Sunday, December 25, 2011


Minsan iniisip ko na sana ay pwede rin akong magka-regla. Ito ang sinabi ko kay Amoketh isang araw habang kumakain kami ng sushi sa ambulance parking lot. Sa mga nakalipas na araw kasi ay napapansin kong masyado akong cranky. Kaunting bagay lang ay para na akong pinagsasakluban ng langit at lupa (at dahil fun gamitin ang expression na iyon). Halimbawa, madiskobre ko lang habang naglalakad ako papasok sa ospital na maluwag at bacon-ish pala ang medyas ko dahil unti-unti na silang bumababa sa sakong ay parang gusto ko nang mamatay. Exaj. Hindi naman mamatay. Dahil pag sinabi mong gusto mo nang mamatay o pag sinabi mong feeling mo mamamatay ka na ay nakakainsulto ito sa mga totoong mamamatay na pero ayaw pa nila. Pumoprofound.

Back to wanting to have regla. Dahil pag may regla ka ay kahit papaano meron kang sisisihin na organic sa pagiging masungit. Dati ay inaaccuse lang ng mga tao ang mga babae na nagsusungit-sungitan pag may regla, pero ilang kaibigang babae ko na rin ang napapansin kong specially masungit sa spesipikong linggo ng buwan. Halimbawa, ang lagi kong kasamang si ****** ay masungit, umiiyak nang wala sa oras, at lethargic all at the same time pag last week of the month na. At totoo nga, ito ang linggo ng kanyang regla.

O baka dahil lagi lang akong gutom dahil sa abnormal na oras ng tulog at trabaho whine whine whine. Nung isang araw, habang nagkiklinik ay inatake ako ng matinding gutom. In fact nakita ko palang ang mataas na pile ng charts ay nagutom na ako lalo ng husto. Ang mga pasyente sa aming klinik ay medyo galante in general, at naisip ko na since magpapasko naman ay baka mabiyayaan ako ng pwedeng kainin sa oras na yun. Pero, habang palakad-lakad ako sa klinik ay napansin kong ang ibang fellows ay parang may panederya na sa mga lamesa nila, puno na ang mga ito ng mga cake, brownies, Wafu, at lahat ng varieties ng hopya. So far, for the day, ika-pitong pasyente ko na out of the twelve ay wala pa rin sumasagot sa gutom ko. In pure gutom, in pure kakapalan, in my head: please please kahit tasty bread with sandwich spread, and Plus King Size, basta pwede kong kainin RIGHT NOW. Oo, pathetic na kung pathetic, pero gutom na gutom na talaga ako.

Finally, ang ika-walong pasyente ay nag-abot ng supot pagkatapos ng kimo. Supot! Kinuha ko ito, nagpasalamat, naglaway, at naghanda nang tumalikod at kainin ang mga posibilidad na ito: sandwich/donut/hopia/tinapayan special. Hindi muna ako tatawag ng next patient, kakainin ko muna ito.

Binuksan ko ang supot. Tinignan ang nasa loob.


Thursday, December 22, 2011

Thymes and The Lochia

Met Thymes and Lochia for dinner in kantunan last night. Eat-outs with these people are few and far between so we had to catch-up with all the stories really fast and put up three threads of conversation at the same time.

Thymes has been mentioned quite frequently in this blog. A few years ago while walking along Orosa Lloydie saw the two of us walking together. In the middle of the street, with lots of people around, Lloydie asked, "Nag-sex kayo?" We just shrugged. Last year Thymes was the star in their section's dance extravaganza where she played a demon who made sampa over one of her male co-fellows' shoulders. Presently Thymes is an incoming senior fellow in the section of cardiology, or as her t-shirt last night said, Cardiologist ng Bayan.

The other cardiologist ng bayan is Lochia. Lochia has not always been known as Lochia. He has earlier been known in this blog as Pyro, but eventually JD-Lu has christened him Lochia and until now I call him Lochia in real life. Lochia is popular for his powerful, remarkable lines such as "Ako ang pinakamakapangyarihang doktor sa ospital na ito ngayong gabi!" and "Ang katulong ba na lumayas, pag bumalik ay tatanggapin pa ng amo?" Truly nothing is more powerful than Lochia, and we should affix an article in his name and call him The Lochia.

We retired to Whore House. Thymes brought up that as she was watching the incoming fellows' interviews she felt a little sheepish as she remembered her own answers then. When asked "Why cardiology?" the current applicants would say the usual but not necessarily untrue stuff such as "to serve; no cardiologist in our provice; etc". Thymes remembered her answer two years ago, which she has said with such deep earnestness. Why cardiology? Thymes: Because it's glamorous!

We then asked The Lochia what his answer last year was. Truly The Lochia must have never failed to astound. This was The Lochia's answer to the question: Why cardiology?

The Lochia: (in front of the top cardiologists of the country) I've been thinking about that question since last night, because I knew you were going to ask that question. But you know what, cardiology is not the question. It is... the answer.

*slow clap* *slow clap* *slow clap* *slow clap*

Sunday, December 18, 2011

One Day At A Time

Attended this morning the baptism of Papa Ruter's super cute daughter in Fernbrook Alabang. Ruter is one of my residency batchmates, and you might remember him from my post where he ripped off his shirt in our sweltering callroom, lifted the entire damn airconditioner unit, and rammed it against the hole in the room all by himself. He is the sort of person who just does what needs to be done while everyone around him is whining, in that case, we were all whining that it was so hot when is the technician going to get here to put up the aircondition. I thought I got into a wrong chapel as there was no baptism, there was instead a huge furry dog with people dressed in Middle Earth costume while a couple was getting married. And then I realized I was two hours late so they were of course already dining somewhere else.

And already seated were my residency batchmates who are some of the most interesting people I know. Just because I want to I'd enumerate them: Lloydie with his wife Rhose, Hurricane Katrina, Fulet Esplana, Tits, Jd-Lu with Beh, Tessieloopagooparoop, JLL, Renrerenrenren, Uni-Horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore, Vampirella, and Lochia. We suddenly remembered it was also Ruter's 4th year wedding anniversary when he showed us the video of his wedding in 2007. We were all invited then, but none of us attended the wedding, being caught up then in the first days of residency.

In the midst of it all people were discussing plans on where to practice medicine after completing fellowship, plans of marriage, further training abroad, hospital stocks and bonds and visiting privileges and stuff, kids, our parents' medical conditions, kids, money, and all these adult stuff. These things make my head spin. I have no plans for the future whatsofuckingever, I don't know what should ever become of me, and my long term goal is good only for the next meal. Kumbaga sa insulin, short-acting at pag naubos na ay intayin na lang mag diabetic coma. In times like these I find solace in the fantastic Snoopy's Street Fair game where Charlie Brown succinctly explains his new philosophy in life: I will only dread one day at a time.

Speaking of one day at a time, Oxali has recently seen the movie One Day. Grainy pirated download, of course. Oxali is an Oncology co-fellow. While in the car on our way to our Christmas party Oxali revealed (spoilers!) that the girl in the movie One Day dies in the end.

"CANCER?!?!" four of us said in unison.
"Hinde, nasagasaan sya ng truck," Oxali said.

Not everything is about cancer.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

May 1 Syndrome

Jeff Libuit has reminded us that tomorrow would be their last day in residency, in his succinct Facebook shout-out which goes "last day na bukas".

We envy him, and all the residents finishing up tomorrow, because once again they would experience the May 1 Syndrome on December 16, ie, waking up with a start at 7 am only to realize you could wake up at 2pm, or not at all. That you could choose not to take a bath! Or brush your teeth! And you can eat your parents' food! And not pay anything! And your hand starts to itch to write something, something really long that requires many pages, and then you become happy that you don't fucking have to! And you remember that there are thousands of pages to read for the upcoming boards, but you tell yourself rightfully that you could give yourself a break, at least for a day! Or two! Or at least until the holiday ends!

Ending residency is surely a sad event, as things would never be the same, and the fantastic stuff we used to take for granted would no longer be there, such as the callroom bed, and responsible batchmates who would asikaso papers that need to be signed and you would only need to sign. Come hellowship everyone would be... running. You would be hard pressed to tell anyone a funny anecdote in full, because everyone's Amazing-Running to finish at 5pm and by the time you get that leisurely time together after weeks on end, said anecdote is no longer funny. Last year we thought we would all be getting senti and stuff on the last day, but the toxicity of finishing things that needed to be finished, moving out of the callroom, endorsifications, and other stuff turned senti mode into, what else, whining. "HUUUUUUNGH!" Djana and I had whined in the ambulance parking lot as we were eating sushi. But all in all we did get quite senti, specially with the fantastic send-off our junior residents then gave us.

A temporary farewell and congratulations to our graduating IM residents!

Tuesday, December 13, 2011


After taking strong, bitter coffee at five in the morning I rushed to the bus stop and dozed off a few minutes after taking my seat and paying. I woke up somewhere in Quirino, only to feel something crawling up my left leg inside my jeans. It crawled up, up, up, until it reached my thigh. The bus is decrepit and obviously harbors all sorts of bugs, so I squirmed and squirmed and squirmed as I realized it could only be my personal nemesis, the cockroach, who found the perfect opportunity make me look like an idiot as I squirmed and squirmed and squirmed as I tried to make it pagpag down my leg which was quite impossible as it was a fairly tight pair of jeans, so I squirmed, etc.

