Opulent douchebaggery.

(choice of song is almost random, although the “concentrate” part is useful to me right now…)

I’m back. It’s been a wild couple of weeks, I have to admit. A fundraising festival that broke our backs with its 600 participants, then too little time to actually recover from that event, then chicken pox. Yes, chicken pox. I’m 25 and I have a mild case of chicken pox. Twenty years too late, for that matter, but it’s still chicken pox. It’s just life’s way of saying “It’s never too late for me to come and sodomize you until you cry and beg for mercy”.

Try not to imagine me covered in red dots like in that episode of “Tom & Jerry”, it’s not that bad, at least not yet. My medical certificate says “Beginning” of the almighty chickin’ pox, but I keep my hopes up and pray that my immune system plays its part as always. But then again I got sick the wrong way. You usually get the back aches, headaches, sore throat, fatigue and nausea before you get the rash, I got it the other way around, in episodes. Day one was headache, day two was nausea, day three was back aches. Some persist, some go away swiftly. I’m forced to stay indoors anyway, and I truly and honestly don’t want to stay home sick. It’s annoying and depressing.

   “Yes, just like that.”

And that isn’t even the funniest part. I got it from a fellow waiter, who got it from his nephew. And the nephew got the entire school sick; the place looked abandoned for about a week – quite the outbreak, must say. And this particular childhood disease is very contagious, especially for children and pregnant women. And it gets worse for pregnant women, who are most likely to produce children with congenital malformations if they ever get the chicken pox during pregnancy. And since I come in contact with so many people on a daily basis, the doctor said it’s best I stay at home. I couldn’t disagree but I can honestly say that I don’t wanna I don’t wanna I don’t wanna stay at home!

Wait, I was telling you about the funniest part and I got sidetracked, as usual. They prescribe these antihistamines for the rash, Fenistil drops. The prospect says one shouldn’t drive or operate any kind of machinery while under this treatment, because the drops might cause drowsiness, sleepiness and fatigue. They should cut out the “might” from the sentence, it most certainly makes you drowsy and sleepy. I walk around like a zombie around the house, befriending my doors and checking twice whenever I type something. Like I was telling my friends the other day, I have to think and carefully look at the keyboard before writing more complicated words, including “antihistamines”… I did it again. For what it’s worth, the treatment is effective, I do get less itches, my skin is somewhat grateful. But still, I sleep so much. Too much! And too deep. I fell asleep at 21:00 last night, a friend called me around 22:00 and I was convinced that it was morning and also insisted upon the fact. We talked for about half an hour, I don’t remember a single word of the conversation and then I went out like a light. No dreams, nothing. These drops are CREEPY.

  “No shit?…”

 So I’m stuck inside the house for this week. Normally that would be nice – some time off bladibladiblah… BUT not sick. Staying at home, sick, just… just sucks. It gives me some time to rearrange the place a bit but still, it sucks.

Working in a hotel (and quite the fancy kind of hotel) puts you in contact with a lot of people on a daily basis. Some give you the chicken pox, others just give you the nausea directly. I’ve met some of the world’s greatest assholes throughout my jobs in hotels. And this job isn’t different either – except for the pay, it’s so damn good to be out of my country, you can’t even begin to imagine. Anyway!

I’ve met Satan. This stumpy 60-something-year-old lady who probably didn’t have toys while growing up. She probably worked hard or just married a rich prick, but she obviously got a taste of the good life and now she’s the nightmare of anyone in the hospitality industry. Seriously, people go pale when she comes around. And my God does she enjoy to torture and irritate people.

“Bring me a cup of warm water, not too hot, not cold either, just warm, with slices of lemon, a bottle of water – one of the large ones you keep for breakfast, not the small expensive ones! Bring me some totally skimmed milk with another cup on the side… I’ll have the large salad like that guy, with less bell pepper, less onion, less garlic, more salad and corn, the medium rare steak – what’s taking so long, a steak should be done in five minutes, your staff is incompetent… Bring me some fruit, I’m not interested in your buffet, I want cherries. I don’t care if you don’t have any, you must procure them for me… Oh I see you’ve brought me cherries. Bring me a spoon too, how am I going to eat them?! Bring me a crème brulee. Oh it’s so good, but it makes you fat, I’m on a diet. Bring me another one.”

