Saturday, September 09, 2006, 8:07 PM
Here is where Smallville started
Cagayan de Oro has two faces.
She is the memory.
She is the place.

Cagayan de Oro the memory begins usually in late afternoons, when a sturdy old man backs an old Ford out of the garage and interrupts a full-blown Olympics of kiddie games and asks a particular litter with soiled feet, scabbed knees and runny noses to hop in for a trip to the city bakery.
It flashes over to a port and a harbor, where Gramps, the sturdy old man, leaves the children for a while to check on the day’s log of ships that have come and gone, and those coming and going.
Those were the days when the pier was clean and muscled, dark-skinned port hands could still be trusted with the life of even an infant child.
There is something poetic about the coming and going of ships that draws the boy, hot pan de coco in hand, into sitting at the edge of the pier, his feet dangling over the lapping sea water below him. He inhales the scent. Exhaust from the ships are not enough to ruin the fragrance.
He watches little chugging pilot boats escort big ships out into the horizon and his young mind tries to grasp the meaning of it all, the coming and the going and how they seem to reflect the relentless cycle of sunrises and sunsets that make the summer stretch almost endlessly.
It continues to Sunday mornings with kids running and screaming from the church all the way back to the house, getting ready for a day at the beach.
Under the bright sun, it seems like the whole world converges weekly into this tiny patch of sandy beachfront, the whole universe playing patintero in the sand and holding its breath underwater. Daredevil boys seek out the hidden river that spills itself into the sea and crossing its width while retelling legends of river creatures guarding lost treasures and feasting on naughty, overeager kids.

But Cagayan de Oro the place is all dressed up and ready to go nowadays, like every other city overtaken by progress. There’s a fenced in golf course now on the plateau that used to be an open field guarded only by willowy cogon grass, where kids would fly kites and call each other names.
Malls have sprouted and brought with them the Big City indifference that make you yearn for those mom and pop grocery stores where you can purchase freshly-sharpened pencils even if you’re a couple of pesos short of the tag price and come back the next day to pay what you lacked.
Bars and video arcades have stolen teens and pre-teens from afternoon sessions of agawan-base, beach patintero and gang-biking.
The main river with chocolatish water that splits the city into two parts sewn together by a pair of quiet bridges is no longer alive with clandestine post-school splashes made by bronzed kids on a pre-home stopover.
And people now shrug off the legend that sleeps at its depths.
The bustling port no longer has its quiet moments, when a young kid can sit on the edge of the pier and watch big boats disappear into sunsets.

And in each return to Cagayan de Oro, the place and the memory, it seems, are tugged farther apart.

Sometimes, though, you get lucky.
And Cagayan de Oro the place, sheds off her clothes and allows you a peek at the naked simplicity of Cagayan de Oro, the memory.
And you sit by an open window, listening as the wind whispers her secrets into it. When all of a sudden, the moment just turns out perfect and it fuses both the memory and the place as one. Then you can close your eyes, feel the feathery tickle of the breeze against your face and catch the faint scent of sea water and freshly-baked pan de coco and hear echoes of distant yet endless summer laughters.

Because someone asked about Cagayan de Oro
posted by Kal-El
Permalink ¤ 7 comments
Thursday, September 07, 2006, 7:07 PM
It's Thursday, it's raining and my guitar's untuned. So sorry.
Okay, so there I was, a Wendy's Big Classic double in hand and a Biggie iced tea in the other.
No television. No interesting book to read. No company.
At least, there was the clock.
It said 1:45 p.m. Thursday afternoon.
That meant I was two hours off my last workout. A measly two hours had gone by and there I was, polishing off a half-pound slab of ground beef topped with cabbage leaves, thin tomato slices, pickles, onions and a generous amount of mayonnaise pinched-in by yellowish buns.
Plus iced tea.
Does that mean that the 1-hour, 30-minute exercise I earlier did was a waste of effort?
Allow me to post a hypothetical question then.
You're in a rush to get to Greenbelt 3 because you have a one-on-one interview there.
You want to save time.
So, instead taking a cab from, say, Farmers in Cubao, you decide to hop on the MRT.
Okay. So this is the time when you go "I get the punchline, what're you going to do with all the time saved?"
Naaah. It isn't that.
Stay with me awhile.
While on the train, you pick up a romance novel that someone had accidentally left behind. Having nothing better to do, you leaf through the pages. You made it through halfway through the book when you realize you've reached your destination.
You go down walk away and from nowehere, the voice of your Lit professor echoes through your mind: That book you read was a waste of time.
My question is: In the grand scheme of life, by reading such rubbish, did you throw away the minutes you saved when you took the train?
Help me. I'm stumped.
posted by Kal-El
Permalink ¤ 2 comments
Wednesday, September 06, 2006, 9:49 PM
Runaway train of thought
I almost had a psychic girlfriend.
But she left me before we met.

