Ah, as I write with five fingers, the other hand is busy tucking into a greasy meal of ketchup-dripping fries and wonderfully tasteless Popsi sausages. Oh, the giddy joy of restoring half to half-life!
[The reason for this crap-fest is that we were watching too many Whitesnake videos with the boys yesterday – several bottles of delicious sekt were consumed with complete disdain for the day that would soon come to be known as today… and to the unasked question of how high can David Coverdale go, the answer is, a lot higher than any of us last night.]
But Barcelooona? Yes, I will take you there, deeply into the tire-wall, without the complimentary neck-braces other publications offer. Speaking of which, did you see the hole Heikki Kovalainen busted in one of them tire-walls? That was one heavy badabing badaBOINK. Amidst first reactions, I nearly snapped my own monocoque in half. Haha. Great word. But not as great as cockpit, of course. Cockpit is the undisputed heavy-length champion of double entendres with penile hint. I hear if you say it ten times in a row, you turn gay.
I just noticed I’m really really funny. These fries are delicious, too.
Yes, the race, sorry. And so the saying goes that the rain in Spain falls mainly on… Kimi RÃ¤ikkÃ¶nen’s competitors. Domination is not only Max Mosley’s game. Haha. Certainly, I see little reason why the Iceman would not win all remaining races this season. In fact, I encourage the rest of the drivers to give up immediately. You have no hope and need to go home. Close shop. Draw blinds. Cry. The number one Ferrari is guided by divine forces, and there is simply nothing you can do about it.
How I love it when things go my way. I also love these fries. Just a few left, a little charred around the edges, the salt particles clearly visible. But let’s not paint a picture when you can take a photograph. [And that is what I call making up metaphors as you go along…]
This time, I will focus on the guys who make up the rear end of the field. Practically, that is everyone else… but technically, kindly allow me to shine a light on fellers Fisichella and Bourdais. First of all, I laugh every time the classification strip runs along on the bottom of the screen – shortened to the first three letters of the surname – and Fisichella comes by as FIS. You see, fis means fart in Swedish.
Hilarious, I know. Seriously, though, Fisichella is actually blooming at the twilight of his career, doing fine driving the dog called Force India. In the past, I have slagged off the Italian a great number of times, yet here he still is, comprehensively outpacing rated teammate Adrian Sutil. To be frank, Fisico has destroyed Adrian’s career. No one will want him now. Not even Rocky… haha! Geddit? Geddit?
Seb Bourdais, sole frog of F1, is also driving like a man; ruthlessly fast and unsafe. I thought the super-talented teammate Vettel would make mincemeat pies out of the Frenchman, but none of it. Yet again he soundly out-gunned the German, making him look more Fettel than Vettel – haha – and making me draw excellent conclusions such as this one: maybe Ferrari ought to be in touch with Bourdais instead? You heard it here first. If and when Massa gets the boot, the Frenchman would be a lovely number two at the red Scuderia. Frenchmen always look good in Ferraris. Recall, if you can, Jean Alesi, for instance. Heck, even Alain Prost seemed sexy while at Ferrari – and I bet he never got laid when he drove for McLaren…
This blog would not be complete without bashing Nick Heidfeld in cowardly fashion. Have you all noticed that Robert Kubica seems to have gained definite control of the situation? Well, I sure have. I also noted that Heidfeld had all the trouble in the world getting past the Force India of Fisico today… and Fisichella used to be known as the easiest driver to pass in F1.
Thus, I will suggest evil geek Theissen and crew at BMW kick quick Nick – haha – in the bottom, and replace him with Estonian Marko Asmer, currently test driver at BMW. If anything, then I might be able to persuade my girlfriend – also Estonian, and proud of it – to watch F1 with me. Well, tall order, still.
The TV dinner was known as the way of the future in the 1950s. Of course, most everything was known as the way of the future in the 1950s, but I’d have to agree – TV dinners, or the more advanced version known as computer dinners, really are the future, still, as is the case here-now, forever on the brink of future. But the future is not all good, because I just spilled ketchup on the keyboard, and there are no more succulent fries left to wipe it up with. Damn. Those were good fries. I shall miss them fondly. Less than 6% fat, too. Quite remarkable. Honk if you like junk food. Honk honk. It must be the way it nestles in the tummy like a brick of mortar and Pepsi Max.
Rub it in. Or put lotion on it. But there runs that classification strip again: 1. RAI.
Rai, Rai, Rai. It’s all Rai.