 “And while you’re at it, bring me your still beating heart on a silver platter.”

That lady needs a waiter just for her. She makes you run, she bathes in your misery and she enjoys playing the part of the pretentious bitch. I was once taught that there are good customers and difficult customers. But once in a while, life teaches you that there are also the impossible clients. The ones you serve quickly, blatantly ignore their subtle insults and pray to the point of crying that they leave as quickly as possible. They’re not happy, no matter what you do. There will always be something wrong. If she spends five days eating at the same table and dropping hints that that’s her table, on the sixth day you will prepare that table just for her. On that same day she will walk in and choose a different table. She wants to eat outside. Double the runs for you, you unlucky prick.

I thought that this thirst for useless opulence was a trait of my own people. But then I went out and noticed that it’s spread worldwide too, just in smaller quantities. People take people for granted. And let me say something, before the drops kick in.

Your waiter is not your slave. Your waiter is a guy who gets paid to smile at you and put food on your table, pour wine in your glass and thank you for paying your bill. He is a human being, most likely ten times smarter than you are. He’s probably doing this job as a means to an end, paying for college or a better car. He’ll probably do better than you ever will. He’s your waiter, not your servant, you opulent douchebag. You should be more careful with how you treat him – it’s a general rule: Never insult your waiter, bartender or chef. You don’t want to engage in a Russian roulette of “where did he spit?”.

“My bet’s on the ravioli!”

I’m simply allergic to people who forgot where they came from. They forgot about the days when there wasn’t any dinner because they simply couldn’t afford one. They forgot about wearing the same clothes to school because they simply couldn’t afford new ones. They forgot about driving the same pile of junk to work every day, they even forgot the day it broke down and never came back to life. They forgot the blood, the sweat and the tears it took to get them where they are now. And for that reason alone I do not give a shit about them, about who they are and about what they do.

You can be a rocket scientist, acclaimed novelist or a famous whatever. If you talk down on people and graciously play the part of the pretentious prick, then you mean nothing, you are nothing and you deserve nothing. Ancient philosophy says that before you start demanding respect, you should show respect.

There’s a reason why there’s an urban myth about the waiter spiting in your drink.

  “You’re damn right I did.”


Sparkly Dildos and Homicidal Twihards

I have officially seen it all. Really.

I tried to read the Twilight series, I honestly tried. I can swear on the Bible if I have to. I tried and I failed. I rarely do that and I have an ego, so you must appreciate the amount of effort that I need to admit failure. There’s no point in explaining this entire Twilight frenzy, anyone who’s over 12 is aware of the sparkly vampire cult that has been killing contemporary literature and cinema. I’m not a fan, I couldn’t care less who gets to bang Bella and I think that the only good things that came out of this whole mess were the soundtracks and Robert Pattinson (and not in a “OMG he’s a hottie” kind of way).

I understand the passion for the story – what girl doesn’t dream of a vampire lover who doesn’t melt in the sun but sparkles like a diamond? I still believe that Stephanie Meyer pooped on everything that means “vampire” but hey, somebody had to take this step. But I do appreciate the film producers for having given us Pattinson, who in spite of his sparkly debut (I will use this world a lot, just so you know) is already beginning to prove himself as a real actor. His interpretation of Dali, his beautiful performance alongside Emilie de Ravin and his upcoming “Water for Elephants” are examples of this young man’s potential.

  “Well, I had to start somewhere, right?…”

But I’m not here to discuss the quality of Meyer’s books nor am I here to question Kristen Stewart’s ability to act or the fact that I became allergic to Taylor Lautner’s torso by the third movie, because of overexposure to it. No, I’m here to discuss the rabid fans and company decisions based on rabid fans.

