Imagine being born a cockroach. You don’t know what you did in your past life to wind up here, but here you are. Strike one. You emerge from under your dumpster home, and look around. You’re in Brazil and are surrounded by Brazilians (basically tropical Russians) who barely miss you with their mopeds as they do their morning drive by shootings.
Strike two.
Finally, you find a nice piece of god-knows-what to eat in some some Favela after last nights post football match massacre, but some guy with a name like “Joao” saved his last two paychecks from his job as an AIDS distributer, and managed to get a sweet deal a bottle rocket and a lighter.
He finds you, minding your own business right there in the street, and snatches you up barehanded, making you want to take a shower. His buddy stole some dumb American’s iPhone from the Red Cross hospital he robs at, and films it all. But it wasnt all bad, you suppose. Carnival was lit, and the one thing the country got right was waxing buttholes and inventing the G-string.