De ups en downs van een schrijver, tolk, therapeut, echtgenoot What we think we become
06-06-2011
The female alphabet: Bojana
Bojana
You didn't love me. And that's alright. You didn't really need me. And
that's ok. You didn't want to need me. That's fine. I've been loved before, I
know what it's like. Being loved scares me more than not being loved.
You were Serbian. I like that about you. You wore a long black fake leather
coat and boots with heels like daggers. When our eyes met for the first time, I
thought I read: 'Wanna see my gun collection?' But you didn't collect guns. You
collected orthodox icons. Your room was full of them. Fucking surrounded by
icons is way more disturbing than fucking in the midst of stacks of
kalashnikovs and old ammo, I must admit.
Bojana. I thought it meant something like 'battle babe', but boja meant
colour in Serbian, your name wasn't derived from boj meaning battle. It didn't
change much, I kept seeing you like the twin of Xena, warrior princess. We
would meet after work and you'd say: 'my boss wanted me to re-do all last
week's invoices' and I would say: 'So you cut his throat with the rim of a
plastic cup.'
You didn't like that.
You were distant, yes, and you took everything very serious and looked like
you could ram your head through a brick wall if you wanted to, but you only
looked that way. You were very sweet actually. Walked your 11-year old dog
every day. He couldn't walk very fast, so you skipped lunch at work to take him
out. You brought your old grandfather his newspaper every morning. You would
knock on his wooden backdoor and yell: 'Are you still alive?' I thought it was
funny, but of course you were serious. You were always serious. 'I put my soul
into everything I do', you said. And you did. You had a ritual for everything.
You would only put your running shoes on when you were standing exactly in
the middle of your doormat. You would make a cross every time you ate
something. You ate beans at every supper. No matter what the main dish was, you
would warm up a can of beans to go with it. You said it protected you from
colon cancer. You sounded so convincing, I started to do it too.
I liked observing you do things. Everything you did was like a prayer in
motion. You didn't like me watching you all the time. 'What? What? Why are you
smiling?', you would ask while you were folding towels or something.
When you broke up with me, you said: 'You never take anything serious and I
don't think you ever will.'
I said I took our relationship serious.
You said: 'That's the only thing I don't want you to take serious. You make
me feel like I am your study object. It's exhausting.'
I was confused for months after. With new girls I started behaving like a
clown more than ever. They didn't stay either. I texted you and asked if you
really thought I was never serious about anything. You answered: 'God, you are
like a Martian studying to be human.'
I became passive with women. Just sat there with them, didn't dare say a
word, afraid that every word I'd utter would be fake anyway. Passivity turned
out to work rather well. It gave timid girls the courage to open up and made
them playful. It made extravert women use me like a living dildo. Before I knew
it I was being passive on purpose.
And so, as I sit here eating my beans and I keep staring at your picture
with the defiant pose (truly sorry, but you really look like you're about to
climb aboard an Abrams battle tank and shoot some village all the way back to
the middle ages) I have to admit:
you were right once again my serious
Serbian girl, I am in fact studying to be human.
You smoke fifty sigarettes a day. It tastes like shit every time we
kiss. I soak my tongue in apple juice, but it won't wash off.You should be
writing your thesis, but you ride me six times a day. Seven on Sundays. You
take the purple ribbon out of your blonde hair and you strap it around my cock.
It's the only way to keep it completely hard. Every vein feels about to pop,
but the pain drowns in your moans.
To call you impulsive, is to call a nuclear bomb a bit destructive. We
go to restaurants at 3 am. I don't know how you find these places. When the
bill comes, it kindly says: 'Pay what you think it's worth' Homeless poets
crowd our table and pay you with verses to get some of your attention. Little
rhymes on pieces of magazines, napkins, cardboard and even wall paper. You
plaster the tiles of your bathroom with them.
'I wash myself in street poetry', you say. It keeps me young.' Well,
your bathroom sure looks like a temple of punk. For some reason your hands are
on the mirror, dipped in your menstruation blood. You have no idea why you did
it. 'But it looks pretty cool, don't you think?' You love it when I go down on you when you have your period. 'Good doggy', you say afterwards
and then you grab my balls and just squeeze them real hard, until, against all
expectations, the pressure makes me come. You only like sex when you are in
full control. You like giving blowjobs, but only if you leave your teethmarks. I
dont mind going down on you, at any time of the month, I plead not guilty on
any charges of perversion. When I go down on you I feel like Im kneeling
before the altar of all thats feminine. When I tell you its a deeply
religious feeling, you say: Shut up and do it again.
