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

LALLI, LAMEDICA, LEMBO, LEONARDI, LEONARDUZZI, LIPPARINI, LITTA MODIGNANI, LOPS, LOQUENZI, LUCCHIARI, LUNARDELLI, MANIERI, MANZI, MAORI, MAUGHELLI, MAUREDDU, MAZZEI, MELLANO,

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 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 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 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 26

Prestwick, Monday 1 November, local time 0600. Bonino emotionally taxing the plane from left to right and left again, decided to seize the cloche in her left hand and with the right one shackle the knob to give maximum power to the reactors. A couple of hours later I distantly recognized the feeble lights of Reykjavik. It still was local time 0600 premises and the moment to act had come. They were all sleeping in first class, except for Antonio Pisani Ceretta to whom I made the convened signal. Pisani Ceretta had a perfectly identical twin, whom could only be distinguished from because one of the two sporting a beard. In origin it was that of the same Pisani Ceretta, but he was incompatible with the surname and above all a cinematographic requirement had been manifested to equip of beard his twin Gabriele Sessarego to let him play the part of the number one public enemy public and worldwide wanted, the Chechen terrorist Olivier bin Dupuis. The infamous Walloon incarnation of the evil was accustomed to that, after having spent the last thousand days hidden in the depths of a Belgian mine, ruminating in the smallest details his terrible revenge against the blasphemous radicals that in that glorious Armagheddon finally would materialize. It had been the same mephistophelian bin Dupuis, thousand days before, to infiltrate me in the British Lib-Dem so that I could then infiltrate in the Italian radicals, foreseeing in his twisted and diabolically dark mind that the former would have tried to take over the latter with a hostile bid during the New York conference, where their the stakes and shareholders themselves would literally plummet a little later on. One could wonder why he hadn’t infiltrated me directly in the radicals leaving in peace the Lib-Dems, but the bin Dupuis’ ways are incrutable, especially leaving in peace someone and, above all, in order to get to this tenth chapter of shabby novellistic artifices available to us nerdy Bulgarian-Scot writers. His beard unfrozen, bin Dupuis looked around rolling in his little satanic eyes the never soothed rancour in an expression of mystical satisfaction that all went like foreseen in the imminence of paradise: bin Dupuis was talebanically catholic. He signalled to me to proceed in recovering the weapon. From the inner pocket of the deeply snoring Tosoni I extracted the collapsible Carlomanera and with Pisani Ceretta and the surprising factor we made irruption in the cockpit. Bonino wiggled in fury but shortly afterwards Pisani Ceretta succeeded in immobilizing her and envelopping her in the brown cellotape like an Egyptian mummy, while I worked hard in trying to stun Pannella carlomanerizing him in depth to the maximum power. Strange extraterrestrial animal. It looked like he enjoyed it appealed to it, showing himself somehow electrified. Just when the batteries were about to die, finally he lost consciusness and in the cellotape we also packaged the great nonviolent leader, the Abruzzo's mule was transformed in pregnant horse of the Troy-pregnant of this indecorous self-quotation. Carbonated and fusing, the carlomaneric phallic crucifix was by now a write-off, but in the name of the cause by it had been worth the sacrifice, moreover it did no longer be useful, having completed its function, mission, in allowing us to get hold of the gigantic human missile. Goodness knows, according to popular tradition after three days he would be re-born improvising itself heterosexual for centuries to come. At 0600 local time we entered the airspace controlled by the Halifax radar, welcoming us on the other side of the pond. We gladly radioed back posing as the Svirgin pilots, trained as we were by years spent listening to Radio radicale Radius to imitate I the Pannella’s coughs and Pisani Ceretta the Bonino’s zeta. A last, definitive requiem more couldn’t be more appropriated for the entire political party that - suspended in the air unaware of its imminent, ill-omened fate -, woke up at first sweetly with the change of pressure in descending and then definitively at the perception of the small collision with the air when I extracted the landing gear as soon as I entered in visual contact with the JFK at 0600 local time.

