Mang Robert, gusto mo nang balut?

Posted on Jan 27 1999

Hey, pare, ako ay kababayan!

Please excuse me if that phrase wasn’t spelled correctly. Yes, friends, I need a Tagalog tutor right away, please. You see, I’ve just found out I’m Filipino.

So is my esteemed publisher John DelRosario Jr.

Also my colleague Charles Reyes Jr.

I’m pretty miffed at Charles, come to think of it. Last time we had a few brews together I was trying to practice my Tagalog a bit with the waitress. Charles, being Filipino, would obviously be fluent in one or two dialects, but he professed ignorance of the language.

Not only did it come as a shock that I’m Filipino when I’ve thought I was just American white trash all these years, but now I’m afraid of being deported from Saipan.

Don’t believe me? I don’t blame you. But if you read the San Francisco Chronicle’s January 22 edition, you would have been treated to the following lies, courtesy of a Mr. Robert Collier, who must be the most incompetent oaf to have ever touched a keyboard.

“The two daily (Saipan) newspapers–one of which is owned by (Willie) Tan–are staffed exclusively by Filipinos on one-year, renewable contracts. Like the garment workers, hotel workers, housekeepers and myriad other foreigners, these imported journalists must practice self-censorship for fear of being deported.”

The article is entitled “Saipan Workers Describe Slavery of Sweatshops. They say American Dream turned into nightmare.” Oh, Robert, I’m impressed with that dream/nightmare phrase. How clever.

You want a nightmare? If any attorneys in Saipan look into a libel case, the Chronicle is going to be losing quite a bit of sleep. It’s plainly a smear job, and one where the facts are obviously wrong.

You want another nightmare? Drop by my office, Robert, and tell me to my face I’m engaged in “self-censorship” because Mr. Tan will have me deported. That’s such a farce, a lie, and a smear that your teeth will soon be rolling across my floor like Chicklets. Sorry, sport, solid foods will be out of the question then, but if I am in a merciful mood I will share some of my balut with you. Or perhaps I’ll just administer the balut in suppository form, which, come to think of it, is probably a recreational trend in San Francisco.

Hey, Robert chose to live there, for reasons that we can only speculate on.

Which isn’t the point, but with all the crazy nastiness we’re up against we must contemplate these tangents in order to find the total truth. 1999 will be the year of the weird; it’s still only January and the freaks are already cranked up into high gear. Much nervous chatter is turning into static all over the island. Bad craziness is circulating. Degenerates and filthy perverts are trying to steal my balut to use for their own unspeakable purposes. Aye naku!

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