Self-Service

I know the way you feed your wife and children. I see you asleep at daytime as though it were night. The bamboo floor complains about your body weight and length of unconsciousness. You move and change position to achieve the most comfortable stance, and the kubo (hut) you have built for your family shakes, and the loosely fastened or nailed structures creak, and it irritates the lizards adopted by your hospitable house. The vacant, fertile backyard shouts to waken, but you are deaf. The tansan (bottle cap) of newly opened liquor of your neighbor falls and touches the ground and clangs and, now, cures your unique deafness and wakes you up. Your kumpare (male friend) invites you for "one shot," but you violate some math rules and equate one shot to two cuatro-cantos (gin). You come home zigzagging, uttering words not found in your undrunk vocabulary. Before the door you throw up and feed the dogs with your delicious pulutan (viand). Your hungry wife screams in anger and sets innocent, empty kalderos (cooking pot) in flight.