I read somewhere that God’s greatest gifts to humanity were imagination and a sense of humor. The imagination part, we use to compensate for what we are not and the sense of humor we use to accept what we are.

That thought kept playing over and over as I leaned on the glass window of the train I took with no particular destination in mind. There is a thrill, I swear, in going out of the house and traveling with no definite plan. By train, I refer to the MRT that slithers back and forth the opposite ends of EDSA.

That’s the closest train experience I’ll ever have. Or the closest I’ll risk taking. I’ve heard too many horror stories about the one that choo-choos past squatter shanties to dare fulfill my train fantasies there. Oh yes. I love trains. The one thing I love about India is its trains. If I ever get an India assignment, that’s the first thing I’ll do. Ride a train. And eat something spicy.

But that’s straying from the original thought. Like Zen masters love to preach: I’ve got to learn to tie a string around the neck of my monkey mind. Otherwise I’d be nothing but a cesspool of straying, scattered thoughts and disjointed images.

Focus. Focus.

I woke up realizing that I had a day off from work and nothing planned. I checked my black book to visit the most exclusive list in the whole universe: My list of 100 things to do before I die. Still unticked-off were 84 items.

Among those 84 items was this entry: Ride a train.

I planned an end-to-end ride on the MRT so I taxied straight to the Taft Station and bought my ticket there.

“Can I have a ticket please,” I asked the female ticket seller, purposefully speaking in English so that I could set her up for a joke.

“Where are you going sir?” she asked.

“I’m going nuts,” I answered. I consciously flashed a smug smile before telling her to book me for North Edsa. Then I saw a vague reflection of me in the glass that served as a chasm between both our worlds and realized I looked so dumb. In a flash, I realized I managed to feel smart and look dumb at the same time. That has to count for an amazing feat, eh?

Still, I smiled at no one in particular as I made my way down the stairs and into the waiting, almost empty train. In a world were everything good has been eroded by the reality of going in an unstoppable downward spiral, it’s nice to have a semblance of a sense of humor.

My friends tell me I have a great sense of humor. And they tell me I have an amazing sense of imagination too. See where this is all leading to?

I have God’s two greatest gifts in me!

I ought to be proud. I was, for a while. Until I realized what those gifts were meant for. One to compensate for what I’m not and the other to accept what I am.

Imagination helped conjure an alternate me. A devilishly handsome, smoky-voiced, long-haired, muscular, talented, artistic rock star with a knee-melting, heart-stopping cocky smile. Sense of humor helped me survive every encounter with a mirror and an honest, tactless friend.

A blaring visual treat of a highway billboard featuring a sexy girl with a refreshing smile blew past me, snapping me out of my mental (as in, of the mind and ‘yo dude, mental!’) wanderings.

Imagination: She’s smiling at me.
Sense of Humor: She’s laughing at me.

Not too far apart after all, eh?

And then came to mind the familiar Internet and SMS joke that I’m still trying like hell to understand where it fits into this whole rambling:

I almost had a psychic girlfriend.
But she left me before we met.
posted by Kal-El
Permalink ¤ 0 comments
Friday, September 01, 2006, 9:37 PM
The devil wears a Meryl Streep exoskeleton and stars in a movie
I mean…
Need I say more?

The movie’s not Oscar-bound, but could likely compete in the Golden Globe.
The Devil incarnate, though, should have the nod for every acting award available.
posted by Kal-El
Permalink ¤ 2 comments
Friday, August 25, 2006, 10:14 PM
Minsan, useless maging Superman
Minsan ko ng nasuot yung costume ko. Yung blue, red at may S sa gitna.
Lumipad ako sa kalawakan.
Pinuntahan yung pinaka-love kong baby girl.
Di niya alam na ako at yung barkada niyang mukhang kulugo ay iisa.
Pinuntahan ko sha kasi minsan shang hinabol ng isang bangungot.
Dumating ako upang iligtas sha.
Dumating ako upang patayin ang bangungot.
Nagtagumpay ako.

