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were mea culpa

"Quanno if joking, they must be 'serious!"

(from Il Marchese del Grillo , 1981)

Ultimately that is not able to speak so well. The fact is that I get distracted and think of nothing else, or I think the thing that I was just that, but I think so much (in relation to the timing of a normal conversation, I mean) that at this point, given the inevitable evolution of dialogue, it makes more sense to sit silent. In addition, historically, are a disaster, not in the sense that I am a disaster through the history of my life, but just in the history of the world and of men, so that I can not finish anything in context with consequent loss of credibility.
that must be why the once again gave me a obtuse. Dull, you know? Mica asshole, asshole, whore, idiot, traitor, and the like, no, stupid (it is clear that only people who can worship crashing in this way): "significantly restricted in intuitive abilities, intellectual, sensory." Considerably. Ok, it's just his "collection of complicated words" But then he told me other things and I - what never happened nor repeated - taken scarf and coat and went out of the house (which, for the record, it was his ) but I digress.

was to say how unbearable sense of helplessness that I could not find the right words exception made for some generic insult. And I also happen to be wrong this wonder which are the connective sometimes. So often I get along with silence, because to my interlocutors I certainly can not ask you to wait a few minutes and shit, sleep, sound, pedal boats, cook, stare at the ceiling or any other point in space, I massage my temples, I get the stairs, I squeeze points blacks, sip from the glass, I read (with the typical result of having to go back several pages because the eyes have gone ahead but his head no and then what the hell you want to understand), in short, all those situations where the few remaining neurons are set in motion pending discussions and remember only in my head and then being able - in ovvio e clamoroso ritardo - a trovare risposte e argomenti almeno decenti.

Successe la stessa cosa un paio di anni fa, a casa dei miei, in attesa del caffè dopo pranzo. Credo fosse all’interno della rubrica settimanale a cura di Vincenzo "è tutto bello e imperdibile" Mollica, in coda al Tg1:

- Papà (di stima verso la condizione fisica): “Come sta bene, o no? Ma quanti anni ha?"

- Cirello (sciolto): “Credo sicuramente più di novanta”

- Mamma (la sentence production in the north): "We think that was good, guardagli hands, that is one that has never worked!"

- Cirella: "..."

My mother cabbage, the sweetness of my mother.

was silent for a bit 'with the chilling phrase that pounded against my idea of \u200b\u200bthe world and things for which we live: "Mario Monicelli has never worked, Mario Monicelli has never worked, Mario Monicelli has never worked .... "

again in the situation described above. And even at that time I was able to argue to Umberto Eco, to say

but then I realize that the problem of Stupidity has the same value of the metaphysical problem of evil, even more, because you can even think of ( gnostically) that evil can nest removed as the bosom of the Deity, but the Gods can not conceive of the host and stupidity, and therefore the mere presence of the stupid Cosmo could testify in the Death of God

Nor, I know, as Donald Duck:

sapete bene che è il momento dei miei dieci minuti di ginnastica.

Così, presi (a ragione) la frase di mamma come un attacco frontale alla mia laurea e a tutto quel mondo che scrive, dipinge, scolpisce, compone, studia, ricerca, suona, legge, dirige, fotografa. In poche parole, le persone che non si spaccano la schiena nei campi, che quindi (chiudiamo semplicemente il cerchio) “non hanno mai lavorato.”

Poi pensai a quella puntata dei Simpson in cui la famiglia deve decidere dove andare per la consueta gita domenicale e alla fine - tra la proposta splatter di Bart, quella crepuscolare di Marge e quella on fairs and exhibitions of edible things idiots typical Homer - won the cultural wing, to Lisa: the book fair.

Now, can you imagine the tears and the personal tragedy of Homer, with some already in the lead hectolitre of beer or a trip on the Duff blimp, but the majority, at times, also won a Spingfield, then tap Accept: ;

"But what the hell are books? I've got only one bed, Uncle Tom's Cabin and I was taught that not only judge a man by the color of the skin. What the hell are books? Buaaaaaaaaaah! Buaaaaaaah "

Behold, this was my answer. But I do not think he went to sign.

No funeral or extreme unction (as I want, however, with the addition of cremation, just upstream?), And in style with the character, as well as the jump from the fifth floor: "Gypsy" until at the end .

And please, 'A bit of respect, is a dead body! " (from Toto and Carolina, 1955)