Saturday, February 05, 2005
August Strindberg reporting from the field.
Ah, the comforts of a rancid old overcoat! The pockets are lined with mildew and the lapel encrusted with a long-forgotten crab bisque -- nevertheless, in the words of siren Norah Jones, "feels like home."
Such is the onrush of rushing emotion I feel upon a fourth consecutive defeat, this last at the hands of the Rosecrucian child-king Ja-len. Winter began late this year, but it is surely upon us now, and there are surely many blizzards yet ahead. And such is our fate, such is our destiny, such is where we truly belong. We flew too high indeed, and though the views were magnificent, the air scourged our lungs -- it was no place for vermin such as ourselves. Nay, better down below, amidst the muck, where we can be at peace.
I leave you with an INCITE -- more of a question, perhaps, as all conclusions are at their heart. Young Gilbert was quoted in today's Post of Washington thusly:
"I think it hurt us a lot," Arenas said of his ejection. "Excuse my French,but we were beating the [stuffing] out of them."
Why could not these francophobic philistines preserve his eloquence in its original form?
"Mais nous battions le bourrage hors d'eux."
What bourrage do they fear?
posted by Wizznutzz |
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11:27 AM
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