Monday, February 20, 2006

What does prego mean anyway?

I went to the Pope’s house this weekend. Ok, maybe not his actual house, but his office at least. In his very own city. It was beautiful.

But not as beautiful as my lovely lady. She took me to Rome for the weekend. Never has such a nice thing been done for me, it’s just a shame that we can never return. Not because of legal reasons or what not, but simply for fear of getting fat.

Unsurprisingly, almost everything we ate in Rome was the tastiest motherfucking shit ever. But vaguely surprisingly, the pistachio ice-cream had a strangely amazingly addictiveness about it, that meant we ate it twice daily. And an ice-cream based diet on top of the four or so courses that you are expected to eat for each meal does not equate to healthy bunnies. In fact, I have no-idea whatsoever how all Italians aren’t immobilised by their gigantic fat asses. If I lived there, I know I would be.

But anyway, it was amazing and pretty and warm (in February). And somewhat sad. I don’t know about anyone else, but I have never thought of the Colloseum as a depressing place before. I mean, I know that life was different then, so fighting to the death wouldn’t be so strange, but when we were there I couldn’t help imagining all of the people who had fought and died for no reason. Not even entertainment. Those who had cried, or run, or just wet their pants. Those poor bastards. A tour guide we were eaves dropping on said that they used to employ little kids to aggravate the animals with big sticks, as otherwise they wouldn’t put up a good fight. Just think how many of those kids would have died for just not running away quick enough.

Ok it wasn’t sad at all apart from that. I bought a snow globe from a nun on top of the Vatican. I ran around the chariot course pretending to ram into Kathy. And we got very, very drunk. Mamma mia.


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