Dear George

Published on March 31st, 2019 | by Boris


“And I am not named after a stupid Canadanian prostitute which proves I am an Eskimo. My name is Alberto. Not ‘Alberta'”

Dear George,

Oh God, why did it have to be like this? I could have just left with Dani and had sex with miniature supermodels.

Instead I stayed. And I can hear that over-eyebrowed Dall’Igna bastard laughing at night through the thin walls of the hotel room while he carves more cheating carbon-fibre for his swingarms.

“Is only for the cooling of the tyre,” is it? Why don’t you just fill the tyre with ice like the rest of us, you rule-interpreting bastard?

But his former problem is now my problem, and my problem has problems.

Yes, George, it is hot here and we can all hear the river crocodiles eating the anacondas, and the anacondas eating the giant guinea pigs in that big river over there. I don’t think they will come up to the track and attack you, but I will send Carlo and Nuncio down to the water’s edge with burning bushido sticks like you suggest.

It’s not like they have anything much to do in the pits this weekend, is there?

No, I cannot tell you why they named that huge stupid lake after the Old Grand Imperial Respol Satu Hati Mati Fati, Soichiro Hondo.

Maybe it was because he fought the crocodiles with his bushido, as you suggest.

Please stop asking me when I am going to finish the igloo. I am not an Eskimo and my family is not coming to take the poison from your ribs. They have not even spoken to me ever since I started this MotoGP bullshit.

And I am not named after a “stupid Canadanian prostitute which proves I am an Eskimo. My name is Alberto. Not “Alberta”. My surname is pronounced “Pooj” not “Pooh-Eegah”, OK?

So my non-Eskimo sister is unlikely to ever rub your “Mamba belly” with the “Magic Evil-Outing Butter-Grease Of The Mighty Ice Bear while chanting “Ick-Yuk-Ick-Yuk-Tangrakapok”, OK?

I want to help you. I even had this great idea to help you. I sent Marc out so you could follow him and maybe get a better qualifying position. He’s now on pole. You’re going to be racing Tito, and he’s had his lungs removed.

I know we have to wait until the “Mamba is fully buttered” before the “hammering begins” and I understand that will be around the time we are back in Spain.

I really hope you mean Jerez and not Valencia. I really do. We all really do. And while it’s unlikely Carmelo will agree to awarding you “20 Spartan Healing Points” for every round you just try not to crash at, I will ask anyway.

Because it’s not like I have anything better to do either.



About the Author

is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.

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