Speak, @carlbildt

A barren field. An actor appears. He/she is in the role of Heath Ledger portraying the Joker pretending to be Carl Bildt

BILDT    How was it that the Balkan wars began? Let me tell you. In '85, a farmer in Kosovo stood on his field and cried that he had been deprived for long enough. He was a Serb, naturally, which should be clear to y’all by now. Right? He took a bottle of beer, stuck it on top of a stick; he shoved the other end of the stick firmly into the ground. Then he dropped his pants and sat on the bottle. That hurt. The farmer dragged himself to a hospital and told everyone that two Albanians had tied him up and stuck a bottle up his rear, bottom first.

Later on, the poor bastard confessed what had really happened to anyone who would listen. But the powder keg was already smoldering. The Serbian Academy of Arts and Sciences immortalized this incident in a memo published in '86, stating that the Serbs had been oppressed for long enough. They felt that they had been constantly kicked in the head, but not lately in the rear. The case of the bottled farmer dredged up some of the darkest memories from a time when the Turks impaled locals, that is, the Serbs, willy-nilly. Of course, the Albanians were the descendants of the Turks… just like the Bosnian Muslims, but the Serbs remembered them a little later on.

That was how it happened. It is a true story; go and ask the RT news channel if you don't believe me. In my opinion, this touching incident captures the national character of the Serbs, in so far as it has reared its head during the 1990s and since. I know that “national character” is a dirty word, but perhaps I’ll be allowed to use it this once. Or perhaps national pride. Yes, that's better.

Speaking of stakes, the Europeans made a stab at that too back in the day, especially the Romanian reigning champion Vlad the Impaler, or the artist formerly known as Dracula. The notorious Turk Mehmet the Conqueror intended for his army to ride to Wallachia, Vlad's home digs, like he was taking a stroll to the bazaar, but in the end he turned back. He was faced with an extraordinary forest: 20 000 bodies dangling from stakes. Can’t recall now whether the bodies were Vlad's own people or Turks - probably both - but in any case the publicity stunt paid off.

I have been around the game of politics long enough. I have learned to appreciate men of action with some sense of humor. But hold on, there’s a message now from studio… WHAT? No, it can’t be… They are saying that the Norwegian mass murderer also had a thing for the Impaler. Shit! Just forget what I said. Forget everything. You can't like anything any longer – these motherfucking cockroaches will ruin it in any case, just because they can.

Above all, you must not forget that all the nations involved - or not involved, which is the most pathetic way of being smacked in the middle of it - yes, all the nations tangled up in the Yugoslavian conflict were equally guilty, and only Christ in His infinite mercy can save us.

Now think of the farmer, being dragged around what used to be Yugoslavia, from one medical inspection to another. The results are widely publicized: his wounds may or may not be self-inflicted. The farmer wants to disappear from the face of the earth, to wake up from this nightmare and find himself at home in Kosovo.

The first victim of the war was the truth, and the second was the farmer, poor Djordje. Poems were written about him.

Don't laugh. Djordre was the first one to be shot.

The Arab Spring dawned when one Tunisian trader had had enough. And in precisely the same way, the dream of a Greater Serbia was dusted off from where it had lain in winter storage to wait out the long dry season.

The vessel broke, the gut burst.

All I’m asking for is the opportunity to save face. My own, and that of my fellow Europeans. Is that too much? We’ve been humiliated enough. Fuck the EU. Yes, I heard that.

Come on, I'm on your side. Show a little faith.

No need for the ICTY to send their bloodhounds on my trail any more. The trail has gone cold. I walked upon the water and - lo, behold - am the foreign minister now, of that tiny microscopic country of mine. Where we mind our own microscopic business. So please, all I’m asking: show us some respect. Or else stick a bottle up your ass and beg for mercy. There won’t be any, if you abandon me now. Did I make myself clear? All right now, scram.

Translated from Finnish by Arttu Ahava… and the author, who is to blame for all the errors and mistakes.

Safe Area for Candy Animals

A Strip Show by Matti Paasio

KARL BUILT is standing in a suit and a tie, a briefcase in hand.

As he begins to speak, an image from the Trnopolje concentration camp in Bosnia is projected behind him.

E-book

available N o W

                   

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Don't have Kindle?
Doesn't matter! Check out THE LINK
below

http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=dig_arl_box?ie=UTF8&docId=1000493771

BUY BUY BUY!!!

