Merdon !

Non esiste ancora in italiano, ma c'è già in inglese e diverse altre lingue, la categoria feci in Wikipedia. Esistono comunque tradotte in italiano molte voci interessanti che rientrano nella merdosa categoria. Eccone alcune:

Bristol Stool Scale - classificazione medica per forma e consistenza dei 7 tipi di cacca

Bullshit - erroneamente tradotto in stronzata

Caganer - statuina religiosa da presepe di origine catalana raffigurante individuo (anche il Papa) intento nella funzione che si può intuire

Coprolite - escrementi fossili come nella foto sopra quello di Lloyds bank

Coprofagia - buon appetito

Coprofilia - vedi la prossima

Due ragazze e una tazza - film porno brasiliano su due signore appassionate di cagarsi addosso reciprocamente

Encopresi - termine scientifico per il cagarsi addosso involontariamente da adulti

Kopi Luwak - tipo di caffè (il più raro e costoso al mondo) prodotto in Indonesia con le bacche ingerite, digerite e defecate dallo zibetto delle palme

Letame - nome collettivo per dirigenti politici italiani e di altri paesi

Merda - a differenza della successiva, questa voce non è presente in esperanto, ma insegna il Licheri che di dice Merdon. Volendo c'è in siciliano: La merda è lu scrimentu umanu o di armali. Nti assai casi veni usatu n accizzioni vurgari e nti li turpiloqui

Pulizia anale - non è in italiano ma per fortuna esiste in esperanto, con una immagine appunto... linguistica a corredo degli intriganti paragrafi Problemoj kun la purigado de anuso e Diversaj manieroj de la purigado de anuso

Scatologia - la scienza di fare la cacca in un appropriato contenitore

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 8

Eight days elapsed and I annoy you with another board meeting. After twenty hours Crapazzoni seated coolness like a rose in full berlusconian bandana and double-breasted jacket, encircled by the worn-out concubines of his gynaeceum Rita, Antonella, Abigail, Orietta and Silvietta… all women, in the Crapazzoni’s secretariat, purposely chosen by him of the opposite sex in order not to distract himself during the meetings. Except the gloomy Esperantist leader Hotel Licheri, extraordinarily looking like the Moldavian president Giurgiu Paganu, whom in fat he interpreted in this story.

- Hotel…

- Affirmative. Where?

Diligently the faithful Antonella diligently took part, ready to reserve travels and stays for the Crapazzoni, whom lips she hung from.

- Antonella, I do not mean to reserve a hotel, but I was talking to the present Hotel, as it is used to say in esperanto for Alberto, in order to ask him what will follow after your next interruption…

Made bitter by so much arrogance, the habitually prolific Antonella crossed her arms and did not further interrupt more for over four hours of embarrassing silence (that’s why the secretariat meetings last so long, actually they don’t say anything at all).

- It’s ok, Antonella, my apologies. Now interrupt us, please

- Apologies accepted

- Hotel, I said, how many times I must repeat to you to name a female in this our representative senate of the associations?

- Esperanto that we find one sooner or later, a beautiful esperantista cunt. At present we are rather desperanti. In the meantime I have already proposed you Lapa Orlandi

- But he sports a beard. At least he shaves himself

- Esperanto. Meantime you haven’t got anything else than, eh eh!

- Hotel, how do you say fuck off in Esperanto?

Crapazzoni was infuriated by the lack of discipline by the Esperantist member of the party. The other associations had obediently named in the radical senate their most beautiful women, so that not to upset him, but the Esperantists did not succeed to find someone: except the Pole MEP they were all males. Silvietta broke the embarrassment by changing issue

- Good news, we have received fifteen registrations from London

Crapazzoni had an instantaneous ejaculation. Fifteen registrations from London could represent the life saving jacket of his bankrupt secretariat deprived of hope before retiring in Berlusconi’s party. He wanted to know more about it. Indirectly attacking Silvietta, Abigail played well her antagonist role

- These registrations are mistrustful, they smell of burnt

That was enough. If Abigail was contrary, it meant that there had to be some real roast, under the stink. Crapazzoni instructed Antonella to book him the first flight for London, with no interruptions.

NyLon! – chapter 13

Charles served us both with a generous double shot of single malt, but not enough to let him forget his bad mood

- Bush, merd. Osama, shit. Putin, sin na kurva…

- What’s up Charles, now you speak Bulgarian to tell me that Putin is a son of putin?