You always get your way. You once walked up to a girl and offered her
money for the boots she was wearing. You got them for 40 euros and a kiss on
the lips.I call you Miss Pallenberg when I text you. As in Anita Pallenberg,
Brian Jones' girlfriend until she 'eloped' with Keith Richards. You kinda like
it. 'I guess we do have the same decadent style', you say. You pride yourself
on your decadence. 'Some people they try so hard to get their yaya's out, they go on till it's five to twelve. I go on till it's five past twelve.' To
this day I don't know if you knew you were paraphrasing Hitler.
It's too late to ask you. You also 'eloped'. You called me 'too much of
a thinker, not enough of a do-er'. That stung. That stung bad. For months after
you left, I tried rather obstinately to prove you wrong. But first of all, I had
trouble locating these underground go-go's, as you liked to call them, and then
when I did locate them the people there looked at me like I was the taxman,
about to bust their moonlighting asses, clumsily posing like one of them. I
kept falling asleep whenever I sat down during the daytime. I had to admit you
were right.
That was hard, swallowing my pride. Getting used to 'normal' sex after
you left, was even harder. Like going back from cocaine to cafeine. Sometimes I
still run into one of those bum poets. I smilingly throw them a dime. As a
small offering to fucking in the fast lane. I often wonder what kind of guy
could keep up with you. They say you are sharing a floor of an old factory with
a manic-depressive playwright somewhere in East-Berlin. I have a good feeling
about that.
When I really miss you, I look at the napkin you left me, pinned on my
own bathroom wall.
Stand up and face the music
Embrace madness, everybody is already so frigging
normal
embrace madness, but do it genuinely, open your eyes
everybody is already so stupendously
delusionally
blind
embrace madness
it's the only thing that's pure
I go for a jog then, even if it's 4 am and pouring harder than over the Mekong delta. And when cops pull over and ask if I'm in
the habit of running so early in the morning and I say, without bothering to
look at them, 'sometimes I just feel like it' and they drive off with a wry
smile, I feel like you and I really connected at some very deep level. And the
eight months we were together suddenly feel like so many life-times. And when
my new girlfriends put up some token protest when I want to lick the crimson
nectar right off their thies, I just say 'embrace madness' and dig right in.
Inspired by yesterday's gut-slashing monologue I have started work on a monologue of my own:
'my advice to all you 20-something Cassanovas'
In this monologue I will play a 46-year old Latino who reflects on his life and that of his friends and co-cassanovas, as a warning to young guys who are as restless as he was and still is.
Benjamin (academic and editor of Balzac) and yours truly went to see a play yesterday in Vienna.
Entrance fee: 27 fucking euros
whoopsy daisy, they are rich across the border
Luckily we were sponsored by the Flemish representation in Austria, so it didn't cost us one cent.
No, I'm lying, the obligatory wardrobe ran off with 80 cents.
Anyway, I was very impressed (and I'm smug enough not to be impressed easily, yes, ok, come on, shoot me) and want to stage something like it. Starting with the monologue 'on the destructiveness of porn'
Who will direct this, remains to be seen, because my directors are either busy becoming a doctor or busy seeing doctors because they are falling apart from too much booze.
Nevermind, I'll direct it myself.
Hell, if I learn to articulate a little bit more, I'll even act it myself.
Description copied from http://mqw-2011.k-lab.net/en/program/detail/?page=8&order_by=date_asc&filter_keyword_ids=16&event_id=6444
(monologue was in german language with an intentional fat Flemish accent)
"A godsend", the
Flemish weekly Knack called it. Indeed, this must be the most
overwhelming collective guest lecture ever held by 30 Belgian
missionaries to the Congo in one theatre: the magnificent solo Mission
by Belgian actor Bruno Vanden Broecke, which he will perform in German
for his German-speaking audience. It is almost impossible to believe
that the man on stage is no real-life missionary but an actor - and that
his report, reflections and comments are not those of a Belgian priest
with 50 years' experience of serving in post-colonial Congo but culled
from interviews conducted by young playwright David Van Reybrouck with
dozens of Congo missionaries. In his informal lecture, the missionary
speaks of his life in Africa over time, of belief and community, of
different Congolese ethnicities. He speaks about the Eucharist, about
God and about getting stuck in the mud, about wars, festering wounds and
the barrel of a gun pressed against his forehead. He describes an
utterly ruined country and its enchantingly beautiful nature. Both in
content and performance, this production is one of the most impressive
theatrical experiences of recent years.
