And for those who are woefully unaware of her existence, please remember that you will be damned to watch an eternal loop of Kris Aquino’s entire run on Game Ka Na Ba until you pick your brains out of your nose. But if you plead for forgiveness now to the omnipotence that is Jessica, you will only be made to watch an eternal loop of Edu Manzano dancing the “papaya” on Game Ka Na Ba. Her omnipotence first materialized during the heathen Backstreet Boy ‘90s when she began spewing bile in her weekly column “Twisted” (which appeared in the Today newspaper, now the Manila Standard Today); she followed this up by terrorizing Manila with manananggals, indoctrinating those of lesser wills by co-hosting the television show Points Of View on Studio 23, managing the biggest El Bimbos, D’Eraserheads, for all of four months, outlining her blueprint for World Domination in her eight-issue-long magazine Flip, vacationing in hell and being unceremoniously deported back to earth for fear that she might shift the balance of power and, finally and most importantly, judging cat shows.   

I daresay that there would be no abnormal brain growth sufficient enough to produce my very own column without previous exposure to her omnipotence’s radioactive bile back in the early ‘90s. And though I tread on blasphemy, I would like to think of myself as a spawn of “Twisted.” In fact, I find my whole body of work to be shamefully derivative of her body of “Twisted” work. Consider these parallels. She speaks of world domination, I speak of being dominated by my yaya. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and I am a gladly suffering fool.   She talks about her three cats Saffy, Mat and Koosie, and I talk about my three amorphous female readers, whose names cannot be revealed publicly because of a court order. She has a strange compulsion to pull the hair on her scalp: I have a strange feeling that my body is eating away at the hair on my scalp. Will my sniveling attempts at flattery secure for me the position of Boss Chief of Yayas in her new world order? Or will I just be puréed into another flavor of cat food with orange pulp bits?

Back in the ‘90s, when I still had a niggling showbiz career by way of hawking carbonated oranges, I excitedly dragged my yaya to join me as a guest on the earliest iteration of Jessica’s Twisted morning radio show (when it was still on NU107). When I entered the studio and first beheld her gloriously cynical countenance, I had to tie my panties (that’s what my yaya calls underwear) into a knot to prevent myself from regressing into an effusive, salivating groupie who wanted to be ridiculed by her omnipotence in the most incendiary way possible if only to boast that “I didn’t just get put down, I got put down by Jessica Zafra!” This privilege would be right up there with being a blind item on The Buzz. Then I’d know that I’d made it in the annals of Pinoy pop culture. While I was on the show, I was mortified that if I missyllabicated, mispronounced a word, or made a grammatical faux pas, she would unsheathe a knife hidden in her glasses and turn my tongue into steak tartar. Which she would then use to feed Saffy, Mat and Koosie, of course.

So when Her Omnipotence asked, nay commanded, me to review her newest compilation of columns, Twisted 8, I took it to be a great honor to salivate all over her preview copy and write her praises worthy of a North Korean bureaucrat to Kim Jong-Il. And her omnipotence doesn’t disappoint. And, of course, she never disappoints (please don’t hurt me, Jessica.  My fiancée will kill me. Again.). 

Twisted 8 is like being privy to Jessica’s stream of consciousness, except that in her case the stream has been replaced by molten lava. She is in her best form as our resident rant-conteur, which she does this time around with a bit more aplomb, a bit more snark and a bit more hydrochloric acid. As we peruse the pages, we are reminded that we are not just her readers, we are her minions. Take heed of her panty-twisting revelations, and you may yet be spared from a future of being turned into kitty litter.     

Things I have learned about World Domination from reading Twisted 8:

1. Jessica Zafra owns the world (as if you didn’t know already). And cats own Jessica Zafra. And just to make this point clearer than catnip, Jessica relates that when she was leaving for the  US, her cats suffered separation anxiety and ended up peeing on her suitcase. (Now, you don’t want to know who pees on my suitcase when I leave the country.)