- All of them teetotal, those three fucking bashtards

- You are right, I had never thought about it

- Evidentapparently ish a conspirashy against our shane habits of democracy angloshasshon democrashy in the Weshtminshter bars. You must do shomething

- I am already doing best, Charles, soon I will complete my mission of being co-opted in the Italian radicals’ committee, the well-known world-wide antiprohibitionist power, as soon as pass the Tosoni Test of radicality

- Then, what are you waiting for?

- I still don’t know the answer to the last question of the Testosoni. In order to find it I’m leaving for NYC where I will meet a very well informed journalist, but to be on the safe side I will also send Andrea to Hamburg in order to sounding out in depth the Tosoni himself

- Gud lock, cheers

NyLon! - CHAPTER 14

We've got to the foutheenth chapter and I notice that I haven’t yet introduced myself. My name is Granzotto, Bob Granzotto. I was calmly doing the contract calmly killer, that my non-authorized biographer would simply say hitman but contract killer is more politically correct, before that non-authorized (everyone has the non-authorized biographer who deserves) took control of my identity in order to invent improbable adventures that have projected me in the stardom of transnational politics. In my career, I have killed many people, who generally deserved it. In that honorable trade I earned well and I amused myself gretly. Perhaps not all biographers come to damage. The hitman had gradually been made more and more complicated, with the DNA test it was no longer enough to disguise oneself and to counterfeit passports like in the old times, when you had yourself to be only worried by the fingerprints. Now I recycled mysels as a secret agent with poetic licence, and what halo of cosmopolitan fascination and mystery could better encircle me than that of high electron density in the first glimmer of dawn at the horizon of the big apple, where my investigative in nosing out a trace left a month before by journalist in love. Actually the boat had just crashed against the pier projecting me violently on Manhattan. My fault in leaning too much from the upper bridge in crossing the Hudson from New Jersey in order to enjoy the skyline, which extended from Harlem, to the left extreme, the statue of the freedom on the right. It was a matter of a mere issue of perspective without any political significance, fue simply to the fact that I was sailing from east to the west. Had I travelled in the opposite direction, the freedom would have raised on the left against the black working class one on the far right. Unthinkable but in that city, where I noticed with annoyance that something was missing in the middle of my delirious pseudo-philosophical equations and also in the middle of the skyline: from the tip of the island a pair of high buildings that I had noticed some years before. Later I learned that the federal government had contracted out some demolition works to Arabic immigrants whom it would then have sued with deployment of great means and resources, financial and secondly human, just to keep busy the military-industrial complex that was the base of the castle of cards constituted by the illusory economy of the bankrupt Nation. But never mind the politics, I’m not here for the local politics but because of Italian radicals, in order to find the answer to the most difficult fifth question of the Testosoni that will open me the doors to the pathetic theatre of their committee. My bruised nose follows therefore the hormonal trace left by the journalist fallen in love from the east side to the western one, and it leads to me on the cableway to Roosevelt Island. And I find him there, hardly recognizing him from the photo on his book’s back cover. Forget about the flowing raven hair: he got has metalized hair like his pedantic swot colleague in primary school, a bacon belly like Alvaro Vitali and me, two enormous pimples on the lips, the only black hair is that coming out out from ears and nostrils, and the legs more bandy than Naomi Campbell’s. Aware of its aesthetic handicaps, with a big bottle of Amarone in a hand and in the other tong pants extraordinarily looking like the ones Raffa habitually uses, Mauro welcomes me trying to justify himself.

- Previosly I wasn’t so ugly, but I am practicing in order to become editor of Radio radicale, which is my secret dream. Sniff

- Nice to meet you, dear Mauro. You really fai schifo. Indeed, if you want to become editor of Radio radicale you already look like the current one, but you made a mistake in telling me that, for I’ll report it in a transatlanting novel that I am writing on the unlucky radicals like you and everybody else, if any consolation

- Anyway I have no hope, it is written in the Trisagioum of transitory-permanent norms of the party’s charter that the Radio editor is Ergife, the leader of the young Esperantists is Bordini and conferences are held at the Hotel Licheri. But I no longer care, as I’ve fallen in love with an extraordinary woman. Sniifff

Nonchalantly replied the Radical party’s Hugh Grant of the Radical party, voraciously smelling the pants. I felt perplexed, recognizing in them a nose kappero of mine among the small pieces of shit

- Uhm, and who could she will be?

