Caustic Thoughts

Random funny thoughts with a taste of Pinoy and a hint of acid.

What K+12 Education in the Philippines Means to Me

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K+12 Education in the Philippines
Teddy has to go to school with little Johnny

I was in my daughter’s school last Friday when I came across a story more frightening than The Omen, The Exorcist or Anne Curtis’ singing. I was told the Aquino administration is dead set on adding 2 more years to high school.

From all appearances, there’s probably a greater chance of Aquino growing more hair than his changing his mind about this. Sadly, only beautiful women can say no to Aquino. His cabinet members and the entire nation must follow his bidding, or else thou shalt be impeached, fired or humiliated during public speeches. Our only comfort is in making fun of his sparsely adorned scalp. Hooray for Philippine democracy.

My brothers, sister and I each only completed 16 years of school but I remember my mom had to pay blood and sweat for every single year. She sold everything from sandwiches to magic beans to send us to school. If she could ride a unicycle she would have if someone paid her to do it.

I only have one kid in school now but every time I get the monthly school statement of accounts, my vision starts to dim, I go partially deaf, and I start speaking gibberish. My fellow parents and I call this the tuition fee syndrome.

It’s not just the cost of sending kids to school that’s the issue though. They’ve adjusted the recommended ages for the grade levels too. If kids should ideally be 5 years old when they graduate from Kinder 2, that means Kinder 1 kids should be 4 years old. Kids optionally sent to Nursery class for socialization and skills preparation have to be 3 years old. Toddler classes then will have to accept 1 to 2 year olds.

My youngest will be three years old in a couple of months and he can’t talk, thinks everything is edible, still drops little odor-filled pellet surprises when he forgets what the potty is for and thinks he’s the Batman. If my kid had to take an entrance exam now for admission in his current state, I know I’d be the first to cry. 

Even if admission tests and requirements are scaled down so young kids can pass, parents will still have to pack milk bottles, diapers, baby wipes and teddy bears along with the usual cookies and juice for their kids. That’s just another way of saying small kids aren’t ready.

Aquino says the Philippines is one of the few countries with just 4 years of high school. We need to add 2 more years to improve the quality of education. Don’t we have highly respected Filipino nurses, doctors, educators, chefs and engineers thriving in foreign environments abroad? Aren’t these people the products of four year high school programs? It’s not in the number of years. It’s in the quality of education and in the way we teach kids how to deal with the realities of life.

Are you ready for school little boy? Only if they teach me my ABCs in the Batcave. To the Batcave! 

Rockets, Ships and Transgender Miss Universe

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a mic named Mike
Mike will soon be able to declare his desire for world peace on the Miss U stage

Last week’s top three news items:

#1 – NoKor’s rocket launch

Yes it failed but before it did, it sent neighboring Asian countries into red alert status. While South Korea and Japan prepared their defense systems, National Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Council (NDRRMC) director Benito Ramos could do nothing more than demonstrate to media how to detach ballpen caps.

“Imagine this ballpen is a rocket. This here is the part that comes off. Now you better pray you aren’t unlucky enough to be the one in 92 million Filipinos who gets a surprise rocket part.”

In fairness to the NDRRMC, rumor has it that they did send a team of specialists over to areas at risk. These specialists are pros in patintero a local game crucial in training residents proper evasive maneuvers. Trainees were asked to look up while darting right and left just like in patintero. If the rocket part is falling your way, simply dart to the left or right.

Taken from Bogart the Explorer’s FB page

#2 – Philippines vs. China standoff at Scarborough Shoal

Chinese fishing vessels and the Philippine’s ancient flagship the BRP Gregorio del Pilar were caught in a standoff on the disputed waters of Scarborough Shoal. Vintage is good and classy but not when it’s in reference to a warship that is the only thing standing between us and China’s wrath.

In an effort to diffuse the situation, President Aquino vowed to resolve the issue through diplomatic channels. That’s obvious enough even to a sixth grader. Armed with nothing but the naval equivalent of a slingshot, we really have no choice.

#3 – Transgender contestants in Miss Universe

Because we know there is nothing our government can do in the face of rocket debris and Chinese fishermen, our citizens saw it best to devote most of their intellectual energies to the scholarly debates over the issue of transgender contestants in Miss Universe.

