23 outubro 2011

Check this out, Lady Glassworth

  Well, I was driving around when the answer to the question came to me: Why can the common driver turn into an enraged beast when in traffic? Since at home he can hardly say no to his wife, who usually drives a car in a more civilized way, as shown by statistics, but who, in turn, is capable of terrorizing a simple breakfast, with an efficiency coming straight from the Devil’s kitchen.

  Meaning, considering the skill of imitating hellish beasts, the woman still beats men.
But this is another subject. The man, I'm talking about the common man, assuming it exists, is possessed by hellish beasts mainly in traffic, when he drives.

  Why would a peaceful citizen turn into an insane beast at the wheel of a shitty Corsa 1.0?

  The answer has to do with the atavistic memory, even if the guy is a crying emo, a certain Mr. right or an east coast burocrat.

  Imagine that, you’re in Europe, a thousand years ago, I guess, getting ready to play some popular sport of that time:
that thing called jousting, competition among gentlemen.

  You have a solid piece of wood, about 9 feet long.
At the tip, there’s a pointed piece of metal. The thing weighs quite a bit, so much that it comes with a leather shoulder belt, to aide you in maneuvering the spear.

  Maneuvering is a figure of speech.
You can, at the most, point the giant stick against your opponent. Right, you have an opponent with a stick just like yours who will come towards you mounted on a horse.

  You too have a horse, and you are hoisted and placed on top of it.
You need to be hoisted because you can’t mount it on your own, since you are wearing a steel armor that weighs 100 pounds or more. And the horse is a big one, thick shin; a necessarily huge horse, since it has to support your weight, the armor, the shield (you have a huge shield as well) and the weight of the equine armor itself.

  Very well, you are now mounted on the horse.
The saddle has a back, so you won't fall backwards. You need to be very well balanced on that thing, otherwise, if you lean too much towards either side, backwards or towards the front, you won’t be able to regain your original position.
Ok, they lead the horse, with you on top, and put you in a sort of corridor.
On the opposite end of the corridor there is a man wearing an armor, mounting another horse, who, like you, can hardly move.

  Then, someone gives a signal.
You hardly have time to lower the visor on your helmet. Of course, you are wearing a steel helmet and it has a visor, which you lower to protect your eyes. It could be a sort of grail, or two peeping holes on a metal piece. Meaning, you can’t really see much ahead of you. You aim your spear, basing your aim on the original position of your opponent and, meanwhile, the horse has fled along the corridor (this type of horse loves doing that), furiously running towards the other horse, which comes puffing in just about the same furious manner.

  The general idea of the thing is that you intend to unhorse, perforate, smash, brake in half your opponent, purely on impact.
Even though you know that he has the same expectation towards you.

  The both of you advance at about 25 miles per hour, each one, one against the other.
The impact will happen at about 50 miles per hour, for both. Maybe you will remember, at the final seconds before impact, that Lady Glassworth is watching, with those sweet eyes, and that you are carrying your scented handkerchief tied in a delicate bow on you right armored hand.

  You still have time to think, on a last concoction of adrenaline and testosterone that, if you dodge this one, you will have sex with a reluctant Lady Glassworth, whether she wants it or not.
And she’ll see, ah she will, what a real spear looks like.

  An experience like this, I must say, is burned on someone’s brain forever, if you survive.
You may die and, no doubt, you will die someday, but the genes will find a way of passing this experience on to your male offspring. Yours and Lady Glassworth’s. And it will be passed on one generation to the next, not without some fanciful loss in its essence.

  And now you drive a car on the streets of a lowly, unscrupulous town.
 All right, you were home, at ease, dreaming of the naked playboy playgirls, watching the news, a soccer game, having lunch, savoring a nice plate of pasta with a cold beer and such. Then you have to get on your car and leave to go see about a prolem.

  You put a single wheel on the street and a portion of your brain realizes that this fucking automobile is a mortal thing, man.
Because it really is a mortal thing. Shit, there are millions of deaths every year due to traffic accidents all over the world.

  Your brain and your genes, unlike you, are not fooled by the NGOs, with the killjoy gang, by the politically correct and the polished civility of the internet  social networks.

You are all cool and dany. But, in the street, you're ready to fight. Look it here Lady Glassworth, wait for me ‘cause I’m gonna survive, big mama.