Has Manny Pacquiao Been Abducted by Aliens?
Manny Pacquiao is currently under fire for drug cheating allegations, not because he has been caught, but because Floyd Mayweather Sr., et. al. can’t take his incredible run in the ring as the output of pure talent..
I am almost tempted to butt in with my conspiracy theory: hey, you got it all wrong, you idiots.. Manny’s not on steroids: he is an alien cyborg.
Being a Manny Pacquiao fan, I used to frequent the forum of Pacland, a boxing website in the internet, where I had registered as KamaongBato sometime in October 2007. Months passed before I wrote my first post – a comment on a boxing trivia – and was surprised that a regular in that forum, Desert Fox, welcomed me to the site. I learned that each user had a given rank, based on boxing weight categories. I was a strawweight, the lowest category, also known in internet lingo as a newbie, and everyone could see it was my first ever post. After that, I made it a point also to welcome other newbies to Pacland upon their first post.
Like every Filipino hungry for a hero, I used to worry how the Pacman was faring at training camp, whether he was doing well at sparring, or had weight problems – things like that – until I strayed to Pacland, glad to find so many fanatics who ate, drank and breathed nothing but Pacquiao. After browsing through the articles of the day, I usually couldn’t have enough material to ruminate on, especially when the Pacman had a fight at hand, so I tried to read whatever the fans posted in the forum section. The threads (topics) dwelt on almost every imaginable aspect about Pacquiao: what he did before and after a fight, his hobbies, movies, concerts, even his amorous exploits, His trainer, Freddie Roach who has become a well-loved celebrity, as well as Buboy Fernandez, his friend and trainer, and other members of Team Pacquiao, his wife Jinky who is also popular with the press, and lately, Aling Dionisia (his mother)who is a regular in his sit-com and TV commercials are staple fare in Pacland, all characters of a soap opera that revolved around Manny’s exploits in the ring. Discussions often focused on who should be the Pac’s next opponent, who should sing the national anthem in his next bout, what combinations should he use, etc.
In my youth I saw the Nora-Vila rivalry at its worst: my sister Marilyn who was a Noranian was one among those who was ready to engage in fights, short of brawls, in defense of their idol. But compared to the jackals in Pacland, the movie fans were tame and shy as Filipina maidens in the 50s. If you are like those few people who have the perverted joy of teasing an ill-tempered dog on a leash, the poor animal growling and howling as it yearned to get back at its tormentor, you’d realize why some users posted threads just to rile the Pacnuthuggers (or huggers), a term coined for Pacman fanatics, whose typical response to such perceived attacks on their hero is ridicule, harangue, and a volley of curses, not necessarily in that order. For example, try posting a comment that Pacquiao is a one-dimensional fighter, or that Marquez in fact won in at least one of their fights, or that he is a creation of the media, and imagine the bedlam that follows.
I found there was a section for political, religious and metaphysical topics, but the old-timers thereat treated newcomers like newly imprisoned convicts, and delighted in ganging up on newbies like me. Once I tried my hand posting in a thread that tried to ridicule NBN star witness Jun Lozada, and instantly got my baptism of fire, for internet debates are usually laced with venom. Ad hominems are common, and if you’re a gentleman who comports himself with utmost civility, better get out. But the cut-throat debates soon gets into one’s nerves. A kid who gets tired being bullied is apt to dish out some violence himself. Pretty soon I was dishing out WTFs and A–hole! in my posts like an inmate in Alcatraz. But the TS (thread starter) sure remembered me and would become my bitter enemy whenever I posted in the politics section.
Sometimes I couldn’t stand the inanity, the viciousness of those who hunted newbies for breakfast. Once a newbie – Veriajeth – posted a story about two knights who were to vie in mortal combat for the princess’ hand: they were to forge their weapon of choice from a meteor fragment. One made a sword, and the other a gun. But the gun had no bullet, so the swordsman won. Some spoilsports ridiculed the story, saying it was all mixed up, ignoring the fact that it was make-believe and technical details were not that important. I joined the thread by posting my own story (I used to tell my children when they were little kids stories that I made up – tales about kings and warriors and princesses a la Lola Basyang) during power blackouts).