Surprisingly, I have no opinion about the matter, just the observation that when standing beside my transgender hairstylist I, a natural born female, look like an ugly little boy. That is either a testament to how ugly I am or how beautiful he is. Believe me, it’s the latter. My point is that transgender women are so stunningly beautiful, I wonder if a natural born female will ever win the crown again.

What is the essence of a woman? Answer: Maybe the absence of balls.

Magnum Ice Cream – Grab a Status Symbol Now

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A strange viral infection swept over the web last week. Its aim was to eradicate reason and individuality and manifested itself in multiple blog and social network photos of people in compromising poses, nibbling on Magnum, the newest carrier of forbidden calories.

Gone were the pictures of cute babies; adorable cat videos; photos of breakfast, lunch, dinner; Foursquare invitations to stalkers and the constant rants against life’s unfairness. When there’s just a constant stream of gold labelled ice cream wrappers, you suddenly miss the creepy insights into your friends’ personal lives, whereabouts, mental issues and digestive habits.

I’ve been told that in other cities, the infection is much worse. Elated by the idea that perceived elevated social status can now be bought, urban peacocks take pictures in very public places of before, during and after they consume the ice cream bar.

Magnum is reportedly a status symbol, but what kind of a status symbol is something that’s accessible to everyone? Aren’t status symbols, by their very nature supposed to be too expensive or too rare for the average Joe to have? I therefore suggest that Magnum should be declared a status symbol for the average social status.

In the interest of giving a fair(ly) biased assessment of Magnum, I had to try it. Surprisingly, it was harder to find than a haystack with a needle. It was out of stock in three stores and running out in another, as if people bought them in crates, afraid that if they ran out of it they’d look ordinary, cheap or poor.

For my first bite, I closed my eyes like the TV ad model demonstrated, but there was no consequent awakening to an adoring crowd celebrating my newly discovered royalty. There was only the realization that the name Magnum is a glaring mismatch for a sweet product. It’s a more appropriate name for a mastiff, an action movie or a UFC fighter. Somehow, “Hype” has a softer, more fitting sound.

What was the taste like? Nido full cream milk seemed a tad creamier than the vanilla filling. As for the Belgian chocolate coating, I’m not refined enough to tell the differences among Belgian chocolates, Hersheys, M & Ms and ChocNut, so the distinction was lost on me.

In less than five minutes, all that supposed Belgian superiority was in my digestive system anyway, mixed with the salted dried fish I had for lunch. All I had left was a branded stick. Oh good, I could either have it framed or carry it around to flash in the faces of random strangers.

Grace Ibuna vs. Aleli Arroyo – Fight!

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Rich women don’t have claws. They have lawyers.

In this week’s top news, Toby Tiangco takes off his shoes in court, while Grace Ibuna and Aleli Arroyo finally answer the trivia, “Who gets to bury Iggy Arroyo?”

I would have loved to write about Toby’s feet but ABS-CBN news already has a full page report on that (what an ahhhmazing display of reporting skills) and I have nothing else to add to it except maybe to note that Toby’s blue and purple striped sock heel goes well with his shock of/shocking/shocked grey hair.

I had little choice but to dissect the private lives of Grace, the third wheel who wasn’t, and Aleli, the wife who narrowly escaped an annulment, instead. It’s not my fault they were everywhere this week, in newspapers, television news programs and even in my neighbor’s dog’s Facebook page.

I’m loving that sock heel Toby.

It’s a sad, sad day when news organizations deem a man’s marital laundry to be newsworthy, but that’s less sad than Toby’s feet, and we are after all talking about a late congressman’s laundry here. In today’s society, elevated social status is all the justification you’ll need to pry into someone else’s affairs.

There’s nothing unique about the story really. The husband leaves, starts seeing someone else and dies. The interesting bit starts when the ladies battle it out for the body.

It’s not funny but it’s mildly amusing. There are no episodes requiring the services of bouncers of epic proportions, no scratching of nine inch nails, no tearing of hair and no words deadlier than shrapnel. Instead we see the delicate raising of trimmed eyebrows and the clinking of fine china over legal papers in London, proof that the law has more bite than promises of fidelity at an altar.

Even when they meet in public, hair follicles and makeup remain intact as Grace and Aleli retire to opposite sections of the church with their respective entourages, one group in white and the other in black. The “fight” is so uncharacteristic, it‘s like watching some weird paranormal activity.

