At God's court

I watched a roach once, moving. It doesn't really move, a roach. It's sort of like a gas, it fills the vacuum rather than moving. That's why they're everywhere, roaches. You can tell them from their smell, you know, their smell. They don't have one.

Look at the world. It's like a putrid lady greeting you at the door. It's all a knob away, you know, the rotting. On the floor, coming down from the ceilling, raising the walls...

We used to love them. We love them, I love them and you love them. Waiting for every drop of their digested fluids, slow-ly... dropping. There. It stands outside, dying at every moment. The world; and what do you do about that, Jack? What do you do? Every moment falls like a small guillotine on the world's large neck, and what do you do about that, Jack? When you know the world is dying, when it's dying, when it dies, what'you do, man, what'you do, huh? A memorial, Jack, a big tombstone to remember it? No, Jack, no! Look around you, man, look around you! A new one is already here. They don't mourn it, Jack. They throw away the corpse never to be seen again, Jack, and they bring in the future, Jack. Well, I wouldn't have it that way, man, no I wouldn't. It disgusts me. Out that window every tree branch points out to me like it's a dead man's begging arm. Do you see it? It's all rotten, it's impure, it's malsain, it smells, it smells, Jack. It always smells. The screams smell, the last breaths smell, why do they have to smell when they leave, Jack?!

I spread those roaches. They soothe me. God, just sitting in here drives me nuts. What if it comes inside, Jack, what if it comes inside? You're never alone you know. It's all out there, just waiting for a breach to come in. So I let them be, Jack, and I had damn good reasons for that. I let the roaches be. I wanna know what those dying... acorns are doing out there. I wanna fucking know if they come anywhere near my house, damn it! It was the only way, you know? you gotta keep an eye on your own kind, Jack, you know? Keep them safe. It was the only way, it must have been.

Roaches.. hff. God, would smile at the irony. So, I let them about, Jack. I wanted every mountain, every stone covered with them. Because they sooth me, Jack, because they sooth me. Look out there. Do you see the glow? Their eyes cover the landscape like the dew of a new morning comforting the stirring black of night. Humid drops, on a thousand leggéd veil, blinking, staring. The world isn't dying anymore. They've eaten, it, for Christ's sake, they've solved the problem! Life is lenient in this shadowy world, falling in the shade of the roaches' skirts, never to see the Sun again. And you better thank me for that, man! When I was little, my mother used to scare the crap out of me telling me awful stories about the Sun, how it altered your DNA and gave you bad skin. You better run if you ever see it again, Jack. You better run. The world is good among these dancing shadows, dancers in the dark. It's peaceful. And from that vortex in the middle of the swirling skirts, that new starry pond, falls the liquid. Yes, the roaches filtered it for us. See, when God ran this world he had it rotting. Well, I stirilized it. No more of that shit for us, man. The roaches.. that was the brilliance of my idea. See, the roaches eat it, and then filter it. It's like a giant pasty, shapeless haze of whizzing legs, working for us, giving us just what we need. If a body falls, they eat it. If a building falls, they devour it. If the world falls they feast on it. If the day and night fall they love it. And they come here, and spit out of their cracks, what happened, and leave it forever, as a dropping. The world doesn't have to die anymore, don't you see it, Jack? It can all stay here with us, Jack, forever, as droppings. We can keep it, Jack, we won't ever have to change or say goodbye to another thing ever again, Jack, ever again... And I've made this all for you, Jack. 'Cause your my son. Now, you wanna call them meat-thirsty cold-blooded journalists? And you want to send them away? Well, be my guest, son. I did what my conscience had me do.

