Ai fini del Radicalometro storico, per farne un completo Radicalometro dei Mille, etichetto circa 200 soggetti radicani presenti in Facebook, in 11 batch di 18 ciascuno
BERARDO, BERGER, BERNARDINI, BERTE', BERTUZZI, BIANCHI, BILOTTI, BISCARDINI, BOATO, BONIFAZI, BONONCINI, BORRELLI, BORTOLUZZI, BOZHILOVA, BUFFA, BUSCAGLIA, CACACE, CALLEGARI,

Radicalometro storico e Google fight

Per chi non conosce Google fight, è un sito che compara il numero di risultati tra due nominativi, perciò ci è utile per rivitalizzare il Radicalometro storico in basso a destra con le sfide tra i primi venti  in posizione dispari e i primi venti in posizione pari della celebre classifica, anche per vedere quanto è coerente coi risultati generali del web. Ecco il responso:

Welby batte Granzotto 218mila a 69.400
Pannella batte Suttora 108mila a 6.420
Dupuis batte Boselli 930mila a 211mila
Bonino batte Cappato 310mila a 76.600
Callegari batte Colacicco 208mila a 16.900
Tosoni batte Patelli 90.700 a 40.600
Bianchi batte Crocicchio 95.300 a 11.300
Bandinelli batte Licheri 74.500 a 29.100
Bordin batte Pezzilli 230mila a 5.260
Bernardini batte Turko 545mila a 34.900
Giordano batte Pagano 211mila a 154mila
Manera batte Cominelli 177mila a 31.300
Veronesi batte Polesel 16.500 a 5.730
Baldini batte Spadaccia 162mila a 4.170
Cicciomessere batte Strik-Lievers 2.410 a 1.050
Mellini batte Capezzone 50.500 a 17.100
Manzi batte Piccinini 350mila a 292mila
Alitsi batte Spolaor 460 a 458
Pasolini batte Busdachin 733mila a 735
Litta Modignani batte Scaruffi 4.870 a 4.500

Ripeterò il gioco per coloro che seguono in classifica, per ora mi devo fermare perché posso aggiungere solo venti etichette per post, cioè i nomi dei vincitori

Finalmente nella barra laterale sinistra è ritornato NyLon!, dopo una lunga rielaborazione, e presto (dopo un po' di meritato riposo) le trasmissioni del blog potranno riprendere regolarmente con altre eclatanti novità editoriali

NyLon – Chapter 1

I got up half-heartedly at 6am and at 7 already was in Hounslow on the A4 when Raffa flew over me in the massive Svirgin superjumbo from New York. I had the impression that the landing gear shaved my head. How could people live there, it was a mystery less comprehensible only than why the hell the airport had been developed to the west of the city, whereas it was well known that the wind is westerly most of the time and airplanes will always counter wind rigorously. This meant that an airplane per minute, a thousand a day, flew over the city at a low altitude, and naturally in times of terrorism the clever people in the government decided to expand it, Heathrow, with a third runway and a fifth terminal… Bah, politics, politics, I couldn’t help thinking of anything else. And women. It would have taken half an hour more to get and park at Terminal 3, but it would have taken even more to her to tidy up the first class. I wasn’t late. I was never late.

Raffa carried around her forties pretty well. She spent half of them up in the sky reaching the top for her career – responsible of the first class cabin, never more than eighteen passengers and a decent catering to share with her colleague Maria Cristina, a good salary and a fixed route with invariable routine: five atlantic flights a week, alternating weekends between the twin metropolis. That nocturnal flight had been an exception due to a terror alarm on her customary flight from Newark the morning before, which was due in London at 8pm on Friday. Had it not been for one of those more and more frequent alarms, she would have ended her working week like it had begun on Monday morning in Newark. Instead, the following one would have started on the afternoon flight, which would have taken her to New Jersey in time to catch up Manhattan for dinner. A beautiful life her Italian friends were envious of, getting to know a lot of interesting people in first class, although a bit stressful time to time, the bigger annoyance being wearing high heels and nylon stockings, a synthetic material she didn’t like. As usual, as soon as she jumped into the car she got rid of them both, only to put on her heels again, causing me the erection that was to accompany us at home. Unfortunately I couldn’t stop by, I had to go to the party headquarters. I parked Raffa and the Ferrari in the garage, I kissed them both and went walking along the Thames.

NyLon! - CHAPTER 3

At the Party headquarters in Cowley Street, worried Gary and Tim greeted me, Gary especially was nervous.

- Hurry up, Charles has been waiting for you in his office for over an hour

- But it’s 9 sharp, I’m on time as always. What does he want? And what is he doing at work so early on a Saturday?

I worried. It was quite unusual for the leader to be at work at dawn. However, I calmed down when he offered me a double shot of single malt. He was the same old Charles. I politely refused – it was too early even for me -, casting a glance at the party treasurer’s legs. In her forties as well, but carried pretty bad, swollen for too many single malts courtesy of the leader, whom instead as a brave Scotsman seemed to better absorb all those double shots. But it could be told by the well-shaped legs that she wasn’t bad at all when younger. Janine began to speak to me, fluttering the Financial Times that everybody knew she pretended to read, about the issue they discussed lengthily with Charles.

– We are in an expansion cycle, we sail from 20 towards 25 percent of the British market, which is going to be saturated. It is time to expand with a prestigious acquisition abroad, and the optimal cash flow allows us to do so. We have singled out the prospective purchase but we only have a couple of months in order to launch a hostile takeover before their shareholders’ meeting

She paused and looked at me as if she already said everything I should know. I looked back at her inquiringly, but she kept silent. Apparently, my look wasn’t interrogative enough. I had therefore to patiently express myself orally

- Shareholders of what the dick of a cock of the duck are you talking about?

