Jeepney Jitters II: The Diarrhea Chronicle

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Note: This story includes explicit words and themes that may be inappropriate for you especially if you’re eating at ¿Qué Pasa?, you rich kid. Reader discretion is advised.

We’ve all had that moment where you’re like, shit. Literally.

I’ve already told this story once to my Atenean friends as we had a mini recess at the melting pot of affordable and delectable food, 2nd Gate, in Sta. Cruz. This story has also been witnessed by three people, namely my mother, sister, and younger brother, which the latter plays quite a gross but very important role in this little story of success and failure, family, love and the meaning of life.

The Beginning of Everything

Like most stories, it has to start at the beginning. And it’s the Indonesians who are to blame.

4:42, I guess, when my Philippine History teacher was on her Pre-colonial Philippines discussion (mostly about the waves of migration by Prof. Beyer). She was an Effie Trinket of some sort, because she was always holding a set of 1/8 sheet of papers with our names on it and she’d call anyone by random, like the reaping.

tumblr_lys34gjLB21qeuj9uOddly enough, it was an unlucky day for me when her fingertips caught the edge of my 1/8 sheet of paper. I was called.

What did the Type A Indonesians look like?, she asked.

As I looked for answers inside my empty brain, I was led to shrug my shoulders sheepishly.

I don’t know, ma’am, I was like. Also known as:

chris tucker fuckOK.

So I sat down, partly embarrassed, partly feeling something in my gut very suddenly. Was it butterflies in my stomach? I wished.

The aching began. Slowly, mildly, then angrily, in all sorts of rave, like my stomach was going ’round and ’round and churning all the food I had eaten into a disgusting liquid shit byproduct. Like there was a party happening right inside me. I could feel the heat inside my gut, transporting through my lungs and my heart until finally my neck and my whole shameful face. I was sweating bullets. I knew it was something serious, my stomach was acting up. I was having diarrhea.

The Journey

Of course, anyone’s response would be, go to the nearest restroom!

But my friends, there is a situation. My ass is not applicable to shitting at any other place except home, sweet sweet home.

And so the journey began…

I left school and decided I will go dump at home. I rode the tricycle very quickly. I usually ask to pull over by Union Bank where most empty San Felipe jeepneys queue along. But there was no empty seat in the front! Shame! The urgency forced me to sit right at the end part of the left bench nearest to the driver. Perk was I could say para without having to yell, but con was I had to be everyone’s conduit in passing their fares.

“fare enough” *ba dum tss

As the jeepney waited and waited and waited for more passengers to come in, I was starting to feel a bit queasy, aside from my ass near to exploding.

In this moment, it had come the time when you just start to hate everyone for being talky and crowded and annoying. Like, even staring at a baby you’d be like, fuck you. Fuck you all. Couldn’t blame me, I was feeling shitty (pun intended).

Finally, the engines of the jeepney started roaring, exhaling nauseating fumes, eventually moving forward towards our destination. Home.

The Stirrings

You know what’s really annoying when you are about to shit in a public vehicle in front of about 21 judgmental people? Traffic.

Rush hour. Don’t get me started on this one.

The universe had probably planned that day for me when the highways are tightly traffic-jammed and crowded so I reach my destination pants-full-O’shit. But I wasn’t letting the universe win, or anyone for that matter. I was going to go home. AND SHIT.

As we reached the intersection of Peñafrancia Ave. and Santonja St. (by the Colgante Bridge), the stirrings worsened.

“It was that part of the diarrhea process where your asshole is 3 seconds from exploding. It was the moment of surrender and acceptance. I felt that it was time. I am accepting whatever happens. Even if that meant shitting in my pants as an adult, in front of many people, reeking the whole jeep.”

-Me

My legs were all twitchy (sorry to that high school girl I sat with, she might have been a little agitated). I was doing whatever means just so my butt does not defecate at the wrong time.

The End…or so I thought

The traffic was unbearable! It was mocking me. There’s this one immediate stop by Naga College Foundation for almost 10 minutes. Imagine keeping your diarrhea-d ass from shitting in 10 stationary, immobile minutes.

Eventually, the jeepney wheeled forward. The Peñafrancia Avenue Road right after the Magsaysay-Liboton-Peñafrancia intersection is always a free highway in late afternoons. The traffic was getting better. But not my gut, or my ass. As we moved closer and closer to the destination, my gut was churning harder and harder.

Ultimately, I had yelled my para, and got off the vehicle, proud and successful. I had won.

Not Yet The End

Have you ever had something so awesome that it just makes you so happy, and then something or somebody just takes that away from you so easily? The hopes are up and up so high, yet, something—something that the universe set up just to make a laughing joke out of you—comes up unexpectedly and your words become as good as…dafuq.

Well, this happened.

As I stepped off the jeepney feeling good pride in myself, I was staring with flaming curiosity at my younger brother, who was seemingly walking from the intersection towards our street. Fine, I thought.

