Just a couple of weeks since Pope Francis ‘Lolo Kiko’ left things have been going great.
At the Congressional hearing on the MRT fare hikes, the guy ramming them through the already choking throats of the train-riding public admitted that the fare increases were unnecessary, to say the least, because the rehab monies were available all this time but that they ended up on some greasy hands. But no worry,, the funds have been snatched back and lo! like magic the needed parts for repairs and maintenance came rolling in and it’s all snag-free systems go!
The exasperating kilometric commuter lines are still there but never mind there are no more increases in pamasahe to eat on meager money to buy something meager to survive the day. Everybody smiling from ear to ear to cheap smooth train rides.
Down the road, bus, jeepney and taxi drivers and all those behind the wheels of private vehicles are not anymore turning or entering where they are not allowed to; not anymore beating traffic lights, not anymore whimsically picking up/unloading passengers. Everybody obeying traffic rules, observing courtesies on the road.
No more pricey lawyers rushing to the defense of richie Maserati men. No more blue boys posted at street corners like early birds catching early worms.
Rows and rows of spanking new houses lined up in Tacloban and other areas devastated by Yolanda and succeeding howlers. It’s as if the merry little helpers of Santa Claus came to town and worked triple overtime to put up not just flimsy tents and rickety bunkhouses but real, sturdy, permanent homes fit for humans to live in.
The warehouses of the lady with the red streak of hair opened up and out came mountains of Spam, corned beef, cans of sardines, noodles , rice and other food items. The gargantuan CCT golden egg was broken and out came also mountains of cash one can never get to have his hands on in a thousand lifetimes. Wags say the cash and the goods are for giving-away sometime in 2016, typhoon or no typhoon, but now are being distributed to all, both to those obeisant to the yellow god or just plain poor folks really in need of help.
The ‘dawn deal’ between the ‘brilliant’ native and the’ smart’ foreigner found its way at the bottom of the wastebasket – marked ‘Not so fast, boy!’ – in the chamber of the remaining bastion of sanity hereabouts, the Supreme Court, and where preside the truly more brilliant and smart magistrates of the land.
Last heard of, the pair who thought they can pull a mega fast one, were spotted somewhere in the planet peddling their hocus-pocus election machines.
The ‘People of the Year’ trio’ proclaimed by a broadsheet known for its hacienda-sized headlines, got down to business this time. The’kahindik-hindik’ lady turned upside down all the drawers of her filing cabinets. She screamed ‘kahindik-hindik!,’ and meant it this time, as she almost drowned in the sea of documents showing lootings of peoples’ money the way invaders of yore sacked villages.
And as a result, the OBM lady suddenly has her hands full going after big time plunderers, not just small-time, barya-barya operations by some obscure factotums. Ah, the lady who regularly dishes out such ‘illuminating’ pronouncements such as there is no chain of command in the PNP, is now, thank God, shunning the kleiglights. Her pashima is now off her shoulders and wrapped around her eyes like that of the blindfolded lady who is the symbol of fair dispensation of justice.
The Bangsamoro peace talks, ill-crafted on the sly with a clandestine meeting and initial pay-off in a foreign land, steamrolled with a pair of Stockholm Syndrome-afflicted textbook negotiators not well-versed on the reality on the ground giving in to every thing their hard-nosed, savvy counterparts across the negotiating table wanted. Unbelievably large chunks of land and almost all of the riches that can be extracted from them. Powers and rights over these lands that are not theirs in the first place, even in their wildest dreams. Plus continuing allocations of billions to sweeten and seal the deal.
All these obscene huge amounts in the name of ‘peace’ to a miniscule group that does not even represent a majority of their community.
All these mammoth concessions given in the name of ‘peace’ to a fractious group who can’t even maintain, much less attain, peace for and among themselves.
The so-called peace agreement would have had a smooth sailing had not Somebody Up There, who loves us so much, come down once more, as he has done so many times before, to right a wrong. Yes, what befell the SAF 44 was tragic and heartbreaking but the brutal slayings laid bare an agreement being touted to bring peace – that don’t stand a Chinaman’s chance – for what it is. A lopsided deal. A nauseating sell-out. A sick ruse just to satisfy one’s obsession to have his face land on the cover of Time magazine.
Against the predictable finger-pointing and stonewalling rose a million, no, millions that brought back the glorious memory of gatherings of the same magnitude weeks back. But the throngs now were uttering a name other than that of ‘Lolo Kiko.” And their voices not anymore joyous in reverence and awe but shrill in anger and frustration.
Fast forward to a compound of a penal colony in the South famous for its dancing inmates. Very soon, ah, but here they are now – the new dancing inmates filling up, even overflowing, the compound, their yellow, not orange, prison garbs glittering in the sun that has never shone this bright before. As if in celebration and for the whole world to see that finally…
And look! There’s the duo – who may have seen thicker hair days – who are the authors of ‘looting in good faith’ fame and behind them their abettors. Oh, how they huff and puff, overfed that they are, prancing to the beat of a Tito Puente salsa tune, one-two-three, one-two-three. Whatta sight! Bi-yu-ti-ful!
Then I woke up.
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