Travelling to Baguio in the time of COVID-19 is as complicated as the Sex Education of Otis.
It did not happen with Maeve but Baguio did after a sleepless night thinking about the implications of an enlarged scrotum and how QR Codes, RT-PCR tests and unrequited love can turn Carson into a drunk at "Mang Ed's House of Bakareta" because the tinuno was served without the dinardaraan, Dino protesting the blandness of the bakareta, dinakdakan and pinapaitan by walking through Kisad with only his guitar and sablay, the triage insisting for us to repeat breakfast at Starbucks before having our passports renewed using the same photograph, "I'm Drunk, I Love You" stamped on where the seal of the Republic of the Philippines should be.
I did got happily drunk because communicating hydrocele turned out to be an OPD case.
Bulan will get his second dose but the popcorn in Maligaya got stale from the sweat of an MILF from Bakal 2 who was near enough for me to discern hints of fried bangus wafting from her arm pits, The Chestnut Man nodding his agreement while being roasted by Detectives Thulin and Hessin in Copenhagen as The Stronghold in Marseille fell from the betrayal of Jerome while the Ganglands in Antwerp offer an atang of tiim na bibe, adobong itik, lumpiang shanghai, and colored puto to Sofia, the patron saint of double crossers.
The Phantom Biker kept trying but Philam Vitality failed to rise to the occassion.
The farts kept coming too, in Hue with the distinct aroma of Bun Bo Hue accompanied by hints of Noma's weird menu and bits of Astrakhan caviar from Moscow, flatuelent courses but not enough to overpower the grilled pork ribs, baked tahong and chicharong bulaklak of Sts. Cosmas and Damian nor the Pansit Cabagan, nachos, fried chicken and pritong pisngi ng baboy of Sts. Ewald the Black and Ewald the Fair as Sonny Colbrelli broke through the barricades of Kennon Road to claim Paris-Roubaix.
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