Online, the violent reactions are more surprising considering the fact that none of the comment posters are the principal characters in the issue. Among some online circles, the consensus is to condemn the other woman for conduct unbecoming of a third wheel. We are a Catholic nation after all. Grace should emulate President Erap’s women who respectfully give way to the woman who holds the marriage contract (for people who cannot detect sarcasm an inch away, I’m obviously not being serious here) . 

In male offline circles, the type created by bonds forged by 5% alcohol content, the talk is more subdued but in agreement. Perhaps the wife has razor sharp teeth, hence the husband’s exit.

Wait a minute, why does it always have to be the women’s fault? Wasn’t there a dead man somewhere in the story too?

And that’s as far as I go. No one has access to the whole story. It’s time to say, “Mind your own business.”

The Devolution of the Filipino

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Be careful who you let stand beside you. Incompetence is contagious.

The prosecutors of Chief Justice Corona have no evidence and no witnesses. Even a two year old can therefore conclude that they have no case. After making themselves permanent fixtures in humor blogs nationwide they might have belatedly realized this and have now dropped five of the eight articles of impeachment. Nonetheless, they continue to harbor the delusion that they performed spectacularly.

Either they are afflicted with a pathological condition that prevents them from admitting their incompetence or they are trying to save face. After having been called “an insult to the intelligence of Filipinos” by the Lady Senator from Mt. Doom, the desire to preserve whatever shred of dignity they have left seems understandable.

The prosecutors and their congressmen supporters however, possessed by the spirit of justice (Or is it vengeance? Johnny Blaze is that you?), remain unfazed and are determined to cause continued shame to their kith and kin ten times removed and to everyone else named Tupas, Barzaga, Umali, Farinas et.al. They’ve been lectured by the senator-judges so frequently that they’re sure they now have equivalents of PhD degrees in impeachment proceedings.

They also have the support of an anonymous backer in a yellow Porsche who supplies them with enough hallucinogens to help them imagine the evidence and disregard the law better. They’re confident they can do better next year.

Gasp! There’ll be more “most embarrassing moments” next year?

I hope they realize that by that time, Corona will have been able to cover his tracks so that any remaining shard of evidence will have shrunk to plankton.

* * *

In a seemingly unrelated event, people dressed in yellow flocked to the streets over the weekend to commemorate the 26th anniversary of the EDSA People Power Revolution. While they prayed, sang and cheered, bystanders wondered what all the fuss was about. I have it in good authority that when members of the media asked a handful of these bystanders what EDSA meant to them, some replied that it was synonymous to heavy traffic.

Others who were obviously more engrossed over Pinoy Henyo (name the word on my forehead game) than the country’s history proceeded to ask leading questions in an attempt to guess the meaning of Edsa.

  • Nakakain ba yan? (Is that edible?)
  • Naibebenta ba yan? (Is that something that can be sold?)
  • Naisasanla ba yan? (Is that something that can be pawned?)
  • Agimat ba yan? (Is that a charm?)

I can’t blame Filipinos who don’t have an answer. It’s not their fault that they ran out of school days before they could get to the second half of their history books where the revolution is detailed.

My advice to common folk approached by the media during commemorations of the EDSA Revolution is to run away as fast as they can. Make the mistake of staying for even a minute and they will force a stupid answer out of you that will be immortalized on TV, forever making you the laughing stock of those who know better.

Up in heaven, I can imagine Ninoy crying and Cory comforting him, “There, there… they’ll remember you eventually. You’re printed on 500 peso bills.”

Corona Impeachment Trial Crawls On

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Fishing for evidence. You’ve got to dive deeper than that.
Politics is best experienced with a sense of humor.

I need a radical shift from my sedentary 12-hour workdays. Of course, what I really mean by a radical shift is putting a YouTube playlist on and moving over to the bed behind my workspace with a bag of baby carrots. That’s 5 steps to exercise my muscles and low fat snacks to cut the calories, an astounding improvement from my protracted days of immobility and frequent excursions into large bags of tasty trans fats.

Having been detached from the real world for days I was naturally eager for some good entertainment. Luckily, highlights of Chief Justice Corona’s impeachment trial were multiplying like rabbits online.

My blog lurkers noticeably veer away from posts where I’m waxing poetic about politics. After all, nothing else is better than politics (except maybe for a ride on a Philippine bus) when it comes to inducing distress, nausea and high blood pressure. What many don’t realize though is that, to preserve good health, political topics are best experienced with a sense of humor.

