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"This is one of those books that makes you ponder the deep mysteries of existence. Such as: since life is so short, why did I just waste five hours of it reading this drivel?"

Aerin sobre O Código da Vinci

Hereges hematófatos

Sofro um bocado com os mosquitos que habitam o altar que fiz para este meu computador. Esses hereges imundos parecem saber que em todas as noites há pernas suculentas a chupar abaixo da mesa. Este é o meu altar, dessacrado. E como nenhum altar está completo sem vela, para o meu comprei esta em cuja embalagem leio: "Vela de andiroba para combate a dengue, mosquitos, insetos...". Acendo e coloco a oferenda próxima ao pé da cadeira. Mas os hereges são fortes, continuam o assédio. Ponho a vela sobre a mesa, como que para fazer a ela uma reprimenda. Não demora muito e um mosquito pousa na bendita. Acho que não entendi muito bem essa coisa toda. Se a fumaça não funciona, a intenção da vela só pode ser a de uma advertência textual.

Hereges iletrados!... voltei ao tempo em que se resolvia heresia com tapa.

“Obçession”

Ao fim do ano passado, por volta de setembro, deparou-se com um fato estranho. Quando recolecionava suas memórias e as tentava traduzir em linguagem, o fazia com mais habilidade em inglês do que no português. Nunca vivera um mês sequer abroad. Também não era exímio conhecedor da língua inglesa, era dela apenas um bom leitor. Um bom leitor, e olhe lá! Mas tão logo buscava expressão, a encontrava com mais facilidade na confusão mental d'um inglês embananado do que na própria língua pátria. Sonhava em inglês, às vezes pegava-se respondendo em inglês a questões íntimas.

Sua própria conversa interior dava-se na língua de Poe e Carroll, e a razão disto sabia de cor: passara coisa de dois anos lendo tudo quanto podia em inglês. Não dava confiança aos autores nacionais, apesar de ter deles pouco conhecimento, e os autores que lhe eram comuns eram todos ingleses. Os que escapavam a essa regra os lia em sua tradução para o inglês. Um dia notou-se perigosamente próximo ao abismo do absurdo quando, apresentando a um amigo a versão que degustava de Revolt of the Masses, fora questionado sobre o motivo de não lê-la no original em espanhol, que era afinal muito mais próximo do português. Notou-se então quase materializando a brincadeira que fazia quando liminarmente consciente de seu estrangeirismo. Um dia estaria lendo autores nacionais traduzidos em língua estrangeira.

Four Yorkshiremen Sketch

Uma curta piada do grupo Monty Python.

Four well-dressed men sitting together at a vacation resort.
Michael Palin: Ahh.. Very passable, this, very passable.
Graham Chapman: Nothing like a good glass of Chateau de Chassilier wine, ay Gessiah?
Terry Gilliam: You're right there Obediah.
Eric Idle: Who'd a thought thirty years ago we'd all be sittin' here drinking Chateau de Chassilier wine?
MP: Aye. In them days, we'd a' been glad to have the price of a cup o' tea.
GC: A cup ' COLD tea.
EI: Without milk or sugar.
TG: OR tea!
MP: In a filthy, cracked cup.
EI: We never used to have a cup. We used to have to drink out of a rolled up newspaper.
GC: The best WE could manage was to suck on a piece of damp cloth.
TG: But you know, we were happy in those days, though we were poor.
MP: Aye. BECAUSE we were poor. My old Dad used to say to me, "Money doesn't buy you happiness."
EI: 'E was right. I was happier then and I had NOTHIN'. We used to live in this tiiiny old house, with greaaaaat big holes in the roof.
GC: House? You were lucky to have a HOUSE! We used to live in one room, all hundred and twenty-six of us, no furniture. Half the floor was missing; we were all huddled together in one corner for fear of FALLING!
TG: You were lucky to have a ROOM! *We* used to have to live in a corridor!
MP: Ohhhh we used to DREAM of livin' in a corridor! Woulda' been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank on a rubbish tip. We got woken up every morning by having a load of rotting fish dumped all over us! House!? Hmph.
EI: Well when I say "house" it was only a hole in the ground covered by a piece of tarpolin, but it was a house to US.
GC: We were evicted from *our* hole in the ground; we had to go and live in a lake!
TG: You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and sixty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road.
MP: Cardboard box?
TG: Aye.
MP: You were lucky. We lived for three months in a brown paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six o'clock in the morning, clean the bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down mill for fourteen hours a day week in-week out. When we got home, out Dad would thrash us to sleep with his belt!
GC: Luxury. We used to have to get out of the lake at three o'clock in the morning, clean the lake, eat a handful of hot gravel, go to work at the mill every day for tuppence a month, come home, and Dad would beat us around the head and neck with a broken bottle, if we were LUCKY!
TG: Well we had it tough. We used to have to get up out of the shoebox at twelve o'clock at night, and LICK the road clean with our tongues. We had half a handful of freezing cold gravel, worked twenty-four hours a day at the mill for fourpence every six years, and when we got home, our Dad would slice us in two with a bread knife.
EI: Right. I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, (pause for laughter), eat a lump of cold poison, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill, and pay mill owner for permission to come to work, and when we got home, our Dad would kill us, and dance about on our graves singing "Hallelujah."
MP: But you try and tell the young people today that... and they won't believe ya'.
ALL: Nope, nope...

Fonte: http://www.davidpbrown.co.uk/jokes/monty-python-four-yorkshiremen.html