today are in the mood for serious reflection.
A few hundred kilometers from our italics ground reality is taking a somewhat 'blood.
a kind of caricature of Michael Jackson octogenarian dressed as Mr. Magoo, almost half a century master of Libya, is holed up inside a bunker and throw bombs and proclamations from the same acidodipendente, while a slightly pissed off people can not wait to corcho with Mazzella, then throw away any remnants Hades.
Meanwhile, the forward-looking (and ironically) and drunken parties responsible for the "Italian propaganda, smear the walls of the city with slogans like" Stop the massacres in Libya. "
Oooooh! But what a great idea! But how did we not think that the posters would be enough to end the carnage?
After a few years ago 'we have paid homage to the caricature of a dictator, leading him in triumph as a great statesman and leaving the camp with his Bedouin tents sputtanatissimo on our soil.
What I wonder why this is just laughable hypocrisy typical of the periphery of the world.
For years we suck the oil-General of my ovaries, we do real estate business, which we host and we bless him.
I think it would be much more consistent on our part and help tear the posters solvers (maybe with our soldiers so that they have nothing to do) to get out of that bunker and take the upper hand on those so uncivilized that are not accustomed to democracy .
protect the oil, we use the most unlucky people to make our fortune, the colonies also reopen we would do much good. Gaddafi
it's not crazy now. Gaddafi is stupid for forty years, so there are just excuses.
Now we do some pretty direct "door to door", where Vespa will try to capture live the death of a sacrificial sent and where commentators will inflame the colon of complacent viewers. Then we will make many special services on the graves. Then perhaps a television format called "Who wants to be dictator?" With the "Stragine", who will tickle the eyes of those who always prefer the blood jag.
I chant a mantra in the meantime more and more full of fuck, pending, of course in vain, for a ride to Mars.
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