look at the boxer's cheering gallery: You have not seen the best of beautiful girls you dirty, bad ice cream (irksome). Special shout-out to the girls of this winner's deep, passionate, gorgeous bench. One is the Daughter's Haven; the other, a Sister Act (thanks for the surprise pasaload of Ten Bucks. It is like a million to me---you wanted me to guess, there's your answer, flower power) Hehehe.

Let his punches do the talking.

There is a honey bunch lurking in every dinner and it is flying like a saucy rocket.

So do you believe, at least, for a moment, that you can strangle this boy's defense against a phalanx of senseless, loser's noise? Think again. He is no spendthrift. He designs women underpants like mother savior.

All he flashes is his grin and women swarm to his oversized, unsewed barong.

You get my point? It is all about breeding; it is all about using that breeding to good use.

Better still, it means only one word: HUMILITY.

Humility rocks. I should know.

He could bring kids inside vehicles and could kiss them like he would do his wifey. It is an original. Clever and funny. Gors The Terrible!

Clottey clotted and wilted like shitting on his huge, assy pants.

Did you see the gladiator shorts? It is better than Dan Aykroyd's comedy!

Pacquio could not help but................grin. Eat that weenies.

Smiley. That is my gift to 'ya all. :-)

FOOD FROM OUTER SPACE
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Stomach-bound food found its lineage from wash bins the size of flying saucers. It isn't just salad, it is kaboom, kapchaw, whoopack! SALAD. It isn't just spaghetti, it is blag, globo, kapchang!! SPAGHETTI.

There is something wrong with the surroundings. I have seen, in the litany of the Virgin Mary, the following off-kilter visages:

1. Long snout of a roasted pig.

2. Somewhat dehydrated male with only two-front teeth stuck in his gums; he looks like Bugs Bunny.

3. A dwarfish kid taking an issue on oranges. Funny spiel.

4. Hairy navels where uncut pub*** hair peeks out like horse's tail.

5. Electrocuted mane.

6. It is the 40's, the hair, the stick-up pomades; the infirm. Desolate looks.

7. Daughter should do a make-over to this place. Smiley!

I feel guilty having glowing skin (barring sunburn) and manicured feet when humanity is deboned in its state of unhappiness. I feel guilty atop my loft, viewing this seaside decay. I am a demon for keeping this grin on my face. But, the old people are really regal and graceful and sturdy.

Grin. Hey, Amphibian Roblado, kid walked on your turtleneck. Winter is stolen from down under hahahahaha. Join me in my quest for galaxy-based power.

Go to the National Museum, you forest. Look for the painting: "Revenge of Alejandro Locsin." It downs the Louvre.

ORPHAN IN PLANE AND MOTORBOAT
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I am in the middle island of Cyprus and I just confessed to a motorcycle driver that I am from Switzerland.

(Great opening line for a novel. Ah, all mine.)

Sounds fantastical?

Wait till you hear my actual Almost Famous experience.

Rode in a roller coaster airplane whose pilot hits a twang. I figured it is between a Mediterranean lilt and a Moroccan bongo. Whatever it is, I kept on laughing as my co-passengers coming from Turkey (I do not know; they are loud and proud, mighty and funny as hell. Kewl.) matched the sound system voice. They were bozos but with a right kind of buffoonery. They purposely made the stewardesses uncomfortable with their inane queries.

Everyone just shut up as the plane zigzagged(up, down, up, down) and they were hitting decibel-deafening larynx-volume, taking videos of people and the sky. I guess they were waiting for someone to barf. I was smiling like a rabbit to them and they acknowledged it with a language that only banjo-playing humans CANNOT decode. We are, like, close to bursting our glands but who cares? I am a person; they are persons, and we take the Earth by the neck's grip.

Luckily, I was stifling a yawn thinking, if I weren't such a recluse, I'd be loud like them.

On the ground prior, there was a bomb squad whom I fondly categorize as the burn squad. They sprawled over the alley metropolis in their colloquially-aped attires. Did I tell you, yes, you who reads this, that I love gays? Up in the clouds, superman troop on the loose.

By far, only an orphan like myself can appreciate how these men can totally outclass anyone who stands in their way, performance-wise.

Setting foot on the land, I hopped in a ferry motorboat. The day after, soaked in a beach with all my clothes on since raptures of the Brettian period cornered a cottage and was, gasp! waving his binocs at the Pacific and beyond. So Alex Garland. I was told someone died there. Such suspense and heat.

