In a very bizarre moment of actual dignitive cossinace there the other day, I was downstairs and one of the foul mouthbreathing oafs who deliver shit here pulls up in front of the building, and gets off his shit scooter all fucking betel nut stainy and rubber flip floppy.
And he pulls off his shitty rubber poncho, to reveal a brand new Nike warmup jacket.
For the fucking HNS, for fuck's sakes.
This is totally freaking weird, and not just because I'm one of probably 15 people in this whole fucking country who actually know what
means when we see it on the back of a garment, not just because this fucking cephalopod has no idea what he's wearing, but also because, you'll remember, we are in the ONLY country in the world outside of North America where there's ZERO awareness of (proper) football.
And, besides, well, fuck me anyways.
Of course, one should mention that, even given the cream of Croatanian womanhood on display here, even if one were to attach them end to end, they wouldn't come close to one of Her Highness, but that really goes without saying.
ANYWAYS, in honour of the superlative Croataciousness of everyone concerned, it's time for...
The Croat Quiz!!
Easy peezie lemon squeezie, win a date with Patrick Sweezie, 'cause he looks so Japaneesie and he speaks that Taiwaneesie.
Two BIG prizes.
OK, everyone ready?
Here we go.