When Rules are Meant to be Broken
I don’t like boxing. I don’t like violence and suffering in general. I think it is barbaric to be entertained by watching people or animals in bloody warfare, much like the gladiators in the Colosseum. That is why I also don’t like cockfights, horsefights, or dogfights.
But yesterday was an exception. Like millions of other Filipinos, I was glued to the TV set watching Pacman demolish Velasquez. In style. In six rounds. And I was yelling like mad — cursing Velasquez, grunting on every jab and punch, cheering Pacman on. And when finally the referee stopped the fight on the 6th, I was hoarse from too much screaming.
I guess there will always be exceptions to the rule. My rules, anyway. I chide my friends who shoot birds for sport. I tell them they should only kill for food, not for amusement. Then I make a complete turn-around and try to kill the neighbor’s cats that make such a ruckus while screwing in the dead of night. Nothing enrages me more than a screaming cat in heat!
I curse the driver of the car that dared to cut in on us. Uneducated bastard, I yell at him silently. But when it’s our driver who did the cutting, I applaud (also silently), thanking him in my mind for gaining a car’s length while stuck in horrendous traffic.
I guess we do have the penchant to bend the rules a bit when it suits us. I always tell myself to be consistent in applying what I believe to be right. Walk the talk.
But then that is often better said than done.