Part 2: Caught the opening match of the FIFA world cup yesterday, Germany vs. Costa Rica. (There’s nothing better when you’re doing some repetitive cardio exercise, like biking, than watching soccer/football.) So, Germany pretty much dominated in all aspects of the game.
Including diving and acting like drama queens.
The world is all upside down when the Teutons embarrass themselves reacting to phantom hits, whereas the Latin players try to play with skill alone. So far, the Oscar for best acting during an athletic event goes to Germany. Granted, I haven’t seen Argentina or Brazil yet, so the jury is still out. And, let us not forget my favourites, Italy, whose players are so dehydrated by the end of every game from shedding gallons of crocodile tears.
It’s going to be a great World Cup. I can hardly wait.
Wednesday night, I’m driving with the milliner, to drop her off at some “do.” We arrive at a red light, behind one of those mutha-fucking huge Lincoln Navigators. As we’re waiting there, a piece of trash goes flying out of the driver’s window. The hell?, thinks I. Bunch of rich fucks, they’re a plague, but what are you going to do? But then! But then, another piece comes flying out, this time from the passenger window!
Fuck me, my moral indignation has been provoked. Engage the hand-brake, put the car in neutral, and go pick up the tissue by the side of the SUV, figuring those rich old fucks need to be humiliated a bit. Pick up the tissue, turn toward the passenger and declare, “Hey, you dropped something,” only to realise that these rich old fucks are…
Two guys, fairly well built, in their 20s. Um, yeah, uncomfortable. Anyhow, I strut back to my car, feeling all righteous and everything. Then, rich boy driver sticks his head out and yells, “Hey! If you’re not careful, that’s not the only thing that’s going to drop.” (?) Relying on my immense knowledge of the English language, I said nothing. First, because nothing witty came to me. Second, I’m kinda shitting my pants at this point. Oh, I could have replied, “Go back to the West Island and tell your daddy that he has a nice car,” but, as I said, nothing was coming to me besides “Oh, shit, I hope I don’t get beat up.”
What the hell were doing each throwing out tissue paper, anyhow? Mutual, um, satisfaction? It’s the only thing I could think of.
Since when do young rich boys drive Navigators, anyhow?
I’m at the cliffs yesterday with some friends, for a day of climbing. Chatting with the friends, I’m sitting down, swatting at the mosquitos and taking off my shoes. Bla bla bla, talking along, hook my thumb into my sock to remove it, when all of a sudden this massive pain eminates from my hand.
It seems that the sock got hooked on the heel and, without realising it, I hyperextended my thumb. I’m enough of a target of derision among my friends, that this latest incident simply added fuel to that fire, thank you very much. Regardless, I shrug off the continuous barbs and spend the rest of the day climbing. End of the day, hike back down to the car and drive back to the city. Pretty stinky by this point, what with the smell of repellent, sweat, fear, etc. Jump in the bath and wash off the grime. Look down at my hand and realise that what I thought was dirt was actually bruising. Bruising! I must have burst some vessels there. There’s no pain, but it’s weird nonetheless.