- Italian radicals

- Never heard about them I replied turning to Charles, meaning that I expected from him the clarifications of political nature. Charles swallowed and explained

- They are a young small movement – “liberal, liberist and libertarian”, property of the transnational radical holding, which in turn is controlled by an Atanasio Pannella, very popular in Italy and other hopeless countries such as Walloon, Moldova and Lucania. To gather documentary evidence our information department advises the reading of “Pannella and Bonino Plc”, an excellent book by a famous newyorker journalist you’ll find in any nearby political bookshop. After which you will infiltrate yourself in their movement in order to better understand their financial situation, inner dynamics, sexual habits, if someone is blackmailable, in short I want to be kept constantly updated 

- Ok, fine, but why me?

- Obviously we have chosen you because I’m told you speak Italian well enough. Moreover, because your role here, although very important and I emphasize important, is rather, er, little known…

- Poor and dark, so that they won’t suspect that I work for us

- … and if you need anything else just ask me. Except for money, for the money ask Janine. Cheers I left in search of the book, found it, and seated on a park bench in the cloister of the ancient Westminster convent, looking at the gate on the courtyard of the homonymous school, I rolled a small spliff observing from far away the teenagers in microskirt and began to turn the pages in order to pass the time learning something while waiting for lunch with Vladimira, a Bulgarian friend who works nearby at Sky’s political newsroom. We lunched happily – the spliff made me hungry – and didn’t feel the need to do anything else. We haven’t had sex in over two months – we were no longer attracted to each other – but from time to time it was nice to gossip about her Bbc colleagues on the upper floor of the same building. Building which was off-limits for me because in the Beeb’s political newsroom there was Liubomira, another Bulgarian friend of mine with whom I hadn’t had sex in over four months – we were no longer attracted to each other – but from time to time it was nice to have a few pints and gossip about her Sky colleagues on the lower floor. They didn’t know about each other, that I knew them both, thus it was inappropriate for me to visit 4 Millbank. I goodbyed Vladimira with a customary French kiss, I should rather say a Bulgarian one, and resumed brooding on my mission walking the narrow lanes on this half of the political citadel west of the parliament, the half with parties’ and TVs’ headquarters, opposite to the width of Whitehall and the ministries that showed themselves on the other side in direction of Trafalgar Square. On Channel 4 modern building camped a massive ad of their new show NyLon, which first episode was due the following Tuesday. Nice pun. By association of ideas, I recalled Raffa’s heels and my erection. I sped up the pace towards home with a feeling that soon a new chapter would have opened up.

NyLon! – Chapter 4

- Nessun dorma! Nobody sleep! They won’t prevail! Rise up!

Daniel Crapazzoni dismissed the executive board with the usual incitement to the members of the secretariat gathered in the Torre Argentina. It was nearly 10pm on Sunday and he wanted to leave them free to listen to the radio those hoarse and persuasive voices that would have inspired the political strategy for the upcoming week. However, after fourteen hours of meeting they were all dead tired: the soporific voices could only inspire them in their sleep before they awake the day after. In London it was 9pm and me too I had spent Sunday at the party headquarters, but thousand miles north-west. The night before Raffa feigned a headache, frustrating my erection rather than simply whip it as usual. Never mind, patience, I resigned myself, and spent the night on the web beginning to put in practice my plan aimed at infiltrating Italian radicals. I learned that they had a website and in the website a forum where they quarrelled vehemently. A gold mine of information supplied voluntarily, sparing me the hard work to inquire. From a first analysis, three fundamental pillars emerged:

1. There was the current of libertarian radicals on the left;
2. There was the current of liberist radicals on the right;
3. All radicals in Padua were faggots.

I signed up to the forum myself but withstood the temptation to write: I had to maintain a low profile in order not to reveal my intention to infiltrate them. Instead I got out at dawn and went to the party to spend Sunday writing a detailed report for Charles – whom would have been happy to find it in his bloody Outlook on Monday morning -, and Janine, whom would have been less happy to find out my idea to finance the membership to Italian radicals of fifteen or so Londoners with the double goal of becoming shareholders and arouse Crapazzoni’s curiosity, so that he would visit us in order to get acquainted (while it was me who wanted to study him better). I was sure that I would be successful, I knew how to trap him, but at two hundred euros each it made a total of nearly two thousand pounds. Janine would not have appreciated; therefore, I only sent the report to Charles hoping that in his wisdom the leader would only have forwarded my demand to the treasurer after moistening her throat with some double shots of single malt. Satisfied for the good job, I returned home hoping that that night with Raffa would have been better.

—

I heard Raffa spit the last peach-stone when I went to the bathroom to wash my penis. I wouldn’t go back to bed, I wanted to put down on the WC, er, the PC, another chapter of an ocean-going novel of mine which I used to write in leisure time, and the night of sex had supplied me the inspiration. The evening before I thought of those two kilograms of peaches on the bedside table as a seductive invitation: peach-flavoured kisses are the best. Instead, she imperturbably kept on guzzling peaches as if nothing was going on while I sweated maneuvering her in every position. I pistoned her in front, from behind, from the top, underneath, even laterally, and in the meantime she ruminated peaches as a professional would shape her fingernails. Exhausted, I burst out

- Are you finished with those bloody peaches?

- They are good for the skin

- Sperm too is good for the skin – I replied spraying and spreading her – and my balls are aching

So much I was worn out that I wouln’d have been surprised to find one or two testicles among the peach-stones scattered on the floor. She was usually frantic like a nymphomaniac, but this time she had been very little co-operative. Clearly, she had something else in her peach, her head, which she left to fall behind onto the pillow covering it in a perfectly symmetrical composition of her dyed red hair. Laying with her arms and legs open on her inviting pussy, she was very beautiful indeed. Peaches were surely good for the skin, but they didn’t explain that gaze lost on the ceiling and that happy smile from an ear to the other. Evidently, she was thinking of someone else.

