Toilet Humor

My sister’s (there’s a sidebar link
to her blog) been bugging me to help her out with her project in humanities.
They’re being asked to produce a clay sculpture of some kind.

I tell her do a Rodin’s Thinker.

She rejects it, saying it’s too
“common.”

Do it differently, then. Make
the thinker sit in the john, instead of stone.

She still doesn’t buy it.

You know what, I say,
exasperated, Do something irreverent. Debase something sacred.

Her face lights up. “You mean,
Jesus Christ?”

I shake my head. “Too risky. Try something local and safe.
Somebody like Lapu-lapu.”

Sitting in the toilet? Doesn’t
make sense to me.

Then try somebody a bit more
modern. Somebody like… Rizal.

Aw come on, are you serious?

I sigh, like I have never sighed
before.

I tell her that in my life, I’ve
only done two kinds of figures: dinosaurs and a naked woman sitting on stone.
In my “really lazy” moments, I’d usually opt to do the female figure; it
doesn’t take much inspiration to make one, anyway. I can do a nude with my eyes
closed and while wiping my drool. In highschool, I did a papier-mache by
shredding old issues of Manila Bulletin,
mashing it up with starch paste. I did it twice because the first time I
completed one, I woke up in the morning and found a swarm of red ants feasting
on my masterpiece; the little fuckers were eating the starch in my obra. The
second time, I crammed the whole piece (it was a prehistoric valley where
dinosaurs—three triceratops and a tyrannosaurus rex—roamed beside a “volcano”
that was only as tall as the animals. I tried positioning the two triceratops
in the act of copulation, but thank God I received last-minute wisdom and
didn’t go on with it) in the freezer to protect it. When I submitted it to the
teacher that afternoon, she was so strangely “excited” that she asked me if she
could keep it. Too eager to please, I said yes, sure, absolutely; I didn’t tell
her that by tomorrow, those goddamn ants would reduce the dinosaurs into
shapeless carcass.

I tell my sister, Make Jose
Rizal sit in the toilet, then tell your professor it’s Rizal’s final night and
that’s supposed to be his last time to take a dump. That’s why Rizal is
thinking too hard.

I tell her, “Rizal probably thought of writing “Mi Ultimo
Adios” while he’s shitting. I usually get most of my ideas that way. So maybe he
took the same road.”

My sister still isn’t buying it.
“But didn’t they use latrine?”

It doesn’t matter, I say. It’s
actually brilliant.

How do I make it look like
Rizal?

Do the hair, baby. People
recognize Rizal by his hairstyle. Part it in the middle, make it a little wavy.
And don’t forget the jawline.

And I add, “Maybe you should
give it a dramatic name.”

I think for a moment, then offer
the name before she can say anything. I tell her, Call it Mi Ultimo Echas.

She grimaces. She says, Corny, corny,
corny.

I shrug. I tell her that in
other countries, people oust a government with this kind of subversion.

This kind of idea, I tell her,
wins a Clio Award in other countries.

But we’re not “in other
countries,” she says. And it’s corny.

I say nothing; I just grin. I’m
thinking of more evil things, but sometimes you should know when to stop. But
when she does decide to use it, should I stop her? When her resistance crumbles
and she begins molding it in her hands, should I admit, finally, that it’s
cruel, that it’s probably in bad taste?

Nah. Maybe I’ll think about it.

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