2. Jessica has simple dreams for world domination. These consist of winning Wimbledon, writing a novel, bagging a Pulitzer, seducing Colin Farrell and then dumping him right after, and finally and single-handedly ending all conflict in the world. I have had similar dreams. Except for winning Wimbledon.

3. Jessica actually likes fools. She likes to eviscerate them, pulp them and turn them into fodder for her writing. Be thankful if you grace her writing as you will be immortalized as a smudge of ink.   

4. Jessica doesn’t think that all of us are lesser mortals. Even you deserve praise — as long as you are Andre Agassi, Maria Sharapova, James Blake  Andy Roddick, Marat Safin, Rafael Nadal or Roger Federer (especially if you are Roger Federer), Colin Farrell and the late Italian painter Caravaggio. Or if you are a cat. (I’m sorry, Sting, she has spiritually divorced you. You can now enjoy your six-hour-long orgasms all by yourself.)

5. Jessica is the Alpha Geek. She is the geek that all aspire to become. She is articulate, well-read and sports the ultimate in atomic-proof horn-rimmed glasses. Me? I’m a pretend geek. All I have is an encyclopedic knowledge of all the superheroes in DC Comics and a vast library of ‘80s porn (which will soon be excommunicated by my fiancée). I can only ever aspire to be one-eighth the geek she is. But her omnipotence plans to remedy this by making sure that all her minions read one book a week by eliminating television from their daily schedule. But I’m not sure if I could live without Oprah. (Or, God help me, Kris Aquino.)    

6. Jessica wants us to recycle. Our omnipotence has masterfully conceived of a way that combines our current obsession with celebrities with the popularity of liposuction into an entrepreneurial venture that even Joey Concepcion will fear. For the non-Buzz watching members of the reading public, celebrities now openly endorse and discuss liposuction as part of their beauty regimen. But why simply toss away their greasy blobs of fat as hospital waste — when these are greasy blobs of famous people? Why let all that celebrity waste go to waste when you can make a tidy profit from selling bottles of pickled celebrity fat and display it in your living rooms, next to your framed picture of “The Last Supper”? As you parade your guests around your vinyl-wrapped couches, you can brag, “Look, that’s the bilbil of (blank for reasons of libel) in Patikim ng  Patatas  Mo? And those were the thighs of (blank for reasons of childhood adulation) in Bagets 3: Sobrang Bigat Na. Sigh… those greasy blobs of fat really bring back memories.” Hey, you can even mix and match your favorite greasy blobs of fat, congeal them in one jar and create your own favorite imaginary love team.  

7. Jessica plays with tongues. Our would-be world conqueror moonlights in the stimulating profession of writing English subtitles for Tagalog movies, a profession that all literature majors aspire to do aside from telemarketing (Hey, we’re channeling Jessica Zafra, okay? A sense of irony is a prerequisite). And the truly captivating nature of this raket includes the reshaping of idiomatic expressions into their English counterparts without losing the richness of their meaning. And aside from the word balato, the biggest challenge so far was the translation of the word (ahem, ahem) kepyas — a word that repeatedly appears in my collection of DVDs. How do we artfully capture the idiosyncrasy, the nuance and the sheer kalaswaan of that word into the English language? Only Our Omnipotence can weave her globe-trotting magic on such words and master even more challenging movie titles like Umaga na nang Hinugot (imaginary movie title, courtesy of Jessica, not me.   Promise.) 

8. Jessica does not fall in love, she becomes romantically afflicted (or inflicted, whatever is more painful). Romance is nothing more than a bunch of annoying chemicals demanding that she replicate. However, our beloved cat-lover is not without her feminine wiles. Although rarely used, Jessica does have “girl powers,” but they only seem to work outside of the Philippines. If her girl powers are used here, it might cause a small-scale nuclear explosion. She learned of this ability during a visit to the Sundance Festival in Utah.   The trick, according to her omnipotence, is a) to speak very rapidly, preferably in an octave higher than normal (it is the same squeaky high-pitched voice used by Kris Aquino and Mahal) and b) to make your eyes as big and round as possible (it is the same wide-eyed look that we see in Angelina Jolie and the sexually androgynous Tweety). We hear that  Utah is still recovering from the devastation.    

