Soon in Bulgaria, in Sofia, in the National Theater, a decidedly commissioned and anti-Bulgarian play will be staged. It will be played by Bulgarian actors, in front of a Bulgarian audience, and I guess there will be a big round of applause at the end.
I won't dwell on how talented Malkovich is. How revered is Shaw and what a high stage is the People's. All this does not matter, because some things cannot!
I will be final so as not to be misunderstood.
You can't shit in church. You can't drive a pig into a mosque. No one else can mock your grandfather, who was dying to preserve the life of your grandmother, for his family, for your inherited rank, to have you. It can't be!
It doesn't matter how certified your knife is or how secure your ass is. It doesn't matter how famous and revered the butt-bearing device is. Never mind your sacred right to your own choice. On own point of view. Of your desire for self-determination. It doesn't matter if something is an unavoidable pillar in your work. It doesn't matter that there is no exact law that forbids you from doing these wild things.
You can't shit in a church and justify yourself that someone else had religious complexes.
It doesn't matter that the yellow-coated sgan meows like a spoiled cat (sorry, safe) how great was the author, the director, the actors and even Bai Neznamkoisi, who drops the curtain.
At this moment, we can simply divide ourselves into Bulgarians and everyone else. Without attacking and insulting - this is our division. We do not offend, but we should not tolerate insults either.
Imagine I sat down and wrote a play about four Peruvian lamas having sex with their majesty. Now imagine this play being staged at the Royal Theatre? You can't, can you? But here you can. That doesn't make us broad minded. Descendants make us forgetful.
Remember! Our grandfathers died in that war. They died from bullets. From gangrene. From cholera.
There were no antibiotics yet. Not a bullet, a scratch could have put you in the grave. Against stronger armies we have fought and crushed them with nothing but courage. And it is because of this courage, blood and gangrene that Bulgaria exists. Not because of your sex toys and craft beers. Not because of another euro assembly.
Remember! Because if you don't remember… Why is the Monument to the Unknown Warrior important to us? Better to grill kebabs on that fire? Or why are we those with feathers on their hats in front of the presidency? Why are we stomping with boots? Should the Japanese tourists be photographed with them? Or the flag? And we don't need Levski, Botev, Shipka. Let's just shut down and transfer us to a bank card for one hundred BGN, to have the first installment for an electric scooter.
Today, nobody makes us die (yet), but we can preserve the dignity of our ancestors. Yes. They were simple people. They didn't understand Byron or Shaw, but they loved their children. And they loved the land. And the cattle. And that's why they were dying. They were dying to have bread, not for new phones, smart TVs and vacuum cleaners. They were dying for rotten pears and for the pig to have something to eat. Big laugh with the pig! Right? But the yellow-coated searchers don't realize that if
the pig has nothing to eat and your children have nothing to eat and will die. From hunger, from cold, from scurvy, from everything.
Therefore, at the very least, those people who take offense in this questionably good play do not deserve our derision. And the taunts of the foreigners too. They are heroes.
Think these words and swear at me while you applaud your own memorylessness and quick and assisted death. And the fact that you keep your sperm in some globalist test tube will not save you at all.