Raising A Child Who Steals

 

Ah, the modern parenting dilemma!

It’s a classic tale: you raise a child, and somewhere along the line, they decide that reality is merely a "suggestion" and other people’s property is just "unclaimed inventory."

If you’re wondering how to handle a child who steals so well they’ve convinced themselves of their own alternate universe, or who treats shoplifting like a career path, here is a satirical guide to "Parenting the Future King of the Underworld."

1. Embrace the "Alternative Facts" Lifestyle

If your child steals even when the evidence is literally stuck to their face, don’t be a buzzkill.

Clearly, they aren't "stealing"—they are Performance Artists.

The Strategy: When you catch them with the missing jewelry, and they swear they found it in a dream, congratulate them on their commitment to the bit.

The Logic: Why settle for the boring truth when your child is talented enough to live in a permanent state of gaslighting?

If they don’t know they’re lying anymore, they’ve simply achieved a higher state of consciousness where facts are optional.

2. Treat Theft as an "Unpaid Internship.
"
If your child treats stealing as their "bread and butter," stop thinking of it as a crime.

People will bash me for this ... but hey, guys, this is a satire ... so we have to exaggerate, and it is up to you if you get the message or not.

Think of it as aggressive wealth redistribution.

The Professional Approach: Instead of a lecture, ask for a spreadsheet of their weekly "earnings."

If they’re going to make it their career, they should at least track their margins.

The Perk: You’ll save a fortune on Christmas presents, assuming they "find" enough items for the whole family.

3. The "Wait for the Police Sirens" Method

Why bother with discipline now when the government provides free room and board later?

Some parents feel the need to intervene, but isn't that just... extra work?

The Plan: Just sit back, relax, and wait for the flashing blue and red lights.

It’s like a surprise party, but with handcuffs!

The Benefit: Think of the peace and quiet you'll have while they’re doing a state-sponsored "sabbatical."

4. Why Regret Early When You Can Regret Late?

We all know that pagsisisi (regret) always comes at the end of the story.

Indeed, it only counts if it happens in the final act of a dramatic movie.

Why have a productive conversation at age 15 when you can have a tearful, slow-motion reunion in a prison visiting room at age 25?

The Philosophy: Realizing your mistakes early is so mainstream.

It’s much more poetic to wait for the absolute extreme before acknowledging that, perhaps, stealing a car was a bad life choice.

The Reality Check

Of course, if we step out of the satire for a moment, waiting for the police to do the parenting is like waiting for a house fire to do the cleaning.

It’s effective, but you won’t have a house left

Rowena Guanzon: Juan Half - Half Kakampink Half DDS?

(Scene: A brightly lit press conference. ROWENA GUANZON, radiating confidence, stands behind a podium adorned with pink ribbons. 

A banner behind her reads: "Rowena Guanzon: Your Kakampink Ally!")

ROWENA GUANZON: (Smiling sweetly) My dear Filipinos! Let me be clear: I am, and always have been, a Kakampink at heart! 

My soul bleeds pink! My blood pressure rises at the mere mention of unity!

(Cut to: A dimly lit, smoke-filled room. The "Cebu Alliance for Duterte 2028" launch party is in full swing. 

Rowena Guanzon is on stage, fist-bumping a man wearing a "Duterte Forever" t-shirt. The crowd roars its approval.)

ROWENA GUANZON: (Shouting into the microphone) Mabuhay ang Duterte! 2028! Let's make the Philippines great again… again!

(Back to the press conference. A reporter raises his hand.)

REPORTER: Ms. Guanzon, isn't it true that you were recently seen at the launch of the "Cebu Alliance for Duterte 2028"?

ROWENA GUANZON: (Waving her hand dismissively) Ah, that! A simple misunderstanding! 

I was merely… conducting research! 

Yes, journalistic integrity demands I immerse myself in all political ideologies! 

Think of me as a political anthropologist, studying the mating rituals of the DDS!

(Cut to: A split screen. On one side, a photo of Miriam Defensor Santiago looks fiercely independent. 

On the other hand, Rowena Guanzon is attempting to do a backflip while wearing a "Duterte 2028" hat.)

NARRATOR: Rowena Guanzon, aspiring to be the next Miriam Defensor Santiago! A noble goal! 

But there's a slight… logistical problem. Miriam, bless her soul, didn't need a press release to explain where she stood. 

Her principles were as sharp as her wit. Rowena, on the other hand…

(Cut back to the press conference. 

Rowena Guanzon is now wearing a pink t-shirt with a picture of Duterte photoshopped to look like a unicorn.)

ROWENA GUANZON: (Sweating profusely) Look, can we move on? I'm a complex individual! A political enigma! A… a Schrödinger's Politician! 

I'm both Kakampink and DDS until you open the box! And even then, I might be something else entirely! 

Maybe I'm secretly a communist! Or a space alien! The possibilities are endless!

(Cut to: A group of Filipinos watching the press conference on TV. They stare at the screen in bewildered silence.)

FILIPINO 1: So… is she DDS or not?

