South Park Stereaming Eng

f: Excuse me, Mr. Hero.
g ...
f: Hey, Mr. Hero?
g: ah you said to me then. Hello. you want?
f: forgive me, I did not want to bother. is that I need to talk to someone about something. her, I think, is the right person.
g (approaches, limping): OK, tell everything. but no longer dare to call me Mr. hero. Give me of you.
f: Herr er .. oops, sorry. anyway I'll be right down to it, if I can. do not really know how to say it without sounding offensive. the problem is that all this fluttering of flags, this wave of tricolor, all these celebrations, well, I have left a bit 'uneasy. I do not know why. until a few months ago thought sacrosanct, proper and important to celebrate this anniversary, it seemed a very nice thing to do. now that is just past, insisted this swirl of white red and green, the thing here, I do not know how to say, left me confused and perplexed.
g: I understand what you're getting.
f: (raises eyebrows) really?
g: yes. I had time to think about it too, long time. do not get me wrong, I am very pleased to have done this. but sometimes I take the despair and think, who made me do?
f: What do you mean?
g: (lights a cigar, calmly) you see, this country can celebrate many things: the beauty of its landscapes, its artists and its culture, its exports, its good food, its magnificent Constitution. even his country (when he won). I do not think, however, can celebrate its unity, without appearing hypocritical. behold, I have the impression that it was a celebration so empty and meaningless ritual. sense to speak of unity today?
f: good question! This is precisely the question that worried me. makes little sense to talk of unity as a unit, in my opinion, today there is not. is an important issue. Italy are still made to do the Italians and the task is still ongoing. because sometimes it seems to me that here is missing almost all a collective consciousness, the idea of \u200b\u200bbeing all in the same boat, in the same country. The reasons are complex, almost certainly historical, but we are a conglomeration of individual citizens, not a community. the horizon of each of us is often just beyond our noses.
g: (blows a bit 'of ash fell on the poncho) yes, I think so too. green shirts, white collar, red shirts should be close in the same flag. and celebrate together with blue collar, the shares rose, yellow immigrants. black blouse, no, those should be able to send them to hell (laughs). Instead of a thick and underlie all stuffy blue, full of useless flags. as may be joined a country that believes in itself and in its future? a country where culture, innovation, education and labor issues are not urgent? where everything is covered with a blanket shorter and shorter, without any foresight? (Pauses, takes a long drag on his cigar) I wonder if today he would find a thousand, of forward-looking people (it is a bit 'lost in thought, stroking his beard). Well, anyway, if you insult a person for 364 days is a hypocritical gesture really him then a gift for her birthday, right?
f: right, yeah, I meant just that. it all seems a bit 'rhetoric, I think past the party and the patriotic enthusiasm tomorrow everybody will come back to do their own interests, and act as if there were a community. because a sense of community does not yet exist, everything is still to be built.
g: and I confess, all this makes me terribly angry, because in the end I love this country. want to see something?
f: yes.
g: (takes off a boot, indicates a point of foot): aspromonte, 1862.
f: (you hold your nose) wow, a terrible wound.
g: I got it in combat. but it was not a bullet Bourbon, or Austrian, or French, or skullcap. nor was the bullet of an army of this world, even if it is there that we wanted to send me (laughs). Italian was a bullet, just a year after unity. pain torments me.
f: I'm sorry. I do not know what to say. But I can think of a question: In your opinion, to build this famous sense of community we're talking about, what we need? such as bricks?
g: (sighs) but maybe times have changed so much in the end. I have always believed in this recipe: enlarging its boundaries and strive to look beyond their nose, insist the small gestures of public civility and promote in every way, who performs them. civic passion: Italy, there you have to do so, or it dies inevitably.
f: You're right, it's a good recipe. good celebration of 150 years. say hi to anita. and thanks for the chat.
g: figured I was pleased. celebration of the 150 good for you too. f

csxqp: status - "is back garibaldi"

Rotator Cuff Brainstorm

airport, it seems that it must take a plane to go abroad, not too far away, but it sounds strange, they usually talked about coaches, trains, ferries, connections, reservations, waiting, but this time not at the station, perhaps a mistake, we were wrong stop, the bus took us out of town ... the noise is deafening, huge steel monsters take off and land constantly, my head is spinning, F smiles, is that this time we are really doing the imponderable ... or maybe they are there because he has to leave for Ireland, even if you do not see Fau, then why would I ever take a trip, this is a period of "dead" season, it is cold, and I have not even done cmq check-in so I have nothing to fear, but I'm not too sure, I have spent a suspicious check, and then what about the paper route that I had in my pocket, someone wants to make a joke, but today is not April 1 March 1 but the ... cmq is there to wait, but I do not understand what you have to wait, and waiting hands me a bottle F, tells me that I will do well, that just a drink, to travel ...

