I'm thurry, Jethuth

I got this from a forwarded mail - it's a bit long but it's a funny read. Enjoy! :)

I'm thurry, Jethuth
by lorenzo p. ninal

NOT ALL tongues are created equal. They come in various shapes and sizes. A tongue can be long or short, plump or skinny, pointed or dull. It can be spongy for just the right slurp, or unbending for whatever purpose its stiffness serves.

My tongue looks perfectly normal. It doesn't grow hair nor does it split at the tip. It is uncomplaining in its obedience to my oral impulses that sometimes go beyond matters of taste. But I believe it is missing that particular something that allows for perfect speech.

I first noticed this in grade school when the S sound made my life miserable. I could roll my R's like a purring cat. But while the rest of the class hissed their S's like snakes, I did mine like piss on loose soil.

It was no problem with group recitation because I could always hide my disability by exaggerating the grin that an S sound required, although I wasn't actually producing any sound at all. I was already doing lip synch before it became vogue in Nora Aunor's Superstar. My problem was with individual recitation.

"How old are you again?" my teacher in first grade wanted to make sure she heard me right on my first day in school.

"Theven yearth old," I said.

"And you want to be what when you grow up?"

"I want to be a prieth to therve God."

The teacher was a close relative. It worried her that her favorite nephew was being denied the pleasures that came with having a perfect S. Would I be able to appreciate the stars, the sea, the sunset, when I couldn't even make the words slither down my tongue? If I wanted to be a priest, how would I denounce Satan? Surely no devil was going to take the name Jethuth Chrith seriously.

"I'll have to ssssee you after each classss," my teacher made noise with the words like she was smashing glasses, making sure I get the message without embarrassing me in front of my classmates. Nothing happened to those speech therapy sessions, though.

I first thought the problem was about me missing two front teeth. But hundreds of front teeth came and went, Ethpiderman remained my favorite superhero and I continued believing in Thanta Clauth.

There must be something wrong with my tongue, Fr. Rudy Villanueva said after cutting short my rendition of a Barry Manilow classic years later in a singing rehearsal in the seminary.

"'I write the thongs that make the whole world thing' is not the way to sing in my choir," he barked. "How can Mother Church expect you to deliver a thermon?"

"I'm thorry," I said.

Though I still couldn't find anything wrong with my tongue in the mirror, I followed the good monsignor's advice and gave up my dream of changing the world from the pulpit.

Not long after quitting the seminary, I found a job as writer in this daily, and immediately broke the good news to my mother.

"Ma, I now work in a newthpaper," I told her over the phone.

"Really? Praithe God!" she said.