https://www.facebook.com/188350024668413/

Salbahis, Mindanao State University/Iligan Institute of Technology, Iligan (2025)

Q: What is the address?

Mindanao State University/Iligan Institute Of Technology

11/10/2025

𝗔𝗻 𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗙𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗗𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗣𝗮𝗺𝗮𝗻-𝗗𝗔𝗬𝗔-𝘀𝗮𝗻

Riddle me this: To be in one of the top universities in the Philippines, what do you do first? Clue: It begins with 𝘤𝘩, and rhymes with 𝘦𝘢𝘵. But let me tell you a secret about the easiest route: All you have to do is simply sit in your chair, chant “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo!” and your answers will magically appear the moment you stretch your neck muscles, or 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘺 open your phone with the answer key, thanks to dear ol’ Fairy Godmother!

“𝘈𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘪𝘬𝘪𝘱 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘯!”

On October 5, 2025, a total number of 7,364 System Admission and Scholarship Examination (SASE) examinees filled the halls of MSU-IIT, with the faint hope of a fair admissions exam. And guess what? Two world records were broken that day: the unprecedented increase of figures among the SASE takers for a 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 61,183, and the all-time high of examinees filling up rooms with long tables as if working on group projects, seemingly taking up majors in 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘢. Because nothing says “Influencing the Future” quite like brushing elbows and breathing in each other’s anxiety with your seatmate while taking an exam that could literally influence your future—perhaps, determine it.

𝘌𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵? 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘦! 𝘙𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘴? 𝘋𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦!

The testing venue wasn’t just a room; it was a masterclass in human Tetris, where the only thing more packed than the students was the allegations of misconduct.

So, that said, the fiasco wasn’t even a surprise. The date was announced more than a month before the examination itself, yet somehow, acting shocked became a fad for what, a day or less? Not an isolated case, it is. Experiences with different testing centers have been told time and again; it should be featured in the latest edition of 𝘔𝘨𝘢 𝘒𝘶𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘪 𝘓𝘰𝘭𝘢 𝘉𝘢𝘴𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘨. If they knew time wasn’t on their side, they could’ve at least—oh, I don’t know—used a measuring tape? Or maybe not done it eons away from the release of the results? But yet again, when the issue emerged, the admin pulled its favorite gold medal stunt: the Olympic-level 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘢.

Of course, the rumors came faster than campus Wi-Fi: “𝘕𝘢𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘸 𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵.” “𝘐𝘱𝘢-𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘯𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘢 𝘴𝘢 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘮.” Pair these with screenshots and sprinkle with moral superiority, and lo and behold: You get the perfect recipe for a five-star, truly 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥-𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴 chaos of an institution.

And in the aftermath of all that clamor, it’s the students who pay the price—the ones who spent months studying, believing effort and determination would be enough. This is when fairness and meritocracy start to sound like punchlines when your slot depends on who sat beside you. ‘𝘗𝘢𝘨 𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘬𝘢, 𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯… ‘𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘰.

We tell students to study hard, play fair, and uphold integrity—while showing them a system that can’t even uphold proper seating proximity. In a university filled with exquisite buildings and modern architecture, what justifies your sardine-in-a-can venues?

Sure, the rooms were tight. Yes, the rumors flew. But who set that system up?

With the recent testing spaces of SASE ’26, it could even serve as a suggested concept for the fourth season of “Squid Game.” The examination site was so amusing, it had only two rules in the end: first, secure your ballots; second, make sure you win the game of hide and seek before they can prey on your answer and feast on them on top of being time-pressured, proctors’ more-or-less heightened attention, and receiving 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 from netizens who thought you took 𝘚𝘈𝘚𝘌 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘶𝘮: 𝘛𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘌𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯!

Digital-footprinted every SASE so hard, it had seniors and alumni resurrect an annual open forum on Facebook like a tradition. At this point, it might as well surpass the famous “Girl in the Mirror” zumba due to its yearly engagement—a 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘳-fect image for a prestigious institution indeed.

“𝗕𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿, 𝗠𝗦𝗨!”

The MSUan chant became a remix of the same old script, loud enough to rival the iconic “Go USTe!” We’re not puppets performing in a show, nor contestants in a fooling-a-student game. We’ve had enough of officials in hearing mode since forever—and no, “mere allegations” doesn’t mean “case closed.” They can’t just say, “𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴,” and consider it dead. Not when it's been years and Justin Bieber is still on loop singing, “𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

I mean, good luck to the newly established and recently deployed investigation team. 𝘈𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘤 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘺?