- I can only say that she has made me accept to live my sexuality. Sniiiffff

- Never mind, who cares. Instead, I came here purposely to know from you the answer to the fifth question of the Testosoni

- Nobody knows it, it’s the second most guarded radical mystery. Sniiiifffff

- Ah! What the first one would be?

- Do tou think that I if knew the first, wouldn’t I know the second one? Sniiiiiffffff

- Does this mean that I crossed the pond for no reason at all?

- Correct! Sniiiiiifffffff

Had I the time before the last ride of the cableway, I would have interrogated myself on the third radical mystery: how do you say fuck off in Esperanto. Mauro has been of most insufficient help and now I must count on what Andrea will succeed to arrange in Hamburg with the Tosoni author of the enigmatic Testosoni of radicality.

NyLon! - CHAPTER 15

In Hamburg Andrea was sounding out the same Tosoni in depth, and quickly after Tosoni returned the same by sounding out him in depth. Painfully. With one of those Raffa’s free tickets, Andrea landed in the afternoon in Fuhlsbüttel and quickly he felt at home like to Schiphol. In half an hour the bus carried him in the centre, where Tosoni offered rotating romantic dinner on of the tower, after which the Schnellbahn lead them to Sankt Pauli and – the usual cocktail accomplice to us of cannabis, cocaine, ecstasy, manzanilla and viagra, that for good healthy rule he always rigorously took in alphabetical order - walking hand in hand on the Reeperbahn with Tosoni veiled in pink, Andrea let himself go to the reminescences of his youth in the fatherland.

- Ah… msterdam… first puttanation… seventeen years old, fifty guilders… Beautiful FTF… sweet brunette… the breasts, fifty guilders… pump her… FTF… other big brunette, fifty guilders … condom, position one… piston her… scoglionata… FTF… needles for the coke in vein… brown-blond woman in her twenties, fifty guilders… log of gorgeous piece pf pussy… mount her in doggy style, mirror, sodomy… FTF… Pale mulatta, fifty guilders… customer satisfaction… FTF…

- Would kindly my sweetest et most welcomed guest pardon me in allowing me to interrupt you to pose the issue of make myself acquainted on which meaning to attribute to the criptic acronym FTF in the extirpated circumstances of such a context?

- Professional deformation. The Author of this crazy bullshit works buried in a damn computer helpdesk. In their jargon FTF means First Time Fix. That is, immediate solution. Premature ejaculation in my case

- And how therefore, my mitigated as well as ephemeral relation in so many places of perdition, to be able to translate so much unrespectful microelectronics crudeness of the Author in aulic terms more pertinent to a chaotic tradition from the tower that I cannot exempt myself to define ivory?

- Sconigliata

- Ah, now I understand…

How the night ended we already know from evening: in a squalid lateral of the Reeperbahn Andrea sondava the Tosoni in depth, and quickly after the Tosoni returned the same sounding out him in depth. Painfully.

- Arg!, it badly hurts, how comes you have it so hard at your age?

- Who of Viagra hurts, of Viagra perishes!

- Cow!, it really huts me badly. Now that I have given it to you, will you tell me the answer the fifth question of your radicality test?

- You already have it inside – philosophically answered the Sommo unique radical faggot with the wisdom and audacity that would be of the Dalai Lama in less pornographic circumstances - and never ever allow yourself to call me cow.

The day after, approaching Heathrow and his mid-life crisis, returning from the unicorn-discratic-trisagic-tetraplegic-pentapartitic-exageratelly-eptacriptic-ottuagenarian-nonetheless-decaballs ivory experience, Andrea couldn’t help to reflect on the emptiness of his life and how it had been ruined in his puberty by the paedophile priest during his infancy in Tor Pignattara.

In that very same moment in Tor Pignattara, biting a still alive pigeon, don Domenico Spena, the popular rocker priest extraordinarily looking like Ozzy Osbourne (whom in fact interprets him in this story), had not lost the bad habit to corrupt a younger generation. But in the years his penis had bacame flat, and that new Esperantist altar boy he couldn’t but satanically corrupt by proxy.

