Allow me to rephrase my (might I add voluntary fatefully forced) enthusiasm
on my Veni-Vidi-Viva blogpost.
No, I WILL not write another semi-amusing poem about an utterly *YAWN* boring game and a few headless spineless chickens soccerplayers with less latino blood than a hot boerehunk I know (and adore) who claims to have ‘it’ (the blood) Somehow I’m starting to believe him 🙄 Even HE would’ve had a better game against the Spanish (on his OWN!!) – fueled by the few latino drops he’s inherited from some spanish Nobleman who visited Holland in 148o-something and fancied his great-great-great-grandmother Helga frolicking in her tulip plantation – after the initial attraction (which leaves most men, deaf, dumb AND blind) he was confronted by her the next morning in a pair of huge wooden shoes and a slang that frightened away him and the whole Spanish Armada and in their fearful flight made them lose their way and sent them straight across the Atlantic… where he (the Nobleman) promptly got involved with the bare-footed and soft-spoken natives there, relieved that he didn’t have to go back to Europe -EVER!!
Until this day the name Helga is just about the only thing that will shut a Latino up long enough so you can get a word in… and even if he doesn’t know the legend – somehow the name “Helga” has a de-ja-vu-ic nightmarish effect on latinos that sends inexplicable chills down their spines – the recollective terrified genes of that nobleman are still til this day very very much imbedded in their genetic memory. (maybe Rosalind can shed light on this phenomenon one day 😕
THAT is why Holland is still Holland and NOT EspanHOL, vistaan djille nou?? Ek dink Holland as land en nasie skuld die Helge se oer-agter-oerste-ouma-grootjie ‘n moerawiese dankerkenning
🙄 So I didn’t get the t-shirt… (dankie tog!!) nor a Nando’s meal… (maybe the team did??) 👿
and thank heaven I’m still BLONDE!!! 😆