Herman Brusselmans – Emma Wortelboer enters


I don’t know why, but I have practically lost interest in football. That’s strange, because I’ve always loved this sport. I myself have been on the verge of becoming a professional player, I have watched thousands of matches to my satisfaction and pleasure in many stadiums and even more on TV, I have had footballers as idols, I understand football, and if I I want to kick the ball.

Just a few months ago. I was walking down the street, a few children were playing football on a field, by chance the ball came close to me, and I gave it a huge kick. The ball flew over the field, across the street, and shattered the shop window of De Boever butcher shop. I made my way out, and was still very happy that I had been able to kick a ball again.

But that joy is gone. Throw ten balls at me and I won’t kick any. How the hell is that? Even the World Cup in Qatar didn’t interest me. I didn’t even watch half of the matches, and when my two favorite teams, that of Belgium and that of the Netherlands, had to go home disconsolately, I didn’t shed a tear.

By the way, it’s not just football that I used to love so much that keeps me busy less and less. I hardly care about music anymore. Whether Davina Michelle scores another hit with her tits half naked, it will rust my ass. Whether Shirma Rouse is chosen as the best female singer over two hundred kilos, I don’t think about it. Whether Oasis gets back together and releases a sensational CD, no, I don’t care.

And I used to be a music adept pure sang. Just like I used to be a TV adept pure sang used to be. While nowadays I hardly feel like looking at the screen for more than half an hour. There’s not a single show I’d stay home for anymore, not even for ON 1, if presented by the hidden love couple Jort Kelder and Welmoed Sijtsma. Not even for the Dutch version of The smartest person, with the funniest man Western Europe has ever known, the ultimate comedian Maarten van Rossem, in the lounger for the disabled. Not even for the programs with the most beautiful girl Western Europe has ever known, Emma Wortelboer.

Incidentally, not only have I lost interest in football, music, and television, but also in women. Emma Wortelboer is allowed to ring my doorbell, and I open the door, and Emma enters, dressed only in a fur coat and pumps, and she takes off the fur coat, and she asks if she can jerk me off, then I will shout: “You’re not ripping anyone off here, you stupid bitch, go away or I’ll call the vice squad!”

No, women can shit in the woods, except of course my own lovely, gorgeous, magnificent, fabulous, gorgeous, super-intelligent friend Lena. She can always count on my interest, especially since she will give me a son in a month and a half. But she is the absolute exception, and I don’t want to be bothered by any other woman.

But the question remains: what is the cause of my greatly diminished interest in just about everything and everyone who used to be held in high esteem? I think it’s the age. That, once you have passed the age of sixty-five, you think: I have something else on my mind than being interested in just about anything. With the icing on the cake: the lost interest in the profession that I practiced for forty years: literature.

I’m going to write a novel about the fact that literature can collapse for all I care. I hope this novel will get a lot of attention.

The opinions and views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of TPO.

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