Warm weather. Wind chill of almost forty degrees. My head is a boiling football. News is floating through my warm brain. Like the gala for illiterate martial artists in the White House garden. Obese crowd at cage fighters celebrating the local president’s birthday. A mentally ill gentleman who, according to himself, has just won a war. His Iranian opponents say the same.
Moments later, the president shouts into his cell phone that the stars cannot receive red or yellow cards at the World Cup. No yellow. No ed. He said this to FIFA boss Infantino who was standing in the VAR room at Argentina-Algeria. Even though their studs disappear deep into the calf of the referee or the boundary. No yellow. No ed.
The bald psychopath lists the list of inviolable celebrities. Ronaldo, Messi, Kane, Mbappe, Haaland and Yamal. And the drinking breaks should be longer. Time is money. Dollar-thirsty, he lisps impossible advertising revenues.
I read about assistant coach Ruud van Nistelrooij who celebrated his fiftieth birthday far too early and therefore showed up for work far too late. His gentle owner Ronald didn’t mind. You only turn fifty once and never become world champion. Certainly not if you are leading 2-1, the coach makes desperate changes and it still becomes 2-2. The coach is so happy with this that he rewards the entire selection with a fun family day. And train those stupid French, Germans and English. Postures.
In the persistent heat I read that one of our little princesses has made her tiara debut. Tiara debut is an amazing word that I can chew on for hours. In the meantime, I wonder whether Wim T.’s peanut butter floor can handle these temperatures. It’s good that the floor is being restored to its former glory. Because Wim is gone. Left with a beautiful obituary. I love the stories about him. Such as the anecdote in which Beatrix had babbled on about art for twenty minutes in an official speech and Wim then shouted loudly that he had never heard so much nonsense. Whereupon she looked at Claus in shock, who wholeheartedly agreed with Wim. Those were the days. When we still treated our monarchs like normal people.
The 88-year-old tiara-less Beatrix is sitting on a chair in a photo, laughing softly. The Japanese emperor also laughs. Perhaps she thinks wistfully of Wim and of Claus, who completely agreed with him at the time. Suddenly I see Trix cleaning her mother’s Brussels sprouts.
The heat makes my head spin even further. Especially when I read that it seems that a cosmic ghost particle, which thundered through the South Pole ice a few years ago, came from a galaxy eleven billion light years away. My heat stroke is now complete. Who found this particle? What did it look like? Is it eleven billion light years? Not ten? Not twelve?
I think of God who seems to have created all this. Or is he only responsible for the earth and is his boss responsible for the universe? Do I understand that the Dutch football players pray to their superiors in the dressing room before every match? For what? For a win? But God is neutral, right? Or is God addicted to gambling and put all his money on the Swedes this weekend?
My melting head is now worrying about a premation where a friend has been. What is that? Then the corpse is still alive and everyone can say what he or she thinks about the almost dead person. The heat in the prematorium had been fierce. Preheating the birthday boy. Afterwards, the guests mainly discussed who they thought would become world champion. Their lives go on. The preheated almost-corpse didn’t care. According to his wife, he is already with God. She looked uncertainly at her sick husband, who immediately told her that that was nonsense.
This made me think again of the roguish trio Wim, Claus and Trix. Everything is nonsense. At least life. In short: Long live Wim T. Schippers. For a very long time in all our overheated heads.