I had no choice. The cockroach was rapidly climbing the region no cockroach should ever climb. So as soon as I felt its body's outline under my pants in the thigh area, I squished it. Yes, I fucking squished it, and I heard the crackly squish and felt the squishy goo as the cockroach bleeping died!!! Now that it was immobile it was only a matter of making pagpag my leg and it rolled down and fell on the floor. There it was, the dead brown cockroach with tan stripes, squished as fuck.

Normally I would freak out inside my head, as nothing elicits a supersonic girly scream from me other than cockroaches. Specially those that fly and those with moving antennae. However, the situation required me to be calm, or else I would have looked like a frantic character about to die in the movie Saw, and the cockroach would have succeeded in making me look like a frantic character about to die in the movie Saw. The bus finally came to a stop in Pedro Gil, I leisurely ate breakfast in McDo while using their WiFi to receive the lavish gifts Uni-Horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore and Smurfbarry have given my Snoopy's Street Fair, all the while trying to ignore the icky gunky feel on my thigh. I then walked back to my dorm, took off my pants and told myself as I looked at my bare thigh: Now THAT is gunk.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Chocolate Coins. In A Net!

I was looking for Smores in the supermarket because just five years ago Smores was available even in Mini-Stop but now you can't seem to find it anywhere. It's relatively cheap, maybe because most of the bar is taken up by a more pedestrian marshmallow. This is one of those posts being typed after skipping a meal, about an event that happened after skipping a meal. I heard from someone that you should eat a full meal before going to the supermarket to lower your purchasing desires, so it was probably not a good idea that I went there after a weekend of roundsing.

So there was no Smores. And for more, I've remembered that rent was due today, so I had exactlly P50 to spend in the supermarket. Fun fun fun. Back in college Mrs. Therese and I had this Comm 2 (COMM 2! AHAHAHAHA!) activity where we had to go to the mall and spend only fifty bucks each. It was apparently a training for FP, ie, Future Poverty.

And what should I see but... chocolate coins. In gold foil! Chocolate coins in gold foil in a small net (lambat) have been a source of comfort in my childhood, because they are just so golly gee whiz cool. But they have to be in a net. The Goya Chocolate Coins are in a regular plastic wrapper. I nevertheless got it and consumed the whole thing in a few minutes. It would have been more fun if they were in a lambat, but poverty precludes such kaartehan.

Come to think of it, poverty precludes so much kaartehan in life, making you realize that they are, indeed, just kaartehan. For instance, I used to buy a lot of brand new fiction books in National or Powerbooks. I would say that ooooh I love the smell of the paper of a freshly printed book! So if I see for instance, a downloadable soft copy of The Marabou Stork Nightmares, or a Booksale copy of Raise High The Roof Beams Carpenters, I would scoff that I would just buy a brand new copy because of the smell of the fresh ink and paper of a brand new book! KAARTEHAN! And the hard cover ones, those with the jagged edges, they are so quaint and I love them so! KAARTEHAN! Or an expensive pen with point something specifications, because the pen dictates thought processes and my thought processes would only be as smooth as the way the pen runs on paper. KAARTEHAN!!!!

You were right, parents, you were right.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011


I saw a local movie called Tatarin in ATC years and years ago, back when I could still watch horrific movies in theaters and stuff. It was supposedly based on a Nick Joaquin short story we've read in Hum 1 back in college, but there were too many exposed breasts, vegetable phallic symbolism, and moaning in the movie which we've never seemed to notice in the short story. The movie is incomprehensible crap. The final scene has the main guy (I even forgot actor) licking girl's foot, which seemed like a metaphor for cunnilungus. I don't know how we've reached that conclusion, maybe we were just bastos, but it did seem like cunnilungus. Credits suddenly rolled, lights turned on, the end. A woman in the audience stood up and screamed "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!?!"

I am reminded of this when we went to Ocean Park today for a section annual meeting. After the meeting where the year was capped off and I got ecstatic that I have once again triumphed in my goal of minimum requirement, we went to see the attractions. We fell in line for the penguins. Uni-Horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore loves penguins, and I love Batman's villain The Penguin, so the half-hour line should be worth it. After watching the cute penguins dive and swim and stuff we fell in line yet again for the snow room. Truly there would be penguins gallivanting and jumping around and all golly-gee. Wearing our jackets we excitedly went to the snow room. It was cold and... it was cold. There were no penguins. But there were benches. And a few steps to the right we saw a door that said: Exit. We exited. Attraction over.

All together now: WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!? WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT????!!!!

Except, only we were screaming that. Families and crap were sitting on the benches and playing in the huge ref and taking pictures and gallivanting frolicking traipsing fun fun fun and stuff. Which incurred a second round of an even louder: WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?????!

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Vanishing Room, Cinoroborate

Pinaalala pa kasi ni The Daw aka BOTD aka Supervillainess Helliza. Natatakot tuloy ako ulit bigla.

Sa mga panahong ito ay nagtatrabaho ako sa isang lugar na kung tawagin ay Cancer Institute. Tuwing tinatanong ako ng ibang tao kung hindi ba raw ako nahihirapang mag "disclose" ng diagnosis sa mga pasyente at pamilya nila, sinasabi ko na kalimitan ay hindi. Dahil tignan pa lang nila kung nasaan sila ay dapat medyo alam na nila, so ika nga, we don't need to beat around the bush (pilit na pilit ang expression, gusto ko lang kasi sabihin ang salitang "bush") Hindi ito tinatawag na Wellness Institute, or Recovery Institute, o kahit man lamang Institute of Neoplasms. Direct to the point, alam ng lahat, kung ano ang Cancer. Dati nga nung bata mga bata pa kami at naglalaro kami ng nanay at mga kapatid ko ng Scrabble ay bawal magbuo ng salitang Cancer. Bawal sabihin o isipin.

Pero ang pinaalala bigla ni Helliza ay ang supposedly mga katatakutan na nangyayari dito. Nung mga intern pa lamang kami, isa sa mga malulungkot na duty ay ang CI. Ilang oras ka kasing uupo sa isang sulok, magbabasa basa kunwari, at mag-iintay na may lumabas na mga tray na pang swero o dumating ang oras na mag-monitor ng mga kinikimo. Kikimo talaga. Minsan isang 12 midnight habang naka-duty tumakas ako. Pumunta ako sa malapit na Mini-Stop at kumain ng ice cream. Wala namang nangyari.

Pinaalala lang bigla ni Helliza na may mga ghosts and stuff sa building na ito. Kung tutuusin hindi naman ganun karami ang namamatay dito, dahil bago sila mag-toxic and stuff ay kaagad na silang nililipat sa ward. Pero sabi ni Helliza, may mga small kids na multo daw na tumatakbo-takbo taas-baba sa malapad na hagdan. Minsan sa kakatakbo nila ay umaabot sila sa katabing Ophtha building kung saan kinukulbit nila ang mga intern at clerk lalo na pag natutulog. Tumatakbo-takbo rin daw sila pag gabi sa gitna kung saan nandoon ang fountain.

Pero ang mas nakakatakot, at cinoroborate (ano totoong tagalog dito?) ng iba pang tao, ay ang small room na... nawawala. Minsan habang nagmomonitor ka daw ay bigla na lang may kwartong hindi mo makita. Para ka daw nasusukob or namamatanda o nakakapre, basta hindi mo mahanap ang kwartong ito na malapit sa elevator. Na paglingon mo, andun na ulit! Ang hirap-hirap na nga mag monitor at mag insert ng linya at kumuha ng dugo sa mga sunog na ugat, magva-vanish pa ang kwarto for MORE kahirapan. Hell talaga. Hellellel.

Kaya kung dati, hindi lang ako tumitingin sa mga salamin sa CI pag gabi, ngayon di na rin ako tumitingin sa fountain. At sa hagdan, pinakamabilis akong bumaba. Hindi pa nakatulong na nagpictorial pa bigla ang Cardio section dito for their winner presentation, kaya pang Kilabot Komiks na talaga:

(credits to photographer)

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Pinakanakakatakot ang pag-tilt ng ulo ni Melgar, parang may hawak na kutsilyo sa likod.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Blog Minefield: Random Conversations With Total Strangers

While comfortably sitting in Shrine Motherfucker 1 trying to write a short story about a guy who thinks he's so ugly he slashes his face with a razor blade, who should strike a conversation with me but the guy (a newbie) sitting in Shrine Motherfucker 2. He initially asked about politics and stuff, so I said some vague stuff that can only be translated as: I don't know anything about it. Spontaneous conversations with total strangers can be fun at times specially when my friends have no new blog entries to read (Alert: BOTD, HTGOF, SIU, Walking on Water). Interestingly there was no uncomfortable silence, because there was... no silence. So I could just type, download, click like, write, and read comic books while muttering vague "uh-huh's" while the soliloquy was going on.

"But you look so young," newbie guy said.
I find this expression corny, but the only appropriate response to this (in my head), is: ahem ahem ahem. Once again I've opened up 30 minutes of my attention because of this opening line. Maybe he has read my blog specifically When I've told Popopopoker Face Popopoker Face of a similar random conversation in SMF1 years ago, his input was: Maybe he wants to fuck you. Why thank you Popopopoker Face Popopoker Face, I need all the flattery I could get in all forms, shapes, and sizes.

