Jak zwykle nigdy nie nasyceni, zawsze tylko więcej, więcej, daj, daj, kradnij, gwałć i morduj.
Nie dość, że parszywie okradliście Szkotów z mamy i taty, omamiliście Arnolda Schwarzenegerra i udzielacie pederastom ślubów, to jeszcze dziś jawnie w biały dzień kradniecie nam nasze Święto.
Złodzieje, 1 listopada to Wszystkich Świętych, a nie żaden Dzień Zmarłych czy Święto Zmarłych. Czy wy naprawdę myślicie, że 1 listopada możecie sobie obchodzić to co chcecie, a nie to co my obchodzimy?
Zresztą to typowe dać wam prawo do nie wierzenia w naszego Boga, a już wsadzacie nóż w plecy. Czy nie rozumiecie miłośnicy niby wolności, że jak mówicie nie tak jak my, to obrażacie nasze uczucia religijne, prowokatorscy bankruci moralni.
Powtarzam, halo, halo, tu ziemia, tu Polska katolicka, w naszych kalendarzach jest Święto Zmarłych i tak macie mówić.
To nasze święto, nasze, nasze, nasze, nasze, nasze
NASZE
Uparty centrolewicowiec, niedogmatyczny liberał i gospodarczy i obyczajowy, skłaniający się raczej ku agnostycyzmowi, fan F.C. Barcelony choć nick upamiętnia Ferenca Puskasa gracza Realu Madryt email:
gamaj@onet.eu
About Ferenc Puskas: I was with (Bobby) Charlton, (Denis) Law and Puskás, we were coaching in a football academy in Australia. The youngsters we were coaching did not respect him including making fun of his weight and age...We decided to let the guys challenge a coach to hit the crossbar 10 times in a row, obviously they picked the old fat one. Law asked the kids how many they thought the old fat coach would get out of ten. Most said less than five. Best said ten. The old fat coach stepped up and hit nine in a row. For the tenth shot he scooped the ball in the air, bounced it off both shoulders and his head, then flicked it over with his heel and cannoned the ball off the crossbar on the volley. They all stood in silence then one kid asked who he was, I replied, "To you, his name is Mr. Puskás". George Best
His chosen comrades thought at school He must grow a famous man; He thought the same and lived by rule, All his twenties crammed with toil; 'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?' Everything he wrote was read, After certain years he won Sufficient money for his need, Friends that have been friends indeed; 'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?' All his happier dreams came true - A small old house, wife, daughter, son, Grounds where plum and cabbage grew, poets and Wits about him drew; 'What then.?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?' The work is done,' grown old he thought, 'According to my boyish plan; Let the fools rage, I swerved in naught, Something to perfection brought'; But louder sang that ghost, 'What then?' “What then”” William Butler Yeats
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