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RJ Ledesma Pogi from a Parallel Universe (The Philippine Star)

There are very few things that will amuse a Pinoy man for hours on end that do not require him to spend money, violate his body, or be targeted for arrest under the anti-terror law.

It is not watching The Buzz (but, um, yes, we do that too, sometimes). Nor is it practicing your Barry Manilow/Christopher Cross medley on your 500,000-plus- song nuclear-powdered Ultra Super Magic Extreme mike. It is much, much more than that.

*Waste not, want not*

There is no guiltier pleasure than playing with our own human waste. Picking your nose, peeling your scabs, nibbling off your *kalyo*, scooping out your toe jam, belching out a chorus produced from last night's dinner. These are probably te most obtainable and affordable forms of male entertainment in a developing country. There is no need for accessories or for prepaid load or for credit cards. Just your grimy fingers and a lack of good taste will do.

I think i just lost my three female readers right there.

Sigh . . . It is difficult to explain to the more hygienic algologne-wearing sex why males are obsessed with human waste products that do not require disposal via toilet paper. How can we get them to appreciate the hours we spend mining our nostrils for that large green-yellow blockage that has kept oxygen from flowing into your left lung? How do we expres our desire to mold monuments made out of wax that we have painstakingly dug out of the crevices of our ear with our little pinkie? And how do we explain that chewing off that hangnail from our big toe is merely a form of male calisthenics? If you don't have smelly armpits infested by larvae, you just wouldn't understand.

You see, men were not born with the ability to distinguish what is tasteful from what is just plain gross. If men were left to our own devices, all our jokes would simply revolve around the cornucopia of human waste that we generate. Take my four-year-old pamangkin for example. He would laugh humself into a seizure whenever the words "pee-pee", "poo-poo" or "booger" (stateside version of *siya e*) were mentioned, thinking them to be the best punch lines in the whole world. At first, I would laugh along with hum as well. THat was until he started calling me "Mr. Booger." Several. Hundred. Times. He was so funny that I wanted to take him into my arms and squeeze him until his kulangot came oozing out of his ears.

But I digress, and I hope that nephew of mine never grows pubic hair. Anyway, men just can't appreciate how tasteless their fascination with human waste is until a woman points it out to them. After all, who first spanked you when you realized that *kulangot* was not a protein requirement? Was it your dad? Your dad was probably laughing his beer gut off watching your chow down nasal mean as he scratched his butt crack.

In the end, what is the hullabaloo over real men reveling in their own waste? We don't bother women when they play with their lipstick and their hair removal cream and their scented sanitary napkins (why does it need a scent?). Then why bther us when we like to play with our *libag* and our stoach lint and our *longganisa* -smelling belches? Shouldn't picking your nose and flicking that little phlegm ball 30 feet away qualify as an athletic achievement? Does passing gas harm you in any way aside from contributing to the Greenhouse Effect? My bad breath has actually saved billions of bacteria from the murderous effects of mouthwash. What are men jeopardizing by entertaining themselves with simple, self-generated forms of amusement?

It may jeopardize any chance that men have left at reproduction, especially if you are a NGSB (No GIrlfriend Since Birth). But don't worry if you are a DOM (Dirty Old Man); you can be as bacteria-free as you want but women will still consider you bacteria. So if you want to get intimate with a member of opposite sex aside from a female proctologist, then after reveling in your excretions you have to find a way to discreetly get rid of them. And not hide them in a plastic container for future enjoyment.

*How to Make Women Love You and not Waste You* **

*The art of fart. *According to *Why Men Don't Have a Clue and Women Always Need More Shoes*, the top of the list of men's habits that make women wish they could reproduce by cloning are nose-picking, burping, bdy odor, underwear that needs to be carbon-dated to get its actual age, and crotch scratching. But, by leaps and bounds, number one on the list is farting.