Anyhow, you prim as a goat's horns, how was your week so far?

P.S.

As if that is not enough, I just passed by a bum with beard who was drawing a totally lurid detail of a man and woman copulating. A bystander watches him, gives in to guffaws like he is just watching a porcupine de-horning himself. I went out; they look like criminals. Hahaha.

ON WALKING AND MUSEUMS
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Reader, have you ever cursed inside a museum because someone annotates stupid remarks about paintings that tell rather than shout?

Someone did. I simply read to him the following words:

"Naglalaho na ang panahon ng pamamadron sa Pilipinas. Hindi na humahantong sa kawalan ang mga gawa ng kaniyang mga dakilang anak sa tinubuang lupa. Nililisan na ng kusinang Oriyente ang kanyang sinapupunan. Ibinabadya ang bulas ng dakilang araw sa mga matitingkad na kulay at mala rosas na bukang liwayway."

Translation:

"The patriarchal era in the Philippines is waning. The deeds of her illustrious sons are no longer wasted away at home. The Oriental chrysalis is losing the cocoon.The morrow of a long day is announced in brilliant morning rose ."

I really love these writers.

I likewise showed the moron heckler the "El Golfo", a sad painting of a short, drunk man in ill-fitting hat which reminds me of an abusive person (he physically harms his women--personal tale) to explain the futility of bringing a bastard's act inside a place for pure celebration of creativity.

When they are losing by drops in alarming points despite their billions (hooo-choooo), they wager and wag their tails like terrible weenies. How else to explain that blatant, extreme, classless, uneducated intrusion? Oh how they weep in stilletos.

Hence, they were killed in a film and I simply laughed at the explanation of my foster father. He said: "Nobody humiliates my daughter in public!"

Being at the top is not lonely. It is an opportunity to whack these lowless buccaneers whose idea of art is going to spa for their hair wax.

I have not been to the National Museum in my entire life. I went inside its rooms with Abueva doorknobs ( with letters N and M) like a wide-eyed girl festooned in a surrounding of new absorption of the aesthetics.

Can I just say it is my first taste of immersed happiness? Oh, Dad, they directed me to other places, this terrible voice of hypocrisy, to ween me away from that massive mural but I simply followed your ribbons and my heart (I love it!!!!) where visual artists connected their artworks like the dotted comic books. Spaceships, the Virgin Mary, Superman, purpled number one finger. I marked the artists in my paper and vowed to elevate them to sainthood.

I think I was once the amour of Felipe Agoncillo (sniggers). He looks like a heartthrob.

There is a Christ who looks like Silent Bob and another one has a house visited by a financier of a summer stolen by spring.

I liked the Bone room where the skeleton of a Sperm Whale was displayed, similar to a dinosaur like the opening shots of Jurassic Park. Underneath it is a fish pattern. There was an elephant molar and chickens in their various stages. This is cute since in front of one chick are three little eggs. Go to that room and it will put a little smile on your face.

I would like to quote in portion, as parting shot, the following, in the Luna and Hidalgo exhibit:

"In uttering them, I believe I see two luminous arches that starting from both regions, are going to be entwined there alone, impelled by the feeling of common origins and from that height, unite two people with eternal bodies, two people that sea and space separate in vain, two people in which the seeds of dissension that men and their despotism blindly sow do not germinate."

Honey, there's your shout-out.

I almost cried reading these wonderful words. What did I tell you? A gem's a gem's a gem.

ETCETERA
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Envy is the root of all bad romances.

Guess what ponks, I am number ONE!

The Oscar was handed down while I am eating shark's fin from a little tea house of someone who can make all of you look super silly. Fast and furious face, the most luscious butt in town bested all behinds in this awesome butt-fest!

Guffaws, kisses, deliberate owling of eyes (your undies peeked out like a lunatic fired off from asylum---ewwww). Better other, in incognito chase with the partner, simply sat down and won the scepter.Groupies still need training; awful mention of your tagline. Harris my a**. Good-looking but with bad direction.Stop feigning tears, you weenie.

Now:

I am trying to keep my face straight but I did a brave thing. It is tough when you are looking for someone you want to tease your hair with while everyone in the universe pretends his phone does not exist. It is for my keeping but I desisted. I love endless suspense.I never realized I was once with weird people.

