23 jun 2014
19 jun 2014
If you don't buy this you're literally human shit
STOP thumb sucking, in the name of democracy!
Stop it now! But now NOW!
PREVENT your bebé from such a hideous habit, buy now, don't be a moron, HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Or what do you want? A future adult sucking his thumb during formal job interviews and sober agapes of import, like a nincompoop?
Save your baby from a future adult life full of ridicule, contempt and derision, you're the father or what you is, a fucking charlie? GO AND BUY DESPERATELY NOW THE... "Baby Alice Thumb Guard", don't be a galoot.
*Disclaimer and legal whatnots:
"Baby Alice Thumb Guard" is marketed by Guard MFcK. Co, 1.976.000 West Street, Cincinnatti, Ohio, all rights reserved (patent pending) so don't do even try to plagiarize or do anything stupid because we know where you live.
The amount of plutonium and arsenic in this item rises to 65% only, therefore its poisoning capability is almost laughable.
Guard MFcK. Co is not responsible for any eventual incident, injury, illness or decease caused by incorrect manipulation of this product.
18 jun 2014
Bronzed, blond, thirty-something
The rays of an iron Thursday sunrise licking the steel 'n' the glass of such edifices and Kim wakes up: Kim & the Naked City
good morning Kim.
My mind has been a fucking mess sometime now, who am I? Did I waste too much time?
Too much to even care anymore? Am I immortal, Kim?
What am I, Kim? Could you tell me?
Or maybe I start feeling the "crisis of the 40s"?
Am I afraid, Kim? What do ya think?
She walks barefoot toward the soft bathroom and the cat follows her
the ruthless solar ardor of the East Coast of the USA enters through that window of July of 2014:
hello Kim, here I am, a hologram in your room, an invisible scheme of perfect water speaking words that you cannot hear... and did I tell you that sometimes the "destiny" is bizarre?
More than unexpected or strange: bizarre
or even more than bizarre, yet: grotesquely surrealistic.
Fuck Kim, fuck, fuck: the television man is crazy, Kim... why that shit is turned on automatically according to the tepidness of your naked steps on the floor? Could you...
... could you hurl it through the window of July of 2014, Kim?
I don't want to hear it any more.
And your mind has been a fucking mess sometime now, who are you? Did you waste too much time?
Too much to even care anymore? Are you immortal, Kim?
What are you, Kim? Could you tell me?
Or maybe you start feeling the "crisis of the 40s"?
Are you afraid, Kim? What do ya think?
"Sometimes the cross of your blind mind gets too heavy for my shoulders, Kim, did you know?
This sort of shared responsibility, this blame and this chain, Kim... I wonder if you ever wondered about it.
If you really wondered about me.
Because it's like a sterile dream, Kim, a recurrent dream that always takes place in the same barren land
a castrated dream [and not because of me], Kim."
The fucking rays of an iron Thursday sunrise fucking licking the steel 'n' the glass of such fucking edifices and Kim fucking wakes up: Kim & the Naked fucking City
good morning Kim.
16 jun 2014
Urbi et Orbi
Hi. I'm the Pope
the father who gathers all the lost tribes with hanging iPod of the Catholicité in his pious fist, as if you people were grains of Maizena, so I gather you, and I don't let you go go.
And I summon you all little heads in the Court of this Crimson King, this giant Jesus who bleeds night and the day enthroned at the blackest Vatican altar, surrounded by yellow cornucopias and lions, dyeing all the seats in his purple-ish sanguine essential, where the eucharists fly.
Strange, strange, what's so strange? Haven't you ever seen a Pope drinking yerba mate?
The strangest dreams of your inexpecta may one day become crystal hard for you to crash and break:
there you went, you didn't see it and broke it.
And hi again, I am the Pope.
As any other Bishop of Rome was, like those who in the past were, those Urbans and Gregories, and Johns, and Clements, and Pauls, and all those who embraced simony and the concubinate in the Middle Ages.
And hi, and yet hi again, and I'm el Papa, and I chamuyo, and I listen to the football matches out loud on a small digital radio, "Winco", with earbuds, and I go to the fridge walking en pata, and catch a fresh glass of "Americano Gancia", y me lo clavo de una.
Because, at the thin hour of the night, when the Sistine Chapel is full of Dracula, I'm still the only one who remains white and inviolate, precipitously vertical, unearthly.