FILIPINO 2: I don't know anymore. I think she's just trying to collect all the political Pokémon.

FILIPINO 3: I miss Miriam.

(Cut back to Rowena Guanzon, who is now juggling pink and red balls while singing a karaoke version of "My Way.")

ROWENA GUANZON: (Singing off-key) And now, the end is near… and so I face… the final curtain! Which, by the way, will be pink with a subtle Duterte logo!

(The screen fades to black. A single question mark remains.)

(Narrator, in a deadpan voice): Rowena Guanzon: Proving that in Philippine politics, sometimes the only thing you can be sure of is that you're completely confused.)

Family Feud: Once More With Feelings

Last Monday’s episode of Family Feud Philippines turned into an unexpected wildlife documentary. 

Host Dingdong Dantes asked a very simple question: “What words would you say to people who steal from the government?”

Apparently, the Philippines has been preparing for this question its entire life.

First to buzz in was Vice Ganda with the classic: “Hayop!”

Survey says… ding! The audience applauded, relieved that the national vocabulary still contains at least one honest adjective.

Next came Vhong Navarro with “Buwaya!”

Another ding! Somewhere in the swamps, actual crocodiles protested for defamation.

Then the board started filling up like a résumé for public office: kurakot, gahaman, ganid, garapal, makapal, demonyo. 

At this point, the audience wasn’t sure if they were answering a game show question or reading a Senate attendance sheet.

Every correct answer earned cheers, nods, and the universal Filipino gesture for “finally someone said it on TV.” 

The crowd enthusiastically gave thumbs-up signs, which is impressive considering many of them were probably also holding their wallets a little tighter.

What made the segment truly educational was how quickly everyone recognized the answers. 

No hesitation. No awkward silence. 

Just instant national consensus—something we rarely achieve, except during karaoke arguments and basketball games.

By the end, the audience was no longer playing a game. 

They had formed a civic movement. 

The episode closed with a spontaneous chant echoing through the studio: “Ikulong na ’yan! Ikulong na ’yan!”

(Translation: Survey says… jail time.)

Somewhere, a group of politicians watched the show nervously, realizing that the next round of Family Feud might include a new question:

“Name a place where corrupt officials should go.”

Top answer on the board?

“Prison.”

Good luck beating that in the lightning round.

Lawyer's Mumbo Jimbo

I. PHRASE: Ad Cautelam

II. DEFINITION

Ad cautelam is a Latin term meaning “for caution” or “just to be safe.”

It’s what people say when they want to do something, not because it’s necessary—but because they’d rather not be caught off guard later (or, more importantly, look unprepared in front of cameras).

In plain terms, ad cautelam is the legal world’s version of bringing an umbrella when the sky is clear—because you don’t trust the weather, your neighbor, or the entire atmospheric system.

Lawyers love this phrase because it sounds far more impressive than saying, “We’re doing this just in case things go south.”

Why use five simple English words when you can summon the spirit of ancient Rome?

So when someone files a motion ad cautelam, it doesn’t necessarily mean they agree with the situation.

It just means: “Okay, fine, I don’t think this should even be happening… but in case it does, I’m not going down without paperwork.”

Think of it as:

Locking your door even when you’re inside the house

Saving a file five times before closing it. Mabuti na may reserba.

Screenshotting a conversation because “you never know."

It’s caution… with a touch of drama and a Latin accent.

III. EXAMPLE (inspired by recent events) Using ad cautelam in a sentence.

Following the recent response of Sara Duterte to her impeachment issue, one could imagine a sentence like:
“Vice President Sara Duterte, ad cautelam, submitted her response—essentially saying, ‘I question this entire process, but just in case you insist on continuing, here’s my answer so no one says I ghosted the Constitution.’”

In other words, ad cautelam is the political equivalent of replying to a message you think is nonsense—but you reply anyway so nobody screenshots you later and says, “Seen at 3:42 PM.”

Or you will charge her with "she did not even reply."

See?

Family Feud Philippines: Where Political Commentary Meets Prime-Time Entertainment

Last night’s episode of Family Feud on Philippine TV gave viewers more than just laughs and friendly competition—it served up a hearty dose of political commentary disguised as game show banter. 

The host, Dingdong Dantes, posed a seemingly simple question to the contestants: “What words can you say about government thieves?”

What followed was nothing short of a verbal roast session. 

Vice Ganda kicked off with the succinct and savage “Hayop,” while Bong Navarro fired back with the equally biting “Buwaya.” 

The audience, clearly hungry for truth wrapped in humor, eagerly nodded along as other contestants dropped bombs like “kurakot,” “gahaman,” “ganid,” “garapal,” “makapal,” and the ever-classic “demonyo.”

One could almost hear the collective Filipino sigh of frustration morphing into cheers of approval, culminating in the rousing “Ikulong na yan!” chant—a demand that echoed louder than any political rally.

In a country where government corruption headlines are as common as traffic jams, it's no surprise that prime-time game shows double as platforms for social critique. 

Why wait for a solemn Senate hearing when you can get the same fiery sentiment from a trivia show?