- Hotel, by now you have grown up. You must think to put on a family. I introduce you my dearest Esperantist popstar Sara Piccardo, interpreted by a purposely depilate Lapa Orlandi, and I declare you husband and wife until a pagan God separates you. I also impose to you that your son will be named Damian with engraved the number 666 on the esperantomorph head

- Oh, kolko and hubava - in its ecstasy the Hotel confusing Bulgarian with Esperanto - how beautiful this virgin is in her smooth and whitest skin, the delicious tits with the nipples becoming hard when I speak to her in Esperanto and the delicate pussy about to bloom like a rose, not to mention her extraordinary intelligence manifested in the exciting ability to learn Esperanto so fastly…

We are nearly at the end of the fifth chapter and, from the rivers Elba to the Tiber passing by the Hudson and the Thames, I am about to plague you with the first meeting of the radical committee to which I can participate, after that thanks to the sacrifice of Andrea I have whispered in the Crapazzoni’s ear the answer to the fifth question of the Testosoni. Unfortunately in this chapter there isn’t more room and you’ll have to wait for next one. Meantime we really are at the end of the fifth chapter and finally the candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel re-enters the scene! I have found something more intelligent than making him close the parenthesis, but unfortunately in this chapter there isn’t more room and you’ll have to wait for the next one.

NyLon! – chapter 16

- Nobody sleep! – barged in returning from Hamburg the Radical party’s Pavarotti – all’alba vinceròòò, viiiiinceròòòòòòò!

From the rivers Elba to the Tiber passing by the Hudson and the Thames, I plague to you with the first meeting of the radical committee to which I can participate, thanks to Andrea’s sacrifice. I have whispered in the Crapazzoni’s ear the right answer to the fifth question of the Testosoni, the second best guarded secret in Torre argentina. The first, most guarded secret was to be revealed by Crapazzoni himself, but not before the animosity calmed down.

Scaruffi to Casiraghi - corrupted dodger!

Farina to Michelotti – Presuntuos idiot!

Scaruffi to De Marchi - Demagogue!

Sagaria to De Marchi – ethilic demagogue!

Candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel to Vecellio - Ingenerous!

Vecellio to candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel - worm-eaten head!

Sagaria to Farina – Lunatic, you do not understand a dick!

Farina to Turko - You possess the intellectiv ability of a sloth!

Sagaria to Turko – Greve repressed mammone, wanker from the oratory!

Turko to Carraro - Stressed ignorant!

Carraro to Angeli - Imbecile!

Bilotti to Angeli - you are not nothing and you dontt know to reason about anything!

Colacione to Angeli - you do yourself mental wanks!

Tosoni to Senatore - Exemplary of Sub-species of Homo Sapiens Sapiens in his ontic egodyscrasia…

Senatore to Paolemili - You suck, jinxed!

Riva to Bilotti - cooked prosciutto!

Breccia to De Marchi - Slanderer!

Pezzilli to De Marchi - Worm, two times worm!

Pezzilli to Fischetti - Son of a bitch!

Farina to Argonauta - You suck and make myself feel sad!

Farina to Pardi - cicisbeoun allet!

Candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel to Vecellio - Recommended!

Vecellio to candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel - Cretin and fool!

Licheri to Spena - Youthshit!

Spena to Licheri - Dumb!

Dentamaro to Abenate - Retrologist!

Abenate to Gasparini – Frustrated imbecile!

Gasparini to Abenate - Testicle!

Abenate to Pacor - Terrorist!

Scaruffi to Crapazzoni – Sculettino, that is somebody swaying one’s hips!

Crapazzoni to all – Stop that now! Order! Hush! Discipline! Good morning and good job to all, take a seat and enough with the obsolete roman salutes roman, please. Bad news. We have found out that Berlusconi controls five televisions out of seven

- Really? Unheard of before! And who knew that?

In unison the voices of the committee raised in chorus by the incredule and dumbfound concubines who circoncided the presidency table in his secretariat. Unusually swearing for the hardness of the arduous and unjust task entrusted to him by History, continuing phrenetically through his bad news notes.

- We have also uncovered that Fini is fascist, Bossi is about to die and, in topic, with the excuse of scientific search Mr Sirchia shags the corpse of the Pope

- Oh my God! Who would have ever thought of that?!?

In unison the voices of the committee raised in chorus by the incredule and dumbfound concubines. Crapazzoni did not let transport himself by the easy astonishment that could have lead to dangerous democraticisms, and icily continued in its lucid analysis

- Our Country has become a bandana republic. Look at the Turka, for example

He said pointing at me, to which I replied:

- I am Granzotto, not the Turka, cazzo!

