If you happen to be living in a bat cave, and you're not catching up on your contemporary Filipino authors, then you probably don't know that a certain Bob Ong (or Roberto Ong) is respiring right now.
In fact if you just take notice of the lost traveler crying out for help in your cave then he may lend you his laptop and you can search Google for this special individual. Or for me to spare myself of pulling my poor superficial flexor finger muscles in typing another sentence, I will now give you his page in Wikipedia: here.
Bob Ong is popular. (When you're in Wikipedia, even if that means seeing that someone has inputted that you're married to King Kong, someone thinks you're popular.) "Popular," in the sense, not only by name but also in appearance. Almost everyone who has read his work thinks "Bob Ong should be popular." Problem is, no one knows who he really is, and to tell him, "Hey, you're popular!"
Until now.
I've just finished Ang Paboritong Libro ni Hudas. A ridiculously uproarious book. The CAT commandant, when messed with, shakes uncontrollably like centipedes will come out of his face. "If you believe in God" being a debate for ages. The fact that "kumakain ng kanin-baboy ang baboy." German shepherds, French bulldogs, and Filipino congressmen are worth 25T each. The "Bahay ni Lolo" in Baguio. On why barbers problematize the love life of Vina Morales. Such banats. But wait, Baguio, dogs, the fact that these could only be written not by an embalmer, but a writer, a witty writer? A person pops out of my head. Ow. Em. Gi! Can it be ...?
I hurriedly dialled a number in my cellphone. (Yes, a "desperate times call for drastic measures" situation.) I was giddy with anticipation: Please pick up. (*ring*) Pick up. (*ring*) Pick. (*ring*) Up. (*ring*) Damnitpickup! "Hello?" a voice answered. Being a second away from entering myself in an anger management program, I sighed. Then I could only muster a "Hi." (Then long pause.) "Oh, it's you Daryl." (Can anyone just pronounce my name properly?) And in the most courteous manner that I could have possibly done: "AreyouBobOng?" (Another 50-year pause. Probably scratching his head.) " Huh? What did you say? ... wha, wha ... I didn't understand ... how did you know?" was the response. Just I was about to answer his question I pushed the "end conversation" button.
So there. He might've misinterpreted my final question as "Have you had babang?" (Actually, babang is translated as "powder" in Ilocano.), but I left it at that, happy to "know" who Bob Ong is. Can you imagine: me and the Visual Print Enterprises people, the only people to know who he really is? I mean, I actually beat those hardcore Bobongers (if there is such a group) in discovering something we share as being in the same level as that of the search for the Holy Grail. They could be shelling out trucks of cash, calling for the services of those C.S.I. New York freakazoids, or resurrecting Sherlock Holmes, while I just needed to (awkwardly) balance my brains out.
By the way Bob Ong is actually ... F (where are the label of these damn keys; I can't see them) ...
Excuse me this is urgent: I must pee first.
In fact if you just take notice of the lost traveler crying out for help in your cave then he may lend you his laptop and you can search Google for this special individual. Or for me to spare myself of pulling my poor superficial flexor finger muscles in typing another sentence, I will now give you his page in Wikipedia: here.
Bob Ong is popular. (When you're in Wikipedia, even if that means seeing that someone has inputted that you're married to King Kong, someone thinks you're popular.) "Popular," in the sense, not only by name but also in appearance. Almost everyone who has read his work thinks "Bob Ong should be popular." Problem is, no one knows who he really is, and to tell him, "Hey, you're popular!"
Until now.
I've just finished Ang Paboritong Libro ni Hudas. A ridiculously uproarious book. The CAT commandant, when messed with, shakes uncontrollably like centipedes will come out of his face. "If you believe in God" being a debate for ages. The fact that "kumakain ng kanin-baboy ang baboy." German shepherds, French bulldogs, and Filipino congressmen are worth 25T each. The "Bahay ni Lolo" in Baguio. On why barbers problematize the love life of Vina Morales. Such banats. But wait, Baguio, dogs, the fact that these could only be written not by an embalmer, but a writer, a witty writer? A person pops out of my head. Ow. Em. Gi! Can it be ...?
I hurriedly dialled a number in my cellphone. (Yes, a "desperate times call for drastic measures" situation.) I was giddy with anticipation: Please pick up. (*ring*) Pick up. (*ring*) Pick. (*ring*) Up. (*ring*) Damnitpickup! "Hello?" a voice answered. Being a second away from entering myself in an anger management program, I sighed. Then I could only muster a "Hi." (Then long pause.) "Oh, it's you Daryl." (Can anyone just pronounce my name properly?) And in the most courteous manner that I could have possibly done: "AreyouBobOng?" (Another 50-year pause. Probably scratching his head.) " Huh? What did you say? ... wha, wha ... I didn't understand ... how did you know?" was the response. Just I was about to answer his question I pushed the "end conversation" button.
So there. He might've misinterpreted my final question as "Have you had babang?" (Actually, babang is translated as "powder" in Ilocano.), but I left it at that, happy to "know" who Bob Ong is. Can you imagine: me and the Visual Print Enterprises people, the only people to know who he really is? I mean, I actually beat those hardcore Bobongers (if there is such a group) in discovering something we share as being in the same level as that of the search for the Holy Grail. They could be shelling out trucks of cash, calling for the services of those C.S.I. New York freakazoids, or resurrecting Sherlock Holmes, while I just needed to (awkwardly) balance my brains out.
By the way Bob Ong is actually ... F (where are the label of these damn keys; I can't see them) ...
Excuse me this is urgent: I must pee first.
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