sexta-feira, dezembro 21, 2007

Oração de Natal (versão irlandesa)

Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it. Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. Fuck squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job! Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down! Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from! Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe motherfuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Inclone! Adelphia! WorldCom! Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good. Fuck the Benson Hurst Italians with their palmaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos. Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Armani scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defence, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on! Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin' Otisville, Jay! Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Alqueda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fuelled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish ass!

7 comentários:

Olá!! disse...

Fuck... o homem está mesmo revoltado... Irlandês dizes tu???
Eu diria Universal....

Capitão Merda disse...

Boas festas, Bernardo!

vsuzano disse...

bem gostei de ouvir a pronúncia dos pequenos homens dos trevos de 4 folhas...olha que tenhas um para o 008, que o 007 tá a bater a bota...

gasolina disse...

Esta é sentida!

Boas Festas, Bernardo!
Tudo de Melhor!


Jofre Alves disse...

Felizmente não falo irlandês, mas entendi...

Boas Festas e Feliz Natal, com muita harmonia e felicidade.

Jofre Alves

Olá!! disse...

- Estou? É da Polícia?
- É sim. Em que posso ajudá-lo?
- Queria fazer queixa do meu vizinho Bernardo. Ele esconde droga dentro dos troncos da madeira para a lareira.
- Tomámos nota. Muito obrigado por nos ter avisado.
No dia seguinte os agentes da Polícia estavam em casa do Bernardo.
Procuraram o sítio onde ele guardava a lenha e usando machados abriram ao meio todos os toros que lá havia, mas não encontraram droga nenhuma. Praguejaram, foram-se embora e logo de seguida toca o telefone em casa do Bernardo.
- Hei Bernardo! Já aí foram os tipos da Polícia?
- Já.
- E racharam-te a lenha toda?
- Sim
- Então Feliz Natal Amigo! Essa foi a minha prenda!

Bernardo Moura disse...