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 / 8 di 10 / Angelo, Emilio, Guido, Leonardo, Lorenzo, Maurizio, Piero, Silvio, Stefano

Dal 22-esimo al trentesimo posto per frequenza con tre ciascuno le varianti Angiolo BANDINELLI, Angelo PEZZANA e Angela ROVEDA; gli Emili MARTUCCI e VESCE con Emiliano SILVESTRI; e ancora i Guidi FERRETTI, GENTILE, TASSINARI; i Lorenzi CENNI, LIPPARINI, STRIK-LIEVERS; i Maurizi BUZZEGOLI, REINA, TURCO; i Pieri PASOLINI, PIPI, WELBY; le Silvie MANZI e BONONCINI (Silvana) con VIALE; gli Stefani BILOTTI, KARASTOYANOV, SANTAROSSA

Sconvolgimento del Radicalometro a soli cinque giorni dal precedente aggiornamento: come si vede nell'ondata di post precedenti qui sotto, John Patelli (nella foto) mi ha corrotta per entrare nella top-ten. Ne ha fatto le spese il malcapitato Capezzone, sorpassato anche da Callegari e Dupuis. Contemporaneamente Suttora ha riacciuffato Cappato in cima alla classifica, Granzotto allunga su Pannella, in media classifica guadagnano ancora posizioni Bernardini e Pezzilli e in bassa classifica Manzi e Zamparutti. Clicca il link per la classifica completa

NyLon!, capitolo 8.

Sono trascorsi otto giorni e vi affrango con un’altra riunione del consiglio di amministrazione. Dopo venti ore Capezzone sedeva fresco come una rosa in berlusconiani zeppe e bandana a contornare il doppiopetto, circondato dalle sciupate concubine del suo gineceo Rita, Antonella, Abigail, Orietta e Silvietta... tutte donne, nella segreteria di Capezzone, che appositamente le aveva scelte del sesso opposto per non distrarsi durante le riunioni. Tranne l’altissimo quanto lugubre leader esperantista Albergo Licheri, straordinariamente somigliante al presidente moldavo Giurgiu Paganu, che infatti lo interpretava in questa storia.

- Albergo,

- Affermativo. Dove?

Prontissima intervenne la fedele Antonella che prendeva diligentemente appunti per prenotare viaggi e soggiorni del Capezzone dalle labbra del quale pendeva.

- Antonella, non intendo prenotare un hotel, bensì rivolgermi al qui presente Albergo, come si usa dire in esperanto per Alberto, per chiedergli quanto seguirà dopo la tua prossima interruzione...

Amareggiata da tanta arroganza, l’abitualmente prolifica Antonella incrociò le braccia e non interruppe più per quattro ore di imbarazzante silenzio (poi ci si meraviglia che le riunioni di segreteria durino tanto, in realtà non si dicono niente).

- Va bene, Antonella - capitolò l’ennesimo segretario radicale riconducibile a un codice di avviamento postale - ti chiedo scusa. Adesso interrompici, per favore.

- Scuse accettate. Si parlava dell’Albergo

- Albergo, dicevo, quante volte ti devo ripetere di nominare una femmina in questo nostro senato rappresentativo delle associazioni?

- Esperanto che un giorno la troviamo, una bella fica esperantista. Al momento siamo piuttosto desperanti. Nel frattempo ti ho già proposto Lapa Orlandi

- Ma se porta la barba. Che almeno se la rada.

- Esperanto. Nel frattempo non ti resta che me, eh eh

- Albergo, come si dice vaffanculo in esperanto?

Capezzone era infuriato dalla mancanza di disciplina nella componente esperantista del partito. Le altre associazioni avevano obbedientemente nominato nel senato radicale le loro più belle donne, cosicché da non turbarlo, ma gli esperantisti non riuscivano a trovarne una: tranne l’eurodeputata polacca erano tutti maschi virili. Silvietta ruppe l’imbarazzo cambiando argomento.

- Buone notizie, abbiamo ricevuto quindici iscrizioni da Londra

Capezzone ebbe un’istantanea polluzione. Quindici iscrizioni da Londra potevano rappresentare il disperato salvagente della sua segreteria fallimentare prima che andasse in pensione nel futuro Pdl. Volle saperne di più. Attaccando indirettamente Silvietta, Abigail giocò molto bene il suo ruolo antagonista.

- Sono molto diffidente, queste iscrizioni puzzano di bruciato

Tanto bastava. Se Abigail era contraria significava che c’era dell’arrosto, sotto la puzza di bruciato. Capezzone istruì Antonella di prenotargli il primo volo per Londra, senza interruzioni.

NYLON!, capitolo 26.