It all started here, where I first realized how stupid people are. I got there by randomly googling for the word “Batshit”. Don’t ask. We’re all fans of something or someone, don’t get me wrong, I’m most likely to slap whoever says something bad about “The Mentalist”, for example, but this fanaticism should have its limits. We live in a free world, so there aren’t any limits. That is why we hear about jaw-dropping cases where a batshit insane Twihard decides to shoot a flare gun at a guy who dares to talk against Twilight. My personal favorite is that lunatic chick who tried to slid a colleague’s throat with a shank because he had the audacity to say that Twilight should be destroyed, since it’s making some people do bad things such as slitting throats of people who don’t like Twilight with shanks. The word “paradox” just captured new meanings.

  “New subspecies of humans: Twihards. Mostly females under 18.”

 When I was sixteen I too understood sobbing over a hottie actor that played a vampire. Back in my days, those vampires were Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and Antonio Banderas – now those were the days, long before Cruise decided to go cuckoo and Pitt decided to have a platoon of kids. They drank blood, love-hated their existence and looked awesome with long hair and white shirts. Anne Rice knew her stuff, I have to give her credit for offering such tales of passion and death glazed in blood. I still understand sobbing over a hottie actor that plays a vampire. I understand being a fan. What I don’t and will always refuse to understand is why they don’t release some anti-psychotic medication along with every Twilight movie. Give them out for free but please, do us all a favor and give them something to contain their unjustified anger towards people who just don’t agree with a lousy book (and movie).

But this isn’t the peak of ridicule in the Twilight saga. No, it gets worse. Yes it does, trust me.

I present you with the TANTUS VAMP. Yes, it’s a dildo. But not just any dildo. It’s a Twilight replica – basically it’s Edward’s dick, it sparkles in the sunlight and you can keep it in a freezer prior to using it, just to get that tingly sensation of screwing a dead man.

Below, we have a very satisfied customer…

What I like the most is the company’s presentation. “We promise this vamp won’t be the only thing coming for you in the night!”. I reckon they’re currently working on a dildo version for Jacob’s dong, as well. It’ll probably come with fur and a set of claws to make the experience more real.

 “He sparkles!”

“Don’t be surprised if this toy seduces you, its long sleek shaft and deliciously ridged head calling out to you in the night. But don’t save this for just nocturnal escapades, try taking our Vamp out in the sunlight and watch it sparkle.” – I don’t know who laughed harder in the process, the “engineers” who produced its “deliciously ridged head” or the copywriter who had to write about it. It’s like they’re telling women to be proud of their sparkly dildos and take them out into the sunlight, for the rest of the world to see just how far people can go over a damn vampire movie. Most of us keep the dildos hidden in the lingerie drawer, for Christ’s sake!

I’ve finally concluded that our world is slowly disintegrating, thanks to people who strive for profit over culture, profit over common sense, profit over mental sanity.

But now I know what I’m getting my best friend for her birthday!

  “You’re never gonna guess what’s in there!”

Dating. And Internet.

I was born in 1985. That means I know what an audio cassette looks like and that the Backstreet Boys were really freakin’ awesome back in the 90’s. That also means that I was there when they invented the cell phone and I struggled with the horrible beeping noise of a dial-up connection.

I was a teenager in the early 00’s, so I got most of my notions about boys and girls from the ravishing 90’s and my brother – maybe not the best sources, but hey, I had to learn from somewhere, right?

I knew for sure that when a guy liked a girl, he’d toss and turn for nights until he’d gather up the courage to ask her out on a date, buy her flowers or concert tickets. I knew that a girl had to leave signs for the guy to pick up on – those details that make a difference, that determine the guy to proceed with his “courting ritual” or to give it up. All those coming of age movies impacted our lives more than we could ever imagine, we all secretly yearned to end up with the girl. Most of us didn’t, because life tends to do that.

  “As pictured, Life toying with tiny humans.”

