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. 

After my three part column on nude modeling (which was banned in several districts of Manila, in family planning centers, and in all-female colleges) I thought I had my fill on naked men to last me until the end of days.  

But then came along the Bench Denim and Underwear show (Although I don’t think people trooped to Araneta to gape at denim).

Another Bench underwear show, another painful rejection by Ben Chan to show off the fruits of my loom with the rest of the civilized world.  Doesn’t Tito Ben realize that I have done everything legally permissible under the anti-terror laws to be part of this flesh fest!?  Despite the write-in campaign of my three female readers, despite exposing myself to select employees of Bench as they exited their head office, and despite having my DOM chuwariwaps detain both Piolo Pascual and John Lloyd Cruz at the Adonis KTV on Quezon City so I could take their places on the runway that evening (Yeah, I’m man enough to replace both of them.  Walang kokontra.), but Bench can’t seem to forget about the last temporary restraining order they had issued against me two years ago.   

Despite the TRO, Bench management was still magnanimous enough to give me and my wife patron seat tickets so that we could be close enough to see the baby oil glisten on the stretch marks of the models. I suspect, though, that they also sent my wife a ticket just so that she could restrain me from streaking onto the stage and showing off my political statement.

“Do I need to pump you full of horse tranquilizers like I did two years ago?” my wife said as she lovingly cuffed my hands.  “Or will you behave this time around?”

“No need, jail warden of my heart.” I winced back.  “I already know what to expect.”

For the men who are Bench underwear show virgins, you might be laboring under the impression that this uber-event is a cleavage carnival.  Well, yes!  It is a fiesta cleavage carnival.  Especially if you want your fiesta filled with gratuitous cleavage exposure from women.  And men.  (I just lost my DOM readers right there)  As for me, I have grown resigned to the fact that the instant gratification that comes with seeing young nubile females strutting down the catwalk in their well-crafted silicone is overcome by the instant consequence of seeing young nubile men strutting down the catwalk with their well-sculpted derrieres.    

Bench always manages to put up an underwear show that is full of pomp, full of spectacle and full of fantasy. I haven’t seen a show this unbelievable since the President’s last State of the Nation Address.  Unlike the previous underwear show that thrust us back into the time of jeproks, bad trips and Annie Batungbakal, this show thrust us into parallel universe that is better appreciated after taking in some post-modern Philosophy courses, some German Opera and some mild hallucinogens.  So despite my subtle aversion to and seething jealousy of well-sculpted male derrieres, there are still ways to enjoy the Bench underwear show without feeling violated. Allow me to be your heterosexual guide to a parallel world where there is no fat, no shame and no outer garments. 

 HOW TO ENJOY MALES IN UNDERWEAR WITHOUT EVEN CRYING

 To avoid psychological counseling, drag your significant other with you to the show.  If she loves you, she will tell exactly you when to cover your eyes and when to open them again.  Remember, her precise timing is key to a healthy mental state.  If you accidentally open your eyes to gawk at Rafael Rossel exposing the fruits of his loom, this can lead to bangungot, regurgitated meals and issues of inadequacy.  However, if you have a loving wife like mine, who has wanted sweet revenge on me ever since her first unapproved cameo in this column, then she will wait until the last possible second for a well-endowed male model to thrust his Brazilian wax in my face.  Not even sticking hot pokers in your eyes will erase that thrust from memory. 

If you have to look at men in underwear, try to distract yourself.  Me, I like to wrap barbed wire around my thighs as a form of self-mortification.  But if you don’t have any spare barbed wire, you can always replace mortification with anger. I get angry when I see well-oiled men with defined musculature wearing underwear two sizes too small, unfairly bloating their disproportionate anatomy to a packed audience.  “Damn them!” I thought, “I could have been the one exposing my disproportionate anatomy at them!”  I was so angry that I even had to remind my wife as she blinded Zanjoe Marudo with several hundred photos.  “Nothing is for real in showbiz, sweetheart.  So please refrain from making any mental comparisons.”

Think of the Bench underwear show as a reflection of the state of our country’s economy.  The spiraling oil prices have taken its toll even on our fashion industry: You can tell by just how much the male underwear has shrunk in size since the last Bench show.  If this event is any indication of how well our economy will fare under GMA, then during the 2010 Bench show, we will have underwear the size of dental floss.  God save us from hernia.  And if our underwear can be ravaged in this fashion, If our underwear will be ravaged in this fashion, what more of our clothes!?  Will we all soon become reluctant exhibitionists?  But do not fret, my mandatory clothes-wearing brethren, because our fashion pioneers at Bench have shown us that being fully clothed is just sooooo outdated.  As long as you have chiseled bodies, washboard abs and disgustingly good looks, you need only to pair your underwear with thigh high socks, neckties and shoulder pads.  Or if clothing becomes too passé for you, you can also wear common household like metal rings, umbrellas or bath louffahs. And if oil prices continue to eat into your underwear budget, you can always wear a plain supporter. I know, it may leave you feeling a bit of a draft, but look on the bright side: it will make number two a whole lot easier.     

And when the titillation of thousands of women and gay men drown out your cries for help, then I guess you have no choice but to join them in the mass hysterics.   If you’re chained to the seat like I am, then I suggest that you cease struggling and enjoy all the novelty that this show exudes. When I finally gave in to the fiesta cleavage carnival, I could hear Kuya Germs screaming in my head, “Now, that’s Entertainment!” If you do think about it, where else will you see grown men wearing origami birds and hockey masks cavort with great horned beasts and green aliens while the Sound of Music plays in the background? Where else will you see a wholesome pop princess Sarah Geronimo sashaying across the catwalk with a whole lotta shaking going on princess Francine Prieto?  And where else will you get to see a whey protein-enhanced Diether Ocampo hypnotizing us with his massive pectorals while twiddling with the garter of his underwear? (Not that I was really paying attention) This is the bizarre and the bazaar. This is the smoke and the mirrors.  This is the crass and the class. This is what a Bench underwear show is unapologetically about.  (Although I think Bench management ought to apologize to me especially after Diether Ocampo threw his underwear in my general direction. You wouldn’t believe how many women and gay men I had to fight of just to keep it.)

I crossed myself when the lights finally dimmed and I thought the show was coming to a close.  “Thank you Lord” I mumbled, “That Sarah Geronimo came out fully clothed, or else I would never be able to watch my DVD collection of “Sarah, The Teen Princess” ever again.”  But before I could call the DOMs to release Piolo and John Lloyd, the lights came back on and suddenly the stage swarmed with hundreds of nigh-naked men exposing their backsides to the audience.   After my initial shock, this sea of half-naked men started gyrating their behinds while waving their hands in the air.  I wasn’t quite sure if these men were performing modern dance, synchronized swimming, or flagging down airplanes, but this was not something I really wanted an answer to.  

I was about to go into seizure until a shirtless Sam Milby pranced onto the stage, strutted towards our general direction, and then made me kindat.  (Ok, it was not for me, it was for my wife.  Basta, he was making kindat at our general direction) So, all is good. Now, excuse me. I have to go home now to take additional injections of testosterone.