is a bit 'like the Led Zeppelin reunion: people who had done you have something to say thirty years ago that one day they pretend not to have noticed that have changed in the decade, century and millennium, and rediscovered the desire to play despite a drummer that is meat for worms for some time and a clear general imbolsimento probably due to excessive abstention from drugs, with the infinitesimal detail that the undersigned does not ask you hundreds of pounds to listen to him and recites his shameless bullshit at wembley arena - for the imbolsimento general and have nothing to say for thirty years despite a life stop at twenty-three I would say instead that we are at a good point.
important events on a global scale: a clear part of the football, which along with the music of Satan, with beer and naked women is one why still carry on with this sad existence by ordinary wannabe-graduate-in-medicine-victor-handed-of-my-balls, which is obviously not true because there are at least ten thousand reality infinitely more important than football such as drugs, Satan's music that I have already referred to, but I would like to emphasize the role of a cornerstone in my life as it was cowardly timid in St. Peter Church, the Estathè and other entities can not remember but there are likely to - anyway, I needed a plot device that is more than strictly narrative style but I do not think you put it in question, and in any case is only fiction like everything else. have recently entered the European Championships and I naturally tifavo russia and / or turkey since those miserable beggars of the blue, but almost no sense Berlusconi, were ousted prematurely to the expectations of other people who do not wait for others to forget for carousels more inflation to the sound of po-po-po-po-po-po-pooooo but off late for the real value of those inept boys. tifavo russia and / or turkey for the vaguely proletarian of these teams, forget probably (I forget is an adjective, you know that help in understanding why the Italian school is forming) the fact that the various Abramovich and friends not masters of Russian football are exactly metalworkers: ça va sans dire Both lost. this does not stop me from making some remarks on Andrei Arshavin, who is said to be the champion of this russia à la Holly Hutton,
Arshavin who, in my phrenology careful examination, it seems, um, like one of those children with an extra chromosome twenty-one position - explaining is the verve with which he tries to slip a finger in the nose - or possibly double of Jon Voight with a wax mask featuring Jon Voight on the face:
probably everything seems meaningless and almost certainly is, but you will agree with me that sometimes the heat and some beers that maybe I should say "no thanks" can make jokes rather coarse. Yesterday saw the new video for Cesare Cremonini, I realized how resembled Chris Martin and the transitive property of Jenson Button and Michael's sister's husband that if the relations of kinship - rather thorny issue, as far as I'm concerned - do not deceive me should be the brother of Michael, but then notice that the protagonist of the video is not Crematory Crematory and also does not resemble in any way to all the people I mentioned earlier. and let me emphasize that I was perfectly sober. I also noticed that the bass player who once wore with a certain impetus alternative dreadlocks is now almost thirty years old and resembles a peeled Scapolo and sad.
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