By: Iris P. Concepcion
One of the rascal-retards had shown over some moony-covered days to ditch the technological gadgets of communication and rely on my gut. Somehow the unique satellite formations loiter miraculously as they provide visual linkages that had been fattened more in substance than mere flash talk.
I had fun utilizing these newfound foodie spectacles lately. People I do not know had shut up the old harrowing skeptics of the untwirled world. I do not know up to what extent we have now managed the language of Godzilla and the Norton anthology of visual apparitions. Sometimes, I simply find myself laughing over quirks of men who are so pun-filled and flat-emotioned that I learn combative science from them. I think we have reached Level 11 already.
There is a leg without toes running to atrocious money squirts this side of the universe. The running gag here is upfront and condemnable to a degree of hilarity. There is a carnival going on in the creative department that slices months into days.
As I said, we use our telephones for radio, our television sets for washing clothes and we definitely use the loo to watch the stars above winking down on people who had well, transgressed and wanted to be worshipped.
Well, we worship them: that half-trodden path of double cheeseburgers and galaxy heroes scaling down sanity, good taste and pop culture to just, below 18 pesos.