9. Jessica is not a language expert. She concedes that honor to the cunning wordsmith and language provocateur that is Melanie “Do not judge my brother, he is not a book” Marquez. But hot on the hells, I mean, hot on the heels of our favorite Placenta endorser is first runner-up Cesar Montano who used this soon-to-be classic line referring to one of the movies he directed, “Essential yung eksena, so dapat tantamount yung level niya.” But now, we come to the practical application of this term. Try to pepper your daily conversation with variations on this Montano-ism. For example, “Is your T-shirt tantamount to your pants?” or “Is your soft drink tantamount to your fries?” or “Is Brazil tantamount to the Philippines?” (An in-joke for the tsismoso in you.)

10. Jessica has discovered the true purpose of tsinelas. Whether Havaianas or Sunbeach sandals, her inner Alpha Geek discovered that tsinelas are very good for two things: to wear in the shower and to kill cockroaches. And Jessica is the Buffy (or in Pinoyspeak the Enteng Kabisote) of Cockroach slayers. Tsinelas are the only reliable cockroach-termination weapon. In fact, she has officially decided that cockroach-slaying would be her greatest contribution to the benefit of humanity. (I am now officially worried about my reincarnation.)

11. Jessica wants to hurt you, ‘80s style. If you continue to annoy Jessica by breathing, she will personally mail to you a copy of D’Jeepney driver’s greatest hits — songs from Queen, Abba, the Scorpions and (God forbid) Nazareth. Jessica wants you to relive the moving torture she experienced in the ‘80s as being bombarded by  Nazareth’s walang kamatayang Love Hurts (Editor: It’s actually a ‘70s remake of a 1960 Everly Brothers song). And just to make the torture more exquisite, she will throw in Starship’s We Built This City several hundred times. (Have mercy on the children.)

12. And finally, in Jessica’s new world order, you have nothing to be worried about. As long as you are a cat. Or Roger Federer.   

In the end, we are glad that Jessica continues to write a column and a blog documenting her rantings. Jessica’s musings reveal to all of my three female readers what we already know about ourselves: in our mundane little lives, we can always be left a little bit mangled, a little bit misshapen, and a little bit twisted.   

And we need Jessica to keep on writing. Not only because her writing has contributed to our collective cynicism. Not only because she wields irony like a weapon of mass destruction.  And not only because her writing is a subliminal form of hypnosis preparing us for alien invasion. No, because if Jessica does not keep on writing what she writes, she may just go postal and kill us all. In other words, mag-aamok siya. 

And what she cannot take down with her prose, she will take down with a well-hurled pair of tsinelas. And her three cats. 

Post-script: According to a rather ardent blogger who describes himself as a bibliophile who dreams of world domination (I am not sure if Jessica is aware of this), I am a China-produced clone of Jessica Zafra.  How right you are my friend, how right you are.

From Bendz of http://bendzg.com/2008/08/21/bibliophilic-orgy-cebu/

His book, a compilation of news paper columns of some softdrink endorser in the early eighties who’s trying hard to sound like Jessica Zafra (just like someone I know…). It’s more of a trash than a book. I think I was drunk when I brought that book to the counter as i would never shell out 5 dollars for a piece of literary crap. I could have just read a Dean Koonts, who’s literary prowess is equal to that of a pothead. (Now someone would loathe RJ Ledesma with me.)

* * *

Twisted 8 is now available at National Bookstore and soon at Powerbooks. Her previous Twisted collections and her other books are still in print and available wherever would-be world conquerors perpetuate mind control. She continues to espouse pan-galactic domination on her blog  www.jessicarulestheuniverse.com and has a Friday column in The Philippine STAR called “Emotional Weather Report.”