Prestwick, lunedì 1 novembre, ore 0600 locali. Bonino emozionatissima zig-zagando a deztra e ziniztra si decise ad afferrare la cloche nella ziniztra e il maniglione nella deztra per dare massima potenza ai reattori. Un paio d’ore dopo scorsi fioche in lontananza le luci di Reykiavik. Erano sempre le 0600 locali ed era venuto il momento di agire. Dormivano tutti, in prima classe, tranne Antonio Pisani Ceretta al quale feci il segnale convenuto. Anche Ceretta aveva un gemello, perfettamente identico, dal quale lo si poteva distinguere solo perché uno dei due portava la barba. In origine era quella di Ceretta stesso, ma era incompatibile col cognome e soprattutto si era manifestata l’esigenza cinematografica di dotare di barba il gemello Gabriele Sessarego per fargli interpretare la parte del nemico pubblico e ricercato mondiale numero uno, il terrorista ceceno Olivier bin Dupuis. Ceretta riemerse dal pozzetto nel corridoio dopo averlo rabbrividendo recuperato nel cargo, con la barba (ex-Ceretta su bin Dupuis) surgelata. Il turpe vallone incarnazione del male ci era abituato, dopo avere trascorso gli ultimi mille giorni nascosto nelle profondità di una miniera belga, rimuginando nei minimi particolari la sua terribile vendetta contro i blasfemi radicali che in quel glorioso Armagheddon si sarebbe finalmente materializzata. Era stato proprio il mefistofelico bin Dupuis, mille giorni prima, a infiltrarmi nei lib-dem britannici affinché potessi poi infiltrarmi nei radicali italiani, prevedendo nella sua diabolica-mente contorta ed oscura che i primi avrebbero tentato il take over dei secondi con un’Opa ostile al congresso di New York, dove però le loro azioni e gli azionisti stessi sarebbero letteralmente precipitati di lì a poco. Verrebbe da chiedersi come mai non mi avesse infiltrato direttamente nei radicali lasciando in pace i lib-dem, ma le vie del bin Dupuis sono imperscrutabili, specialmente il lasciare in pace qualcuno e, soprattutto, per poter arrivare a questa decima puntata bisognava pur accontentarsi dei meschini artifici narrativi di cui disponiamo noi sfigati scrittori bulgaro-scozzesi. Scongelataglisi la barba, bin Dupuis si guardò attorno roteando negli occhietti satanici il mai sopito rancore in una espressione di mistica soddisfazione che tutto andasse come previsto nell’imminenza del paradiso: bin Dupuis era talebanicamente cattolico. Mi fece segno di procedere al recupero dell’arma. Dalla tasca interna del Tosoni profondamente russante estrassi il Carlomanera pieghevole e con Ceretta e il fattore sorpresa facemmo irruzione nella cabina di pilotaggio. Bonino si dimenò come una furia ma dopo qualche istante di colluttazione Ceretta ebbe ragione di lei immobilizzandola e avviluppandola nel nastro adesivo da pacchi come una mummia egizia, mentre io faticai molto di più nel tentare di stordire Pannella carlomanerizzandolo in profondità alla massima potenza. Strano animale extraterrestre, sembrava quasi che gli piacesse, se ne mostrava elettrizzato. Proprio quando le batterie stavano per esaurirsi, finalmente perse i sensi e nel nastro adesivo potemmo confezionare anche il grande leader nonviolento che da mulo abruzzese si era trasformato in cavallo di Troia incinto di questa indecorosa autocitazione. Carbonizzato e fondente, il carlomanerico crocifisso fallico era ormai da buttare, ma in nome della causa ne era valso il sacrificio, e poi tanto non serviva più aveva compiuto la sua funzione, missione, nel consentirci d’impadronirci dei comandi del gigantesco missile umano. Chissà, stando alla tradizione popolare dopo tre giorni sarebbe risorto improvvisandosi eterosessuale per i secoli a venire. Alle ore 0600 locali entrammo nello spazio aereo controllato dal radar di Halifax, che ci diede il benvenuto sull’altra sponda dello stagno. Rispondemmo allegramente spacciandoci per i piloti della Svirgin, addestrati come eravamo da anni di ascolto di Radio radicale ad imitare io la tosse di Pannella e quel culattone di Ceretta le zeta della Bonino. Un ultimo, definitivo requiem non sarebbe stato più appropriato per l’intero partito politico che - sospeso per aria ignaro del suo imminente, infausto destino -, si risvegliò dapprima dolcemente col graduale cambiamento di pressione in discesa e poi definitivamente alla percezione del piccolo urto quando estrassi i carrelli non appena entrai in contatto visivo col JFK alle 0600 locali.