Cow Blues

Ambientem este post com isto: http://v.youku.com/v_show/id_XMjI0MDk0MTI=.html

O céu é diferente. Na memória. Duvido que ele alguma vez tenha tido este aspecto. Os anúncios das cassetes vídeo devem ter mudado alguma coisa na nossa forma de reimaginar o passado, e todas as memórias parecem guardadas numa fita de VHS rasca filmada à maneira do Lars von Trier, sem música, somente uma voz deprimida no fundo, nem sequer amargurada pelo acre sabor do longo fio do tempo, apenas uma narração de estilo, cheia de linhas de pensamento intensas e blusiadas de dor que, por o sentimento que delas reverbera ser tão agradável -- e sendo ele o próprio objectivo--, se podem muito bem passar de formular as frases que compõem o discurso em si. Assim é o primeiro dia da faculdade. Um céu de cor acrimoniosa azul, tentando conter nas suas entranhas a amalgama de pensamentos que o seguirão. E apenas em fantasia se reformula a ideia de que houveram sensações de entusiasmo, expectativa, nervosismo, grandiosidade, orgulho e medo, como se fosse um tributo estilístico que se deve prestar à nossa própria imaginação. Na realidade creio que apenas havia o habitual: a inegabilidade presente.

Assim que está estipulado o início, o resto corre muito depressa na mente. Na realidade também é assim. Uma vez o produto cobiçado ao alcance, o resto é tão inevitável que aconteça que o tempo não lhe quer dar nem o mesmo encanto nem a mesma atenção. Como será o fim?

O liceu é um período de fantasia. Todos os cursos se parecem com os das revistas, como as mulheres. Maquilhadas, extasiantes, belas, cheias de curvas excitantes, de aventura no que escondem, e nos seus olhos, claro, bem lá no fundo, onde o desejo é visível, a via para o nirvana.

O curso já não é tanto assim. Ao primeiro contacto falta-lhe qualquer coisa. Talvez um coelhinho no canto. Mas ainda não estávamos prontos. Onde meti a imaginação de há bocado? Ah, cá está. Nem por aí deixamos de entrar na toca da Alice. E quando os olhos da víbora cruzam os nossos pela primeira vez... o primeiro semestre dura metade do curso. Tudo é perfeito e inocente, e passa-se a maior parte do tempo na cama ou a não fazer nada. Só se lhe vêm os olhos, as mãos juntas sobre os lençóis, por entre as ervas, onde transpira o passado que vai ganhando força. Mal se apercebem os amantes que com cada nodo de volúpia que com a língua desatam, cada murmúrio de vida que se passam um ao outro, alimentam a criatura que, sedenta, invejosa de tanta abundância, as olha com cobiça. Tudo é escuro aqui. A memória gosta de deixar aos amantes idos a privacidade de já terem sido. Há um copo de whisky no canto da memória, mas alguém o deixou lá só para ambientar quem um dia consultaria esta visão. Nunca era preciso beber nesses tempos. O silêncio outra vez, o ângulo do olhar vacilante. São os últimos dias do primeiro semestre. Já se bebe do copo afinal e um postal antigo usado como base deixou uma pasta seca colado ao copo. Não sai, que raio. Talvez com a faca. Um passatempo para quem não tem nada para fazer. Já entregaste o trabalho de TFCOM? O tecto não era desta cor. Está mais castanho ou cinzento. Também é normal que o branco deixado tantos anos na memória se vá cobrindo de pó e a fibra crua dos vasos de conserva vá secando, encolhendo, soltando o forte agarro ao cadáver da verdade, escorregando inerte nas areias do breu do lago. «Já foi», diz o vacilar da câmara. A voz tem alguma filosofia de ala hospitalar a dizer novamente, basta ouvir o tom de voz fraco, basta a arrogância deste hemisfério esquerdo que tem sempre de falar nestas ocasiões. Talvez agora apareça um candeeiro e da luz fraca que tomba do abât-jour como a neve morna de Outubro, deslizando sobre a corda de uma guitarra do mississipi, se sinta algo. O som sente-se mais do que se ouve, é um local de reclusão; a dor está prestes a falar. Para tal é necessário uma devastação suficiente: a cama meia vazia, apenas o próprio corpo esperando a voz de um dos lados, uma almofada visivelmente usada há pouco tempo por uma longa mulher, e nas paredes talvez um velho papel com um padrão desactualizado a cair... mas sem rachas, nem chuva a bater na parede. Isso cortaria a depressão. Esta memória tem de ser seca, desvitalizada, corroída pelo arranhar da ampulheta. E assim, exalada como fumo, num desabafo de negrume, a opinião da consciência profere-se a si própria. «Por vezes, o homem tem de enfrentar certas condições adversas para uma consciencialização da sua identidade e caminhos próprios no jogo do real e cuj' infelizmente a mentalização prévia levaria simultâneamente a um embotar da dor e inevitavelmente à sua inutilidade consequente. Por tais razões é que fé no caminho deve ser conservada, pois a focalização na verdade leva apenas ao tropeçar incessante nos intrincados rendilhados da lógica e nunca a um término, onde o solo é firme e a mente pode observar a paisagem em curso de um ponto de vista mais contemplativo.» A terceira dimensão das mulheres é a que escava e fende; talvez não entrenhassem a duas dimensões, nas capas das revistas, mas o processo de aprofundamento da relação com elas continua a ser muito pouco cirúrgico.