Newbie guy went on and on about politics, growing up in the States, speaking English in Manila, the plight of the Filipinos in the States, etc etc etc. Meanwhile I've finished reading the disgusting Red Hood and The Outlaws issue #3 and Catwoman #3 in my laptop. I've also updated my iPod and discovered ways to recover my lost Smurfs Village. Finally I found the most opportune escape clause when he asked,

Newbie Guy: How do I make sure I don't get stabbed while walking in Ermita?
Me: Easy. You need to go home early.

In a few minutes he was gone and thus endeth the conversation.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Murder Mystery in CI

Not really a murder mystery, but I've been perusing through my old Hercule Poirot stories and it's just fun when he screams, in David Suchet voice, of course, "MURDER!"

The mystery I'm referring to in this instance is, of course, the sudden disappearance for more than twenty-four hours now necessitating a search and rescue operation... of the interns' Cancer Institute logbook! That precious logbook, containing endless thrills in the form of your intern stalkees' cell phone numbers, those puerile but fun doodles, and most importantly, the much treasured ever-growing list of residents and fellows nominated to be cast down to hell in a form of a really fugly effigy washed in gasoline to be burned--BURNED!!!--come the ceremonious May 1 Sunog! I might be one of the suspects, being a fixture in the building and stuff, except that I know that I'm not in the evolving Sunog list, because I know, I know, because... I've taken a peek! While the intern-on-duty was busy inserting an IV line to a totally veinless chemo-fied dehydrated patient!!! Now I'm implicating myself more!!! AHAHAHAHAAHAHAH!!!!

I didn't do it. And I wasn't on the list not because I'm totally lovable, but because... nobody knows who we are! Because we're just these expressionless, zombified Hellows lugging around chemicals and stuff who only have one thing in our minds: when can I go home. AHAHAHHAH. AHAHAHAAHAH!!!!

So there. Now that I've totally ruled myself out maybe the right suspects would be fingered. I'm not even sure if the verb "fingered" is right, it doesn't sound right, in fact it sounds totally bastos, I'm just translating directly from Tagalog, ie, turo. Obviously I am writing this in the event that something bad happens to me, because I know, I know..... The List.


Been having quite a difficult time in many respects lately (as if I haven't whined about these things enough), but I've declared a couple of days ago that what would push me to the edge is if my gadgetifications start going insane. There's just something specifically infuriating about gadgetifications going insane, and I always recall that ad of a cable TV show about computer problems where an office cubicle employee gets so infuriated at his desktop he rips it off his table and throws the damn thing in the trash can while screaming like crazy.

So OF COURSE I've incurred a gadgetification mishap. As soon as I've declared that getting pushed to the edge drama. In the hurly burly of the upcoming onco section accreditation there have been a lot of file swaps through emails, USB's and stuff (ie, I didn't get the powerful virus from downloading porn. We're no longer in high school shame on you). Now I've always been pretty mayabang about my first generation Lenovo, as it has never broken down in 3 years and a half. So of course it has to happen in the midst of--just because I want to say it--a hurly burly. 

I've fixed it soon enough, of course, after a quickie run of internal screaming, whining, cursing, moaning, groaning, and we can go on and on for more similar verbs. And in true empath fashion what should suddenly play in my intelligent iPot as I was finally getting successful in reformatting was... EHeads' Alapaap. AHAHAHAHAAHAHAH. The good thing is that now it is totally purged of trash, and I feel like a new man. For synchronicity I got a haircut, also because no amount of powerful hair gel/wax can flatten the damn thing down and it's starting to look really big like a separate creature on my head. I've once tried my brother's hair wax which was still not able to flatten it, but was able to mold my hair into different shapes and sizes. Even after washing it off for days and days on end you could still mold the bleeping thing into a fucking anvil.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Clang! Clang! Clang!

One of the things I like doing when I'm at home on weekends other than stare at the ceiling for hours on end is looking at stuff I can throw in the trash or give to other people or sell. So I opened my closets wide open to look for useless crap! 90% of my closet space contains comic book long boxes, and I realized I don't have any clothes in my room!

The other 10% contains:
College and med books- useless crap, but too heavy to carry or throw to the trash. They carry no sentimental value whatsoever, and whatever reservations I had then that I would probably read them when I have the time have been pulverized years and years ago. Keep.

College papers, newspapers, magazines, folios and other publications that carry my published stuff. Will not throw out. In the off chance that I die soon and I become posthumously famous, people might get interested in that old essay where I wished I were a cat. Or that short story where I swapped brains with a cat. My deceased cats would be proud. Keep.

Cassette tapes, VHS recordings of X-Files, mixed tapes which carry a lot of memory- since mixed tapes and the X-Files bring comfort in nostalgification: Keep.

And finally:
Medals- the term "useless crap" does not even begin to describe their uselesscrapness. They gather dust, might contain deadly metals, and do not even carry any nostalgic or self-esteem-boosting worth. If anything they signify the most embarrassing portions of my life. AHAHAHAHAHA. I looked at the medals' labels and my favorites: Grade 3 mini-olympics: CHESS. Mini-olympics! AHAHAHAHAHA. But nothing takes up space more than... a TROPHY. I've just remembered: I have a tall bleeping trophy! This might sound totally cool except that the label reads: Quiz Bee on Consumerism. CONSUMERISM! What the hellellellel! AHAHAHAHAHAAH. I've just remembered one question in this quiz bee, something about from how many meters must a price tag on a grocery item be visible for it to be a valid price tag. THROW THROW THROW! THROOOOOOOOOOW!!!!!! When my mom's not looking.

Monday, November 7, 2011


Chanced upon Supervillainess Helliza and HTGOF in Shrine Motherfucker 1. Strangely Shrine Motherfucker 1 is quite devoid of people, probably because it's sem break. Having run out of blogs to ridicule and having exhausted all valid points on being cat or dog people Helliza brought up something out of the left field.

Helliza: Special Agent Fox Mulder, why not date Smoketh? Smoketh: Because it would be incest and that would be gross.
Helliza wouldn't be stopped. She was on full supervillainess mode tonight.
Helliza: HTGOF, why not date Special Agent Fox Mulder?

Back in clerkship while I was on duty in the OB admitting section I was tasked to monitor the cervical cancer garden. All of a sudden a patient sadly went on code and I had to scream code and had to do the chest pumping and stuff in the area beside the patient rest room. As we were conducting the code a pregnant patient happened to be walking out from the rest room. She saw the events, and she immediately fainted. I was at the time being relieved by Helga in doing the chest compression, and, being a bibo-bibohan busy-busyhan clerk who should never be caught not doing anything, I leaped to the fainting patient and caught her in my arms. In pure nervousness at what she has just experienced not only did she faint, but she fucking crapped. All over the floor, and all over my pants.

In the two seconds that it took me to shift from being quietly bewildered and mortified to letting out a bloodcurdling scream as I stared at the human crap on my pants, my interns and residents said that my facial expression was such that it was so contorted that it could not be described. That is, it could not be described back in 2004.

Because now it CAN be properly described! It is exactly akin to the facial expression of HTGOF when Supervillainess Helliza suggested us dating! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

And for that we give HTGOF's facial expression.... the prestigious 2011 AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA Awards! All together now: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAH!

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Alternative Career for Lochia

Back in high school I actually thought I would like to become a lawyer. Gross. Utterly, utterly gross. This is probably borne out of my being thrusted into a couple of debate competitions within the school. Again, utterly utterly bleeping gross. I did not know a single thing about debating, in my head i would rather be watching WWF, and really, debating is for people who can actually maintain a train of thought uninterrupted by "do I have a blank VHS tape on which to record The X-Files tonight?" Our favorite debate moment was that at one time, a judge was announcing percentage scores for each speaker. I'm not sure if this is how debates are really conducted, but at one point the the judge announced the scores: "JAPT, 94%!!! Namtab Pots, 96%!!! and Crashalimar... 32%!!!!" At which our classmates let out raucous laughter unabashedly. At one point when our teacher was asking for topic suggestions on what to debate about a classmate suggested quite earnestly:

Sushmita Sen, did she really deserve to win?
Which a classmate tried to one-up with: High tide, or low tide?
So 1994.

Have been watching for a few weeks now the ANC debates with law schools dishing out their arguments and stuff in front of judges and stuff. Today the topic was essentially on how to deal with MILF. MILF has recently taken on a new term, and every time somebody argues, "Give concession to the MILF!!!" I always imagine a different form of concession being given to a different kind of MILF.

As much as I hate these debates and stuff they do have their entertaining value. We like it when we see alar-flaring, forehead-slapping really high-strung contestants. I am probably just jealous: as I said I cannot maintain a coherent thought, in two-seconds I can confuse myself on which side I'm really on, and when I have nothing else to rebut with I would probably just say, "Bakit ba." You know who would be a good debater? Lochia. Lochia can easily confuse his competitors with such statements as:

"Are you not aware that despite the government not having to not address without prejudice the non-withdrawal of military resources that were not disclaimed yesterday, there has been no unequivocal response from MILF that did not merely result in them not withdrawing their own supposed non-attack?!?!"

In which case the opposing side would just have to answer, "er... yes. No. Yes." 

