JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

This is me, livid. You can tell I am thermonuclear with rage because I am smiling but my teeth are not showing. If my teeth are showing, it is a real smile. This smile says, “I am going to dismember you and feed the chunks to your children.” Yes, I am going to go Titus Andronicus on your ass, and I don’t care that you don’t know what a Titus Andronicus is.

I am catatonic with fury because not only has my schedule been disrupted by my futile attempts in the last 12 hours to connect to the Internet using a prepaid Globe Tattoo portable broadband gadget, but a total of P430 which I loaded onto the Globe Tattoo prepaid SIM has disappeared into the ether. Which leads to the inescapable conclusion: GLOBE TATTOO PREPAID IS A WORTHLESS PIECE OF CRAP.

I had intended to review the Globe Tattoo Prepaid in my Gadgets column on Sunday, but blogging is faster and I do not have to wait three days to say that GLOBE TATTOO PREPAID IS A WORTHLESS PIECE OF CRAP. Do I sound unnaturally calm? I always sound too calm when I am incensed, my voice drops an octave, and I talk twice as fast as I usually do, which is FAST. Unlike the slow, inefficient, unreliable, and now thieving GLOBE TATTOO PREPAID, A WORTHLESS PIECE OF CRAP.

From the time I acquired a mobile phone five years ago I have been a postpaid subscriber. This is my first experience with a prepaid SIM, and I say to you prepaid mobile users: You’re getting screwed. We postpaid subscribers don’t get billed until we’ve used the service, and if the service fails we do not get charged. You have to pay before you get the service, and if you don’t get the service, the provider is not compelled to address the problem because hey, they’ve already taken your money. Whoopee-doo.

Consider this little experiment. The SIM of the GLOBE TATTOO PREPAID, THAT USELESS PIECE OF CRAP, could connect to the Internet easily enough, but its speed did not exceed 2 kbps. The unit still had a load of P100, which I know because I saved all the confirmation texts and balance reports. On the chance that the prepaid SIM was damaged, I took it out and replaced it with the postpaid SIM from my phone. Holy Cannoli, it worked perfectly. It achieved speeds I never knew were possible on GLOBE TATTOO PREPAID, THAT USELESS PIECE OF CRAP. Hmmm. Postpaid, fast. Prepaid, so slow as to be nonexistent. Draw your conclusion.

I know how these problems are always solved. You complain to someone you know high up in the Globe hierarchy, and the problem goes away. It is as if the problem never occurred, everyone is charming, and Jaime Augusto Zobel de Ayala will say, “Hey, how about that new Stieg Larsson book.” Guess what, I am not calling the overlords. This is not about friendship. Globe, you’re going to deal with me as a consumer. A very loud consumer. I blog every single day, and I enjoy it. For starters, explain to me how the balance on my GLOBE TATTOO PREPAID, THAT USELESS PIECE OF CRAP, can go from P308 to P142 in 12 minutes of surfing at 0.00 kbps, and where the P100 from last night went. Now.

This entry was NOT POSTED USING A GLOBE TATTOO PREPAID because GLOBE TATTOO PREPAID IS A USELESS PIECE OF CRAP.

Photos from What are we doing to our planet? in Ohlala.

What have we learned from the cataclysm of this weekend, besides the speed at which our lives can turn into a schlocky Roland Emmerich movie?

We have learned that when it comes to matters of life and death, we cannot count on the national government. (Local government units did the best they could, but they needed help from the national government.) If we cannot count on the government to deliver basic services or rescue our citizens in times of calamity, and we stopped expecting official honesty and integrity years ago, what exactly is government for? (First official to say, “But we weren’t expecting something that bad” needs a little Marikina-Cainta flood waterboarding.)

We have learned that disaster strikes all demographics and that famous people can also sit on the roof awaiting rescue, but as always it is the poor who suffer the most. We have learned that everyone who’s anyone blathers on about saving the environment, fighting climate change, and not using plastic bags, but all that amounts to is a pool of drool that only makes the floodwaters rise.

We have seen where our taxes went. . .no, where the hell did they go? We have learned that mobile phones are a convenience in ‘normal’ times but we cannot count on them working When We Really Need Them. The fucking signal just goes pffft.

The main lesson is: We’re going to have to save ourselves.

The Good Ideas Forum was canceled due to cataclysm but we can still use our heads. 1. Now that we know how fast and how bad the situation can get, every barangay needs to have a disaster preparedness program. For starters, every barangay needs to have those rubber boats.

My grocery chores done, I walked to the taxi stop to catch a ride home. As I approached the door leading to the taxi stop, a heavyset man darted in front of me, barely avoiding a collision, and parked himself in front of the queue. Since there was no one else standing in line, there really was no need for the person to cut in front of me. (Bakit siya sumisingit, e wala namang pila?)

I gather this. . .queue-jumper. . .did it for the sheer pleasure of annoying total strangers, or maybe he was in the habit of racing people to the taxi stop. Usually it is best to leave such individuals alone—perhaps he needs this split-second sense of triumph (“Nakaisa”) to make up for the general misery of his daily existence.

It could also be a case of what my friend calls “utak-gutom”, famine mentality, the feeling that if one does not hurry up and take whatever he can, there will be nothing left for him. “Parang mauubusan”. (Do you ever observe how people behave at buffet restaurants? It is a subject worthy of the National Geographic. Note the diners who, though clearly neither destitute nor starving, heap their plates with food then leave most of their meal untouched. That’s utak-gutom.)