Here’s my post:
Can I ask permission to finish your story? Just add some meat to the bones.
And so it came to pass that on the appointed hour the two valiant warriors appeared before the king, clad in their most splendid armour, as the arena rang thunderously with the acclamations of the people.
And each knight was allowed to present before the king the weapon he had forged out of the ball of fire that came down from heaven.
And Sir Garrlum the Brave unsheathed a two-edged sword, perfectly balanced in his enormous hands, and it flamed in the sun as, smiling, he raised it in salute before the king.
Then it was the turn of Nerrrdd the Wise, the knight who was better known as the Tool Maker of the kingdom more than for his feats in the battlefield.
And he held admiringly in his hands the weapon he had fashioned the night before, and the people marveled at so strange an implement, which gleamed and seemingly foretold of evil in that realm.
“What have you got, Sir Knight?” asked the king.
“Of all weapons,” said the knight, paraphrasing James Fennimore Cooper’s Hawkeye, although the author was not yet around at that time (this is make-believe anyway), the long-barreled, true-grooved, soft-metalled rifle is the most dangerous in skillful hands.” He added: “It is a death instrument of unbelievable power.”
The crowd trembled with excitement as the two knights took their posts before the king, reciting the pledge of the gladiator: “We who are about to die salute you!” (I know, I know, this was not yet the era of the Roman Empire, but it’s make-believe you smart-ass).
Sir Garrlum the Brave waved his sword menacingly, while Sir Nerrrdd hoisted the rifle in his shoulder, taking aim, when they froze at a word from the king.
“Hold!”
All eyes were on the monarch, who kept staring at the strange implement of the Nerrddd knight, who was ordered to come closer.
“What is your pleasure Your Majesty?” asked the gifted knight.
“What do you think I am, a fool? Do you mean to tell me this tin contraption could kill a mouse? You deserve to be hanged at the nearest tree!”
And the nerdy knight proceeded to convince the king that it was indeed an awesome weapon, but all of a sudden he had a dreadful thought: he had omitted to make ammunition for the goddam rifle. (Of course knights did not curse in those days, being perfect gentlemen, but what the heck).
Then all of a sudden Merlin the Magician (hey, hey, this isn’t the days of King Arthur yet! I know, but let me finish, i’m getting tired already).
“Here, take this magic metal ball,” cried the wizard, handing the lump of metal encased in cloth and a powder horn.
“How is it used?” asked the king, suddenly curious. And he got hold of the thing and peeped through this and that and at last dipped his cigar inside, and lo! what an explosion.
Somewhere in the crowd, a toothless man examined what looked like an eyeball that reeked of gunsmoke.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Curiosity killed the cat.
During a prolonged debate as to whether or not Pacquiao is already past his prime, I joined the fray out of the blue, but instead of taking sides, I offered the suggestion that the Pacman was not really burned out, but had been taken to outer space to fight for the amusement of the aliens. (I enjoyed some success with my kids with my adventure stories but didn’t expect the same effect on adults). The Pacman’s space adventures were received well by those who read it, so I posted a separate thread – “Has Manny Pacquiao Been Abducted by Aliens?” in deference to the TS (thread starter).
Did it stir controversy? You bet. But not the response I expected. I thought everybody would see it as a kind of spoof, a parody, satire. Many of them thought I had drug overdose. Worse, some suspected I was attacking the Pacman in some subtle way.
I thought of ending the thread, but I had warmed up to the story-telling, and I couldn’t resist expounding on the saga I’d begun. To the abduction theory I added that the Pacman we see on TV is not the real Pacquiao but a cyborg put in place by the aliens. Heh heh.
A talented Paclander even posted a computer image of a Predator-like alien.
.