Mula noon, tuwing nabubuhay ang mga multo ng kanyang nakaraan, may sakit sha o umiiyak mag-isa sa gabi, nakaugalian na niyang hanapin ang superhero na dumarating sa hatinggabi.

Yung kumakatok sa bintana niya, tumatabi sa higaan niya at nagsasabing: “Ayus lang yan. Wag ka ng matakot/malungkot. Sagot kita.”

At ngingiti sha, hihinga ng malalalim at matutulog ng mahimbing.

Pero ang superhero, hindi diyos.
Ang superhero, may hangganan.

Nandun sha.
Nakahiga sa kama.
Tumutulo ang luha.
Isa ang bukambibig.


Eto ako.
Lumilipad sa kalawakan.
Tumutulo ang luha.
Isa ang bukambibig.

“Hindi puwede.”

Lecheng putanginang bangungot na halimaw na yan.
Pinaligiran ang kuwarto ng baby girl ko ng kryptonite.

posted by Kal-El
Permalink ¤ 0 comments
Tuesday, August 22, 2006, 3:43 PM
Goodness, ungracious
Define good.
What are the moral consequences of goodness?
I think it was one afternoon during study group for an exam in Philo 101 that we came up with a premise that the only things you can define are those whose existence you can prove. Is that why religions try to come up with their own definition of a Divine Being? To prove that one actually exists?
But I digress.
How does one, then, prove the existence of good?
In that same study group, we came up with a rather circuitous solution. To prove the existence of good is to prove the existence of its opposite and then deprive it of that opposite.
Again, the premise is hinged on an established piece of information from a different field: That all actions in the universe have an equal and opposite reaction.
Similarly, since everything is a product of the laws of force and action in the universe (and this is whether you are creation, big bang or time snap theorists), then everything that exists has an equal and opposite reaction or force or being.
Every forward has its backward.
Every lift has a fall.
Every cola has an uncola.
Every good has an evil.
Vice versa.
That, of course, leads to a very interesting sidebar. If that premise held true, then the population in this world would always be in an even number. Otherwise, we would have produced that rare and unique being, one who has no equal and opposite counterpart.
But again, that’s straying.
Good is the absence of evil.
Evil is easily definable.
Therefore, good is easily definable. Which is why dictionaries have a field day listing the many definitions of good.
But my concern is good to mean moral excellence. Because whether morals are flawed or excellent, they have consequences. That is exactly why I want to know the definition of good in terms of morality so I can find out if all moral consequences of performing a good act or being good are likewise positive.
When you visit the ill, give drink to the thirsty, shelter the homeless, bury the dead and what have you, do these result in positive moral consequences?
St. Thomas Aquinas, a favorite by default (as opposed to St. Francis, a favorite by personal choice), urged the corporal and spiritual acts of mercy in the hopes of spawning a pay-it-forward type of society. If everybody performed them then the world, tah-dah, will be a batter place to live in.
But if you are the sick, are you excused from one corporal act?
And in the end, we are faced with the final question, one that has become, sadly, an SMS punchline nowadays.
If we do good to others, who does the good to us?
Why isn’t there a default set of consequences for every good act performed?
Do we have a flawed concept of what good is so that what we deem an act of goodness isn’t thought to be so by the Divine Being that supposedly hands out the credits for every benevolent act?
Have we gotten the definition of goodness wrong?
For instance, is charity an act of goodness? Feeding the hungry? Clothing the naked?
If we presuppose the existence of a Divine Being, shouldn’t these acts of charity border on blasphemy?
Think of it.
Your seatmate needs an 80 over a hundred in the final examination to validate his university scholarship. You know he needs it badly, being one from the lower stratum of the economic class.
By his estimate, he is one correct answer short of the count.
By your estimate, feeding him the correct answer to item No. 97 seals his scholarship and qualifies as an act of mercy.
Does it?
Doesn’t every educational institution brand such an act as cheating? Whatever the motives are?
Does a Machiavellian form of charity affect the goodness of that act and the moral consequences that follow?
If yes, then why should we feed the hungry? Why perform acts of mercy? Wouldn’t that be tantamount to cheating?
After all, the Divine Being we presuppose is of possession of unimaginable powers. If he wanted to, he would have caused bread to rain from the skies so no one will be left hungry. Or he would direct streams to flow into the heart of parched homes, so no one would be thirsty.
Who are we to interfere with the freedom that the Divine Being has given each and every individual? Everybody takes the test. Why take pity on he who is on the verge of failing it? However badly he needs it?
And yet the major religions of the world endorse charity. Some make it a point to require it. Would they, then, endorse cheating for charity’s sake?
The Catholic Church will probably not. While it preaches charity, it draws a line on how charity is dispensed. The end does not justify the means, reason why Machiavelli’s defining work, stripped of its redeeming values by secular critics, has been labeled under Index Librorum Prohibitorum, or banned books.
Could it be that the reason why our acts of goodness have not been rewarded properly is because we have a misguided concept of goodness?
Or is there simply no earthly moral consequence for moral uprightness?
Is this why we have found a convenient excuse to believe in heaven? So that we may credit all our acts of benevolence on earth to the existence of a place where all these would be rewarded?
In our life, we are confronted with several circumstances that erode our faith in the need for moral uprightness. While those that seek nothing but personal gain are apt to get it, those that strive to help others also get it—flush on the chin. Worse, those who have spent their lives confining themselves to the constricting fences of moral uprightness are those who are usually struck with unimaginable tragedy.
“Why me?”
“Why them?”
“He/she was such a good person. How could this have happened to him/her?”
Maybe, just maybe, it is because we misjudged him/her.
Maybe it’s time for us to re-evaluate the grounds by which people are judged to be good or bad. Heaven, whether you believe it to be a fact or simply a philosophical concept, is too flimsy a prize considering that religion allows for the absolution of all sins if the sinner, at his death bed, seeks it.
And usually, it is those who perform the evil tasks in this world that live long enough to have a shot at earning absolution.
Do we thus shoot for nothing more than an afterlife that gives both saints and ex-sinners front row seats to that great basketball game in the sky?
Why not get a few rewards here? A few good breaks while we live?
Maybe it’s time to redefine good.
Then we can get our answers to the questions above.
posted by Kal-El
Permalink ¤ 0 comments
Sunday, August 20, 2006, 9:13 PM
The Greatest Story Never Told
(Because I have nothing else to post today, a Sunday)