NyLon! - capitolo 27


La concubina Silvietta fu l’unica a percepire una vaga inquietudine che avrebbe potuto portarla a sospettare qualcosa pur coperta dalla lunga barba, poteva riconoscere una notevole somiglianza tra l’erezione dello sconosciuto passeggero accanto a lei e quella tipica dell’attore playboy Gabriele Sessarego nei film del genere catastrofaeronautico in cui interpretava il suo vecchio grande amore bin Dupuis. A ben vedere, barba a parte era tutto intero il passeggero a somigliare, gesticolare, odorare, orinare ed eiaculare a spruzzo come quel segretario di partito che l’aveva tanto amata e poi ripudiata per la lotta armata contro gli infedeli. Ma Silvietta era troppo timida e imbarazzata per lanciare l’allarme, che comunque non avrebbe sortito effetto alcuno. Infatti tutti gli altri passeggeri, per la gioia di quell’escursione turistica in cui si apprestavano a timbrare un altro mandato a Capezzone, erano euforici come lo sarebbero stati in gita dei boy-scout, il cui motto

- Estoti Parati! Estoti Parati!

farneticava danzando in prima classe con Maria Cristina l’eminente Editore unifrocio. Questa atmosfera da orchestra del Titanic si era creata grazie ai nostri altri due agenti, Gary e la Turka, per tutta la durata del volo imboscati nel cesso inalare incessantemente cannabis espirandone i vapori nel sistema di aria condizionata della cabina, per cui tutti i passeggeri felicemente inebriati avevano goduto di meravigliose fantasie oniriche. Daniele Capezzone aveva sognato di potersi finalmente liberare delle flaccide sembianze di Marco Cappato per incarnarsi in quelle granitiche del bionico vice-presidente Dick Cheney e così succedere Bush nel 2008. Da parte sua la meno pretenziosa Rita Bernardini aveva sognato di poter veramente divenire la tesoriera Janine dei lib-dem, che’ oltre a essere un partito più serio e meno serioso le avrebbe garantito una decorosa pensione di gratuiti doppi colpetti di malto singolo. E in tema scozzese, Abigail aveva avuto il sogno più improbabile di un weekend a Glasgow senza pioggia. Invece il candido magnate indo-orobico John Patel aveva sognato di fare un giro di prova sulle concubine per verificare se avesse potuto sollevarle dalla sciagura di servire Capezzone per assumerle lui, nel ruolo socialmente più utile di assistenti di volo per la sua compagnia, considerato che la Raffa e Maria Cristina erano ormai avanti con gli anni e nella sua saggezza di imprenditore era suo dovere cominciare a pensare a un ricambio generazionale. L’architettopiteco Albergo Licheri sognava sempre e solo in esperanto e dunque non pote’ che sognare la notte in cui conobbe la popstar esperantista e se ne innamorò a prima vista. Dopo una serata tristanzuola di dibattito coi lib-dem sul sistema elettorale australiano, si era trascinato al pub irlandese per deprimersi ulteriormente affogando i suoi dispiaceri e devastante solitudine in un ennesimo giovedì sera di vomitevole dysko-musik polacca al watering hole di Acton che gli aveva consigliato Capezzone dopo una visita a Londra. Era ormai alla quinta pinta quando salì sul palco l’avvenente notaia polacca Agnyeska Rostropova, che in attesa del permesso di lavoro si guadagnava da vivere con l’intrigante nome d’arte di Sara Piccardo. Il suo soffice biondo vello, gli occhioni verdi e la boccuccia di rosa, ma più che altro il culetto diciottenne e l’aquilino nasoppio armeno-giudaico-greco-romano lo mandarono in brodo di giuggiole. Terminata la performance, soprendendosi egli stesso del suo tanto osare, l’Albergo si offrì per accompagnarla. Come spesso accade in questi casi, era una notte buia e tempestosa. Scoppiò infatti un violento uragano e l’Albergo trascinò Sara a rifugiarsi inzuppati in una cabina del telefono

- Mo’ ke kavolon famo qui insido fintantoké enda el tempestoj atmosferiko?

