The case of Bimby Aquino and the responsibility of podcasting

Sometimes, we do not need an entire documentary to understand what is wrong with our culture. A few seconds of a podcast, a handful of careless words, and the laughter of people who seem convinced that they have done nothing wrong can reveal more than we expect. The controversy surrounding Machong Chismisan—a podcast criticized after its hosts made disparaging remarks about Joshua “Josh” Aquino, Kris Aquino’s eldest son—confronts us with a question far more important than who deserves to be canceled on the internet: What is the responsibility of people given a microphone, a camera, and a platform to speak publicly? And what does this incident reveal about the kind of humor we tolerate, encourage, and circulate as a society?

In an episode titled “Ang Pagbabalik Ni Kris Aquino,” published on October 5, 2026, the hosts discussed the Aquino family and compared Josh with his younger brother, Bimby. In a widely circulated clip, one host reportedly said, “Si Bimby sobrang OK na anak. Si Josh walang kuwenta, eh.” The conversation continued with remarks about Josh’s supposed daily allowance of ₱3,000, followed by the mocking comment, “Tapos nakatunganga lang siya.” One host reportedly described the remark as a “low blow,” but the controversy also drew attention to the laughter of other participants rather than a clear and firm effort to stop the ridicule. The episode prompted widespread public criticism, including from advocates for the rights of persons with disabilities. Reports later indicated that the episode was taken down and that the podcast and some of the personalities involved issued apologies.

I do not consider what happened a simple mistake in word choice. Calling someone “worthless” is not merely a bad joke. It is a damaging judgment about a person’s value, particularly when it is delivered through a public platform capable of magnifying the humiliation of its target. We do not need to know Josh personally to understand that the hosts have no sufficient basis for deciding how much his life is worth. We do not know everything he does, the challenges he faces, the limitations or support needs he may have, or the ways he participates in the world. Above all, no person should have to prove their usefulness before being treated with dignity.

This is where the deeper problem begins. Why must Josh be compared with Bimby to determine who is the better son? Why should the value of one sibling be measured against the visible acts of another? And why do some people believe they have the authority to publicly grade another person’s life when their knowledge is limited to news reports, secondhand stories, and images circulating on social media? A family is not a competition. Being a good son is not a contest with one winner and one loser. Nor should we measure love by a person’s ability to perform acts that are immediately visible and easily understood by the public.

Let us be clear about one thing: the Aquino family name is not the central issue here. One does not need to be a fan of Kris Aquino, a supporter of her family, or a follower of their personal lives to condemn this kind of ridicule. A person does not become deserving of respect simply because their mother is famous or their surname is recognizable. If the podcast had discussed an ordinary family, if the person being mocked had no connection to show business, or if no influential personality could defend him, would the remarks suddenly become acceptable? If our answer is no, then our position should be the same in Josh’s case. Dignity is not a privilege reserved for people with connections, money, fame, or the ability to retaliate.

There is, in fact, a broader cultural problem in the way we talk about disability. People with disabilities are often portrayed as helpless, burdensome, incapable, or worthy of admiration only when they accomplish something extraordinary. On one side is ridicule; on the other is excessive romanticization. Both can deny people the right to exist as complete individuals with their own personalities, preferences, abilities, limitations, and experiences. We do not need to turn Josh into a hero to defend him. We do not need to produce a list of his admirable qualities to prove that he is not “worthless.” The very demand that he prove his worthiness of respect is already part of the problem we must question.

A person on the autism spectrum is not automatically incapable, unproductive, or unable to contribute to their family and community. Autism is a neurodevelopmental condition that can affect communication, social interaction, learning, and information processing in different ways. The spectrum is broad, and every autistic person has different strengths, experiences, and support needs. It is unreasonable to judge someone solely by their outward behavior, perceived limitations, or standards imposed by others. Not understanding someone does not give us permission to diminish them. A lack of knowledge should make us more careful, not more cruel.