I said a tiny hi and then ran, yelling Ma-udo ako! at him. Literally means, I am going to take a shit! Well what do you know? His reply was, Ako muna! Subago pa ako. In English: I am stupid.

Kidding. It meant, I will go first! I have been wanting to! (note: not exact translation)

my exact feelings in that moment

my exact feelings in that moment

Turned out, we both had diarrhea! Thanks a lot, universe.

We started running to the house. And since I am less athletic and was more scared that I would splatter all of my digestion on the pavement, I lost.

Die-arrhea

Summary: Well, I guess you’ve imagined this. I walked around and walked around and crossed my legs and sat and sat and jumped (?) and twerked and cried. Yes, friends. I cried a cry of toilet-wanting.

All I could tell my brother was, this is really going to be funny once we’re done. Which undoubtedly was.

The Actual End

At the end, (contrary to your expectation), I didn’t shit my pants or die or explode. I just acted like a baby and then took a shit after my brother. It was a miraculous moment—although I only shat like 4 mL of shit. Weird.

Still, it was a hell of an experience. A jeepney jitter almost becoming a pants-shitting tale.

Trivia: I shit my pants in 3rd grade! Not going to blog it. Worse than so many worst things. Ugh.

Thanks for skimming!

Jeepney Jitters

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Aside from being fucked for life with strabismus, I also have a fear so incredible it will make you shart.

Jeepney—the word, oh this heinous of a word. A repulsive word that makes one smile as he speaks its last wicked syllable. This Filipino-pride public vehicle, fueled by evil!

“I am fueled by your humiliation!”
art by MaxPathSpotter

Jeepneys are among the most popular public transportation in the PH because of its practicality. You can actually fit 22 people inside it, plus 3 if the barker is goddamned delusional.

It also elicits good Filipino values, like bayanihan, when people pass along their fares to the next person until it reaches the driver on the front (the best place! more on front seats later). Unless the person next to you is sitting sideways like a queen, then we’re A-okay.

“We are a community in that jeepney. Aside from belonging to the same place, we are united and connected as we hold each other’s hand to pass cash. We are kind of monsters.”

-Me

The Jitters

But no. The jeepney does not only elicit positive vibes to the passengers. To me, the jeepney is a devil! It’s a poor man’s limo!

Whenever I step in and enter the long and tight body of the jeepney, I invariably feel like being put into a casket full of maggots. A coffin driving towards hell!!!

Seriously. Jeepneys are awful. Not because of their build—although sometimes it is—but because it’s a room full of judgmental human beings!

Nope. I am speaking of the truth.

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“I see judgmental people”

All Eyes

They’re on you. All of them. Staring at your whole existence, quietly shaking their heads. They can see through you your difficulties, shortcomings, failures. They know who you are and what you do. They hate you. They don’t want you in the jeepney. They want you to leave.

Everyone is judging you. From head to toe. From good to bad. From fat to bones. They’re all on you.

Historical Overview

I’ve told my close friend Ramon Emmanuel Salvadora (shoutout! Facebook, Twitter) this story, but sadly he had heard of the Michael Bay version—sorry, Emman. I didn’t fall onto the highway or bleed or almost-die!

In 2nd year high school, me, my sister and my cousin, Abegail, usually rode the jeepney every morning before our 7:30 am classes. So I am guessing it was about 6:56 am when this jam-packed San Felipe jeepney (yes, these jeepneys are the worst! more on San Felipe jeeps and drivers later) approached us after taking too long filling itself up with passengers at this awful, human-clad street called Aeroville, like we would all still fit inside his goddamn midget-sized jeepney.

My sister, being persistent, immediately walked inside and sat comfortably. My cousin sat half of her butt throughout the ride. Me? I squatted there by the exit, trying to look cool holding the bars on the vehicle’s roof like one of those badass guys who need not sitting (or do not have the fare to pay).

I imagined I looked cool. I was, meh. Easy. I was never so wrong in my life.

As the jeepney pulled its brakes, my squat position turned into an awkward falling position. I literally almost fell. Everyone was staring. Thankfully this lady near me caught me and saved me from dropping and, I imagined, getting pushed on the rough and warm highway. I would’ve come out skinless!

(Emman’s jeepney jitters story is better though. Contact him to know! Details on the shoutout.)

It started my phobia. Not from jeepneys, or from people. But from people on jeepneys.

Sitting on the Front

I am the driver’s pet. I always take the front seat if there’s some space. It’s the best place to sit on. You get the whole view. You don’t need to pass anyone’s fare but yours. You don’t need to yell para to reach your destination. You are safe.

San Felipe Drivers

Aside from addicts, these drivers are passenger-hungry. They wait for their jeepneys to get full, and arrive at the later streets with little or no space.