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Zombie Marxist Checklist

#ZMarxist = a revisionist, whose intention is to "re-evaluate" the Balkan Wars so that his presumption of Serbs as the Victims is justified.
— Matti Paasio (@mspaaz) July 7, 2013

Holiday Inn Büchner cont'd

CARL BILDT reads aloud.

Alarmingly, liberal interventionists have also begun talking up military action.

Alarming my ass. It’s a time machine! Twenty years, vanished. What we might have learned from Bosnia has been wiped clean. Gone, pushed aside by the nonsense that has occupied our minds ever since. The eternal youth. The drowning puppies. The monetary crisis. The spies. Terrorists. Internet. They all add up to one thing: Tabula rasa, born into the everlasting  present, everlasting amnesia, amen.

This isn’t how history should work. You are supposed to learn from history. Unless, of course, you are among the Living Dead.

The Zombie Marxists are drooling themselves cockeyed over this. This is the nearest to the Paradise their tiny minds can possibly conceive of: to be able to fuck with your memory loss forever. And, believe me, they are doing it all over the place, every chance they get. Listen to this:

Fortunately, the American people, tired of wasting lives and resources on misadventures abroad, oppose even arming the Syrian rebels. That mirrors public opinion among our European allies and in the Arab world, which has seen quite enough of the freedom delivered by American bombs and missiles.

Opinion among our European allies? Who the fuck is that? Whose opinion exactly are you talking about here, you Stalinist bitch? I’m your European ally, and nobody from The Nation has asked my opinion on anything. So, thanks a bunch for speaking on my behalf, and speaking dirt.

Of course, you are right.

Let Them Die.

Who cares? We have more important stories to cover.

Like my upcoming indictment.

One more thing about the Zombie Marxist, though, lest I forget.

You’ve heard so much about them. How do you spot them?

“Beware the Zombie Marxists” is easy to say, but how do you do it, if you don’t know who they are?

A very good point. An excellent point, if I may say so. I’ll hereby present you with a short checklist.

Could somebody please come onstage and tweet about what’s being said here? This is important. Come here. Sit with me. I’m too busy teaching. Can’t type at the same time. All right. Fine.

The first and foremost characteristic of a Zombie Marxist is an irrational opposition to everything and anything that comes with the label “made in the US.” Be it an idea, a policy, or a sandwich.

Got it? Good.

The second thing about a Zombie Marxist, he always sides up with people who are up to their elbows in blood. Find the Monsters, and, hiding behind their backs, you’ll find the Zombies. They must think it's original, somehow.

Third, the Zombies are obsessed with the former Yugoslavia. So am I. That’s how I found them. We have absolutely nothing in common between us, save for this sad little playground which we share.

Let me tell you what they think. They think that enough time has passed. That what exactly happened has been forgotten, and they can replace it with their version of bullshit propaganda.

Then again, it's possible that nobody cared who killed whom in the first place. All the better for the Zombie Marxists.

It was a Civil War. That's what they're clinging to like a bunch of rabid pit bulls. And ancient hatreds. Always remember the ancient hatreds. Plus, of course, the bias of the western media. The US is the boogieman, always.

Guess who stopped the war in Bosnia, and how? Let's take a poll.

Scroll down until you find a question and four alternatives. Please answer. It is extremely important for me personally that you answer, personally. Thank you.

Holiday Inn Büchner

Act 

II

CARL BILDT is back.

Let's move on. Let's move to the Serbian Republic of Krajina, which hasn't collapsed, just moved geographically, in the opposite direction than the Soviet Union did. 

I've been watching the tapes. What disturbs me the most is the crickets. Or cicadas, whatever they are. You can't see them, you just hear them. The day begins to dawn, the shells keep on raining, and the crickets never miss a beat during the battering of the town. You could make a tourist attraction out of it. Come to Croatia. Here the atmosphere is invincible. Nothing can break us. The Serbs tried. They took Knin. We waited a couple of years, then took it back. Here, want to see? The crickets sang the glory of our return. Of our offense. Which was a defense, if you remember any of your history. At least you remember the article in Helsingin Sanomat. Like in the good old days, when world was all red and gold, and United States was the boogeyman. Always. Ante Gotovina, Operation Storm. Ring a bell, anybody?

