This is for me lovely mate Rhishiart, who brings reds and sends hot-beverage kits. May your cellar never run dry, toots! Look-see! The return of the Stolen Goodies. Some more of that nonsense forged from borrowed & reprocessed clipart I’m becoming so fond of. Here we can see Mistah MuchaVista, the ocular sharpshooter, preaching to the wildlife that populates the delta of the mighty Urook. He’s cast his sharp eye around the p’litical scene and now dispenses an equally sharp brand of rough-rough-and-ready wisdom to whosoever wants to listen. Or to the fresh air, if nobody wants to listen, it’s all the same to him. His real name is Chindasvinto Malatesta Jones. Of decidedly mixed ancestry, he hails from Reus, of all places. The wonders of uncontrolled migration, I dare say. Long may it live! -be it only to aggravate the likes of Nigel Farrago and the Trumper* -or Agent Orange, as my other good pal David calls him. The verses quoted by Chindy are from Martin Fierro. And because I can’t be arsed to give a good translation, you’ll have to make do with this:
Don’t tell me your woes because I live in grief myself. And don’t get cocky even if your foot is on the stirrup. The best of riders often finds himself with his ass flat on the ground.
*To trump. v.intr. Games: To get the better of (an adversary or competitor, for example) by using a crucial, often hidden resource. In this Trumper’s case Homer Simpson and his tribe; a crucial, often hidden, vastly ignored, regularly abused by the soi-disant liberal elites, and definitely neglected resource. Think twice before you engage in ritual humiliation, folks. It tends to backfire spectacularly. Think Germany and Versailles and what came 20 years later. Hell, think Israel, if you feel like living dangerously.