As the years went by, the value of real life interactions began to drop significantly. The Internet went on from the century’s most amazing invention to a fluffy Gremlin – we knew it was just a matter of time before someone dropped some water on it and turned it into the monster that it is today. Because the Internet, in its present form, is a monster, a social monster that desecrated the human interaction and reduced it to instant messengers, tweets and social networks.

Our entire lives revolve around certain websites. We keep in touch with our family and friends through Facebook, follow the news on Twitter and videochat with people on YM, Skype or AIM. We spend more time clicking on the “Like” and “Share” buttons than we do on actually improving our relationships with the people around us.

   “The Internet.”

I’ve only come to abhor this phenomenon recently. I’ve been so sucked into it that I didn’t even notice it. Back in the good old days, hooking up went something like this:

 “Hi, I like you, wanna go out sometime?”

Nowadays, hooking up seems to be more like this:

“Nancy Stark wants to be friends on Facebook.”

Back in the good old days, all a guy needed was a single red rose and a lot of guts to show up at her doorstep and take her out on a date. Nowadays, the guy’s main weapons are the “Like” and “Comment” buttons.

Facebook is a wonderful thing, no doubt about it, but it can be a horrible nightmare as well. Sure, you meet a lot of people, but how many of you have the courage to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger without sounding like idiots or premium stalkers? I, for one, admit that I suck at meeting people on Facebook. I can’t do it. I can’t approach a complete stranger and say “Hey, just making conversation here, how are you?”. It feels wrong. Yet some of my close friends have successfully hooked up and even married off Facebook.

“Tracy Stark changed her relationship status. Tracy Stark is Married.”

Am I getting slow and old while the rest of the world continues to race towards permanently hiding behind keyboards? We put in more efforts to look good on our Facebook pages than we do on doing our jobs right – and if you think I’m wrong, how many of you don’t have access to social networks and messenger applications at work?

“Oh, all of you.”

The problem is that this Internet (and particularly Facebook) addicted society has managed to damage my own perception of the world and the way I approach people. I’m now stuck with twisting and turning over hundreds of possible ways of talking to a complete stranger, just because I find him interesting. That’s probably because I still believe in the “dinner and a movie” thing instead of copy-pasting links of love songs via AIM.

Social networks have also opened up a whole new black hole in the social interaction process. The Internet (and those classic chatrooms, for example) was very useful for people who had trouble connecting with other people in real life. I’ve heard of and met couples that hooked up on the Internet and got along so great that they’re still together, some of them even married. But you see, back when the Internet was just a baby, all a person had to do was say “Hi” and strike up a conversation. Facebook killed that too. With the ridiculous amount of perverts and well… idiots who shouldn’t be allowed to even touch a computer, it just gets more and more difficult to separate normal people from stalkers.

“He might look normal, but Wes Craven made movies about guys like him.”

So what the hell is going on? Where is this all headed?

What will our life be like, ten years from now? Theaters filled with people who are too busy with their Blackberry’s to actually watch “Wicked”? The death of social skills and the peak of social networks? Where’s the adrenalin of actually going up to someone and saying “Hi, I like you!” without getting the pepper spray treatment?

I’m honestly terrified as I realize that I don’t know much about how everybody else does it.

I just can’t “Poke” a complete stranger, no matter how much I might like him. I just can’t “Comment” on a guy’s photo just because I want to make him notice me (on the Internet, for Christ’s sake, this isn’t even happening in real life, it’s happening behind a computer screen). I don’t know how other people can do it.

I’m grateful for everything that the Internet has to offer (with minor exceptions, such as Rebecca Black and the “Leave Britney Alone” guy), but I have to admit that it will slowly kill my social skills if I continue to play by its ever-changing rules. I know that you’re all pretty much aware of all of this. I also know that most of you are just afraid to admit it. So instead of doing so, you might as well use the damn “Like” button. Thank you.

They didn’t tell you this about WORK, did they?

I’ve had a very long day, so I reserve the right to be head of the bitch pack today.