This is why it is not enough to dismiss the incident by saying that it was only a joke. I do not believe comedy should be deprived of its freedom to be bold, irreverent, or critical. On the contrary, we need comedy that challenges power, exposes hypocrisy, and helps us confront difficult realities. But there is a profound difference between making people laugh through sharp insight and making people laugh by humiliating someone who is not even present to respond. There is a difference between mocking the powerful and mocking someone made into an easy target because of a disability. If a comedian’s only way to appear funny is to make another person seem smaller, should we not question the quality of the material itself?

At this point, we must examine the culture of podcasting in the Philippines. Podcasts have made a significant contribution to expanding voices that might otherwise struggle to find space on traditional television and radio. They can provide venues for thoughtful conversations, independent journalism, social criticism, creative storytelling, and experiences neglected by mainstream media. A good program does not need to come from a major network. With a microphone, basic equipment, and an internet connection, a podcaster can build a community of listeners. This is the democratic promise of the medium: more people can speak, and more people can listen.

But having access to a democratic platform does not automatically make everything said on it meaningful. Nor does the freedom to speak mean the freedom to speak without accountability. Some podcasts invoke “authenticity” to defend impulsiveness, use “uncensored” as a badge of unrestrained speech, and invoke “comedy” to justify insults. In this environment, carelessness becomes a personality, cruelty becomes a brand, and controversy becomes a strategy for remaining visible in a world competing relentlessly for attention. The question is not merely whether people are watching. It is what they learn from what they watch.

I am not arguing that every podcast must be serious and formal. I am not demanding perfection from every host. What I insist on is something simpler but more difficult to practice: we must distinguish boldness from bullying, frankness from contempt, and humor from cruelty. It is not enough to be articulate. One must also know how to listen, understand context, and accept criticism when a line has been crossed. A microphone is not merely a tool that amplifies your voice. It is also an instrument that amplifies the consequences of your words.

Another important aspect of this incident is the laughter of the other hosts. It is easy to place all the blame on the person who first made the disparaging remark. But in a group podcast, the culture of the program is shaped by everyone involved: what they choose to amplify, what they laugh at, and what they allow to pass without objection. When someone says something hurtful and the others laugh, they can make the remark appear acceptable even if they do not explicitly agree with it. When someone calls a remark a “low blow” but remains part of the exchange, the distinction between criticizing the insult and participating in the ridicule becomes blurred. Not every laugh signifies agreement, but in public communication, laughter influences how an audience interprets a statement.

This is where we must discuss bystander responsibility. The person speaking is not the only one capable of stopping a hurtful joke. Those who hear it also have a responsibility, particularly when they have influence within the group or the power to redirect the conversation. A clear intervention such as, “That is not right. We should not make his disability the subject of a joke,” can change the course of a recording. It may be uncomfortable. It may disrupt the rhythm of the banter. But if the only thing a group protects is the uninterrupted flow of laughter, while a person’s dignity is set aside, we must ask what that group truly values.

We cannot separate this incident from the internet’s attention economy. On platforms driven by views, engagement, shares, and algorithmic recommendations, there is a temptation to make content more extreme, more controversial, and more insulting to attract attention. An ordinary conversation may not receive the same engagement as a provocative insult. A careful analysis may not spread as quickly as a shocking statement. Ridicule can therefore become a cheap form of production: no extensive research is required, no deep understanding is necessary, and no substantial argument needs to be constructed. All that is needed is an easy target, a hurtful line, and a group willing to laugh.

But attracting attention quickly is not the same as creating something valuable. Viral content is not automatically good content. Controversy is not automatically courage. And a large audience is not proof that a program has something meaningful to say. If a podcast gains an audience by trampling on another person’s dignity, we should ask not only why its hosts did so but also what kind of digital culture we are funding through our views, shares, and engagement.

