They tell me that in this world a remarkable citizen has gone of to India to buy himself a kidney. They tell me that somewhere in this world, a not so remarkable citizen who spent his life in camp in Palestine has gone off to blow himself in the company of a stranger. They tell me, and I don’t believe, that tonight a man, just a simple man, a man like you and me, got arrested, ‘cause he was buying drugs. They tell me, I don’t believe.
Do you dream in foreign languages? I sometimes do.
Are you into gambling? I like to gamble. I’ve been gambling all my life. Had some bad calls here and there, but so far so good. I smoke too, for medicinal purposes, that is. And I fuck, that’s another thing I like, not only for medicinal or gambling purposes, merely ‘cause I’m not that bad at it and as the song goes, I like it, I like it a lot.
Are you into foreign women? I am. Got this thing about redhead gals. No redhead gals in my country, though. That’s a bummer. Well, we got good Colombian weed, kind of makes up for that flop. And brunettes. We got tons of them bitches. Makes a man sick.
Now, you tell me: if I dream in foreign languages, i.e., I jerk off when I watch Madonna on the box, and I’m into gambling, i.e., I occasionally tell the old octogenarian sod living on the First Right Floor to go and fuck herself with a plumber’s fork, why is it I never got it off with a redhead gal? I mean, never, God forbid, never, God Almighty be my witness, never did I get it off with a redheaded woman!
----
Fuck it, it’s Monday and I’m babbling in a language I don’t even know how to handle properly. God, I just wanted a redhead gal to start with. Is that too much to ask? Is it? Just a plain, slim, nice assed, firmly boobed redhead gal, to make me happy? Is it?
Damn. It’s not fair. The worse bit is I’m sure as hell I’m not gonna find her here. Then again, since I’m a gambler and I haven’t got much to lose, at least not here (but then this is not such a gamble, is it?) I say to all the redheaded gals who come here and happen to read these few honest words, I say to them, save me, from the deeps of my soul I say save me or else I’m able to write and guarantee that they can find their husbands somewhere else- but not here.
Isn’t it nice to play with words? It’s even nicer if you do it with words you’re not as familiar as those you play with every day, such as, for instance, your native language words. Shitless words such as boujour, aufwierdershen and boa tarde. Forgot about that, forgot all about those silly words that don’t mean shit, haven’t you? You forgot about all right, but guess who’s here to remind you?
You don’t really care about that, do you? Your identity is not made up of words, now, is it? Of course it isn’t, you’re like that sign some idiot had inscribed on the wall of a Faculty of Knowledge (bah, that’s a joke) a sign shouting to all those nice slick redheaded gals: “I’m not European; I’m a citizen of the world”.
Ah, words, lovely words, they came and go so easy. So easy. Words are like sluts. Words stand for nothing. Deeds, on the other hand, deeds are important. You can judge persons on their deeds – not on their words. There’s a thought of the night for you. There. Got something out of it myself. Who knows, might even get laid over them, those meaningless words I keep babbling.
Do you like to play with words? I sure do, if I didn’t, do you actually think I’d waist time writing this? Hell no, I’d be out in the city, preying on redheaded gals.
Ok, I got to hand it to you. If it wasn’t for you – I mean, you, the reader – Why should I write them in the first place? Ah, you got me there, maybe I just play with words ‘cause I like them and I don’t give a toss if you like it also.
Maybe that’s true. But let’s get back to the beginning, shall we? Gals… Sorry, wrong number. Starting from the beginning: Do you dream in foreign languages? Do you ever have the “feel” you belong somewhere else? Do you ever think of doing something about it while you avidly scroll down this text and hope you can find here – of all places!!! – Something that will bring joy, happiness, who knows, even meaning, to your washed up excuses for staying alive?
See, that’s just what I’m writing about. (Gals, beautiful slender redhead gals) You haven’t got a clue, have you? Let me enlighten you. As you scroll down the page pretending these words haven’t got an hold on you, yes, right now, you, and yes! People all over the world are being born (gals..) – some – and dying – (old farts) some others.
Now, isn’t that unfair? We’re all dead! They’re all dead! See? That’s what I’m writing about. In fact, I think I’m done writing. If you’re all dead, if all the gals are dead, why should I bother? Besides, I’m dead also.
It’s not me writing these words, my intellect has been taken over by Terminator 2. Son of a bicth, couldn’t be content with California, oh no, bastard had to come here, impersonate my beloved Vanessa and get his kicks out of telling you all words such as: “I love gals. Gals better watch out for me. I’m pussy eater. My next victim is already aligned.”
Pois.
And so, folks, have a nice death. I’ll try and do the same. See you in the afterlife, maybe. Nonetheless, since that’s such a big maybe, all redheaded gals who happen to read these words – hey babies, how are you? – the future is out here, and awaiting.
Do you dream in foreign languages? I sometimes do.
Are you into gambling? I like to gamble. I’ve been gambling all my life. Had some bad calls here and there, but so far so good. I smoke too, for medicinal purposes, that is. And I fuck, that’s another thing I like, not only for medicinal or gambling purposes, merely ‘cause I’m not that bad at it and as the song goes, I like it, I like it a lot.
Are you into foreign women? I am. Got this thing about redhead gals. No redhead gals in my country, though. That’s a bummer. Well, we got good Colombian weed, kind of makes up for that flop. And brunettes. We got tons of them bitches. Makes a man sick.
