Postcards from Retardistan
This, my dear friends from far away lands, strange places known from barely audible murmur, locations past the mists incomprehensible where there's vegetarians, and people of other colors than people color, and so forth, THIS IS A DRINK. It is not a double, nor a triple, nor "please pour a bucket of Cuban rum in the largest old style glass you can find". None of that. A drink, no more y nada mas.
Typical scene from local "real estate" "office".
To clearly drive home just what a contemptible dog the Argentinian truly is : these sad excuses for subhuman filth will ask you, and expect you, and pretend to act as if you bought into their fantasy -- that they are people, that they went to school, that they run an office, that they engage in trade, that there's some reason conceivable to pay them for their work, or for their goods, rather than just simply take both or either under the simple and evidently correct rationale that animals may not own property, any property, including themselves.
And then, after all that idle pretense, without a care and without concern they will turn around and... abuse a freebie license for random shitware atop, no doubt, a pirated copy of Windows. If ever a society anomic group of idiots was more aptly, and more to the core described by that recurring painting of dogs playing billiards, I could scarcely imagine what it'd be.
This isn't exceptional, you understand. This is fundamental. This is Argentina, true, nude, in substance and at its core. Everything else's just pretending.
