Friday, 27 January 2012

Rue Bicon

Long crossed, there is nothing else to say. Yet I can't resist commenting on the Stade of the You&Yinz. Just a few days ago I was unable to beckon the belly to bother barfing about it. Now that I've given it more serious retching over, I can imagine nothing better than to toast the triumph of the will.

To obliviousness! This is the purest virtue, reserved for believers of all stripes.

To indifference! Though I'm not quite there yet.

To the willful whitewash of the masters' bloodstained bravado! Imagining a better world in which everyone just follows the example of marching boots.

On the above: To either "...then we'd be hurray-O-kay!" or "He's just saying that cuz he has to." What better way to explain to impressionable children what we're drinkin' to?

To pretending they're not our masters at all!
That we are not soaking in it, after all.
Loyalty given freely does not belong to Caesar.


Back to that question of impending citizenship
Seriously: it costs four hundred fifty fucking bucks to leave Club Old Glory. And I never joined (notwithstanding having recited The Pledge over a hundred times in kindergarten and dedicating some of the best years of my life to the club's moral and monetary bankruptcy project).

Relinquishing membership at COG is required if I wanna join Club Schwarz-Rot-Senf. Unfortunately, short of having transoceanic begetters, the only way to qualify for passbook-carrying membership in both clubs simultaneously involves being a tennis pro or marrying - are you ready for this? - a Grrr-man.

Since I won't be in both clubs, I either give up the 450 Washing Tonnes, and pay 255 Eurobucks to switch royalties...
... or I could live club-less, which entails forgoing "the protection of any government".

Decisions, decisions.

There's always the status quo:
To government protection!
Double-crossed with smoke,
mirrors, blood and propaganda.