Love in the Age of Census

She has an ancient name, something like Mojaš, but in a female form. To dogs is in the sky, from dogs is in golf. With a red flag and no mask, she is a comedian. Her chest hints at the pleasures of life, she is young and shouts the name of her country as something important, while her butt is staring at the window.

He is completely scarred with three hundred shots fired on the day of Nolo Djokovic's victory against the Roman Catholic caper Rafa Nadal. The government is shaken, the tricolor shirt, cross me, the guy is in his place. He just needs a fierce girl, from some ancient house, hot blood to tame, to carry out Nachertanije over her, in an extremely figurative but intense meaning.

It would be good if the two of them had a fight already in the next paragraph; for the sake of peace in Montenegro, let's find them at some nice party where the first spark will light up.

It's a pre-war evening, the DJ persistently spins a ballad that, played backwards from the record player, says - baptized near Miraš. The guy is not stupid, he understood the trap and that they are pouring drugs in his cock, that they want to make him angry, so he runs away in a panic, to which the girl jumps, forgets the white terror in an instant, and offers him her hand.

- Do not be afraid! - said the girl, and our male got all red-faced; what are you not afraid of, who are you not afraid of, and he trembles like a rabbit, or even worse, he trembles as if the Kosovar special forces are holding him close to the Zočište monastery inn, on the way to Bondstyle, where they will continue to torture him with death metal and cro-pop list of Radio Dux .

- I was operated on, I was operated on! the young man screams and that's where the curtain falls, that's where the first act of this fantasy that will save Montenegro with the power of pure love ends.

The idle reader can now check the latest news, whether there has been a war in the meantime, and depending on the outcome, decide whether further romance suits him, as a kind of emotional pause before the census.

In the second act, the guy and the girl decide to love each other and provide Montenegro with a sexual catharsis that hasn't happened since MP Obradović took pictures of her colleague Vuksanović's butt. In order to achieve their longing aspirations as soon as possible, the newlyweds simply forget about customs, bypass the priest and the registrar, drive to Šavnik, on a kind of milky road, where they will taste dirt and mud, drink local pears and celebrate Montenegro, not forgetting to sanctify every bed which they come across at their AirBnB lodgings.

The local hosts receive them as a miracle of love and the third time, they ask them about church affairs and tribal roots, but the betrothed do not talk about that boring story and spread the idea of ​​togetherness, they become a kind of Bonnie and Klyde, Želimir and Višnja, Bečić and Bogdanović, any a hippie duo who arouse the suspicion of the militaristic community and the venomous comments of jealous parishioners.

In the end, love wins, and everything ends with a techno settlement on Ada Bojana, where they swore with their bare asses over Marina Abramović's book that they will serve the New World Order and Lucifer, that they will smoke ten pipes and swallow ten ecstasy, and bury all historical disputes in sand, under which someone buried ten more nails, because a careless Dritan mistakenly tweeted that a raid was coming and everyone had already fallen.

Aside from Montenegro and its messianic need for a young leader, our couple will not rush to have a child. They have their easy truth and float in the dull hedonism of Ada Bojan - she with a yoga mat, he with dreadlocks, she in marketing, he in consulting. All the old national questions melt before their eyes, under the sun that maintains the logic of a permanent party, which only the greatest mystics and fools allow themselves.

She in Telekom, he in Portonovo, four figures in the budget, they share web presentations, zoom conferences and zumba seminars, worship amorphous NGO projects and don't remember ugly stories from their youth.

Only sometimes, when everyone falls asleep, the young man quietly lets go of Svetigora, to be lulled to sleep by the voice of some protosinger. She remembers some long-ago treatise on diphthongs by Čirgić, and sighs deeply over the fate of her neighbor Zvicer, who seems to really be written as Serbian.

Everyone then turns to their side, their backs touch, and it lasts for a short time, that separation, that confrontation of the kidneys, without which no marriage can go. Nevertheless, they know that they love each other, that they complement each other, that they cannot do without each other, that they are destined for each other and that they are not for the better.

Just like their beautiful homeland.