A corte ao curso é longa como a atenção que um caçador dá em estender minuciosamente a armadilha sob os seus próprios pés. E quantas espécies extinctas o podem acusar de ser incompetente? Há um roçar, primeiro distante, dos olhos, sob a luz eléctrica de uma sala isolada, e depois, o movimento descoordenado, o primeiro movimento, pensado ao longo de meses, anos de subserviência à curiosa emoção obsessiva, brusco e cauteloso, como o cair planeado de um quadro na parede, o quebrar de grilhetas, agarrando a caneta, e então, desenhando intensos traços de sedução na pele dela, repintando as saliências da sua silhueta arrojada, da volúpia, algo sucede, a necessidade de tomar, possuir, operando sob os lençóis, uma palavra a um professor qualquer numa noite embriagada, e no dia seguinte uma rapariga adormecida sobre a alvura das manhãs e um orientador novo. E a pressão, pedida por insuperabilidade, e o choque, semanal, das reuniões, constantes, batendo na tese, nas vírgulas, no texto, nas equações, e o plano, o plano, o plano da tese, sempre o plano, o plano, o plano, um toque no ombro dela, a almofada mordida, um breve abrir dos olhos para saber dos dela cerrados, o ranger de dentes do orientador enfurecido, e sempre os gritos, os gritos, acumulando-se no triângulo, no pescoço dela, esperando, desabrochando, um dia, no site, lá apareceu, a data, uma singularidade crescente, a defesa, e a explosão... e mais nada.

Breve, o fim do curso é uma expressão de êxtase: vê-se a chegar, dura pouco, e por momentos nada mais interessa. A Física não interessa, o doutoramento não interessa, e todos os neurónios ainda em condições de andar são chamados à câmara de gás para serem processados por quantidades enormes de álcool. Que voluptuosa chacina, sem sentimento, a ideia pura, clara e concebida de que a revolução opera-se mediante o guilhotinar dos funcionários dos objectivos anteriores.

Pouco depois, dentro da roupa o desejo outra vez. Ah, Lídia...

Espera, Lídia? Isto não é meu. Quem é que deixou esta memória aqui?

High on the Rock Bottom

Tramp world listen to me!

My soles are about to soil the road, clothes are all over my room, auditioning for the next eleven adventurous weeks on my body. This blog will be temporarily out, or permanently should this trip go wrong, but I'll be keeping a travelblog:

www.mytb.org/neophyte

Keep the still world moving while I'm away and hope you're not lonely without me!

Aviso de Despejo

Declaro por este meio o blog encerrado. Podem continuar a clicar nos links.