(originally published in Philippine Star on January 16, 2008)

So there we were, last place starters on the Samsung Innov8 Race, armed only with a good insurance policy, empty bladders and Amazing Race Asia’s Rovilson (or his prison nickname “Rovi”) Fernandez’s crumbling ego.  Our four man team, composed of a Samsung representative, a cell phone dealer, a good-looking member of the press and a scalp-deficient celebrity, were off on an eight part race where each consecutive task grew exponentially difficult: take pictures using our Samsung cell phone, perform a series of tai-chi movements, scurry up a fifty-foot high wall, drive three laps down a championship race course, explain the concept of double insertions to the Senate minority, overthrow the administration, bring about world peace, and watch an eighteen hour DVD of The Best of Kris Aquino’s game show hostings.   

There were three things that would propel us to victory in this contest: an intimate knowledge of Metro Manila’s eskinitas, a mutant ability to interface with the Samsung Innovate i8510 cell phone and the bile-forming fear that we would lose to our evil counterparts, those two whose names should be uttered only if you want to induce loose bowel movement: STAR columnist JR “good things come in small packages” Isaac and the Jon “my package is bigger than your package” Hall.  

For our team, this was a chance to each score a free i8510.  But it was much more for the geographically-illiterate Rovi: this was his chance for redemption from his lackluster Amazing Race Asia finish behind a well-groomed of Singaporean gymrats and a team of perky Malaysian mestizas (Rovi’s strategy: If you can’t beat them, make one of them your girlfriend). He was determined that we would be the first team zipping away from the starting line until my mutant ability to urinate every thirty minutes forced our team to make a last minute detour to the restroom. 

“You guys are a bunch of wimps!” Rovi wailed as we squeezed into the pick up.  “This never happened to Marc and I when were on The Amazing Race Asia! We did what we real men do and wore adult diapers!” Rovi folded his arms and started talking to himself. “Do you think you could do that Jon Hall! Do you!  All you can do is use your pectorals to crush chestnuts!”

“Uhm, Rovi, do you any last minute advice for us before we zoom off?” I asked.  “Should have a game plan? Should we pack extra underwear?  Should we have last rites?  Should we replace you with Marc Nelson?” 

“The most important thing in this race is,” Rovi cleared his throat, “To think of witty banter with your partner so you get more face time when they edit the show for tv. Or just cuss a lot.  Remember – controversy equals ratings!  Now let’s go speed racer!”

GO, GO SPEED RACER

For our three female readers who want to risk trauma, dignity and scalp exposure in a reality tv-inspired show race, here are a couple of our uninsured tips:

1.      It is best to have a driver who is a theoretical physicist.  Our driver believed that counterflow, tailgaiting and, most importantly, a red light – were all theoretical concepts.  Once we figured out that our first task was to find the quickest route from The Peninsula Hotel in Makati to Rajah Sulayman in Manila, we plowed through several orange cones, cement barriers and MMDA representatives.  We drove so fast that I think we left my testicles behind along the stretch of Roxas Boulevard.  However, speed alone is not enough when you might potentially lose to your imperfect duplicates JR and Jon.  Careening down Metro Manila streets on warp drive means that you will possibly break the law.  And to be able to break the law effectively, you need to enlist the assistance of law enforcement.  Note the proper way of how to go about it.  

“Bulag ba kayo (Are you blind)!?”   barked the portly MMDA traffic enforcer who had more chins than Chinatown, “Can’t you see this is a one-way street!?”  

“Sir, sir, ok lang yan (Sir, sir, it’s all ok).” I smirked.  We’re celebrities competing in a reality tv show inspired race. May k kami (We’ve got the power).”

“At may k akong ilubog kayong lahat sa pink urinal (And I have the power to dunk all of you in the pink urinals).” The MMDA representative grunted, “Saan yung lisensya ng driver ninyo (Where’s the license of your driver)?” he motioned with his fingers. 

“’Di mo ba ako naaalala (Don’t you remember who I am)!?” I was aghast.   “Ako yung sa Royal Tru-Orange noon? (I was the one from Royal Tru-Orange before)” the enforcer scratched his head (of course I am sure he merely feigned ignorance).

