Faat Faat Faat

Yeah, that sounds like Fart.

In Cantonese, today’s date could be mistaken as my grandmother walking down the hallway.  She had some kind of valve dysfunction that meant that every time her left foot moved, she released some relatively audible gas.

Faat Faat Faat.

If it weren’t for finding out the correct Chinese word for 8 this morning (and it was my five year old that pointed this out to me), I would be seriously bored already with China’s OCD with said number today.

Yeah yeah, I get that it’s lucky.  I have lucky undies y’know, but you don’t see me aligning the stars around them.

I wonder if the event organisers for tonight’s opening ceremony risk being shot if they don’t kick off at precisely 8.08pm and 8 seconds.  Hell, chuck in 8 milliseconds for good measure.  Can’t be too careful when it comes to luck, eh?

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