Thursday, October 13, 2011

Latvia Rager- a tribute.

I don't know much about geography, but based on this I will assume all Latvians have superpowers.
 
I have managed to become such a blogging expert, in such a truncated time frame, that I have figured out how to identify where people who read my blog hail from.  This only took me six months, to find the well hidden "audience button".  That bastard.  It is interesting to ponder how many people, all over this wide world, are reading about my adventures with insects, pants, celebrities, and firearms.  The audience list breaks it down by country, and there has been one consistent reader (or readers, I dunno), following the ups and downs, ins and outs, rages and sorrows, that make up the life of The Lippart and its various offshoots.  This reader comes from a place I know nothing about- Latvia.
 
Latvia.  The name itself sounds badass, like where vampires go when they get tired of eating peasants in Wallachia (is that still around?)  And, as shown above, they have remarkable levitation powers, reaching almost five feet off the floor at times.  But beyond that, I know nothing, so I did some research, and in honor of my most exotic reader, wanted to share them with you.  Of course, being a lazy, drunk bastard, I culled all my facts from the government's web site, so if they are anything like our government in the USA, not only is it a lie, but the website itself was outsourced to another country and was all stolen from wikipedia anyways.

Awesome fact one- almost half on Latvians play an instrument or sing.  That is kickass, and means that, according to Newtonian Mathematics (as proven in book two of The Principia), 23% of them are breaking into powerslides as you are reading this blog.  The remaining 27% are either a) doing bed straddling air guitar licks or b) fist pumping in time with "Any Way You Want It." 
 
Delicious. 
 
Awesome fact two- they play a sport called floorball.  It looks like floor hockey with a "wiffle ball" feel.  At first, seemed a bit small beer to me, but then I found this picture:



Goddamit, let's play some frikkin floorball, boys.
 
In summary, Latvia sounds like a sweet place to visit.  And I will assume they have good beer, because everywhere I have been in the world has good beer, except for Utah, which just sells bottled shame instead (tastes more like Fanta).  I hope they have windmills there, because I always wanted to roll around Don Quixote style.  I'll have to come by and see what it is about Latvia that makes them the only European country (other than the Germans, but they are probably just gathering intel) where people care about what's happening with my groin and so forth. 

Kudos to you, Latvia, you magnificent bastard.  I will have a Tembo tonight and ponder your mysterious and Euro-flavored ways.

tune in next week, where I talk about my massive popularity in Poland.







Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Best of times, worst of times.

It was just like this, except there were like ten more.  With guns.

I purchased new speakers the other day and they are patently ridiculous, deliciously so.  They have a remote control, Karaoke inputs, and an FM radio built in.  When I turn up the volums the speakers flash blue in time with the bass notes, which makes listening to Fear Factory a seizure inducing experience (even more so than usual).  They tower over my television set, two collossi staring down at the rest of my paltry living room with judgment writ large on their conic features.  I think I am in love with them, especially the blue lights.

Also, my school is going to buy me a new couch tomorrow, due to my current one being prone to slide offs and severe back pains if sat on for more than five minutes.  I asked what the price range was, and they said "oh, just pick what you want", so now I am on a quest to find the only couch in Kinshasa that has cup holders, foot rests, a refrigerator, and a hot tub built in.

Why am I telling you this, dear reader?  Well, mostly to have you wallow in a fit of jealous rage, but also to explain what I was mulling over in the shower this morning, happily polishing my gorgeous abs to a healthy shine.

Okay, not so much gorgeous abs as a faint suggestion of abittude, a glimmer of years (beers) gone by.  A possibility, if you will, of abs to come.

At any rate, while rocking out Ferris Bueller style and rubbing my belly with odd purple soap, I looked down and saw a centipede.  Having been told that the centipedes here were poisonous, and sting like a sumbitch, I immediately squealed and pointed my shower thingie at the little bastard, flexing to myself as he went down the drain.

Confident in both my quick thinking and the fact that no one heard me scream, except for the gardener who has already seen me naked twice, I resumed my soap action.  I saw a movement in my periphrials.

The centipede was coming back out of the drain, stalking towards me.  As I watched, horrified and a bit sudsy, another one rose from the depths and followed its Lovecraftian companion.  

Then another.

And another.

I would say it was a cavalcade but there were no fuzzy hats.

I don't know what they hell I did, but they were sure pissed off.  I rinsed off while standing in the far corner, my eyes on the insects as they crept towards me, surely with hate in their segmented eyes.  As soon as I could I jumped out, ran down the hall, and put on pants.  

I haven't been back home since.  I hope they didn't steal my speakers.

I will say this, though- I learned something today:  There is quite possibly nothing in the world less masculine than a 34 year old naked man frantically shaking a sputtering shower head at a bunch of insects while covered in purple soap.

except for Curling.

There, I said it.  Damn Canadians.