- Ok, I’m confused to me, it won’t be neither the first nor the last time. But never ever allow yourself to call me cazzo again

Among the the circonciding concubines mounted the restlessness: would have been of them Crapazzoni had been driven mad and scrapozzated to the left? Under the table turning the inches on the respective pussies, Orietta, Silvietta and Abigail were calm. Everything was going as foreseen. Hotel as well was very calm with his head in the clouds thinking to his next matrimonial-esperantophone life with Sara. Obviously I was calm too. All of us were calm. From such tranquillity, Crapazzoni expressed its restlessness in a boninian accent

- I am myzelf Crapassoni azzerting, with my great aztonizment and dizconzert, that for thiz week radicalz return to the left where we naturally belong, and you are not zurprized?

- Why do you suddenly speak with the Boninian zeta?

Mi permizi, I allowed myself, to intervene

Crapazzoni replied - I say that myzelf and this week it has to be done like that!

Granzotto – It took ten years to the Pannellone to understand that Berlusconi was fucking him around

Crapazzoni - There is worse. Here the bad news come. He will take twenty more years of Sunday homelies before admitting it

Bandinelli slyly intervened taking advantage of a Crapazzoni’s sentence without zeta

- Oi Crapazzò, how do you express yourself? A little respect for the leader!

Crapazzoni – Ezcuze me I let myself tranzport – glossed winking to me his sly little eye – trazport to London… Angiolo, please, go on

Bandinelli - I will be short - debuts the University professor - the announced change of political strategy in Italy will necessarily have to be reflected on the transnational level in ending with supporting the fucking new-conmen in order to align us with Soros, whom at least lends money…

Crapazzoni - Thankz of your contribution, Angiolo, short but preciouz as alwayz

Bandinelli… I haven’t finished yet, you little chicken, but be sure that I will be short. Therefore, I said, in talking about of money it is appropriate to draw the attention of us all on the company of oil constructions Halliburton of vice-president Cheney…

Crapazzoni - God has him in glory

Bandinelli -… Hush when I speak! - the eminent teacher got lightly angry planting on the chair of the radical secretariat a worthy slap that made it shake - I said, concerning Cheney’s Halliburton, that it is accused of having sugarly paid “commissions” piling at least 180 million dollars in order to win enormous contracts in Nigeria from 1996 up to now, in cahoots with French Technip…

Crapazzoni - Here! Az I supported the guilt iz on the Frogz! Angiolo, thankz for your worthy…

Bandinelli -… Shut up, newbie! - the August educator got angry in landing a powerful slap that made shake the worn-out concubines of the radical secretary - and stop it with the zetas, It will never ber a zeta to make you a Bonino. I said, concerning France, that the Parisian judge Renaud van Ruymbeke is about to interview for a second time Londoner lawyer Jeffrey Tesler whose Tristar company has been paid 176 million dollars in advance by Halliburton and its partners since 1995 in in order to smooth the transaction, or at least that’s what tells me my British correspondent…

Crapazzoni - Here! I knew that it was Gransotto’z guilt! Angiolo thankz for your mighty…

Bandinelli -… You shut up and keep silent, newbie! - the popular divulgator turned nasty in bombing a seismic slap that from his chair spread in a telluric movement towards the worn-out concubines who gratefully, unexpectedly and intimately enjoyed an orgasm filling them up as in a farting explosion of fireworks

- I must finish with Cheney before beginning with Perle…

Crapazzoni – Will you be zhort?

Bandinelli -… Hush, shut up and keep silent, newbie! - Vehemently vibrating a nuclear slap thundered one of the last historical radicals independent enough to allow himself to express what he truly thought - Therefore this cracking criminals that occupied Washington with the electoral fraud…

Crapazzoni - Eh no, ths ztory of the electoral fraud, as much as it is a true one, is not azzettable by thiz zpin-buzhian and anti-American prezidenzy

Bandinelli -… Shut your face, for decency! – violently pulling down a hairy big hand the unfortunate bench of the presidency and thus making to jolt all the bystanders, the illustrious man of letters reiteted- This is nothing less of five more episodes - Author and Publisher allowing - about the obscenity perpetrated by Dick Cheney. Then it will follow the other dick of Richard Pirla, for whom I reserve as many chapters, and to follow…

Crapazzoni - Angiolo, be realizic, if thiz zhit of radical novel limpz to the pace of a puntata per week, continuing like that for that age you’ll no longer be with uz…

Bandinelli -… Heavy words, fuck you and the cholera may take you for the arrogant presumption to survive me. Fuck off to Pannella as well, whom you unfortunately will survive. Undeservedly, you registered bushist of the blessed cock, just to insult you elegantly. And ztop to zpeak with Boninian zeta, you’re are not in the pozition.