[Read this, then cut your wrists.]

I knew it. The only answer coming from the cicadas. It's a ghost town. Everyone is gone.

We need a volunteer. Somebody, anybody who would like to participate in a reconstruction of a work of art. All you have to do is lie in a bathtub.

[Don't cut your wrists. Read this instead.]

Why? When it comes to Art, you don't ask why. You shut up, and do as you're told! You become friends with failure. Failure is the essence of art. You embrace the abyss, or else you'll always try to stay away from it. You become mediocre. You become nothing.

We're going to do a rendition of a famous play here. Julius Caesar by Shakespeare, maybe? No, I don't think there's a bathtub there.

Danton's Death by my boy Georg Büchner? Nobody has ever written anything quite as insane as he did. He predicted everything 120 years in advance! Still, no bathtub there either, as far as I recall.

But we're getting close. I think the fellow I'm looking for is mentioned in Danton, once. His name is Milan.

We are living in the Middle Ages, 3-D. All you need is rewind. Not erase. I'm warning you, do not erase! Heed this advice as if your life depended on it. It does.

Here's the Dentist:

[He starts applauding while the video is still running.]

Ha fucking ha. As in horseshit. A rat. Feeding on horseshit, that's what you are, Babić! You're a rat. You started this craze of copping a plea and ratting your brothers out, and sooner or later, just wait and watch, the whole world is taking part in a joint criminal enterprise, JCE in the Hague lingo, after your ass. You poor thing! Well, of course they are. After what you done to them. Of course they are, I am. How many years off of your sentence did that pretty little speech take? Huh? No answer. Surprise, surprise! And that's the worst part. You're dead, you chickenshit, and no one can come after you and have the pleasure of ripping your balls off and feeding them to you, you spineless dickless skunk, you.

The whole world is a criminal enterprise, if you want to look at it that way. A conspiracy against those who aren't as clever, as cunning or as sexually attractive as you. And we're in it together. Yes, lock us all up! Babić is the only one left to roam freely. Yeah, because he's dead. Hung himself from his leather belt in Scheveningen, the detention center in the Hague, while he was supposed to give testimony against another one of his old buddies, Milan Martić. Oh, no. I did nothing. It was the Martićevci. I didn't know what was going on. You cunt!

Covering up for someone’s crimes makes you an accomplice in said crimes. Right? You become a member of a Joint Criminal Enterprise. The favourite term of Miss Carla of the International Dog and Pony Show in the Hague: the joint criminal enterprise.

Which brings us to Syria. Let’s read the papers. That’s the latest craze in the theater where I come from. These days, all they do is read the paper on the stage. It becomes cheaper, I guess.

He takes the Kindle device from his briefcase again.

There’s no place like the Silicon Valley. Which reminds me, I don’t read the Swedish papers any more. I don’t need to. If I must find out what’s happening at home, what my fellow countrymen are thinking, I just check out the editorial in The Nation.

[Cont'd as Zombie Marxist Checklist.]

Wrong island, Daddy-o!
Hamsun lived here.

On the boat to the first island,
I had tried to work. Bollocks.



There's a text missing
HERE:
about Hamsun, dogs, and women.
Let's blame
the Russians,
once again.

Yes.




#

The Basement Tapes

A telephone conversation between me and Radovan Karadžić, June 22 1995. The massacre of Srebrenica is less than a month away. “C'mere,” he says. “Come to Pale.” I say no. He insists. I say no. I tell him to relieve the supply condition of both Sarajevo and the eastern enclaves, meaning Goražde, Žepa and Srebrenica. Then, I say, I will think about it.

He says he’ll see what he can do. Then he hangs up. 

Aeroflotin Havannan-koneeseen lähdössä 25-30 toimittajaa. Snowdenista ei havaintoa.
— Jussi Niemelainen (@JNiemelainen) June 24, 2013

In English: 25 - 30 journalists boarding
an Aeroflot plane to Cuba.
No sign of Snowden.


Act III

[of Safe Area for Candy Animals]

[M. is lying in a bathtub.]