We must also recognize that people can be genuinely hurt by these jokes even when they are not the individuals directly named. For autistic people, their families, and those who have long experienced discrimination, the ridicule of one individual can recall the times they themselves were dismissed, disbelieved, or treated as inferior because of their condition. A joke may last only a few seconds in a recording, but its message can endure: people who differ from the majority’s expectations can be turned into entertainment, and those around them have the authority to decide whether they deserve respect.

This does not mean that all autistic people or all families with disabled members share the same experiences. It means we must recognize the potential harm of language that reinforces degrading stereotypes. Responsible podcasting must consider more than the speaker’s intentions. It must also consider context, the influence of the platform, and the effects of the words it chooses to circulate.

What does the law say?

In the Philippines, legal protections exist against the public ridicule and vilification of persons with disabilities. Republic Act No. 7277, or the Magna Carta for Persons with Disability, was amended by Republic Act No. 9442 to include provisions against verbal and nonverbal ridicule and vilification. Sections 39 and 40 of RA 7277, as amended, address public ridicule directed at a person with a disability because of their impairment. The law prohibits such conduct when it intimidates the person or undermines their self-worth. Sections 41 and 42 also address vilification, including public acts that incite hatred, serious contempt, or severe ridicule against persons with disabilities. (Republic Act No. 9442, Supreme Court E-Library; Implementing Rules and Regulations, National Council on Disability Affairs.)

This law matters because it demonstrates that ridicule based on disability is not merely a question of good manners or personal sensitivity. It recognizes that certain forms of public humiliation can violate a person’s rights and dignity. Section 46 of RA 7277, as amended, also establishes penalties for violations. For a first offense, the law provides for a fine of ₱50,000 to ₱100,000, imprisonment for six months to two years, or both, at the court’s discretion. The penalties prescribed for subsequent offenses are more severe. However, this does not mean that every offensive joke automatically results in a criminal conviction. The actual statements, context, evidence, and legal elements of a possible violation must be assessed through proper legal proceedings. (RA 9442; Implementing Rules and Regulations of RA 9442, Supreme Court E-Library.)

In Josh’s case, the comments should be examined not merely as personal insults but also as statements that may connect his disability with a judgment about his worth as a human being. This issue deserves careful consideration, not simply a response driven by public anger or an immediate declaration that a crime has been committed. If a formal complaint is filed and there are sufficient grounds, the appropriate authorities should conduct a fair and proper assessment. Defending a person’s rights does not require abandoning due process. Indeed, a society that takes dignity seriously must also take the law seriously.

We must also remember that the right to freedom of expression does not disappear simply because someone is offended by a statement. But freedom of expression does not mean that everything said or done in public is beyond limits. The real question is how we balance freedom of expression and creative liberty with the protection of other people’s dignity and rights. The law should not be used as a convenient weapon to silence all criticism. Neither should freedom of expression be used as a shield to normalize every form of abuse.

Is an apology enough?

At the time of writing, reports indicated that Machong Chismisan and some of its hosts had apologized. The podcast acknowledged that statements in the removed episode were insensitive and hurtful. The program also pledged to review future episodes more carefully and to intervene more promptly when remarks could cause harm. Lawrence Vivar, meanwhile, reportedly expressed remorse for his actions, laughter, and participation in the conversation. He also acknowledged that people with disabilities should not be made targets of comedy. (LionhearTV, October 14, 2026.)

For me, an apology is an important beginning, but it is not the end of the conversation. An apology does not erase what happened. It does not automatically restore the dignity that was hurt, transform the attitudes that made the ridicule possible, or guarantee that the same behavior will not happen again. An apology can be sincere and meaningful, but it can also remain a public statement if it is not followed by changes in practice and perspective.

I am not asking for the people involved to be punished for the rest of their lives. Nor do I believe that someone should be permanently excluded from society because of a controversy. But we must distinguish forgiveness from accountability. Forgiveness does not require us to forget what happened. Accountability does not mean that a person has no opportunity to change. We can recognize the hosts’ capacity to learn while remaining clear that what they did was wrong and that something must be corrected.

