I miss the Love Bug. The little beetle at least chirped a happy song with psychedelic abandon. And she'd chug and chug for miles with a just a lil slick of oil. Now we've got road monsters that people kill for. And racy coupes to make up for the lack of luvin'.
Turns out, Ms. Porsche's the least of our problems. At least, the hot babe's sometime driver doesn’t off folk; some car collectors' gals end up very dead.
We got to drive off them devils. So we got to do another extravaganza. A dozen chopped heads should do the trick.
Go, call the maker of “Chicago”. Tour him around and show him our glam crime bosses who strut as gorgeous dames cling -- or imagine themselves as gorgeous dames. Designer handbags and tortured designer shoes, designer dusters. One doo-doo-wop-wop needed to complete our musical. Bekimon, go duet with that Dominguez moll on the perils of leveling up. And while at it, jive with a judge or two to the tune of Bail-Out Rock.
The Engineer’s got nothing on Raymond; he and a certain golden boy can warble a ballad on the finer points of love and leather. You want exotic? We’ve got exotic! Somalia’s got nothing on Manila!
Pretty boys go up in flames. Buses go boom. The sweet, sweet smell of dynamite. Priests firing guns, cops hiding goons. A Liberian haunts our airport; gatekeepers out-ghoul the ghouls. A man spends 24 hours perched on a bridge and another twitches in a necklace doused with gas. Cops like red, soldiers prefer white and yellow’s what you call that tub of lard conveniently scarce these days.
On the brighter side, we’re moving up; hah, the cost of murdering a journalist just zoomed from P10,000 to P150,000. Lady Progress smiling, though maybe only for Palawan with its oil and honey.
Well, I ain’t got a Porsche, ain’t got a Lexus, ain’t got no entrée to gay society. All I want is to duck and live long enough to cuddle with my pup. And now they roll out the latest ditty: Letting Sleeping Dogs Lie in Your Bed Can Kill You.
Sleep well, peeps!
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