Later on, in the belly of the beast, the dungeon where they’d sent me to lie down in, or sit, stand, have some exercise, try walking to the door and back, start again - I could do as I pleased in my basement closet painted black, as long as I didn’t disturb the other prisoners coming clean, the nurse had made herself crystal clear at that point, me just staring ahead (clean my ass, they're dandy, sedated to their eyeballs, it’s me who’s in pain here, waiting for the fucking North Pole to thaw) - I remembered the other time in detention. My third. This time I’d hit the bottom and gone sailing through, like the ball that Iniesta sent flying over the Dutch defense earlier that summer: 1 - 0.

I had cried, sitting by myself at the beer joint, as I'd watched the Spanish team on television, arriving in Madrid. The crowd. The team. They had finally won the big one. And I had lost, in almost as majestic a fashion. This time.

It's all in your head. The dry season that had haunted Fernando Torres lately, or the one that halted the promising literary career of Henry in The Art of Fielding, were matters of spirit, not of skill. If I can psyche myself up, I reasoned, recall a happier time, as it happened, maybe I'll have a chance to get through this.

If I can just make the goddamn commentators shut up.

So I tried to focus. It was a bitch, with three music videos going on at the same time inside of your head, the second you closed your eyes. So you keep 'em open, boy. Open? I want to make you squeal like... No, not that movie. Look at those ugly ass pipes going across the ceiling: Blood Simple. Focus. Now!

Before, it had felt like a party inside. It was at the other place, and I had been in a lot better shape. There had been life in Scheveningen, even joy. I had felt way more isolated outside than I did once I got in. My loneliness evaporated the second time I stepped in that tiny cubicle, the smoking room, they had called it, max three persons at a time. Window giving to the corridor. You didn’t consider the one giving to the street a real window, its blinds drawn for all eternity.

Was it my second cigarette? Could have been the third. In that ballpark anyhow. When I met Katariina.

* * *

Beautiful ladies are often so vain. You can't even look at them. They think all anyone ever wants is to get into their pants. Which is an accurate assessment in most of the cases. Anyhow, Katariina wasn't like that.

I had swallowed my last pill in the bathroom of the waiting area. That’s how I felt so good. A sip of water, anyone? Grab your plastic cups, I’m pouring!

I was ready for the game. Ready to wait until my name was called.

On the bench to my right a fellow did as he was told, leaning his elbows on his thighs. He could have been praying. He seemed quite young. The hood of a sweatshirt shaded his face, so I couldn’t be certain. Anyway, I wasn’t into interfering with his torment too much. Waiting was the worst part. Waiting to get in. Waiting for the first pill, in case your blood alcohol was over point one. Waiting for lunch, for dinner, for the meds. Waiting, praying for sleep.

Later on, as we became roommates, I learned more about his situation.

Man, they don’t call it a welfare state for nothing. They'll try to rehabilitate you a thousand times, if you just let them do it. Money don’t mean dick to us. We’re still trying to cope with the news that the Soviet Union is no longer there.

Suddenly, inside my head, I hear a voice. A calm, articulate speaker with a trace of an accent. Danish, is it?

“A night like any other”, the voice says. “I was making my rounds in Scheveningen.”

Another, nastier voice, bordering on psychotic, cuts in, “The fuck you were there for? Going to see your lover boy?”

“At that moment, I was going to ask him if he’d brushed his teeth.”

Enough, I say, gritting mine. Enough! You can keep that up later on. Now hush, hush... can’t you see I’m busy?

To my surprise, the voices fall silent. They obey the pill in my belly, not me.

Instead of hearing voices, I see a desolate dirt road in front of me, drenched in sunlight. Next to it stands an ominous sign.

YOU ARE ENTERING THE REPUBLIC OF SERBIAN KRAJINA,

the sign says, and continues,

“We have more pigs than men,

and more guns than pigs.”

I chuckle. Matias, 20, sitting next to me, is having none of it. No fun at all. No tour of the Babić Land for him. Matias has a sideshow of his own going on at full blast, complete with beetles or roaches of some kind crawling on the floor, the man-sized house plant next to him coming to, trying to eat the bugs or something. Trying to eat him, for all I know. Feed me! I can't quite follow his scenario even afterwards, as he explains it to me. 

There's a book to every person, a work that somehow defines his or her character. Matias has a book as well, he is a book called Pharmaca Fennica, where every drug ever sold in this country is described, dissected, disseminated... you name it. He tells you everything about it.

