"Life is putting the prozac to the test."
"I'm like fucking King Midas in reverse – every fucking thing I touch turns to shit."
"If she fell into a sewer pipe she'd come up with a gold watch in each hand."
"Must be great to be in the entertainment business." – "Yeah, it beats working for a living!"
"Goddamit, each of us is alone in that fucking universe."
"What kind of God does this shit?"
Friday, May 14, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
This blog is turning into a damned cloister of darkness and newyorkish would-be mafioso metaphysics, cazzo di un dio, madonna santa. I am already living in Italy and feel like turning from the fire into the frying pan.
ReplyDeleteTry with antizac!
ReplyDeleteMay is the month when plants are growing and man has to change his nutrition, from rouphage and cerials to fruits and vegetables out of southern countries. Usually this leads to a kind of anal retentiveness. Don´t worry, soon in this blog we´ll hear again about dead philosophers, famous musicians and hangover-journalists.
ReplyDelete@epitimaios
ReplyDeleteref. Benedikt. Please read today´s SZ-supplement: Gustav Seibt.
I agree that there must be a purification of the episcopate. But it must be done with Romanità.
ReplyDeleteIf I were Pope, I would form a small corps of monsignori tasked to obtain some resignations… I think I would recruit them from, say, Sicily. They seem to know how to do this sort of thing quietly, with a smile. "Eccellenza… our Holy Fadher isa greatly concerned fora your healt."
One sits down a little too close to the bishop. The other, still standing, opens his jacket, reaches in and draws out a beautiful Waterman fountain pen and thick, folded sheet of paper. The bishop’s eye is drawn to the momentary bloody-red flash from the stone in the visitor’s cuff-link. "You would, Monsignore, give greata consolation to da Holy Fahder were you to step down anda den… how you say Monsignore Brazzi? ... shtare rinda?..."
"Stay insida you house", intones Msgr. Brazzi at the bishop’s side… never taking his eyes from the bishop’s face. "...rinda ... inside… nota go out…." "’Inside’... yes… daats eeet", repeats the standing visitor, the pleats of his pants like knives.
"You reada da Mass. You reada da books. You eata da lunch. You pray da Rosario. You confessare. Rinda. No agitazioni. You worka hard… tooo haaard fora too many yeers. Time to rest.. fora your healt. You see, Eccellenza Reverendissima, we are only concerned fora your healt. You wait quiet, maybe now and den talka to police when dey come? Giornalisti later… after polizia."
@cs
ReplyDeleteOh, yes, thank you, that's a wonderful article.
Dear CS: Tony Soprano is a philosopher - not dead, but not quite existing which comes near to being dead. "Life is putting Prozac to the test" is pure philosophy.
ReplyDelete@storyarchitect
ReplyDeleteWe know, we know. CS was only trying to trace a line between pizza and pizzo :-).
The bishop swallows hard and, trying to summon some courage blusters, "What is your name, Father!? I will…" The dark-haired monsignor leans over the desk toward the bishop, who falls back into his high backed leather chair.
ReplyDelete"My name is Monsignore Vito Andolini. E chist è pe tia!" He hands the bishop the Waterman.
Meanwhile, in a different office of the same chancery, another pair of monsignori are speaking with the auxiliary bishop – infamous liturgical weirdo – about the likelihood of promotion to a soon to be created role as Apostolic Envoy to the Pirates of the Gulf of Aden.
"Who better than you? ... Eccellenza? You feeling, alrighta?" His hand reaches past the sharp-lapel and into the inner pocket of his well-tailored jacket. Okay, okay…. after that little day-dream I think I might need some therapy too. But,.... you geta my pointa.