- Do you mind if we get out earlier picking up Maria Cristina? Andrea has broken his van and he cannot take her to the airport. In exchange, they invite us for lunch, but we must go quickly

Perhaps the other one was Andrea? No, he was a handsome stallion and once she rode him, unknown to me and her best friend, but it was him who didn’t find her appealing, after he found out she had painted toenails, something that Andrea couldn’t stand. He nicknamed himself Andrea to make it easier, his true Turkish name being Bülêňŧelıfyildız Åtatunçıller-Demıreleçţževitÿ, and he made the best niçoise salad with some mushrooms from Camden Market. At lunch, I refused it because I had to drive the girls to the airport in threatening stormy clouds darkening West London. But he knew that I would have appreciate it later on that night because it was a monday, one of our secret pleasure mondays the girls were totally unaware of. Under the speed-cameras flashes the girls were rolled up on the Ferrari’s only passenger seat, dashing on the A4 in order not to miss the 3pm transatlantic flight.

NyLon! - chapter 5

Shortly before 3pm on the previous Thursday Raffa startled reading to the name of the passenger on the boarding card and Mauro startled in reading the name on her uniform. The bewilderment overcame, after embarassed greetings she made him seat and tried to focus on the taxi procedure

- Passengers please connect the emergency shoes and remove belts with high heels in case of emergency. Under the seat there is an inflatable mask and over your head the oxygen life jacket. The emergency exits are located on your right if you vote Tory and on your left if you vote Labour. After take-off a halal snack will be served for the terrorist gentlemen

Careless of the passengers’ grumblings, for the entire flight duration she left the other 17 in the first class in Cristina’s hands and thoughtfully devoted herself to the old friend whom she hadn’t seen in twenty years. They recalled their infancy games in the Gorgonzola green, the tender adolescence when he came to her catholic school to pick her up on a scooter borrowed from the spectacled swot de Severgnin, and the saddest moment of separation when they took different roads in life: him with the military service as fireman in Pordenone, she to try her luck in the exciting and controversial London of Lady Thatcher and the Sex Pistols. Since then they lost sight of each other. Some short letter, less and less frequent, and a twenty years of silence broken today by the noise of the four reactors carrying them up thirty thousand feet. Descending a few hours later though the turbulences they held their hands, intimately imagining them as masturbolences, and they agreed to meet three hours later for dinner at his place.

Red or black? Raffa had little time to choose her shoes. Red, sexier! Ethiopian or Chinese? Mauro had no time to cook. Ethiopian, hotter. The evening elapsed most pleasantly on the balcony of his small but cosy den in Roosevelt Island, and the informed journalist, correspondent of the authoritative weekly of political futurology “Tomorrow” amiably entertained updating her on their old acquaintances in the Milanese alternative aristocracy

- And what about Daria Veronesi?

- She married a whealty businessman, Iuri Maria Prada, the one making sexy shoes

- But wasn’t it Litta Modignani, that one of the shoes?

- Yes, but orthopaedic

The complicity atmosphere was pervaded by a stimulating erotic tension, but time was running out fast for the last aerial tramway. Mauro wanted to show himself as a gentleman by offering her to take her home

- Where do you live in Manhattan?

- Sixty-nine

- East or West?

- Here on the sofa

NyLon! – Chapter 6

As any radical tourist from Padua would explain, Brompton is the gayest area in London. And as we were used every other week, with the girls far away on the other side of the pond, all dressed up me and Andrea park his van in Philbeach Gardens for the Monday night Lipstick party. My Turkish friend is all in red from the wig to the varnished d’orsay, me blonde in a more sober black on high heels sandals, both of us shaking on those stiletto tortures that are the second most beautiful feeling of earth. The Monday night Lipstick party at Philbeach Gardens were pleasant social occasions crowded of cross-dressers. Some beyond their fifties, hurt in their soul and made bitter for having not been able to freely express the other half of their sexuality in their best years, by now in decadent bodies, some deprived of hope and pathetic others in the gross exhibition of bitchy attires, but on the whole all kind and funny ones. Except the bald and fat American tourists who came to look and laugh. Goodness knows why Americans were always the only ones to annoy. Was it a matter of an entire people with psychiatric problems? No, unfortunately, the rumour had scattered and all the fat bald men from Iowa took advantage of the low-cost Svirgin flights to do in old Europe what they were ashamed to do at home. Bah, politics, politics, I couldn’t help thinking of anything else.

I talked about that to Andrea shagging on the front seats while Andrea was shagging Nicola in the back of the van, furnished with double bed, television cameras, mirrors and Jacuzzi, which since it was Italian should be pronounced Iacuzzi, not Giacuzzi like Americans say, polemically I explained to Andrea. I do realise that there is a little confusion here, let’s clear it. We had finally towed the two most beautiful transexuals in the party, having courted them for a long time. Nicola is the ladyboy maitre d’O oh the Thai restaurant on the upper floor, with a breath-taking dreamy mouth. Andrea was another Andrea, the bartender whose pair of wonderful natural tits always waved under my nose. Hormonal, yes, but not surgical, real boobs, not those unpleasantly silicous to the tact. Time would have made them moped and wrinkled, but now still meat cooked at the right degree between tenderness and consistency. It happened that in changing sex these two miserable jaguars choose names that in English are feminine but masculine in Italian. This is in order to clear that when I write about Andrea’s tits I mean those of the transesexual bartender, not my Turkish friend’s. Mind, we are not faggots at all!