The good and short Bandinelli was very far from ending his pro-American and logically anti-bushist prosecutor’s speech, then I got bored and returned to London via Bergamo. Bored above all by the characters’ complaints, like Raffa’s, that they had not been mentioned in this chapter. Orietta wanted Mauro Suttora to be played by Antonio Banderas, who Mauro considered a country bumpkin; Abigail couldn’t bear that in order to reduce the production costs I had moved her to Scotland, having her played by Daniela Nardini instead of Iréne Jacob; Maria Cristina protested against my Publisher; Andra Turko protested because he had not yet shagged Naomi Campbell, who in turn protested for the small tits and the bent legs. Crapazzoni, instead, was very happy to be interpreted by Marco Cappato. But it was Cappato himself that all this didn’t appeal at all.

Cappato – I am Marco Cappato

Granzotto - And who cares?

Cappato - I am Marco Cappato, I demand a more important role than Crapazzoni

Granzotto - I do have understood that you are Marco Cappato, but now just be pleased to play Crapazzoni because this mad bullshit is written by me and I already had enough of other characters’ claimings

Cappato - I am Marco Cappato

Granzotto - Again? Look, give me a break, here is Naomi Campbell

Cappato - I am Marco Cappato, Naomi Campbell has got small tits and bendy legs

Granzotto - Aarrrgggghhhhh! I am Bob Granzotto and if you don’t stop to break off my testicles I’ll write the next novel on the Catholic Action with Marangoni, Senatore and Naomi Campbell as protagonists

All - Nooo, mercy, it would be a deadly bore!

Cappato - I am Marco Cappato…

While I escaped from that cage of lunatics, the candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel travelled with me on the Svirgin gigabus and confided to me:

- We are at the end of the sixth chapter and I finally re-enter the scene as the candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel! As soon as I get to my mountain shelter in order to rest, suddenly Crapazzoni in person will call me on 0323,885113 (but please don’t publish it because someone could find it in the telephone directory)

Crapazzoni - John, we need you

Patel - Bleah, politics. How many million you want this time to put an end to the Mozart requiem on Radio radicale?

Crapazzoni - No, John, it’s not about money

Patel - Penecazzo, you don’t feel well?

Crapazzoni – As a matter of facts the situation is serious, Pannella is away and we are here in the darkness

Patel - I understand, you lack the leader’s enlightment pointing at the end of the tunnel

Crapazzoni - Erm, somehow this is true, but not exactly. You see, we know that you are an expert in some of the sophisticated electric household equipment that made your fortune…

Patel - Ah Crapazzò, cut it short, make light on what you want from me

Crapazzoni - Here, ahehm…

Patel – Will you finally explain yourself clearly?

Crapazzoni - Would you please jump down here to change a light bulb for us?

NyLon! – chapter 17

A few hours before the candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel was landing in Bergamo’s airport Orio al Serio, he already was re-embarking to Rome Ciampino with a light bulb. I carried on towards London with Abigail bound to Scotland, and back at home I relaxed writing a letter to an old acquantaince of mine, an Esperantomorphic australopitecous

Dearest Hotel, you won’t believe this one! Last Friday I went to the assembly of our local Lib-Dem primaries in order to choose the PPC, that is our candidate to next years’ parliamentary election in my constituency. It was my first time, even if I’m enrolled since many years but previously I was living in Scotland and there had not been a similar opportunity. Well, all this to tell you that in their primaries they use your Australian electoral system! In fact on the card I had to indicate four candidates in preference order. As anticipated in NyLon!, I’ve voted Gary for I know him personally (and because he his my accomplice in our secret plan to infiltrate the Italian radicals without making it known through their forum, etc), but I didn’t know the possibility to give a second, third and fourth preference. Thus I have given the second one to Nahid just because I spoke to her, at least by telephone. I didn’t know in in any way anybody else. It works like this: every other candidate cannot be present when a competitor carries out their presentation. This is because they could copy the answers to the members’ pernicious questions (all is monitored by a pair of employees of the party headquarters), in short the wretched ones are submitted to a scholastic exam. Therefore while a candidate speaks, the other three are confined in a contiguous small room. Exactly because I’ve gone there already with a clear idea on who to vote, I couldn’t care less to listen to them, therefore I went to the toilet to wee the beer and smoke a fag. Coming back I stop by the contiguous small room where the three candidates are confined while in the main room the fourth is taking the floor, a tall know-it-all looking like a kind of Cappattozzoni OGM-Inflated. In the small room I greet Gary confirming him my first preference and personally meet Nahid reassuring her of my second preference, when this 25-y-o wonder of nature in miniskirt and stiletto heels. But you Pakistani women wouldn’t be supposed to carry the Koran under the burka?

