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Five things you did not know about me

Ismael invites us on his blog to participate in the meme "Five things not know about me." Http://lamediahostia.blogspot.com/2006/12/meme-cinco-cosas-que-no-sabes-sobre-m.html Here we go ...

1. My favorite slogan is "Death intelligence" and "Viva la Muerte ."

2. I think all human races are the superior race . That said, I am convinced that people are just as inept part of what we call "mass" that taken into account individually. It is something that annoys me too much, indeed, seems to me admirable .

3. I am very skeptical about the usefulness of language as a sincere communication. I think the only communication is non verbal viable . Communication acts closer to communion occur in sexual behavior and violent.

4. Perhaps because of this, almost two decades use music to drown out any trace of reasoning, reflection, or simple verbal flow of my consciousness. As a result, most of my thinking time is reduced to a series of silly noises and melodies that, if translated into terms olfactory, would make me a man with brain dog. I have not had yet to get to sniff the ass of my friends, but everything will come ...

5. I am increasingly convinced that I lack identity. Or at least I give the same importance that I feel cramps in my stomach when I have hunger. As I'm that cool, put other three.

6. I against biodiversity. Only saved from extinction food animals according to the dictates of the Mediterranean diet.

7. I can drink my own weight in Marc . (Which I do not know is whether it can survive to experience)

8. On the odd occasion when I eat boogers are crust. And besides, I really like know. Any little thing

more? I will answer whatever.

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When the siesta, lying on the sofa with eyes closed, I could clearly hear a rustling of crustacean trampled upon, a soft tear of dead flesh, beating an egg with a tiny fetus chicken blue, the howl of a hyena lost among the rose gardens of my development, two shots on the side of a nearby drug dealer, two of Satie piano pieces played in unison by two silent horns, the clang of a clin- keys to fall, a single-flush on the floor below, a chup-chup on the floor next to the transition to the transit of a busybody who have given a good kick in the balls on the floor above. Applause.

A magpie crashed into one of the windows of my balcony. His fluttering shocked and hurt got to wake up just in time to celebrate his death. Better him than me.

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Some evenings should be banned, "said the professor Danso while smeared a thick block of butter on a bloody steak. The sunsets in Europe especially resemble an epileptic aura . Tastes like déjà vu and smell bad. The self-proclaimed great illustrious African seer then gave a magnificent and ferocious bite the steak and I could almost feel the lump of flesh writhed in pain in his mouth descended from cannibals .

Do you think that Spain is European sunsets, Danso? No, the sunsets in Spain have something crafty. The sunsets in your country seem to unfold before you as if everything belongs to a private show. Seem to offer something very valuable, as an exceptional female know you do not deserve but which is delivered to you. And the fact is that one often gives up and ends up paying. Paying more than they can permitirse.El illustrious African seer can cure gonorrhea, prostatitis and clap with only a few sentences, glanced at the veins that ran the mutilated flesh that still remained on the plate. Oh, Molinaire ! Sunsets of Spain does not give you anything you do not offer a French evening.

You see it nerve? Imagine it is the intestinal tract Eurasia. If I caught him here, say that this is Lisbon and the other side is ... the other side is a city of such shit that is in the East. Tell me the name of one, buddy! Do not you know? Well, you know what I mean. If I stretch the nerve and, Look at me how I stretch!, You see ok? Blood drips. It is the blood of all the people that you bare, Molinaire. Look, I stretch a little further. Shut up at once, dammit! Danso was addressed to his wife, who was in the room next to the office where we were, a kind of toilet that used to practice ablations. I'm talking to my partner! If you put me nervous ablations are over for today. There is no party. Out of that, out of here!, Often crazy pair! My partner and I have to go, I have to make a tattoo to protect him from bullets ...

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Question: Does it bother you the girls that having sex have had better bedfellows?

Jean Tully: I itched a lot when I said it, so it was increasingly applied. It was sort of a never-ending, after each cap mediocre I asked and they answered me the dreaded phrase. I became like a madman and trying to repeat the task with more application.

I finally became a real sexual locomotive without my knowledge and rumor ran (ahem) between chavalas (and boys) in the neighborhood. Everyone knew what they had to do with me to fuck like they never had fucked: tell me her former lover had been better. I got angry so I was getting a new instant erection, an erection almost imperishable, an iron bar, a bull Mihura. The trunk of an elephant fucking.

heavens, for a couple of months I had to fuck half the neighborhood. I lost fifteen kilos and I started feeling weaker and weaker. Do not know what to do to keep my rhythm, could not understand. If it was fucking bad, why would God let them all with me. I fell into a depression and I began to spend the scholarship money for drugs. Finally I fucked up the girlfriend of my camel, also according to her fucking better than me. I could not more.

One day a policeman woke me up. I had fallen asleep with his pants down and cock the air in a park. There were people around and I do not remember anything. When I got home I took a shower, cried inconsolably and I swore to myself never to fuck with anyone else.

Years later a friend told me the secret. Since then I have to have sex, but only with my wife. And I do so with great reluctance.

Question: Have you ever blown smoke penis while pooping?

Jean Tully: Yes, I have me burning, yes. More than once. It was one of the reasons why I quit (my smoking was so great that before I thought about quitting shit, but I screwed up my week on the bus, going to work).

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II Secret History of Móstoles Móstoles

Ismael often wonder what the hell was a useful expel a French king to bring "an anchor Bourbon." This gives me the opportunity to point out about the true motives of the Declaration of Independence of 1808.

