Cocks yours, I'm going to Congo.
And to show you that not a provocation, I go before the derby. Sorry for the few brothers who leave and the occasional Caucasian girlfriends, for the brothers' girlfriends are sacred and for the wives who are already more worldly. I'm sorry to lose the game that will see the exploits of Toni, the explosion of Rafinha, the slalom Mesto, the mobility of Veloso and bench Kharja. I will dream a goal for me is not right and little ... no, But it is not ours ... a brace from Rudolf. We get more invertebrates than ever, this traditional event. How was the festival of chicory off season, as we knew already that ends 0-0.
I'm sorry friends, but Italy has really broken my balls and it did not take Daniele Silvestri to understand that I am not alone.
in Congo because I'm going there, when a regime becomes ridiculous, you go down the street and makes war.
I'm going to the Congo in Africa because there is a logic of things: lagggiù'll never see an unemployed person in a house at risk of collapse, holding an I-Phone.
I'm going to Congo because I want to record an album with a sublime band of street musicians with polio, which is called Staff Benda Bilili and if you do not believe, in addition to your limp dicks, ascoltatevi their album "Tres Tres Fort," and then tell me. But quietly, that's me on the ass when people give me reason.
I'm out in Congo in particular to enjoy the festival there will be when the Mazembe Football Club will become world champion for the club, after inchiappettato Brazilians.
Congo! Country corrupt, uncivilized, full of abuses, ruled by idiots dangerous. You will say, where is the difference? The difference is that the gap between rich and poor is immense, but the rich are the country's 0.1, not 15 percent! I'm too pissed
and too smart to comment on the confidence of the Italian Parliament, the street riots in Rome and infiltrators.
To speak of horrors I hired a spokesman, the ostricaro. It 'a character that many would like to take with me to Congo and will instead, to write a book on the memories of George Bubba.
But now I tell you the real thing: I got on a train to Genova Brignole, yesterday afternoon, there was a man who railed against the passengers. At one point he pulled out of the fountain in the flesh, and pissed on at all! It took five people to lock, the police to identify them and an attendant to clean the car.
The train has left with half an hour late and I would wanted so much to applaud. On the youth of today I scatarro above us, on the other maybe a nice piss alarm.
To calm the nerves of Genoa I could talk, but who cares? Our league, I think I understand, will close Sunday evening. He said those who know more about us and I approve every word, you know well that company.
E 'a year started badly and progressed worse. I look forward to that this season is over. Let the derby, just because it is a historic game, then everyone in the Congo, to see the Mazembe.
Moreover there is not even a fan of your card and you can go to Kinshasa from Lumbumbashi with the scarf around his neck. Limit yourself to steal the kids sniffing glue in the slums of the suburbs. At least you could play games in manager mode, we could concentrate on the transfer market in June.
I would say that you can go right from the Congo in June and July, when it rains here and here opens Ataquark.
There have been few things that give satisfaction, in this peninsula of pigs. Eating, drinking, pussy and a handful of our local fans rossoblu. The rest find it anywhere else. And eating and drinking, export, if you have the money.
But the handful ... in front of the steep fall in Italy, before leaving for the Congo, I have enjoyed one of those lunches that are not easily forgotten, if not a lobotomy and a week gym. Noodles with white truffles, tagliatelle with wild boar sauce, pork with potatoes, polenta and braised beef and a number between five and twenty varieties of dessert. All
prepared by one man, with the help of his wife.
I could talk about the wines, but enlighten you on the "vertical of Caroni", the only antidote against a country in disarray and the soft launch before Omar Milanetto.
At the end of a meal like that, next to consenting persons (and not wait for you to go really in Congo), open a bottle of Caroni, 1993, that if you know a year is unique in the history of Caroni. That year the employees of the factory began notice to the company, but was not called Meggiorini Britos and had to close down Caroni. To save what was in the barrels, since the season began badly and all were hoping would end soon, the rum bottle early.
So instead of achieving the right shade of aging and the famous 55.3 °, stopped "only" to 44.5 °. It tastes a glass of Caroni 1993, it is pleasantly sipping, chatting, and accompanied it with dark chocolate and cinnamon.
Then move on to the Caroni real, down from 1992. At first you feel the burning in my throat I felt when I saw Gasparri jump like Ricky Martin when it's "a dos tres, ale ale ale, then as you breathe hard stuff in front of Deputies and finally understand that each vertical drop can be offset by a rise of taste. Why
seasons, whether it is worth living, should not go on forever.
Only one vertical, perhaps, save us.
I, meanwhile, I'm leaving in Congo and sent cordially all those who are not my brothers, to fuck off.
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