Crap and A Sell-Out

Years and years ago during semestral or summer breaks one of my personal projects would be to write as many short stories as I could, which I would later badger Mrs. Therese to read. She was a good friend like that, having to endure endless pages of neurotic ramblings. She would return my stories a few days later with lots of comments, which are funnier than the stories themselves. Since residency happened I've stopped reading a lot of fiction, which led to me not being able to write fiction as well. My theory is my short story writing style is greatly affected by the last author I've read. The last time I've written fiction was in July 2010. It was a short story about a young doctor's first experience to sign the death certificate. Just typing that already makes me retch. I've asked Smoketh to read it before I submitted it to a national publication, and she labelled it as "crap" and a "sell-out". It got published in a national publication. I showed it to Smoketh after I got a copy in 7-11, now in magazine format. Smoketh still labelled the story as "crap" and a "sell-out". I never told anyone in the callroom about it, until someone got hold of it for some reason. Eds read it out loud. Everyone fucking retched at every sentence AHAHAHAHA. Rightfully so.

Fiction is just more difficult to write than, say, a blog entry where everything goes. The structure is more complex, you can't go on forever unless you want everyone to go back to facebooking, and in terms of submitting one for actual publication I find it tricky to sort of balance what the current standards of short fiction are with my own personal style. In the aforementioned story there appeared to have been no balance, hence it being a total fucking sell-out. It is also infuriating that, having been in the hospital for the past ten years or so the first characters that come to mind are healthcare-related characters. The setting has becoming very limiting, which is obviously just an excuse for stunted imagination.

Certain events have led me to want to try my hand at fiction again. Maybe I'll pepper this blog with those practice stories and bore everyone to tears.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Self-Indulgent Entry

Consider the following events that happened in the past couple of weeks:
1. Lalaloo has been blogging again! And she has listed her twenty favorite things in response to an ad where the writer wrote his twenty favorite things. Check out her blog at
2. In a recent episode of How I Met Your Mother Barney's girlfriend suddenly blared into the Sound of Music song "My Favorite Things".
3. Last week Callistus Netromedev enthusiastically texted me as he was leaving the theater, "I've just watched The Sound of Music musical! It's fantastic!" and being a downer I've just replied "I fucking hate musicals!" Yes, I'm a total jerk like that.
4. In a recent blog entry, Neurologist Shipper Jack Knight has posted a comment... to the tune of My Favorite Things!!!

Obviously My Favorite Things is begging to be discussed. Hence, I will also list... my favorite things!!! Ahahahaha. More specifically, these are the things I want to ram inside my mouth right now, because I am just so very hungry. I am usually anorexic and subsist on two meals a day, but my cancer seems to have been spontaneously regressing the past few days and I actually have an appetite. So these are... The Top Ten Things I Want Want Want To Ram In My Mouth Right Now Because I Am Just So Fucking Hungry!!! I usually have an aversion to entries about wanting stuff, but I am just... so... hungry.

1. Cherry Coke. The last time I drank one was years and years ago, and I'm still DREAMING (OA) of it every single fucking day (for more OA). Is this gone? Is it? Is IT?!? If it is, would Ventolin syrup-spiked Coke taste the same? Would it? Would IT?!?!
2. Chori Burger from Bun on the Run. Is this also totally gone? Do I really want want want it, or is it nostalgia?
3. UP Diliman isaw in a cup of vinegar, the one in Ilang-Ilang. Calling Mrs. Therese!
4. Toffifee, because it tastes good, is also a piece of nostalgia, and is also expensive and hence unattainable making it seem like it tastes better than it probably does. Also, it's fun to say Toffifee.
5. Chicken curry.
6. Cornik.
7. Subway. Somebody bring bleeping Subway to Rob! We want a sandwich bursting at the seams with all sorts of vegetarian stuff with vinegar and stuff! Also, there are these Subway ads in DC Comics where sports figures are raving about... avocado dressing! Yes, we are sosyal, we want want want avocado dressing!
8. Ampalaya.
9. Sunflower seeds. Because I've always imagined I'm Mulder who always chews on sunflower seeds and... wears gray boxers! AHAHAHAHHAAHHA I know, disgusting disgusting image.
10. Pizza with lots and lots and lots of gulay.

So bleeping hungry.

Getting Some

We are now in issues 2 and 3 of the DC relaunch issues, and whatever steam the relaunch has created has, as expected, been quickly lost. That's because, as I've said, this relaunch is totally unnecessary. After the first issues I had the following scores for these titles, as usual represented by action figures:

Action Comics by Grant Morrison, Batman by Scott Snyder, Wonder Woman by Brian Azarello, Aquaman by Geoff Johns, Green Lantern by Geoff Johns, New Guardians by Peter Tomasi, Superboy by Scott Lobdell, Voodoo by Ron Marz, Batwoman by JH Williams, All-Star Western, and Flash by Francis Manapul.

Assessment: Each gets 4-5 quality DC Direct action figures, for just being strong stories in themselves, or for being over-all entertaining, fresh, and promising. These stories kind of made me want to eat my own words full of vitriol which I let out at the news of relaunch.

Justice League of America by Geoff Johns, Detective Comics by Tony Daniels, Batman The Dark Knight, Teen Titans by Lobdell, Mr. Terrific, Suicide Squad, Hawkman, Hawk and Dove, Red Hood and the Outlaws, and SUPERMAN.

Assessment: Each receives an unsightly Marvel Legends action figure as relaunched by Hasbro back in 2008. Because they are quite... not to be nega but they are quite... awful.  Superman is one long, ranty, incomprehensible mess, and just for being specially disappointing being a major title and all I am awarding this title in particular the disgusting White Queen Hasbro action figure. Birds of Prey, Oracle, and Batgirl have been my favorite characters in the old DCU, so just for changing the status quo I am also giving each of them an ugly action figure. They can have my Deathlok Marvel Legends action figure which I've bought only to build the damn Galactus build-a-figure. 

The rest just tread the middle ground: Green Lantern Corps, Nightwing, Legion of Superheroes, Blackhawk, etc. Justice League Dark is at least funny for sounding like a chocolate variant, like Justice League with Mint, and Justice League Coconut.

Having said all that I am reserving a special paragraph for Catwoman. See, as it happens, I've been catching up on back issues of Ed Brubaker's fantastic Catwoman run when the relaunch happened. Brubaker's Catwoman is strong, problematic but level-headed, and quite multidimensional. And in the relaunch we get a very unlikeable Catwoman who might eventually grow on me, and of course she's a reboot so she might get emotionally-stable and be more heroic in the future, and all that, but my problem with the Catwoman relaunch is this:

I have no problem with Catwoman getting some. Or Batman getting some. Of course they get a lot of some. But there's dirty sex, and then there's dirty sex. Catwoman has just been chased by thugs and ran through the streets and all that, and we know what they say about sweaty black leather. And also, in this scene Batman has like 20 packs.

Thursday, November 3, 2011


Still avoiding the threatening 12-hour Godfather folder from The Helliza Files, so what should I click next but the movie Flipped. Secret shame: I have these sporadic compulsions to watch these hour-and-a-half rom coms, specially if they are extremely funny, and most specially if they are extremely formulaic and bad to the point of unintentional hilarity. And most specially if I don't have to download them myself, and I can just copy them from the supervillainess Helliza. Enough rationalization. Bakit ba. AHAHAHAHAHAHA.

As it turned out Flipped is more of a coming-of-age movie than a traditional rom-com. At the onset you get the feeling that this is a movie based on a short story or a novel, and because this paragraph is starting to sound like a review like totally, I will now drop lazy, random movie review terms just to get it over with: gravitas, pathos, versimilitude, parallelisms, vivisection. Maybe not vivisection. I just have a fondness for these sort of growing-up stories with the classic elements: summer, neighborhood, endearing grandparents, the awkwardness of first love. And the unique elements, in this case we have the sycamore tree and being a basket boy.

I informed Helliza that although things started to turn around at the end and nothing horrible really happened like the girl falling from the very tall sycamore tree, Flipped is actually a pretty depressing movie. I had no idea what was at the core of feeling quite sad at the end of the film, but supervillainness Helliza who can psychoanalyze by text had this explanation: Nakakainggit kasi na bata pa lang sila ay may true love na sila.


Monday, October 31, 2011

The Helliza Files

Happily there were relatively few patients to rounds and kikimo today, as everyone is probably in the beach. I am thinking that they are all in the beach because for some reason the All Saints’ Day weekend feels more like a summer Holy Week weekend, with very few people and cars in the vicinity, or as I would like to call it, the vinicity. I figured maybe everyone was in Robinsons’, but I got to Mc Do and was first in line. With more time on my hands than usual I popped open my hard drive folder named “Helliza”, ie, all the porn I’ve managed to copy from The Daw, who shall henceforth be called in this blog as Helliza as Helliza sounds more fun and actually sounds like a super villainess, like a super villainess of Wonder Woman or Supergirl. This makes sense if you consider that some of the super villains of Supergirl in the past sixty years are named Satan Girl and Buzz, The Demon.

I opened the sub-folder The Godfather. Yes I haven’t seen it, because I always get distracted by things. If I were in college I would be able to sit through the trilogy, except that my attention span is now irreparably damaged. I know it’s fantastic, mind-blowing, seminal, etc etc etc, but I no longer have any pretense that I’m a cinemaphile or whatever fancy name you call those people who watch all movies in existence and make sure everyone knows they do and write reviews that have the terms "gravitas", "pathos", or "versimilitude" and crap. There are things you just don’t care about anymore.