Like a man who is fed by an energy come from beyond the ecclesiastical graves, which are oh so Egyptian and aniline-blanched here
in this city of hollow obelisks and phantasmagorias radiating over Europe, like a magnet full of enigmas and solar residue.
And how blue and starry is the Roman sky of August or July when the cupolas and polygonal domes of the Holy See are opened by means of hydraulic gears
and I seated there
sedent and defeated in the depths of my sordid palazzos, talking to my God
this astronomical God of mine and his atrociously profound deafness.
And how blue and starry were those Roman skies of August, or July.
I'm just a haphazardly associative imagery, as seen in dreams or fever, I stay in focus, pass into each other, dissolve.
You've never seen me.
9 jun 2014
Hugo Gatti & the dormant sun
In 1964 his talent caught the eye of the powerful River Plate, club which acquired him, to be a young alternative and eventual substitute for the legendary Amadeo Carrizo, one of the greatest goalkeepers in the history of the Argentine football.
Gatti stayed in River up to 1968, playing often in the place of the veteran Carrizo, and demonstrating his quality in so many Sunday afternoons... notwithstanding, throughout the years, a curious and notable characteristic was more and more clearly noted in Gatti, characteristic (or external factor) which -somehow- conditioned his footballing proficiency on a football field: the sun.
The sun, yes: the Sun, so, with caps... a certain famous Uruguayan radio commentator, nicknamed "Fioravanti" (Joaquín Carballo Serantes), he noted for the first time, and after following the River Plate performances, how Gatti played "much better" when "the blond Phoebus was shining in the sideral firmament" (sic).
Unlike this, his performances in cloudy and rainy afternoons found his abilities considerably diminished, let alone the rainy or hazy nights, when his portentous saves and magisterial elasticity were reduced to their minimum possibilities.
Transferred to Gimnasia y Esgrima de La Plata, for which he appeared in 244 league matches between 1969 and 1974, this rare if not fascinating characteristic in the Gatti's performances got increased: shining like the potent Apollo under the smiling Sun, when his goal turned –almost- into impenetrable aim for the rival, the sunny Sunday afternoons saw him like a new Achilles of the goal, always victor and imposing, strange counterpart of his forgettable rainy or foggy Winter matches, when a benumbed, slow and weak Hugo Orlando Gatti was beheld by thousands of eyes, which didn't believe what they were seeing.
After a short but successful season in Unión de Santa Fe (provincial club), Gatti was acquired by Boca Juniors in 1976, his definitive club, and the team he is most linked and associated with, being so far, the player with the most appearances in Boca's history.
His ability to "guess" the rivals' intentions, an almost supernatural intuition about the immediate movements of a forward, his strange skill in anticipating the rival into the box, and his uncommon, unorthodox ways, using his feet -almost- more than his hands, gave him fame of extravagant genius, which possibly he was.
In fact, Gatti didn't consider himself a goalkeeper, he always said he was a forward...
Hugo Orlando Gatti coined the term "hacer vista" (to watch), incomprehensible and semi-esoteric tactic he claimed to have invented.
"To watch" consisted of staying immobile in his position when the ball was already flying toward the goal, without trying to save it, and just accompanying the parabola of the spherical missile with his stare... and this "to watch" was, in the Gatti's case and cosmology, an almost complete and total certainty that the ball wouldn't enter, simply because his stare would deviate it.
He abused of this whimsical habit, his stare accompanied the hazardous trajectory of a raging ball, he was static on the grass while his eyes were fixed on the ball, it was impossible that that ball would not penetrate the goal, it was goal, it was goal!
It would be goal, if the goalkeeper was someone else, but it could not be goal if the goalkeeper "haciendo vista" was Hugo Gatti because, which in any other goalkeeper would be a negligent temerity, in Gatti was audacious certitude... some said that his stare actually dominated the trajectory of the ball.
And some still say it, like myself.
His years in Boca Juniors were copious, as copious were his appearances, although that dark duality, between his sunny and his cloudy afternoons, between the solar triumphs of his luminous afternoons, and the cone of shadows where Gatti entered when Apollyon Victor was not there, they were like the obscure contradictions of a tortured soul, like the life itself.
Gatti, el "Loco", "the one who catches the wind", he who participated of 47 Copa Libertadores matches, and who was a permanent candidate for the national team (although the coaches often declined, summoning some other goalkeeper, probably due to his extravagant and strange behavior, notwithstanding he was part of the world cup England '66 as a substitute), he found his last sunset the 11th of September of 1988, when Boca played the humble Deportivo Armenio:
on the end of the match, and due to a Gatti's miscalculation, a faceless, nameless forward of Deportivo Armenio, penetrating the Boca's defense like a ghost, scored, the only and melancholic goal of that incomprehensible evening.