Family Feud thus transcended its role as mere entertainment, becoming a mirror reflecting the Filipino public’s exasperation. 

The verdict? When even game show contestants and audiences unite to call out graft with such passion, it’s clear: the people are done playing games with corrupt officials.

So next time you tune in, don’t just watch for the prizes—listen closely.

You might just hear the nation’s collective call for justice, one witty insult at a time.

The Great Survey Earthquake of Antipolo

 

Politics in the Philippines is a beautiful science. It combines polling, prophecy, and a little bit of interpretive fiction.

The story began when Congressman Romeo Acop passed away. 

Instead of the usual respectful silence that follows a public servant’s death, parts of the internet decided it was the perfect time to perform Olympic-level bitterness—mostly because Acop had helped push the congressional investigations involving Sara Duterte.

Thus, a special election was held in Antipolo. On one side: Philip Acop, the congressman’s son.

On the other: Reden Llaga, a proud and enthusiastic supporter of Vice President Sara Duterte, known locally for his never-say-die loyalty to the DDS cause.

Naturally, the campaign became less about Antipolo and more about a national test of strength. Soon, the political Avengers assembled.

Vice President Sara Duterte personally arrived to raise Llaga’s hand like it was the final scene of a boxing movie of Sylvester Stallone in Rocky 111.

Legal heavyweight Atty. Ferdie Topacio—and other prominent voices in the pro-DDS universe— brightened the campaign with their presence ... you could almost smell the aroma of victory in the air. 

Commentators, vloggers, and online strategists flooded timelines with declarations of inevitable victory.

Then came the surveys. Oh, the surveys.

Some online analysts treated them like sacred tablets descending from Mount Algorithm. 

A few posts—shared enthusiastically by supporters — suggested Llaga was leading comfortably.

The numbers looked glorious. 

The victory speeches were probably half-written already.

Then, election day arrived, and it did something extremely rude: it counted actual votes.

Final tally: Philip Acop – 60,051 votes

Reden Llaga – 12,054 votes

Apparently, the surveys had been conducted in a very specific demographic: the group chat.

The result created a fascinating political phenomenon known as Survey Evaporation—the moment when overwhelming online support dissolves when voters encounter the ballot box.

Now the big question echoing through the comment sections: what does this mean for Sara Duterte?

If endorsements were magic spells, Antipolo should have turned into a landslide. 

Instead, the election behaved like voters had minds of their own—a disturbing development for anyone who believes politics happens entirely on Facebook.

Some analysts are now asking whether the towering survey numbers often attributed to the Vice President are solid political ground… or inflatable statistics filled with social-media helium.

Because Antipolo delivered a gentle reminder about democracy: Raising a candidate’s hand on stage is easy.

Raising 48,000 additional votes is slightly harder.

And somewhere in the Philippines, a group of survey graphics is quietly being updated with a new margin of error:

± 48,000 votes

Sara Duterte’s Legal Dream Team: When Your Lawyers Are Also Your Witnesse

Ah, the impeachment saga of Inday Sara Duterte—where the courtroom drama has morphed into a legal ballet so intricate, it would make even the most seasoned choreographers jealous. 

The latest twist? Hiring not just a battalion of lawyers, but turning potential witnesses into part of the defense team. 

Genius? Panic? Or just plain audacity? You decide.

Imagine this: a staggering 18 lawyers, including former insiders Michael Poa and Reynold Munsayac—both with firsthand knowledge of the very secrets the impeachment seeks to uncover—now donning the robes of defense counsel. 

Suddenly, the very people who should be spilling the beans have the power to claim attorney-client privilege and slam the courtroom door shut on uncomfortable questions.

It’s like inviting your detectives to the crime scene, then telling them to play defense for the accused. “Hey, you’re on our side now—so mum’s the word!” 

The legal shield here isn’t just protection; it’s a strategic smokescreen, a sophisticated dance to keep the truth hidden in plain sight.

Poa and Munsayac aren’t just any lawyers; they’re former OVP spokesmen and officials intimately involved with confidential funds, procurement, and internal decisions. 

They’re material witnesses, the living, breathing embodiment of the facts the public deserves to know. 

But no—they’re now part of the defense team, wielding the shield of privilege to keep those facts locked away.

And what about the ₱20 million acceptance fee per case from the Fortun-Narvasa firm? 

A small price to pay for a fortress of lawyers, a veritable army ready to fend off truth and accountability.

The pattern is clear: layers of legal maneuvers, a parade of lawyer shields, and a calculated attempt to keep the spotlight away from the inconvenient facts. 

Panic moves? Perhaps. Calculated cover-up? Likely.

So, dear Filipinos, the question isn’t whether Sara Duterte is innocent or guilty—it's what she’s so desperate to hide that she’s willing to turn potential whistleblowers into her own legal bodyguards.

A courtroom drama worthy of prime time, but with stakes far higher than ratings. 

After all, when your lawyers double as your witnesses, you’re not just defending a case—you’re staging a masterclass in legal wizardry and political smoke and mirrors.