It will be on a Friday evening, here in Europe, noon over at the east-coast of Amerigo’s continent.
Someone will ask: Do you prefer European Reebok and Le Coq Sportif sneakers, over American Nike and Converse?
Within a few hours, there will be intense debate regarding what the heck we have against America. It will escalate into a cold war status. Harsh words exchanged, transform into plain out stupidity and insults from all sides. Someone who doesn’t have a clue but tries to smart, sparks a tsunami of fu** you’s and may you die’s.
DEFCON 3
Sporadic gun fire, mostly to scare off, but then a stray bullet kills one of our Irish. It can’t be had, so we shoot an American in return, pick a random target, one in Boston. Oh, fu**! He was Irish, now we have to shoot two Americans. We aim for the southern states. Two casualties on both sides.
It escalates. Armies established, army movements. Members of the north gather around the Scottish clans, eastern Europeans around Ban Jelacic, the rest head to join the army of Reeperbahn.
America sets its HQ at Chattanooga
Asia sits back with a bag of popcorn wondering what the hell’s going on and whether they should send in Godzilla to add spice.
DEFCON 2
More casualties An Amish suicide bomber kills 14 in Helsinki. An Italian chef poisons 23 in New York
DEFCON 1
Full scale war about to erupt. A drunk driver from Boise, Idaho crashes into the world’s largest chair in Anniston, Alabama. It burns to the ground. Police refuse to believe the man is American. No one from Idaho ever ventures outside the state. Secret Service are called in, the man is a spy, is decided, a terrorist spy who has destroyed one of the greatest American monuments.
War is declared.
Europe tilts its own Eiffel Tower to the ground. That most visited useless, unfinished building every American traveling Europe visits, and we crash it to the ground just to spite.
America send bombers, remove Albania from the map. Europe sends theirs, and levels Las Vegas.
America bombs again And Europe bombs them right back
America sends missiles. Europe retaliates with its hidden ones positioned in Malta, where we have most of our troops.
Europe sends more missiles America replies with even more Europe sends off a cluster of them to Asia America don’t want to be seen as less, and send some as well Asia sends them everywhere Everybody’s sending them everywhere
It’s all gone, dead, ended
Phil Collins, in the air tonight, is in the background, the song played over and over in hell
Everybody’s gone, erased, everyone but gilly, who’s left with his last question: - Hello?
I’m building a Perpetuum Mobile. I have a handful of rusty nails, an empty can of Uncle Bruno’s Beans, and two knocks on a door, all I need is the rest and Duracell can watch as my behind rides towards the setting sun forever.
I can picture you, one by one arriving the office back door, sat in the coffee room which is on the right hand side as soon as you walk in, and when it's time to get started for the day, when you're all gathered, you do an Olympic opening day parade, alphabetically by nationality.
You can play anything you want as long as you make sure you're banned. That's sort of a criteria. Maybe we could make an exception here, one there, but I’d really have to check with the other banned members.
Hold on, I’m not banned. You’ll have to ask yourself, which kind of difficult seeing as they are… erm… banned.
There’s Carl, he’s the Manager slash Sales manager slash Sales…. person. Or to put it in type writer’s lingo…. There’s Carl, he’s the Manager / Sales manager / Sales…. person.
Carl establishes the business contacts and is then one out doing the actual sales. Once every month, he will gather the staff for a briefing. During said meetings, we will usually be sat in the coffee room, be offered a Danish each and the choice between instant coffee, lemon or pineapple/mango tea, and hot coco.
Stigvard runs the repairs shop. He’s been working with repairs of type writers, well, almost since the first one came out, it seems. Stigvard will tell you anything you would want to know about repairing a type writer, and often much more than you care about hearing, Most often you don’t want to hear a bit about it. He has a dachshund which he brings in every day, a dog which tries to pose this smug and smart…. pose, but is always barking up the wrong tree.
Benny collects the type writers. It’s a refurbishing business, see. He walks from suburb to suburb, from block to block, door to door, autumn, spring, summer, and winter, but in another order of seasons, and he collects old type writers. These are brought in to Stigvard, who repairs them.
Benny also helps out with the cleaning of type writers. He will remove the keys, polish them with Ajax window polish, then polish he plastic frame until it shines as new.
There’s Blanca. She’s got the hots for Carl, and we know he’s banging her. She doesn’t mind. At least it doesn’t seem she did when I once walked in late an evening to collect my wallet which I had forgotten. She’s the one handling all the paper work. She refuses to make coffee, as she says it’s a misogynistic mindset to still in this day and age expect the woman always be making the coffee. So Benny’s responsible for the coffee.
Me? I do as little as possible. I sit and write this kind of crap on a computer.
No Cuba Cola for you lot Che Guevara is rotating in his grave
Few things are as exciting as rebelling against authority
Well, well, when the tanks roll onto the streets, your walls start shaking, sirens scream out between the roof tops and there’s the 8 a clock curfew, don’t come running to this one-man resistance force.
Kevin was banned for good yesterday, one of the best and kindest members of this board, someone who always made sense.
This is beginning to look like the dating site from the seventh circle of Dante’s hell. Not for me personally, I’m in no agony over it, but I mean in its way of working as a dating site. I’ve seen ice-cream trucks chiseled out of granite which I had more faith in when it comes to intended functionality. Has any two ever actually dated here? Anyone beyond the: Met here Proposed in Google Married in Skype Spent the wedding night over at the International And the honeymoon in CS Ireland
People who actually contribute something worthwhile are thrown out.
I’m beginning to wonder if I want any part of such bull. If I hold a view, present it in no rabid fashion, I can get kicked out because a person who doesn’t have the intelligence or will to compose two straight sentences feels like reporting it? I’ve seen some inferiority complexes here, oh yeah.
I reckon the way you’re supposed to act in this place is to dig into that bloody box of emoticons and spray-paint the sod out of every thread with them. Throw in the odd two-syllable grunt and you’re set for glory.
Imagine this in real life. Imagine some of these pages, and they were not pages but some local, say a pub establish for dating.
It would be a speed-dating place, with loads of numbered tables spread out, on each table two boxes of crayons and a stack of black sheets of paper.
The scene would be like watching a Peter Greenaway film backwards. Twenty-two pair of mumbling mouths and Twenty-two pair of frenetically crafting hands making art which chimps dying of old age would snort at.
What is this place, for debate and wise exchanges, or tell-a-karaoke-joke and finger painting nights for 45-65 year old?
PietroPaoloV Forum Posts (722)
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