Yes, yes, I know: the very suggestion that a government agency named Land Transportation Franchising and Regulatory Board needs fixing sounds preposterous. You, after all, are used to doing the supervising and the regulating. But these are unconventional times. We live in an age when people no longer buy postage stamps in order to write to a distant loved one, because the mere press of a button can relay the same message in seconds. So you, as the country’s chief steward of jeepneys and buses and tricycles and pretty much any wheeled vehicle that transports human passengers for a fee, need to adapt to a fast-changing digital world if you hope to continue being relevant and useful.

It seems you’re already getting up to speed as far as going digital is concerned. I understand, for instance, that your Web site is under construction to make it more interactive. You plan, in your words, “to conduct an online weekly session to answer current issues, and to facilitate information dissemination.” I also reckon you’re working overtime to keep up with the evolving demands of 21^st century commuting. Your inane sound bites aside, you do come across as well-intentioned.

But your ongoing (and quite frankly frustrating) tussle with the app-based ride-sharing company Uber reveals an important lesson in business management that you need to take seriously. Oh yes, you’re a business. You have shareholders (the public), you collect revenues (registration fees from PUV operators), and you employ workers (your underpaid staff, obviously). Whether you realize it or not, you are, for all intents and purposes, a company, and you have a brand to protect.

So here’s the unpleasant news: Your brand sucks. Everybody hates you. No one trusts you. If you were a restaurant, you could announce free food and nobody would show up to take advantage of your generosity. That’s because you have a history of serving expired, rancid stuff. You could hire a Michelin three-star chef to run your kitchen and still no one would touch your menu. Your reputation is that bad.

Last week, in response to criticism that you were focusing too much on Uber, you released a table showing a detailed breakdown of colorum (illegal) vehicles you had impounded from June 2016 to July 2017. The figures bore the glaring fact that apprehended Uber cars represented a minuscule percentage of impounded units (16 versus 469 UV Express vans, for one). The intent was to demonstrate that you were doing your job, and that you were doing it fairly. But the social-media reaction was overwhelmingly negative, most everyone calling the statistics a joke.

“Are you sure there were only 13 colorum jeepneys and 38 colorum taxis?” asked an incredulous lady.

“Either your data is inaccurate or you’re not doing your job well,” quipped an unconvinced guy.

“And you had the gall to publish this?” added another.

But perhaps the most scathing remark of all was this: “We know you’re a bunch of lying, corrupt bastards. You had the opportunity to redeem yourselves… but proved even more why we should just get rid of you.”

Of course we can’t get rid of you. The longevity of your existence is not ours to decide. But fault-finders can make life hell for you just by making noise and harassing you at every turn — or by pressuring grandstanding lawmakers to overhaul the nature of your office. Why put up with all that distraction?

See, that’s the problem with someone who has a tainted track record. No matter what you do moving forward, you will be met with skepticism and cynicism. Nothing you do will be good enough. Nothing you accomplish will ever have meaning in the public eye.

I know what you’re thinking: you don’t need our approval. You’re not competing in a popularity contest. You don’t covet Facebook likes that venal influencers will sell their integrity for. That you don’t mind sporting a villainous image in the performance of your task is actually commendable. Your insistence on suspending Uber in the face of hostile resistance takes titanium balls our crowd-pleasing senators clearly do not have. It shows you will not allow overdramatic sentiments to stop you from fulfilling your mandate.

But… we go back to your biggest issue. You have a credibility crisis. So bad you may have to consider changing your name and logo. If musicians (see Prince) and athletes (see Ron Artest) are able to adopt new monikers when they want to reinvent themselves, so should government agencies (see DoTC). I think Filipinos will be more responsive to “The Agency Formerly Known As LTFRB.” Or something else. Just ditch that vile acronym that’s now forever synonymous with graft and incompetence. You could make teleportation a reality tomorrow and motorists would still flog you online. Your name is officially the kiss of death. Hey, come to think of it, you last had a name change in 1987 — the longest such streak in the history of your organization.

And what about your antediluvian logo? People look at that emblem and they see black smoke from dangling exhaust pipes. They stare at that badge and they picture sleazy manong drivers. They encounter that symbol and they visualize the commuting netherworld.

It’s time to restyle you. Time to give your identity some drastic makeover. Time to make you sexy is what I’m saying. I don’t care how you do it. Hold a nationwide naming contest. Pay a brooding artist to pencil a cool, forward-looking logo. Hire an award-winning advertising agency to put together a rebranding campaign. Whatever. Just revamp your persona.

Until you do, Uber and its kind will continue to pummel you in the PR game. Mercenary social-media warriors will continue to weave soap operas around you. Metro Manila residents will continue to curse you. Trolls will continue to send you death threats. Politicians will continue to throw you under the bus. And newspaper columnists will continue to give you stupid advice.

You may e-mail the author at vbsarne@visor.ph.