Wearing a jacket on a naked body in a country where the average temperature in October barely climbs ten degrees is quite courageous. All the more so if you are the prime minister. Pretty prime minister. The youngest prime minister of all the prime ministers in the world. Finnish politician Sanna Marin was not afraid of that. She threw off her bra, put on her jacket, had her picture taken, and now she has it. The opposition caught her carelessly. What about carelessness? She is even careless. Such negligence!
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Bare leather, a jacket on it and a huge piece of jewelry in a neckline. Beautiful woman, beautiful photo – both belong on the cover of a fashion magazine. However, the opposition thinks that if the prime minister wanted to act seriously on the cover, she should wear a bra under her jacket. Without it, she allegedly disrupted the seriousness of the office, ergo endangering the operation of the state. Well, I don’t know, I would rather mind if she didn’t have an education or a clear conscience. But a bra? Has it ever occurred to anyone to comment on the absence of an undershirt under the shirt of a politician? Count how many voters the party will lose because of this? And how will this affect the prosperity of the country? And will the political scientists then argue in the debates whether the electorate dropped out of laughter that the politician’s hair was coming out of his shirt, or by the fear that next time he might run for office?
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The opposition counted the prime minister nicely. It is said that the two salesmen will not guarantee higher sales of the magazine or the welfare of the nation, even one of its representatives dug up and even dug the whole thing. When I angrily commented on the case at home and suggested re-measuring the joker so that the gender score would be balanced, my husband stood up for politics. He said the two ones certainly meant marks for the report card. But he won’t fool me. At home, it goes exactly the same way. Whenever a man gets into opposition to me, he goes from logical argumentation to male chauvinism. But in a marriage that remembers Gustav Husák and the Sonet Duo tape recorder, I can already translate a lot. “Do you really want to go among people in this?” He remarked as I emerged from the dressing room in a robe so discreet that every time I put it on, I wanted to go to confession. From his furious twitching of his tie, I figured he really wanted to say, “What’s the use of Ibsen and the bed in the National Park when I have a Ramba and a couch at home?” Another time he tried to convince me that we needed an even bigger TV and even bigger speakers. When I logically argued that our apartment could only hold a limited amount of picture and sound, he insulted insulting that my jeans would also hold more than he ever thought.
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As much as I like chauvinism in public space, I enjoy it at home. So when my husband begs for the baking pan again on Sunday, I will answer with a kind smile: “I want to see yours first.” After all, I think that such an answer would calm down the political rivals of the Finnish Prime Minister.
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