Cast Text: David Van Reybrouck / Director: Raven Ruëll Production: Koninklijke Vlaamse Schouwburg, Brüssel
Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
Every sentence must do one of two thingsreveal character or advance the action.
Start as close to the end as possible.
Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading
characters, make awful things happen to themin order that the reader
may see what they are made of.
Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as
possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete
understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish
the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.
Singing
along with the Beatles reminds me of being 8 years old and sitting in the
passengers seat of my fathers car and not having a care in the world (apart
form being totally awed by this giant father of mine, who was God, rock idol,
King, favourite writer, favourite painter, toughest dude, slickest strategist
all rolled into one to me and he really was all those things- it will be hot in
Heaven tonight)
Only
doubting whether I should become a second lieutenant or a surgeon. John Lennon
had it right however when he said: Life is what happens to you, while youre
planning for something else
So I didnt
become an officer, not an army officer anyway, and I didnt become a surgeon,
not the kind that dissects bodies anyway. So I went to study Russian, because
that sounded real fancy and sounded like very difficult. But I knew it was a
safe bet, its just an other fucking language, I can do any language. So it was
a safe gamble. Im naturally inclined to safe gambles, thats why I win most
board games and get to have jobs I dont have the right degree for.
And then,
in my second year of studying fancy Russian, I met Pavel Ocepek, my teacher of
Slovene. And then its like the universe chooses a path for you and puts you
back on it as soon as you stray a bit too much. Hes the one who made me a
writer. A fledgling one, but a very eager and stubborn one. And so studying Russian,
became a course in advanced writing and I'm almost about to graduate.
Studying Russian became styding Slovene became studying writing became studying girls.
Thoroughly.
Which brings us back to the Beatles. Because the first
beautiful woman I caressed came into my life with A ticket to ride as an
intro. And an excellent intro that was.
knitting nows into an ocean of elastic eternal bliss
Don't know whether I have Nietzsche to thank for this, but I experience a blending of time, like I can travel through different 'nows'
I'm still picking beans with my father
he is still puzzling every passerby by saying hi to them right after voting
he is still playing records and rolling over the floor, dancing with a chair
he is still saying to a 30-something woman: you should sleep with my son, you could still learn a couple of things
he's still saying after an event where I made the opening speech: now, ok, that was like The Rolling Stones were the opening act for a crappy band like the Pebbles
I am still going down on Y as a birthday gift to myself
we are still coming right at the same moment, flowing into each other, I in her impeccable, devoid of all evil, strong-willed and bright blue eyes, she in my psychedelic green-yellow-brown all embracing hedonistic eyes
X is still riding me right after I ran 12 kms and felt superbly young and alive and she is still saying I have the body of an ancient Greek God (something she didn't mean in a completely positive way, but still)
I am still getting applause from my class of Slovene right after my teacher got my letters to him in slovene published in some magazine
I am still giving scandalous speeches at university which people still talk about today
and I am still being held tightly in Z's arms, like I don't remember if a girl ever held me that tightly
I hope everyone can feel god-like immersed in the sea of their favorite nows
Chiricahua apaches beffen beter dan Mescalero apaches
Live fast,
grow motherfucking old en steel boeken in The Next Apache
Mijn
rechtsstreekse chef is een soort Jan Cremer, zonder motorfiets, maar met boot.
Uiterlijk
lijkt hij op Clint Eastwood. Hij kan hijsen als een Rus en heeft gevoel voor
humor als een Brit.
Hij zuipt
mij op wekelijkse basis onder tafel. Hij amuseert zich dan zo kostelijk dan ik
het niet eens genant vind.
Verder kan
ik bacchanalen met het management van harte aanbevelen. Je offert je lever dan
wel op aan de werksfeer, maar die lever helpt bij het werk natuurlijk geen
moer.
Een van de
grootste voordelen van een ambassade, is dat ze vlakbij de beste cafés ligt en
dat er in de kelder een douche is.
