By Herman M. Lagon
We have a way of laughing even when the news feels like a slap. My prediction since 2022 is captured in two words: “Popcorn, please.” It is the kind of line you throw when the plot becomes predictable yet too juicy to miss. Only this time, the screen is not in a cinema but in our politics, where the UniTeam — built more on convenience than conviction — will slowly unravel. Like any pair forced to smile for the cameras, the cracks will show, tempers will flare and the rest of us will watch, half-amused, half-weary.
We have seen this before. Cory Aquino’s coalition splintered, Estrada was deserted by his allies and Arroyo survived only through constant deal-making. The UniTeam promised strength, but from the start, it carried rivalry in its DNA. A Marcos and a Duterte on the same stage made for a powerful picture, but every Filipino knew each family had its own script for 2028. Unity made for a campaign slogan, but governing demands more than posters and handshakes.
The popcorn moments began early. In 2023, just a few months after the political honeymoon period, hearings on confidential funds became national theater. Senators grilled, representatives posed and social media filled with popcorn emojis as if it were a teleserye. But for teachers who paid for classroom repairs out of their own salaries, or parents still waiting for decent chairs, the scene was not funny. You laughed or you cried. Often, both.
By 2025, the noise had grown louder — billion-peso public works investigations unfolding like telenovelas, renewed debates on political dynasties, ICC maneuverings, legislative leadership dramas, budget controversies, unresolved cases tied to extrajudicial killings, Pogos and uneasy geopolitical balancing. Approval ratings dipped, and ambitions quietly began to surface. The Vice President’s camp floated her 2028 run, while allies scrambled to guard their turf. Even students caught on. “Ma’am, bakit nag-aaway sila kung magka-team sila?” one asked. The simple answer: power is not cake you slice cleanly. It is a dish leaders claw over, even under the spotlight.
Then the Supreme Court threw out the impeachment complaint against the Vice President. Legally sound, yes, but politically it lit a fire. The UniTeam’s glossy poster cracked into shards, each side hurling barbs as if it were a basketball rivalry. In barangay halls and canteens, one line echoed — “Popcorn, please” — because unpredictability is the only thing predictable in Philippine politics.
What often gets lost in the noise is what these public quarrels quietly reveal. When former allies turn on each other, secrets surface — not because virtue suddenly appears, but because power feels threatened. In one sense, this exposure is healthy: wrongdoing is dragged into the open, claims are challenged, and each side is forced to check the other. Yet it also leaves an uncomfortable question hanging. If this much spills out when alliances break, what remains hidden when power is shared and silence is convenient?
I have seen how this plays in young minds. Pisa 2022 already warned that Filipino students lag in trust in institutions. When leaders turn alliances into circus acts, children learn cynicism. They grow up thinking politics is theater, not service. That is why “popcorn, please” should disturb as much as it entertains. It mirrors our habit of spectating instead of acting, of joking instead of demanding better.
Still, humor is our shield. Jeepney drivers banter in traffic, teachers crack jokes while waiting for delayed salaries. “Popcorn, please” is both a jab at politicians and a wink between citizens saying, “We see you.” The danger is staying too long in the bleachers. Popcorn is fine in cinemas. Democracy needs more than spectators.
So what if we chose differently? Imagine parents and teachers tracking votes on education budgets instead of trading memes. Imagine study circles comparing government promises to actual delivery. Popcorn may feed amusement, but accountability feeds the nation.
Other countries show what happens when self-interest drives coalitions. Italy and Israel have cycled through governments whenever leaders prioritized survival over service. The UniTeam risks joining that list, remembered less as a powerhouse than as a cautionary tale. As 2028 nears, voters will need to decide: another ticket to the same tired show, or a demand for a new script?
When my daughters ask why leaders fight, I answer honestly: alliances break, but citizens can always choose better. Every peso lost to squabbling is a missing chair, a missing book, a clinic left bare. The popcorn we laugh over has real costs, measured in classrooms and communities.
Now and until the national elections year in 2028, “Popcorn, please” will surely echo in timelines, coffee shops, workplaces, and sari-sari stores. But it cannot end as a punchline. Popcorn works as metaphor, but it must be paired with receipts checked, petitions signed, and ballots shaded with sharper eyes. Coalitions will rise and fall. The question is whether we stay seated, snacks in hand, or whether we step in and demand a better ending. Until then, pass the popcorn — but act when the credits roll.