The current impeachment trial has proven funnier than PNoy’s unending search for the girl who can stand having Kris for an in-law. The source of hilarity stems in part from the members of the prosecution being sorely out of their league (like Luke crossing sabers with Emperor Palpatine or Westlife challenging Whitney Houston to a sing along) and so rusty they’ll give you tetanus.

Somebody please tell Rath I found his sister.

Lady Senator from Mount Doom: How many witnesses do you plan to present?
Serafin “Emperor Palpatine” Cuevas: 15
Neil “Baby Luke” Tupas: Uh… can I ask my pals first? I don’t think I have enough fingers to count. (Team Westlife combines fingers and counts by twos…)
Baby Luke: 100 witnesses your honor.
Lady Senator from Mount Doom: My foot! Are you kidding me?

By the time the trial ends they will have killed at least three senators, Enrile by old age, Santiago by cardiac arrest and Lapid by profuse nose bleeding caused by prolonged exposure to English.

Joseph “Justine Bieber” Perez: Did Corona receive special favors from Megaworld? (Prosecutors cross fingers and hope the answer is yes.)
Noli “I Lost My Hair” Perez: No
Justine Bieber: (Turns to his pal) Hey Luke, is he or isn’t he our witness?

That was a stunning display of how a prosecution panel can demolish itself with its own witness.

Then there’s — Fishing for evidence. More fun Funnier in the Philippines.

Prosecution says they received incriminating bank documents from an anonymous small lady who is a no show on the senate CCTV videos. The documents have been called fakes but prosecutors stand by their story, saying that the lady was really so small, smaller than the little girl in Veterans Memorial, that the CCTV cameras couldn’t have picked her up.

Not to be outdone defense claims they also have an anonymous Palace tipster who says PNoy offered 100 million pesos per senator to win them over. At the various expressions of disbelief over the availability of such huge funds, defense says Aquino has a secret plantation of money trees from where the money will come from.

Being an anonymous tipster has become so fashionable I plan to give anonymous information on where the prosecution team can get law books in bulk and where the defense team can get textbooks on drama scriptwriting.

Notwithstanding their “100 million pesos” blunder, the defense lawyers still look like they have the upper hand in skills and common sense. Here then is a collection of pieces of advice for the prosecution…

“Practice makes perfect.” –Senator Geriatric

“If you’re not sure… Just don’t.” –Senator Johnny Come Lately a.k.a. The Late Senator Pimentel

“Hit the law books (or I’ll hit you with them)!” –Lady Senator from Mount Doom

“Confer with your witness before he takes the stand and make sure he’s willing to fry himself in his own oil.” –Senator Geriatric

“Don’t ask a question if you don’t know the answer.” –Some dead law expert quoted by the Lady Senator from Mount Doom.

Corona wipes tears, crocodile or some other animal…

Personally, I think Corona has enough dirty laundry to get himself into trouble. Fortunately for him, there is a shortage of brilliant congressmen and prosecutors. Then again, we’ve only really just begun. Maybe Luke and his team will have evolved into a more intelligent species by the time we reach article 8.

Babe in the City

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Reality survival shows are shot in remote islands because participants have higher chances of surviving snake bites than the aggravations of urban jungles.

I’d been repeatedly warned, so much so that by the time I got to the airport, I just wanted to curl up and suck my thumb. They should’ve known I had enough supply of paranoia to drive myself crazy, but they didn’t, hence the overflow of travel advice enough to scare even Indiana Jones from visiting Metro Manila.

I tried to condition myself to believe that Manila would be no different from any other place. The only way I’d get into harm’s way, I figured, was if I forgot to pack some common sense.

I arrived in the evening carrying in my inbox my mom’s explicit stories of the sad fates of provincial looking girls in the backstreets of the area. I strode out determined to pretend to be a native of the Metro but an airport employee’s first words to me was to declare my place of origin.

Gasp! My cover was blown and so soon. What gave me away? Was it the accent, the lost dog look or the clothes of Christmas past? My mom swore she could imagine me with a huge backpack that would be the highlighter that said, “This here is a country bumpkin.”

Fortunately, despite my obvious origins, the one night I was required to spend in Manila en route to Tagaytay was uneventful, thanks in large part to friends who rescued me from the bowels of MOA before staff could announce, “Paging the parents of a lost child,” over the PA system.