I have an issue with the job industry. People have this obnoxious habit of making simple jobs seem extremely complicated and extremely complicated jobs sound like dream jobs. How many of you haven’t heard the following during a job interview:

“It’s a walk in the park. You fill out some forms, check and sort the mail and make coffee for the occasional guest.”

Nobody tells you the stinky and ugly truth.

“There might a couple of extra hours, but it’s nothing you can’t handle.”

Oh yes, pay a lot of attention on those job interviews. There’s no such thing as a “dream job”, not even if your name is Richard Branson. We all have to work our asses off to get the good stuff. When someone tells you that you’ll make a lot of money by doing almost nothing or what seems to be not enough, they’re feeding you large sacks of shit. I’ve been there. Well, me and billions before me. But still, it’s my duty to share some of the experience, so I can later say “I told you so”. It’s my woman nature and I always get to say it. Live with it.

When your future employer tells you that you might have to do some overtime once in a while, you might as well bring a tent, a sleeping bag and spare clothes to work. When you’re told that if you do the extra mile, you’ll get great extra earnings, that usually means that you’ll toil like an idiot, spending more on medication to rebuild your immune system which you’ve damaged with too much work and little sleep, than all those appealing bonuses that they keep dangling before your nose. Sit, Sparky, sit. Nothing comes easy. If it sounds easy, it’s either a scam or a nice lie. Not all of us are fortunate enough to do what we like – and even those have to work hard to get results.

“Most of us will toil and die in misery. Glory and riches come afterwards. You suckers.”

Quick note to those who actually have it easy: you’re nature’s way of laughing in the rest of humanity’s face. We don’t like you.

Some of us become police officers. We go in deep, convinced that we’ll become the next CSI or CBI squad, but we’re faced with the harsh reality when it’s too late (basically when we start to enjoy blowing that whistle).

“At least I get to move my arms around.”

Some of us become doctors, dreaming of the day we’ll receive a heartfelt thanks for saving someone’s life. Nobody prepares us for the long hours of looking up people’s noses or asses.

“I’ve had my elbows deep in green poop this morning and I had guacamole and chips for lunch. I’m doing great!”

Some of us become firefighters, lawyers, accountants and so on – we all go in deep dreaming of great careers, a house on the beach, medals of honor and a nice car. Nobody tells us that it takes years of blood, sweat and tears to get there. Most of us don’t even make it that far, because we can’t toil ourselves into kidney failure and let’s face it, most of us are just too nice, too scared or too simple to get our hands dirty for the extra cash. We’re taught from a very young age that the only way that we can get results is through hard work. But nobody has the balls to tell us that we might end up losing more important things on the way.

“Like the decent hairline.”

In the end, it’s a matter of choice. While some of us will go the distance and get buried in paperwork or debris, just to go home to a TV and a fat cat, the others will take it a little easier and squeeze in a wife and three kids. Life is shitty that way – we rarely get everything we want and it usually comes at a very high price. Yet I’m puzzled by this guy, I can’t figure out if he really likes his job or he lost a very ugly bet. Either way, he makes janitors look freakishly cool.

The other extreme is even more irritating. A lot of people tend to make simple jobs sound like nuclear science. Why do I need tons of experience to be a waitress, for example? Or a shoe salesman? If I’m decently smart, I can learn this in a day, maybe two. If I’m special and not retarded, or plain stupid, I can spend fifteen years bussing tables and still trip on my shoe laces and pour hot coffee in someone’s lap, on a daily basis. I’ve heard so many people ask me: “For how long did you work as a waitress? Do you know how to do this?”

Let’s make something clear. I’m talking about a normal no-star job, like 70% of the world’s bars. It doesn’t require techniques, only a clean and decent look, a good attitude, a smile and at least an impression that you know what you’re doing. A five year old can kick our asses at this. If it’s not a five star venue, why the hell bother? Who is desperate enough to check if you serve their coffee on the right side? I’m pretty sure that the scrawny shoe salesman who stops by Louie’s Café doesn’t need a silver spoon to eat his chili, nor does he need his eggs and bacon on the right side – the guy’s hungry, just give him his damn food and smile, for fuck’s sake.