Een van die
cafes verkoopt ook boeken. Een hele plezierige combinatie is dat, maar voor de
eigenaar niet lucratief. Ik heb er al vier boeken gestolen. Ik ga naar toilet
en stop ze weg in mijn broekspijpen.
Als ik een
geweten had, zou ik het sussen met de gedachte dat ik die boeken echt lees.
Ik lees ze
echt. Echt waar, ik lees die dingen.
Eentje ging
over de val van de Romeinse republiek.
ONGEMEEN
BOEIEND, zeg.
Veel
geleerd, vooral van die Caesar. Zoveel interessanter dan Alexander de grootste
miet of die Corsicaanse dwerg die een hopeloos slecht manipulator was en veel
ambachtelijker als het op genocide aankwam dan die Weense schilder. Wie van de
twee de beste speeches maakte, blijf een raadsel. Die Hitler zien oreren,
blijft toch geweldig fascinerend, ook al gaat het natuurlijk over niks, maar de
opgekropte seksualiteit spat er zo in bakken af, samen met dat zweet, het is
toch weer mooi.
Maar die
Caesar dus. Heerlijke kerel. Van zodra hij die piraten die hem ontvoeren zegt: Als
ik weer op vrije voeten ben, kom ik achter jullie en maak jullie allemaal kapot
tot Pharsalus. Heerlijke vent.
Dat hij
zich liet vermoorden, heb ik nooit goed gesnapt.
Lijkt mij
echt niks voor iemand van het sterrenbeeld Kreeft.
Ook
ongemeen IN-TER-E-SSANT is het boek
Best
American Short Stories 2004
Steengoeie
verhaaltjes. En die van Macca en Lennie kunnen er zo bij, zonder dat wij ons te
hoeven schamen.
The Next
Apache, dat is trouwens nog eens een kroeg.
Ik ben er
nog geen enkele keer binnengeweest, zonder dat iemand vroeg:
Ben jij
nou die volgende Apache?
En dan zeg
ik doodserieus: Nee, ik ben de vorige. Ik heb werk gevonden bij de ambassade.
En dan wijs
ik op de barman, die ook iets indiaans heeft, en zeg: Hij is de nieuwe. Maar hij
is wel Mescalero. Ik ben zelf Chiricahua.
En dan vragen ze wat het verschil is. En zeg ik: Geen,
alleen zijn Chiricahua betere beffers.
Als Apache is Bratislava trouwens niet echt de ideale stad. Er
is hier geen enkel paard dat ik kan dood rijden en als ik evenveel zou lopen
als ik wil lopen, moeten ze mij hospitaliseren door alle uitlaatgassen die ik
binnen krijg. Verder vind ik hier niemand interessant genoeg om te scalperen en
je hangt toch niet zomaar de scalp van eender wie aan je broeksriem. Die dingen
gaan na een tijdje toch wat rotten en stinken. Dus scalpeer je alleen iemand
voor je toch een beetje respect had.
Verder ook ONWIJS GAAF is het boek The Magus van John
Fowles.
Dat moet ik echter nog stelen, in de keten Panta Rhei in Polus
shopping center.
Het kost een schandelijke 12, 5 euro en dat is in Slowakije
toch echt geen doen.
Ze hebben een toilet en mijn broek met de brede pijpen is
net gewassen.
Als ze mij pakken zeg ik wel dat alles stroomt en dat het
boek in mijn broekspijp niet langer hetzelfde boek is als het boek in hun
rekken.
En anders claim ik wel diplomatieke onschendbaarheid.
This man has been here for so long, he no
longer walks the streets of Slovakia, he wades through its soul.
He's the man who told me it's ok to be
anything in this country.
Are you a homosexual?
Fine, just don't talk about it and eat,
man, eat, as long as you eat well, everything's fine.
Life flows through you and the purpose of
being alive is living, plain, good living.
Life can be simple and quite pure in an
honest country.
In an honest country life is framed on
three pillars.
1.Eating
2.Drinking
3.Fucking
And you work to sustain those three.
In an honest country fucking is about
fucking.
Fucking is truly 'the old in and out' over
here.
Imagination has no place in the bedroom.
Back to naked basics.
Anything that can be done without tools,
without any sort of unnatural attributes can and will be done.
Once you get a Slovak girl to take you
along, everything flows naturally.
Her hand will be a teleguided missile and
your cock the target.
