Laughing but touching own balls

June 30, 2009 at 2:40 pm (Berlusconi, Italy, Politics, democracy, humor)

During five years, the governments Prodi-D’Alema-Amato straighten Italy accounts, to enter the eurozone in the first wave.
And I touch my balls firstly for the escaped danger; if they had not been succesfull, now italians beg everywhere in the world, except Berlüsca, obviously.

Alright, the Berlüsca goes to the government and it happens you a 9th/11, a world recession, an oil barrel to the stars.

After five years Prodi returns and economy is again growing, for all the time his government can last, lucky dog that!

When Prodi falls, the Berlüsca returns rejoicing like a gongolo, and an economic world crisis bursts, the worst  of a long period, worse than 1929 too.

Not enough, the L’Aquila earthquake comes, with a lot of damage and reconstruction costs, in addition to human casualties; and then this rail disaster in Viareggio.

I think that as Prodi is  happily lucky as the Berlüsca takes rotten luck to Italy, but truly bloody rotten luck.

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Shit

June 16, 2009 at 2:31 pm (Berlusconi, Italy, Politics, democracy, humor)

Everything can be a mirror of a country, a black mirror sometimes, often involuntary.

Five minutes ago, on La7, an Italian TV network, during an advertisement interval, first one on Imodium, a drug that stops diarrhea, then on Activia, a yogurth with the property of moving the intestine.

Alright, is this or not a shit country?

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Time tangle

June 12, 2009 at 9:02 am (Berlusconi, Italy, Trifles, democracy, humor)

Yesterday I woke up being Friday. I’m sure it was Friday. I was happy when I took my dirty train to Milan because it was Friday.

And I resisted all day at work and boredom, by the strenght of Friday, since the time to go to station by Milan’s metro. Great heat, slimy sweat, but I had the Friday’s smile. But not only for me, not an illusion, I’m sure, all the faces were Friday’s faces, also on the train of the evening, more an oven than a train. When I arrived to Vigevano railway station, it was still Friday, I’m sure.

Suddenly it’s Thursday. Thursday? It’s not possible! Thursday! When all the day I had resisted only for the consciousness of Friday! I want to cry, Thursday.

I’m sure that someone stole me the Friday; I have no evidence, but must be the Berlüsca.

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