NyLon! - chapter 7

Six days elapsed and to Raffa this weekend has been a newyorker one. In the meantime she has been going and coming back having no sex with me. Since I realised that there’s someone else in her peach, I haven’t insisted too much. It’s my sophisticated and desperate strategy consisting in making it lack so that she falls in love again with me. But it doesn’t work. She is happy without sex, at least with me. Happy on the mega-airbus among the clouds, always smiling, she can’t realise how evident her infatuation is for someone else. The thing driving me crazy is not to know who the hell this someone else could be. I cannot fight an adversary if I don’t know who is, what he does and how he does it, where he is. In America, obviously, in New York City. She certainly found him there, the transatlantic commuter bitch. Fucking bastard, I would widen his arse if I could, but I pretend to withhold the jealousy by trying to focus on politics. Seven days elapsed and in the meantime the 15 londoners’ memberships arrived in Rome accompanied by two thousand paunds translated in three thousand euros. Not a big thing, just enough to pay a couple of workers in Torre Argentina. Tendentially paranoid, this time the hyperactive Crapazzoni was instead rather impressed by my deceptive mix. I couldn’t only enroll all my former Bulgarian lovers, that would have not turned out credible with all those strange names. I limited therefore them to a pair of friends - the Vladimira Vladimirova Vladimiroska and the Liubomira Liubomirova Liubomiroska -, and added Gary and Tim from the party (mine), plus David, Fran and Orion, always supporters of the party (but its), the Nicola and Andrea of transexual memory, plus my neighbor Kate and her cat Dip. I also forcibly enrolled Andrea, Maria Cristina, Raffa and naturally myself. The decoy was placed, I only had to assess that the salmon bit it.

NyLon! – chapter 10

Today the phone woke me up. Nahid asked me if I will vote for her in the election of the PPC of the electoral constituency. The PPC is not some People’s Party of Communism, but the Prospective Parliamentary Candidates who the party’s enrolled members are called to choose. In short the primaries. Bullshit, we should end with all these PPC who call and send text messages to you, making instead the things simpler as I am learning from Italian radicals: the candidates are selected by their leader Pannella and you can be sure that if your telephone rings it’s only to ask you for money, rather than Nahid pouring out her curriculum of enthusiasm and motivation, managing workload, good communication skills and ability to listen with patience. I listen with patience and sadly say no to Nahid, explaining that I have already chosen to vote for Gary because he has been involved with me in a secret operation of the party in order to infiltrate us in the Italian radicals. How comes – Nahid gets angry - there is under way a secret operation in order to infiltrate in the Italian radicals and I don’t know about it? Nahid, I told her, it doesn’t sound strange to me if in infiltrating us in the Italian radicals it is an operation that won’t be secret at all if I talk about it, or to even write about it in their forum, don’t you agree? Nahid hangs the phone, demonstrating to have lost her ability to listen with patience, but she quickly recovers enthusiasm and motivation in managing the workload to call other hundreds of enrolled members with her good communication skills. However I would have voted for Gary anyway: he is the perfect PPC. In fact he comes from the north and therefore it doesn’t speak English, reason why he is the ideal candidate in this constituency where nobody speak it, the local population consisting in Russians, Poles, South Africans, Australians and New Zealanders. With Gary the voters perfectly agree communicating with gestures and guttural sounds. Should he spoke a good English, as the Iranian Nahid does, nobody would understand him. The constituency is that of Shepherd's Bush, the one with the tube station Shepherd's Bush Green. Can you imagine in Milan a metrò station with such a name? Duomo - Cordusio - Prato del Cespuglio del Pastore - Cadorna…

Meanwhile in Roosevelt Island it was still deep night and Raffa consoled Mauro for his umpteenth premature ejaculation. However, you can’t get everything right in life: Raffa loved Mauro and by now she could no longer stand me, but unavoidably she mourned the times when my powerful nerchia filled her cavern up for many hours before watering it. Goodness knows why, I wondered, the penis had many feminine names in Italian - minchia, fava, nerchia - and that flatty one belonging to the newyorker reporter looked quite like a peony. In compensation, it was now joy to fill her heart, while helping that man morally corrupted by pornography and made sexually disable by excess of masturbation, to accept and live his sexuality, and returned her love by even accepting to let her dye his hair in of red Ferrari in homage to her hero Michael Schumacher.

NyLon! - CHAPTER 12

- Oh you lovely perfumed carnivorous vulva known as Raff but I obstinately I call Raffa / Do you still have one of those Svirgin free tickets for friends and relatives of you staff known as staffa?

Handily the Raffa only had the dildo that she extracted from herself surpised and confused. Pleasantly surprised by the resiliency of the Duracepp batteries and confused by my unusual, poetic question.

- What do you need it for?

Holding it out from her hand to mine interrogated me suspiciously

- Well, I wouldn’t know - I answered observing equally surprised and confused one of those wrinkled and protuberant electric household that had made the fortune of candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel, then recalling the anal banana I readily added

- I can always come up with

- Not the dildo, you idiot half-faggot, I mean the ticket: what do you need it for?

- Ah, yes, the ticket. Well, I must jump over the pond to NYC in order to document myself on a matter of political nature. A search for the party…

- And then why don’t you get the ticket paid by the party ticket?

- Ehi, we are not at all the Italian radicals, who are so many that they always must keep someone in the sky. We are poor, independent and self-financed without donations by the government or candid Hindu-orobic tycoons…

- Ok, ok, got it, I have understood, save me the usual theme tune, here are the tickets in blank and fill them up with the route appealing to you, half-starver loser

Her boobs dangling, Raffa extracted from her purse a ticket booklet and also the keys of her house in NYC, throwing them to me with an expression of depreciation and disgust.

- Thanks my love, you are a treasure

- Pathetic bankrupt, with that parasitic little job as party civil employee

I loved her.