You don't require fancy vibrators, kinky
originality, no need to wear a pig's mask, crawl around on all fours and make piggy grunts, nothing of the
sort, but you will need
stamina.
Expect to perform between two, to well,
seven and beyond.
Western men are not trained in this way,
Slowak men are.
Will she be dissapointed if you perform
only twice?
Maybe a little.
But Slovak girls are different from Western
girls as well.
They haven't been taught to put blame on
the men if they don't climax.
These girls know how to take pleasure, they
don't wait for it to be given to them.
She looks after herself and takes what's
she after from you.
This is because there was no sexual
revolution around here.
There was never a decade here in which you
were almost politically forced to screw around with just about everyone you
met.
The summer of love was western. At the
time, the east was either queuing in line to get some fucking milk or taking a
defiant stance against Russian tanks.
There was a never a moment in Slovakian history where men were made to recognize, hey, wait a minute, we're animals,
we're only after sex, we need to protect women from us, hormone-crazed men-pigs.
No, sex is a part of life around here, as much as eating and drinking are parts of it.
So the good thing is, there's an ulimited
supply of good, plain, natural humping.
You can do it in whichever way Adam and Eve
could do it.
If you're into sm, you'll have a hard time
finding a match around here.
Slowak society hasn't reached this state of
sexual and emotional indigestion.
The proverbial tree of wisdom hasn't been
touched yet.
Plain, hard fucking is still crazy enough
around here.
People who like honesty will find this
country to be paradise on earth.
There's this very practical honesty around
here.
A girl behind the counter in a story who's
cranky, will show that she's cranky. If she's in a good mood, she'll radiate
her good mood. What you see, is what you get. There's no phony, standardized
friendliness in stores around here.
You know, the way we get served in Belgium:
'here's your change, alstuuuuuuuuubliiiiiiiiiiiiieft, toooot ziiiiiiiiiens'
In Belgium store folk think they're
friendly when they stretch the vowels to unbearable length.
And you know they fucking hate their job,
even if they sound like magical friendly fairy from Friendliland.
But anyway, sex tourists, please don't
cancel your flights to Thailand.
Before you get to the natural, plain, hard
fucking, you have to go through all the rituals that open the gates to little
Miss Natural's Moist Dungeon.
Thrill-seeking one-nightstanders should
never, never come over here.
Unless they wanna feel like superman
without his powers.
I'm in a region that seems to qualify as a country.
It has a capital and a currency that's even valid in other countries.
The people are medieval, but the buildings are fairly new.
In the supermarket you can find yourself surround by the latest capitalist goods and peasants that look like Baldrick in Blackadder.
They bump into you constantly over here and if they apologize, you know they are foreigners.
Cars are quite like knights in a tournament. Even police cars want to ride you down like grass.
The women expect you to go slay some dragon before they accept you between their legs. They only know missionary position, because that's the only position that has a catholic ring to it.
No, that's not true, when you ask them they say they like to be on top. Yes, they are very dominant around here.
If you try to dance with them, you'll find that they insist on leading.
Lead you whereto?
To the brink of destruction and alchohol oblivion.
So, my dear Sjosje, stay the fuck away from these hellish creatures, they are man-eaters, vampires who distill the manly energy from all of your fluids.
So what has Slowakia got to offer?
Well, this society is so fucking insane and immobile and inflexible, you start to feel like a visitor from outer space. You never feel part of the fucked-up-ness around here, which can be a very liberating feeling.
Since you can't sympathize with machos, it's also easy to walk past these pent-up balls of agression and alcohol sponges they call men around here.
You could blame all the backwardness on the mountains, as some Slowak intellectuals do, but Switzerland has mountains too and they are cultured people who speak more than one language and gave birth to the Geneva convention.
So it's not the mountains.
It's trying to be something they're not.
A fully developed capitalist country with all the luxury that goes with it and mixed blessings that go with it.
Maybe when they get to have a Gay Pride Parade that doesn't get attacked by skinheads, maybe then the simmering anger in these people's eyes will fade out.
4 guys, no girls (they're smarter than you think) and too much too drink
We meet at a restaurant.
We don't care what it looks/smells like as long as the price list hasn't changed since 1989 and the heating is turned on.
The topic is: Slowakia and girls.
Or better: Slowakian girls.
Not exactly enough too have an evening-filling conversation about, but we manage.