So I scrolled scrolled scrolled through the Helliza files and watched instead the much much much shorter… Friends With Benefits, starring Justin Timberlake! AHAHAHAHA. Friends With Benefits is a realistic movie if all the people we ever know are extremely witty comedians with great comedic timing and the eloquence to deliver a series of long funny retorts in quick succession. A few years ago I’ve always pretended that I was in a sitcom, specifically The Office, as everyone around me seemed to have a high comic index. Come Hellowship and a closer approximation of real life the comedians started to degenerate, not even into soap opera characters, but more like into zombies.  Friends With Benefits also has the perfect pretext to do the cliché romantic habulan ending, because it cleverly proclaims that it is a cliché romantic habulan ending. All in all no regrets at ditching The Godfather for Friends With Benefits. AHAHAHAHAHA.

And that’s one perfectly entertaining quiet afternoon courtesy of… The Helliza Files.

Thursday, October 27, 2011


And just because we are wrinkled old prunes doesn't mean we don't marvel at the cherries. On the contrary, we love the cherries. We love watching them gallivanting and frolicking and getting plumpier and redder and brighter by the minute. Obviously I am talking about brand new doctors now coming to the fold, including The Daw of course, who will be in their 10th year of college. Yes, we should just label college in such a way so as not to fool ourselves with those damn "graduations" because truly, it doesn't end. It doesn't ever end.

And so in the spirit of cherrieness I will now re-post what I used to write when I was still quite a cherry myself, which has since then been plucked, left under the sun, and transformed into a fucking pasas. This entry has originally been posted in my blog in.... Friendster (AHAHAHAHAAH!) and it's entitled, "Chancre".

My MD friend recently tested positive for syphilis in the routine serum RPR testing for pre-employment in PGH. He was quite annoyed. He whined "UNFAIR!", because he once had an extremely promiscuous patient with chancre (painless penile ulcer of syphilis), who still tested negative for the damn test. I think my friend was particularly annoyed because of one of these possible reasons: a) he was a virgin, or b) he was always very careful and wore triple-layered condoms to the point of penile asphyxia. Of course the test has extremely low specificity, but my friend neither has malaria, lupus, or yaws as far as he knows. In fact, he doesn’t even remember what the heck yaws is. One of his colleagues said he must have taken the test on full stomach accounting for the false positive. There could be some truth to this but this is the first time he’s heard of it, so for now it still sounds like the drinking milk prior to taking a chest x-ray thing.
    Okay let’s cut the friend crap that friend is really
 me. I tested positive for AIDS, I mean syphilis, and I am quite annoyed. Because dang it if I’m going to test positive for STDS I would rather that I enjoyed acquiring them.

Sunday, October 23, 2011


I have a pathologic inability to escape situations. Such that if a talkish person suddenly accosts me in the corridor and makes kwento for hours on end I would find it too difficult to push her aside and run to wherever I need to go. Or if someone all of a sudden invites me to something I would hem and haw and stutter and stammer before I could give an excuse making it obvious that I'm lying so I would just say, with much dread, SURE! I'D LOVE TO COME TO YOUR PERFORMANCE POETRY EXHIBITION! Mrs. Therese regards this as part of a syndrome I am afflicted with (can't say no, afraid to offend someone, inability to lie quickly and convincingly), ie, some kind of a Wuss Syndrome. This is the reason why I was for a time vortexed into attending a couple of weird religious events in UP Diliman, which deserves another ranty, self-deprecating, shameful blog entry all together.

And just recently, a patient was quite chatty. During weekend rounds I plan to make a maximum of five minutes-per-patient rounds. I set a timer. Because if I stay and chat with everyone leisurely I would get home at 10pm. Except Faciphaga Emasculata was strangely chatty and I just... couldn't.... escape. He wouldn't let me, and he made it clear. "Wag kang aalis," he said.

Interestingly, he delivered quite a number of points. And even exhibited some kind of skill on how to deliver a story, make sure the listener is engaged, and make sure he CAN'T ESCAPE. For an hour. The salient points being:

1. "You look like you're 21 years old." (Ahoy! Way to get my undivided attention)
2. "We live in a crazy country." (POINT!)
3. "You need to pray for God to give you a good wife." (Talagang PRAY ahahahaha)
4. Viagra rules.
5. Money drives the world.
6. That his girlfriend, in a rating scale of 1-10, is an ELEVEN.
7. Connections rule.
8. and his last advice to me: "Marry someone rich."

After minutes and minutes and minutes on end of inability to escape, I finally did a rote physical examination and managed to sheepishly slink away. My entry in the chart: continue present management.

Saturday, October 22, 2011


On a regular consult with my pediatrician many many many many years ago, she took out a prescription pad and outlined to me my career options. I was in grade 6, and she was already concerned about my career. Maybe she sensed that I have The Force, or at least a potential, or potentials, but I wasn't pleased in any case because what she didn't sense was what I really wanted to be. And that is... to be extremely obese and hairy and smelly and have my own action figure and comic book shop where I would regale my customers with endless comic book tidbits dating back to the 30's! And do comic book podcasts on the side.

So she wrote down: LAW. And beside it: four years college, four years law proper.
And then she wrote MEDICINE. Four years college, five years medicine proper, three years residency, two years fellowship= 14 FUCKING YEARS. She did not write the word FUCKING, but she might as well have to stress the point. She should have underlined "14", encircled it, highlighted it, drew asterisks and stars and encircled it again many many times, just so I would get the point. The blasted point. That 14 years are bleeping long. I could have had a child at the beginning and he would now be in high school. I could have started drinking heavily at the onset and now have cirrhosis. That long.

In all fairness to her, she did tell me directly, "Wag ka na mag-doktor."

Kids, you should really really really listen to your elders.

Warm and Fuzzy

Been in the dumps lately.

So you guess this is another one of those whining, moaning, groaning posts right? Wrong. On the contrary, this is a post on being warm and fuzzy.

In an attempt to somehow crawl out of the dumps a few notches up I took my brother's DVD player and rammed in the DVD of... Super Friends! I figured an overdose of nostalgification for the times when things were simple blather blather blather would somehow lift me up. Speaking of lifting me up, I've blogged a few years ago that the neighbor's loud music rivals my iPod in being an empath, ie, it plays songs that would somehow fit my frame of my mind at the time. For instance, after a toxic WAPOD duty when a patient died on my watch a few years ago I went home to take a bath. While rehearsing the tragic events of the night and ruminating how I've directly caused the death and stuff, what should play in the neighbor's radio but Apologize by One Republic, ie, it's too late to apologize for the delayed intubation, delayed referral, inadequate management, ruminate and cry some more. And just more recently when I was once again in the dumpiest of dumps what should suddenly blare out of the neighbor's radio but.... Through The Rain by Mariah Carey. I choked out laughing and was instantly relieved of misery for a while.

Back to Super Friends. Many, many years ago Super Friends was the highlight of the week. You could not download anything yet, there were no DVD's or whatever, and I would have to wait one whole week for Thursday 11 am for Super Friends. I would mark my calendar and get all gleeful and shit if there were five Thursdays. My favorite part of the show is the iconic intro.

"SHOOOPERMAN! Batman and Robin!"

Of course I figured that I would probably hate the show now and be turned off by the ridiculous stories and inferior animation. Or if I would like it it would probably just be nostalgification. 

I was wrong. I've enjoyed it immensely. The stories are excellent. The animation is fantastic. The voices are wonderful. The intro gets me all giddy and crap. The show is FUN. And in light of the current DC comics reboot which is not getting any better, when you have to follow stories for months and months and even years for some kind of pay off, Super Friends is golden.

And I never understood all the hate for the Wonder Twins. Their powers are fantastic. I for one would like to know what it feels like to be a stegosaurus. Or a glass of water.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

We Would Like To Commend The Daw

For treating us to Jollibee!!!

And she really meant the treat, too. In fact, she went out of her way to wake me up and suggest ways on how I could drag myself out of bed, and has regaled us with inside information on the seedy goings on in the recently concluded Internal Medicine tribal council/rose ceremony. And for more, she treated us to Jollibee because she is now back to the shore, where she would be swimming, fighting for fish and lumot to eat, evading sharks, and interacting with piranhas for the next 3-5 years. Congratulations, The Daw, you have toiled to near-craziness for the past year to get where you are, and as Smoketh has told me in 2007 when I got accepted into the program, "Welcome to pseudo-hell!"

For 3 years I had no idea why it was called "pseudo-hell". The concept of a pseudo-hell is difficult to grasp to begin with, because I don't know where the word pseudo comes in, and I sure don't think the demons I've met along the way were "pseudo". They felt quite genuinely demonic, thank you very much.

So I don't know why Smoketh had called it pseudo-hell. Until I graduated into... fellowship, or more appropriately, HELLOWSHIP! Ahoy! Fires a'blazin, nude demons prancing galore!

So to quote Smoketh again, who should be commended herself for her precognitive abilities because she wasn't even in hellowship when she originally said this, "Welcome to Pseudo-Hell!"

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Girlfriend Material

A few weeks ago Mary Anne Sue, a close female friend, had some problems with her boyfriend. I wasn't there during the acute phase (welling of tears and throwing of breakable objects), but I was there during the subacute phase (no more tears left to cry--for the day). Now with Mary Anne Sue I have taken on a role I don't take with other people--that of a girlfriend.  I've been a girlfriend to her when she found looove, lending my listening ear to the squishy and the saccharine, so I knew I should take that role now that things have come full circle, when the squishy and saccharine have turned dour and dreadful. So that night of the breakup, along with The Daw, I've transmogrified once again into... a girlfriend.