The only distressing scene we witnessed was not caused by my provincial sensibilities or my lack of urban jungle survival skills. We saw the charred remains of a car on the road to NAIA 1 (an occurrence conveniently left out of the news) where we were to pick up a few other pals from Australia.

It was the trip back to NAIA two days later from Tagaytay that was more disconcerting. My friends could not drive me back to Manila due to coding restrictions so a sitter was appointed among their ranks to make sure I made it back home in one piece. Halfway through the bus ride we already had two bags of puke to add to our luggage (hers, not mine), the result of our bus driver’s passionate affair with reckless driving.

The bus might as well have been a ferry to the afterlife, faster than a speeding bullet in lanes so narrow the passengers in buses speeding alongside ours were already my seatmates. Hollywood movie producers should know about this. They want heart-stopping hi-way chases? They should ride a bus from Tagaytay to the Metro.

In Pasay, the passengers lined up in front of the bus exits like fearless paratroopers and jumped straight into moving traffic. I remember watching them weave expertly through chunks of metal thinking I was either watching Swan Lake’s final act where the prince loses his mind or a modern demonstration of survival of the fittest.

I must have blacked out. I can’t remember if I made the jump myself. The next thing I knew, I was on the sidewalk wondering how the chicken crossed the street with my friend beside me receiving instructions from a vendor to dispose of our bags of puke wherever we pleased.

My friend, having discharged her duties and her breakfast chucked me into a cab for the ride to the airport. My driver was a nice, chatty chap who was from Mindanao too and was so solicitous of my safety that he drove me smoothly to NAIA 3 where I wasn’t supposed to be. My plane was in NAIA 2.

I wish I’d just applied as an extra in the Bourne Legacy. I would have been paid for the aggravation.

Panday 2 Movie Review – Sort Of

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 Belive in your own hype. No one else will.

I was in the dark, screaming for salvation, but when Flavio squinted into the morning sun and raised his sword in an attempt to convey the noble struggle of the reluctant hero, I knew I was doomed for another hour in purgatory. Purgatory. But I think I was closer to the brink of the pits of movie hell.

I should have paid closer attention to the promotional frame; respectable, bespectacled, looking-like-experts people heaping rave reviews at Panday 2 and the implied postscript that said it was for kids.  To paraphrase: Get ready for a senseless swashbuckling spectacle devoid of depth and a rational plot.

The idea should have been simple enough. Find the resurrected bad guy and kill him, simplicity I can accept and potentially appreciate, but they take the thought, pepper it with nettles, ram it down our throats and force us to believe it’s still digestible.

The problem with the story begins when Lizardo rises from the dead. Baruha’s intervention barely affords us an explanation as to the means of his resurrection other than, “She’s just got the power, man! Got a problem with that? “

If I clipped my nails, clicked my heels or did any other random act, I’d have been able to resurrect him too. That’s just saying the writer had to find any lame excuse to bring him back to life. Otherwise the movie would have been Panday 2: The Story of Flavio’s Boring Domestic Life.

It gets worse. Flavio learns of the return of his arch nemesis and promptly begins to wander aimlessly in search of him. Good for him, Lizardo loves to always be in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason, hence affording the opportunity for some sword tickling with Flavio. When Moses wandered the wilderness, he had a destination. Flavio’s was just wherever, whenever.

What’s worse than the story are the characters and the people who play them. There’s Bong Revilla, Jr., the king of massive jaws, whose utter lack of empathy for Flavio’s inner conflict is made obvious by his perpetually pained look; not the “I’ve got a deep dark conflict boiling inside of me” look, but the “wow, these lines are so difficult to deliver convincingly” look. An elephant on tranquilizers would have done a better job.

It didn’t help that Flavio was pitted against equally uncreative and thoroughly uninspired villains. Both Baruha and Lizardo have had extra shots of laughing gas, hence explaining their unstoppable urge to incessantly laugh their lines out, an unconscious message to kids that bad guys have so much more fun than the good guys.

Twins separated at birth.

Baruha bears the burden of the stereotype more. She is a cut out from an old Halloween catalogue. Whoever dressed her is clearly unaware that Hogwarts opened 14 years ago, where hip, modern witches are no longer required to wear pointed hats and sport crooked noses. Tsk, you are so 1950s Baruha.