It was the last time Gatti appeared on a field, he was 44.
As the match ended, stupid, like the life itself, the blind glory of the sunset was hiding itself into the imminent storm, which opened its deaf doors to the pouring rain, and to the night.
7 jun 2014
Dancing conga at the Rio Bamba
Alejandra Fairlane laughs out loud in the ear of Sydney Astaire at the Rio Bamba Hotel, the day 31 of December of 1969 at 11:59 PM.
The smell which presides the ball it's an admixture of vanilla and lavender, whose brand is possibly Washlan, as lavender is also the color of the curtains, shining under the stroboscopia and the lux obscura: she screams out loud in his ear
"Taxi, take me in taxi, taxi, taxi, taxi!"
And the Rio Bamba Hotel is located in Paramaribo, where Sydney Astaire and Alejandra Fairlane arrived just 2 hours before the ball, par avion, in transcontinental flight of Avianca
because they just flew from Scotland to dance la conga and sleep together, although they shall go to sleep together at the Cochabamba Hotel, since it offers a modern system of air conditioning imported from the USA (very convenient for the tropical rainforest climate), good combs, and an excellent room service or servicio de recámara, with continental breakfast, which includes melon and oysters.
Dancing conga at the Rio Bamba.
ENRIQUE PINTI, THE HIDDEN BROTHER OF ELTON JOHN
The story begins in 194..? in Pine, England, a small town with 65 inhabitants where both John brothers were born.
Enrique -later Pinti- and Elton were born stuck: their butts were adhered like a revenge.
The pediatrician put them to sleep with chloroform and sepereted them using a knife to slice pechuga de pavo Cormillot.
Three days later, the mother of both John's -a mentally unbalanced woman called Plutocrata John- abandoned them, leaving both babies at the entrance of the soup kitchen "El Sogazo", in the near town of Shortheat, and joined a circensial caravan where clowns, tigers, bearded woman, midgets and circus freaks traveled on 50 handcars
no-one saw the abandonic mother again.
Fortunately a good-hearted matron called Aramis Foster saw the bebés there and took them to her home, breastfeeding them with her exuberant bust.
The next day she went to a temple of the Congregation of the Aeroplane Lickers to baptize the babies, an armed and virtually illegal semi-Christian denomination whose principal characteristic was the recollection of foreskins by means of a paramilitary Brigade of the Prepuce, whose stormtroopers captured adult male randomly on the streets of Pine and Shortheat, and sliced their fleshy capuchones.
The temple was in fact a trailer, and after the baptism (and circumcision) of Elton and Enrique, the priest, Rodolfo Ranni, asked Aramis Foster to grow and educate Enrique as his own son.
This was when Elton and Enrique got definitely separated, since, after an overdose of agua lavandina Ayudín, Rodolfo Ranni changed his name legally to Groncho Pinti, abandoned the church, and joined the tenebrous Maoist-Leninist guerilla Sendero Luminoso, moving to the deep jungles of Peru with Enrique to fight for the triumph of a worldwide dictatorship of the proletariat.
There are very few references about the life of Enrique in the Peruvian rainforests, some speculate about obscure and odd facts, like his childhood, during which he was -theoretically- nursed, raised and finally schooled by a Communist robota
these claims were justified with this dubious but intriguing photograph (probably a photomontage created with Sovietic technology in 195..?).
The first real data about his youth finds him escaping to Cabo Polonio, Uruguay, where Enrique was enslaved by the psychotic owner of a tambo, and forced to milk 9.000 cows a day.
The unethical and schizophrenic exploiter had Enrique most of the day tied and muzzled like a dangerous dogo argentino, the most merciless and sanguinary canine on Earth whose jaws may break the femur of a robust man in two.
The daily meal of Enrique, provided by the owner of the dairy, consisted only of a glass of milk and an apple, reason why Pinti lost weight vertiginously.
Months later, rachitic and weighing 29 kilos, Enrique Pinti managed to catch a chisel and a hammer one evening, and breaking the chains that incarcerated him, escaped desperate toward the nearest train station, traveling like a stowaway to the shore, where he infiltrated his ill-nurtured body into a Buquebus, that took him to Montevideo, where Enrique had a faint and was sent in coma to the Hospital de Clínicas, due to his advanced state of denutrition.
