Sunday, June 22

PostScript

Landing at Miami at 5am I'm placed in a "They may be American but they have been in Brazil enjoying an un-American pastime" line.

First I have to answer questions on a machine that prints out my photo with a big cross drawn through it. The passport guy asks me, "Where have you been", I bite my tongue so as NOT to say, "Look on the fucking form in front of you $10 an hour man", and just go with "Brazil".

He asks which game I saw and then who won it. "Argentina. Last minute. Crowd go wild" is my incredibly fact filled reply.

Next I have the same insidious interrogation from the Customs man. He hates that I was gone for just one day. It must suck to ask sleepy hyphenate-Americans what they were doing at 5.30am on a Sunday. Tough shit Customs guy, you should have tried harder at school and maybe you would have a better job.

Later I board my flight to Boston where I am sat next to a pilot called Rob Roy. Odd.

Home by 10.30am, and a full day of watching World Cup football ensues!!


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