Ocho Pesos

A highschooler, obviously gay, walks into the town's only record bar.  "How much?" he motions to a 45.  The saleslady tells him the price.

"Ocho pesos?" he shrieks, aghast, perhaps, at the huge dent "My Sharona" would make on his 50-centavo a day allowance.  Nevertheless, he reluctantly forks over his hard-earned moolah and skips happily away from the record bar and into the annals of (Sorsogon) history.

As you might have guessed, this happened decades ago, in the age of vinyl and "My Sharona."  Of Guevarra Pension House and Disco, too.  And Lanie's Commercial, Pakewela-Kwela sa DZMS and Search for Superwheel Singing Star.  To this day, though, there are still those who shamelessly call gays "ocho pesos."

The highschooler certainly made his/her mark.

That Sorsoganon Sense of Humor

Up until my sister pointed it out, I never realized that we Sorsoganons have this peculiar tendency to state the not so obvious.  A large crowd approaches, and we would say "diyot!" "Saday" is used to refer to the exact opposite: to someone who is not exactly petite.  Say that with a feigned sense of incredulity accompanied by a clucking of the tongue or a shaking of the head, and you have the Sorsoganon sense of humor.  Or sarcasm, for that matter.

There's also this thing with name calling.  Entire families are lumped into a particular "bansag."  Thus we have the Carabaos, the Kalaws, the Carpas, the Camotes, the Paknits and the Lawlaws.  It doesn't matter if the person-thing association happened ages ago to an obscure relative: the bansag is an invisible brand whose potency outlives last wills and testaments. 

Of smaller scale, and not quite as "historical" are nicknames that are noneheless equally unforgettable.  There are Dingdong and "Durbell," who might as well be the sons of Potpot. There's Wantoo, Baby Number 12 in the family.  And there's Kuramog, who surreptitiously did number two behind the cogon, not knowing that there were witnesses who lived to tell the stinky tale.