We live at the end of the barangay and most of the time, especially if you’re going to be late, these jeepneys go to you so full there are top-loaders (it knows! it fucking knows!). And try to stare at the driver, he’s fucking wearing thug life sunglasses.

thug sunglasses
by Robertxcv

Shame on you.

They also prohibit tricycles from providing service in the barangay until 9 pm. Fuck you all.

And they’re addicts. ‘Nuff said.

Fave word of the day: Elicit

I’ll be sharing more shart-eliciting Jeepney Jitters stories in the near future! There are so many!

Thanks for reading, judgmental!

One Thing About Me

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One thing about me, and probably the only thing you will have to notice once you see me, eye to eye (this is a pun, you’ll get it), is that I have strabismus, aka lazy eye, aka walleyes, aka banlag, aka doomed.

Everyone's eyes VS my eyes

everyone’s eyes vs. my eyes

So now you get the pun? Ha-ha. Still not funny.

Maybe now you’re thinking, uh-oh, his blogs are starting to feel much like a pity party collection of egocentric, attention-seeking, online rants…well…you are right!

FAQs

How do you see things?

Based on experience, most people ask me if this condition affects how I view things. Yes, it does. I seem to have a dominant eye and a submissive one, because my eyes are fans of Fifty Shades. The dominatrix is the one who holds 80% of the view I see. It focuses more on letters and words, for example, and recognizing objects and people’s faces. The submissive one is mostly for peripheral vision. It just looks at you, but it does not actually see you.

Like your ex.

SHOTS FIRED!!!

How do you deal with people?

Mostly by not staring at them (especially if they’re strangers) and if I do, I stare disjointedly. To avoid confusion. It’s more likely for their benefit. When people ask, I would say, my eyes had a fight, they’re not making up, but I never say it, because I’m a pussy.

Is this FAQs for real?

Nope. I made it seem like an interview but I’m just interviewing myself. Only 2 people have probably asked me these questions and most are questions I think people should have asked me but never did.

I am imaginative. Do you like me now?

get-back-here-and-love-me_610

Hypothesis

I don’t think this is genetic. I am unique in the family. I think this is probably caused by a developing tumor in my brain due to the bullshit I deal with everyday, or by a childhood habit that I regret. Back then I would stare at anything like a trance and I would sway my head to the side and ruin my eye coordination…or something. Can’t explain. I’ll end it here.

End

Thanks for reading, you judgmental asshole!

(more on judgmental on the next posts)

Blog Devirginization

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Don’t think this is about sex. Or human reproductive systems. Or their sexual interactions. This blog site will be no more exciting than the title. 😦

This is just an introduction—with em dashes—because you’ll be seeing lots of them as you discover, stalk and read on my future blogs, you disgusting shit.

“It’s the grand opening!”

Caveat emptor! I will be posting boring, gross and useless shittery here so I hope you like it!

The Title

The title “Poolterest” came from the Greek words, “poolis” (big) and “terestous” (dick). Hence, Big Dick.

Kidding (only on the title part). It’s a portmanteau of the words “pool” and “interest”, or a “Pool of Interest”. Which means…nothing!

I also have a blog of the same Title (on WordPress, too—I will also regret this blog, more on regrets down below) which was, in my master plan, a tech review blog. Sadly, I can’t afford smartphones and gadgets every time new ones come out. *Insert sad face and fucking poor face here*

UPDATE: I’ve changed the blog title because I found the previous corny. Now my blog title is even more sad. Perfectly sums up my life.

Historical Overview

In the afternoon of July 15, 2015 at exactly 2:21 pm, one of my human companions Harold Francis Ibarrientos [shoutout! Facebook here, Twitter here (sorry he’s private but if he knows you he might let you follow him)] suggested that I blog about my “anxiety” (more on that on the next blogs). I took it as an advice. A very bad one.

Back in circa 2012, I think, and I rue greatly that, I had a blog (on Tumblr) which didn’t go pretty well. For starters, it was Tumblr! Second, you just intrinsically post anything at the present and regret it the next few years (which will happen in this blog too, obviously).

That Tumblr blog, if I could remember correctly, included posts about The Script, about my annoyance with my previous course, architecture (fuck ya’ll), and other stuff that the average human would love to ignore at a daily basis.

Because of these mortifying posts about my life, I hated my own existence and promised never to blog again…ever.

Kidding. I just deleted the blog and felt (like most of us do) better. Nothing like scratching an itch when deleting an embarrassing part of your life from the memories of the virtual world. *Breathes fresh memory space*

Hypothesis

Now that I am older, I think I’ll handle this well with less regrets and more what-the-fucks. I hope I do.

Talk Shit

Thank you Mr. Harold, for suggesting that I blog my feelings. You ruined the world. And, if you’re reading this future Patrick, I hope I did not let you down.

P.S.: Future Patrick—I hope you now own that dream fleshlight of yours.

Thanks for skimming!