Peace, the no.1 War Crime

You know, whenever I leave home, I walk down the street and I see people wearing expensive clothes, counting money for their next shopping frenzy, getting on their fast cars with energy pumping in their veins, stepping hard on gas, basically being happy the way we've learned to be. They wear bright colorful clothes, listen to fist-thrusting pop and rock, and spend hilarious amounts trying to prove they are the happiest. And any man's mind might just wonder; have they forgotten what happened in the last decade? Is this the natural reaction to what we did? To keep our society the way we live it, we ruthlessly invaded countries based on lies others made up for us, and which we coped with. This decade has been one of the darkest ones, and yet our culture does not reflect it. We keep on blaming Iraq on Bush's war policy and on american troops in the region. But why are we angry? Is it because they did it for oil? Just look around you: who isn't using oil? which one of us can claim he's not enjoying this greedy society that needs to brake people from distant countries to prevail?

Some of us know. Some of us are smart enough to know the reasons behind Iraq. They are usually europeans. Many are americans too. It's easier when you're in Europe to hate the war in Iraq because you have another country to blame. We've been taught to point at the other side of the ocean whenever things go wrong. The war in Iraq was a dupe. Americans and europeans as their allies were duped into believing there was something dangerously elusive in Iraq besides oil dollars that, well... still weren't ours. We rushed into that land based on some impressively convincing fiction to make sure we got all the oil we ever needed. And we got it. Of course, now the very companies we sent to make the profit for us are speculating over it, so things aren't as nice as they could be. But we made a lot of money...
This society we live in is based on the fact that money's awesome. Why do you work? For money. Why do you seek profit? to be happier. Why should you be happier? because that increases your productivity. I remember after the war in Iraq started some big company's CEO said 'We invest in Iraq so the lives that were lost were not in vain.' Armed Forces from the Coalition of the Willing liberated Iraq as we witnessed another Vietnam, casualties reaching similar figures. And all because at some point, our money manufacturers eventually pointed in the same direction, and it happened to be buried right smack in the middle of Iraq's soil.

Now a lot of people are aware of this. They go marching in the streets, shouting 'Peace in Iraq'. Actually most people are quite conscious up to a certain level. Most europeans I know are, and I guess over half of the americans too. So these people, who call Bush and his troops murderers, they're getting ready for their sit-in. Let's call one of them Mr. Klean. M. Klean looks at his watch made of PS (polystirene) and shoot! notices he only has half an hour before the protest. So he runs, puts on his shoes with synthetic rubber soles and runs. On his way out he finds that package from Amazon with that book on 'Dirty oil profits in Iraq' shipped by airmail, quicly resolves his joy and resumes his flight. Gets in his car, sits in his seat that was assembled to the rest of the car thanks to its shipping from Kyoto, Japan to Detroit, MI, fires up the engine running on gas, and races fast. When he gets there, he stops the car, opens the door and pulls out a big board on which he wrote: 'DON'T SOIL FOR OIL!'.
Now tell me, where exactly did this man avoid using Iraq's bloody oil? With the plastic, the shippings, the gas... some drop of it must have fallen at some point in the big oil cauldron where his life was prepared.

I do not believe in war crimes. We do our little lives, dealing with our pathetic problems as though they could in any way be compared to the ones that are common in third world countries. But when something starts to threaten those tiny details which make our lives so much easier we have to do something about it. Well, not we of course. But someone. Europeans blame the States, in the States, democrats blame republicans, republicans call for necessity and blame it on Al Qaeda. The truth is we all wanted this. The ones who sent the army to invade Iraq might be the obvious lying scum, however, they will never be as big liers as we are. Our daily actions hire the soldiers who massacred a village in Karbala, they buy the bombs and the napalm that was dropped to rip iraqi faces off their heads, they afford the mines that will blow up cute little kids legs for the next 15 years, and they pay for the pipe-lines, the pumps, the drills, all the gear that will bring the oil to us. Every time you drive your car, every time you burn up your money on unecessary goods, just every smallest second of our consumer's lives. We are worried about a few men who were willing to invade a rightful country for oil profits, yet we support it in every decision we make. The insults tossed at them, our protests, our morality, the very definition of war crime is like a tribunal of crooked murderes judging a fellow murderer. And when we hang them publicly, it's nothing but good old dog eat dog, except that one of the dogs calls himself righteous. We lie. War is no crime. Our ways have squeezed these lost violent souls into Iraq, put them in a situation where aggression is as simple and natural as breathing, and then we dare to point our dirty finger at them when the heat is too much and their actions become devilish. War is never a crime. The concept of War Crime is a lie. In war people are there to kill, pillage and murder. That is what war is all about. Humiliation is nothing there, amongst the cries, the tearful widows and the limbless children. The one and only crime is what led to war, this greedy all-consuming peace of ours that can't sustain it's own combustion.

