Jejemons, meet JejeTon

Many Jejemons are avid texters. (Photo courtesy of http://www.sxc.hu.)

By Anthony O. Alcantara

It’s amazing what 50 years can do. The Jejemons were then the pariahs of society, hated by prudes with immovable upper lips. Now Jejemons sit like kings and queens in government, schools, day care centers, karaoke bars and night clubs in Manila. And they love to sip wine from exquisite crystal glasses, with their pinkie fingers pointing up.  

It all started with a Jejemon who stumbled on Malcolm Gladwell’s book, The Tipping Point. Malcolm’s recipe on how to spread ideas proved to be very useful. Heck, the Jejemons even convinced Gladwell to support their cause. They made him chairman of the American chapter of the Supreme Jejemon Council.  

That’s how powerful the Jejemons have become.  

I’m one of the last Jejemon busters. My reputation as a vigilante has spread all over the world, sending shivers from the balls to the eyeballs of hopelessly inveterate Jejemons. I was merciless.  

And I’ve taken photos of my victims, too. These dreadful photos have hit the front page news and Jejemons everywhere have nightmares. I have become the new face of terror.  

I hunt these Jejemons usually at night. I use my stun gun and some special Jejemon-seeking bullets. These Jejemons have developed a certain enzyme that produces faint scents. The special bullets home in on these scents.  

One night, after tracking a cocky young Jejemon, I decide to strike. I follow him through a dark alley and fire a single shot from my stun gun. I catch the unconscious Jejemon before he hits the ground and drag him into a dark room.  

I then pour anti-Jejemon water on his head and shine a strong flashlight on his face. The poor Jejemon wakes up. He’s groggy.  

“You know who I am?”  

Fear grips him. He looks like a puppy ready to pee.  

“Please, please have mercy. Don’t make me do this. I will give you anything. I’m rich. I can give you the life you never had,” says the Jejemon.  

Of course, they don’t speak that way. I usually have my hi-tech Jejemon translator attached to my ear.  

“Now, here’s a pen. You know what to do… or else.”  

“pleaSE, plEASe dONT mke~ Me do iT P0wH.~ I WILL go CRazY p0Wh.~ I HaVE~ childRen P0Wh.”  

Rats. My Jejemon translator malfunctioned again. I hit my ear several times and hear some buzzing. Finally, the translator is back to normal.  

“Please, please don’t make me do it. I will go crazy. I have children,” says the Jejemon.  

Now that’s better, I tell myself.  

“I have children, too,” I tell the whining Jejemon. “And you have made me miserable because you have turned them all into Jejemons. Poor kids. Now you will pay for what you did!”  

I slam a thick notebook in front of the Jejemon.  

“You know what to do.”  

“No! Please don’t make me do it.”  

“Do you see this vial? It contains anti-Jejemon nanobots with rubber dentures that have a special liking for chewing certain body parts down there. You don’t want that, do you?”   

“Okay, okay, I’ll do it!”  

The Jejemon slowly lifts the pen and begins to write this required text: I renounce being a Jejemon and promise to write and speak like our ancestors did 50 years ago. I promise to rid my writing of all unnecessary letters and words, and I promise to follow proper capitalization of letters and correct punctuation. I also promise to write grammatically correct sentences.  

They know the text. It’s been written in the newspapers, translated into Jejemon writing, of course. The newspapers were supposed to be the bastions of the correct use of language. But they succumbed, too.  

I usually order my victims to fill notebooks with my required text, handwritten and in print, approximately size 12 font, single space. The notebook is about 6 inches thick with page sizes of 8 1/2 by 11.  

With great effort, the Jejemon writes… “i RENounCE…”  

I slap his hand. “No! You have to erase that and repeat. Don’t you have eyes? Just copy the text exactly!” 

I see the supreme effort of the Jejemon. Beads of sweat are on his face. Drops of Jejemon sweat stain his clothes. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. But I show no mercy. 

“Go on. Do it!”  

He writes… “I renounce…”  

“That’s better,” I tell him.  

He continues writing: “I renounce my being a~ jEjEmON nd pROMisE 2~”  

“What the…?!”  

I slap his hand again.  

“Don’t you make me lose my patience! Do you want me to prolong your agony? Do you want me to give you two notebooks? Just do it!”  

After two days, pails of sweat and tears, and bouts of delirium, he finally finishes the text. He drops to the ground exhausted.  

“I’m so proud of you,” I tell him. “Now you can tell everyone about your wonderful experience. But I’ll be watching you. Don’t you dare become a Jejemon again.”  

And that’s how the world came to know me, the one who silently stalks the Jejemons of the world. There are many copycats now. I don’t mind. That’s how the legend of JejeTon, destroyer of Jejemons, will live on.  

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