No sweat to them, though, in a month or two, we will forget this issue and continue living our lives. It has always been like that—like how they want us to do it every year, as if it’s the SASE birthday candle. And thus, I hereby declare to you, the students of A.Y. ’26-’27: 𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘋𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘗𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘯-𝘋𝘈𝘠𝘈-𝘴𝘢𝘯!

✒️ Blobfish and Utok Bullynao
🔎 Saddead and onika burgers
🎨 Aii and Lazi

23/09/2025

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗛𝘂𝗯 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗟𝗮𝗯 𝗥𝗮𝘁𝘀

IITians know the golden rule of research: The first step in proving any revolutionary theory is to run experiments on lab rats. But for the knowledge-thirsty geniuses out there, haven’t you ever wondered that the passport to enlightenment is not the fourth round of the neighbor belting “Golden,” but a curious question of what it feels like on the other end of the stick? The life of the one squeaking in the maze while you jot down observations and call it 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘢 is a concept too foreign, too downplayed.

Ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between, I present to you: 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰.

Wide-eyed freshmen stormed the campus halls with Certificates of Registration (CORs) as IDs, OOTDs as varied as a variety store. Their spirits? Over the top—like they were about to conquer Rome, not just queue at the university entrance. The welcoming week felt like a fever dream, literally. Because here’s the kicker: Students with an actual fever can now still 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 classes—thanks to the glorious invention of 𝘢𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. Groundbreaking. Truly, the miracle of modern education.

Week 4: purely online classes to give way for the almighty Bar Exam—aka the Olympics for future lawyers. Fair enough, we’ll step aside for the courtroom gladiators. But six whole weeks of blended learning in the first two months? That’s less of a learning system and more of a mystery novel. Except, spoiler alert: nobody solves it, not even Sherlock with Wi-Fi.

How many editorials, columns, and lampoons does it take to minimize the plague of asynchronous sessions in the academe? How many anonymous rants in 𝘔𝘚𝘜-𝘐𝘐𝘛 𝘊𝘈𝘛𝘚 page does it take for you to hear that we don’t deserve this, and things are not working out? In my past relationships, I could just break up with my lover when things went south. But how can I ever break up with you, 𝘋𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘗𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘯? I'm not the begging type, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶, and I really want this to work.

“College life would be totally different from high school.” This is the common monologue of most seniors sneak peeking the incoming freshmen of what university life is. And dare I say, “Correct!” 2025-###X students are climbing Mt. Everest with flip-flops. They had to master the choreography of face-to-face majors and online minors.

Adding insult to injury is Professor X, who seems to think “asynchronous” is just a fancy euphemism for “Google Meet at 3:00 sharp.” So, picture this: students bolt out of their classrooms like it’s the 100-meter dash, desperately chasing the ever-so-intermittent my.IIT Wi-Fi, fumbling to log in with their my.IIT accounts—since, of course, personal accounts are banned—only to finally land in class at 3:05 p.m.—five minutes late and ten years older in stress. Now, let me pose a very serious question: What kind of cats are we breeding on campus? We’re not bioengineering cheetahs, are we? Because that’s the only species fast enough to keep up with this academic sprint.

If the pandemic did us any favor in our collective pursuit of information, it’s that asynchronous activities are break times for household chores. Student A turns on TikTok Live, with a caption “𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘉𝘚 𝘖𝘳𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵.” The setup? Fairy lights glowing like it’s Coachella, an army of pastel highlighters, and notes long enough to wrap around the campus oval. Everything screams 𝘢𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘺—until reality barges in. From the background, a motherly voice cuts through: “𝘕𝘢𝘬, 𝘩𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘪 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘨𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘰!” End of vibe. Live paused.

As 𝘪𝘴𝘬𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘯, we all know the bitter truth: not everyone here is rocking high-end tech. Asynchronous classes? Oh, they’re basically champagne refills for the privileged, while the rest of us are left sipping from cracked plastic cups. Those with shiny gadgets glide through modules like it’s a Netflix binge, while others wrestle with laggy hand-me-downs that sound like they’re about to launch into orbit. The result? A performance gap so wide, you could host the next PALAKASAN in it.

