Guess who was a regular on front page news during the world cup. Paul, the oracle octopus. When I heard about it I was like … What the fuck?
Are we living in some bloody 16th century? Get over it people. No wait… you know what, you can’t. Because if you could have you would not have been interested in some shitty story about how a funcken octopus is choosing his mussel there by predicting the match. The worst part is you get sentimental about it… and whine about it. You want the octopus to be fried and eaten when he predicts your defeat and you loose. You have nothing better to do. You can not accept that, that bloody asshole, Paul, is just having a bloody run of luck. But no, you have to make a mountain out of a mole-hill and extrapolate and exaggerate… I am like… What the fuck?
You are nothing but pathetic pieces of shit… or you feed on shit like may be a pig, or fungus… you rejoice at mirages… You make a saint walk on water…turn water the wine. And had it been 3rd century this octopus would have been declared Nth incarnation of Krishna, may be after the Tortoise (Kachchhap avatara) or the Hog (Sukara avatara). You need a crutch to hide your flaws…a base to neutralize… a chimera to suck up to… You don’t have the balls to accept… to endure. You need a leap of faith and I am like… What the fuck?
P.S- The blog I know is cliched... but it was fun writing it.