If their apology is sincere, it should be reflected in how they produce their podcast after this controversy. They should establish clear guidelines for discussing disability and other sensitive subjects. They should review episodes more carefully before publication. Hosts should learn to recognize and stop hurtful remarks while a recording is still taking place, not only after a video goes viral and the program begins receiving complaints or losing audience support. There should also be clear procedures for correcting statements and listening to people directly affected by their content.

Removing the episode is not enough if the only purpose is to make public anger subside. Taking down a video may reduce its continued circulation, but it does not erase the incident or the lessons that must be learned from it. On the other hand, we should not endlessly circulate the hurtful clip simply to prove that the people involved were wrong. Criticism also has its limits. If our purpose is to protect Josh’s dignity and the dignity of persons with disabilities, we must consider how we discuss the incident without further extending the harm.

What should Kris Aquino do?

I will not presume to know what Kris Aquino feels or what decision would be best for her family. As a mother, she has the right to establish boundaries, seek an explanation, and decide what response is appropriate to the situation. But it is also unfair to place the entire burden of proving that the ridicule was wrong on her shoulders. A well-known mother should not have to intervene publicly for her disabled child to receive protection of his dignity.

If Kris chooses to consult a lawyer, request a formal explanation, or file a complaint if there are sufficient grounds, she has every right to do so. Seeking legal recourse is not automatically an act of revenge. It can be a way of making clear that public ridicule directed at persons with disabilities has limits and may carry legal consequences. However, the decision to pursue a complaint should remain hers, guided by qualified legal counsel who can assess the actual circumstances.

Kris should not have to disclose every private detail about Josh to counter the podcasters’ statements. She should not have to produce evidence of her son’s goodness, recount his sacrifices, or prove that he is capable of accomplishments that society recognizes. Josh’s right to respect does not depend on his family’s ability to tell the public stories about him. If there is an important lesson in this incident, it is the need to respect the privacy and autonomy of persons with disabilities rather than making their personal stories a condition for public acceptance.

Above all, we must recognize that the children of famous personalities do not automatically become public property. The actions and statements of influential public figures may be matters of legitimate public interest, but their children’s private lives are another matter, particularly when there is no meaningful reason to expose or ridicule them. Being the child of a celebrity is not permission to turn every aspect of one’s personhood into comedic material.

What should the public do?

We should continue to criticize, but we must be clear about our purpose. If we want accountability, we should focus on the statements made, the decisions that allowed the episode to be published, and the steps needed to prevent a recurrence. If we want to change the culture of podcasting, we should demand clear standards, more careful editing, and more responsible treatment of the people who become subjects of discussion. We do not need to turn every person who makes a mistake into a personal enemy to defend a principle.

At the same time, we must be careful about how we express our anger. It is inconsistent to condemn ridicule based on disability while insulting, threatening, or humiliating other people on social media. This does not mean that every criticism must be gentle or that we should suppress our frustration. It means there must be a distinction between firm criticism and creating another cycle of abuse. If we want to promote a culture that recognizes human dignity, we must practice that principle in our own conduct.

Listeners should also be more discerning about the podcasts they follow. It is not enough to ask whether a program is funny. We should also ask who repeatedly becomes the target of its jokes, who has the power to respond, who profits from the controversy, and what view of other people the program continually promotes. Audiences have the power to decide what content they watch, share, support, or criticize. This does not mean we should avoid all controversial content. Rather, we must recognize that our attention is part of the economy sustaining digital platforms.

People with disabilities and their organizations can also play an important role in this conversation. But we must not assume that they all share the same opinions or should respond in the same way. They are not there to serve as educators every time someone fails to show respect. We can listen to their perspectives, recognize their experiences, and support the actions they consider important without demanding that they continually explain why ridicule is hurtful.

