I think I overreacted...

The newsflash came in: The Irish are revolting.

I rolled my eyes and sighed... Not again. I stared at my phone and wondered if the idea of freedom was really worth yet another ass whooping by the mighty Belgian forces and their feared allies.

Truth be told: There wasn't much I could do, as I was low on health. So I did what any self-respecting Belgian man would wo when faced with an international crisis: I cracked a beer open, watched a replay of Wout Van Aert winning Paris-Roubaix for the 64th time, and fell asleep.

When I woke up a couple of hours later, the sun was shining through the curtains. A scene that felt way to peaceful. I peaked through the window and that's when I saw them: A small group of Irish figures. Just standing there, in my elderyly neighbor's front yard.

I froze. How? Just hours ago, we were comfortably beating the Irish on their own turf. And now they were here? In Belgium? In my hometown? What happened? A tactical masterclass?

No time to think. Time to act.

I charged the closest one and gave him the most epic of roundhouse kicks mankind has ever seen. The Irish duded exploded. Completely. Into a thousand pieces.

I didn't hesitate and went full Steven Seagal on the rest of them. I went full beserker on them. The euphoria must have been the same one Wout Van Aert felt as he sprinted past Pogacar in the final meters of Paris-Roubaix.

And then... "WHAT THE **** ARE YOU DOING YOU ******* PIECE OF ******** ****?!"

I turned around to see my neighbor running towards me. Somewhere between rage and a cardiac arrest. Turns out she had just bought a set of very expensive garden gnomes. Very Irish-looking garden gnomes.

We're mostly on speaking terms again, after I apologized a hundred times. 

In my defense, the garden gnomes did put up more of a fight than I expected. And if I'm being honest, more than I remember from the actual Irish.