Red Smith. Grantland Rice. Damon Runyon. Shirley Povich. Rick Reilly. Forget those names. Commit mine to memory. Here was the mother of all scoops—sports or otherwise. And this would make me the greatest sportswriter in the history of the universe.


You’ve heard of Heaven. Of the cottony clouds that surround you, of the angels that hum in sweet unison as you walk its pathways, and of the hallways lined with portraits of all the saints and martyrs you’ve read about.

This is where I am now. Heaven. And I’m actually going to live to tell people about it.

The entrance to Heaven is a large and endless brick wall that stretches seamlessly both ways and interrupted only by a silver-gray gate fashioned out of solid iron. A cobbled path fans out of that gate, one lined with wooden porches vandalized by souls who’d had to wait while judgment was being passed on them. (One of the graffiti on the bench I sat on read: “The Pope was here.”)

Strangely, though, I do not remember how I got here.

But who cares? I am in Heaven. Not only that, I am here on an invitation by a really Very Important Person hereabouts to write a story that will have the whole world kneeling before me.

The banging of metal against metal startled me. I stood up as the Gates of Paradise opened and out stepped a very old yet distinguished-looking man with a neatly-trimmed hair and wearing a bluish suit.

“You the sportswriter?” the man asked, rather gruffly.

“Yes,” I answered, rather meekly.

He stared at me with the look of a cranky land caretaker who had been roused out of sleep by an unwanted visitor. I could tell he didn’t appreciate my presence here.

“I hope you understand I don’t appreciate your presence here,” he said. Told ‘ya.

This was, without doubt, St. Peter, the Guardian of the Gates. I could tell he was St. Peter because not only did he have the aura of authority of someone who had guarded the Gates for—literally—an eternity, but also because the black nameplate pinned to the right side of his coat read “St. Peter.”

I followed him and we entered the Gates. We were walking through a narrow—what else?—path walled-in by lines of coconut trees on both sides and I was trying to think of something for small talk when he beat me to it.

“I still don’t know why He invited you here,” he snorted. I just smiled.

After a few minutes, he spoke again.

“He never invites just anybody here.”

I let that one pass, too, and smiled again.

After a few minutes, he spoke again.

“I mean, you don’t even pass the most basic criteria for a person to enter Heaven!” he roared. This time, I got hot under the collar.

