The Marching Band

So some buddies flew over to the West side, put on a yellow T and marched in the streets of the nations capitol on Saturday ala the Arab Spring do. One got hyped up too soon, donned it a day earlier, got spotted while having breakfast in a coffeeshop and was arrested by the police. Stoopid. He should have worn it on Saturday instead because the whole idea was to wear it on Saturday and flaunt the colours. Obviously, he wasn't in the crowd on marching day.

He is, stoopid.

They say yellow is now the new black or whatever that is suppose to mean. Thousands took to the streets over the weekend and while marching and singing some songs by Seals & Crofts, they got their asses tear gassed and shot with water canons. And they enjoyed every bit of it. Yes, that's what the boys gloated over coffee just now. They fucking got supa high from being gassed and eating fucking salt. It was all worth it they said. The searing pain in the eyes and shit. To be in the heat of shit, to stand and be counted, they said. All in the name of fair election, fundemental liberties and rights of the people and whatever. Good on ya, boys.

And then some buddies went to that stupid festival thing over at the village-of-a-few-cultures-by-the-beach to generally get drunk and high on shit. I was informed it isn't as intense as before, whatever that also means.

I stayed home, watched a few episodes of The Family Guy and drank half a bottle of rum from Barbados while getting periodical live updates from friends over from the West side and from the boys over at the village-of-a-few-cultures-by-the-beach on what was going on. I couldn't care a flying fuck but the rum was good. From some gay mountain in Barbados or something. But it was good.

I think I want that yellow T shirt. The one they wore at the London march. Okay, maybe they didn't march but stood around in some corner or something.

I still want that yellow T shirt.