The young guys infuse the older guys with some new tricks to catch the fresh fish.
One of them remarks:
'You know, it's funny, we're twenty years older than these guys and yet the four of us are hunting the same age group.'
Well, I'm not an active hunter any more, but I do like to keep up with new developments in the hunter, ehm, science.
I need to be prepared to teach my sons how to hunt, 'cause I don't want them to go hungry for more than two decades as their father did.
So we swap theories and tactics about how to set a trap and make it work.
And we also think about some guys who don't need any such tricks at all, they just walk into a room and all pussies scream: 'Lock on target! Aim the tiny harpoon, better known as clitoris.'
Those guys exist, but for psychogical benefits we like to pretend they live in an completely different dimension.
Anyway, a whole lotta talking' going on at our table
and a whole lotta shakin' going on in an other part of the restaurant.
A bunch of Russians (come to whitewash money???) is sucking the vodka out of this world and swinging to some oldies. The kind of music the DJ in my personal hell would play endlessly.
So there we are, talking about how to hunt down chicks, happily ignoring the fact that three Russian, with the characteristic Y-shaped legs, womenfolk are eyeing us.
When we don't budge, one of us makes excuses
'yes, but it's good that we don't approach them, because there's four of us and there's three of them. So one of us is going to end up without one.'
Someone else says, with a bit more moral elasticity:
'Or one of them ends up with two of us'
Nothing happens and I'm certainly not going to get three Russian men-prowlers on our sweaty trail, so we leave.
The four armchair-womanisers go to a different bar.
Maybe even cheaper, I didn't check.
One of us starts ordering beer AND hruskovica (strong pear brandy that tastes like your grandma's undies that were soaked in something remotely resembling mashed pears)
So from then on three of us were relatively sober and one of us is somewhere nearer to God and a lot of naked angels.
(we won't mention names, but it was Benjamin)
We finally switch to a different topic.
Some gut feeling on our part telling us that with one of us in this state of sociable merriness it's better not too mention girls.
So for the remainder of the evening we pretty much talk Slowakia to waaay below sea-level.
Smashing up a country with words, yes, we relish that.
That done, we return home.
One of us (yes, ok, Benjamin again) starts inviting girls to share a cab. Doesn't really matter where to, but they kindly decline the offer.
A bit strange, because the offer wasn't all that bad. They could have gotten drunk for free, just sitting in a cab filled with alcohol breath, but no, they had other, more urgent business to attend to.
Slipping into a slightly less provocative outfit to go to early Sunday mass, for example.
So off we go.
Benjamin has a lively conversation with the taxi driver.
Something about the hunt for low prices in a capitalist society.
Yes, the capitalist agony of choice, it's still all very new here.
So off to bed I go,
for some reason dreaming that I go for a run with Daniel Kimono, one of the fastest runners in history. (and no even in my dreams I wasn't able to keep up)
And Benjamin, well, he sits up late and attends to business.
And when he finally gets to bed, he wakes me up by gibbering Slowak in his sleep.
Maybe something about naked angels swirling round his head.
Or Slowak girls in a world where there never was any Catholicism.
Why you should or shouldn't come to
Slowakia, the best beerocracy in the world
Before you read on, I'd just like to say,
for the record, that Slowakia is a great country, the sun rises here in the
morning and there are like houses and mountains and stuff and other countries
are really very, very nearby and they have trains that can take you there.
12 (!)reasons why you wantto come to
Slowakia:
1)you like girls
with legs up to their armpits
2)you insist on
having soup at every meal
3)you enjoypretending you're a catholic
4)you like to shock
people by saying things like God loves gay people too,
women and men should have equal rights or
simply by ordering a small glass of beer
5)you enjoy feeling
like a juicy rabbit during hunting season every time you walk the streets and
almost getting hit by a car every two minutes or so
6)you like men who
just sit there, say nothing all evening and drink like they're on a boat
overflowing with alcohol and the only way to get rid of it, is to throw it down
their throats
7)you like slavic
eighties music and dance to it whenever you get the chance
8)you want to get your
ass kicked in a bar fight
9)you hate books,
literature and discussions about any topic except sports
10)you like your beer and pizza big and cheap
11)you want to whitewash a few millions
12)you wish to
learn a difficult language that sounds like a dog drueling all over you
Only 8reasons to stay the fuck out of here:
1)your idea of a
pleasant night out, is to walk into a bar, strike up a conversation with a
happy looking stranger and feel intellectually stimulated
2)you like women to
keep their boots on while you're fucking them
3)you want to
enrich your soul, not put it on a diet
4)you're not on
steroids and have no talent for street fights
5)you don't mix
tourism with antropological field studies
6)you're not
writing a treatise on minority friction
7)you're not writing
a thesis about the only country in the world who actually paid Nazi-Germany to
deport their Jews (500 Deutsche Mark per head)
8)There are other
countries in the world you haven't visited yet
(alle respect voor de sanitaire wervelwind die hier door ons appartement gewaaid is, maar:)
Kuise
kuiswijven blijven achter
De afgelopen
paar dagen nog eens de stereotype vrouw aan het werk gezien.