I read the columns of Mr. Michael Marley, aka, The White Gorilla, for their wit and hilarity, so I made him appear in an imaginary interview with Freddie Roach:
It is difficult to imagine the Pacman is nothing but a machine. I myself couldn’t believe it until I had access to an unpublished interview of Freddie Roach by a venerated journalist, let’s call him Tickle Pink Ape (because he usually tickles your funny bones). He interviewed the trainer shortly after the Pacquiao-Marquez II bout. In his article titled “Is Freddie Roach Afraid of the Pacman?”, he wrote:
Something weird is happening in Wild Card these days, but celebrated trainer Freddie Roach doesn’t want to talk about it. He has become gloomy lately and has that paranoid look.
TPA: Howdy, Coach? How’s the Pacman doing?
FR: As usual, I guess, he’s in top shape and works so hard to maintain his excellent condition.
TPA: Do you have any plans after David Diaz?
FR: Hatton, maybe.
TPA: Why the loser? Why not the pound- for- pound king himself?
FR: Nope, it won’t be good for Manny. He has to preserve his legacy you know, and he can’t do that fighting Floyd
TPA: Why not? Floyd’s a great boxer.
FR: Oh, yeah, his fights are such that you should bring along your laptop in his
bouts so you could chat while awaiting his move.
TPA: When will Manny start training?
FR: He doesn’t train. (Roach recoils, as if having said a mouthful).
TPA: What do you mean Manny doesn’t train?
FR: (whispering): It’s no joke, Manny has never trained at all except before the media people.
Every time I nag at him to start training, he’d say, “Gimme a break, man, I have some taping to do.” But you know what? He is so conditioned you won’t believe what he could do nowadays! For example, I once told him to shadow-box, and I nagged at him until he got pissed off and began shadow-boxing right away. The crazy thing is that he he did it so fast he slipped out of his f-ing shadow: he was already towelling himself and signing autographs while his shadow still danced around the canvas.
TPA: You’re pulling my leg, right?
FR: You ain’t heard nothin’ yet. Yesterday he asked me to pull strings so he could play exhibition games with the NBA. I told him he’s gone bonkers. You know what? He suited up in jersey and took me to the basketball court: he grabbed a
ball and took off.
TPA: Was he hurt?
FR: Hurt, my ass! He did a 1,080 degree turn holding that ball, and meanwhile he was tying his shoelaces, but he did slam the ball in before he landed. The camera caught it in slomo.
TPA: He did that, really?
FR: You know, I’m beginning to wonder: he may not be human after all. I’m not superstitious but someone has nicknamed Pacquiao the Demon from the East. Now I wonder why.
TPA: Ahem, coach, I got to be going.
FR: You don’t believe me? Why, you dirty, rotten worthless scumbag!
TPA told me he had never seen Roach like that before.
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In my next post I parodied Geno’s Boxing Mailbag:
I would like to reply to some letters I found in my mailbag this morning.
The fact that Pacman writes a sports column debunks your claim that it is a machine. No computer, not even an alien cyborg is capable of doing that.
Well, I’m not a computer expert.
According to some, programming a computer to write is as diffiult as teaching Math to an orangutan. For example, when a computer was asked to re-phrase the Bible proverb “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” it came up with “The wine is good but the meat is rotten.”
But an alien computer programmed by vastly superior alien technology may be something else; never underestimate them. If it is technically feasible to program a cyborg to talk, sing, and box, programming it to write a column would be like drafting a press release for Malacañang. You will notice that Pacman’s columns leave nothing to be desired: they all sound politically correct, excellently organized, and of flawless grammar and syntax. Surely no human being can do that.
You say that this Pacman cyborg is so powerful and fast it can outrun its own shadow. But how do you explain its less than spectacular performance in its last three fights? It was listless against Solis, boring against Barrera, and suicidal against Marquez.
As I have explained, it has been programmed not to perform as well as the original so its opponents wouldn’t end up in the crematorium.
Of course it always does what the fans are used to see Pacman do in the ring, like banging its fists when it gets tagged (although, of course it’s just a show to make things believable), it holds back its punches a little bit to make the fight more interesting.
