That shoutout I recently posted concerning the ramifications of voting for FPJ got me thinking about this whole fiasco-in-the-making. Not in a political sense, mind you, because I honestly believe that we will be no better or worse regardless of who the next president is. (*Dons trusty flame-retardant suit*)

Actually this post is about idiots. Not the idiots who will undoubtedly be voting for FPJ very soon, mind you. But the idiots who think they aren’t idiots simply because they’re voting for someone else. This whole situation seems to have devolved into a bright, shining opportunity for people (who aren’t geniuses by any unit of measurement) to brandish their smarter-than-thou paraphernalia in the face of everyone who disagrees with them on who the rightful president is. (Actually, that right there is a misnomer, because according to the constitution, the “rightful president” is the one who gets the most votes. Such are the pitfalls of living in a democracy I suppose.)

One of the comments over at the shoutbox reads: “If FPJ gets the presidency, that goes to show you that majority of Filipinos ARE STUPID!!!!”

Hello, we don’t need people to vote for FPJ to prove their stupidity. It’s an uncontested fact that a majority of humans in general are stupid to begin with (the average adult IQ is 90, for goodness sake), so IQ isn’t the deciding factor here at all. What are you, stupid or something?

I think the position of “president” is very similar to that of a teen pop diva. You have a gazillion people working under you, writing your songs, producing your videos, marketing your merchandise, managing your finances, and really, all you have to do is hold that smile for your fans. Certainly you have to have a modicum of talent (winning at “Star in a Million” sure helps), but after that, it becomes less about hard work and more about appearances.

The catch of course, is that when you say something stupid like “Pat Benatar” when you actually meant “Joan Jett” (as ol’ Britney did when asked about the original singer of “I Love Rock N’ Roll”), people fall all over themselves for a lynchin’.

And so it will go, when FPJ assumes the proverbial throne. Every couple of weeks, he’ll say something moronic like “JMA” when speaking of the former president, and it’ll be laughed at during talkshows, cartooned to death in the news, and be the subject of many a forum thread. Not that this actually has anything to do with running the country, but people can’t help picking at prominent figures. It’s in our silly, naive nature to expect well-known people to be perfect and whenever we see a small hint of a less-than-godlike persona, we riot.

The point here is that life sucks, and debating over who the next scapegoat will be for that inherent suckiness is a futile exercise. We’re all small, petty and tragically uninformed, and switching administrations won’t change that at all.

An interesting opinion piece on FPJ and why you should vote for him. To be honest, I never even bothered to register as a voter. My stand on the whole election thing in decidedly Pilate-esque (as in, “I wash my hands of you”).

Help these poor girls get bigger breasts. Donate now! (link sent in by psalm)

Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules for Writers. I like Rule No. 3 and 4, and do so solemnly swear to never write this way again.

After 8 years of educating newbie and veteran webdesigners alike, Webmonkey has finally decided to pull the plug. I’m feeling particularly sentimental about this particular news bite because this was the site that I learned the fundamentals of ASP and PHP from. Granted, I could’ve gotten the same knowledge from any number of other sites, but Webmonkey did it with the sort of style and wit that you almost never see these days. Fare thee well, o cyber-simian.

Oh, and here’s an interesting Australian search engine that might just be the next big thing. I love the “star-burst” concept, but it’ll take awhile before people can start weaning themselves off of Google I think.

Well whadda you know. It’s Valentines.

Justin Timberlake rips Janet Jackson’s clothes off, then apologizes (link sent in by nyx).

Sounds like the start of a bad joke, but yesterday did find me driving down Roxas Blvd again, after successfully avoiding the place (i.e., the entire city of Manila) for well over 2 months. I’ve always disliked Manila; it’s more a lack of familiarity than anything else, but honest to God, every time I set foot in that city I expect to be harassed in some way. It’s never actually happened, but I’ve never lost that tingly, spider-sense feeling either, and so I steer as far away as possible from Quezon Blvd., P. Burgos, etc.

Nevertheless, it was on this blistering Monday that I found myself at Traders Hotel along Roxas Blvd. I had just come from a lunch meeting with a Korean who had seen my portfolio online and wanted a book designed. After spending 5 minutes backing out of the narrowest parking area you have ever fucking seen (I could literally reach out and pat the bumpers of the parked cars as I passed them), I was anxious to get home. I hated this place, goddammit.

Naturally, as soon as I got back on to Roxas, I found myself stuck in a traffic jam. It was just after 2 in the afternoon but there it was, nevertheless. Anyone who’s been stuck in a Philippine traffic jam knows how this works: your engine idles for 3 minutes, you see the traffic light in the distance turn green, you crawl forward a few feet. Wash, rinse, repeat. And so it went for several minutes. My mind began to wander, as I coaxed the car forward 5 meters, and I barely register the greasy beggar crossing the street two lanes away on my right. My car comes to a stop, blocking his path. Of course, I don’t think anything of it because I was expecting him to go around the car, like any self-respecting jay-walker would. Not this guy, though.

I hear a dull thud, and see that he has slammed right into my window on the shotgun side. There’s a bit of drool where his face connected with the glass, and my front windshield is covered in this white substance. For a moment I actually think that the fucker has vomited on the car, but I look closer and see that it’s actually old rice. When he picks himself up, I see that he was carrying a styro with food he had probably found in some garbage bin. I cannot imagine why he didn’t see my car in front of him, but when he peers in at me, I understand why: he’s only got one eye. He doesn’t have all that many teeth either, for that matter. His styro had been crushed and he was holding it to his chest like a dead pet. He was breathing pretty hard. Saliva is foaming out of his mouth and reaching for the concrete like steaming mozzarella.

We stare at each other for a long time.

The car behind me starts honking and I have to move forward again, this time almost a hundred meters or so. In the rearview mirror, I can see him running after me, weaving in and out of the moving cars. For a moment I am amazed at the sheer absurdity of the situation: I was being chased through traffic by a guy with no depth perception.

I look again, and can’t spot him, and for a moment, I think he’s gone. My stomach does a belly flop when I finally see him again, now two cars in front, looking in the windows. When he gets to my car, he recognizes me instantly. He’s close enough that I can see every detail of his face. He says, “Pagkain to o.” (This is food.)

He holds up the crushed container. In his other hand I see that he had time to pick up a rock. I couldn’t tell if his fingers were deformed or just so ragged that they didn’t look human. He leaned in closer, saying it again, “Pagkain to o.”

I get the distinct impression that this guy is mad. He leans a bit closer every time he says his line, the rock-wielding hand gets a little bit higher.

I am fucking dumbstruck. Around me, people are rolling down their windows and gawking. I can’t stop thinking, Oh Jesus, this car is a month old, how am I gonna explain a broken window to my folks.

There’s no way I’m talking my way out of this one, I know. Without the achingly-thin, fragile window between us, I was dead. I didn’t know what to do.

I kept looking around, but no one was making a move. It isn’t very often that a one-eyed psycho’d smash a car window and brutally maim the hapless geek inside over spilled rice, and I guess they were expecting a show.

And then, I saw it. Huge in my rearview, the bold red words SILUP. It was one of those big converted Revos, with sirens on the top and mayors’ names stenciled on the side. A sunburned face with a gargantuan pair of Raybans poked out of the side of the truck. He yelled, “Huy!”

One-eye looked up, sheepishly. I guess even psychos recognize the coppers. He said it again, walking towards the cop now, “Pagkain to o.”

I could hear the cop cursing, chasing him away. I let out a breath, my first one in over a minute it seemed. I saw the car in front of me start moving, and slammed the car into Drive.

I’d never been so glad to see the police in my life.