Once recovered Enrique Pinti received a kick in the arse being ignominiously expulsed from the Hospital de Clínicas, where he in fact planned to live, at least for 6 or 7 years.
Despite the difficult conditions, and despite he had to sleep in an abandoned Citroën 2 CV in the zone of Pocitos, and despite he had to eat shoes that he found in the trash, Enrique Pinti swore he never would return to the Peruvian jungle, neither to the dairy.
As Pocitos has a beach (on the estuary of the Río de la Plata), Enrique Pinti, a bit maddened and louco for the distressing situation in which he lived, he used to go to la playa of Pocitos and get scandalously naked (this is, en pelotas), causing the blush of the young lady, and the barely hidden admiration of the mature, besides the officious intervention of the Uruguayan police that, every other day, arrested and jailed Enrique Pinti for obscene exposition of butt, cock and balls.
But is during one of his nights in jail, when Enrique knows a person who would introduce him into the show business: the Montevidean actor, performer, painter, filmmaker, strip-teaser, singer, transsexual, sculptor, pornographer, novelist and goalkeeper Florencia de la Verga, who was often arrested for her his sexual orientation and free performances in everything.
Florencia de la V and Enrique met accidentally at one of the humid and airless dungeons of la comisaría de Pocitos: the attraction was immediate and they fucked frenetically four minute after they saw eachother[sik].
After this animal and joyous encounter, and once released (two hours later), Florencia de la Verga took Enrique to live with her him.
By those times (early 1970s), the physical likeness with his brother Elton was astonishing:
Elton was already a well-know singer back then, unlike Enrique, who was the last beggar of Montevideo, notwithstanding the familial artistic vein would prevail, and Enrique Pinti, helped by his lover Florencia de la V, would start an ascendent career in the local theatres as a mime and performer of transgressive music-hall.
Massively influenced by the legendary Marcel Marsol, Enrique perfected gradually his art in the bittersweet, depressive and difficult world of the mimedom, also learning to paint his own face with a very innovative motif
none the less, the silent gesticulation was not for him, at all, since his nature was innately loquacious and dicharachera, yes, lady and genteel man, he could not keep his mouth shut:
Enrique Pinti was a vulgar charlatan of park, a fucking magpie, un loro, un lorenzo, an automatic and inexhaustible chatterbox.
Florencia de la Verga finally rented a theatre, where both would be protagonists of a multi disciplinary show entitled "The adoration of the balloons", that included video clips of porno, glacial background music of heavy metal and industrial rock played on musicassettes TDK C-90, artistes of transvestism, a long and extremely gross monologue of Enrique Pinti, wild and lethal animals walked among the spectators, and finally the interaction of Florencia de la Verga masturbating on stage and having sex with the audience.
The scenes of vicious sex, humiliation, domination, sadomasochism, general immorality, profanity, irreverence and utter collective madness were daily seen, besides the frequent incidents with the animals.
The boa constrictor and the Indian tiger were especially difficult to control, not to mention the rhino, that had to be taken back to the municipal zoo, and de la Verga & Pinti had to pay a fine of 175,000 Nuevos Pesos in concept of violation of the common security and obscenity, sum that they could afford since the show was a huge success.
Unfortunately two weeks after the debut, Florencia de la V died in strange circumstances during a weekend of interminable hard sex, and Enrique had to engage a new partenaire to fill her his place
the chosen one was Florencia de la G, ex-gym & pilates instructor turned into porn actress with piercing in the clit.
The show "The adoration of the balloons" continued with unstoppable landslide of successes mostly vertebrated around the vagino-anal performances of Florencia de la Garcha and the abrasive speeches of Enrique Pinti written by himself as long monologues that changed every day so the audiences returned over and over ecstatic and taken by storm by this authentical diarrhea of creativity always new and extremely shocking since Enrique Pinti used an extensive abusive vulgar and dirty lexicon without boundaries or self-censure exploding in long discourses replete of nasty expletives obscenities sacrileges impieties smuth filth foul language and neverending paragraphs without commas.
