three days pass, the world cup is near the end of sorting out the quarter finals...
a mute of three days stumbles down the stairs and sits across from his father
to watch the england colombia match... it's 1 - nil to england... and the father explains how at the construction site they teased him about poland going out in group stages...
and he's rooting for colombia like mad, or rather like a child in that likeable: devilish way... and you root with him... even though you're thinking:
god, imagine the day, the people, the lost monarchy and a celebration of a people by a people in the streets...
first time i came to england as an 8 year old i was smuggled - e-legal... the home office came to the rented flat... cuffed my parents while my grandfather (on a visa) remained with me: and watched as i cried and punched a wall...
(hence i learned the rule of the literate hand... when it comes to punching? you need to punch something harder than flesh... to even out the knuckles, to make the 4th knuckle protruding and ready...
my right hand juggernaut of flesh covering silicone bone)...
my second arrival in england? well: i have the british passport, don't i?
england wings it, winning on penalties and i'm more than happy (given colombia beat poland 3 - nil in the group stages)...
yet i can almost understand not rooting for england, but i figured: they didn't take the football pensioners on tour this time - youth, perhaps youth will mend it...
shveeden isn't exactly belgium in football prowess...
yet there was a conversation prior to all this post-scriptum musing of a past event that made the former 3 day mute start to shake with what the answer to a question was: do you think i'm lying?!
- kto ci dał to limo? - ja, sam sobie.
and then we watched the football...
i didn't tell him about trying to understand women you ****** real good who returned the favour by slapping you in the face like it's some: high-end hollywood movie from the 50s machoism...
mmm... stanley kowalski *****-slapping the "next big thing"... i stood my ground on the slap, and realised: why not wrestle like a titan: with myself?
20 punches later, a black eye... hence the inquiry:
- who gave you that black eye? - i(s)ch, selbst sich.
and then we watched the match together as prior stated.
my father doesn't speek the english i speak... so in writing: my reply will always be german... since both of us had the conversation in the one thing... i will not comply with to mirror multicultrual indian psyche-mongrels! no! the tongue you do not shed, if perhaps you do, only slightly, for the convenience of the natives - ja: umre - mowiac to, co to, mi mowi! słowo! (v+) (-india+) -wia- -nin indo-european... wordsmith ex-asiatic neighbouring germs - if the original "consideration" is to be asserted with slav(e)... so... em... germ descendents?
i have no respect for people who forget their native tongue... even if there is no other native to speak it to... multiculturalism of england would be more respectable... if people integrating into these parts: still retained their mothertongue...
because then it starts to **** me off that a pakistani has more gall to say what british is: than an actual englishman... or a scot! can't buy placebo mate... gotta work the black & white cringe *******.