As we go in, from the out(side), we get in(side). There are WALLS, all paynted in pink-furor, and the doors are all covered with carpets made in Torombolo City, PA
the doors are so hermetically covered with these carpets that is almost almost imposssible to open them.
The size of the restroom is minimal but the faucets are huge, the faucets are built in injected jade from Conchikistan and they have the Quentin's initials: QT:
THERE IS a helicopter that is in the patio, there was an accident with the helicopter and the aliens and shit, Quentin doesn't want to talk about THAT, no comments, no, he doesn't, no, andá a la puta que te parió.
THERE IS a helicopter that is in the patio, there was an accident with the helicopter and the aliens and shit, Quentin doesn't want to talk about THAT, no comments, no, he doesn't, no, andá a la puta que te parió.
The shower's water is excessively HOT, and it flows boiling from [the shower] so take care or you can die peeled like a pig, ah HAHAH a man with no fingerprints! Sorry.
There is a bedroom that is decorated with a cumulum of culos of elephant brought from Burkina Faso by request of the Quentyn wife who lost her mind playing jenga, stoned, with Gelard Depardieu on the top of the Eiffel Tower in 1999.
The bed is luxury, all built in Argentinian churrascos and arseholes of guepard.
In the living room there is a mini theatre with a mini stage and bullshit for the friends to come booze and do all things unexpected, like inundating the whole fucking place: on the wall there is a painting of Julio Iglesias painted with crap of mandrill and aquaforti.
The collection of brassieres is hanging paradoxically from the chimney where Santa doesn't dare to enter, fuck, this is a bedlam.
Quanten Tarantino eats spaghetti every day exactly at 1.99 pm o'clock with John Turturro, and Glenn Camberra: in the end everybody throws all the food by the window, scenes of pugilism are usual and the police comes, everybody in jail.
On the huge veranda there IS an airport and 975 hangars with emu's, mulitas, tatu carretas, ñandues, ñanduses, caña Legui, illegal stuff brought by Russian contrabandists and cocaine: the whole house is overreplete of useless shit, and in the evenings Quentin plays Phil Collins out loud in his stereo Panasonic bass boost: there are floating chairs and inflatable carlitos for all to see, too; that are conveniently inflated in fetes of the farandole.
The conditioning air is powerful and its blizzards can leave a homo sapiens-sapiens with his arse pointing up in that direction> the associated free state of Puerto Rico.
The irregular rugosity of the walls allows topographic filtration of water from a lake which is not too distant from the mansion
these filtrations of water from the walls usually drip over the guests in form of bizarre piss.
THERE are 77 tables in the house, all rhomboidal and built in EVA and polystyrene at 67%, whose tensile strength is almost stupid, and provoked several accidents by violent ricochets, needing -some guests- urgent medical attention due to sudden loss of consciousness.
The garden is long and strait, and is full of midgets and chotacabras most of the year: the chimichangas and the Roberto's are urinated in the rear, piled with the casseroles and the burst tires.
Finally we have the room of the child, it's all black and built irregularly, because Quentin wants everything rare, the shape of the room it's like a “W”, and it is decorated with testicles of monkey hanging in sweet abandon from the walls.
A really beautiful mansion, my dear, now is for sale in 4.000.000.000 dollars or 56.000.000.000.000.000.000.000.000.000.000 zillion patacas.
As we leave the place, Quentin says goodbye raising his hand, but we have to run now because he just released his bloodthirsty hounds.
-o-
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