Emily Postal at the taxi queue in Emotional Weather Report, today in the Star.

On my way to UP for the premiere of Kinatay I received a text joke.

‘Carlo Caparas named National Artist for Visual Arts and Film.’

Hahahahaha, I replied.

Then I remembered where I am.

I’m in the Philippines where the bizarre is ordinary and the ordinary is bizarre.

So I checked. It is not a joke. It is the Ultimate WhattheFuck.

All this week I’ve been blue for no particular reason. I thought I was depressed. This news snapped me right out of whatever funk I was in. My non-problems are nothing compared to this Cosmic Absurdity.

So thank you, Malacanang. You have banished my ennui and replaced it with full-blown Insanity.

Art is Shit. Shit is Art. Mediocrity is Excellence. To quote the bomba star Stella Strada’s suicide note, It’s a crazy planets!

*****

Our friend Noel Orosa is returning to Manila Friday after a year in KL. Hey Noel, Carlo Caparas is a National Artist now. Welcome home, bitch.

Blame it on the Mee Grob. I wanted something different from my usual lunch so I ordered the mee grob. Didn’t realize there was so much tofu in it and I hate tofu. There I was trying to avoid the tofu in the noodles when there was a sudden blast of noise.

Someone was playing Air Supply in my presence.

I would rather hear an orchestra of flatulent trolls farting the complete discography of Paula Abdul than hear anything by Air Supply. That noise polluter had to be eradicated. I looked around to see the source of the horror—it was emanating from one of the cars displayed in the hallway. A salesperson had gotten into the car, turned up the radio, and was headbanging to an Air Supply song. How it is possible to headbang to Air Supply I have no idea, but this person was doing it and he seemed extremely pleased with himself.

I sat there chewing crispy noodles, thinking, Maybe it’ll stop. It didn’t. Do I live and let live? Do I sit idly by while this creature vaporizes all unprotected brains within a 1-km radius? Will I allow this troglodyte to unleash this atrocity on the entire populace? Hell no!

I went up to the sales staff and said, “Could you turn that down. Nakakairita.” It was couched as a request, but it clearly did not end in a question mark or offer the possibility of a negative answer. Use The Voice.

Instantly, silence.

In employing The Voice I took inspiration from Armida Siguion Reyna, whom I’d run into a half-hour earlier. She must be pushing 80 and she looks terrific. She was wearing an ornate metallic headband low on her forehead. “Tita Midz,” I said, “What a lovely headband.” She said, “Masakit lang minsan kung mali ang kapit.” (It hurts sometimes when it’s put on the wrong way.)

We all have our favorite Armida stories. If you type her name using predictive spelling, the program tries to change the spelling to “Armada”, which is also correct. I once saw her on a talk show where the host said, “Tita Midz, you look so young! What’s your secret?” She quickly replied, “Nagpa-facelift ako.”

Tita Midz is the master at not taking guff from anyone. There’s the story of the immigration official who asked her, “Why do you come to New York every six months?” Her riposte: “Because I’m rich.”

You and your friends are going to the movies. You’re already at the mall, so you decide to buy the tickets right there instead of getting them online.

You line up at the box-office. The next screening of the movie you want to see starts in twenty minutes, but there’s just one couple ahead of you in the queue, so there should be no problem.

That’s what you think.

They’re clinging tightly to each other like survivors of a shipwreck washed up on an island and surrounded by predators waiting to snatch their precious mates, but that’s none of your business.

When the ticket-seller asks them which movie they intend to see, they respond by asking her what movies are showing. The marquee is in their faces and there are posters marked “Now Showing” in the lobby, but apparently these unfortunate people never learned to read. The ticket-seller rattles off the titles of the movies. They ask her to repeat them. Then they ask her who’s starring in each movie, and what the movie is about. They discuss the movies among themselves, including reviews they’ve read on the Internet, and the opinions expressed by people who have seen the movies.

This takes five minutes. You can fidget and clear your throat all you want, but they will not be moved.

Finally they reach a decision as to which movie they will see. Oh, happy day! Now you can get your tickets…

They look at the screening schedules and confer as to which time would be most convenient for them. What about the 4pm, he asks. I want to go shopping first, she replies. But we’re expected at 7pm, he reminds her. They discuss their mealtimes, weekend itineraries, shopping lists and so on. It is way more information than the ticket-seller or you, the hapless people in line behind them, can possibly need.

You are losing your patience, but you restrain yourself; you politely mention to them that your movie is about to start and suggest that they either pick up the pace or allow you to get your tickets while they are mulling over their new proof of Fermat’s theorem. If they heard you, they give no indication; their total lack of consideration for other humans (plus monstrous sense of entitlement) protects them like a force field. In the end they do what indecisive twerps have done through the ages. They call her mother and make her choose the time. Calloo, callay!

Now comes the real challenge: selecting the seats. They look at the diagram on the screen, then refer to the printed version, but their faces are void of comprehension. They may as well be taking a calculus exam. Which side is the screen on again? Do the X’s mean the seats are taken or not? She wants a seat in the back because she gets headaches at the movies, but he’s forgotten his glasses so he needs to sit close to the screen…

A millisecond before you go Christian Bale on them, they conclude the transaction and wander off to the refreshments stand, where they will infuriate several dozen more people. You and your friends get to your movie ten seconds into the opening credits. You have missed the trailers.

From Cracked: The Eight Customers Everyone Hates.