Telling who took the last shot won't make any difference; the shot has been taken. Many more wars will come as long as we keep on living greedily, and terrorism will keep on as long as we keep showing off our satisfied futile needs, our needless purchases and the short range of our shallow care.

You want war?

good, stop acting like you don't.

You don't want war?

great, don't make it happen then.

XXIst century: Building the Masturbative Society

It is a curious fact that Man has always wondered what his place is in the Universe's plot - his ultimate purpose, and yet with every technological breakthrough the human race has been laying down milestones towards its complete uselessness. We were born with this overgrown brain, a evolutionary leverage which ultimately might lead us to creating a world that can keep on going on its own (still, according to our ways) and in which our presence is minimally noticed or even irrelevant. Fate has not lost its sense of irony since the biblical times, and our efforts will eventually cradle an existence in which we need not interfere, just as Nature - that once gave birth to our own species - did. To keep us from realizing too painfully that very fact, we have developed inumerous clever ways to veil our lack of use. Welcome to the Masturbative society.

Our features gladly give away our initial habitat, the one we were conceived to survive in. Two legs, opposable thumbs and ultra cerebral development: we are runners meant to manipulate our environment in order to reproduce and carry on with survival. Our bodies are tough, our muscles can be quite powerful. Our legs can carry us, along with a heavy payload, should our arms or back care to help. Our arms are meant to throw, bash and carry, our legs are meant to run... we are natural hunters. But where is all of this nowadays?
We don't need to hunt anymore. Even if we did, we invented rifles. Rifles shoot animals with a minimal effort. Aim&Pull hardly takes any physical work out. Going to the supermarket by car takes even less. Yet some have found a way to keep the body useful. Because the truth is our body is slowly losing all its abilities and will eventually shut down (which we call heart attack due to morbid obesity) when it reaches a severe state of purposelessness. So we go to gyms. We won't walk to work but we don't mind spending 60 bucks a month to go run in a gym for an hour, like guinea-pigs, chasing after a still wall for 40 minutes. Yet others try to keep their hunter's instincts alive: they gather up to hunt, shooting rabbits with guns that would punch every mosquito in a cloud if you gunned it. Then they hang them around for their friends to see and later their wives cook up another (certified) rabbit meat they bought at the supermarket. Fisherman return the fish to the water, kids play soccer on their playstations when its sunny outside... This is the world we have created to live without our bodies. Our mind has taken over the power because our body's uses are limited to those demanded by Nature. And we definitely want more. But we can't live without them. Hence we keep faking their use, just to make sure they will hold till we're very old.

However, I don't mean to say that our society has only renegated the physical realm. In fact, it has quite curiously taken an immense interest in it lately. Botox, gyms, liposuction: everybody wants to show they fake the better. This is actually good. It means society has realised this fact, sucked it up and moved on. Though something worse is also at work...

Our muscles have lost their ability to our brain. But that was a while ago. Then our brain lost its own use to itself. Extracting cubic roots in your head is more of a circus show rather than something actually useful. Even solving equations with a pen and a pencil isn't very useful. Computers can think for us. Machine can do all the work that consists of either mental or physical stone hammering, because doing it is just a pain in the ass. It's not human we may say. Animals can do it. Machine can do it. We won't. This is actually a lot more recent than the gym thing. A little over ten years ago, there was this man at CERN (the great european physics laboratory) who was a sweeper; he sweeped floors at the theory division. But from time to time a door would open there and some physics lunatic would invite him to his office (no, this is not gay porn) and ask him to compute this huge calculation. Because he could do it faster than computers. Eventually, in the late nineties, his freakish skills got overthrown. We work out sudokus and we run for our health to maintain a flesh and a mind that are no longer useful in this world we have created. So what's left for us? Why are we not extinct yet?