The perceived decline in the Pacman cyborg’s firepower is not due to the fault of its alien programmers, however; the blame has to be laid on Team Pacquiao itself, Buboy in particular. You see, whenever Buboy runs to Pacman’s corner between rounds, he has this habit of shouting in his ears: “RELAK KA LANG BAY!”
Now, what else is the cyborg to do but obey, so it relaxes and allows its opponents to escape with decisions and less than convincing performances.
More imaginary letters from doubting Thomases and KamaongBato’s response:
I’m not an idiot to buy your cyborg sh-t. If you’re a sci-fi wannabe, better get your facts straight. You claim that a robot or cyborg or whatever is now impersonating the Pacman. If that is so, how come it seemed afraid of Dinamita Marquez in their meeting at the Araneta Coliseum? If you noticed, he even wore shades so his fear of the Mexican wouldn’t be obvious. Take note that when he was dared to a rematch, this cyborg as you say did not respond as a machine should: instead, it sounded like Ben Abalos trying to convince the Senate he wasn’t brokering the NBN-ZTE deal. Isn’t a robot/cyborg supposed to be as cold as ice, like the Terminator? Gotcha, smart ass.
Well, you may not be exactly an idiot but you’re no Fox Moulder nor Sherlock Holmes either.
I hate to say this, bro, but if you’ve been looking for a snake it’d have bitten you on the ass before you could say Apo Lakay, as the Ilokanos are wont to say up North.
In point of fact, the Pacman cyborg is as capable of emotion as a eunuch is capable of being aroused by the concubines in his harem.
Let me ask you this simple question: could you imagine the real Pacman ever getting scared of the balding Mexican? If you think so, you should try lobotomy on yourself at the nearest operating room so forensic pathology experts could determine whether your brain had been infected by viruses from outer space.
Of course surviving four knockdowns and coming back to put up a show is no less than spectacular: only an extra-ordinary person can do that. Let me correct myself: only an extra-terrestrial can do that. Trust no one, Agent Moulder.
According to my source, the Pacman cyborg now consorting with the people of Gen-San and his Kapuso stars has been programmed with state-of-the-art alien technology that’s nothing like you’ve ever heard before. Compared to that of the aliens, the best robotics software the U.S. Defense Department, MIT and CALTECH could offer would seem like cave drawings of Neanderthals as against highly advanced computer graphics by Microsoft Corporation and George Lucas; no sir, ours is at most dinosaur technology, or rather, trilobite technology compared to the Gooollibbilians’. In fact, it could mimic even the slightest accent of the real Pacman. If you paid attention to the interview, the cyborg enunciated, in reply as to whether he agreed to a rematch: “Enetaym, enewer.” No computer on earth could duplicate that.
Its wearing of shades is no big deal: it’s purpose is to conceal what goes on inside its computer brain. Incidentally, a news commentator at the Mandalay Bay during Pacquiao-Marquez II nearly discovered the cyborg secret when he covered the bout: “Wow! You could see the blaze of fury in Pacquiao’s eyes everytime he unleashes those hurricane blows, as if there’s fire inside those orbs. It’s a beauty!” Actually, the shades is nothing but camouflage so people won’t notice the minute flickering of photo-tonic lasers inside its irises as it scans and processes trillions of data within nano-seconds.
In his meeting with Marquez, this is what the cyborg saw in his “mind”:
____Person _____Animal ______Thing_____. Inexplicably, the computer clicked “thing” and flashed a warning: CREATURE UNIDENTIFIED, MAY BE HOSTILE, PROCEED WITH CAUTION.Naturally, the Pacman became alarmed. Its mind screen showed ____Hostile____Non-Hostile ___Friendly. Confused, the cyborg was about to click Non-hostile, but the atmosphere was tense, and the robot picked it up. In its confusion, there was a system error, so the cyborg decided to run other tests. The screen showed Sexual Preference :___Straight ____Bi-sexual ___Gay. The computer was about to click gay, but hesitated. Its wires in a mess, the cyborg tried to come up with a proper reply to the arrogant challenger. In its screen flashed ___Bug off, mother–cker! ___Shut off your f-ing mouth. But then there flashed :____Gobbledygook ala Bunye. It clicked the last option. There you have it.