“Ikaw ba yung softdrink machine na nagiging robot (Are you the softdrink machine that turns into a robot)?” he sneered.

“Ako si Joey (I’m Joey)!” I growled while whipping out my wallet sized reproductions of all my fifteen commercials, three posters, and newspaper articles to refresh his memory.   

The MMDA enforcer was about to put his batuta to good use when Rovi interrupted.  “Officer, don’t you know who I am?” he mugged a smile.  “I’m the reason why the Philippines lost in the Amazing Race Season Two?”

The enforcer’s face lit up like a congressman who just got his pork barrel. “Woooowww, seerrr!!” he shrieked and clapped his hands.  “Mas-kyut ka pala sa personal.  Pahengeng awtograp (You’re cuter in person. Can I have your autograph)!”

Two minutes later, we were racing down Roxas Boulevard with a bevy of MMDA escort vehicles helping us wang-wang our way through traffic.  Despite being sardine-tight inside our pick up, our sumo-sized traffic enforcer insisted that he sit beside Rovi for the duration of our trip. “Bosing, baka pwede mo akong batiin sa teevee?” (Boss, can you greet me on tv?)” he giggled while gently sliding his arm around Rovi’s waist.  “At pa-keeees naman jan (And can I have a kiss).”  Rovi clenched his teeth. “This never happened to Marc and I when we were on the Amazing Race Asia.” he sighed.

Because of Rovi’s tongue-in-cheek sacrifice, we were the first ones to arrive at Rajah Sulayman. We bounced out of the vehicle to start our first challenge while we left Rovi inside the pick up to gargle with lighter fluid. And by the time Rovi had emptied the contents of the car deodorant into his mouth, we had completed our first picture-taking challenge on the i8510. 

“Take that Singapore!” Rovi raised his fist in his defiance while we received our next clue. When we zipped away from Rajah Sulayman, we spied the arrival of our imagined arch-rivals JR and John at the stop.  “And take that Jon Hall.” Rovi muttered under his breath.  “Your underwear contract is mine, b&*^%.”

2.      Hey Peydro, hows my Tagalog?  Although the featured mugshots of Sam Milby, Will Devaugh and Mo Twister appear on the Most Wanted posters for the atrocities they have committed against the national language, my name and Rovi’s name have managed to sneak into the poster as repeat offenders.  We have been guilty of mangling the vernacular beyond recognition, so much so that anybody within hearing range of us when we speak Tagalog have their heads spontaneously explode.  Among the many crimes perpetrated against the language include invented Tagalization, sentence and grammatical de-construction, misplaced inflection and enunciation, and, the most horrible of them all, vowel pronunciation.  Witness a crime in progress:

Still giddy from breezing through our first challenge and with only a hint of the MMDA enforcer’s smell on his breath, Rovi and I struggled to decipher the directions of our next stop. 

“Where the hell is this Taylo street!” Rovi screeched. “You guys are such race amateurs!  This never happened to Marc and I when we were on The Amazing Race Asia.” He folded his arms, closed his eyes and lifted his nose. 

I elbowed Rovi on the nose.  “The cell phone’s global positioning system (GPS) says that there are three possible locations for Taylo in Makati.” I continued to fiddle with the cell phone.  “There are two Taylo streets and one Taylor street.  Maybe the GPS does not understand the concept of an eskinita?”

“We’ve asked several tricycle drivers and they have no clue where that street is!?” Rovi ranted “All they did was ask for my autograph and a beso-beso on the cheek!”  he said while suppressing a grin.

“Rovi, maybe the organizers made a mistake we’re supposed to look for a Taylor street?”

After fifteen minutes of driving around aimlessly and giving away free autographs to tricycle drivers, we were forced to make a pitstop at a neighborhood police station.  Rovi and I were initially reluctant to enter the station because the only times we have ever been inside one was when we were asked to join a police line up.

“Officer, alam nyo ba kung saan ang Taylo (Officer, do you know where Taylo street is)?”