Is it desire? Could be desire. After all, desire is what moved us to build this world that relinquishes us now, like a twenty-year old forsakes his parents who are outdated and obsolete. But is it really desire the last outpost of true use we have? Try to put yourself in a stone man's shoes (or rather stone man's bare feet) who, thanks to some space-time wormhole, suddenly appears in 2008. It's like paradise: pretty women everywhere with all their teeth on, endless hallways of food sitting like dull game within his grasp, fierce beasts far away along with disease and cold... What's left to wish? That man would be the happiest cave man in History. So why do we crave so much for everything around us? Why do we just got to have that car? or that pair of shoes? that MagicSweeper from TVShop? Our society has come up with a brilliant solution, a fake-out masterpiece. People don't need the damn 200$ shoes. So let's just hang a picture of those shoes wherever they go and talk about it on whatever they listen to. That'll get them to buy them. We are faking our own desire. Why? Because we can't live without desire. We have nothing left to wish that really matters. But, just like we can't live without our body and our mind, we have to keep our desire burning or our emotional and psychological system will start to meltdown, like a nuclear power plant meltsdown when its reaction isn't controlled by the electric network's needs. That's why rich people who fail to become prehenptively shallow have such mental problems and 90% of them end up depressed.

Damn! so it looks like we're heading towards becoming a silly party of rudiculous merry-makers, cheering in joy and crying in sorrow, while our creation struggles in the backgournd to provide for our basic needs. For it's our creation that has really taken our place in the world. And the fact that we've created it is what makes us unique and essencial to this universe.

Creativity. Creativity is what we have left for ourselves. Computers can't create. "They lack the imperfection for it." Nothing leaves the rules that were once established for them. We are the guide that leads the way into the future because the products of our creation still can't step off the road laid for them. Maybe this is how God felt about 2.2 million years ago, before he invented the humans. There He was, writing on his blog, telling his other deity friends how creativity was what distinguished them from all the rest and Bam! these monkey-looking creatures start walking around, making tools, painting stuff, building towers, writing books. But they were some ugly mother-fuckers. So He and his mates, Shiva, Allah, Odin, paid no attention to them. Tough luck. 2.2 million years later, atheists rule the world.

So which one of our "ahumanist" creations will rule the world in 2.2 million years?

Stand-up (1)