Why do you think the Pacman cyborg looked rattled upon seeing the Mexican? If you say it was scared, I’d kick your goddam ass.
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But if the Pacman we see is a cyborg, what had become of the original? By this time, everybody has seen it’s all a joke, but why spoil the fun?
More inter-galactic breaking news from outer space:
According to my source, championship fights in XXXuuurrssttt are beamed through a colossal space network that links all the inhabited solar systems in the galaxy. If you want to see the real Pacquiao in action, you’d have to fly to the venue itself – the Galaxydome in the planet Xattarr – which can seat ten-million spectators at any given time, half of them citizens of planet Goooolllibbblle, all proudly waving their flag and chanting “Long Live the Universal Fist!”. So passionate are the fans rooting for their respective idols that these events are always filled with piss-throwing, the more rabid followers shouting insults to the opposing camp and going for each others’ throats. In less emotional fights, as when the champion happens to be Borreinngg Flukkkewaiter, reputedly the best pound-for-pound fighter in the galaxy, so named because he has the irritating habit of waiting for the other guy to initiate exchanges even if it took the whole of twenty rounds, the events are a combination of cheerleading championship, yawning competition, and musical concert to keep the fans awake. During his fights, the less eager fans bring along their xhsterxcs sets, their version of chess, holding an impromptu xhsterxcs tournament among themselves to pass the time while waiting for Flukkewaiter to make his move. For those who could afford there’s a less expensive way to watch the action or the lack of it, via PPP (Pay Per Peek): for a fee you could peek through a telescope to watch the unfolding action. Most fans, however, have to content themselves with the commercial networks, which show the action “live” twelve full weeks after the fight is held. Why so? Because the distance between the solar systems is so vast it normally takes years before a signal is received from outer space. A highly advanced technology has enabled the networks to reduce transmission time to mere earth days, but to maximize their profits, the network guys pretend that the results of the fight are not yet in. So if you’d ask:“The anthems of the fighters’ respective planets are now being sung, when will Round One begin?”, you would have to wait for at least three earth months before you finally view the action, and by that time the fighters would be already training for their next bouts, or undergoing rehabilitation at a center for paraplegics in the case of Pacquiao opponents . While waiting for the next round to be beamed “live” via telecast, viewers are forced to watch for weeks and weeks a never-ending barrage of ads indorsing shampoo, wart removers, breast augmenters, penis enlargers, and the latest therapy for menopause and erectile dysfunction; there’d be no other channel than the one officially airing the Pacquiao bout. Nobody is complaining except that the people of Goolliibblle always include the networks in their prayers, wishing them eternal damnation in Xhadezzxx, their version of the lowest circle of hell.
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After a while, I decided it was time for a Gulliver-like narrative:
I just had a chat with my source from XXXuuurrsssttt galaxy and he told me Pacman’s fans shouldn’t worry about their idol.
Right now he’s deep in training against Krrrnnnkkk, an eight-armed fighter in the planet Bbbllshhtt.
He’s moving up in weight actually, and his decision has been viewed with some alarm by well-meaning fans.
I’m told that their forum in Asstraland, their version of our very popular Pacland, is a-buzz with threads like” Has the Pacman Overshot his Prime?”, “Is the Pacman a Hype-Job?”; Here’s How Krrrnnnkkk will Pulverize the Pacman”; “Manny don’t do it!”, and other similar nonsense.
Of course these rabid trouble-makers were instantly kicked out of Asstraland by logical, well-thought of replies like “F–k off,you a-hole!”, “Shut off your f-ing mouth, you dumb f-ing retard!”