I was doing the job fantastically, if I may say so myself. I was able to strike the perfect balance between just listening in with nodding effects and saying something that was fitting to that rather precarious time of emotional instability. You couldn't say something too bad about the dude--she might still love him for all we know, and for all we know they could be getting back together right that moment through text. You couldn't say something too good either--what if she's been feeling so wronged in the whole situation and you sound like you're siding with him? The facial expressions count, I surmised. I couldn't put on my default listening ear facial expression--because the default is listening to someone cry how heartbreaking it is to have cancer. I couldn't put on a very neutral facial expression either--because what the heck we're not talking about bland coffee, this is relationship crumbling down (who raised you?!) So after all these analyses I had my girlfriend demeanor on. Saying the right nuggets of stuff of things.

The next day I chanced upon Mary Anne Sue having dinner this time with Queen Mum and Frichmond. I joined them. To my fascination Queen Mum and Frichmond gave their INSIGHTS. And the INSIGHTS were really INSIGHTS, something Mary Anne Sue could really think about, something she could REALLY USE. They were SOUND INSIGHTS, not fucking SOUND BITES. They had analytic opinions on the various sides of the story. And on the angles of the sides of the surface of. I was aghast. All this time I thought I was being the perfect girlfriend, when in fact I was churning... cliches.

Because it has suddenly dawned on me how craptastically craptastic the sound bites I've counseled Mary Anne Sue with were. Specially now that I'm typing them. Because you know what I told her that night?

COUNSEL 1: Don't worry, things will unfold.
COUNSEL 2: It is what it is.

Anyone for a girlfriend?

Sunday, October 9, 2011


One of my favorite daily activities is flossing my teeth. It may not seem like it, but I like flossing my teeth. To bleeding level. Truly I must have been doing it wrong for years on end, because after flossing my mouth always hurts like crap. I try to maintain proper dental hygiene at the behest of my high school friend dentist Tim Drake, who has now improved in all respects as a dentist. When he was still new in this profession he would commit tiny mistakes, such as asking me questions that require more than a yes or a no answer while metallic implements and stuff are being poked in my mouth ("Paano nagkakilala si Trina at si Troy?"), or getting so engrossed in a monologue that he doesn't notice that my shirt is now totally wet from all the water flowing from my mouth.

I am remembering this incident because right now I am so hungry and for some rather perplexing reason I have the urge to eat those floss-themed bread. A used dental floss would have to be the smelliest thing in all of creation (really, try it, try to smell a used dental floss), so I'm constantly perplexed why food called floss would seem appetizing, or why I want want want to eat it right now. Many, many years ago when we were in grade 6 Mrs. Platypi noted that my classmate Michael was eating in class. Of course she had to point it out out loud in front of the class, totally incensed and stuff. That would have to be my lasting memory of elementary teachers and librarians, they are always fucking INCENSED.

Mrs. Platypi: Michael ANONG KINAKAIN MO?!?!

Michael opened his mouth, took out the thing he was nibbling, and non-chalantly said:

Michael: Ma'am, TINGA.


Leaked Interview Questions

And in a few days time, I think, the pre-residency live competition ends! I don't know most of them, basically because I'm old! And nobody wants to rotate in our clinic with those icky chemo stuff! Kikimo! Ahoy! Who will get in? Who will get the much coveted spots? Who will get a rose? Who will... spiral down to hell? Because really, again, WHY? AHAHAHAHAH.

A year ago I've posted the chief residency interview questions which I've managed to finagle through seedy people who've demanded me to do seedy STUFF. This year it's high time for me to give my service to the always-running, eternally-busy-busy(han), ten-page-writing pre-residents! Henceforth, I present to you, this year's stolen application interview questions! STOLEN I TELLS YA!

1. You are in the Emergency Room, your armpits sweating like crap. And there the patient sits, all anasarcous and stuff, and you've ruled out everything, so you don't know what the heck is going on. In other words, the patient's case is an S.A.T. (Sh#t, Ano To?!?).

Do you:
A. panic
B. ask your seniors and get reprimanded in a senior voice as if they themselves know what the diagnosis is
C. check Wikipedia
D. Drink JEKA juice
E. Go to ambs and LUR!

2.  You've committed a HORRIBLE medical mistake. While frantically resuscitating a patient with no BP, in pure franticness, instead of screaming with conviction "LEVOPHED!" you've screamed with conviction, "NICARDEPINE DRIP! STAT! STAAAAT!!!" What do you do?

Do you:
A. Frantically search Pubmed for anything that will support your mistake. Any journal will do, even if the subjects are aardvark fetuses.
B. Shamefully cover your face and scream, "FUUUUCK!"
C. You will not dignify this stupid question, because you think you're smart and that I'm just messing with you.
D. You say, what's the problem, you can wash out the nicardepine ANYWAY by giving FUROSEMIDE. STAT!!!!

3. Your senior is a total whacked out bitch. In real life she's a totally nice person, but you just hate her because you think she's a total whacked out bitch. But in your heart of hearts you really LOVE her. Romantically, in fact. That bitchy way she asks questions, that condescending way she explains stuff during morning endorsements, her weird diagnoses which are totally wrong, and all those tiny annoying things about her which really makes you get up in the morning. HOW DO YOU DEAL WITH THIS?

A. You take anti-psychotics, because you're a wacko yourself.
B. You analyze if your heart of hearts has an even deeper heart of heart of hearts which declares that you ABHOR her ugly face.
C. You declare in the callroom that you will court her and get laughed at for years on end.
D. You tell yourself: It is what it is.

4. You are already a first year resident, and as is always the case five things happen at the same time demanding your undivided attention all at the same time: your patient in the wards is gasping, it's already four thirty and you haven't started your continuity clinic where ten patients are waiting for you, another patient in the wards is bleeding to exsanguination, you need to get a chart in the records section for your mortality report tomorrow and it's about to close, and a consultant is demanding that you call her NOW. Question: What is running in your head right now?

A. This is a test of character.
B. Damn it I should have come in at 4am so I could do all these things in an organized manner.
C. Truly my twenty batchmates will help me out.

You finally get accepted! And in a few weeks' time, TEAMBUILDING! What will you wear?

a. Poison Ivy, specifically how she looks in the fantastic Batman mini-series The Widening Gyre:

b. Black Canary, specifically a lecherous internet artist's rendition of:

c. Robin, because I love Robin. In fact, I AM Robin! But since you're a girl you can be the short-lived sexy female Robin Stephanie Brown.

d. And before you accuse me of misogyny, here's a sexy guy costume for the guys. It's easy too, just paint some arrow heads on your chest and blood on your mouth and you're... Catman! From the very fun series Secret Six illustrated by Nicola Scott.

Get ready for the interviews! Or not. Just follow your heart. Or something. Or just give socially acceptable answers. Or not, because the questions might be trick questions. Or double trick questions. Or double negative trick questions. In which case follow your heart... of hearts.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Our Rant For The Day

Does not come from me, much to your relief. I have severe sore throat that if I use too many exclamation points it would hurt so much more. What's that you say, that it could be lymphoma? OF COURSE IT IS LYMPHOMA! What ELSE could it be?!? I've been groaning this morning in the callroom to my co-hellows that I have tonsillar lymphoma. Someone reminded me that in the past few months I HAVE HAD the following: liver cancer, gastric cancer, nasopharyngeal cancer, rectal cancer, and of course, pinna melanoma. I'm going through the entire gamut, but as paranoid people afraid of government conspiracies and black ops and cover-ups and such say, you're not paranoid if they're really after you.

Our rant for the day instead will come from Linda, the Juliane Moore character from the ever reliable movie Magnolia. The premise is this: Linda is the sort of cosmopolitan girl who married a really old guy for his money who is now dying from, what else, cancer. She realizes, in pure heartbrokenness, that she really loves him after all. So she runs from one doctor to the next who prescribed her husband some powerful pain-killers. As she is buying all these powerful stuff (Mmmmmm, powerful STUFF), the pharmacists eye her with doubt. When she couldn't take the judgmental comments ANYMORE, OR, when she couldn't ANYMORE take the judgmental comments, she lets out this fantastic rant. Take it away, Juliane Moore:

You motherfucker....


And FUCK YOU TOO.  Don't you call me "lady."

 I come in with these things, I give it
 over to you, you doubt, you make your
 phone calls, check on me, look suspicious,
 ask questions, "I'm sick." I HAVE SICKNESS
 IN YOUR HOUSE?  And where is your fucking
 decency?  That I'm asked questions "WHAT'S WRONG?"
 You suck my dick, that's what's wrong and you,
 you fucking call me "lady."  You SHAME ON YOU.

Now THAT is one giant rant.
Which suddenly gives me an idea. I should popularize this rant somehow and somehow trick people into thinking it's... a  declamation piece! Now that should win grade-conscious, extra-curricular-grabbing  students the medal over the other contestant who just bawls her eyes out  over.... ALMS ALMS SPARE ME A PIECE OF BREAD!