- That woul be hard, being my job a belly dancer in the Leicester Square Suk.

Norsheen aka Kiki had spoken in before, when I hadn’t arrived yet. I’m sorry, I told her, not having been able to listen to her speech. No worries, she replies, I’ll repeat it here in private audience especially for you. And she quickly changed in front of me in belly dancer apparel, rappingly blurting off her little speech in perfect Esperanto

- This constituency is winnable and I believe that together with local party members I can make this happen! I want to represent you as the first Liberal Democrat MP for Ealing, Acton and Shepherd's Bush. We now have to solid base but we need to make inroads into areas where we are currently weak. We need to prove that we are the clear challengers to Labour and squeeze the Tory vote. We have successfully done this in Brent East where I previously was the Liberal Democrat candidate and the think this is clearly possible here. Please give me the opportunity to help you make this a Liberal Democrat constituency!

What a faint of a girl. She has legs as they should be, unlike Naomi Campbell. Tits equally small, but in order to make them grow it would be enough to work on them patiently massaging them, while to bendy legs there is no remedy. Goodbye Hotel, deferently I salute your dick, let me know me in private on the forum if you have finally been successful in having pre-nuptial intercourses with Sara. PS: For the record, Gary has been elected, with just two preferences more than the OGM-Inflated .

In London penetrating Crapazzoni I was interrupted by Marco Cappato.

- I am Marco Cappato

All - Bastaaa!

Granzotto - Thanks. I was saying that while in London penetrating Crapazzoni, interpreted by Marco Cappato, I dared to inquire it on the fate of Olivier Dupuis.

- What happened to Olivier Dupuis?

- Boh, liquidated with a short notice like many others. Why do you ask?

- Mah, shame, he seemed a nice guy, not a Rutelli. He could turn out to be useful with what’s happening in Chechnya. And in Laos, and Tibet. Political investments in the long term, instead of the Sunday’a italiotic politics

Made jealous, Crapazzoni exacerbated - and what makes you to think that it was a type in leg?

- For example, except for Bonino he was the only one who calmly slept next to me when I drove them over 100 mph on the Macedonin roads. We amused ourselves a lot with the fines for speeding in Macedonia. Never mind, the party used to pay for them

Shit, I had betrayed myself. They always were sexual relationships to betray me, even if usually they were those of my wife. Fockoff, now Crapazzoni had uncovered me

- You are not Bob Granzotto, you are Michele Boselli!

- No, no, I swear to you that I am Bob Granzotto. Michele Boselli is nothing but my non-authorized biographer

Crapazzoni fell asleep pretending to believe me while in the Ferrari I carried him at 100 mph on the A4 towards Heathrow. Unloaded him there, went on to Ascot, where I had an appointment with Jarno for the last grand pix that the famous race course would have hosted before closing for next nineteen months because of renovation works. Not that Jarno had given himself to horse racing, that would rather should have done Briatore, but Jarno lived in nearby Binfield because of the Renault F1 team based in Wockingham. Therefore we frequently met in Ascot to try and shag the nimphomaniac upper class posh ladies in ridicules hats. He possessed the charme of F1 pilot, and I offered the fascination of a Ferrari that he envied to me because he only not succeeded to pass from a Renault to a Toyota. And since for the next season he would have to move to the Toyota team in Cologne, we greeted each other and Ascot as well for the last time. We wished the best and we wa also wished that Briatore met again the one with small tits and bendy legs so that the owner beat him up violently like her well known habit.

