Voto:
Here is the best existing review of this garbage: "the team of the East India Company, led by a dramatically overweight Ronaldinho, lives and thrives blissfully in its jungle retreat. Time passes lightly, interrupted by fascist camaraderie jokes, contests to see who has the longest one, and burning intimate ointments, mystical rituals in pure hippy style and family portraits befitting the 19th-century bourgeoisie, complete with pet dogs in the background. In short, the well-known golden society of the Maya. Suddenly, this idyllic indigenous outpost is attacked and semi-destroyed by some ugly and ferocious barbarians. They are actually natives identical to our heroes, but much more evil: the Juve of the Maya has arrived. What ensues is a derby without rules, to the last drop of blood. Despite the feints of Ronaldinho, chubby but highly inspired, our team is humiliated, mocked, killed, or captured: only the firstborn of the gaúcho and his wife, pregnant, manage to escape, deliberately plummeting into a fifteen-meter deep sinkhole. After the capture begins a slow Via Crucis during which the team undergoes a Zeman-style training: the stopper manages to withstand fifteen minutes of hanging, but then strangely dies. Along the way, the little witch from The Ring, moreover leprous, curses him. Upon arrival in the city, a crowd of dirty people, whores, and fanatics fills the players with challenging glances, spits, and insults, and at the same time paints, on their bare chests, with blue tempera, the shirt of France. The city is magnificent, the jewel of the local culture: the temple of the sun rightly mirrors the architecture of the Empire State Building, and everything else resembles the enormous market of Cairo. Our heroes are taken to the top of the temple, from where, at regular intervals of three seconds, human heads roll down: some standard (size 5), others a bit small (size 4, perhaps they used them for five-a-side), which nonetheless inexorably get netted at the bottom of the staircase. After grilling the hearts of three loosening agents, the priest and the sorcerer, in the throes of an epileptic fit, urged on by a crowd of frenzied rappers and an obese child, prepare to sacrifice Ronaldinho as well: but suddenly the clouds disperse and a total solar eclipse, lasting a clear twenty seconds, calms the spirits and quenches their thirst for blood. The survivors are transferred to the training camp and are forced to take the Couper test to escape. As they run in a zigzag, a rain of arrows, spears, and stones tries to hinder them. Never has such marksmanship been seen, even at the Olympics. All dead: only Ronaldinho makes it, wounded, stoic, indomitable, determined to reach his loved ones still trapped in the damned well. An excessive concern, in fact, because the pregnant wife and the son show a magnificent complexion even without drinking for days; moreover, they stitch their wounds with the heads of ants and club a monkey to death. Maya housewives have a thousand resources. An endless manhunt begins. Ronaldinho gaúcho, pierced through and through by two darts, in non-fatal areas (the heart and liver), takes refuge in the trees. Exhausted, he is almost about to get away: a roar wakes him. A black panther, which he rightly names jaguar, watches him from the branch opposite. It forces him down and chases him for kilometers. Everyone knows that when starting at the same level, a man has more spring than a feline; it’s over distance that the panther catches up, exploiting its famous middle-distance running skills: in fact, after an hour and a half of running, at the height of the marathon, the feline is almost about to sink its teeth into the gaúcho... but one of the pursuers intervenes, losing his head. The beast is killed, and while the assassins hold a symposium on that dire omen, free of charge because they killed a panther and not a jaguar, Ronaldinho escapes. He is almost about to cross the finish line of his three hundred thou