Spaventata dai tuoni e fulmini chiese la Piccardo-Rostropova in perfetto esperanto. Uscito dalla facoltà di architettjattura laureato a pieni voti con una tesi sulla teoria quantistica dei baci cabino-telefonici, per comprovarla nella pratica l’Albergo Licheri aspettava da una vita quella domanda come e più di quanto un cinefilo taxista newyorchese si aspetterebbe da un momento all’altro James Bond dirigerlo a inseguire il taxi del collega di fronte appena partito con a bordo il cattivo di turno. D’entrambi unzippando gl’impermeabili, Licheri insinuò le mani a riscaldarle le braccia in modo apparentemente amichevole, per poi protettivamente scendere la destra su un suo fianco e ascendere la maldeztra - come direbbe Bonino in ezperanto per zignificare la ziniztra -, intrufolarsi a sfiorarle la pelle d’oca sulla spalla ancora intirizzita dal freddo e il pallido collo di cigno fino ad accarezzarle il bernoccolino sulla nuca marchio di ogni intelligente popstar esperantista, e in men che non si dica, coi rispettivi sguardi strabirsi e sfuocarsi tuffandosi gli uni negli altri, passionalmente le loro lingue si incontrarono ancor prima delle loro labbra. Interferiva nel bel sogno d’amore l’odioso DJ, il prete rockettaro pedofilo e avifago don Domenico Spena, in realtà anch’egli un notaio polacco invidioso del successo della connazionale e geloso che questa gli preferisse l’Albergo.

Polpetton, capitolo III

Era solo nella nebbia, Mauro S., e ripensava alle copie del suo libro da vendere, e quando si mise tra le labbra una sigaretta, la debole luce del suo accendino illuminò un gigantesco cartellone pubblicitario che attirò la sua attenzione. Incorniciato dai riccioli ribelli il faccione rubizzo di Roberto Granzotto campeggiava su 64 metri cubi di quel cartellone pubblicitario a rilievo. La mente affaticata dalle emozioni di Mauro si abbandono' a rievocare l'epoca in cui l'irresistibile ascesa del pasionario veneto era cominciata....

Per certi versi Roberto Granzotto lasciò Ginevra con le pive nel sacco. Correva il 7 aprile 2002 e tre giorni prima vi era arrivato per partecipare al XXXVIII congresso con la speranza di uscirne segretario del partito, forte dei sondaggi che negli ultimi mesi lo davano in costante ascesa. Ma non avrebbe mai potuto ottenere la maggioranza assoluta al primo ballottaggio senza l'appoggio del satrapo mesopotamico, il cui cinquanta per cento di voti gli era necessario per essere legittimato da una maggioranza forte.

Dovette accettare di malavoglia il compromesso impostogli dal grande vecchio: accontentarsi della direzione dei soli radicali italiani, un tempo sì glorioso tronco dal quale aveva avuto origine il partito transnazionale, ma oggi ormai rinsecchito nelle iniziative e striminzito nel numero di iscritti dall'incuria dei dirigenti più recenti.

"Ma che ne sarà di Capezzone?" indago' Granzotto fingendo di intenerirsi al pensiero del destino del più fallimentare segretario nella storia radicale, sperando di muovere a compassione il leader cosicché questi sfrattasse invece il belga dalla sedia transnazionale ch'egli bramava veramente. "Niente paura," lo aveva rassicurato il satrapo: "Daniele non si accorgerà di nulla se lo lasciamo continuare a fare quel che ha sempre fatto come segretario".

Ancora oggi infatti, quindici anni dopo, il radicale attento riconosce Capezzone distribuire volantini col menù davanti al McPizza in Piazza di Spagna. Lo pagano in nero sotto il salario minimo, ma è quel che gli basta per mantenersi nutrendosi di hamburger modificati geneticamente e conseguire una laurea con la CEPU ("Se soltanto avessi dato ascolto a Suttora, che me lo ripeteva sempre di prima laurearmi...")

Era un modo di metterlo alla prova su di una barchetta prima di metterlo al timone del partito vero - arzigogolava Granzotto cercando di abituarsi alla gavetta -, quello che aveva per interlocutori capi di stato e parlamenti di tutto il mondo, e tale prova nella provincia italiana egli doveva entrare nell'ordine di idee di disporsi ad affrontare come un bagno di umiltà nella missione di restituire fiducia ai militonti cosicché tornassero nell'ovile dove li attendevano ancora come figlioli prodighi i trentanove presidenti e due iscritti radicali rimasti in Italia. Una sfida quasi impossibile.

Atterrò a Ciampino con un piano di azione già ben delineato nella sua mente vulcanica e trovò ad attenderlo in Torre Argentina la direzione straordinaria che aveva nominato poche ore prima nello stupore della platea congressuale che lo aveva appena eletto. Tutte donne, tanto per cominciare segnalando un taglio netto col recente passato. Più che una segreteria, malignavano i maschietti silurati, un gineceo: Olivia Gatti, Silvja Vitelli, Rita Sanbernardi, Elisabetta Zamparrosto, Orietta Calamari...