Alors aujourd'hui c'était un de ces jours super, mais ben juste terrible. Terrible pour moi bien sûr , hein, c'est pas la normalité. Ah non, didieu! Moi, je suis physicien. Moi, la Britnesse S'pierce ça me fait que dalle. Bon, quand je dis moi, bien sûr, je parle que de la tête. Parce que le bidule là en bas, dès qu'il détecte la britnesse, hop là!, il hausse le périscope. Ah, c'est un malin lui... Faudrai que je le sorte un jour peut-être, question de lui montrer la ville. Je sens qu'il commence à s'interesser à la science lui. Il va être comme Papa. L'autre jour, je lui ai raconté une histoire le soir pour l'endormir, et puis je l'ai assis sur mes genous et il m'a fait «Papa, c'est quoi la spéléologie?». Ah, les jeunes, les jeunes, comme la cu-rio-si-té ça les touche! Je suis tout fier. Alors comme un bon père je lui est répondu: «Hé! Hô! Tu veux bien arrêter de me parler où quoi? Ça fait une semaine que je ne bois plus!»
Ah oui hein! parce que quand vous buvez les bidules ils se mettent tous à parler comme des tchattes-tchattes. Quand on rentre tout troglodytés après une soirée en boîte et qu'on veut faire pas de bruit en rentrant chez soi parceque la copine, elle, elle en à marre de faire la vesselle sans le câlin du roudoudou après, c'est là que tous les machins se metent à parler. On arrive, on veut mettre la clé dans la serrure et c'est alors que elle se décide à vous faire connaissance. Et comme toutes les femmes, elle fait la difficile au début. Moi, je ne lui répond pas, j'essaye simplement de mettre la clé dans le trou mais la serrure n'arrête pas de bouger. «Ah, non tu ne vas pas me la mettre dans le trou sans qu'on se connaisse mieux! Pour qu'elle femelle d'animal me prends tu, espèce de sauvage?». «Mais t'es conne ou quoi?! Je te la mes dedans tous les jours et tu ne me dis jamais rien, c'est maintenant que fais l'abstinente?!». Faut dire que quand je gueule à la serrure, de l'autre côté c'est pas le silence qui m'attent non plus! Dès que je rentre, ma copine, elle se met à jouer ma mère, en imitant même les cris et tout. Alors elle est bien sympa de m'aider à ne pas manquer Maman mais j'aurais préferé qu'elle me laisse tout simplement jouer avec les nichons comme Maman le faisait quand j'avais un an. Mais alors, non, ma copine il faut qu'elle fasse des discours: «Raigne, rochigne, trucide...» (j'avoue que je n'arrive jamais à me concentrer sur ce qu'elle dit quand elle râle, ou quand elle me demande des trucs; c'est peut-être une maladie, faudrait que j'aille voir un médecin.). «Mais vé la pitchoune que je te dis que la serrure elle me laissait pas rentrer, c'est quand même pas de ma faute quoi!» Mais elle continue. Faut dire qu'avec celle là y'a pas besoin de boire pour la faire parler, ah non! Pour elle, parler c'est une deuxième façon de respirer. Ou peut-être même une première. C'est pire que la radio. Et en plus c'est une radio du vingt-et-uni-ème siècle parcequ'elle s'allume automatiquement dès qu'on s'en approche et en plus toujours sur la chaîne qu'on ne veut pas. Alors bien sûr le guide d'utilization je l'ai jeté poubelle au deuxième rendez-vous ce qui fait que je n'ai aucune idée de comment la faire taire. Une fois j'ai même essayé de tourner un des tétons voir si on pouvait baisser le volume et "Clac!". Là c'est sa paume qui a parlé, ce qui m'a surpris parceque je n'avais rien bu. Imaginez si j'avais bu! mais au moins ça aurait fait moins mal.
Quand on est bourré, ils parlent les objets que je vous dis. Par contre l'année dernière, je suis allé en Italie et je me suis foutu dans une de ces villes avec de ces rues ridicules qui ne servent à rien. Oui, qui ne servent à rien! Vous savez les petites rues désertes où il n'y a personne, où quelqu'un a laissé son linge pendu il y a environ deux guerres mondiales et où les chats ils sont au régime pour pouvoir passer dans les rues. Elles ne servent à rien ces rues là. Ils les ont baties pour pouvoir vendre des cartes compliquées aux touristes, et puis de temps en temps ils en prennent un ou deux en ôtage et ils demandent une rançon pour les faire sortir de là. Mais me voilà perdu comme un con. Eh bien, là les bidules ils ont pas été fichus de me dire quoi que se soit. Même pas où me procurer de l'alcool pour pouvoir leur parler. De toute façon ils allait me parler en italien ou marrocain, ou mafiarcien. Ah oui, faut aussi savoir qu'en Italie la mafia elle contrôle les éboueurs. Alors il y en a des rues où les poubelles sont "very typiqueul". Ça pu la pasta pourrie partout. Je crois d'ailleurs que c'est pour ça que les chanteurs italiens ils chantent avec des voix ridiculement nasales. C'est parcequ'ils se bouchent le nez. Essayez ça marche. Les nanas elles vont vous prendre pour Ramazzotti: « hoooo caaaammiiiinaaaatooo suuuu peeeensiiiiieriiii riiiipiiiiidiiii... mais poutain qué sa poue per ici!».
Mais alors, eux, les italiens, ils savent faire taire les femmes.