I am chasing a dream and I am going to get it. Paste the bill on the chair. Superior communique, ever.

Children round up, and they're all pretty cute and professional and magnificent.

HEAVEN SENT
By: Iris P. Concepcion

There is manna from heaven at the most ubiquitous of places.

One son of this mobile woman with superior taste nailed it rightly on the confessional box about having to enter entrances and exiting exits with ready tunes at the top of his lungs, not to say larynx, should he be boob-blocked (Aha! Reservoir genius, you appear tad and awful and brilliant--lose that Taliban attire; makes you look like a struggling extra). By the way, boob-blocked is the new dictionary term for "elbowing." It is not only sexy and edgy, it is superior-ly soft porn.

These terrible bunch of kids can sing like stallions of zephyr maniacs. They really do, but they sing exceptionally well that one should not complain. They are at their deadliest thoughts when they fall silent. Be forewarned.

What the mother is innately thanking, however, is the gorgeous presence of Silent Bob's walking mannequins, mute as fresh spring, when they pass. Virile, healthy, groomed, flecked and you certainly swear to God Almighty, maker of heaven as well as the Earth, that they would never ever let out a fart when they parade that robustness. Even old women sigh: "Ahhhhhhh, wow!! He's so hot!!!" I made this up. Snigger.

Of course, tacky clothes and several unmix and matches still rule and haunt the metropolis of sinners, an apocalypse of clothing apparel that reminds me of a doomed civilization of wanton excess.

I've been had on those racks too and became the recipient of guffaws. But underneath it all is a philosophical, Jungian subtext on the futility of bumping a fat man off an airplane just because of his weight. I already know the genesis, the raison d 'etre (spelling please) why fat and thin men alike in my galaxy got shoved.

Pray tell, the people peopling my world are all creepy wordsmiths. They can talk for 4,000 years non-stop barring ricefields, with one-word marvels that could make me securely sleep in wherever bunk I am camping in.I can do this without any fear of crawling, poisonous plants engulfing my muscled, lame legs.

THEY ARE TRULY FREAKINGLY FUNNY!!!!!!!

Suddenly, they got fed up with dictionaries or impressing their perspiring ascendant (can't you see they are secure with that love---look at their pink cheeks!!) Their equivalent of trash talk? Trash movements. One must be super intelligent to get the drift. How to fix this? Befriend Zafra.

I have to let it out: their concept of office is to take it outside. The office is not on the skycrapers. The office is the bus terminal, the airplane, roads and highways, the weird hole-in-the-wall junk shop. Lurking beyond the skies of prosperity are the toilers of the Earth, reminding everyone that a hero peeps out..............even in a snore.

Also a socially-relevant aspect of garments, I experienced yesterday. I am on a reverse mode, you get the feel of it.

I just saw the most ridiculous looking bra in the Milky Way. How huge? It could fill triple my fists and that is only half the boob; it looked lethal and contraband. My companion-friend (gave me sweets and a sun dress, bless her generous heart) pointed at an equally humongous blouse and she hilariously remarked: "That is the top for that giant bra." It is really massive. Like a T-Rex dinosaur could wear it.

Actually, this is a bra story. I likewise took a picture of a bag that's shaped like a brassiere. I said they could have placed buttons at the center as faux nipples.

It looks delicious. Bob is in love with the giant bra! Ha!

***************** I am writing this as an aside. "Give ME credit!" is this unmotowned boy's plea. He who had publicly humiliated my leg warmers as lame is now teaching me the rudiments of good manners. From where you speak of, pestilence and invectives are thrown at this writer by the people you navigate around in high esteem. You sound respectably good in paragraphs but fail miserably in live action. I do not mind the bickering. It is your choice.

Also, the better other wouldn't like me messing around people's wardrobe and writing about strangers (I haven't rubbed your stubble and that makes you a stranger) but I speak of from that diner's request for affirmation. You are a friend of the weird one, language wise. Caveat: I do not hate you. Intiendes?

We are not really friends, that is number one.

Secondly:

Undermining my clique does not work. That is my motto numero uno .

Thirdly, I have no beef with you since your Mom likewise dozed off in your "singing impressario" stint and that made her one of my own, at least in my inner self's pond of favored people. I love her because she had sired a good writing son who just couldn't help looking like a geek-dork once thrown unto the belly of fishes. Yes, I laughed at that too because I could laserbeam your secret desire to be with us in our "laughing at the nipple brassiere" moments. I feel your hands reaching out. It breaks my heart that I could not extend mine in moments of reprieve. You even wore a baller that you know could weaken my knees convictionally (as props).