Granzotto era un uomo di mondo a suo agio tra le donne (eufemismo per playboy in italiano, womaniser in inglese), e giunto nella saletta riunioni sfoderò senza indugi il suo piano rivoluzionario, contemplante al primo punto il cambiamento delle elle: quello radicale italiano sarebbe ora divenuto conosciuto come il movimento Laico, Liberale e Libertario. I liberisti si sarebbero incacchiati, se soltanto ve ne fossero rimasti, ma il nuovo tesoriere Polezel li aveva già licenziati tutti con un messaggio SMS, tra l'altro così risanando le casse del movimento in men che non si dica.

Naturalmente i liberisti avevano protestato, fondando all'uopo un sindacato, ma c'era ben poco da fare col muscoloso e irremovibile Polezel, campione di boxe formatosi allo studio Sbardolini, lo Zorro bresciano dal quale aveva appreso l'arte di micidiali link.

Agli osservatori più acuti di cose radicali, inizialmente la coabitazione forzata tra Granzotto e Polezel sembrava destinata ad essere burrascosa per rivalità campanilistiche: non soltanto erano nati nei comuni confinanti di Santa Lucia di Piave e di Mareno di Piave, ma erano cresciuti nella contesa frazione divisa a metà di Bocca di Strada (la localita' prendeva il nome da una prostituta che alleviò le pene dei soldati nella grande guerra), appartenti rispettivamente ai clan acerrimi rivali del Bar da Bano e della Pizzeria al Sole.

Col tempo però il sodalizio tra i roberti si andò gradualmente cementando fino a farne la coppia inseparabile che Suttora avrebbe poi impietosamente anatomizzato nel libro "Granzotto e Polezel SRL".

Cambiato un aggettivo e risanate le finanze con l'eliminazione dei liberisti parastatali, non restava che escogitare una grande campagna che avrebbe trainato il movimento verso luminosi traguardi, e Granzotto non esitò un istante nell'indicare la via: i nuovi radicali avrebbero lanciato 25 PdL! Non si perse molto tempo a consultare i militanti su quali PdL scegliere, ma vennero invece subito avviati ad un training professionale per svolgere un'azione efficace.

Superata la resistenza alla singolare novità, i militanti radicali invasero pacificamente le strade di tutta Italia per suonare i campanelli e presentare le 25 Proposte di Lavoretti popolari elaborate da Granzotto, che era un uomo pratico col bernoccolo del fai da te:

Lavare la macchina; Sturare il lavandino; Preparare il risotto; Passare l'aspirapolvere; Lucidare l'argenteria; Vulcanizzare la gomma della bicicletta; Stendere il bucato; Riparare l'orologio a cucù; Stirare le camicie; Rinnovare il filtro della lavatrice; Rasare l'erba; Cambiare il pannolino; Raddrizzare l'antenna; Programmare il videoregistratore; Rammendare i calzini; Fare la coda in posta; Scendere a prendere le sigarette; Passeggiare il cane; Portare a scuola i bambini; Aggiustare il telecomando; Sostituire le batterie ai vibratori; Pedinare il marito cornuto; Settare il modem; Sintonizzare radio radicale; Manicure e pedicure.

Fu un successo enorme. Un gioiosa armata di militanti entusiasti raccoglieva migliaia di iscrizioni e milioni di euro in contributi (sui quali avevano una percentuale come incentivo). Da Corso Venezia ai Parioli, da Quarto Oggiaro a Tor Pignattara la gente non faceva che parlare delle 25 Proposte di Lavoretti e di come i nuovi radicali granzottiani fossero divenuti indispensabili al funzionamento del Paese.

I sondaggi prospettavano successi elettorali inauditi e per Granzotto e Polesel fu un gioco formalizzare la loro leadership nel congresso italiano di luglio. In soli cento giorni avevano ricostruito il movimento e con l'esperienza acquisita sul campo si apprestavano ora a rivoltare l'Italia come un calzino con la Rivoluzione liberale.

Ma quella sarebbe stata un'altra storia, si riebbe intontito Suttora da quei frastornanti ricordi, e nel riprendere la sua indagine si avviò col suo incedere vissuto verso il Porno Eden, come la sua vecchia amica sessuologa Rhoda Pellizzi gli aveva insegnato ad anagrammare Pordenone...

