I weep a bit as I gaze upon the television set. Tonight it features a certain graying patron of a state stammering through a speech he has given many times over many years.
It is the same speech. Yet in his hands every time seems different and challenging.
My how time has passed...
His arrogant childish smirk will stay with me for years to come, friends. Those callous, giggling attempts at maturity forcing me to never take him seriously.
It is the way he moves about. It's the swaying. Sometimes awkwardly, sometimes stiff. But swaying nevertheless. Ever so gently. Like an old oak in the summer breeze. He is a reluctant king, forced to nervously pander for acceptance amongst the peasantry. This grand old man.
There he goes again, making up words...that guy! Doesn't he know English? No seriously.
Oh, nobody could screw up a country's reputation or a speech quite like him. Nobody.
I'll miss him when he's finally gone.
Welcome back Teemu...I guess...