Sunday, July 19, 2026

WIGGLE ROOM

This blogger is mighty glad that the World Cup is over and we can now renew our focus on real sports; slamming the President and his Republican babysitters for driving the country to ruin. As is natural. And not dominated by foreign players. Americans can destroy the country all by ourselves, we don't need short stocky Iberians or Argentinians for that.
No, Hormuz still ain't hormuzing. What did you expect?

Also, I was getting tired of explaining to Americans how the game is played.
My fellow citizens sadly don't know beans about sport.
Games with logic, and a point.
Sportsmanship.


Kind of reminds one of splendid verse: "The sand of the desert is sodden red, Red with the blood of a square that broke, the Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead, and the men are blind with the dust and smoke; The river of death has brimmed its banks, and England is far and honour a name, but the voice of a school boy rallies the ranks; Play up, play up and play the game!" Oh, splendid! That's the ticket, boys!

None of that poofty Texan crap with spandex leotards.
Or busty chorus girls with pom poms.
The back room was filled with loud fellows today, making strange animalistic sounds. After it was all over they drifted out, till at last the only ones left were a few experts on everything. It wasn't as bad as on Friday, when the rancid right wing spew from the Irishman would have had me killing the old bastards if I had been paying attention, but darn close.

Most of the time I don't bother listening, because they're wrong and magat-christo-nazi about so much stuff. But they do not modulate, so one does hear fragments. Yesterday the alcoholic coke-fiend was swearing up a storm at "bitches, bitches, bitches".

Sometimes I fervently wish ill upon them and their ilk.
But somewhere else because of the clean-up.
They are all bio-hazards.
Toxic waste.



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