Tuesday, September 13, 2011


In grade 2, one of  my most hated years in my life, like first year med, first year college, hellowship, 2nd year high school... wait if I go on I would sound totally miserable. AHAHAHA. So in grade 2 one fun fun fun day who should celebrate her birthday but one of our classmates, Cathy. The teacher egged her to go in front so we could sing to her, and she did. She smiled and giggled and cheered as we sang, not realizing that fifteen years into the future she would... wait I don't know what happened to her, so nothing there. So we sang sang sang and we clapped genuinely because truly birthdays are totally cheeri-o.

After the singing the teacher asked her to close her eyes for a few seconds and wish for something. She did. The teacher then asked her, "What did you wish for?"

And you know what she said? YOU KNOW WHAT SHE FUCKING SAID?!


I am doing a pointless anecdotification because truly, right now, in total hunger: I WANT SPAGHETTI. Although probably not in the level that Smoketh WANTS SPAGHETTI. There is no way that I can WANT SPAGHETTI the same way Smoketh WANTS SPAGHETTI. This is obviously an aftermath of last Saturday, when we attended the dedication of Mrs. Therese's second child, Pipo. After the ceremony we lightened up as we saw a cute plate containing red spaghetti, hotdog-let with marshmallow, chicken lollipop, and cream puffs. We were poised to eat the luscious treats when we discovered that... the plate is for kids and adults have a separate buffet of rice vegetables beef buko pandan and other adult food!!!!

So you know you want it Cathy and we know we fucking want it too. We want to slurp it bite it get our faces smeared in it. We want, oh how we want, spaghetti.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Oh, Powergirl

One of the casualties in the blasted DC Comics relaunch is Powergirl. To recap: Powergirl is the parallel Earth version of Supergirl, but her Earth's Superman has died in Infinite Crisis. For over two years she has grown from a joke of a character popular for her magnificent boob window, to one who is a well-respected completely fleshed out heroine.

In the final issue of Powergirl, a villain gives her only one minute to address the following crises: 1. save the old people in the leaning tower of pisa which is being attacked by a villain or 2. save a "useless girl fishing for a useless fish" or 3. save one of her fellow heroines. Of course Powergirl makes a way to save everyone in just one minute. This is a FANTASTIC issue, made more fantastic only by this scene showing the fishing girl being menaced by a z-list villain:


And Powergirl successfully saves the kid!!! With just 12 seconds to spare!

And thanks the whole fishing community at that!!!

Good bye, Powergirl. May you live once more in the upcoming DC Relaunch, and we hope to see more of you in the Philippines!

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Welcome Back To The Shore

Was frantically running around doing the things I usually whine about, and realized I've been doing this thing for seven months now. Seven months, of whining, doing things ANYWAY, whining, doing things ANYWAY, because really, WHADDAYAGONNADO. And WHO should I see surpassing my franticness and secretly whining in their heads but... this year's batch of pre-residents! Pre-residency has always been some sort of an event, because really, with all the rote-ness going on in the daily grind, we welcome any sort of new face we could come across. New faces, red and plump and cherried, which we hope won't dry up and prunify at the slightest provocation. This of course leads to all sorts of nostalgification, as it has only been four fucking years ago that I was in those same darn shoes.

Pre-residency specially in this department can be quite tricky. Everyone is competitive as hell, and knowing what is coming to them once they get accepted you would wonder why they are fighting for these positions ANYWAY. Yet despite the competitiveness one should still project some sort of congeniality, but at the same time you don't want to be too congenial lest you be misconstrued as being too laid back, but at the same freaking time you don't want to be misconstrued as being a total cut-throat bitch, but at the SAME bleeping time with just three weeks of opportunity to shine amongst the fifty or so competitors who has time to NOT be a cut-throat bitch ANYWAY? So the best image to probably project is that of an unfazed busy-busyhan applicant.

We all have our dark, dirty strategies on how we got in, but we will not go into the details here. Too embarrassing, and even I have my limits on self-deprecation. Just remember, applicants, that this is not the end of the world, you are not fighting for one million dollars, you won't get cancer if you don't get accepted, and there are far better opportunities elsewhere. If those nuggets of advice don't convince you, just look at me. I got accepted, finished it, and right now I'm miserable as hell.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Baseline Karindihan

On to my attempts to read every comic book ever written. I am presently resuming my reading of Peter David's 80-issue run on Supergirl, the version that isn't Superman's cousin from Krypton but is rather the Matrix-Lana Lang DNA-Earth Angel-Linda Danvers hybrid.

So this is what happens: Supergirl's sort-of-boyfriend Dick Malverne is struck with some stage 4 cancer, and through a series of misadventures she inadvertently causes the cancer to progress and worsen and he dies. A cult is formed that regards Supergirl as an angel who can work miracles, so people with cancer cancer cancer and stuff flock to her for cure. In pure baseline karindihan she flees and sees some people in trouble. One woman tells Supergirl to please help her because she has to get home because her husband has, you guess it, lung cancer. Of course Supergirl only has one thing to say, and, all together now (and special mention to Uni-Horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore) ALL TOGETHER NOW:

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Hello, Simone Bianchi, What Were You Thinking

Since nobody in the vicinity ever reads comic books these days I resort to comic book message boards and podcasts like a sorry attic dwelling pathetic crap. During the round table interview with all the consultants in the subspecialty application last year I was asked what I do in my spare time.

"I read comic books!" I said.
"Wow! What kind?" consultant HS asked. He seemed genuinely enthusiastic. There's hope here, I thought.
"DC and Marvel," I said.
"Ay, mainstream," HS tsk-tsked.
"Comic books in your spare time?" the chair asked. "But you could read a comic book in FIVE MINUTES."
"Yes, but you see, in a month they release over NINE Batman titles," I explained. "There's Batman, Batman and Robin, Detective Comics, Birds of Prey...." at which point they all zoned out and decided it's probably time to call the next applicant.

My favorite comic book podcast is Awesomed By Comics by the husband-wife team of Evie and Aaron. Evie is described as having an adult-onset superhero comic book habit, who confessed that she got into comic books because of a boy. So there is hope for everyone. The format of the show is they give weekly awards to the comic book releases for the week, such as Hero of the Week, Cover of the Week, and such, but my favorite is Crap of the Week.

In the Crap of the Week a couple of weeks ago Evie declared that her choice is Psylocke's outfit in Uncanny X-Force as illustrated by Simone Bianchi. Aaron described that in this outfit Psylocke's labia (aka beef flaps) could spill out. I follow X-Men related titles whenever I can, but I have not seen the latest issue of X-Force at this point, so surely this is reason enough to look for the damn issue! And here it is, ladies and gentlemen, just when I thought it was an exaggeration, here is Psylocke beef flaps and all:

Anybody interested in this for the next team-building?

I Wasn't Dead

You mean you were gone? You asked. Yes, indeed, I 've been absent for quite some time. I've been in a parallel universe where everything is airconditioned, there's always dessert in the rationed food, the elevators are fast, the people smell good, everyone is polite, things happen without getting off your ass, where patients are partners, and people pretend they don't notice my pinna melanoma. Except when the coffers quickly ran empty, indeed, at which point we all screamed: get us the hell outtahere!!!!

And Now For Something Absolutely Disgusting: Pinna Melanoma

And you're probably thinking, of course this will not be about anything disgusting this is just a hook and will probably be just about some self-indulgent crap like Wonder Woman's disgusting story line Odyssey or Superman's disgusting story line Grounded. Again. Wrong. This is about something absolutely disgusting, pus-level disgusting at that! Oh yeah!

Because I woke up one morning with my left earlobe swelling like crap. Maybe something bit it, but I kept on toying with it until the swelling swelled even further until it grew as large as my head. It was Jamielyn who noticed it first who theorized it was a disgusting ear zit. "Uminom ka ng antibiotics," she admonished. "Dahil hindi mo ako pwedeng iwan sa audit next week dahil dyan." Point!

But if it were a zit it probably wasn't just one zit, but ten coalescent zits. Smoketh theorized that it was probably a roach bite infected by hospital pseudomonas. Probably, except I knew for a fact what it absolutely really was: melanoma. Just because I've just had a melanoma patient doesn't make it not a melanoma, I wasn't just being biased, it looked absolutely like melanoma. Hence, in true IM PGH fashion this was the final diagnosis: Melanoma vs Arthropod Bite r/o Zit with Superimposed Bacterial Infection Acute on Top of Chronic.

The stares of disgust I could handle, as long as they were outright stares. Except, as I was talking to a fellow or a resident in another hospital they would talk with nods and crap as if nothing was the matter, but I would catch them taking the furtivest glance at my pinna melanoma! If you have something to say, say it to my face my irrational frenzied self thought, but really, if you have something to say say it to my face! Like Smoketh did: STOP TOUCHING YOUR PINNA MELANOMA! Or Frichmond did: KADIRI NA ANG TENGA MO! Or Sir J.O. said, WHAT HAPPENED TA YER EAR?!? See, sometimes we don't know what we want, because I'm sure if the furtive people started talking about it to my face, I would defensively retort, WELL YOU DON'T LOOK SO PERFECT YOURSELF!!!!

Pant. A few days ago I've incised the damn thing myself and out poured/spurted/egressed gallons and gallons of pus. I cried in absolute pain as the gallons and gallons of pus crept down the side of my neck and into my shirt and down to the floor. Now that's purulent shit.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Brown Envelope

While thumb twiddling in the elevator hoping that the day would end soon (it wouldn't, it was just 9 am), who should come in when the elevator doors opened but.... The Daw! The Daw was visibly frantic, because she had to take a second look at my smirking face before she recognized me. Before she could make up some excuse (ie, "Errr, I am just here for my annual colonoscopy"), I immediately pointed out: "Whattup, The Daw, is that.... a brown envelope full of requirements you're carrying?!?"