Now, you tell me: if I dream in foreign languages, i.e., I jerk off when I watch Madonna on the box, and I’m into gambling, i.e., I occasionally tell the old octogenarian sod living on the First Right Floor to go and fuck herself with a plumber’s fork, why is it I never got it off with a redhead gal? I mean, never, God forbid, never, God Almighty be my witness, never did I get it off with a redheaded woman!
----
Fuck it, it’s Monday and I’m babbling in a language I don’t even know how to handle properly. God, I just wanted a redhead gal to start with. Is that too much to ask? Is it? Just a plain, slim, nice assed, firmly boobed redhead gal, to make me happy? Is it?
Damn. It’s not fair. The worse bit is I’m sure as hell I’m not gonna find her here. Then again, since I’m a gambler and I haven’t got much to lose, at least not here (but then this is not such a gamble, is it?) I say to all the redheaded gals who come here and happen to read these few honest words, I say to them, save me, from the deeps of my soul I say save me or else I’m able to write and guarantee that they can find their husbands somewhere else- but not here.
Isn’t it nice to play with words? It’s even nicer if you do it with words you’re not as familiar as those you play with every day, such as, for instance, your native language words. Shitless words such as boujour, aufwierdershen and boa tarde. Forgot about that, forgot all about those silly words that don’t mean shit, haven’t you? You forgot about all right, but guess who’s here to remind you?
You don’t really care about that, do you? Your identity is not made up of words, now, is it? Of course it isn’t, you’re like that sign some idiot had inscribed on the wall of a Faculty of Knowledge (bah, that’s a joke) a sign shouting to all those nice slick redheaded gals: “I’m not European; I’m a citizen of the world”.
Ah, words, lovely words, they came and go so easy. So easy. Words are like sluts. Words stand for nothing. Deeds, on the other hand, deeds are important. You can judge persons on their deeds – not on their words. There’s a thought of the night for you. There. Got something out of it myself. Who knows, might even get laid over them, those meaningless words I keep babbling.
Do you like to play with words? I sure do, if I didn’t, do you actually think I’d waist time writing this? Hell no, I’d be out in the city, preying on redheaded gals.
Ok, I got to hand it to you. If it wasn’t for you – I mean, you, the reader – Why should I write them in the first place? Ah, you got me there, maybe I just play with words ‘cause I like them and I don’t give a toss if you like it also.
Maybe that’s true. But let’s get back to the beginning, shall we? Gals… Sorry, wrong number. Starting from the beginning: Do you dream in foreign languages? Do you ever have the “feel” you belong somewhere else? Do you ever think of doing something about it while you avidly scroll down this text and hope you can find here – of all places!!! – Something that will bring joy, happiness, who knows, even meaning, to your washed up excuses for staying alive?
See, that’s just what I’m writing about. (Gals, beautiful slender redhead gals) You haven’t got a clue, have you? Let me enlighten you. As you scroll down the page pretending these words haven’t got an hold on you, yes, right now, you, and yes! People all over the world are being born (gals..) – some – and dying – (old farts) some others.
Now, isn’t that unfair? We’re all dead! They’re all dead! See? That’s what I’m writing about. In fact, I think I’m done writing. If you’re all dead, if all the gals are dead, why should I bother? Besides, I’m dead also.
It’s not me writing these words, my intellect has been taken over by Terminator 2. Son of a bicth, couldn’t be content with California, oh no, bastard had to come here, impersonate my beloved Vanessa and get his kicks out of telling you all words such as: “I love gals. Gals better watch out for me. I’m pussy eater. My next victim is already aligned.”
Pois.
And so, folks, have a nice death. I’ll try and do the same. See you in the afterlife, maybe. Nonetheless, since that’s such a big maybe, all redheaded gals who happen to read these words – hey babies, how are you? – the future is out here, and awaiting.
They tell me that in this world a remarkable citizen has gone of to India to buy himself a kidney. They tell me that somewhere in this world, a not so remarkable citizen who spent his life in camp in Palestine has gone off to blow himself in the company of a stranger. They tell me, and I don’t believe, that tonight a man, just a simple man, a man like you and me, got arrested, ‘cause he was buying drugs.
They tell me, he died in prison this night, he died in prison cause he got caught buying 50 dollars worth of cocaine this night. They tell me - I don’t believe.
They tell me, he died in prison this night, he died in prison cause he got caught buying 50 dollars worth of cocaine this night. They tell me - I don’t believe.
Post-scriptum:
- E que tal um post no velho tasco?
- E que tens em mente?
- Sei lá, mexer com a cabeça das miúdas, baralhar-lhes as ideias, afinal, preciso de uma namorada no Norte do país.
- Sim, de facto!
- Boa! Anda preciso da tua imaginação, vá. Vá!
- Mas é uma mensagem para alguém em particular?
- Bom, se não for para a Matilde pode ser para a S.
- Oh? Quem é a Matilde?
- É o infinito, é a vida que se encontra para lá desta vida. É difícil definir o infinito.
- Hm... a Matilde bem que podia ser mais simples, como o fundo da garrafa de whisky. É que escrever para o infinito é meio complicado.
- Talvez. Simplesmente, a Matilde é bela – como nem as estrelas do sistema solar, ou o infinito do universo sideral alguma vez poderá ser. A Matilde É. Ponto.
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