International and national!
According to the resident bear expert in such, the icecream here is actually very good! Therein depicted, chocolate-tonka (an American producer of toy trucks) and mango.
It really is very good.
What could this be ?
Oh... it's alien street! Specifically : No cars. No houses. No roads. No children or other small humans, playing or otherwise. No balls. And no humans at all!!!
It's all DENIED! THIS IS CA-RI-CE!!!
Now that carice's outta da way, welcome to the section of this national (and international!) article dedicated to the sex lives of manequins. Very buttocks-centered, as you no doubt can a
Isn't the kid cute, by the way ?
Only cute one in the lot, granted, but what significant difference does that make ? Theirs died, some other people's didn't, and your people never had one -- that year, or at all. What can ever be done...
Pick any bottle in this room! I will lift it over my head! Mandelbaum! Mandelbaum! Mandelbaum!
Yes, it's a Frantuski bistro with a cage in the basement. What ?
By now imposture is so utterly generalized, even twelve foot tall advertisements depict the idealized icon of professional perfection misarrayed. You're supposed to put the panties on over the straps, dumbass!.
It's like watching nine year olds go about "adult life" over here. What the fuck is wrong with all of you!
Do you suppose that's the buttpirate hostel ?
Kinda looks like it, huh.
This sad fat square, barely qualified to be a bad Elvis impersonator, is supposedly some kinda punk icon in this town. The level of imposture...
In the cold hard light of day, the most shocking aspect of Belgrad is just how Buenos Aires-y it has become in the decade intervening since I last seriously dug through it. The people advertising don't know how to advertise just like the underwear model doesn't know how to underwear just like the girls about town don't know how to fuck just like the entertainers don't know how to entertain, bars can't bar, clubs can't even... it's just, it's done, what. The Belgrade of yore is no more.
And I blame the jews.
Rather posh joint downtown, as the menu will no doubt attest.
Above, the rather exciting street-facing display of some local joint.
"She has nice tits. How old do you think she is ?"
"50 or so ?"
"Myeah. Wait, and their Cabaret night is Wednesday ?"
"Why the fuck weren't we here Wednesday then ?
"I didn't know about it. It's not very well advertised."
The gent moves towards the door, upon which very prominently a "Trip Advisor, best of 2019" thing is displayed front and center.
"Not well advertised, huh ?"
"Yeah, well, it's not on their site. They don't list it there, I have no fucking idea what this is."
What does the gent cracking a smile in the above reel think at this point, do you expect ? Are the hounds idiots, can't find way out of paper bag ? Are the femstate's supposed tools entirely worthless ? What's your guess, did I miss out on a great cabaret Wednesday because I surround myself with, to quote, strictly the very young, the female, the old, the ex-academics, and otherwise tired and immunocompromised meat ? Or is the entire thing fake from one end to the other, there's no Cabaret there anymore than there's anything else, they just paint some colored bits of paper in whatever color schemes look good at the time of painting and that's that, call it good ?
Well... only one way to find out, isn't there. So let's find the fuck out.
So we go inside, make reservations for the Opera night, have some excellent fresh squeezed juice, some very nice soup, salmon carpaccio, rather more dubios choux a la crab and well... move on. That's the fucking problem with finding things out -- it's not instantaneous. Coming up with random shit, banging out random symbols in arbitrary long strings, that's quick and easy, any monkey can do it. Shanonizing's not difficult ; checking whether a string's the product of reason or markov chains however... that's hard. And slow. And expensive. And fucking hell.
But we know how to do it, and so we do it.
She's having miniapples in Chardonnay. Because she's from Indiana, see ? She's a young adult from Indiana, eating mini apples in Belgrade ? Get it ?
Hannah (not depicted) is having fresh figs in Armagnac ; but we won't get into that.
So we made it for Opera night, and were shown to our booth. They didn't have the great soup anymore, but they did bring us one of each of their rakije brandy thing, a total liter's worth in small glasses, oh this is plum, this is honey, this is aged plum, this is greens what the fuck do you mean greens, that doesn't ferment I don't know, that's what I heard too, it's quince you dorks ohhh quince, that's why I liked it a lot better than I expected and so on.
Then the woman started singing, and good lord... I have never, not ever heard anyone less tone-aware. She wasn't even tone deaf, there's a difference between one of the three stooges, using his present limbs effectually to get in his own way, and a paraplegic bereft of their use or some amputee physically devoid of their presence. This chick's voice was beating her to death, I don't know how to explain it ; I don't even think it can be explained if you weren't there, most donkeys are better sopranos.
All this, of course, served in the thick sauce of her partner (not even that terrible on the piano) being all excited and positive and supportive and whatever the fuck else contemporaneous idiocy / redditardism. Establishing, yet again and once more once and for all, for the last time, except really it's just again and again and again and all over again yet again -- because what the fuck can you do, with these idiots ?! -- , that no, it's not my "immunocompromised meat". It's the insufferable extranumerary twats that'll say anything, and were irresponsibly given the means to say it. By, among other irresponsible fucks, yours truly ; you've watched me do it. Because, in turn, it's impossible to discern fact from fiction and moron from moron on a 0-expenditure basis. Which, in the end, is really all they ever wanted or for that matter needed.
What the fuck are we going to do ?!