As Hannah Montana poetically put, “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥𝘴,” except for IITians: this is not a pop anthem but an identity crisis—like Zeus and Jupiter suffering migraines trying to be each other, being both at once. The face-to-face setting is the strict disciplinarian father, barking “attendance!” like a drill sergeant, while the online setup is that overly forgiving mother who pats your head and whispers, “𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘬, 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳.” Truly, a parenting-style clash turned into an academic system.

And through it all, as September—aka prelims month—loomed like a horror movie villain waiting for the director to cue the jump scare. Imagine being tested on lessons absorbed halfway through buffering, mom’s errands, and the caress of existential dread. Freshmen who once dreamed of independence, like baby birds who discovered that their wings could be used to fly, now faced the harsh reality of split lives: half dorm, half home, full-time subscription to confusion.

After all, everything has 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 been part of a greater mission: to find out whether an asynchronous method is effective, notwithstanding the countless purrs of the cats, how it has become trendy in the global competitive version of Instagram, and how university students can be made into specimen 101 in some educational experiment.

And so the academic year marches on: part concert, part classroom, part living room karaoke bar. For freshmen, it’s not just a college setup—it’s an entire stage for “American Ninja Warrior.” Home of the Cats? More like 𝘏𝘶𝘣 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘢𝘣 𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘴.

✒️ Katoptris and Toothsie
🔎 Ice and Orpheus
🎨 Enaemon and Junjin

17/09/2025

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗔𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗚𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗙𝗶𝗴

The point of thievery is to not get caught. 𝘚𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵, what on earth possessed these 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 lot and their spoilt nepo sprogs to swan about on social media, flashing stolen Filipino tax dosh through luxury spending?

In The 𝘈𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨—which might be shelved in the Philippine politics section—you’ll see that it hardly takes a Machiavellian to follow the standard blueprint for a national scam: First commit the crime, then sacrifice a percentage as hush money, and finally spend the illegal gains sparingly. To stay undetected—especially as businesspeople with fragile political ties—you’d at least make an effort to show some results. After all, you can ask directly from the heir of the Guinness record holder of government thievery, sitting real comfy at the Palacio de Malacañang.

Such has been the trend for decades of construction works in the country, yes? Spell this out: 25% for lawmakers as kickbacks (or at least, This-is-kaya claims), 3% to engineers, 10% for the Department of Public Works and Highways (DPWH), 5% “parking fee,” 5% for the Bids and Awards Committee (BAC), 1% for overnight staff, a supposed 8-10% for contractors, and finally the measly whatever’s-left for the project.

No wonder our houses are flooded.

What’s staggeringly problematic about this whole DPWH debacle is the apparent flaunting of lavish luxury by these contractors (and families) to the point that even 𝘵𝘩𝘦 nepo-royalty final boss is shockingly calling for a lifestyle check. One question has been repeatedly CTRL+Ved under the social-media sensations Clau-d’Scene and This-is-kaya vlog reposts.

Remind me, did this start before or after the dinosaurs went extinct?

How long was this hustle practiced that years of half-assed projects eventually led to a point of project-ghosting premium: A supposedly ₱55.7 million flood control firewall—one that is marked 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘥 in official documents—found with zero construction. Zeeeeer000000!

And here I thought being ghosted by my mid 𝘬𝘢-𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 was peak humiliation.

Cry with me: While Filipinos battle to afford basic necessities on salaries of at least ₱316 to at most ₱645 a day, their taxes—meant for public services—are lavished on the obscene luxuries of the corrupt: fleets of supercars, private jets, and Hermès bags. We’re stuck with banners of during life-threatening floods because our treasury has been pillaged empty. I mean, the handbag didn’t pay for itself. It was subsidized by (low) minimum-wage workers and potholes.

Pray tell, when do we get to the part where we wait by their house to sn**ch away their million-peso Dior bags and sell them on eBay to buy cement for holes on our national highways? Or take away their 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥-𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘴, call upon the traditional 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘦 on mice-infested 𝘬𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘭 waters, and hope for leptospirosis? 𝘒𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨! (Or maybe not.)