The special effects should have been the movie’s saving grace, perhaps the best in the Philippines, until you spot the missing twin. It’s either the Clash of the Titan’s Kraken had a twin brother separated from him at birth or cut and paste is now a standard practice in the special effects department.

Okay enough already. If I go any further I’ll lose my ability to string two thoughts together.

Cagayan de Oro Disaster Trivia – Whose Fault Was It?

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Count yourself lucky if people think you’re lame. At least you’re not yet a loser.

Like every humor blogger, I wanted to close the year with a year end special that would leave you rolling with laughter at the indignities of people in the socio-political spotlight, but I live in Cagayan de Oro. Even if you’ve been severely detached from reality by the Cartoon Network, you’d have heard that the year ender of year enders, Typhoon Sendong, swept over Cagayan de Oro City and Iligan, causing flash floods and killing hundreds. It would be inappropriate to write about unrelated humor.

Did I just say, “unrelated humor?” That implies that related humor is permissible. How insensitive of me, but really, all I want to do now is to hand some belated Christmas presents to certain city officials. There’s a good supply of “Lame Mirrors” at the local surplus shop that’d satisfy my sudden impulse for generosity.

The gifts even come with special instructions. Look into the mirror and slowly move it to the right. Stop when the letter “L” is right at the center of your forehead. There, perfect!

While it is true that no one can prevent a natural calamity from happening, common sense, caution and the absence of greed and political motives can at least save lives.

For example, common sense says you should not relocate communities by a river that sits by denuded forests and eroded regions perpetuated partly by your own greed. Your sense of caution should tell you not to ignore warnings from eye glass-wearing experts, with special degrees you can only pronounce with the help of a dictionary, of an impending disaster. Also, you should never, ever assume that nothing bad will ever happen just because it hasn’t happened yet in your lifetime or in your term of office.

I heard over the radio the other day that someone wants to set the record straight because we deserve the truth. Whose record? Why, his of course, written, edited and published by him. So while hundreds of displaced families sit in warm tents waiting for salvation, someone’s making rushed media rounds with ten fingers pointed outward. It’s everybody’s fault but mine.

Well, if he can spell E-L-E-C-T-I-O-N-S without cheating, I might believe him.

Red Socks, Santa and the Smell of…

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Christmas is for everyone, most especially for department store owners.

Warning: Severe rambling ahead.

As a little kid, Christmas to me meant breathing cool air, eating ham in pineapple juice, listening to the sound of feel good carols and showing goodwill to all. As a parent, recollections of Christmas are now peppered with memories of sardine cans the size of malls, filled with irate shoppers smelling of arm (pit) sweat in mile long lines to cashiers dressed like Santa’s haggard little elves.

This year I was officially inducted into the arm (pit)-scented society as I squeezed into congested mall aisles. My mission was to look for a Santa cap, red shirt, shorts, sneakers and knee high red and white striped socks.

The socks were the hardest to find. Every school had the “original” idea of making all their kids wear the same socks for their school programs so by the time I hit the shelves, there were only green striped socks for green elves. But my daughter is a red elf!

Good thing the man in the red suit himself seemed to be trailing my route as I ransacked every major and minor store for the seemingly mythical red socks. He was trying to cheer me on, I say!

There he was on a stand in one mall playing the saxophone. I drew close to listen to some uplifting music to inspire me in my futile search for red socks. To my surprise he didn’t seem to be playing a popular Christmas song. In fact, it sounded faintly like Careless Whisper.

In another store, I came across the man in the flesh, all 4ft. 11 inches of him, dressed in a suit so thin he looked like he was going to shiver from the cold in a tropical country. He was carrying a placard, making him look more like the bearer of bad news, “Repent! The end is nigh!”

“Will you put my photo on Facebook?” Santa asked. “Why sure Santa, so that the world may know how you’ve been reduced to a shadow of your former self and into a department store employee.”

Several more stores and Santas later and I started wondering where the guy whose birthday it is we’re supposed to be commemorating on the 25th was. I suppose Santa is the preferred bearer of commercial good cheer because store employees in newborn swaddling cloths will probably sell fewer red socks, green socks, toys and whatnot.

I finally found a pair of red socks in a quiet Chinese-owned store that didn’t seem to be celebrating Christmas. Great. Now I can tell my arm (pit)-scented community members where they can buy their socks so they don’t have to go through the hoops I’d been through and run the risk of losing their Christmas spirit.