If it's fake money, don't pay it back. Don't buy houses, don't own stuff: sell everything and apply for as many credit cards as you can. Spend the money, all that you have and all you don't have. If it's fake money, you're not really stealing anything that hasn't been stolen from you before. And as we say in Portugal: a thief that steals from a thief is granted 100years of pardon. Just enough to live free until you die.
In a time where people became myths there
was a King who turned everything he touched into gold. The tale’s dramatic
ending served to educate the people about the punishment of the greedy: Midas
eventually starved to death on the account of his enviable power.
Modern times are calling out for legends
more than ever. In an age where religion no longer controls society, what
undeniable truth can we trust?
Advertising. Because advertising shapes our
desires, our aspirations, our fears and passions, our lifestyle and moral
codes; advertising shapes us.
And like every religion, it needs gods to
be worshiped. And creative directors have taken that upon themselves. Some
times – or should I say most times – without having performed any better
miracle than sucking up to the right people or being in the right place at the
Occasionally it happens that a CD or a team
of them - advertising is obviously a polytheist religion – can also perform
amazing miracles, capable of bewildering everything and everyone around them. Not
always in a good way.
Today, I’ll recount the fabulous tale of
Sadim, a god that turned everything he touched shit – to be exact, Sadim was a
collective of gods and demi-gods that functioned like ants in a colony, blindly
following the power-pheromone, all trying to become the queen. But, for the
sake of argument, they’ll be considered as one entity, a god made of ants who
turned all he touched into shit.
‘Sadim’ is simply ‘Midas’ spilled backwards,
even though both tales will probably have similar endings as men are equally
incapable of surviving on shit as they are on gold.
One day, Sadim was woken from his slumber. "Who
dares interrupt my sleep, I was dreaming of the French Riviera, stages and red
carpets, gold awards and glass flutes filled with champagne?" He steps outside
to see what the rumble is about. And there is it. A shinny fist-size rock.
“It’s pure gold” someone said. And they all stared in awe for they had actually
never seen gold before.
“What should we do with it?”
“A statue”, some shouted. “A cup, as thick
as an elephant’s penis”, others suggested. “Jewellery, never goes old”, said
the old, and the young frowned. “What if we glue the gold rock to the sky and
use it as a sun?”, two pitched. “Everyone could see it and love it and share
“Good idea” said Sadim. He reached for the rock,
a massive 24carats, 25-kilos piece of pure stunning gold to do the throwing
himself. “I shall be worshipped as the god of light until the end of times”, he
thought. But, as soon as he touched it, the golden rock turned into a pile of
putrid faeces, slimy and smelly. And as he threw it high in the air, the shit spread
and everyone in Sadim’s Olympus was covered, head to toe, with the light-brown
hue of a sick baby’s diarrhea.
Com o correr dos acontecimentos mundiais e o estado francamente deprimente da sociedade hoje em dia, há poucos motivos para sorrir sem ter que tapar os olhos, ouvidos e boca. O que é notoriamente impossível dado que deus só nos deu quatro patas e perdemos duas quando decidimos evoluir para homus erectus. A menos claro que isto já estivesse nos planos do omni-master-of-the-universe, que é para precisarmos de contratar criancinhas miseráveis de lágrima no olho e latinha na mão, vindas da India ou do Bangladesh - África já é meio demodé - a 70cêntimos por dia. E é porque somos justos, porque 70c é o que se paga para elas trabalharem nas minas, que é um trabalho muitos mais duro e consequentemente mais bem pago, mas enfim, somos bons cristãos e cidadãos, por isso vamos fechar os olhos, que assim como assim já estão tapados, não faz diferença.
Livra, mais valia sermos bestas, ignorantes e felizes, preocupados em catar a pulga do vizinho ou cruzar com a fêmea alfa - nesse aspecto, talvez não tenhamos evoluído assim tanto!
Why can't men get over playing with balls?
Seriously guys, whether you're compensating touching your own with other sorts or just pretending to be cool and young-at-heart when you're clearly not, it's silly. Ridiculous, even. I mean, grow up.
Can you please get excited by something more... intelectual? Please??