rafael pyton

Hello Europe! What the fuck is in your pipe!?

I have great taste. You have too, according to your own humble estimates. But after last night, I have reason to believe that a large portion of the European people have cheated on their taste exams. Well, it’s either that, or Russia just spent a serious amount of cash buying a continent.

Taste? I watch schlager on television! Of course, I only do it to be able to relate to the European experience - you have to admit, this is the closest we get to union and identity. [Ah, nothing like a swift and deft explanation to sweep your own short-comings under the rug...]
Hmm. But at least there are always some lovely ladies in semi-lingerie to undress with your eyes. Sometimes, you don’t even need to go to all that trouble, like with the Polish broad. Shit, a sexist remark! How uncouth. I’ll try to improve - I want to insult every single European country equally.

In any case, my dog could have written a better song than Russia’s bid - and I don’t even have a dog, which is telling something quite a lot. Frankly, the dog that I don’t have could have written better songs than 95% of the performed material. Actually, the dog that I don’t have really did write the Spanish song. Doggy style, he sang, in case you missed.

Even though the 2008 edition of Eurovision was the worst ever - like every year - I found the grace deep within to have two faves. Bosnia-Herzegovina was one. The mime and clown routine was anti-good, but when the retard started singing instead of smiling, there was melody resembling the cousin of cool in there.

France was my first favorite. The bearded ladies made me smile, and the guy in the golf-cart reminded me of Vanessa Paradis, except tall, ugly and male. No no no no no, he sang. Yes, I went. Sadly, everyone hates the French, so they will never get any points whatsoever from anyone whatsoever.

Finland tried to do a Lordi again. It goes to show the lack of imagination this country suffers from. These days, there is one single person left in Finland who does not listen to low-budget heavy, and that is me.
Admittedly, Missä Miehet Ratsastaa deserved a better fate, because it was rather resolutely better than most of the rest of the gay Eurotrash on offer. I guess the world is not quite ready for the genre of gay heavy yet… yes?

Poor Sweden. They take this competition so seriously. But may I suggest they stop sending the same song every year.

Before I go and say something nice, let’s discuss the voting system. Hahaha. Good one. Well, there is certainly a system in place. I mean, there is a rather discernible pattern going on there, and I might not be the only one to notice it. Hahaha.
Shrug. If people are so fucking daft they vote for their neighbor no matter what, then by all means. The song-writing dog that I don’t have will have plenty of good business in the future, too.

Goodnight, Europe. Put the bong down now, though. It’s time to represent civilization again.

Yes, I am still painting, and how? Like I was born to do it. But today I am breaking radio silence due to observations of highest value.

The first one is this: My, my, my, how the gods of Formula One are fickle! Only a few races ago, the name of Kimi Räikkönen was on everyone’s lips like a fresh mint after a really lovely dinner. After Monaco, he’s stinking like shit. This was the worst Icemanic performance I have ever seen. First, a lousy start. Second, a lousy speed. Third, speed still lousy. Fourth, getting outclassed by the Force India of Adrian Sutil. Fifth, ass-banging the same gentleman. Sixth, losing the championship lead. Not bad for a day’s work, Kimi.

Another one of these valuable observations is: why is Heikki Kovalainen getting all the freaky voodoo to no fault of his own while Lewis Hamilton can slam the barriers, lose one of his wheels, yet barely even lose time in the process, go on to an easy win? Huh? Who makes these equations of kismet? I need to know. Because we need to talk.

And another half of one: Adrian Sutil, also regarded as the slowest dude in F1, was driving for his life today. His season up to this point has been one that can diplomatically only be described as lackluster. However, here, in a moist Monaco, Adrian drove like a man possessed. I became so enamored that I started rooting for the ripping Force India driver to beat the mighty Ferrari of Kimi Räikkönen. You never thought you’d hear me say that, did you? Sadly, everyone I root for gets their heart broken in the end, and poor underdog Adrian was no exception. Tankslapped, one might say.

What else? Sweet mother Maria, I love the Monaco Grand Prix. Heck, I love Monaco per se, everything about it, the geriatric youth, the champagne-induced murmur, the poodle-poop chasing people dressed in ultramarine, the sexiness that is overbearing to a point of becoming unsexy which in turn is really really sexy, the supervirtuality of an existance completely cinematic among Myannightmarian madness and the latest ecological disaster threating us with yet another extinction, yes, there is no question about it, heading for the brink that leads to the edge from where the view is nice as you fall is best done from a yacht harbored in Monaco.

It is true what I say: Oblivion can only be found in the most expensive of places.

Dearly beloved. Greatly appreciated. Highly respected. I would like to extend my virtual arm around your shoulders, and ask something of you. A favor, to be more precise… No, don’t squirm like that, my friend. You are going to love this. Hey, it will be fun, I promise!

Let me bring you up to speed. Ever since spring arrived here in Finland, I have been working on the big ‘ol house on Centralgatan 41 in Karis. I have washed it, I have scraped it.
I HATE the way you can fit that in one sentence! It totally fails to illustrate my broken body and my bent spirit! If Mao thought his little march was a bit on the long side, he ought to have tried to restore a big wooden house by himself, from a ladder…

In any case, by the power of the mind as a machine, the whole bloody thing is primed for painting. And this is where the fun starts! Right now, the house is as ugly as a spotted cow - but not for long. Stroke by brushstroke, we shall revive it! Bring forth beauty! Make it into the coolest thing in town and country! [Trust me, the house is not staying yellow - I got the building permit last week, and it's a license to thrill! An awesome new scheme of crazy colors is in store...]

To my army of FRIENDS: Won’t you come and join me? You will, won’t you? Let’s get together for a good ol’ fashioned high-spirited help-each-other kinda thing [TALKO in Swedish] that the people of the past always did. Turn out, and I promise you great banter, splendid cooking and cold beers all around! It will be like a party, one where people paint instead of puke.

No worries, mates, no dangerous stuff. I’ll do the ten-meter-above-ground stuff myself.

Right now, I’m taking my first weekend off since winter, going to paradise island with my girlfriend to boost my batteries. But I’ll be back on Monday, taking calls. At ANY time in the coming month, volunteers are accepted, no, adored. Come, come, paint the world with me!