I’m sitting on a chair in the middle of our room. I feel almost guilty, feeling so good. Matias is lying on his bed. He calls his visions flashbacks. I don't ask what he’s been doing. I find it obvious, and dull. Still, who knows? He volunteers that he’s been drinking beer. He has a girlfriend 500 km away, in Copenhagen, and has been feeling down. I understand.

I am telling why I’m here, babbling away. Then I stop. Above the door, there’s an object, like a small crystal ball gone black, attached to the wall.

“What’s that,” I ask Matias. “Is it a camera?”

“Course it is.”

“You mean they’re watching our every move?”

“If we make a move, yeah.”

Continue reading...

Pork Chops to Syria: with Love, @carlbildt

“Beware the Zombie Marxists” is easy to say, but how do you do it, if you don’t know who they are?

This content is unavailable due to being published exlusively elsewhere:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DQNL9TY

Link to the image.

That's right. The widespread belief among the Finnish Natives that they are a certain species of fish has to do with their war against Russia.

Anything else?

The first and foremost characteristic of a Zombie Marxist is an irrational opposition to everything and anything that comes with the label “made in the US.” Be it an idea, a policy, or a sandwich.

Nada más

or

Zuccotti, Hki

If I'm dead, the text is here.

M ja N puhuvat toistensa ohi.

M and N speak to someone or something beyond their reach.

• Älkää menkö siitä mistä aita on matalin.

Do not take the easiest way out.

• Mitä?

Excuse.

• Johtaja sano: “Aita, matalin.”

Boss said, “Easiest. Way - out - far. Not.”

• Nada.

• Mun pitää muistaa muistuttaa.

I must remind those fuckers.

• Pues nada. Sitten nada. Lisää nadaa, ja lopulta nada.
  
  

Then, nada. More nada. Eventually, nada. Couldn’t we just stop for a  while?

Voitaisko me vaan pysähtyä hetkeksi? Lopettaa?

• Helpoin tie. Kolmas tie. The getaway car.

• Mary, darling? Fuck your car.

...


Mistä vai mitä?

Mitä?


Eiku mistä vai missä, piti sanomani...


Nyt en kyllä ymmärrä yhtään, mistä puhut.


Aita on matalin. Pomo sano:


Aa. Nyt mä ymmärrän. Missä varmaankin. Missä, kiitos kun korjasit. Missä aita on matalin. Missä aita on matalin.


No missä?


Tässä, luulisin. Missä tahansa. Se sopii joka paikkaan. Siinä sen lauseen kauneus piileekin. Se on universaali se lause.


Johtajan lause.


Niin.


Kaunis lause.


Aivan.


Voitaisko me lopettaa?


Ei vielä.

1. Just relax.
2. Lay your head upon my lap. Not crotch, my lap.
3. Like that. Good. Now, close your eyes.
4. [Singing]

Oh, if I had a day

I didn’t have to think

or try and be so goddamn gay

Then, for sure, for very very certain

I’d give away

My soul that’s been sold

for my measly pay.

Nukkuu.

He’s asleep. How can someone sleep on a day like this?

Miten se voi saada unen päästä kiinni? Me kuollaan kohta. Mä kuolen kohta. Joku kuolee ainakin.

In a couple of hours hordes of dirty, vengeful, malnourished kids will tear us apart, eat us alive, literally.

Pari tuntia, ja likaiset, kostonhimoiset, nälkää näkevät lapsilaumat repii meidät kappaleiksi ja sananmukaisesti syö elävältä.

The event will be broadcast to millions and millions of spectators around the world. This is how Finland gave a boost to its economy and kept it running. The price: us, and the likes of us. Not a terrible sacrifice, if you look at the bigger picture.

Miljoonat katsojat ympäri maailman todistavat tapahtumaa. Näin Suomi sai piristysruiskeen ja pääsi taas kasvun tielle. Hinta oli halpa: me ja meikäläiset. Mä haluisin lähettää terveisiä äidille ja isälle, ennen kaikkea isälle, ja siskolleni Kaisalle... mulla menee hyvin. Älkää pelätkö.
Greetings for Mom and Dad, especially Dad, and my sister Katya. I'm doing fine. Stay strong.


Brasilia!


Huomenta, good morning. Sleep well?


En, mä näin unta. Had a bad dream. It wasn't a dream. Se oli totta.


