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Because I'm worth, and next year I win Sanremo San

Since now everything seems to be legal (and I refer to the fact that, although it has been decided in '45 to be a Republic, we accept that a French cock, which also claims to still be called "Prince", is present in San Remo with a song called "my love Italy," along the twin brother of Brunetta and to a standard that is in the wrong place while the first two were wondering who to take as a third of the Trio pain), I feel entitled to attend the upcoming Festival of Italian Song, along with whoever wants to join the group (I have no intention to participate as soloist).

I have pointed out that there have already snatched the most beautiful themes. It 's true, unfortunately. Who said anything about gay and terminal illnesses, who spoke of psychiatric illness, who has talked about [the following infinite list of bad luck, sung during the sixty years of the Festival, up to 1952 when Nilla Pizzi, with its "Fly dove," already spoke of the fallen at work, with a delicate metaphor, which combines the sweet pain of death to eternal rest: We left the shipyard / glad of our work / And the bell ding dong / There was a chorus / Every night I fall asleep sad / And in my dreams I cry and I call upon you / Fly, white dove, fly / You tell him / That will return ]

In any case, I believe to have had the winning idea: we want something that moves the audience and gives him a share, combined with a sound that charms the orchestra, so we also monopolized the critics' prize.
The idea is this: he, the boy who does not know what to do with his sex life, he feels attracted to his aunt and his cello teacher.
The boy's mother is worried about the financial crisis, and her husband is a violent cocaine addict who lost their jobs because of immigrants in Latvia.
The youngest son of the two suffers from hydrocephalus and a delay of learning: it says "oh" every time he sees a mouse.
One day, the main character (the guy not afraid nor incest, nor by gerontophiles) accidentally comes across in his classmate who is stealing car radios. Pervaded by the spirit, call the police. While awaiting the arrival of the armed forces, however, her school friend has time to fill the barrel, leaving more dead than alive, snatch a little old and insult the ancestor of our hero to the seventh generation. Also, threatening to burn the house, because it claims to have the right connections in the branch. Then run away.
him, seized by remorse, goes to confession, ending up in the clutches of a pedophile priest very short-sighted, who does not notice that the boy already has its good 18 years, and tries to track. The unfortunate young man fled into the countryside, where he meets a sexy country girls, it starts with the pleasures of ... good food (what did you think, pigs?).
The young man understood from this meeting which will be his future, he enrolled in Gastronomic Sciences and opens a restaurant chain that has a huge success. Become rich, pay the debts of the great old parents and detoxification of the father, runs with the Porsche and three beautiful pussy, that matches the dress she is wearing.
not forget to send a box of chocolates to the peasant, every year at Christmas.
The pedophile priest dies. Old age, but we can pretend that it is divine justice.
His classmate who stole the car radio gets caught committing a crime to kiss Andreotti. Arrested, he will be sentenced imprisonment in the first instance, then the penalty will be changed to three months of house arrest with probation. Not even one will suffer, and continue its illegal business abroad. When Moriah will be buried in Hammamet.
The boy's aunt marries his cello teacher.

Here.
remains now is to establish the group and find a suitable title. Hoping that there
accuse of plagiarism by reference to the retarded children's song Povia, of course. But I think we can claim it as a tribute

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Singolino

As usual, I hate Valentine's Day. But I do not mind saying that I hate it because is a holiday invented by the consumer fioriai. No. I'll try to be honest, for once, and say that I hate Valentine's Day because I would very strongly be able to celebrate, but nisba. So, let's talk about: the prospect of spending the afternoon with my best friend to prepare cookies for San Faustino watching Ghost is wonderful, really. But I would prefer to do immeasurably more, like to see my boy, eating chocolates and watching a stupid movie making out to the movies.
small but not insignificant problem: the missing boy.
And then nothing. Valentine tears and chocolate.
Greetings to lovers. And tomorrow we do best wishes for singles, filled up with chocolate, at least that stimulates the endorphins.


" Dedicated to the lonely hearts by choice. Others. Those who have just left and there they are. Those that we WOULD BE
also, if only to find someone else to be with them.
Those who are lovers of the reserve and from a variety of festivities expect that he / she leaves the owner.
Those "I love I do not expect anything," but they still hope to have told a lie.
Those who do not know what flavor has a kiss, or do not remember it anymore, and today we're eating too many chocolates.
Those who remember it very well and eating too much chocolate anyway. Those who
"but as Baglioni sang, the way you'll find a hook in the sky?" Those who
"but let me pleasure," and raise their head, so to check.
Those who did not raise his head and instead would do the most good.
Those who read that today, St. Valentine the martyr, the Italians will spend 800 million euro in flowers, stuffed animals, text messages and dinners with artichokes and think, "Where do we go end? "
Those who would end up right there, buried by flowers and stuffed animals, to exchange text messages between the artichokes.
Those that "if I could go back" or "if I could go on," and meanwhile impede traffic.
Those who feel excluded, defeated , different, misunderstood, inadequate: only, yet they are many.
Those who do not feel anything anymore and after being chased in vain, now run away from love.
Those who both love sooner or later catches up with them. "

(Massimo Gramellini, February 14, 2003)