Thursday, June 26, 2014

Stories about life: Ugliest dog in the world

Stories and News No. 675

At the 26th competition of World ugliest dog the winner was Peanut.
The owner, Holly Chandler, has revealed that his ugliness is due to ill-treatment and burns on many parts of the body when the dog was just a puppy.
Here are some words stolen from the acceptance speech.
By Peanut, of course.

Thanks, but sorry.
Yes, I know.
Not great as a start.
But what can I do?
I say what I think.
So, do not expect from me words for granted.
Like I want to dedicate this award to my agent or my mother.
To other candidates, which are also really ugly.
To the poor in Africa.
And to those next to us.
Rather, I would like to take advantage of the glory of the moment to focus on my disabilities.
Yes, let's be honest about.
When you win is beautiful, I agree.
But, as they say, what you see is not all beautiful.
Then, in my case the meaning is literal.
Sure, some may argue that esthetical appearance is not everything.
There are other qualities, isn’t it?
Well, let's be clear: it is not my case.
That’s why the excuses above.
The fact is that, as well as being ugly, I cannot do anything.
Oh, I said it.
Now I feel better.
I am not able to bring back the stick or the ball, so it is useless for you to throw.
I will never offer you a leg, so do not get on your knees waiting for the miracle, that is bad for your back.
I do not wag my tail, never.
Not even when I'm happy.
Especially in that case.
I am discreet, emotionally speaking.
So I do not gnash when anger rises.
But this does not mean I am not irritated.
I do not chase cats, of any kind.
What else?
I do not bark.
And I'm not deaf, okay?
I speak only when I really have something to say.
However, every time this happens an atrocious doubt invades me: am I sure that whoever is in front of me is really listening?
So I bite my tongue a moment before giving a breath.
Read me as well as the suspicious taciturn guy with the painful tongue.
Anyway, thank you for the award.
And forgive me if I cannot do anything.
I am sorry for that but not for everything.
I go quite proud of one inability.
I did not know to hurt any creature on earth, torturing him with inhuman cruelty.
Men will always be better than me, on this.
Or incredibly uglier...




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Thursday, June 19, 2014

World refugee day 2014 video We are the refugees

Stories and News No. 674

We are the refugees.
All of us.
No one is excluded.

We are the refugees every time we go on Facebook.
Yes, really.
We do when we feel the heat with ‘likes’ and ‘shares’, when we welcome a smiling or winking face, and we feel loved by the number of followers and friends.
Sure, hundreds of so-called friends who are always there, motionless and looking at us as the picture of a family album.
Making us feel like family.
Or at least that is what we believe.
What we find.
Because we need that and because we lack.
To feel protected.
And safe.

We are the refugees.
All of us, every time we turn on the smartphone or, at best, the iPhone, and we are there, ‘whatsapping’, crazy clicking with our fingers, saying, responding, reading, and starting over.
Just so we're all together, never alone, never silent, never empty, inside.
Let’s look, now, for example in the crowded subway. Hundreds of people all with head pasted onto a giant screen, even 5 inches.
All safe.
And protected.

We are the refugees.
Locked in cars in traffic.
Stacked in plastic and metal super-equipped boxes, small or preferably large.
And the bigger car hides the smaller guy, did you see?
Fortunately, there are windscreens in this world, right?
Because it does not protect just us from the breeze.
It makes us feel invisible.
Protected by rival eyes.
Safe.

We are the refugees whenever we strive to do the same thing.
To say the same thing.
To think in the same way.
In order to be all right.
Or otherwise.
But all together.
And then again unmistakable.
Never recognizable.
Protected and safe.

We are refugees when we get back home and we are convinced that it is all there.
The world, our world.
Because aliens are out, beyond the single credible window, the TV.
And the sofa is the privileged island to observe who has not ever found.
A refuge.

Yes, there are also this kind of refugees.
Those who ask heat, listening and support.
A protected and safe place.
To other refugees.
Just like us.
Because there is nothing more normal and logical.
Human.
Than seeking help from those who should know perfectly.
What does it mean.
Being a refugee.




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Thursday, June 12, 2014

Stories about life: final of the losers

Stories and News No. 673


Yes, we are not the winners.
And maybe never will.
No complaint or protest.
You will never see us fighting the opponent off the game.
Or yelling at the referee for a more or less assumed oversight.
It is not in our own style.
I know well and that is easy to me.
I am the goal keeper.
That is a real privilege, I know.
I see everything where I am.
The igniting match and the running ball.
The rejoicing and suffering eyes.
Read as well as the perpetual alternation of the most prevalent disease in the world.
In short, supporters.
Right and left here are the modern fullbacks.
Real human elastics, two wonderful trips, those you need to do at least once in a lifetime.
Taking you deep down, where the field ends, to understand what is behind the horizon of green grass.
But forcing you to go back exactly where you started, to show that you've been really down there.
And especially not living me unattended.
Fortunately, I would not be alone.
Ah, what I could do without the two central defenders.
The twin towers that no hatred or fear in the world can scratch, let alone break down.
They stand with incredible or perhaps a little reckless courage to protect the result and perhaps much more.
Indeed, no perhaps.
There is something much more important than the outcome of a match.
It is hidden at the end of a road which is extremely longer than ninety minutes.
The only true rainbow that we all deserve.
A long and serene life.
Let us go up to the midfield and let’s admire them now.
The Three Musketeers with shoes sharper than a sword.
Because the best you can do with the latter is to sink the shot.
But of course you cannot, at the same time, gracefully dance on the tips and beat the innocent ball with unspeakable fury.
Without giving any space to rest and charging all of us on the shoulders.
Helping as needed.
Becoming wall if the threat requires it.
And predators if the occasion is propitious.
Anyway, at the end of everything, who will take the applause?
Always them.
The wonderful trio, in the form of a bird that steals the look with vanity and pride.
Beak and wings, center forwards, returning wingers.
Who almost never return, let's face it.
Nevertheless, they can be ever forgiven.
And when that happens everything is forgotten.
Because we are already crying out loud.
Yes, come one, goal!
Yet, despite such great team, we lose.
Every time we play, no exceptions.
However, believe me.
Winning the finale it's not so important to us.
Give us the chance to play.
And you will see that we will be happy.
As if we had won the world championship.

Read other stories about friendship


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Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Stories about life: Tank man of tiananmen square

Stories and News No. 672

The tank and him.

This is the picture in history.
Who was he?
This is the question that accompanies it.
Wang Weilin, the unknown protester or rebel, the tank man.
The white shirt and black pants guy.
This is what we know.

The arrested and shot student.
Died in prison.
Hidden and maybe tortured.
Fled, but still dead.
Alive, perhaps still alive, but away from the noise of the time.
Read also as the earned right to be forgotten of History writers.
This is between what is told.

A young brave or just reckless person.
An idealistic, or perhaps a little dreamer teen.
An already made man, despite his age, able to put everything on one side of the scales even when there is nothing for most of us on the other.
Something incredibly light and almost invisible, as only the more real utopias can be.
This is what we assume.

Wang Weilin, the unknown rebel.
The tank man.
That is, the tank boy.
But who was he, really?
And most importantly, who is he today?
This we probably know.

We should just open our eyes.
And find a square.
No matter where it is.
No matter how big.
It will be enough to wait for the tank.
If you see it coming, from afar.
You will know who he is.
If you will observe it closely advancing.
Well, then, be brave.
Because you'll be him...

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