Voi pikkusta. Poor thing.

Mitä pahaa mä oon tehny brasilialaisille?

What have I done to the Brazilians?

Sä oot juonu kahvia.

Ai niin.

You had your coffee every morning, every noon, every afternoon.

That’s right. Guilty as charged.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. WELCOME

TO THE OLYMPIC STADIUM OF HELSINKI,

DESIGNED BY...

Sweet Jesus.

Here we go.

YRJÖ LINDEGREN AND TOIVO JÄNTTI

FOR THE 1940 OLYMPICS,

WHICH WERE CANCELLED

DUE TO THE SECOND WORLD WAR.

HELSINKI, HOWEVER GOT A
SECOND CHANCE IN 1952,

AND SHOWED ITS EXCELLENCE

AS A HOST, STARTING A LONG SERIES

OF SPORTS EVENTS

FOR THE GREATEST ATHLETES

OF THE WORLD,

AS WELL AS LEADERS OF THE
SUPERPOWERS,

THE SOVIET UNION, AND,

LATER ON, RUSSIA.

Mitä helvettiä se höpisee?

Sano että Helsinki on palvellu hyvin Neuvostoliittoa ja Venäjää.

Vitut. Fuck me!

I won’t.

TERVETULOA MEIDÄNKIN PUOLESTAMME TÄNNE HELSINGIN OLYMPIASTADIONILLE,

JOSTA ULKOMAAN ELÄVÄ TUOSSA ÄSKEN KERTOI

VÄHÄN HISTORIALLISIA FAKTOJA.

MUTTA MEITÄ KIINNOSTAA NYKYPÄIVÄ:

TÄMÄ PÄIVÄ, JOKA ON SUURI PÄIVÄ

SEKÄ SUOMELLE ETTÄ KOKO

MAAILMALLE...

Tämä päivä on hyvä päivä. Se on sinun.

Mä haluan puhua johtajalle.

NÄIN USKALLAN SANOA.

Mitä?

I want to talk to the boss. I can't go there with you. You're nuts!

Mää hullu. Olenko?

Olet. Warden!

Off she went. Sinne meni.

We have assembled inside this ancient and insane theatre to propagate our lust for life and escape the swarming wisdom of the streets.

Olemme kokoontuneet tälle muinaiselle ja mielettömälle näyttämölle pakoon katujen kuhisevaa viisautta.

Fat chance. Sade Jom Kippur Morrison kippurassa viinakrampista.

Miksi se pitää mua hulluna johtuu viime mittelöstä puolivälierissä.

MARY! MARY! MARY! MARY!...

The reason she thinks I'm crazy, it was the last battle, at the quarterfinals. She watched the show. They made her watch it, on  purpose, I'm sure. Hän katsoi jakson. Hänet laitettiin katsomaan se, tarkoituksella. Lapset olivat Venäjältä. They were Russian children this time. I don't mean that it matters where they were from, just letting you know. All right. They came a-running, with forks in their hands, the smallest ones with spoons, and I kept avoiding them: running, stopping, turning, running, circling, stopping and turning...
Lapset hyökkäsi haarukat käsissään. Pienimmillä oli lusikat. Mä väistelin niitä: juoksin, pysähdyin, käännyin, juoksin, kiersin, kaarsin, pysähdyin taas alusta... kun yhtäkkiä yks villipeto tuli suoraan silmille. Mä en voinu enää väistää. Olin just jarruttanu. Ja samaan aikaan toinen iski haarukan pystyyn tonne munuaisten tienoille. Ei siinä ehtiny ajatella. Mä tartuin tätä naamallani roikkuvaa riiviötä mistä kiinni sain ja pyöräytin itteni ympäri, kaikin voimin, käytin sen jalkoja kuin nuijaa. Ja haarukka irtosi. Siinä ne makas, kasassa kuin kuolleet. Ja nyt tämä neiti kehtaa väittää, että se oli muka vastoin sääntöjä, liiallista voimankäyttöä tai muuta hevon vittua. Voisko joku muu kääntää, laitatte vaikka tekstit tähän kohtaan. Mä tiedän että se on vastoin Zuccottin sääntöjä, mutta aivan sama. Kun kerran on sääntöjä rikottu niin rikotaan sitten kunnolla samaan hintaan.


