Reducete Ad Absurdum, Nomena!

Last night, sitting around a table under an umbrella in lush Greenbelt were my unmistakably Chinese friend Ningning, my ex Ryoichi and his lovable amore, Porto (as in Portugeso). Every time the latter two and I would go out – for coffee, dinner, or for them to hunt me somebody to bully all the way to bed – we call the session as BBT. It stands for Beb (Porto), Baybag (me), and Tsunkre (Ryoichi). No, we never had a threesome. We all wish.

Last night, in respect to Ningning who has been lost in the circulation for quite sometime, we dashed our conversation with things past. Recent pasts that make me chill violently, turn green, my head rotating 360 degrees, and froth in the mouth. Ningning said I’m still bitter. I insist I’m only human... in a very Linda-Blair-way. In fact, I reiterate, as I had in my previous blogs, that the word to describe my countenance every time I come in contact with the past has not yet been invented. Perhaps, when the day comes that I have already put my malevolent vindication into motion, then that word would have been born.

Greggiesm? Ningning retorted.

It sent shots of coffee out of my nose. Old Chinese deft has just honoured me in stark nomenclature.

Yes, perhaps. Just as the word maverick was born out of somebody’s expertise, or onanism out of Biblical Ona’s sexual proclivity, so shall my name be immortalized by women scorned.

There’s just so much in names than the dictionary can define. Or why would you let Webster define your name or somebody else’s when you yourself very well know the person more than by their name. Though that would make the meaning of names subjective, who would protest the fact that language is subject to relativity.

Once in my circle of friends we have come to coin a word to describe an action latent among gays who would go around the city hunting for lovers, keep them for a week or so. And then drop them. As a result, one gets to have 2 to 3 lovers in a month or so... just do the weird math. You suspect an admirer to do such thing with you and you warn him, "Don’t you dare do a Mark on me..."

Love you, Pat!

So as we decipher the characters that have recently passed our way this year, some old some new, we get to coin some words to describe certain characters, vice versa, out of familiarity. So excuse the bred contempt.

How do you call such a malicious intent when a fake friend, upon seeing your lover and finding him at his liking, is possessed by a diabolical motivation to make peace with you after all these years of not talking to you? Think. Think. Think. Got no word? Teng! There goes an idea.

Sorry... inside joke.

But some names can be used to describe something by virtue of similitude. As in Gregg means gregarious; but let’s just leave that name standing for crimes committed by women scorned. It explains why Gene Harlot had to stress her last name’s silent T, as in Bridget Bardot. People named Dick and Nympha are cursed to ridicule for the rest of their serious life. Poor guys. Such suffering though not of their own fault. But some people, by their own action, deserve the dreadful reputation. And their name agrees. Because of personal experience winning over exegesis, I find the name Charlton denotative of charlatan. Excuse me.

What?! These people don't read, so we're safe. One of them can't even play scrabble, so we'll just have our grand time doing this.

And not even the most professional of degrees, say MD, can cover up the stench attacked to one’s name even if it has the most beautiful of origin picked from the most traditional of calendars. Can you say Kevorkian?

Now, now... here I am getting started with doctors again. Hey, mind you but there, too, are surprising resemblance between doctors and their specialties.

For the past six months that I have been single, there have been about four doctors who courted me. And every time they would approach I shoo them away saying:

I keep away from doctors. It’s their job. It makes them heartless.

But I was quick to add, "Except for anaesthesiologists, though. They cause no pain."

And paediatricians? I admire them. Really. They are so dedicated to their work to the point of developing such a close affinity to their patients. Then they forgot to grow up.

Ahh, bitterness is a writer’s workshop.

There are also times when meaning throws words into ambiguity to the point of hilarity and absurdity. Consider this story... and oh, it's not for the faint hearted:

Somebody... ahem... and I mean somebody, went to a sex club where everyone is required to wear nothing but a teeny-weeny towel around the waist. You stand in a corner until somebody catches your attention and flirts with you until you-know-what-happens. So this...ahem... somebody we’re talking about did just that. And along came a boy and flirted with him. Then came another guy in his forty’s. The boy introduced the fortyish guy as his Papa. Contextually our subject thought Papa meant lover, boyfriend, jowa... flavour of the Christmas season. And in they went to a much darker corner to begin the moral carnage. As our subject reaches high heavens with moans of pleasures beyond lurid descriptions (somebody hand me a thesaurus) everything plunged back to the sands of Sahara upon hearing the fortyish guy coaching the boy:

" That’s right... good... he’s making noise. You’re doing great... SON."

Kafkaesque maybe but, still, this is based on a true story. Yeeees. And don't tell me I didn't warn you.