NyLon! - CHAPTER 18

The lighting system restored, in Torre Argentina days and nights elapsed of committee in permanent sitting in order to allow Bandinelli to carry out his short intervention, that I had reassumed in a dozen of chapters unfortunately removed and ripped by my Publisher, adducing that if he had wanted to publish a book by Bandinelli he would have asked Bandinelli himself to write it, while I had to put an end with lazily filling up the pages of repetitive radical committees. Therefore I sadly set off towards the meeting conclusion of the horrendous baroque sittings.

-… and thus it was like that the Richard Perle pocketed 5 million dollars when he was in the board of directors of the Hollinger that authorized enormous payments to Conrad Black thanks to a bonus system introduced by the same Black, let alone, through the controlled Hollinger Digital, two more million to the defense specialists Trireme Partners of which at the time he was an associate. To the face of the conflict of interest!

With one of his slaps Bandinelli concluded his hard scolding against the common delinquents of Wall Street risen to criminals of war in Capitol Hill. After a moment of respectful silence due to the authority of his measured gesture, a long standing ovation followed, interrupted twenty minutes later by another vigorous slap of the authoritative university professor who, satisfied of having completed his task to restore the truth in the radical archives, mumbling went to gobble up a deserved tripe. But as soon as he left the classroom, a noisy squabble exploded among the students.  

Anniballi to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel to Ghezzer – Jerk!

Giuliani to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Ghezzer to candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel - Peracottaro!

Michelotti to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel to Turko – Jerk you too!

Licheri to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Ghezzer to Angeli – Intolerant bovine!

Abenate to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel to Albinoni – Fuck off!

Pacor to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel to Gazzea Vesce – Patented impostor!

Palombo to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel to Baldini – Dumb blonde!

Candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Palombo to Baldini – Prick!

Paolemili to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Borsoi to Baldini – Baboon with a mussel encephalon!

Pardi to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Arrigoni to Baldini - Witch!

Pezzilli to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Turko to Baldini – Gluttonous!

Turko to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Tosoni to Baldini – Undistinguished and unrespectful!

Pisani to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Baldini to Tosoni - Shame!

Romantini to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Marangoni to Marangoni - Head of a cock!

Manera to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Manera to Ciardulli – Nag!

Sessarego to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Milardi to Senatore - Son of a bitch!

Del Grosso to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Senatore to Milardi - Amoeba, ass-broken, frustrated foolish servant!

Casiraghi to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Spena to Casiraghi and Senatore – Shit!

Polesel to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Ridolfi to Vita - Squatter!

Punzi to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Ridolfi to Breccia - Lollipop, Emilio Fede!

Preitano to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Ridolfi to Borsoi – Big monkey with no brains!

Romantini to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Borsoi to Ridolfi - Fascist turd!

Dentamaro to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Ridolfi to Borsoi - Nazi pig from suburra!

Giordano to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Borsoi to Ridolfi – Filth of the filth!

Bianchi to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Ridolfi to Borsoi – Racist tanghero with the IQ of a hen!

Bacci to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Borsoi to Ridolfi - Subnormal penecefalo androcoprico!

Ridolfi to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Ridolfi to Schnur - Quaqquaraqua!

Sawicki to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Schnur to Ridolfi – Unpleasant impolite!

Schnur to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Schnur to Suttora – Catho-communist!

Suttora to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Suttora to Pannella – Mesopotamian satrap!

Angeli to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Angeli to Pannella – Balls-breaker!

Marchitti to Bordini - Enough with the requiem on Radio radicale!

Dyason to Pannella – Coiled up!

Tabar to Bordini - Grrrr… equiem… whoff!

Pannella to Bordini…

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 20

On the upper deck of his mega-yacht, the gloomy Esperantist australopithecus Hotel Licheri was smoking a cigarette nervously thinking on how to translate Manzoni’s garden. Sara Piccardo, her 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 velvety skin slightly beaded by the October sultriness insinuating tenuous and sly in that tropical island of their honeymoon.

- The salad was in the garden…

- What did you say, my beloved?

- Sara, never ever call me like that. I am an estimated innkeeper to whom years of adventurous Esperantist life cannot be ruined with a banal one "beloved"

- Apologies, my beloved

- Grrrrrrrrrrrr

- Then how do you want me to call you, my beloved?

- Call me as you like, but not "beloved"

- It’s ok, honey

- It will be better if I leave – the indignant Licheri got rather angry, beginning to dress up.

- My love, adored honey husband, are you already leaving, my beloved?

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 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.