Your motherfather just finished his last blow dry at around 2pm that day; they had to close the parlor earlier because it was your motherfather's 40th birthday. They began setting up the monoblock tables and chairs at around three in the afternoon. That signaled the actual preparations. A unit of homos was readying the ice box, the beer tower, the ten cases of Red Horse, and the two boxes of Emperador Lights. See, your motherfather and his friends are Olympic-level alcoholics. They drink with a purpose. Which is later on malicious.
Meanwhile, a gaggle of fags was frying all that lumpiang shanghai, all four kilos of it, and the tofu. Somebody else had the sense of humor to apply lipstick and eyeliner to several tilapia that were destined for a hell of deep frying. Meanwhile, another "fren" remained isolated from all that crazy hustle. He was crouched on one of those monoblock chairs, his legs propped, his shoulders stooped, and his face had the dedicated focus of a bomb disposal unit.
He cannot be disturbed. He cannot be touched. Because he had the scared duty of sending out the invitations to that evening's guests. He is group messaging the guests like crazy. He made sure he was registered for UnliText20. On two different phones. Because his was the most important, the most paramount, the most important task that day.
Of course, your motherfather and his alcoholic homo friends can easily drain all that excess in a bat of an eyelash. But it was your motherfather's 40th birthday after all. They have decided to intoxicate your motherfather guests. So that your motherfather's can get to unwrapping his birthday presents. That's the plan.
The videoke was in criminal force during your motherfather's 40th birthday. I remember it started at around 8pm. Now, your fatherfather can be one of the many barely legal kids hogging the mic and the songbook. I say "can be" because nobody remembers much of anything else during the parties your motherfather hosts. And that night, in particular, was truly an assault to my senses. Again, the videoke was criminal with all that Tagalog rap songs. Oh my ears! The air was a felony with all that second hand smoke. Oh my nose! And your motherfather and his aging gay friends? Oh my eyes!
So you'd understand how your motherfather paralyzes the memory with the parties heshe celebrates. And, even then, the alcohol hasn't kicked in yet.
Again, your fatherfather can be anyone of those "true brown style gangstas," haha, hogging the karaoke. He can be the scrawny tanggero with the black shirt and the lopsided bullcap. He can be...
To be continued.
**I have been meaning to write a story about how us fairies were made. I wanted to give it the "Once upon a time..." format, it being a fairy tale and all, but I decided otherwise and just told it straight. Which is ironic for a gay story. Anyway, I wanted to give it time, a lot of time to think it over and edit everything in my head, because I wanted it to be of exceedingly grand proportions; I will tell this only once. Of course, I lingered, I strayed, and I moseyed from writing projects to another; my Fairy Tale was largely neglected in consequence. Blah. What you just read serves as a working introduction, and I propose to finish the damn thing before the year ends. This is a start.