It appears I’ve been duped, that’s right guys, your trusty commander and friendly roving dictator has been hoodwinked. I arrived today in Barcelona, thinking I was in Spain. BUT APPARENTLY THESE A-HOLES THINK THEY LIVE IN ANOTHER COUNTRY. Yeah that’s right, Barcelona thinks it’s a part of an autonomous community. First of all, the only AUTO-nomous community I acknowledge is Detroit, home of Ford. AMERICA 4LYFE, naw sayin???? Second of GALL, not only are they horribly misinformed, get a map much??? But they’re also obsessed with pizza because they’ve named it PapaJohn.
Stupid. But what could I do? I was all ready deep in knee deep in deep-deep dish, deep-deep. Woop, sorry, got caught in a loop there for a second.
Angry and horny (I’m always horny, dawgz) I took to the streetz. I began to walk down Las Ramblas, the busiest street in Barcelona, just looking to hang and get a taste of this Spanish Confederate lifestyle.
I tried to make my way through the crowds, but my efforts were futile. It became very clear to me that these people were in fact not Spanish, when they refused to engage in the Spanish tradition where you share everything you’ve ever owned or wanted; known as tapas.
Oh-ho-ho! I guess Barcelona doesn’t play by the same rulezzz as the Romanzz, and do as they do. Because from my experience, when I’m in Barcelona, everybody seems to be an asshole who doesn’t understand that he’s a guest.
It started to get way too heated in there and I just needed to get out before I had to throw a beat down on some foolz. So I decided to get away from it all and clear my head by booking a helicopter tour of the city.
For the first time since I had entered this god forsaken lawless country, I felt like I could finally think. I felt good, like I was the only person in the world who understood me.
I got a chance to really experience this city from a whole new angle that I had never even realized existed. It seemed very apparent that the city had grown into a very fertile metropolis.
We passed over all of the sites, Camp Nou: Barcelona’s Football Stadium, Commercial Harbour, and Olympic Village. I looked long and hard, but for the life of me I couldn’t spot Karl Malone and the 1992 Dream Team. I assume their either denying Toni Kukoc the ball or having dinner with John Stockton’s family.
I felt like I was king of the world, like I was above it all, that this helicopter was mere pomp and circumstance and regardless of its existence, I would be able to fly.
As I looked down on the city all of the people looked like tiny ants who would totally miss me if something awful were to happen.
I began to feel overwhelmed from the sheer beauty of this urban sprawl; I was simply awe struck. From Parque Güel to Tibidabo to the criss-cross layout of the Eixample area, it was just so great to have them all in the palm of my hand.
After getting that feeling I had always wanted since I entered Barcelona, it was time to rest this baby bird back down on the baby ground.
When I exited the helicopter and came back down to Barcelona, the city seemed to open up, welcoming me with open arms; like they finally realized how important I was.
I guess Barcelona isn’t so bad after all, you just have to twist its’ arm and make it love you, gently reminding them that living with guilt is not living at all.
Although this story has a happy ending and I feel tempted to spend a few more days here, I don’t want to overstay my welcome. So I’m gonna leave Barcelona in style, like Karl Malone when he retired with the Lakers instead of the lame ass Utah Jazz.
THANKS PAPAJOHN, IT WAS A SLICE OF HEAVEN!