Let me say it in Latin: They say a parent’s faults are not the child’s. But when a child enjoys, tolerates, and amplifies the fruits of these faults, the line blurs. It’s one thing to be born into money of questionable origin; it’s another to parade it as a form of a well-deserved privilege. What utter bull it would be if a child never questioned the source of their family’s wealth—especially if daddy’s card could pay for a few-minutes trip to La Union, while news of 𝘣𝘢𝘩𝘢 near daddy’s project area echoes on the plane TV. Ipatumbling mo man si mima Lxbxxnx 𝘴𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘩𝘢, this statement holds true: Nepo babies contribute to the suffering of Filipinos. They’re state-sponsored. If they really want to make change, they would shame their parents together with us. Not go on a social media detox while sunbathing in Europe—momentarily away from the drama until enough time passes to perform 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘢. *insert bleh emoji*.

Indonesia and Nepal have ridden on so much momentum that their public shaming is already moving political waters. Filipinos can do as much, but I fear another scandal—maybe this time, with an A-list celebrity—will take over the media, and the Filipino mob forgets this humiliation again. We’ve yet so much to do, too many politicians backing up these companies to uncover. A Senate president was already looted from position, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.

Sure, Filipinos are Olympic-level keyboard warriors—but guess what? The real battlefield isn’t your feed. It would do the country 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 should you swap your phones for ink, virtual violence for petitions, and 2028CE suffrage for quality ballots. Line up, not for a fight but for a proper tetsudo of civic noise—and make those in power actually answer. Loudly. Publicly. Legally.

After all, these 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘴 nearly confessed, didn’t they? The country is housing corrupt politicians who enjoy the country’s riches while the people are drowning in trillion-dollar debt and taxes. How fitting; they 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘰’𝘥 and smuggled the nation’s public treasury while watching the smaller crocs in a 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘚𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, hunched back, justifying national ghosting by reading off a screen like a peeing-his-pants kindergartener—all while hiding their alleged 25% earnings for the next election. If I were these flood contractors, I’d purchase their crash course on “101 Ways How to Not Get Caught.”

But alas, perhaps this is yet another 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘦 of politicians calling for investigations then failing to acquit the real 𝘬𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘴. Juggle that failing memory: the Marcoses’ gold, Estrada’s depredation, the Oink-oink barrel scam, among other dystopian theatricals.

Let’s be clear: This is not mere jealous-flash—it’s an artisanal call for strategic accountability. Corruption doesn’t thrive in the shadows by accident; it survives because of apathy, complicity, and the illusion of untouchability. Hence, we must make it socially and politically damaging. Shaming is our weapon to make corrupt dynasties—or new contractors’ money turning into one—feel the heat of public scorn. 𝘗𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴.

When lives are traded for a lavish lifestyle, the people will never forget. So tell me, how deep does your patriotism seep? How large a footprint will your public shaming leave?

And dare I ask—throughout the whole ratting-out 𝘬𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘺𝘢, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥?

✒️ Hukbong Heretika and Mapanuyang Tagasalita
🔎 Orpheus and Ice
🎨 Aril and Gajima

30/08/2025

No context.

22/08/2025

𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗝𝗢𝗞𝗘, 𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗥𝗨𝗟𝗘
𝗝𝗲𝘁 𝗦𝗸𝗶 𝗛𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗺𝗼 𝗜𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗲𝘀 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗟𝗮𝘄 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗱𝘆

MANILA—Vice Ganda, a star, a beaut, a 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘯, did the jaw-dropping, awestrucking unthinkable—make a special, limited edition promo in the Super Divas: The Concert. Great deal, isn’t it? But critics would say that comedy is free speech, only when the microphone is held by the “right diva.”

From the high E sung by Asia’s Songbird Regine Velasquez-Alcasid, “𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥,” Vice 𝘎𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢 then promoted: “𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 𝘢 𝘫𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘬𝘪 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘢 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘗𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘢 𝘫𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘬𝘪. 𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘊𝘊. 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘰 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘋𝘋𝘚 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺.”

This was a parody of the advertising jingle of the British budget airline and tour operator, Jet2holidays, that raged through TikTok, Facebook, Instagram, and every corner of the internet like a storm. Jess Glynne’s “Hold My Hand” reached greater heights (you know, because airlines = heights) that it cannot be played without the “Nothing beats a Jet2holiday” skit. And now, thanks to Vice, DDS (Da’Hague Diehard Supporters) can’t listen to it without clutching their pearls and calling their lawyers.