“Listen, old man,” I said with a tinge of anger. “I may not have been a saint like you. I may not give to charity a lot and I may be scared to visit those in prison. But I am definitely not a bad person. How dare you judge me as undeserving of Heaven? I never killed a person. I never stepped on anybody’s toes. I never stole money. I never entered politics. What makes you think I should be hell-bound? What makes you think I’m undeserving of a visit to Heaven? What basic criteria haven’t I passed? What? WHAT?”

“You’re not yet dead,” he said, matter-of-factly.

Oh, thaaaat.

Finally, the narrow path forked into three more narrow roads. One led to another solid iron gate above which the word Heaven Village was engraved. I presumed this was where the good people lived. I pictured a whole village with rows and rows of townhouses and beautiful parks and gardens. One led to another gate. The heading on top of it read Heaven Palace. I pictured a huge castle where the Holy Family lived.
The third one—the one St. Peter brought me to (after gruffly saying “I’m glad he didn’t allow you a full tour.”)—led to another gate. Above it, the sign read: Basketball court. I pictured, well, a parquet hardcourt with goals on its opposite ends and bleachers around it.

Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m here to cover a game. An annual basketball game so exclusive that it is only held in two places. One of them is here. And it isn’t just any other basketball game. It’s one that pits the best of Heaven against the worst of Hell.

Saints vs Demons. One is skippered by no other than Jesus Christ. The other by the Prince of Darkness himself, who happens to be a playing-coach.

I do not know why I was invited. I probably did something good that I wasn’t aware of.

The invitation came one morning with the mail, just as I had finished dressing up for work. I opened it, read it, thought it was a joke and dismissed it. But when I turned around, an angel with actual wings said this was no prank.

And when an angel with actual wings tells you that an invitation from Heaven is no prank, somehow, you just have to believe him.

I was halfway through nodding yes when I suddenly found myself on a bench outside a really, really big gate. I really do not recall how I got there. I just remember staring at the so-called Pearly Gates. Which had no pearls at all. Or wasn’t even the color of pearl.

And now, here I was, standing in front of a cushioned gymnasium door while St. Peter explained to the angel stationed there that I was cleared to watch the game.

A few seconds later, I was sitting in the front row of a jam-packed coliseum, right between Joan of Arc and King Arthur (mental note: Tell the world he’s real).

The Heaven team was dressed in white and blue uniforms. Hell came in black. Typical. All of them had jerseys with no names at the back, which was a problem.

Having slept through all my Religion classes in school, I could not make out the players of both teams clearly. Except Jesus Christ. The Hell guys looked all alike: Dark-skinned and with a pair of tiny horn stubs protruding from their foreheads. One of the court generals, though, bore a resemblance to Hitler. In fact, his teammates kept calling him Adolf (Either because he really was Hitler or because he looked like Hitler). Another one looked like Freddie Mercury.

Except for the players, the game proceeded like any other basketball game. Tip-off. Run and gun. Banging bodies. Surprisingly, the guys from Heaven dished off a few elbows of their own. Not surprisingly, the players from Hell complained about every foul slapped on them (the referees, I learned later, were from purgatory so they had to be honest. You don’t get Heaven passes for whistling in favor of the good guys).

I wanted to take game notes but then again, I was in Heaven. What better thing to do than to go stargazing? Princess Di was there. So was Mother Teresa. Pope John Paul II was there and he was really into the game (He was watching the game for the first time, so we were more or less in the same boat).

The game itself boiled down to two crucial plays. With 33 seconds remaining, Team Hell had possession of the ball via a steal by the Freddie Mercury guy and had a chance to add to a one-point lead. But Jesus Christ stood in front of a driving Adolf look-alike and fished an offensive foul, falling hard to the floor in the process. The Adolf look-alike did not like the call and muttered something really politically incorrect about the Jews and their King.

Team Heaven then burned a timeout with 21 seconds left.

In the ensuing play, the ball went to Jesus’ hand and almost instantly, he was swarmed by a triple team. Satan, one of the guys who covered him, said: “If you turn the ball over, I’ll give y…”

Christ cut him off: “Oh give it up, you already know that doesn’t work.”

Jesus whipped a pass to a lumbering big fellow (Artie identified him as St. Christopher) who went up for a bank shot. He was fouled by a Ted Bundy look-alike as the buzzer sounded.

