Monday, June 26, 2017
Day 27 -- "I Have To Kick Your Ass a Little Bit"
Typically, Savage Retards and Americanino booolshitter arounder crippled dogs are no strangers to violence. As a consequence, when someone says "I have to kick your ass a little bit" the natural reaction of the savage retard americanino boolshitter arounder crippled dog is to knock that person's teeth deep down their throat, savage-retard hockey-fight style, by the time they get to "I need to kick yo..."
Then, once on the ground, knee on wind pipe, gouge out eyes and rip off ears (they're barely attached)--the hand to hand combat equivalent of a "double tap". You are not done until the enemy is neutralized.
"Half measures avail us nothing", as the Big Book says.
This was the advice given to me on a number of occasions as a young elementary school aged child from my father, a "professional" who later was on "the cutting edge" in one of, if not the greatest terror organizations the world has ever known. The same guiding hand who would, on sunny days, lower the blinds in my room while I was doing my homework--"never give them a clear shot, son."
Which is perhaps why I abhor violence. Even when I shouldn't abhor it--when instead I should embrace it as a part of human biology there to provide a natural "punctuation" to run on sentences--I am instead inclined to let all kinds of things pass under the "figure of speech" clause; a central tenant of my over arching personal philosophy of "remember to keep it Irie."
(As an aside, I've found in those fourth world shit hole Americanino places where concealed carry is permitted, people simply don't say to one another "I need to kick your ass". Strange.)
However, this is Europe we are talking about, and not some Americanino fourth world shit hole or savage retard barren stretch of nothing in the middle of nowhere. In Europe, Amercaninos are always in the wrong, as are Savage Retards (Canadians). Further, it is the obligation of the old world to first explain, second correct and third scold all new world errant out-of-pot-pissing sftanza know nothing crippled dog shitter-arounders. And really, the sooner and more humiliatingly so, the better. And if the threat of physical violence must be invoked, because that is the only language that the Americanino know nothing crippled dog understands, then so be it. Who the cap fit let them wear it, as it were. Irie.
And so it was while the audience was still clapping (betraying their ignorance = dumbness for enjoying one second of the music that I had ruined to the point where I was in line for a bit of an ass kicking), the explanation and correction part was forgone in the rush to scold. Because really how can anything be explained to a "too American" Americanino savage retard boolshitter arounder out of pot pisser-- least of all anything regarding the aesthetics of improvised music--an entirely European creation in which, from inception to the present, all the major innovators (and lets face it, perfectors) have been white Europeans? If all the rules and parameters weren't understood upon exit from my mother's hairy-scary Americanino boolshitter crippled dog womb, let alone in all the dialectic rich rehearsals leading up to this tour, then what is left to do other than scold and "kick ass" a little bit?
The promoter of the show, who clearly had the wool pulled over his eyes vis a vis the "merits" and/or "success" of our performance, which I had ruined to the point where I needed to be told I needed an "ass kicking", made a point of coming over to tell me how "great" the performance was. (More proof feelings aren't facts, except those feelings felt after a night of adequate sleep, excellent nutrition through out the day, sensible alcohol intake atop a solid food base, seconds after a performance, while the audience is still clapping. Those feelings are always spot on. Important too!)
Silly me, I thought the yen to explain/correct/scold was a pan-national inclination among the Europeans. Oddly, the urge to correct the promoter for his false feelings about the performance (due to his ignorance = dumbness?) was no where near as pressing as it is to explain/correct/scold out of pot pissers and even worse fuckers arounders with the formula. When I brought the promoter to hear from the ultimate arbitrator of what is and isn't "good" as to why the show was a failure and why I needed an "ass kicking", the will to explain/correct/scold was not there.
"I'm sorry, I have to pack up now"
was all we got. Quite different than "I have to kick your ass a little bit."
Then again, I am but an Americanino out of pot pissing boolshitting arounder junkie crippled dog, and not a promoter who put on an expensive, elaborate festival in the truly wonderful and lovely town of Galdakao. Because there are at least two classes of humans, there are (and clearly should be) at least two distinct modes of expression and dialectic reserved for and carefully apportioned to said different classes of human. After all, who puts good kibbles in good china for crippled dogs who piss out of the pot? Save that shit for those who have done and who again could potentially do for you in the future. This is business we're talking about. What the fuck is your problem?
Though no footage of the event has been sent to me, the festival was heavily documented. Perhaps the festival organizers came to their senses and destroyed the footage of me wantonly spraying piss hither and yon, ruining everything? We can only hope.
That said, there does seems to be a minority amount of footage from the festival out there on that internet thing. Mostly of the other musicians pissing perfectly into the pot. (Boy oh boy, that never gets boring...just ask the Norwegians...)
However, for those of you sick fucks who like being splashed with Americanino boolshitter arounder crippled dog errant out of pot piss, I urge you to look for said few seconds of footage on your own time, and not while at work.
In Galdakao and Spain in general, there seems to be an unlimited amount of beauty, culture, history, courtesy, decency, sensible marijuana laws, spectacular ham and other pork products awaiting those who wisely by their own efforts (or in my case, by the grace of Virginia Genta and her supernatural powers of booking shows) make the journey to that most delightful part of the world.
Hopefully I did not disgrace myself, the festival, the festival sponsors, the Jooklos, the other performers or the medium of music such that I cannot return to this delightful locale in the future, in an entirely silent capacity. Besides, I was told I spoke Spanish like a Mexican.
Thank you I'm sorry.
Mentions of missing charger: 3
In (a very comfortable) bed 1:30 am.