Pinti, who learnt 9 languages (no one knows how) and liked to take the bad taste to its limits, used an extremely ample gamut of gros mots and puteadas during the hour and a half of monologue, including
paja, sorete, gil, puta, huevos, polvo, concha, carajo, mierda, hija de puta, pinga, cagar, gomas, lolas, tetas, melones, Mariano Rajoy, poronga, chota, tragaleche, nieto de puta, garcha, follar, polla, joder, fifar, puñeta, coger, cojer, coño, cajeta, trola, forro, pajero, turro, pelotuda, venirse, pollón, cagaleche, boluda, Bill Clinton, capullo, conchuda, tragasable, la re-concha de tu abuela en slip, chupaculos, la recalcada cajeta de tu bisabuela en pelotas, la reputísima concha de la madre que te chiquicientas mil veces parió, te rompo el orto sin despeinarme, te rajo el orto caminando, te parto la concha como un queso reventada hija de 700,000 camiones de putas, cebame el ñoquis, abarajame la poronga, la concha de tu macho, la recalcadísima cajeta de tu vieja en tanga, estoy hasta los huevos y la reputa que te cagó, andá avisale a Godzilla que te saque a pasear en poronga gato, cojones, Albert Einstein, pija, hijo de un pete lejano, andate a la argolla de la reputísima madre que te parió vieja ortiba, pis, caca, mear, ANDÁ A CAGAR
etc.
In fact it wasn't in 9 languages, but the audience thought it was.
After these furious triumphs, Enrique Pinti bought the theatre, and dedicated the next years to mount more and more elaborate and outraging shows, which became spectacles of downright pornography... actually it could be said that Enrique Pinti was more important, or a at least more original than his brother, since Pinti was the creator of the groundbreaking genre porn theatre (or porn on theatre), while Elton John was (is, actually) a simple soft rock singer who didn't create anything new:
totally enraptured in delirious artistic trance, Enrique Pinti visited the surgeon and got a pair of artificial boobs without a reasón.
And the shows were all successful, because he sold his brain to the infernal divinity Mamón invoked by the medium Mama Hope and her infallible Voodoo.
And by those times his brother Elton John and him were still quite alike, and they wore almost almost similar clothings and faces without a reasón
PHOTO:
This sick, atrocious aaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaand absolutely deplorable story ends in the worst possible way:
in a stupor of frenetic buttfuckings during a hot weekend with Florencia de la Garcha, Enrique Pinti gets the tip of the condom entangled in the helix of an enormous "Ranser" ventilator settled too close to the bed, while the unstoppable centripetal force of the apparatus, pulling brutally from the trapped preservative, hauls the cock of Pinti toward the criminal vortex shattering his genitalia and finally his torso in 150 pieces: the end.
Sad story indeed, this of the secret brother of Elton John, principally because Elton John never knew this, his twin, and principally because this, his twin, never knew Elton John, that, his twin.
Be these lines, sniff... token, memento, or why not: tombstone for this un-encounter of twin brothers, one of them deceased victim of the lust and the erotomania, and allow me please to didicate these paragrachs to the horible memory of Henrique Pinti the twin brother of Elton Sir Jones, thanks
I'm too emotioned, can't go on.
Christophera Columba and the flying atrocity
Christophera Columba is in Seville, and he is in bed on the street
his hair and his derelict beard have grown white and weird, because he's semi-insane, and he changed his sex, after discovering America.
Covering his vaginitis with a grey blanket, Christophera Columba moans like a whore, and sips honey from a flask and moans even more:
a pink sky of mosaics observes him astonished (because in Seville, the sky is made of pink mosaics):
sans solution de continuité, a heavy multiengine Tupolev airplane passes by flying, like a black sorete
Christophera Columba whines, scared
for such volant apparition
and the pink sky of tiles gets cracked -a bit-
for such temporal intermission.
Impossible is to determine how this Soviet aeroplane built in 1.977 broke its time-space barrier, and penetrated the skies of the Renaissance Europe, cutting the rosy toilet of the firmament, like a blackened agent sent from Hell:
in violent attack of hysteria, believing that the airplane was in fact an angel, Christophera Columba jumps from the soft domesticity of his bed, and starts running wild and naked by the twisted lanes of a Seville of 1.505
this alarming spectacle scandalizes the town, and the Constable of Andaluxia sends 5 lieutenants with arquebuses to arrest Christophera Columba who, notwithstanding is a national hero-heroine, because he discovered America, but is also a degenerate who broke the morality and the lawes[sic] of España:
as Christophera Columba -who definitely lost his mind- is caught by the lieutenants, a detail of the magenta sky shows the avión disappearing forever into the magnetic black hole from which it emerged.
5 jun 2014
A regeneration of piety for Vera W.
