Imee. Came out and said hers is a family of “drug addicts.” Then Bongbong. He waited days. Days! “The lady on TV is not my sister.” I was waiting, waited, for the next line: “I am not your President.” And, honestly, it would’ve made more sense.
Did Bongbong check her barcode? You know the one. The ancient VHS conspiracy, older than NAIA, older than Imelda’s shoes, that Imee, the daughter who brought the family back to the ballot, is a Marcos in name only and perhaps in warranty.
Please. The chin alone is premium Marcos steel, forged during martial law and certified “shockproof” against satire.
This is the stuff conspirators live for. Who hoot, holler. “The urban legend is alive!”
Legend has it Bongbong died in London years ago, in a bar fight, and that the man in the chair is not the man in charge: “Maybe Liza Marcos.” “Maybe Martin Romualdez.”
Look. You give Bongbong any crisis and he melts down with the emotional range of a refrigerator.
The monotony of Bongbong while the country burns. He wobbles with the same words every single time. “Unity, unity, unity” How many times can a guy say unity? Too many. Sounds like a machine, OK? A beautiful machine. But a machine nonetheless. Top‑of‑the‑line.
Every time he says “unity” I swear I hear the gears turning. Or maybe that’s just my tinnitus, which, by the way, is getting worse with this administration.
No human being says “unity” 9,000 times unless it’s hard‑coded into the wiring. And when the country is chaotic and the President is calm, someone unplugged the emotions.
You’ve got a head of state whose actual head appears stuck in place and whose jaw looks powered by a motor that can’t keep up with the internet. And if the eyes are still and only the mouth is moving, someone else is living the life you think you elected.
Bongbong said he’s very angry. Heartless anger. As if anger can be deposited into the mouth and mechanically chewed, sideways, before being swallowed. You think anger is in the heart? It’s in the jaw: “A‑a‑la-aaa-lamano.” I slammed the table: “See!? He’s buffering. He’s buffering. Glitch! That’s Windows 95 trying to open Microsoft Word!” Possibly low battery. Replace immediately.
If Bongbong can dissociate from his own sister on live TV, he can dissociate from any disaster in this country. And, thus, here we are, aching for a President who can “fail.” But what stares back at us is the utter absence of a beating heart.
Conscience flinch. Apologize, bleed a little in the snafu. Robots?
Delicadeza, Bongbong said; everyone in his Cabinet must practice it. Everyone must bow, apologize, gracefully, obediently, in their exits, except him, the word never touches the President, never pierces the skin, never disturbs his schedule.
He repeats the same words, the same Cabinet motions, the calibrated cadence, as though admitting administrative mistakes were a virus that would short-circuit his system.
A man who cannot stumble cannot teach a nation to rise.