The Polpetton Hash – Chapter 3

Mauro was alone in the fog, thinking again of his book, when lightening up a cigarette the weak light illuminated a gigantic billboard which caught his attention. Framed in rebel curls, Robert Granzotto’s hale face camped on 64 cubic meters of a 3-D advertising billboard. Mauro’s mind, tired by emotions, indulged in recalling the age when the irresistible rise of the Venetian pasionario began…

In some ways Robert Granzotto left Geneva empty handed. It was April 7, 2002 and three days before he had got there to take part to the XXXVIII conference of the party hoping to leave it as its new general secretary, strong of the polls which in recent months saw him constantly rising. But he couldn’t obtain the absolute majority at the first ballot without support by the Mesopotamian satrap, whose fifty per cent was needed in order to be legitimized by a strong majority. He had instead to reluctantly accept the great compromise imposed by the old tyrant: to satisfy himself with the leadership of Italian radicals only, once upon a time the glorious log from which the transnational party had had origin from, but by now dried up of initiatives and skimpy in membership due to the careless of recent leaders.

“But what will it be of Capezzone?” Granzotto enquired pretending to care at the thought of the destiny of the most bankrupt secretary in radical history, hoping this way to move to compassion the leader so that he would evict the Belgian one instead from the transnational chair he really coveted.

“Don’t worry” – reassured him the satrap – “Daniel won’t notice if we leave him do whatever he has always done as secretary”.

Still today, actually, fifteen years later, the careful radical eye recognizes Capezzone distributing menu leaflets in front of the McPizza in Piazza di Spagna. They pay him casually under the minimal salary, but it’s enough to nourish himself of genetically modified burgers and achieve a bachelor with the University of Spokane (”If I only had listened to Suttora, who always told me to graduate before…”)

It was a way to test him on a small boat before putting him to the rudder of the real party – day-dreamed Granzotto trying to accustom himself to mess-tin -, the one which had as interlocutors heads of state and parliamentarians from of all the world, and such test in the Italian province he had to accept to face as bathe of humility in the mission to give back confidence to the activists so that they would return to the fold where they were waited for like prodigal sons by the thirty-nine presidents and the two radical members left in Italy. A nearly impossible challenge. He landed in Ciampino airport with an action plan already well outlined in his volcanic mind and found in Via di Torre Argentina the extraordinary board he had appointed a few hours before for the astonishment of the congress assizes which had just elected him. All women, in order to clearly begin signaling a cut with the recent past. More than a secretariat, maliciously complained the torpedoed men, a gynaeceum: Olivia Cats, Silvja Calves, Rita Saint-Bernard, Elisabetta Roastpaws, Orietta Squids…

Granzotto was a man of the world, comfortable among women (an euphemism for womaniser), and reaching the meeting room outlined with no hesitation his revolutionary plan, contemplating at the first point the change of the L – Italian radicals now would have become known as a movement “Liberal, Libertarian and Lay” instead of Liberist. The liberists would have got angry, if only there wer any left, but the new treasurer Polezel had already fired them all via text message SMS, by doing so balancing the budget in no time. Naturally the liberists protested, ironically setting up a trade union, but they were no match for the brawny an unyelding Polezel.
To the acute observer of radical things, initially the forced cohabitation between Granzotto and Polezel seemed destined to be stormy because of parochial rivalries: not only they were born in the adjacent municipalities of Santa Lucia di Piave and Mareno di Piave, but they had grown up in the split village of Boccadistrada (the place, meaning Mouth of the road, took its name from a prostitute who alleviated the pains of soldiers in the great war), and wer members of the implacably rival clans of the Bano’s Bar and the Sunlight Pizzeria respectively. But with tome the bond between the roberts gradually cemented until making them the inseparable pair that Mauro Suttora would later anatomize in hus book “Granzotto & Polesel Plc”.

