Faded Boxers

To the readers of this blog, I may appear like an emotionally imbalanced, sex depraved megalomaniac who is presently thrilled he finally got to use “megalomaniac” in a sentence. And that is partly right. I’m not that thrilled about using megalomaniac in the previous sentenced. Happy, but not thrilled. Anyway, emotional and psychological problems aside, I am generally under control and is not a danger to anybody. Except Shih Tzus.

But still, it came as a surprise to me when I was told I needed to submit an NBI clearance for some office thing. By my boss. To those just tuning in, I work for the family business (well, at least until they discover my blog), and my boss just happens to be my mother.

So why would she require me to submit to her my NBI clearance? Is it because I stole my baby sister’s blanket when she was kid? Or the fact that I may have been partly responsible for the unalphabetized betamax tapes in my dad’s porno collection? Or is she still mad about the time she went home and found that all her stockings, make up, and dresses have been used and there was nobody else in the house except for me? In any case, no amount of reasoning would get me out of the painful process of getting an NBI clearance.

Anyway, since I had no choice, I headed to Quezon City Hall to get this ordeal over with. The sight that greeted me brought into mind words like “chaos,” and “fucking.” Also for some reason “racoon.”

Quezon City Hall

I could see a line of people but I could not see where it started or where it was going. I couldn’t see if it was moving at all.

I must have stood there dumbly for I don’t know how long because I was quickly approached by several fixers who promised that for an additional 400 bucks, I can get my NBI clearance without having to queue up wih the rest of the lowly masses.

But me being the naive, but sexy guy that I am, refused go through any loopholes to circumvent the system. I am an honest law abiding citizen, and if I have to get in line for 4 hours, then I’ll do it!

[30 minutes later]

Holy fuck. Where are those fixers? The heat’s getting unbearable, and there’s only so many times I can see somebody spit on my shoes. I called my driver and had him wait in line for me while I go find me some fixers.

Not a fixer

Apparently, fixers have a low threshold for rejection. Reject them once and they’ll never approach you again. I spotted three different fixers there and I made it a point to pass by them several times each, hoping that they’ll get the idea and help me. Pride stopped me from asking for their help outright.

But then again, pride makes people do stupid things like plead “not guilty” with blood still on their hands. (Mental note: Get a new lawyer).

So I continued to walk past these fixers, making sure to make eye contact with them, and add an extra swing to my booty just to make it clear that I’m open to their services. But no dice.

Defeated, I went back in line, cursing my pride and my desire to do things legally all the time. Fortunately, at that precise moment, the line decided to wake up and move forward at a decent pace. But it wasn’t enough to heal my bruised ego at being ignored when I was sending out the right signals.

Which is why I look like this in my NBI Clearance photo:

Ironically, when our local government issues documents which proves that people have not been committed of any crimes, they make it a point to slap on a picture that calls into question the validity of the whole system.

Also, please protect your Shih Tzus from the gentleman pictured above because he can’t be held accountable for his actions once they are within biting distance.