(Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo [left] before the hasty makeover, and [right] announcing the Unproclamation wearing a near-perfect emperor penguin disguise. Ignacio Bunye says the same make-up artist who worked on Shrek did this fabulous makeover; that same makeup artist is probably now “sleeping with the fishes” with Luca Brasi.)
No, I’m not specifically pro-GMA. I’m not also siding with the protesters, who I think represent the worse options, (the full explanation of where I stand deserves space in a separate post), but yesterday, just as the state of emergency was lifted, I received a faxed document, which my “mole” says was supposedly the draft of “Unproclamation 1017.” The Unproclamation was supposed to be read by GMA herself, but the administration received last-minute wisdom never to use the draft. Instead, the usual geniuses made the President sit before the camera and assigned a ventriloquist to make her “mouth out” the “official” words. Or something to that effect.
So I’m posting the said “Unproclamation” so that people like Teddy Casino would know that he and his friends holing up at the House of Representatives were probably “cute,” (in a Ninoy-Aquino-doing-the-Boston-thing sort of way), but GMA easily tops them for hilarity.
Anyway, here it is.
Whereas, I’m lifting the State of
“I don’t wanna talk to you no more, you empty-headed animal food trough wiper! I fart in your general direction, you pigdogs!”
“I wave my private parts at your aunties!”
Whereas, no matter how much my cabinet wants me to say the word “fuck” in this Unproclamation, I won’t say that. No, in fact, I won’t ever say, “Fuck you all” as long as I’m in power. I won’t say silly things like, “I’ll blow my nose in this my handkerchief and eat it,” or “I’ll tie you to the bed posts and give you all a good spanking.”
Now, if I’d say those things, I’d no longer be any fun, wouldn’t I? So let me declare in this Unproclamation that I’ll continue to be nice.
Whereas, despite the fact that my vilest enemies intensified their attacks on my husband in the past week, I’m still nice enough to issue this Unproclamation. Many people have hurt Mike’s feelings, who everybody accuses of having gynecomastia. Mike’s so sad he couldn’t eat the tubs of Häagen-Dazs we bought wholesale. So it’s not fair. For your information, if he had gynecomastia, it would have been so obvious. But no, he does not have that ghastly deformity. What my husband has is simply baby fat and what you see are real male breasts. Franklin Drilon has larger breasts, and why hasn’t he been receiving any goddamn attention?
(Exhibit A: Male patient with gynecomastia, with breasts so large he looks like a woman. Never mind the patient’s uncanny resemblance to a local bombshell.)
Whereas, the attacks have become so nasty it has affected my sex life that not even Dr. Holmes could find a cure to. I have been burning the phone lines with the good doctor, and all she could tell me is, “Well, madam, maybe you really should try a three-way with Mr. Garci. Variety, madam, is the spice of life.” I would have heeded the suggestion but after everything that happened with that stupid tape, which I swear on FPJ’s overpriced grave really meant nothing to me, I wouldn’t even want to touch Garci with a ten-foot pole.
Whereas, the attacks have recently been keeping my dear loyal friend Ignacio Bunye sleepless at night that for the past week, he'd been sleeping with me. Now, let me say this before any smart aleck gets any naughty ideas about one “Oh, Iggy, give it to me hard” tape: there is no such thing. And besides, Mr. Bunye slept on the shag carpet.
Whereas we have captured the real perpetrator of these coup rumors [see photo] and we have already punished him. While some people say the suspect looks like a dead duck, I don’t believe them.
(Photo of the primary suspect of a military-backed coup, resting on fine china after getting the fullest extent of the law.)
Whereas, the Republic is deemed safe again, hence, this Unproclamation.
Now, therefore, I, Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, declare that dudes and duddetes uglier than myself may resume their partying without fear of reprisal. They may party at the Edsa Shrine. They may wipe their greasy bottoms there. Or stage a marathon game called, “Stop Amay Bisaya from Licking his Balls,” for all I care. Just please stop, stop, STOP saying I look like Nora Aunor. Jesus.
In Witness Hereof, I have hereunto set my left pinkie finger and caused the seal of the Republic of the
Done in the City of