Christopher sank the front end of his free throws and all of Heaven exploded into one big roar. I was left to wonder what was happening back in Earth. He was whispering a prayer with the second when Jesus called out to him.

“Hey, big fella, stop that, your adding to the noise I hear in my head,” He said jokingly.

Artie couldn’t look.

“He’s the worst free throw shooter on this team,” said the king of Camelot. “Smart defensive move by those demons. You’d think their brains would have been too fried out to think of something like that.”

Christopher tossed his second shot and it bounced twice in Hollywood fashion before swishing through the net. Heaven won, 103-102. The crowd went berserk. Satan muttered every cuss word in every language before herding his team into the dug-out.

A little later, the gym was empty. An angel-usher led me to Team Heaven’s dug-out for a post-game interview with Jesus Christ. My heart was pounding as I sat on a chair and waited for Him.

He came out of the shower area dressed in sweat pants and a loose white t-shirt, his hair pulled back into a ponytail. He sat down in front of me with a towel wrapped around his neck.

“Hey, I see you made it,” He said. I realized He had a British accent and, strangely, sounded like David Beckham.

I nodded, not knowing what to say.

“Loosen up kid. This is a once-in-a-universal-lifetime thing so you better get on with it. Have lots of prayers to sift through and, well, you don’t have all the time in the world,” he said, smiling.

Okay. This was it. Here was a guy everybody had questions about. And I was the guy who was in the position to ask them all. I didn’t know where to start. Was the thing about him and the Magdalene true? When was he really born? When will the world end? Was Herod gay? Where is the Holy Grail? What is the Holy Grail? Will Dan Brown go to hell when he dies? I wanted to ask the smartest questions.

“Why do you sound like Beckham?” I finally said.

“You came all the way here to ask that?”

“No. Okay. Ummm. Do you ever lose in these annual games?”

“Yep,” He said. “At times, when Satan hosts it down in Hell.”

“But you could easily snap your fingers and they wouldn’t be able to shoot a single basket. The game a while back shouldn’t have been even close. How do you lose?”

“Well, mainly because we don’t cheat,” He replied.


“How do you resist the urge to cheat?”

“Well, when you’ve faced death and have been offered an easy way out and not fall for it, resisting the urge to cheat during a basketball game should be pretty easy, right?”


“What’s the court like in hell?” I asked.

“Pretty much the same as here. Except for the heat maybe. We do have a better design architecturally. Maybe it’s because we have better architects here,” He said.

“Of course you have. You probably have the best professionals here.”

“Not really. They’ve got better lawyers, politicians and rock stars,” He answered.

“Why’d you pick me for this?”

“Not to burst your bubble, chap, but there was no special reason. It was a cosmic accident. A random choice. Your name came up,” He replied.


“Pride, tsk, tsk,” he said. “What else?”

“You took a pretty hard fall for the team in the game,” I said.

“I took a harder one for you, remember?” he replied with a smile.


“Hey, don’t worry,” He said softly. “Any sacrifice for you, the people down there in Earth and the guys on the team is worth it. I take pleasure in it so no need to feel guilty.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“No problem. Any more questions before I send you off?”

“Well, there is one thing I want to know about your Father. Is he involved in these games?”

“Of course. He’s our coach.”

“Coach? How come I didn’t see him on the bench?”

“Well, duh,” Christ said, His eyes rolling. “When you’re God, you can be anywhere and still coach a basketball game.”

“Oh. Of course. How is He as a coach? Is He super serious and strict? ”

“Dad? Of course not. In fact, He’s got a really big sense of humor. He’s even a prankster.”

“God has a sense of humor? Really?”

“Of course,” He said. “He created man, remember?”

Funny guy.

“Besides, you, of all people should know that he’s a prankster. He set you up big time,” Jesus said as he stood up to take his leave.

“Me? How? Why?”

“Well, think about it. He invited you here so you could write the greatest scoop of all time, right?”


“And when you get back to Earth, you’ll start writing all you can remember about this trip, right?”


“And you’ll write about the game?”


“And when you finish it, you’ll submit it for the world to read, right?”


“Now, ask yourself,” He said, an eyebrow cocked upwards and a hint of a playful smile on His lips. “Who’s going to believe you?”

(Moral of the story: When you’re invited to cover the next Heaven vs Hell basketball game, bring a video camera. The Hell team’s got these really luscious-looking cheerers…)
posted by Kal-El
Permalink ¤ 0 comments