This is sabotage. FIFA and the US are using the VISA entry process to racially profile and target the athelets, support teams and their fans and family members as a measure of political sabotage, and
charging people US$15,000 for a US VISA is extortion.
Ni el cooling break, ni la publicidad invasiva, ni las distancias imposibles: lo peor de este Mundial es que una madre no pueda ver a su hijo cumplir el sueño de su vida por no tener autorizada una visa.
Hasta a los propios jugadores los requisan como si se tratara de delincuentes.
El fútbol era de la gente. Qué asco que la FIFA lo haya convertido en esto.
A Treasure Hunter Is Suing The FBI. Claiming He Alerted Them To 7 Tons Of Buried Civil War Gold. They Stole It In A Secret Over Night Dig. The Gold is Worth Just Over $1.2 billion Today.
sean strickland es una leyenda
- le prohíben la entrada al evento de la casa blanca de la ufc
- se la suda y va igualmente a la rueda de prensa del evento
- le mete una patada a un fan
- llama ped*filo a trump
- se va corriendo para que no le arresten
Call it “soft as fuck” if you want but one thing the World Cup always seems to do, almost as soon as it begins, is remind you that you’ll likely enjoy your life a LOT more if you welcome people in and try to have a laugh rather than being consistently aggy.
USA. A Mexican restaurant. We had not yet ordered anything, and the food was already arriving.
Chips. Salsa. Unrequested. Free.
I stopped the waiter. "We have not earned these."
"They just come with the table, man."
They come with the TABLE. In my land, hospitality is a debt. Every gift creates an obligation, weighed carefully, returned in the proper season with interest of feeling. Here, the gift arrives before you have even proven you can pay for dinner.
This is not an appetizer. This is a declaration: we trust you. Eat.
I ate with the gravity the moment deserved. And then — I must report this calmly — the basket emptied, and a new one appeared.
"Did we…?"
"Refill," the waiter said. "It's bottomless."
Bottomless. They have wells of salsa. The supply lines of this nation are beyond anything my ancestors imagined.
My friend warned me. "Don't fill up on chips, dude."
Too late. I had accepted three baskets. Honor demanded each one be finished — an unfinished gift is an insult. By the time my actual food arrived, I was a ruined man.
I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a courtesy.
Generosity that arrives before the request cannot be repaid. It can only be survived.
I know the rule now. I have made my peace with the basket. One basket. Two at the most.
Who am I deceiving. There is no number of baskets I would refuse. The trust of a nation is in that salsa, and I intend to honor all of it.