and I dream a shuttle that goes slowly toward a small four-engine, show hostess that I use the ring, a little TV from where they see huge stretches of barren fields and houses that are turned into snow-capped peaks but then return to idle land and that far away from becoming very close, very large by tiny, imperceptible to a razor sharp ... and keep dreaming dear trains, hostels terribly distant, hostile climate, tongues, horrible coffee, stuffy rooms, bathrooms for contortionists, smelly socks on the radiator, cupboards without padlock, bicycle elusive, empty streets, constant work, constant repairs, scaffolding enveloping , yards yards and yards still ... I have restless sleep, perhaps I need to wake up with all the fuss is impossible to sleep, but the fatigue is so great, and so I take a dream ... dream of sunny days, cycling against the wind, the sea in winter, the bitter cold, runs the station, bunkers and fortifications, dry boats, towers to climb, castles to explore, photograph flags, maps to play, to experiment with dishes , and an army of French fries at every corner, every square, market, flat everywhere, cooked in lard not once but twice, not to mention the waffle iron ... is the time of the Flemish stew, rabbit in plum sauce, the pork shank, grilled duck, the soup of the day, the Trappist beer, but also of panos Panozzo, the apple pies, cakes with rhubarb, then the espresso is not so expressed, the pizza hut, of the five glasses of Pepsi, Starbucks, the bad, the impenetrable restaurants, the local ghost dell'irish breakfast, not to mention an endless amount of "yum yum yum" without having anything to eat in my hands! It 's the dream of distant cities, of tiny medieval villages and small universities, the renowned seaside resorts and large port facilities, and fantastic city of endless attractions ... we are running out, this long dream is to start the epilogue, but not before enriching other snapshots, like the guys who hit in front of the Atomium, Milan victorious, record stores where you never find what you need, heartfelt discussions, the family album without a family, half-carat diamonds, the memory of those who chased a dream and fell to his death, the challenges in high-altitude jump from the train without thinking, left-luggage mangiasoldi, dilapidated buildings, the self-portraits unpacked, exhausting walks, the pigeon crap on your shoe, lots table tennis, trash overflowing from every window, the chocolate of every shape and color ... driiiiiiiiiiiiiin

something sounds, I wake up, it's Monday morning, another bloody week I expected a mediocre job is my conviction, but I had a dream, maybe not go so bad, maybe some day smile, and then I understand, I still see all hazy ... but I dream or are awake? y

csxqp: Nirvana - "From The Muddy Banks Of The wishkah"

Thrombosis And Beauty Treatments - Cautions

dublin is: an unnecessary needle hundred feet planted in the road, sinks microscopic you can not wash your hands without wetting the ground, the skull of Jonathan Swift, bacon and butter everywhere and in great abundance, the Irish breakfast, which is enough for lunch and that's great for dinner, completely messed up traffic lights but with the appropriate accessories, the countdown, dancing merrily in the streets to the sound of the flute while people look at us a bit 'evil, night walks along the Liffey, pubs and colorful gates, the stern gaze of Molly Malone and the despair of the statues of famine, Shane MacGowan of the disks that are not even here, people we had all quietly undressed and very cold, the singer who sings whiskey in the pub in the jar, covered with the small coffee shop in every inch of posters and advertisements of any kind, the cold wind of Howth, seals that greet the little green island inhabited only by seagulls, the odd Polish-type met on the boat, tons of scarves worn that always seems to be near the harbor, kiss my girl by the wall gas work, write to the lighthouse at sunset, immmensi spaces of Trinity College, the harp of King Brian Boru, a library straight out of a movie, thousands of red brick, the concert of slf failure for ten days, green trash to no end, the poitin Featured, Irish stew that is pure harmony, the faces in the mirror, look left when it would be better to look right, barley, hops and yeast in a dark and charming combination, the sun and the clouds playing tag in the sky, never tiring.

Belgium is, the ducks that walk at night in the quiet square in Bruges, the streets seem deserted as a ghost town, the Westmalle triple the Bellevue Kriek Trappe and even the stew cooked in beer, work in progress everywhere, trecentosessantaepassa steps to get on belfort, swans sunning themselves before plunging into the channels, hundreds of bicycles parked in every possible place in front of the station in Ghent, the steeples of cathedrals in three rows that rise into the sky, the many French fries eat sitting on the statue in the square, waving flags with the lions on the castle, find the least flashy of a city simply by taking the tram or bus, the German type hostel there because he is the last option when you have finished the rest of Europe, hundreds of stores with hundreds of chocolates, the fun maps made by locals, the thirty-five km bike up to Ostend, the immense beaches of the Sea north inhabited only by seagulls, the immense effort to pedal against the wind, the glitter of diamonds in the windows of Antwerp, the Flemish bread with olives, the paintings of Rubens and the clash of the bootleg, the sugar that coats the squares of the waffle, the sudden rush down the train, with comic murals on the streets of Brussels and the child's tribal mask pissing, black and white photos of past lives and unknown and postcards of the past in the flea market, the structure impressive Atomium and the Heysel small after all, the restaurant is always full and the flight from pizza hut, the ruins of buildings destroyed and deserted downtown, the unexpected appearance a bit 'sgarruppato the capital of Europe, see the whole city from the roof of a deserted parking lot, his face raised to y after landing.

travel is: all this and much more: one of the nicest things you can do. f

csxqp: The Pogues - "Dirty Old Town"