To show he isn’t afraid of Krrrnnnkkk, whom he despicably described as a future punching bag despite his eight arms,Pacquiao has decided to pursue a course in sociology in a Gooollibble academy, and has come up with several baby theses: “Comparison of Betting Proclivities among boxing fans of planet Earth and Goooollibble”; “Osculation Techniques among Extramarital Partners in the Planet Rmmmnnnzzze”; and “Behavioral patterns among purveyors of social misinformation among Inhabitants of Third World Planets”(allusion to Manny’s publicized aversion to gossip). I heard he has also taken the entrance exam to a night law school and is awaiting the results. More of that later.
And on and on it went. At last, I got tired posting about aliens and decided to post an epilogue, which was received well by some Paclanders, like Cinderella_Man, who guessed a puzzled I contrived. But just in case I ever would change my mind and have a Part 2, I wrote:
SSSSHHHHHHHH! Hold it bro. Don’t believe what I wrote in my last post about this thread being a fairy tale: it was only meant to shake off the Senate guys hot on my trail.
Some Senators are now crying havoc over my revelation that the Palace has known all along about the abduction of our Pambansang Kamao but has kept silent in exchange for some deal with the aliens.
The scuttlebut is, they have allowed Manny to be taken to fight in their own planet provided the UFO guys take Lozada too, along with some other vocal members of the opposition, who were supposedly taken to the PLanet of the Lotus-Eaters so they would forget all this nonsense about corruption in the government.
I have been on the run these last couple of days I couldn’t log in to Pacland anymore.
I don’t want to testify because nobody would believe me.
I imagine Ignacio Bunye saying: “The Office of the President does not want to dignify this silly story about the abduction of Mr. Pacquiao by extra-terrestrial beings. Let us just focus on the economy and forget this thing, blahblah”
This alien abduction thing is getting on to my nerves.
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I still surf Pacland nowadays, but the last time I posted there was on March 18, a few days before my son Archie died. There was this Briton who was taunting Pacland to post better rhymes than his poems in praise of Hatton. I couldn’t resist, and composed this piece:
There’s fire on his belly, and a smirk on his face
He shuffles and huffs, swinging up, swinging low
Intent to devour the tiny Filipino.
Ding! Sir Hatton goes to business, his blood is all up
He throws a wicked left, there’s a nice uppercut
Swinging here, swinging there, the ring’s all ablaze
But alas! Sir Hatton has hit nothing but space.
Now comes the Pacman, all maddened with fury
Jabbing here, jabbing there, running circles ‘round Ricky
One, two, three – it’s a combo- followed by seven more
Ricky wobbles and stumbles, and fumbles on the floor.
The Pac is a whirlwind: now you see him, now you don’t;
Ricky’s bludgeoned by a demon, Ricky’s pummeled by a ghost
Ricky’s legs are on water, he feels groggy as hell
Ricky’s wishing he’s at the bar, gulping ale, eating well.
“Give him a hook to the liver, a cross to the jaw!”
Floyd’s Papa was screaming, not believing what he saw
“Give him this, give him that!” Mayweather’s all in panic
Freddie Roach says to Buboy: “Tell our boy, make it quick.”
Ding! The Hitman rushes in: his eyes are full of hate
There’s bloody murder in his eyes, as Britons lie in wait
He swings that body shot, grunting with all his might
Wham! It lands on Pac’s liver: clear as day, clear as night!
Millions around the world gasped in terror at the blow
The arena was all but hushed, Larry Merchant was in awe;
But miracle! Manny’s standing, his arms are raised in jest
“Give me more!” he taunts his foe, “Is that your very best?”
The Brits are all a-singing their dreadful awful song
The Queen is all a-trembling on Britain’s royal throne
Ricky swings, Ricky charges, Ricky punches with Devil’s mien
Hitting air, hitting wind, being hit, being beaten.
The Hitman can’t be denied: he grapples and hits low
He grabs and roughhouses the gallant unyielding foe
The Pacman steps sideways and throws that lightning left
Ricky plunges down to the canvas, thank God, now he can rest!
O woeful day for merry England, the day is all but lost!
The pride of the British empire has yielded up the ghost
Coach Freddie has just awakened, surprised it took so long
“Next time,” he tells Manny, “I want to be early home.”