Pe-pe-perhaps it came as the un-illuminated fruit from the black days: hole and benighted room, Vera W.
O-or perhaps it was simply the inescapable erect pore of the nature: a regeneration of piety for Vera W.
A-and it's plain for everybody to see the extinction of the flesh, bisexed, re-humanized and in Heaven
and it's plain for everybody to see.
"S-so, the stars shone rutilant the night of the grand presentation, like a regenerative super-show in life itself: television, astra and the mathematical perfume of Palmolive, forever."
1 jun 2014
Relief over cinematographic nacre
Out of spite or in a limpid no-brainer de la pure folie, after her golden tanga was stolen by two callous delinquents, Countess Condotti relieved her self sliding pearls vaginally, like a mediometraje of Carlos Saura in Panavision®.
And the beads are washed in the blond dulcitude of some anisette made in La Boca ¡Ché, que loco!
Some may say "that's disgusting and wrong"
and some yet may say "is that human?" But
but
but but but but but but but
but ter. Butter on butt her
but... but we cannot judge people with more mony than us.
Then I do ask you: is she deviating from the normal, expected or established parameters of the cinematography?
Then I wonder why no-one understands what I write.
In fact it's most everything in the color and the tone, in the light, in the montage, sometimes, even, in the rhythm, but almost never in the sense
although the sense is always there, even when you don't see it.
Out of spite or in a crystalline cry wank, after her unwashed tanga of gold was stolen by two erect delinquents, Countess Condotti alleviated her self sliding un collier de perles under the cupronickel of the spotlights, because it's just like a section-sectioned with platinum scissors from "La Grande Bouffe".
And some may say "I don't get this guy"
and some yet may say "... "
But blah, but blah, but bluh, but bleh.
But... but in this old and fried society.
"No te quedó sueño por vengar
y ya no esperás que te jueguen limpio... nunca más... "
Almodóvar & el puto día
This digital clock showed the day June 1 of 200* when Pedro Almodóvar entered involuntarily.
He entered one of his movies, or it was directed by someone else?
Because his mind was so centralized on and absorbed by the plot, that he was irremissibly hauled into the film, and the film still was occurring on the DVD when he entered
and he entered walking:
as soon as he perforated that second reality, he found himself in the middle of the rage of a two-way street in Barcelona, Paris or Rome, and the street was narrow, and the traffic was feverish and divided by a thin yellow line, and Almodóvar was standing on the line, and the cars passed by at 100 km p/h, and the drivers shouted at him to get out of that dangerous place, because they couldn't stop, and the iron of the vehicles passed running furiously in both directions at few centimeters from the back and chest of Almodóvar, and he could feel the automotive wind expelled by the cars on his face, nucha and hands:
it was a trap, the escape from that lethal rue was impossible, and trying to get out of there in a rush meant a sure death under the wheels of any of those unstoppable vehicles that now seemed to pass by closer and closer to his humanity, almost rubbing him.
Trembling with panic, Almodóvar kept his torso vertically stiff and his arms and hands stuck to his hips like a grenadier
while the motorcars on the run irradiated vivid and violent breeze in his face, Almodóvar realized he was in a different movie to that he was watching when he entered
while he swallowed saliva and tried to keep his torso more erect yet, abandoned to the criminal madness of the speedy traffic, the shouts of the drivers and the discordant noise of the vehicle horns, Almodóvar sees a rope falling on his head from a helicopter:
like a man who holds his last hope with desperate hands, Almodóvar grasps the rope and is lifted in the air of the afternoon:
the helicopter is manually controlled by Elena X, a sort of modified character from one of his own movies
Elena X looks at Almodóvar from her seat in the helicopter and smiles like a benevolent God
she is the Ghost of Good Luck, and while Almodóvar raises his head and observes her stare, hanging from the distance of the saving rope, her eyes look at him, and communicate a message into the Almodóvar's mind:
"It is a movie, but it is not one movie... it's several. Two or three or one thousand or seventy six movies... and all the characters are safe playing their roles at the fiction of the cellulloid... except you, Almodóvar, you, who are here in flesh, blood and bones, defenceless and exposed at random to the vicissitudes, completely unprotected and open to assault, injury, damage or theft."