They don't do that, you know. Against their policy.


You're back. How did it go?


You have to do it yourself, translate.


What did they say?


Translate.


They didn't say that. You're a snitch. Did you know that?


Käännä.


Olet vasikka joka nuolee kanavapäälliköiden persettä. Tiedät kai sen?


Kiitos. Mutta mä en tarkottanu sitä. Käännä se aiempi.


Ai nytkö sä annat jo ohjeita? Sinäkö päätät mitä mä sanon?


Käännä.


A kid jumped me. Had no time to duck or whatever. At the same time, another one stuck a fork in my kidneys. So, I used the first one as a club against the second. Problem solved. Two problems, as a matter of fact.

In direct violation of the rules.


Fuck the rules already.


I'd consider that as an admission of guilt.


I'd consider you an idiot.


That's slander. I'm gonna report you.


Report all you like. You still can't call today off.
Hän aikoo antaa mut ilmi kunnianloukkauksesta tai herjauksesta, mitä näitä nyt on. Mutta ei silti saa lykättyä tänpäivästä tuonnemmaks.

Katotaan.

Katotaan. Vittu mikä kusipää sä oot.

... AND I JUST RECEIVED A PIECE OF INFORMATION,

AND IT HAS BEEN CONFIRMED,

SO THIS IS NO RUMOR.

SAIMME JUURIN TIEDON,

JOKA ON KYETTY VAHVISTAMAAN,

KYSEESSÄ EI SIIS OLE HUHU.

RUOTSIN ULKOMINISTERI CARL BILDT

ON ILMOITTANUT EROAVANSA

TEHTÄVISTÄÄN,

MIKÄLI PUOLIVÄLIERIÄ EI PERUTA.

THE FOREIGN MINISTER OF SWEDEN,

MR CARL BILDT,

HAS ANNOUNCED HIS RESIGNATION

UNLESS THE SEMIFINAL IS CALLED OFF.

HÄN KUTSUU TAPAHTUMAA “HÄPEÄLLISEKSI,

POHJOLAN HÄRKÄTAISTELUKSI” JA VAATII,

ETTÄ AINAKIN LAPSET SÄÄSTETÄÄN,

OLI LOPPUTULOS MIKÄ HYVÄNSÄ.

MUUSSA TAPAUKSESSA, HÄN SANOO,

RUOTSIN TÄYTYY HARKITA OMIA TOIMENPITEITÄÄN

SUOMEA KOHTAAN. NÄIN ME MENETELTIIN

KROAATTIENKI KANSSA, BILDT LISÄSI.

HE DEEMS THE EVENT “SHAMEFUL,

A NORDIC BULLFIGHT,” AND INSISTS

ON SPARING THE CHILDREN,

NO MATTER WHAT THE OUTCOME IS.

OR ELSE, HE SAYS,

SWEDEN MUST CONSIDER A COURSE

OF ITS OWN WHEN IT COMES TO FIN LAND.

IT WORKED WITH THE CROATS,

AT LEAST, MR BILDT ADDED,

AND REFUSED TO ELABORATE ANY FURTHER

ON THE ACTIONS THAT SWEDEN WOULD TAKE.


SUOMEN ULKOMINISTERI...


THE FOREIGN MINISTER OF FINLAND...


ERKKI TUOMIOJA...


ERKKI TUOMIOJA...


ON ANTANUT AIHEESTA LAUSUNNON.


HAS GIVEN A STATEMENT ON THE ISSUE.


...


WELL? WHAT DID HE SAY?

EXCUSE ME?


WHAT DID TUOMIOJA SAY?


SAID IT ALREADY. 
THAT, JUST THAT.
HE GAVE A STATEMENT.
OH... OKAY, THEN.


ULKOMAAN PELLE HALUS TIETÄÄ, MITÄ TUOMIOJA SANO.
MÄHÄN SANOIN JO!
ANTO LAUSUNNON. ONKSE VÄHÄN TYHMÄ?

Meitä ei hurrit määrää.


Eikö?


The Swedish clowns ain't gonna intimidate us.


We'll see.



...


We'll see.


Jos uhkailee erolla, suuren enemmistön pitäis mun ymmärtääkseni toivoa, että sä pysyt virassa. Mutta mitäs minä ymmärrän.

They are NOT talking.
He's DRIVing.