Brown envelopes rule, because they can carry papers and stuff, but they are also a status of transit. Ooooh, pretentious. In my wilderness year back in 2006 when I've just passed the med boards and was trying to make some money in moonlighting I realized that I felt like a total aplikante as I rode jeepney rides after jeepney rides going from one clinic or hospital to the next for a fucking raket carrying, what else, a brown envelope.

The wilderness year, for all the sense of streamlessness it has brought, still had its blessings and... craptastic joy. For instance, I was thankful for that gig in the clinic in Enchanted Kingdom. Well not really, it bored the crap out of me. Or maybe it was still some sort of a blessing, because I got to read a boatload of books and comicbooks while sitting in the clinic waiting for someone to be wheeled in after getting dizzy from Space Shuttle (a.k.a. Post-Ride Vertigo, what the hell right). In what was supposedly the only exciting moment the friend (who was also a doctor) of a patient who got a "Post-Ride Vertigo" said:

"Baka nag-aarrhythmia na sya!!!!!"

She wasn't having an arrhythmia. She was just having.... a post-ride vertigo.

The Greater Depths

In the midst of all this bitterness over the tragedy that our lives have turned into (exaggerated of course, we don't want to sound ungrateful for our blessings but we must keep up a veneer of whinified distress), Smoketh and I have sighed that truly we wish we were born with a silver spoon rammed down our throats. Of course Smoketh herself was born with a silver spoon and 6 bronze kanyons, but we are referring to those people who were born with a silver spoon, went to college, took up medicine, got married, went places, and still, after all those years, still have the fucking silver spoons epoxied to their ngala-ngalas. Truly it takes a whole lot of luck, intelligence, and great decision-making skills to maintain that thing you could perpetually suck on.

"Yayaman kaya tayo," Smoketh inquired as she guzzled in an extremely saccharine alcoholic drink.
"Rest assured that if I get rich, I will buy you.... a tub of green tea ice cream."

A common friend immediately popped in our heads. We realized that he is the perfect example of being born with a silver spoon and maintained it through sheer intelligence and more silver spoons.
"He does not only have a silver spoon," Smoketh enthused. "He also has all sorts of silverware."
"And soup," I said.
"And salad, bread and butter, salmon sushi, five main courses, palate cleansers, desserts," Smoketh whined.
"And post-dessert coffee, post-coffee mints, lur, post-lur mints, and crystal water," I said with finality.

See if you choose to you can always sink yourself further into the greater depths of depression.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011


A few weeks ago my parents visited me and brought me dinner. Home cooked meals are precious and always a welcome change from the Jollibee/Wow Ulam/COOP trifecta, more so in this era of abject poverty. Precious does not even cut it, GOLDEN is more like it. I ate the longganisa with rice from the disposable container which I threw out afterwards, but kept the Tupperware from which I slurped ginisang monggo. Having no ref or microwave I slurped half of the ginisang monggo cold and kept the rest. Everything was fun and golly gee.
          Except a few days ago, when what should I discover, among the rubble of my table, covered amongst totally unrelated things (books, pens, X-Files DVD, chemo drugs, wood shavings, Smurfs Happy Meal action figure)…. but The Tupperware containing the half-eaten monggo. I then remembered, it has been two weeks. Either the seal is fantastic, or I have NPCA.
          With much trepidation I opened the damn cover and discovered…. froth. Occupying the entire fucking Tupperware. The smell is of course horrendous. I immediately threw the crap out and swished swished swished the Tupperware in tap water. Fantastically the smell and the bubbles sort of disappeared… even without soaping! So I immediately put the cover back on. And threw the damn thing back amongst the books, pens, X-Files DVD, chemo drugs, wood shavings, and Smurfs Happy Meal action figure.
            Ibabad mo yan sa kumukulong tubig for one day, Smoketh and Frichmond have succinctly admonished.
           Sometimes I wish I were a better person. Because while other blogs talk about touching patient encounters and such I talk about... fucking anaerobic craptastic bula.

Friday, July 29, 2011


          How I love them. Those red, plump, round cherries—succulent and wet, rolling nicely in your mouth. You can pop them, concurrently crisp and chunky, and suck suck suck in that tangy-sweet sensation. Back in the days whenever my mother would whip up some fruit salad of sort she would open a can of del monte fruit cocktail, and I would have to compete with everyone for that lone red cherry mixed in the cocktail of pointless grapes, pineapples, and other pieces of crap. It was so alone, as alone as the pork in pork and beans. It would be years later that an elder would rebuke us. It’s not genuine cherry, he would say. It’s just a painted grape or some pedestrian fruit. Maybe he was tricking us, so he could eat the damn cherry himself. This would lead to me forgetting all about cherries.
          Until years later when I saw an X-Files episode entitled Chinga where this evil girl with an evil doll was in Dairy Queen. She had just finished her ice cream, and she went to the counter. You know what she said? She said “I want more cherries.” And the snooty counter girl told her, “You gotta ask your mom for more money, sweetie.” And girl repeated, “I WANT MORE CHERRIES!” And you know what she did when counter girl wouldn’t give her any more cherries? She (or was it her evil doll?) telekinetically made counter girl’s hair get caught in some ice cream machine which pulled her scalp out. See, if someone tells you she wants some cherries, she means she wants some fucking cherries!!!

          Recently went in the usual sponsored hotel dinners, and one of the desserts was this tiny cake on which you would put a cherry on top. I didn’t put the cherry on top—I got a plate of cherries and put the tiny cake on top! Because you don’t turn cherry into a garnish, it is food in itself and it is the food that you garnish!!!

          I apologize for the cherry rage. I just want some cherries.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Research Paper/Tabloid Mode

Pinag-uusapan lamang namin ni Smoketh nung isang araw na habang tumatanda kami at nagiging mga tinapay na may amag, or mismong amag, lalong umiiksi ang aming mga attention span. Halimbawa nagkukwentuhan kami nina Frichmond habang kumakain ng Subway sandwich, mga apat na threads na sabay-sabay ang pinag-uusapan, mapuputol sa gitna, at maaalala na lang ulit after 1 hour. Hindi ko na kayang manood ng pelikula sa TV or sa laptop, after two minutes magbubukas na ako ng window ng digital comics, o magsusulat ng blog sa isa pang window. Kung nangyari ito nung mid-90's maaari naming sisihin ang MTV, pero sa ngayon wala na yatang nanonood ng MTV. Hindi na rin pwedeng sisihin  ang text messaging and crap, mga social psychologists whatever na lang siguro ang mag susulat ng mga ganoong bagay. Ganito siguro talaga pag nagiging prune, tinapay na may amag, o mismong amag.

Siguro ang isang bagay na maaaring sisihin dito ay ang ilang taong pagpapraktis ng intense na pakikinig kunwari sa nakakataas na doktor kagaya ng fellow at consultant, or ng intense na pakikinig sa klinik habang sinasabihan ka ng lahat ng problema at nararamdaman. May nodding, may token "aaaah", may hawak konti ng kamay, hawak konti ng balikat, na sa totoo lang ang iniisip ay kung kailan ba ako makakakuha ng kornik na nasa drawer ng lamesa ko. Or baka hindi iyon cause, kundi isang manifestation mismo ng short attention span. Ang corny, may pa-ita-italics pa ng terms, para tuloy itong isang pretentious... psych paper. AHAHAHAHA.

Nung isang gabi halimbawa ay naka-download na ako sa wakas ng isang episode ng Games of Thrones. Maganda daw kasi sabi ni Ardee Lugo, Callistus Netromedev, at iba pa. Hindi ko masyado forte ang mga high-fantasy stuff, pero dahil hindi naman daw ito high-fantasy sorcerers-and-dragons stuff pinanood ko na rin. And nandito rin kasi si Boromir. After one minute ay... na-bore ako at scinroll ko na bigla sa ending ng episode. AHAHAHAHA. At (spoilers, as if) napa-mura ako sa final scene. Mabilis naman ako mapa-mura talaga, may makita lang akong ipis na lumilipad napapamura na ako nang husto. Pero sa final scene ay malutong ang mura, kung saan umakyat yung bata sa mataas na tore, at napanood nya sa bintana ng tore na nag-sesex yung dalawang characters. Nilapitan yung bata nung lalaki at... tinulak sya mula sa tore down down to the ground. Blag.

To be continued. Hmmm... mukang maganda.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Happy Birthday Smoketh!

We're taking a break from our regular programming of comic book wet dreaming, hell-owship rants, and nostalgification for that particular time when we weren't such bitter old prunes so we could greet Smoketh a happy birthday! We are henceforth putting on our personalized Cerebras and telepathically sending out our greets and well-wishes to Smoketh, because as Frichmond has so succinctly put it, mawala man tayo sa kalendaryo, tayo ay nasa thermometer pa rin!

And so to our ultimate source of wisdom, our ultimate absorber of rants which are too prurient even for this blog, our ultimate source of blog-worthy material, from whom we learned that we can say "I don't know!" with conviction, from whom we learned that everything can sound good and erudite with proper diction, and from whom we learned that a cherry can transform into a prune and transmogrify back into the most poppable, reddest cherry, we greet ya a very happy birthday!