Confidential Funds: Now Available at Your Local Security Desk

By Louis ‘Barok‘ C. Biraogo — November 26, 2024

IN A move that’s either a masterstroke of administrative efficiency or the world’s longest audition for a “Law & Order” episode, the Office of the Vice President (OVP) in the Philippines has found a novel solution to accountability: outsourcing confidential funds (CF) to the only group less accountable than bureaucrats—security chiefs. Who better to handle millions of pesos in hush-hush money than someone whose job description includes the words “discretion advised”?

When questioned, the special disbursing officer (SDO), Gina Acosta, humbly admitted she was merely following orders from Vice President Sara Duterte. Evidently, the guiding principle here is “Delegate, delegate, delegate”—a mantra that makes sense if your job is too dull to do yourself, or if you’re playing hot potato with ₱125 million.

Let’s unpack this absurdly efficient process. Acosta, who is technically responsible for the funds, handed them off to Col. Raymund Dante Lachica, because—as we’re told—he’s the real expert on surveillance, monitoring, and presumably avoiding inconvenient questions about where the money went. By this logic, perhaps we should let security guards run the national treasury while librarians manage nuclear launch codes. Experts, after all, are overrated.

Accountability? That’s Someone Else’s Problem

At the core of this scheme is a philosophical breakthrough in bureaucratic ethics: when you can’t do your job, just find someone else to blame. The SDO insists she knew full well that she was ultimately accountable, but conveniently handed over the funds anyway. This kind of “trust-fall” governance raises important existential questions: If a disbursing officer disburses nothing, does she even exist?

Acosta’s defense that “Ma’am Inday Sara” gave the order is a masterclass in plausible deniability. Who are we to question such wisdom? If the boss says the security chief should double as the treasurer, so be it. Why stop there? Let’s put janitors in charge of military strategy, and cafeteria staff in charge of foreign policy.

The Case of Mary Grace Piattos

But the real pièce de résistance in this saga is the alleged involvement of a certain Mary Grace Piattos—a name that sounds suspiciously like a snack aisle fever dream. If your secret accounting strategy involves fictional potato chip aliases, maybe, just maybe, you need a new accountant.

Perhaps the OVP figured that if anyone questioned their use of taxpayer money, they could point to Piattos and say, “It’s all accounted for, courtesy of our crispy, cheesy financial wizard.” One wonders if her colleagues are named Jack ‘n Jill or Lala Milk Chocolate.

Satirical Tips for Streamlined Governance

Since this administration is already rewriting the rulebook, let’s offer some helpful suggestions:

Secure a Mascot: Rename the OVP to “Sara’s Secret Stash & Snack Fund.” Use Piattos as the logo. Everyone loves transparency disguised as whimsy.
Gamify Governance: Turn disbursing CFs into a reality show. Contestants—security personnel, janitors, maybe even a random barista—compete to see who can “monitor” funds best. Viewers vote, and losers sign acknowledgment receipts.
Upgrade Excuses: Instead of blaming subordinates, why not implicate abstract concepts? “Inflation spent the money” or “Gravity disbursed the funds” has a nice ring to it.
Fictional Fundraiser: Introduce characters like Mary Grace Piattos to sponsor government events. “This year’s surveillance programs are proudly brought to you by Piattos, the chip that never misses a target.”

The Final Crunch

The beauty of this fiasco is its simplicity: by eroding all lines of accountability, no one is truly to blame—or responsible. It’s not mismanagement; it’s modern art. But as the house of potato-chip-scented cards collapses, one thing becomes clear: the only thing more confidential than these funds is the logic behind their use.