As Elena X and her volant machine take Almodóvar away from that calle de la muerte, the sky becomes strong in fibrous blue, infinite background for the helicopter silhouetted against le ciel like a surreal silvery mosquito
breathless and confused, still hanging, Almodóvar sees the otherwordly image and scene in which he is involved without a net
a sense of deja vu that starts invading his mind when the rope gets suddenly loosened, letting him fall on the hard ground of a sidewalk in another zone of the city, while the helicopter and Elena X disappear in the horizon.
And how comes? How comes that as soon as he is rudely deposited on that sidewalk, six patrol cars appear running behind a Citroneta?
The Citroneta stops brusquely in front of Almodóvar, who is still fallen on the sidewalk, two delinquents jump out of the car and take Almodóvar as prisoner putting two guns in his head, using him as human shield, and shouting at the police in Italian, English, Spanish, French and Catalan:
"Let us go or we blow his head!"
The skyline and the city in general look like an artificial montage made from cardboard and coated paper painted in strident blue, red and green, besides a flashy combination of oranges, violets and pastels
the outlaws come running away after stealing the unwashed golden tanga of Countess Condotti, valuated in 2 million Euros:
in the middle of the tense and dramatic moment, at 3:00 PM, while more and more patrol cars appear in the scene, and the tone of the mutual and nervous menaces between the malefactors and the police get increased, the criminals, in audacious move, run into an overcrowded Mc Donald's which is located 10 metres away from their position
a cloud of blue uniforms rushes behind them in front of the terrified customers who try to escape in stampede and screams of anguish
now the thieves are sheltered behind the counter, embraced to Almodóvar, with both guns stuck on his head:
"¡Retrocedan hijos de puta! ¡Atrás o lo matamos, lo matamos!"
While myriad of patrol cars still keep arriving and the zone is seized, sharpshooters start getting settled on the near rooftops with their rifles ready
a cop with a megaphone spits from the door of the restaurant
"Pistole sul bancone e nessuno saranno feriti! Allons!"
Cornered and without a way out, the offenders jump into the kitchen, in a do-or-die manoeuvre, as multiple gunshots start impacting on the wall behind them:
both delinquents with the captured Almodóvar get out through a back door pursued by the agents, finding by chance a delivery boy with a Gilera "Arcore" 150cc:
the felons push the delivery boy, capture the motorcycle and escape with the panicked Almodóvar under a heavy storm of shots.
Once the ladrones saw themselves free and out of reach, they pushed Almodóvar out of the moto without diminishing the speed, as if he was a sack of potatoes, getting away still faster on the Gilera that got quickly lost through the zig-zagging lanes:
it was 4:33 PM.
The already fatigued, thirsty and disoriented Almodóvar fell on the hard pavement rolling like a giant bicho bolita, and his poor body crashed against a digitized parking meter
he realized now he was in Madrid: dumbfounded Almodóvar raised his head when the brakes of a modified and enlarged Ford Fairlane are heard echoing all over the street with screeching noise of tires: the car occupies the whole street and 9 supertransvestites in diminutive underwear descend from it, catching Almodóvar and carrying him shoulder-high toward the atypical vehicle walking like models on a catwalk with scandalous screams, alarming the neighborhood.
The transssexuals used him and abused him in the car, forcing Almodóvar to suck their respective cocks, while they sucked Almodóvar's penis which, despite being excessively small still was the dick of a celebrity, and that always reports an extra I-don't-know-what:
as soon as the transssexuals and the semi-prisoner Almodóvar arrived at the motel "El Sogazo", they rented immediately a doubleroom, and started a gargantuan fornication with an Almodóvar who did the best he could to survive.
Then the president of the trannies, Raquel Mancini (actually Ana, actually Roberdo), she monopolized the body of Almodóvar like a nasty dominatrix for the rest of the session -which lasted some few minutes anyway:
then she threw him on the comfy bed and 69-ed Almodóvar, who was asphyxiated and captive between her legs like a crab
and then, when she came again, hurled Almodóvar through the window like a fucking puppet
the other transssexuals got a bit surprised (not much actually) by this brusque incident, but they realized it was just product of a moment of passion of Raquel Mancini, so they kept fucking each other, while Almodóvar was almost exanimous fallen on the sidewalk, fortunately it was a 2nd floor, only.
When Almodóvar started recovering consciousness, with terrible cramps in his genitalia and tongue, pain everywhere, and a fissured femur, he tried to stand up from the sidewalk, but there wasn't any sidewalk, just dust:
here he understood he was not in Madrid anymore, but somewhere else, on a dry and strange land, and in fact he was in another movie:
all of a sudden he sees a tall and muscular guy coming to him with a leg of pork in his hand, un jamón, yes: un jamón?