Ever since I turned into an octo-lavo vegetarian, and beans, eggs and cheese have become a staple of a diet, passing gas has consequently become one of my favorite pastimes. But breaking wind has long been a favorite pastime for your Pinoy boys everywhere, along with playing *Patintero*, Monkey Monkey Annabelle and "I'm a doctor, please take off your clothes." At a young age, sometimes the biggest achievement you could muster was the ability to fart at will. Until now, I still don't udnerstand why farting the chorus of Christina Aguilera's Candyman doesn't amuse my fiancee as much as it amuses my *barkada*.

It's not like women don't pass gass too, you know. In fact, while 96.3percent of men admit that they fart, only 2.1 percent of women will ever admit that they fart. This tells us only that women are much better lars than men. Men (and, yes, women) let loose an average of 1.5 to 2.5 liters of gas a day, delivering an average of 12 farts a day, enough to fill a small balloon (which is somethign you must be wary of if you hire unscrupulous balloon vendors for children's parties). But what's so wrong with gas from the ass? Flatulence(this is what farting is called when it is performed by the elite classes) is an important signal of normal bowel activity and a healthy body. And jdudging by my emissions, I am probably one of the healthiest men alive.

However, my healthy emissions are something my mom has not yet learned to appreciate. At least I think this is what she means when she smacks me in the butt with her *pamaypay* while wearing a gas mask. My mom always tells me, "It's so *bastos talaga* when you fart, can't you just belch it out instead?" Apparently, my mom thinks that I have complete mastery over my anatomy and that I can command gas to move from my intestines to my esophagus at will. But hasn't it ever occurred to my mom that a smell that normally comes out of my sphincter should be rechanneled through my mouth? (Mom *naman*, thats so gross.)

One of the main causes of excessive flatulence is talking too much, a fate I suffer along with administration spokespersons and chismis talk show hosts (you just can't smell them over TV). This is because wind becomes trapped inside the system and, although much of it is belcked out, the rest passes through ito the small intestine where it mixes with other gases to prepare for global warming. Fart gas is mainly composed of 50 to 55 percent nitrogen, 30 to 40 percent carbon dioxide and about five to 10 percent methane and hydrogen. Incidentally, methane is that gas which causes underground mines to explode while hydrogen gas in a weaponized form is capable of destroying cities. Some of my gases have obliterated small barangays.

Although we fart almost the same amount of air everyday, the difference between men and women lies in our noses. The book *What Women Want and What Every Man Needs to Know about Sex, Romance, Passion and Pleasure* (required husband-in-training reading) reminds us that women have a better sense of smell than the average man. So while a man can suffer than one brief whiff of rotten eggs from the nether regions, it is the equivalent of being strapped to the gas chamber for the nostril-efficient woman.

*The solution*: Aside from stitching your mouth shut (my fiancee has tried several times but I still manage to slip out a few thousand words), you can avoid the biggest gas-producing foods sch as cauliflower, onions, garlic, cabbage, broccoli, beans and beer. But if this were the case, a vegetarian like me would have to give up eating food altogether and would need to figure out how to absorb my nutrients from breathing.

So instead of avioding these foods from your diet, you can also try "de-gassing" preparations. At first my fiancee thought that these involved poking my bellybutton with a barbeque stick to deflate the gas from my system (which she happily agreed to do). But after several visits to the emergency room, we later learned that "de-gassing" preparations meant the use of "herbal" teas like peppermint and ginger. But if your intestine is too impatient to wait for a teabag to soak for three minutes, you can always pass the blame on to someone else. Me, I always stand beside my *yaya* when I feel an unwanted explosion coming on.
*The manly solution*: After experimenting with various inflammable materials, I discovered that charcoal can effectively absorb the smell of human gas pollutant. Try sitting al fresco on some charcoal briquettes and farting on them; it naturally absorbs 90 percent of the smell (I am not sure, though, as to how they calculated this percentage). If you want to impress both your fiancee and friends, make sure that the briquettes are lit when you set on them and then let one rip. And if you *really *want to impress your fiancee and friends and spend a ridiculous amoung of money at the same time, you can buy underwear that contains a replaceable charcoal filter. This bikini brief is air-tight and prvides a pocketed escape hole in which a charcoal filter can be inserted. (Really.) But if you are a real man, then try eating the charcoal instead. With some salt and Tabasco sauce.