Between a flight attendant from Gorgonzola and the other one from Fiumicino, between a radical secretary romanaccio and the other perspective one from Vedano al Lambro, this is in the end of this chapter and finally the candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel re-enters the scene! I’ve finally been successful in coming up with something to do: to close the parenthesis. And unexpectedly John Patel closed the parenthesis).

NyLon! – chapter 19

On the upper deck of his mega-yacht, the gloomy Esperantist australopithecus Hotel Licheri was laying in the sparkling bedsheets in company of a frosted beer, a powerful spliff, that gorgeous Sara Piccardo next to him and, as the only negative thing, that damn requiem in background. Completely naked, glaring beyond the stars, they chased passionate visions of love and got lost in the oblivion of an open eyes wonderful dream. Hand in hand, they tenderly thought of the long and dazzling Hawaiian sunsets, where the sun lavishes its last flares with renewed force, like meaning a last hard work before dying, but knowing to come back the next day, even more sumptuous and radiant with joy. They thought of the warm waters of Madagascar dampening the hot sands of the boundless beaches accomplices of an hypothetical, unattainable adventure. They thought of the time that would have passed before their next encounter, that murderous time only barrier to their unrestrainable passion. They thought and at the same time they didn’t, transported to the eleventh dimension of climax, which didn’t represent an idea but the attempt to catch it up it. To all that they romantically thought when the Publisher of this book took part.

- Enough with filling up the pages of romantic Esperantist mawkishes! To be able to sell this shit of book I demand more detailed pornography!

Duly obedient to the Publisher, I restarted from scratch in the next chapter.

NyLon! - chapter 22

Five hundred miles to the east, beyond the North sea, in any city of your choice, the unique radical faggot Nicolino Tosoni - who as my Publisher I must deal with care in describing his epic deeds -, was nervously smoking a cigarette thinking how his ephemeral encounter with Andrea the Turka hastily plummeted in the passion of a permanent relation. Bülêntelifyildiz Åtatunçiller-Demireleçževitÿ, his perfect body shining in small openings of suffused light that penetrated through the lowered rolling shutter's chinks creating an exciting eroticism of sophisticated chiaroscuri, was laying beside him, the left arm outstretched beyond the nape to evidence the compact and mature breast, the right leg folded on the left, and the velvetly skin slightly beaded by the golden rain drops that from the noble Organ of the August Publisher insinuated tenuous and sly.

- Did you like the golden rain, my adored Analduckling?

- It is not exactly my concept of sexual fantasy

- I understand, Analduckling, you prefer the fist-focking. Turn yourself this side, put yourself like this…

Six miles over them, in the first class of the Svirgin gigabus, Raffa was nervously smoking a cigarette rightly thinking that it was forbidden to smoke in aeroplanes and also the zohomosexusal relationships in radical novels should be censored as well. Laying beside her, the exhausted Maria Cristina, her perfect body shining in small openings of suffused light that penetrated through the window lowered on the horizon creating an exciting eroticism of sophisticated chiaroscuri, the left arm outstretched beyond the nape to evidence the compact and mature breast, the right leg folded on the left, and the velvetly skin slightly beaded by Raffa’s vaginal juices.

Newyorker columnist Mauro Suttora-Bordini, who in his leisure time was also a cryptic literary critic, was nervously smoking a cigarette thinking of the existential content Bob Granzotto’s books. His old mistress by default - better known with the nickname of Metro Goldwin Mayer -, her shapeless mass in a brave disgusted light penetrating from the fissures of the lowered rolling shutter's chinks creating abominable masochist chiaroscuri, was laying beside him, the left sausage outstretched beyond the head to evidence the flabby breast, the folded leg on the left, and the wrinkled hairy skin soaked in sweat that abundantly secreting while the morning first smog insinuated tenuous and sly in Roosevelt Island.

- MGM, what do you think of sentence such as "insinuated tenuous and sly", in a context determined by a picture altogether rather repetitive and observed in a wider optical of an entire point of view, I’d dare to say inserted as a dowel of a gigantic jigsaw, I’d dare to say the intrinsic carnality and the sometimes free sexiness of these texts that I personally find mysterious, enigmatic, I would dare to say cryptic?

- Mah, I wouldn’t know

- Here you see, it, eh? You see that I’m right that when talking about serious measures to adopt I refer to these authors by dubious morality? I already the opportunity to confirm it during the presentation of the anthology of the works by Piero Welby, when I wished that at last he put an end with this insolent disrespectful use of the instrument of the pleasure in the narration, an instrument otherwise interesting to the aims of a revaluation on the level…

- For God’s sake, Mauro, stop it! Have you become catho-communist?

- Let me demonstrate to you how I can love in a gentle way, without being bombed from those subliminal messages…

- Sublime and anal?

- No! You see that you are conditioned too? I said subliminal, but your subconscious wanted to understand sublime and anal! And by the way I am not catho-communist, I am luteran

- Yeees, splash my uterus and then in my anus!

With a lancinating scream overcoming the disgust, Suttora-Bordini took the MGM and threw her from the fifteenth floor of the building. The lancinating scream passed unnoticed because of deafening burp of the same MGM and the neglet of the readers in following the ups and downs of journalists plagued by the depressing daily routine of painfully dragging ourselves in this tragic valley of tears and blood. Blood and shit. Tears, blood and shit. It followed on Classic FM the Ave Maria by Schubert burying his master Beethoven with Paganini, and all three declared: Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