Wij, mannen,
zaten (zogezegd lui) naar een docu te kijken over de Japanse bezetting van
China.
Terwijl wij
niet goed wisten wat we moesten aanvangen met een getuigenis van een Chinees
die zijn moeder zijn kleinste broer had zien zogen terwijl ze aan 't dood
bloeden was uit een wonde aan die zelfde borsten, was deze stereovrouw niks
anders aan het doen dan:
kuisen.
Ze stopte enkel
om te vragen: 'Ah, gaat het over Auzswitch (nooit correct kunnen schrijven)?
Een beetje een blunder als je alleen Chinezen ziet getuigen.
Anyway, vrouwen
verspelen hun lidmaatschap in het actieve politieke/maatschappelijke gebeuren
omdat het kuisrobotten zijn, die voorgeprogrammeerd lijken om alles netjes te
leggen en dit oneindig veel belangrijker vinden dan wat dan ook.
De vrouwen die
ik ken die wel iets presteren, kuisen daarentegen nooit of haten het gewoonweg.
Stop met kuisen
(tenzij in openbare gebouwen), ge doet er niemand een plezier mee en ge zijt
ruis op de achtergrond.
PLUS: na al dat opruimen, kon ik vandaag al vanalles niet meer terugvinden. Life is about making things
As I've just finished teaching my boy
Benjamin a brand new trick. (we'll cloud it in mist by calling it the lasso
trick) it's time for a word about the first three rules of unified
reciprocrative Brotherhood.
If you don't look like an Alpha-male, but
feel like one (and wish to outstrip typical specimens of alphadom), the best
way to get where you wanna be is to gain allies.
Benjamin and me are challenging every
prehistoric personality blueprint that entices us, like a devilish tempter, to
sabotage every one around us, except close relatives.
That's why we call each other brats
(brothers), to stimulate the mind to think of each other as family.
So rule number one: create clan spirit.
We make a habit of saying laudatory remarks
at any given opportunity. We never talk ourselves up, we talk the other one up.
Criticism is saved for after the social gatherings.
So rule number two:
Praise in public, criticize in private.
We force our sugar-coated, but
intrinsically predator minds, to strongly believe that what's good for the
other, will ultimately and invariably be beneficial to ourself.
To do this we constantly need to jump
genetic hurdles that represent all too human emotions such as
greed and envy. Hard to beat, but possible.
After a while your mind gets to be conditioned and any one postive breakthrough
is greeted as mutual progress.
Rule number three:
You scratch my back, I scratch your
back.
This helps a lot in any situation.
Especially because most people don't only have to fear their enemies, but also
need to be aware of friends ready to backstab them at every turn. The term
wingman is essentially a very good term, as it describes the tactical benefits
you enjoy, especially when working crowds (whatever the goal to wish you
achieve)
-the best looking ones don't work for Slovak employers
-the best looking ones found employment in Holland, Germany, Austria or Belgium
-do you ever wonder if you meet porn stars on the street?
-I mean, when do they go out for grocercies?
-Or does the porn industry rely on catering?
-When you're close to Hungary, you start to wonder about such things.
-I don't doubt that Slovaks have sex . There are lots of small children around here, I think we all agree the priests would emigrate en masse otherwise. I just can't imagine it.
-there's a lot of pent-up anger in Slovakia, but as good catholics, they keep it down.
-how many male impetus, anger, momentum, initiative flows down the drain since the age of streaming internet porn?
-Porn is the new Church. It keeps the men docile and immobile and the women stoïcally sad.