Speaking of jet, Da’Hague was this major, majorly relevant political entity from the southern Philippines, currently residing in The Hague. He reeked of political dynasty and unfulfilled promises that he once mentioned during his campaign that he would ride a jet ski to the invaded and violated West Philippine Sea (WPS), which inspired the joke made by Vice Ganda. Hate to break it to you, but Da’Hague never rode on one. But he did at least manage to ride on people’s votes during that time.

Like a bell rang close to the ears of DDS, a pang of rage and loathing hit their minds: 𝘛𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘺! The joke was a mere echo of the campaign promise made by Da’Hague, and yet now they be filing blasphemy cases against comedians, while passing out “𝘍𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘏𝘶𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘓𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘋𝘋𝘚” pamphlets—a script commonly seen on socmed posts by Da’Hague’s minions.

Viola! They set forth an entire rulebook for comedy. Suddenly, we hear a standard for jokes—one should be critical and sensitive, they say. Perhaps a water joke is deadlier than extrajudicial killings, that’s why the comedian deserves nothing but 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘢. Afterall, bullets are fine—but puns? Unacceptable.

When Da’Hague made a statement about riding a jet ski to the Scarborough Shoal as international presence perturbed the area, he called those who believed in his 𝘫𝘰𝘬𝘦—err, “campaign bravado”—𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘸𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘥. And well, the army of DDS clapped like a bunch of trained seals for Da’Hague’s sheer bravery and authenticity—cursing in a televised, totally not-rated SPG taped speech. DDS = Definitely Deaf Supporters.

Moreover, the amount of jokes Da’Hague spat during his time as the chief executive power was enough to rival IMDb’s Top 25 Greatest Comedians of All Time combined. His humor was an opaque layer of personality that spanned from r4pe, mis0gyny, murd3r, to even blasphemy! Now let’s not forget his formidable physical comedy when he kissed an OFW in public. It’s giving Charlie Chaplin, but make it creepy 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘰 jokes.

Beyond comedy, he was also a director-producer. He was one of the, if not 𝘵𝘩𝘦, masterminds of the bloody extrajudicial killings that took the lives of merely-alleged, absolutely-not-proven-in-court drug pushers and users, plus juvenile casualties as “collaterals.” The director’s cut was so brutal that Netflix had to pass.

And now, that everything’s backfiring him in his bottom, when he was sent to The Hague, transported via Jet2holidays—𝘯𝘢𝘩 not really, it was a Gulfstream jet plane with the tail number RP-C5219 chartered by the Office of the President (emphasis on 𝘫𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘦)—he plays the role of a pitiful, old man, worthy of everyone’s mercy, worthy of no incarceration. Talk about an actor, the Oscar winner for 𝘉𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘖𝘭𝘥 𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘕𝘢𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘡𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘭.

Jet plane, checked. Jet ski, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘢𝘺𝘢?

From a comedian, to a director-producer, then to an A-list actor, Da’Hague would rival Coco Martin’s role in the hit teleserye “FPJ’s 𝘈𝘯𝘨 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘰.” Although the stark difference is “FPJ’s 𝘈𝘯𝘨 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘰” made it to Netflix as “Brothers” while Da’Hague’s 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘴
(parody to the series) is only available via international news, courtesy of ICC.

All these and not one qualm from his fans squad, DDS. But when Vice Ganda, a 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘯, entertainer, host, and icon drops one satirical truth bomb… 𝘉𝘖𝘖𝘔! They are in meltdown mode. They are crying more tears than the Chinese coast guard’s water bombs.

When talking about WPS, Da’Hague, backed by his worshippers, has always neglected the idea of being dominant in the area. They’ve always feared the battle between the mouse and the elephant—better to squeak quietly than get stepped on, right? But when he was taken to The Hague by the ICC, there were cries of “PH should assert sovereignty and jurisdiction!” Wow, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘮 magically appeared—like Wi-Fi that only works when the router is near their idol. 𝘔𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘱𝘢 𝘴𝘢 𝘚𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘢! 𝘐𝘧 𝘚𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘥.

They even threatened to boycott McDonald’s, a fast food restaurant that Vice Ganda is famous for endorsing. Alarming! More than boycotting, they shared their narratives on social media how they shun the juicier and crispier fried chicken, only for Vice Ganda to explicitly give out free McDonald’s food in the famous noontime show, “It’s Showtime.” A clapback that is 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢!

Although it is important to note that the Durian City decided not to declare Vice Ganda as 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘢 in their place as one of Da’Hague’s spawns said it: “[we] have far more important matters to attend to than entertaining baseless, attention-seeking antics from performers desperate for relevance.” Slay! Way to go, critical thinkers! See? Miracles do happen.

Meanwhile, Rep. Perci Cendaña of Akbayan applauded the jet ski joke, saying that humor is a great way to deliver painful truths. It is an avenue to disturb what or who comfortably sits in power, or in a swivel chair with headphones on, ergo a 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦-𝘶𝘱 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭. “In our hearts, Meme, you’re persona 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨-𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘨𝘢,” a jab at the annoying clamors of the 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 DDS.

As Da’Hague spent months under the mighty wings of ICC and the fangs of justice, his capture—I mean, his presence there—remains a sensitive topic that when perturbed, one is guilty of national treachery and blasphemy, for he is but one powerful being in the country. This is how skewed 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 the selective mental gymnastics of his supporters—gymnastics so bizarre it would send Carlos Yulo to second place in the next Olympics.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, hold my hand as I present to you the new national comedy rule, the latest (double) standard: 𝗜𝗳 𝗗𝗮’𝗛𝗮𝗴𝘂𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗶𝘁, 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 “𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮 𝗷𝗼𝗸𝗲.” 𝗜𝗳 𝗩𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗶𝘁, 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗼𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲—𝙋𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙡𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙨 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗕𝗕𝗠𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗵𝗶𝗯𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗱. Wanna avail the promo?

🖋️The Purple T-square
🔎 Ice and Orpheus
🎨 Ycon

12/05/2025

𝗣𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗣𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆: 𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝗣𝗶𝗻𝗼𝘆 𝗩𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗗𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗧𝘂𝗻𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗘𝗺𝗽𝘁𝘆 𝗦𝘁𝘂𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗘𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀

Ladies and gentlemen, gather ‘round! The Philippine political stage is back with its greatest hit: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘛𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘰, a dance where logic trips over loyalty, principles are traded for money, and voters clap along like marionettes on strings. This election szn’s spotlight? A dizzying routine where public figures toss their clout at candidates like confetti, while the electorate scrambles to decide whether to cheer, jeer, or simply switch off their brains.

Let’s cut through the noise: 𝗘𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗹.

They’re political theater, a curated performance where influencers, celebrities, and even religious leaders hawk candidates like 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬-𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘋𝘝𝘋𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘢𝘱𝘰—all flashy covers, pixelated promises, and guaranteed to disappoint. Yet, time and again, Filipinos treat these endorsements as divine commandments. “𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘪 𝘯𝘨 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰!” “𝘐𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘰 𝘯𝘪 𝘐𝘥𝘰𝘭!”—as if critical thinking were a limited-edition commodity, sold out in 1521.

Take the recent spectacle: A prominent reformist leader (we were rooting for you) endorses a boxing legend-turned-politician, sparking outrage among their own supporters. “𝘕𝘰, 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘺!” they declare, dissecting the candidate’s competence like a lechon at a fiesta—a glimmer of hope that not all minds have been chloroformed by personality politics. Meanwhile, another camp cheers as a fugitive cult leader is endorsed by a political dynasty heir, met not with scrutiny but with mindless chants of unity. No questions. No hesitations. 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺? 𝘈 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦? Just blind, frothy loyalty to a cult leader who’d rather flee the country than face a Senate hearing. The contrast is stark—𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘃𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗶𝗽𝘁𝘀, 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗹𝗼𝗴𝗮𝗻𝘀. The lesson? For every Filipino who questions an endorsement, there are ten more who treat it as a loyalty test. We’ve turned elections into a 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘣𝘴, where reason is the first casualty.

We Filipinos love to posture as critical thinkers. “𝘏𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 𝘬𝘢𝘮𝘪 𝘮𝘨𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘬𝘰!” we crow, moments before voting for a candidate because “𝘔𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘯 ‘𝘺𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘢 𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯!” or “𝘚𝘪𝘬𝘢𝘵 ‘𝘺𝘢𝘯, 𝘦𝘩!” or good ol’ “𝘈𝘯𝘢𝘬 𝘺𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘪…” We sneer at “𝘣𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘴” while excusing our own choices with gems like “𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘢 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵!” or “𝘔𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘢 ‘𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘴𝘢 𝘴𝘢 𝘬𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯!” Congratulations—you’ve just endorsed the least worst option, a participation trophy for democracy. But here’s the kicker: 𝗚𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗴𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲. A candidate’s kindness, fame, or generosity doesn’t magically translate to legislative skill. Being “humble” or “helpful” doesn’t qualify someone to draft laws, manage budgets, or negotiate international treaties. Don’t get us wrong, kindness is good but it’s not what makes a competent leader. Vote buying still exists, and we elect wannabe leaders who give out the biggest amount because “𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰.” Yet, we keep electing personalities, not platforms—𝗮𝘀 𝗶𝗳 𝗴𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘂𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘆.