But you see, I know you are a genuine ponkan. Enter hahahahaha. Let us not kid ourselves, shall we? Nonetheless, your tweak of a friend keeps on hacking my pages that is why I simply leave.

I truly am confused with the alterations you had imposed upon yourself: you can't do breakdancing--your cheeks widen like dough when you do the head flip. What else? I am confused with WHO you are. You donned a literatti back hairdo (tightened) as homage to a favorite writer of mine. Fat suits do not make you fat; they make you a walking blimp.

An advice: train your groupies to hit the shout-out lines with grace. When I am alighting from a jeepney, they should not holler your persona label when I am already receding, adorning as shadow to a light post. It doesn't get its desired effect in terms of memory retention.

Also, they must speak well because the number one spot (the better other) can deliver like he could detonize any word-battleship. In between bible-quoting spiels, he even manages to include a line meant for bedroom calisthenics without sounding like a loser. You must attend his flock. Hear what exactly I am talking about. He is so hot! There.

And your book is quite, candidly, topsy turvy in all fronts. It is so bad it reads so good. A son of mine (here I go again) exactly filmed the same style of deconstruction. Bad setting, lousy acting, you name all the bad stuff in the universe----- but it made me laugh my warmers off. I like the appearance of wizards straight from the crying men's drama sessions. I think you are one confused son-of -a -gun. Even your blurbs say so.

You see, I do not hate you. At all. Better other simply brushes off, in that loving way of his: "Why is that. That's from mestiso's."

Believe me, his comment made me LAUGH!!! Do not belittle him or I'll cut your head off.

Joke.

Canine
By: A Dutch Filmmaker named Iris Anderbilt

Someone told me my handwriting is horrible. I answered with this quotation. By myself, of course:
_________________________(insert my name) has an IMPECCABLE HANDWRITING!!! prowess. It flies like a bird; it soars like a kite; it is the best you'll ever see in this whole goddamn universe!!!"

On with this entry.

The herein subject picture in real downtime playing module is actually sleeping, with occassional hiccups breaking his slumber underneath my hooded sweater and bag. The bed he is on is where I am bunking at this moment.

This dog is in eternal fetal position like all dogs do. Usually that is. But when the song "Can't Help Falling In Love With You" (remade by Corey Hart in the 80's wearing his sunglasses at night--this version has Tom Jones' baritone) ) was on (see picture number 3), he just flipped over and experienced this frog stance.

The dog (I will just call him that) is a pitbull. When he is awake, he opens closets and provides verbal addendums (aaarrrrrrggghhhh, the canine way) to the music.

Don't you see it, you folks babbling about how to live, live, live. Right now, I phoo any intelligence that does not on the sideline, entertain. Don't you see the promise, the blazing designs flanked in between buildings of sad sacks? Have you seen the hilarious mimicry of foolishness , the senseless travelling without tact as if you haven't taught mud to real life mudders? Have you seen what our young had been doing during night time when we are all glossing our hair in guilt? They are busy building social-welfare dispensing buses. That is not intellect? Damn the bastards who think otherwise. They, simply, DO. Even my million paragraphs could not rebutt that. It is a parody with social, wow, relevance!

My foster father in the 80's was looking for a place to anoint her daughter's field. Perhaps, with a cry in his heart (he hates the faux metropolis buzz; he prefers the dilapidated roofs where he can tie his salt and pepper hair in imaginary braids) but I bought him to these goofs who are done with their opulent lifestyles---I think he is loving it like a penguin would an eyebrow---hahahahahahaha---no connection). I am glad he took notice (like all knowing and giving fathers would) of my preferences, food and surroundings, and just bought my passion right within the heart of pulsing beat. He taught me about compromise without giving up my core.

Back to the dog. Daily, he assumes different dog personas. Right now, he stepped on a book (picture number one), lovingly I would insert, to diffuse tension (titled "An Arsonist's Guide To Writers' Homes In New England"). I saw it as an invitation to a footstep, commanding me to read the pages fast. I started at the center, moving backward , then forward. Normally, I may be halfway done browsing this. Somehow my reading pattern is still blatantly curious. Who cares if I read it that way. I will think like how this dog would.

Last time I heard, he is running as President in his dogland.

Hehe.