The celebrated May 2 of that year Andrés Torrejón and Simón Hernández, in a daring move of cooperation between classes that are anticipated a century fascism, decided to declare war on France. This was due to two reasons, one political, separatist and revolutionary root and other aesthetic.

one hand, it was away in Spain all advanced as illustrated and brought to the ruler of the neighboring country in an apparent attempt to destabilize the nation so many years had mostoleña-subduing sovereignty declaration by Villa part of Felipe II was always taken here as a true imperialist provocation. That is, was an attempt to plunge to Spain in a war for taking advantage of the confusion and collapse of the system, rise in revolt and declare an independent Móstoles Spain, following a socialist self-management system that 63 years later calcareous the Paris Commune. Hence the "War of Independence."

It was not therefore independence from France, the French only came here to throw bread crumbs to the ducks in the pond and drink the wine Soto pitarra (local winemaking techniques were exactly the same as when Móstoles was the Kingdom of Taifa of Badajoz).

There was another reason, in which socio-political factors blended with almost supernatural aesthetic delirium. Simón Hernández was true weakness for red. So much so he decided to become a beret that, unlike the local color black, out of the color of blood. At first it only brought him become the object of all manner of taunts and jokes, but soon became a real fashion.

Simon Hernandez was a natural man and extremely sensitive dreamer who gave him some psychic fragility. Often this weakness made him fall into a trance. It is said that the first night they met in secret with Andrés Torrejón in the inn Gregorio, Simon had a vision. In it, the anchor was a creature Bourbon inbreeding and stolid unable to produce males. This inability to new conflicts arise in succession that they would plunge the oppressive Spain in the dark. Shortly before waking from the trance, if we pay attention to what Andrés Torrejón left written in one of his letters, Simon did not fail to exclaim "Red Berets against the Bourbons, against the Bourbon Red Berets."

Yes, my friend Ismael, the infamous Mayor Andrés Torrejón nobles with the revolutionary Simón Hernández were the drafters of what we now call Carlismo.

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The post-Maoist guerrilla mostoleña "New Khmer May 12" are already wreaking havoc on my neighborhood. Last evening, a couple of his young guards tried to convince me to conceal a small stockpile of biological weapons in my house. "Come on, man, in your guest room would be the most situationist, and occupies so little space!". I refused because I have a fairly atrophied class consciousness and also I am allergic to almost all bacteria and gases they offered me. "Ask me anything else, guys, but I coléis my brown, then Andrés Torrejón paramilitary commandos are able to ask me any atrocity." After a lukewarm war of words and a small donation saw fit to leave me with my simple life of lumpenproletariat not assimilated.

I'm too old for the class struggle. I am satisfied with gastrointestinal revolutions that have been faithful witness, victim and participant at nightfall, Atocha, in the restaurant "La Cierva" ...

Today

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took almost a week off and I still do not sleep more than four hours. At first I got worried, but now occupy the land stay awake while reading or exercising. I may end up giving me a shower and again I go to bed. When not obsessed with the idea of \u200b\u200bhaving to sleep, just try to relax and enjoy the rest. I know sleep sooner or later, however slightly. However, sleep is usually not the intended goal. What I am trying to achieve is almost always a state of dozing stunned, almost ecstatic, as a result only of physical exhaustion and over-stimulation. When those moments come, which I consider valuable, I practice meditation techniques that I'm inventing on the fly and try to silence the voice of my conscience with the rhythm of my heart or the breathing of my wife.

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clones and I

Lately I've had my clones a bit abandoned. Despite being eight carefully Mamluks seem to need constant companionship and attention as if they were children. When left alone, always end up arming.

Last Friday, for example, the mayor and his team (some men People's Party that at that stretch the neck, close their noses and wrinkle their noses look very dignified and very high birth) celebrated the end of the pharaonic reforms in my neighborhood inviting all neighbors to bleeding. Fortunately (or so he thought) I could not attend because he had to work, however, upon returning home I could not avoid running into a crowd of neighbors, police officers and councilors of all stripes. I have enough phobia of crowds but I try to face them as if you were blind speed amid a concert Napalm Death , so I made my way with rudeness, while retaining the temperance and dignity.

What was my surprise when, less than three meters from the portal, I get to see my eight pseudoclones completely drunk, semi naked (one of them was at all), singing hymns and phalanx Carlist, pissing telephones in and fraternizing with the mayor, his wife and my upstairs neighbors. My naked clone discussed with the secretary of social affairs which was the best way to clarify a bit the skin of the scrotum, quite obscured now. Another clone (which had a black eye) was pinching the ass of the children grown up while encouraging the neighborhood in full to make a burping contest.

You can take care of the bochornazo I felt. I promised to end the eight of the most terrible way to go up as home. However, once I had them all before and I could hear their cries, their pleas and apologies, once I looked through the eyes of heart I could feel his loneliness, his dependence, his restlessness, once I understood their needs not do anything but try to solve them.

and behold, after convincing her once she got home and becoming aware of the mess, I managed to clone the woman of my life, my Alice, so that every one of them could enjoy their company without my celled too. My sweet Alice, each day more beautiful, always willing to sacrifice for me.

I am sure that my clones will now be more happy, responsible and peaceful. Too bad the cloning process are seeing slightly troubled by a series of technicalities and the bodies of each pair are merged into eight two-headed creatures and hermaphrodite whose sexual organs do not totally fit in the most optimal way! (Of course, there has been a slight lightening of the scrotal region which will certainly make the delights of Madame Secretary for Social Affairs and her husband, that man so tacky that only talk about hounds, whores and the breakup of the unity of our nation.)