The responsibility of podcasting goes beyond entertainment

I return to the question of what a podcast is supposed to do. I am not demanding that every program become an educational institution. Nor must every conversation be academic. But anyone publishing content for a public audience should recognize that their words can spread knowledge or ignorance, create space for understanding, or reinforce discrimination. Once a podcast is published and distributed as public entertainment, it is no longer merely a private conversation. It becomes part of a broader culture that shapes our beliefs, standards, and treatment of other people.

Podcasters have a responsibility to examine whether their jokes challenge an idea, an institution, or a form of power, or whether their humor simply depends on humiliating someone who is easier to hurt. They must accept that listeners can question, disagree with, and criticize them. They must also be willing to change when a familiar style of comedy is shown to cause harm. This does not take away their freedom. It asks them to exercise that freedom with an awareness of its effects on others.

A good podcast is not defined solely by a strong voice, the chemistry among its hosts, or its ability to produce a viral clip. It can also be a space where people learn to listen to experiences they do not fully understand. It can open conversations about disability, family, education, discrimination, and dignity without turning the people involved into spectacles or punchlines. It can be bold without being oppressive, critical without being contemptuous, and funny without stripping another person of their humanity.

The real challenge facing Machong Chismisan is not simply how it responds to a controversy. It is what kind of program it wants to become afterward. Will it continue to rely on spontaneous banter even when people are hurt, or will it recognize that speaking freely does not eliminate responsibility? Will it treat criticism as an obstacle to its comedy, or as an opportunity to examine why some jokes need to change? I am not demanding perfection from its hosts. I am asking them to take seriously the lessons they must learn from their mistake.

Nor should this conversation end with one family, one episode, or one podcast. Whenever someone is made the subject of ridicule because of their disability, appearance, abilities, or circumstances, we face the same question: What kind of society are we building when humiliation becomes entertainment and respect is treated as an unreasonable demand? If we want a more meaningful digital culture, we must change not only the content we publish but also the standards we use to determine what qualifies as acceptable entertainment.

For me, an apology is not enough. But it is not meaningless either. It can be the beginning of progress if it is followed by an acknowledgment of wrongdoing, an understanding of the harm caused, a correction of misguided attitudes, and a concrete commitment not to repeat the same behavior. The important question is not how beautifully an apology is written or how quickly public anger subsides. The important question is whether anything changes afterward.

We do not need to demand that those who made mistakes disappear from public life forever. But neither should we pretend that a statement alone is enough to restore everything to the way it was. We can accept an apology while still demanding change. We can recognize the possibility of growth while remaining firm in our principles. And we can defend Josh’s dignity without requiring him to become a role model, a hero, or proof of anything.

In a society still struggling with discrimination, jokes are not trivial matters. They can expose beliefs that have existed for a long time but remain unnoticed until someone objects. The question is not merely whether a podcaster’s remark was funny. It is why we laugh at it, whom we allow to become a target, and what our laughter reveals about our understanding of human dignity.

A person does not need to be famous to deserve respect. A person does not need to be productive by society’s standards to have value. And a person does not need to be able to answer back on a podcast to deserve protection from ridicule.

If there is one lesson we should take from this case, it is this: usefulness, fame, and the ability to retaliate must never become conditions for recognizing another person’s humanity. Comedy has a place in a free society. Podcasting has a place in a free society. But in a society that genuinely values freedom, we must never lose the ability to distinguish making people laugh from making people suffer.

And if an apology is truly the beginning of change, it must lead to a more important question: How will we speak, make jokes, and treat other people from this point forward?

It is not the loudest voice on the microphone that should prevail. What should prevail is the understanding that every person we talk about, even when they are not in the room, possesses a dignity that we have no right to take away.

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Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at the University of the Philippines Visayas. He teaches in the Division of Professional Education and at UP High School in Iloilo. He currently serves as faculty-in-charge of the UP Visayas Language Program Office and as secretary of the National Committee on Literary Arts of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA). His poetry has been recognized by the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature.