Whom the gods wish to destab

Iran into my former father confessor the other day. And he confessed to having compiled a virtual dossier on basket cases he has handled or is still manhandling. No, he’s not one of those pulpit bullies reassigned by the Vatican to strange new places.

In fact, he’s to the mantis born, the praying one. And he can’t help but pray for a reversal to the pink of mental health of some of his troubled patients — even if he’s really engaged in sosyal science. If they don’t, in time for a propitious date like May 10, 2010, he threatens to scream to high heavens: “Hottie, I shrank the kids!”

In his haste for an Angelus bar, the importunate prelate dropped a thick folder as he boarded a hand-me-down BMW at the SCTEX exit. I picked it up and quickly realized it hadn’t been intentionally provided for developmental but deviant journalism.

Behooves me thus, hooves and all, to conduct fool disclosure. In the interest of brevity and plagiarism, I have simply compressed paraphrases of the rather turgid text academically attached to each subject.

Case No. 1, codenamed Addled Tamali — Recovering from an injudicious episode of endorsement — of a bodyshop clinic embarrassingly dragged into a sex, lies and videotapes scandal. Evidently narcissistic, owing to his striking good looks and perfection of a cutting-edge mien of simpatico sincerity. Believes he’s an angelic edition of an alpha male. Frequently spouts earnest-sounding diatribes against blackprop, while his left hand twitches distantly from his right, manifesting bipolar unfamiliarity with his opposing thumbs. Also claims to be of some terrain called The Deep South, when in truth he’s been ooh-ing and ahh-ing at metropolitan mirrors all his life.

Case No. 2, codenamed Andaldal Ampaw-2-in-1 Jr. — Shows signs of imminent narcolepsy as betrayed by prodigious yawning spells. A sinister weak smile suggests he is weak in the head, or may have become so from a blow applied with a cameraman’s lens. Reason to believe however that he was simply born that way, pudgy and antipatico. A consistently moronic, unwittingly comedic visage is corroborated by sudden thespic turnarounds involving his personal fashion sense, inclusive of ballers and their colors. One day he’s for orange, the next he’s practically asking for a yellow ribbon to be tied around his neck, tightly to ensure no return no exchange. 

(Our own note: Boy, this particularly lengthy dossier didn’t mince any words, rendering the subject as an almost classic stereotype of a despicable contravida. Here’s more.)     

A tendency to tell stories coached by similarly idiotic lawyers who believe they can take everyone for a ride with a crude script. (“Childish, clumsy...” — These words serve as marginalia in yellow ink.)

Case No. 3, codenamed Albergus “Fastbreak” Aargh-rat — Obsessed with sycophancy, manic in his resolve to act as the tail being wagged by two lady dogs. Mistakes smarm for cool confidence. Fanatic in his faith in acrobatics, even only as an acting coach in the Department Store of Justice’s gym of shameless contortions. Drops crocodile tears in public, alleging a feeling of being so misunderstood. Banana-split personality, soft and mushy in parts, but also nutty. Sheltered from any level of comprehension regarding the import of proper judicial procedure, let alone appreciation of the purpose of barn doors. Quickly lets dogs out. Cursed with bad timing. Fatally insensitive, insensate, even for an attorney.

Case No. 4, codenamed Persistent Glue Mock-a-pagan Abajo — Wildest of the bunch, increasingly, perilously. Pluperfect paranoia serves as shaky foundation for what’s devolved into a Sphinx-like persona. Severe trauma suffered over truthful apologies. Delusions of deja vu — with her on the obverse side of yet another plunder case. Actually think she’s presidential when appointing midnight manicurists to exalted positions. Plays everything by the fearful scenarist’s book, and then some. Irreversibly aberrant head case, maybe due to vision constrained by low center of gravity. Mocked by all, disliked by even more. Seems to seek ruin of nation by silently taunting everyone into civil strife.

(“Be very afraid of the Homunculus Variation!” This alarum is Pentel-ed on the right-hand margin, signed “Pawnpusher Anon.”)  

Case No. 5, codenamed Money Villifier — A prime exponent of the messianic visionary complex. Sees winding roads where there were none. Sees subdivisions where there were others’ farmlands. Sees the color yellow when he closes his eyes, making him climb up the wall — with mythical monsters called Dumagats on his tail for land-grabbing, credit-grabbing, crotch-grabbing, what-have-you. Delusions of poverty. Displays increasing signs of desperation. Remorse may not be too far behind, when he counts lost billions in his sleep. Addicted to falsification. Pathologically averse to authenticity. In his Machiavellian manqué mind, everything but everything must be fake or faked; even a tag-teamer has to be plastic. Inveterately selects second-rate operators who suggest check marks filched from Nike, filch ideas from a losing Argentinian presidential candidate (O, Foreshadowing, Foreboding!). Prescient only in his sense of colors, preferring a hue associated with prison garb, and purple for atonement. 

Case No. 6, Dong Gordick — Rants against the common pulse and the weather, curses airport sound systems. Schwas spiced with saliva spray. Takes a page from former colleague; may yet be the Brenda of the season. In brief, losing it — in more ways than one. Just losing it. Fabilioh! (Note: Tandem teamster can’t be CAT-scanned, on account of noggin ever protected by hardhat declaring availability as boyfriend material, yet no takers.)

Cases Nos. 7-10, collectively codenamed Salingpusa — Engaged in solipsistic competition as to who hears the loudest voices, re greenery and morals. Statistically tied to the conviction that he or she is some deity’s gift to political discourse and/or fantasies of governance. Alas, they can only be congenital also-rans in a hostile work environment, where the perdigana system is yet to be recognized for any iota of validity as tactic or strategy.

And here are the spiritual counselor’s final notes on the psycho batch of 2010, which demand quoting verbatim:

“Bizarre has been the morphing qualities of at least two of the lot, specifically Case No. 4 and Case No. 5, resulting in an intriguing double personality that has assumed the moniker ‘Villibajo.’ The crusading zeal shared by Cases Nos. 7 to 10 is a different matter altogether, simply identifiable as the KSP syndrome. 

“Also warranting academic inquiry is the collective tendency to break into song, e.g. PCOS of You — while some launch into verbal odes a la Tennyson, with a refrain that sounds like ‘Topak and Back.’

“Lastly, of curious interest is the unexpected kiss-of-death contest between PGMA and AA Jr. — a diplomatic joust as to who is ‘kissinger’ or ‘kissingest.’ But wait, there’s more. Someone from Utrecht just tossed his top hat in the ring. With this international poet (who’s just escaped the terrorists’ list) pronouncing his incendiary choice, can cretinous communists be far behind?

“Indeed, whom the gods wish to destabilize, they first make lunatic, or at least kinda off, or offline.”

Hmmm. Really now. Verily like a kikay kit, so fascinating is this sosyal science of psychiatric cognizance and evaluation, however amateurish or bogus. Makes us wonder if the proper mode for any Grand Guignol contest should be viva voce, with gays subject to disqualification.