“Ano (What)?” he was visibly annoyed that we had interrupted him from completing his Sudoku puzzle.

“Tay-low.” I enunciated.   

The officer furrowed his brows, “Jay-Low?”  

Dear Lord in heaven, help me because I want to decapitate a police officer. “Hindi po. Tay-low (No, sir.  It’s Tay-low).”

“Niloloko mo ba ako (Are you making fun of me)?” The cop’s nose flared. “Baka naman yung hinanahap mo ay Tay-lo (Maybe you are looking for Tay-lo)?”

“Tay-lo?”

“Tay-lo yan, hindi yan Tay-Low. Para ka namang ‘kano kung magsalita (It’s Tay-lo, not Tay-low.  You’re pronouncing it like an American)!” The officer rolled his eyes “Yung tamang pagbigkas ng ‘a’ sa ‘Tay’ ay hindi parang play.  Ang tamang pagbigkas ng ‘a’ sa ‘Tay’ ay parang patay.” (The right way to pronounce the ‘a’ in ‘Tay’ is not like how you pronounce it in play.  The right way to pronounce the ‘a’ in’Tay’ is like how you pronounce patay)

Patay kang bata ka.  (Uhm, you’re a dead child)

“Ipaplantsa mo nga yung dila mo (Get your tongue ironed out)!” the cop pursed his lips and used it to point left, “Doon lang yung Taylo (Taylo’s just over there).”

I bit my tongue in disdain while Rovi punched his fist against the wall.  “Damn you Jon Hall!  Damn you!”  After that impromptu grammar session, we tried to dash out of the police station.  But the officer grabbed ahold of Rovi’s disproportionately large right forearm.  “Huy, kalbo (Hey bald man)!” he sniggered, “Pa-keeees naman jan (I think you know what this means already)!” Rovi dropped his head.  “This never happened to Marc and I when we were in the Amazing Race Asia.”

And just like most US investment banks, everything went downhill for our team from there.

Our loose vowel movement had done its damage.  When we finally arrived at the second stop, our egos evaporated when we discovered that our team had dropped to fourth place.  And despite how many times Rovi had to give mouth to mouth to law enforcers, despite the number of times we had to explain that there was nothing anomalous about double insertions, and despite watching eighteen hours worth of Kris Aquino, we never regained our first place standing.  By the time we had clawed our way to the last leg of the race, there was a mad scramble between three teams for second place finish.  Which, incidentally, leads me to the last tip on how to lose with dignity on a reality tv show inspired race:

3.      When in doubt, protest.  It happens in beauty contests, it happens in national elections, and it happens in jack en poy:  We Pinoys never really lose.  We just get cheated out of our victory. And we re-lived this proud tradition when the other teams wanted to urinate on, what appeared to be, our second-place finish.  Some of them complained to the organizers that we had not yet completed one task before moving on to the next one, some of them complained that I had left my testicles along the stretch of Roxas Boulevard, and some even had the gall to complain that Rovi and I should be arrested for acts of lasciviousness during the course of the race. How dare they accuse us of acting!  If they have any complaints, I say tell those teams to elevate their complaints to the Comelec. I’m sure the Comelec will render a fair and impartial decision by the time that we have grandchildren. 

In the end, the anti-Christs JR Isaac and Jon Hall clinched first place in the race.  Congratulations JR and Jon!  You deserve the first prize as much as GMA deserves the presidency.  Meanwhile, our team ended up in third place.  “Oh well.  At least I’m consistent.”  Rovi sighed “But your underwear contract will be mine one day, Jon Hall.”  

But even with our third place finish, the lower ranked teams persisted with their complaints.  One of the teams even accused us of doping.  “Look,” I fumed. “We weren’t doping!  I know that Rovi has a disproportionately large right forearm.” Then I whispered loudly, “But is it his fault that he was single for such a long time!?”

Hay naku, don’t those lower ranking teams realize that they didn’t lose to doping?  They just lost to a couple of dopes.