NyLon! – chapter 23

At central Europe midnight, separating Sunday from Monday, and October from November 2004, exceptional safety measures were in place for the boarding of 200 radical members in Rome Fiumicino and as many in Milan Malpensa on the Svirgin charter flight that would have flown them to the party conference of the party. Heartened by being mentioned in this chapter after having been singularly ignored in the previous one, Daniel Crapazzoni was accompanied to embark him by a courtain of his concubines from their limousine. Orietta, Silvietta and Antonetta improvised a belly dance for the benefit of the other first class passengers: the Espernsad architectopitecus Hotel Licheri with the his gorgeous wife Sara Piccardo and their respective spiritual councellors don Domenico Spena and fundamentalist theologian Cosimo Bandinelli. With Crapazzoni and his concubines, the prestigious guests were welcomed by Raffa and Maria Cristina to occupy nearly half of the first class, that was filled an hour later in Malpensa with the boarding of the unique radical faggot Nicolino Tosoni and, accompanied from faithful veterinarian gynecologist Dr Tabar, candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel and others. With his marbled body and his michelangiolesc profile, the boundless culture and eloquent oratory, the metapatavin unicorn Publisher quickly hit the attention of Maria Cristina, who fell in love with him at first sight and seated next to him cooing for the rest of the flight. The URF-MUP too was very impressed impressed by the fascinating creature and uncontrollably felt growing an unrestrainable desire to possess her, but that was prevented by his stoic fidelity to the healthy principles of alternative sexuality: under the graceful appearances of that dancing angel a tempting devil probably hid, aiming to convert him to the heterosexual heresy. Therefore he extracted from an inner pocket the Carlomanera that he carried with him in case of such eventualities and, erected it to a crucifix, introduced it in Maria Cristina carlomanerizing her till a multiple orgasm, thus avoiding his noble Organ to come in direct contact with the satanic bad woman.

While in New York the MGM bounced from the new car’s roof of Suttora-Bordini’s – who suddenly found her in the improvised press room at the fifteenth floor in Roosevelt Island with the other Italian journalists sent to the radical conference of New York -, in London in Cowley Street, carrying away a double shot of single malt single, Janine left the room as soon as I entered. I remained embarrassed in front of the whole party leadership that had summoned me. Aroun Charles there were Menzies and Vincent, respectively shadow minister of foreign affairs and shadow chancellor, skeptically scrutinized me from above their sciaticas. I realized that this time it would have been an exam harder than usual. After the complimentary double shots of single malt, Charles let Menzies spoke, who deeply put me to the test.

- Name the political exponent vaguely looking like Pannella who after the electoral success in 2001 declared us Lib-Dem to be the British radical party

I didn’t even have the need to answer orally, simply pointing the finger to vain Menzies. Then Vincent made his tricky question to trap me.

- Name the British liberal economist who differently from Pannella would never ever dream in a nightmare to appoint secretary of the party a rowdy fanatical extremist such as Crapazzoni.

The finger astonished by such an easy , it silently moved to point Vincent himself, who with Menzies left satisfied while Janine re-entered her empty drink with in a hand and in the other an envelope for Charles. In taking the envelope and serving her one more double shot of single malt single, the leader uttered:

- You have passed the test. Here is your reservation for the radical conference in New York. We expect the best from you. Quickly depart with Gary and the Turka otherwise you’ll miss the plane.

I quickly left for Heathrow with Gary and the Turka, holding on the reservation but leaving the generous double shot of single on his desk, and on his knees the generous party treauser.

NyLon! - chapter 24

What the fuck are you doing here?

A very surprised Raffa inquired the candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel, who laying in the first class nonchalantly answered

- Perhaps you forget that I own this airline? I freely travel whenever I like, and in order to answer to your question I am going to the radical conference in New York

It has to be specified, to debatable benefit of the readers, that (candid Hindu-orobic tycoon) John Patel and flight attendant Raffa Whites had been married after having met on a Virgin flight of the Virgin, and crazy in love with the candid tycoon bought the company from his friend Richard Branson re-branding it Svirgin in homage to the his friend Veronica Madonna Ciccone-Pivetti. Successively they split (he and the Raffa, not Madonna) and divorced because of the disgusting feticism of John in having zohomosexual relationships with the veterinarian gynaecologist Dr Tabar seated next to him in first class, but this is another story that we will deepen into another time. Instead, you and Mauro, inquired the candid tycoon…

- Instead, you and Mauro…

- Yes? What?

Raffa replied, not as much astonished by the fact that her ex husband knew of her new relation as she would instead be astounded by the imminent revelation

- Look at these original documents that I have obtained from the registry of the Gorgonzola parish. You and Mauro are siblings, twins separated at birth! Do you know how is this called?

Facing the evidence, lowering her head Raffa the sinner couldn’t but admit it

- Incest. Technically it is an incest

- Tse', and then you make a scandal of me and Tabar!

- But I didn’t know it, I swear!

The Raffa burst in sobs and John tenderly embraced her to console her, and in consoling her he naked and possessed her over the Alps. But surprises were not yet finished for Raffa

- What the cock are you doing here? She inquired me when I jumped on the plane in Heathrow

- With the excuse of the radical conference I am going to New York in order to kill the Suttora-Bordini! I have uncovered everything about you two: there was a cappero of mine in the pants he was sniffing your little pieces of shit!

Facing the evidence, lowering her head Raffa the sinner couldn’t but admit it

- That’s where the pants were!

Raffa burst in sobs and I tenderly embraced her to console her, and in consoling her I naked her over the Lake District but without possessing her because it would have been disgusting after she had just been possessed by the candid Hindu-orobic tycoon.

