Autumnal Argentina

Monday, 28 March, Year 8 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

Argentina es un pais por desgracia pobladoi, but rest easy that we shall omit both bipedal and quadripedal livestock from this article.


Pictured above, the "Lago de Regatas". No boat in sight anywhere, of course, which is why I like the name so much I'm going to use it for the entire series.


The leaf cutters are preparing for the Winter, even though it rarely snows here.


Isn't this a great clump ?


Being from Argentina is such a shameful chancre some trees are applying for Japanese citizenship.


At the outer limits of the possibilities of this lens : parrots!

  1. To form an idea of this : today was Easter Sunday in their rite. There I sit having my coffee & cake in the friendly neighbourhood bar, and there they come, the Easter Sunday glitterati, like Sunday drivers raised to the power of themselves. Family of five, all gathered around the formless blob of a huswife draped in the indistinct couch cushion materials and colors they wear. The adolescent daughter, blessed with none of the qualities of womanhood ; the pubescent boy, and the younger one still ; the extinguished husband. They all have absolutely nothing to say to each other, nor, strictly speaking, anything to do "out". Yet "out" they are, because out they must be! And so they sit, and so they wait, and so it goes.

    The pile of middle aged women, pretentious for strictly no reason, smegma firmly petrified under clitoral hood (who'd ever know to look!), cheap bags carried because bags must be had, filled with things to fill bags with, and a confused teensy girly lost among them. I look at her, I idly if loudly wonder what the fuck is she doing among the losers, she starts blinking nervously and keeps at it for the rest of the stay. That she can do. Think to herself that really, she has absolutely no business among these losers, and acting on that thought isn't something she can do. Blinking like a mental case, is. I can scarcely imagine what you'd have to do for a sane female of that age to be caught dead in that group, but hey. Argentina no es un pais pobre, Argentina es un pais estupido.

    The group, and I am neither exaggerating nor to any degree embelishing - I have witnesses! - composed of twelve people between the ages of nine and sixty, including a coupla teenaged girlies, that stops in the doorway. They do this, they colonize the motherfucking doorway. The adult women, all four of them, all do the same bizarre sideways glancing over the shoulder, it's obvious that they do this insistently, they practice it often, it's a thing. The waiters come and go, the horde "asks questions", I suppose. It mills about, but not one sits down. Not one gets out of the fucking door. For half an hour this. People navigate their orcish encampment with great difficulty to go in and out. There they stand, holding their ground. They're socializing. They're out!!1 In the fucking doorway, "out".

    Eventually I have to go, I look at them, I say "Do you people realize you've been in this fucking doorway for half an hour now ?" They have no inkling of an idea what the fuck I just said. "Get the fuck out of here!" I shake my arms. The girlies run off, apparently this they recognize. I leave them with a "Fucking savages oh my fucking god!" and the firm certainty that they have not groked to any degree just how fucking remote from human society their llama brains actually are.

    So let's preserve the matter here : if you are one of the family of assorted goats that spent their Easter Sunday of 2016 in the doorway of that derpy Kirschnerist cafe-bar on Ibera and Freire, do the world a favour and have yourself kidnapped by the human trafficking network most likely to sell you into prostitution-slavery in fucking Ghana. []

Category: La pas prin lume
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