*The Dreaded 'Druff* **

Aside fro being circumcised at 30 yaers old, nothing has caused more embarrassment for grown men than dandruff. Dandruff occurs when there is an abnormally rapid shedding of the sin cells from the scalp which, in turn, leaves a tropical snowstorm all over your clothes. Men can usually tell when they are shedding abnormally because females maintain a radius of one meter from their person.

The causes behind dandruff might not be what you expect. One cause behind the 'druff is improper nutrition that results from not eating your vegetables. This tells us that the more gas-producing vegetables that you eat, the less prone you become to dandruff. This also tells us that God has a sense of humor. Aside form an MSG- and caffeine-laden diet, the other cause behind dandruff is also emotional stress. And lastly, according to my infallible and omnipotent mom (*Walang kokontra! Walang kokontra!*), not shampooing daily is the primary cause of dandruff. However, I later read that daily shampooing and certain shampoos can actually be the primary cause of dandruff. After disputing her shampoo dogma, my mom took it upon herself to forcibly shampoo my hair daily (and to lather up the other hand to reach certain hard-to-reach places as well) for the next several months until I get married. The emotional stress of my mom shampooing my hair at 30-plus years old is not the primary cause of dandruff.

Initially, I thought that we had secured the world's ire by being the global repository of every cheesy song that gave us indigestion over the airwaves. But in a recent study, our global *pogi* points dropped a few more rungs after it was discovered that we were one of the worst dandruff offenders on the planet. It turns out that 44 percent of Pinoys suffer from this dandruff epidemic. This is pretty alarming. According to *50 Facts That Should Change the World*, there are 44 million women in China who are currently missing and there are 44 million child laborers in india. Although these more serious facts have absolutely nothing to do with dandruff, the fact that 44 percent of Pinoys suffer from dandruff is still pretty alarming. However, if I were the press secretary, I would find a way to "spin doctor" this little factoid: "The Filipino people are overachievers! " the Palace press release could scream. "This goes to show that we are not only good at inking broadband deals with Asian superpowers and spawning pyramid investment schemes with European-sounding countries, but we are also topnotch at creating tropical snowstorms. Take that, world!"

*The solution*: Even if dandruff recurs on your scalp as regularly as potholes along EDSA during the rainy season, it is not a fashion accessory. This local epidemic has grown to such a degree that fashion editors and stylists from the country's top lifestyle magazines have actually signed a manifesto to ban the use of the color black until a more permanent solution can be found to wash away this local epidemic. (Really.) The call to rid us of this problem is so dire that fashionistas have even asked DOMs to stop wearing black as well. This is because, according to our uber-fashionazis, dandruff is the natural enemy of fashion and this is seen most dramatically (against) the color black.

In tandem with the PNP, there will be roving patrols of plainclothes fashionistas dispatched to key areas around the city. These fashionistas will carefully check if those specks on your shirt have been sewn on by your *modista* or sloughed off from your scalp. If this specks can be brushed off and you are wearing the outlawed color black, the fashionistas will crucify you with stiletto heels onto a camouflage-themed cross and make sure that you shed more than just your dandruff.

*The manly solution*: My fiancee thoughtfully suggested a permanent solution to my recurring dandruff problem. "Why don't we pour piping hot tar all over your scalp?" she gushed with excitement. "Not only will it keep your scalp from shedding any more dead skin, but it will also kill all your nerve endings in the process!" As she torched the last remaining black garments in my closet, she further advised me, "when the tar dries up, we can finally peel off the dead hair with the rest of your scalp. Then we can replace your scalp with prosthetics and make you wear an industrial-strength hairpiece. Won't that look great on you for our wedding day?"

Help me, please.

By the way, I just recently got into the balloon-making business. But please let me know at least three weeks in advance how many balloons you will require. I will need to stock up on my *monggo* beans.