Article copyIt's not so much that I don't like professional fellows running after a ball and passing it to each other but to the other professionnal fellows running on the same lawn with a different color of tee-shirt, whose God damn mission in life (or at least in the hour or so on the green grass) seems to be exactly yet reciprocally the same, as far as tee-shirt colors are concerned.
It's just that I can't find any interest in it.
Unless of course, the moving entities on the field happen to have at least two wheels, the biggest possible engine for the lightest possible weight, make a hell raising noise, burn floods of high octane gas and are two seconds next to convince you that Einstein can go packing 'cause Big Head Al knows nothing about speed.
Anything less than that is not worth calling "sport" and I'd rather take an inspired pose and ponder on Art with an A as big as a French cultural protectionism subsidy.
Got neither valves nor pistons? Then give me Rubens! Give me Raphael!
And give me Rugby!
Yeah, British rugby.
Now don't you dare to play the snobbish elitist aesthete on me.
(Link via The New American Revolutionist)