NyLon! - chapter 27

Concubine Silvietta was the only one to perceive a vague restlessness that could have led her to suspect something: wouldn’t it be covered by the long beard, she could have recognized a remarkable likeness between the erection of unknown passenger seating next to her and that of the playboy actor Gabriele Sessarego in of the catastrophic films in which he interpreted her old great love bin Dupuis. Looking closely, beside the beard it was the entire passenger to look like, to gesture, smell and and spray-ejaculate spray like that party secretary who had loved her so much and then repudiated for the jihad against the infidels. But Silvietta was to shy and embarassed to launch the alarm, that however wouldn’t have obtained any effect. In fact all the other passengers, joyful for that tourist excursion in which they were getting ready to give another mandate to Crapazzoni, were euphoric as in a boy-scout trip, whose motto

- Estoti parati! Estoti parati!

raved dancing in first class with Maria Cristina the eminent unifaggot Publisher. This Titanic orchestra atmosphere had been created thanks to our other two agents, Gary and the Turka, for all the duration of the flight hidden in in the toilets incessantly inhaling cannabis and expiring its vapors in the conditioned air system of the cabin, where all the happily inebriated passengers they enjoyed wonderful dreamy fantasies. Daniel Crapazzoni dreamt of being able to finally free himself of Marco Cappato’s flabby aspect in order to incarnate the granitic ones of bionic vice-president Dick Cheney and thus to succeed Bush in 2008. The less pretentious Rita Bernardini dreamt of being able truly to become the Lib-Dem treasurer Janine, who besides belonging to a more serious and less serioso party, would have guaranteed her a decorous pension of free double shots of single malt. And about Scotland, Abigail had had the most improbable dream of a weekend to Glasgow without rain. Instead, candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel dreamt to perform a test drive on the concubines in order to verify if he could raise them from the disaster to serve Crapazzoni and hire them, in the socially role more profitable role of flight attendants for its company, in consideration that Raffa and Maria Cristina were getting older and in his entrepreneurial wisdom he to begin to think to a new generation. Architectopitecus Hotel Licheri always and only dreamt in Esperant and therefore he couldn’t but dream the night he met the Esperantist popstar and falled in love at first sight. After a sad evening of debate with the Lib-Dem on the Australian electoral system, he dragged himself to an Irish pub in order to further depress himself drowning his displeasures and devastating loneliness in an umpteenth Thursday night of vomitevole Polish dysko-musik, in the same Acton watering hole suggested to him by Crapazzoni after his visit to London. He was at the fifth pint when the attractive Polish public notary Agnyeska Rostropova begun to sing in Esperanto, Waiting for her working papers she lived singing in pubs with the stage name of Sara Piccardo. Her soft blond hair, the green big eyes and the little mouth of rose, but above all her 18-y-o little butt and aquiline Armenian-Judaic-Greek-Roman nose sent him in ectsasy. When her performance was over, surprised himself of his daring, Hotel offered to accompany her home. As often happens in these cases, it was a dark stormy night a violent hurricane burst in fact and Hotel dragged Sara to shelter them soaked in a telephone booth

- Now what kabbageon we do here insido untilké enda el tempestoj atmosferiko?

Scared by thunders and lightnings asked the Piccardo-Rostropova in perfect Esperanto. Having graduated in the faculty of architectury with a thesis on the quantum theory of the telephone booth kisses, in order to put it in practice Hotel Licheri had been waiting for ages that question as much as a Newyorker cab driver would expect any moment James Bond directing him to chase a colleague’s taxi carrying the bad guys. Both unzipping their overcoats, Licheri insinuated his hands to warm her arms in an apparently friendly way, then protectingly descending down to her right flank and rising the other hand to instert it a and caress her shoulder still numb with cold by the cold and the pale neck of swan up to that little lump on the nape, mark of every intelligent Esperantist popstar, their glances cross-eyd and fading into each other’s, their tongues passionately meeting even before their lips. The beautiful dream of love was interrupted by the hateful DJ, the paedophile and bird-eating priest don Domenico Spena, actually himself a invidioso Polish public notary envious of her compatriot’s success and jealous that she preferred Hotel to him.

Nomenclatura radicale / 10 di 10 / Eugenio, Giorgio, Laura, Livio, Marino, Marcello, Olivia, Raffaele, Valerio, Vasco

Ultimi dieci nomi (e venti cognomi) della top-50. Eugenio (MONTALE, SCALFARI); Giorgio (OREDA, PAGANO); Laura (ARCONTI, CONTI); Livio (CASALE, SCHNUR); Marinza SZIKORA e Marino BUSDACHIN; Marcello (BARAGHINI, CRIVELLINI); Olivia RATTI e Olivier DUPUIS; Raffaele DE ANGELIS e Raffaella BIANCHI; Valeria MANIERI e Valerio FEDERICO; Vasco CARRARO e Vasco ROSSI.

Circa dieci anni fa, a cavallo del nuovo millennio, l’allora forum radicale (sul sito ufficiale dell’omonimo movimento/partito politico) conobbe il suo apice: era fervido di utenti e dei loro numerosi testi che contribuivano ad un acceso dibattito. Poi quel forum è morto, come capita a tutti. Però, grazie alla potente memoria della vostra Miss Welby, sono in grado di ricostruire l’elenco di quanti che presero parte a quell’esperienza straordinaria, almeno di coloro che dichiararono pubblicamente i loro indirizzi e-mail, che ancora conservo.

È probabile che nell’arco di un decennio alcuni o molti di questi indirizzi siano cambiati, cioè non siano più validi, ma mi piace ricordarne i nomi per riconoscere a ciascuno di loro un punto in più nel’ormai leggendario Radicalometro Storico di Granzotto (dal nome dello scienziato che in origine ne costituiva il parametro). A tale scopo devo spezzettare l’elenco in una ventina di nomi per volta (è di 20 il numero massimo di etichette per ogni post, etichette che Blogger somma automaticamente nella classifica in fondo a destra).

Procediamo dunque in ordine alfabetico nel SECONDO di 20 post.

bacchi antonio, bacci mirko, baietti roberto, baldini maria cristina, bandinelli angiolo, barbaro mario, barbieri claudio, barbieri maria grazia, barletta amedeo, basile silvio, beltramini walter, beltrandi marco, berardo rocco, bernardini rita, bertuzzi emanuele, bessi maria, bevilacqua federico, bianchi raffaella, biancucci silvia

Radical Pain - Dolore Radicale - Capitolo 9

(i precedenti: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8)

Avviso per Suttora: non sei citato in questo capitolo, ripassa al prossimo.