A new and powerful deja vu erected his hairs in horripilation
the sky was blue
the guy stopped at 30 cm from the -still- fallen Almodóvar, and started hitting him with the leg of pork mercilessly.
As the leg of pork impacted on his head, shoulders and back over and over making a hollow noise, the exhausted, practically dead Almodóvar starts screaming for help:
"¡Policía, alguien! ¡Socorro! ¡Socorro!
¡Me mata! ¡Ahhhh! ¡Hijo de pu... taa..!"
It's exactly at 6:50 PM when his last resistance is almost broken when a Mehari (a Mehari?) appears in the fucking scene, overcrowded by 7 hysterical women whose ages range between 30-something and 40-something years old:
several stretched arms of female get stretched and grasp Almodóvar steadily (notable this) bringing him on the Mehari, as the car runs away on the cracked ground of the arid place, saving the filmmaker from a sure and repugant death: a death by ham.
As the Mehari runs, or more than runs, flies on the dry land, at the pasmosa velocity of 130 km p/h, the women don't stop talking out loud about the penises of their boyfriend, fiancee, lover, fuckdummy with extremely salacious words, and about 700.000 million body milks, nail polish, products for the hair, handbag, lipstick, bijouterie, shoes, make-up, bracelet, dildo, perfume, brassiere, moisturizing cream, anti cellulite leggings, and all shouted and spoken very fast with an Almodóvar silent there in the middle:
something atroscious[sic] happens when the driver, Rossy de Palta loses control of the wheel and the Mehari crashes brootally against an ombú (an ombú?) that was standing proud and towering in the middle of that desert
the women stay all unconscious there but Almodóvar is catapulted out of the car by the impact flying like Birdman and falls head first on the petrified earth getting knocked out in the act.
Some minutes later the Mehari explodes carbonizing the 7 comatose women in macabre conflagration: the violent bursting awakes Almodóvar, who stands up with great torpor and starts walking away from that appalling place... after 55 steps Almodóvar is approached by a tattooed oddball come out of nowhere who looks like a feline and sips mate cimarrón from an Uruguayan porongo:
the freak obstructs his way and won't let him pass until they play a game, then says hello
"Hello, my name is Kitty Manver, I'm ex-trucker, hermaphrodite manwoman and lip reader.
I can guess any labial, dental and lingual viseme from 50 metres, you will pronounce some phrases without sound, and I will guess 'em, I live here in the wilderness, and do this with any occasional foreigner that passes by. Then, I'll let you go, Mr...?"
"Almorrana, Pedro Almorrana."
-Almodóvar said, with notorious physical debility, and realizing he left the arid land behind, and was already in another movie.
"Ok, start speaking without sounds, I'll guess everything from... this distance."
-The weirdo said, and walked some metres away:
"Now, start!"
Almodóvar started moving his lips totally numb and dizzy, his vocal cords didn't emit any sound, but he envisioned the words in his mind:
"Why don't you go and fuck yourself, la recalcada concha de tu vieja en shiorts[sic] and go to hell and die and then go and hammer down yer balls with the hammer of THOR and die again, hideputa[sic], and then go inject a barium enema with 1 litre of cum and then die again and go away and die you fucking crackpot.
Aaaatchís. Cough."
The cat man observed with extreme attention every movement in the mouth, teeth, tongue and lips of Almodóvar, and stayed ruminating some seconds, then declared what he guessed:
"Why don't you wish me good luck yourself, and a farewell, and also teach me how to read lips alright, to do it again, to guess every WORD yet again, and every lemma, flowing gracile like 1 litre of rhum in the vein, till the day I die, in peace, like the marmot.
Aaaatchís. Cough."
"Exact... perfect... it's correct."
-Almodóvar said, and fell completely groggy on the ground, while the eccentric stranger observed him fallen... and Almodóvar remembered the words of Elena X when the feline face started swirling
and swirling
and swirling in his eyes
and swirling everywhere
and swirl
and sw
and s...
s...
s...
his pet cat Musimessi was licking his face with swirling movements of its small and furry face when Almodóvar woke up on his sofa, with a conspicuous erection, his clothes all covered in dust and grease of pork, muscular cramps and pain everywhere, a big lump on his head, an unbearable ache in a femur, a golden tanga in his pocket, and the shitty sensation -in general- of having received a massive beating.
Suscribirse a:
Entradas (Atom)