A adjective changed and the finances balanced, a great campaign had to be devised to launch the movement towards luminous goals, and Granzotto did not hesitate a second in show the way: the new radicals would have launchud 25 bill drafts! Wasting no time in asking the members which bills to choose, he sent them instead to quickly start a professional training so that they could carry out an effective action. Overcoming the reluctance to the peculiar innovation, the radical activists peacefully invaded Italian streets ringing door-bells to introduce the 25 job draft proposals, for he was a practical man with a flair for DIY:

Clean the car; Unclog the washbasin; Cook the risotto; Hoover the carpet; Polish the silvervare; Vulcanize of bicycle’s tyres; Hang out the laundry; Repair the cuckoo clock; Iron the shirts; Renew the filter of the washing machine; Mow the lawn; Change the diaper; Straighten the aerial; Program the video recorder; Darn the socks; Queue at the post office; Buy the cigarettes; Walk the dog; Take the kids to school; Fix the remote control; Replace the dildo’s batteries; Shadow the cuckold husband; Set the modem; Tune Radio radicale; Manicure and chiropodist.

It was an enormous success. A joyful army of enthusiastic activists collected thousands of signatures and millions of euros in tips. From Venice to Sicily people can’t help talking about the 25 Job Proposals and the new granzottian radicals had become essential in managing the Country. The polls anticipated electoral successes unheard of before and for Granzotto and Polezel it was easy formalize their leadership in the Italian party conference in July. In one hundred days they had rebuilt the movement and with the experience acquired on the field they were now ready to turn Italy upside down with their liberal revolution.

But that was to be another story. Mauro recovered dazed by those disturbing memories to resume his investigation with experienced gait in direction of Porno Eden, as his old sexologist Rhoda Pellizzi had taught him how to anagram the nearby town of Pordenone.

NyLon!, capitolo 8

Sono trascorsi otto giorni e vi affrango con un’altra riunione del consiglio di amministrazione. Dopo venti ore Capezzone sedeva fresco come una rosa in berlusconiani zeppe e bandana a contornare il doppiopetto, circondato dalle sciupate concubine del suo gineceo Rita, Antonella, Abigail, Orietta e Silvietta... tutte donne, nella segreteria di Capezzone, che appositamente le aveva scelte del sesso opposto per non distrarsi durante le riunioni. Tranne l’altissimo quanto lugubre leader esperantista Albergo Licheri, straordinariamente somigliante al presidente moldavo Giurgiu Paganu, che infatti lo interpretava in questa storia.

- Albergo,

- Affermativo. Dove?

Prontissima intervenne la fedele Antonella che prendeva diligentemente appunti per prenotare viaggi e soggiorni del Capezzone dalle labbra del quale pendeva.

- Antonella, non intendo prenotare un hotel, bensì rivolgermi al qui presente Albergo, come si usa dire in esperanto per Alberto, per chiedergli quanto seguirà dopo la tua prossima interruzione...

Amareggiata da tanta arroganza, l’abitualmente prolifica Antonella incrociò le braccia e non interruppe più per quattro ore di imbarazzante silenzio (poi ci si meraviglia che le riunioni di segreteria durino tanto, in realtà non si dicono niente).

- Va bene, Antonella - capitolò l’ennesimo segretario radicale riconducibile a un codice di avviamento postale - ti chiedo scusa. Adesso interrompici, per favore.

- Scuse accettate. Si parlava dell’Albergo

- Albergo, dicevo, quante volte ti devo ripetere di nominare una femmina in questo nostro senato rappresentativo delle associazioni?

- Esperanto che un giorno la troviamo, una bella fica esperantista. Al momento siamo piuttosto desperanti. Nel frattempo ti ho già proposto Lapa Orlandi

- Ma se porta la barba. Che almeno se la rada.

- Esperanto. Nel frattempo non ti resta che me, eh eh

- Albergo, come si dice vaffanculo in esperanto?

Capezzone era infuriato dalla mancanza di disciplina nella componente esperantista del partito. Le altre associazioni avevano obbedientemente nominato nel senato radicale le loro più belle donne, cosicché da non turbarlo, ma gli esperantisti non riuscivano a trovarne una: tranne l’eurodeputata polacca erano tutti maschi virili. Silvietta ruppe l’imbarazzo cambiando argomento.

- Buone notizie, abbiamo ricevuto quindici iscrizioni da Londra

Capezzone ebbe un’istantanea polluzione. Quindici iscrizioni da Londra potevano rappresentare il disperato salvagente della sua segreteria fallimentare prima che andasse in pensione nel futuro Pdl. Volle saperne di più. Attaccando indirettamente Silvietta, Abigail giocò molto bene il suo ruolo antagonista.

- Sono molto diffidente, queste iscrizioni puzzano di bruciato

Tanto bastava. Se Abigail era contraria significava che c’era dell’arrosto, sotto la puzza di bruciato. Capezzone istruì Antonella di prenotargli il primo volo per Londra, senza interruzioni.