"Dunque se noi prendiamo... ahehm, consideriamo il pene di un Armando Crocichio in rilassamento ci apparirà come il pene di un normale cavallo... "

spiegava il prof Strik-Lievers all'università della Bicocca, o Bovisa, o Bocconi, o quella lì con la B insomma

"...ma se noi, voi, meglio voi che noi..."

lo coadiuvava il suo assistente psichiatra pazzo Litta Modignani, proseguendo

"...lo amplifichiamo in erezione logaritmica tridimensionale otterremo evidentemente l'organo illustrato qui nella sala del planetario, la penetrazione da parte del quale organo non è riproducibile qui nel blog di Miss Welby ospitato da Google ma ne possiamo rendere l'idea della grandezza dal fatto che perfino l'orifizio anale del Frocio radicale unico Nicolino Tosoni ne soffrirebbe dolorosamente l'introduzione"

"ma questa è l'applicazione pratica della meccanica nel suo sviluppo storico-critico!"

interruppe entusiasta la studentessa fuori corso Rappha Bianchi, che aveva fatto lo scientifico, citando Ernst Mach.

"niente affatto!" - interruppe lo studente fuori sede Albergo Licheri, che aveva fatto il classico, citando Claude Lévi-Strauss - "si tratta piuttosto di strutturalismo del mito e del totemismo"

A poche centinaia di chilometri di distanza e nella vita reale, o quasi, della simulazione pannelliana, Armando "Armagheddon" Crocicchio stava esprimendo la propria virilità schiaffeggiando violentemente col pene eretto di tungsteno un incolpevole segretario radicale a casu (tale Staderini), quando inopinatamente lo interruppe l'esponente radicale kenyota Orietta Callegari

"egregio dottor Armando, in quanto scrittrice famosa erede dello stile di Stephenie Meyer la invito, e sottolineo invito per significare invito perentorio, ad abbandonare queste scene in nome della decenza che non si confà alle dimensioni del suo organo sessuale, perbacco e per Orietta Berti!"

"cazzo sei? cazzo vuoi?? cazzo fai???" - replicò piccato Crocicchio a Callegari per poi rivolgersi a Miss Welby - "guardi Miss Welby che io non mi esprimo solo con il cazzo in bocca come scrive lei"

Miss Welby: "senta un po', Crocicchio, si metta bene in bocca un paio di regole fondamentali: in primo luogo se lei ha il cazzo così grosso che le arriva in bocca non è colpa mia, che soltanto riferisco le intercettazioni di Suttora (che però non è citato in questo post), e in seconda istanza essendo io la narratrice scrivo, per usare un termine a lei caro, quel cazzo che mi pare. e nello specifico le specifico per sua informazione che questo è un blog contro gli idraulici polacchi, le donne con i piedi piatti e Marco Cappato"

Crocicchio: "ah, vabbè, se è così... però mi fa annusare i piedi?"

Miss Welby: "porco!, ecco qua i miei piedi arcuati in queste slingbacks che ne accentuano la sensualità e il suo desiderio"

Annuendo ed annusando Crocicchio si annidò dietro alla sua monumentale erezione. In quel momento non c'erano in giro né Cappato né Londradical ed egli sarebbe stato l'unico maschio al mondo che potesse accomodare il suo tirannosauro dentro la pelosa fritolina di Miss Welby.

Ma che ne era nel frattempo di Granzotto, auto-esiliatosi sulle Montagne dei Rospi Mutanti? In attesa di sue notizie nel prossimo capitolo dobbiamo ancora una volta affidarci alla monumentale biografia del Granzotto opera del Cominelli, che lo segue a Budapest in Bartok Bela Ut.

Musicista ungherese, Bela Bartok nacque a Nagyszentmiklos nel 1881. Questo compositore, tra i più grandi del secolo, è noto per le sue ricerche folkloristiche; il materiale raccolto in viaggi attraverso le terre Balcaniche si trova in un interessante volume di saggi. Scrisse sei quartetti, l'opera "Il Castello di Barbablù", "Balletti"," Una sonata per due pianoforti" e "Percussione", "Microkosmos" e altri 150 e più pezzi per pianoforte, varia musica da camera, tre Concerti per pianoforte e Orchestra, un Concerto per Orchestra e molte altre opere. Muore a New York nel 1945.

Con lo Scoiattolizzatore (clicca) potete aggiungere questo famoso scoiattolo in primo piano a tutte le vostre foto delle vacanze, o delle riunioni del Pd, etc...

Un altro importante strumento di avanzamento dell’umanità, il Radicalometro, subisce un secondo terremoto dopo quello del ferragosto scorso, in seguito alla riorganizzazione della Letteratura Sottosopra nella barra laterale qui a sinistra. Infatti la sezione di narrativa radicale surreale contiene una gran quantità di citazioni e quindi di etichette con i nostri beniamini Granzotto & Co. Adesso le Opere si possono leggere normalmente dall’alto in basso (anche se la letteratura resta sottosopra nella sostanza) e sono riportate in un numero minore di post. Di conseguenza tutte le teste di serie sono calate nella classifica del Radicalometro: Suttora perde otto punti ma conserva il primato perché Cappato ne perde di più e viene raggiunto da Granzotto. Pannella cala al quinto posto superato dai Welby. Nel resto della classifica, in ascesa Tosoni, Pezzilli, Bianchi, Fiume, Spolaor, Veronesi, Dentamaro, Ancona, Marino, Vaglio e una dozzina di nuove entrate