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(photo: three activists who try un'icenption 3 level with web-cam in the city council, on behalf of the movement 5 stars)

I have nothing against those who piss in trying to roll the slope of shit dogs from the bottom, shit stiffened by isobaric ambitions and partly by Fazio. I have nothing against those who can not fuck with the Barre, jackets fitted with a phallus erect to 3 strings.

I have nothing against the movement to 5 stars, or against those who maximizes the company citing the comments of Gialappas.

I have nothing against those who scours the bottom of the tip of the penis because bagnichimici Sebach thee fell a gram of methamphetamine during the live dell'intellettualissima Taranta master Sparagna. With the balls to soak in the urine of a concert that packed the stadium Santiago, Chile during the Pinochet coup. Nothing Nothing.

I have nothing against those who have the highest regard and Provvisionato Earth on Mediaset. Or against the teaching assistants that feeling the feces of a graduate, stationed in the processes of Liuss.

I have nothing against those who assist interceptors in a future post-atomic with Mel Gibson. Or with those two girls one cup that mimic the Jerusalem Delivered by Tasso between sphincter and sewers in dejection.

or against the 5 elements which this year won the award for best spot on road safety. Or against the first experiences borderline Cone scioglicerume full uterus.

But I will not tolerate those who use the defonseca by sea, in the shower.

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The Festival of the lack of ideas


(photo: an alternative to global warming, the Nissan Micra)

I went to the festival of documentary cinema Aquila. Those evenings with people who have rough familiarity with the alphabet, other victims of disregard, and others, the less attezzose, think of Emily Dickinson for having translated the meridians Mondadori in my spare time all'ovviesse escalators.

I went to the festival night, as never very attached to my Apulian dialect, as when you leave a concert of the south sound system. The problem is that I have never been in Apulia and the reggae music consider paranoid-mystifying equal to the demands of home pound on Pasolini, Che Guevara and the case chumps.

Listening to questions from the audience to the director, Salvatore Mereu, is how to use the deodorant stick of lip gloss as Mengele. Some make references to De Seta, others criticize the lack of Italian mothers, encourage other shots from the back of the buildings. It 's all a petting cineforum by the Red Brigades Joint Marino wing of the Democratic Party.

What is most appalling is that if you inform the body of the calf was slaughtered according to its practice Islamic halal or kosher Jew, which is always terrible bleeding, do not the'd never see a woman as menstrual ground cover micra of oil after the second slow-off traffic. The only fault of the beasts is not to have cotton navel as each of us higher primates. If I go away

scotomized the usual self-autonomy of the working of the "sugar beet". Rest. The constraints are nothing Nevermind, Sid Vicious forced to live in Isernia, much less in comparison. But now I should ask a question.

are undecided whether to return home to whip the girl of my clitoris after thoroughly with soap and sharp ruotapiombata to the exercise bike. Or do 'is fucking question.

I raise my hand, I take breath, Mereu pass me the microphone from the room "I understand that to avoid some of the smudge of lipstick is a fork of the only places really to their scope, asking not to impose on others in great detail the sequence of your systematic failure, riservateli for Caf UIL.

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