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.