Why do we do this? Simple: We’ve confused governance with entertainment. Politicians are no longer public servants—they’re content creators, selling empathy, relatability, and viral sound bites instead of concrete plans. We vote for the candidate who dances best on TV, who cries on command, or whose face we recognize from billboards. We even vote straight under a party because “𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺-𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵, 𝘐 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.” Endorsements amplify this farce. Celebrities and influencers—many of whom couldn’t locate a Senate bill on Google—lend their fame to boost candidates, reducing elections to a TikTok challenge. “𝘝𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘟! 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨!” Meanwhile, platforms gather dust, track records are ignored, and the circus rolls on.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘶𝘴, 𝘩𝘶𝘩?

A government crammed with officials who’ve mastered the art of existing, not excelling. Legislators who file meme-worthy bills, mayors who prioritize photo ops over infrastructure, and leaders who treat public funds like personal baon. We cry about corruption, incompetence, and stagnation—𝘆𝗲𝘁 𝘄𝗲 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝘃𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝘀. Worse, we’ve normalized this cycle. “𝘎𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘢 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘬𝘢!” we shrug, as if incompetence were a force of nature, not a product of our choices.

We rage against the system but refuse to change how we engage with it. Rectitude alone does not qualify you to draft laws. “𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘴” Fantastic! Let’s make him Head of National Jacket Distribution, not a 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿.

Here’s a radical idea: 𝗧𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗮 𝗷𝗼𝗯 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗶𝗲𝘄. Would you hire a CEO because they’re “𝘮𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘪𝘵” or because they’ve turned companies around? Would you trust a surgeon who’s “humble” but has never held a scalpel? No? Then why vote for a senator who can’t name a single law they’ve passed? Demand competence.

𝗩𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘁. 𝗕𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀.

Grill candidates until their slogans char. Demand their receipts, not rhetoric. Ask for their blueprint, not their ballot number. Let them show you the spreadsheets, not the selfies.

If their campaign pitch boils down to “𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘰 𝘢𝘬𝘰 𝘯𝘪…”—walk away. Act. Demand answers, not alibis. Hold their feet to the fire, not their posters to your jeepneys. 𝗜𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗶𝗱𝗼𝗹 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲𝘀, 𝗿𝗼𝗮𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗿—𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗺 𝘁𝗼 𝘂𝗽𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗱.

This isn’t about left vs. right, pro-administration vs. opposition. It’s about 𝗙𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗼𝘀 𝘃𝘀. 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗰𝘆. Our addiction to political fairy tales ends when we stop outsourcing our brains to influencers peddling sample ballots like coupons. The elections have turned into a 𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵, where candidates parade their “advocacies” and we clap like trained seals. To every voter: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗮 “𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲” 𝗯𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗼𝗻. It’s a tool—a chisel to shape the future. Use it to carve out accountability, not to etch another name onto the altar of fanaticism.

The next time a candidate is endorsed, ask yourself: “𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳… 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦?”

Here’s what senators should do: read bills thicker than a 𝘑𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘦 menu and actually comprehend and emulate them, show up for work more often than a jeepney driver on strike. When a competent leader endorses a laughingstock, they’re not just playing politics—they’re holding up a funhouse mirror to the rotting system. It forces the people to ask: 𝗗𝗼 𝘄𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝗰𝗼𝘁𝘀? Platforms or punchlines? A functioning democracy or a glorified noontime show where the grand prize is our future?

So next time a politician tries to sell you a dream, speak for a blueprint, call for the budget, press for a receipt.

Pagbabago doesn’t begin with politicians, their slogans, endorsements, or viral reels… It starts with voters who dare to think and trade “𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘪 𝘯𝘪…” for “𝘈𝘯𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘸𝘢 𝘮𝘰?.” 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙪𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙞—𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙩 𝙗𝙮 𝙫𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙯𝙯𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙜𝙤𝙡𝙙.

🖋️ Dokja
🎨 Ycon

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