What experience do you need to work as a salesman? Or as a bartender? You pick it up as you go. If you want to be really good at it, then you take up a course or read a useful book. You show interest. But really, why all this fuzzy-nuzzy-bullshit? They should ask for a decent level of intelligence, not experience. Experience is NOTHING without a good working brain attached to it. How can you trust your merchandise and cash register with a nineteen year old Concetta who doesn’t know how much is 10+45? I’m serious, it happened right before my eyes. How can you trust your bar to someone who picks his nose right before he pours your coffee then frowns over his fingers, looking for his booger? Yes, that killed my appetite. I just hope it killed yours too.

“And I spit in it too, because I don’t like your smug face. But you didn’t see that.”

I’ve been told that without previous work experience here in Italy, it’s hard for me to find a job. So what, the other five years of work back home don’t matter at all? Well, there’s a question of customs here, customs that you’re not used to, I’ve also been told. Like what, putting a cup in a small plate on a table or chatting with my boyfriend on the phone while I serve a bagel and tea? I mean seriously, I come from strangely different standards. I don’t really like my country, but I have to admit that on a restaurant/café level, we get shit done. And besides, bussing tables and mixing sours is what college students are best at! And most of them weren’t prepared for these jobs, their parents didn’t give them their milk bottle and said: “Honey, when you’re eighteen and still unable to tie your shoelaces, you’ll be serving pizza and pasta to pay for your college books!”.

“Also, you’ll have a lot of unprotected sex and flaming shots.”

You see, it takes years of study and practice to get certain jobs done. Medics will know what I mean. All those years of quick lunching next to a dissected corpse will pay off as a life saving experience later. It takes a couple of days, a decently bright mind and good will to learn other jobs. It would be wonderful if they’d just stop making waitresses sound like fucking rocket scientists.

“Would you like some fries with that?”

Episode 1: Conrad Hilton never saw this coming.

I was set on writing a single article about this, but once I discovered the Encyclopedia Britannica and almost lost myself while browsing through its pages, I humbly concluded that Paris Hilton does not deserve a mere 800 word article. She is so much more complex and she has so much going on right now… it would be a shame to waste all this great material.

I’ll start from the beginning. It all started one beautiful Christmas in 1887. That’s when Conrad Hilton was born. A fighter by nature, a man guided by prayer and ambition, Mr. Hilton worked hard and even fought for his country in World War I to consolidate his relentless character. The man has lost many things, but he held on tight, even through the Great Depression, and managed to leave quite a heritage for all those who wish to pamper themselves once in a while: the world’s first international hotel chain – The Hilton. The man started from zero, went through three wives (including Zsa Zsa Gabor), fathered four children (including William Barron Hilton, who went on to give Richard Hilton to the world, who was reckless enough to produce Paris Hilton) and built a corporation that stands tall and proud all over the world.

I’m pretty sure that church-oriented Conrad Hilton didn’t expect to see this happen in his future family.

“Are you saying that THIS … this THING(!!!) will inherit my Hilton, my precious Hilton Hotels? Oh fuck no!”

If he would’ve known, his will would’ve sounded different. A lot different.

Like I said before, Conrad helped produce Mr. Barron Hilton who later went on to produce Richard Hilton. Richard, as any rich businessman deriving from Conrad Hilton and his predisposition to beautiful women, decided to marry Kathy Avanzino – a socialite and actress. And the shit finally decided to hit the fan when Paris was born.

“Congratulations, it’s a girl!”


You must understand that Paris had a very difficult life, living under the bloodthirsty oppression of fortune and fame. She grew up in those sleazy neighborhoods known as Manhattan and the Hamptons, surrounded by fellow filthy-rich celebutantes (I can’t believe they actually invented this word for them) Nicole Richie and Kim Kardashian. I can only imagine the horrors she must have gone through – the designer clothes, the jewelry, the cars… oh, the horror.

So Paris came into the world bearing a very heavy last name: Hilton. When you hear this name, you think of this:

“Great-Granpa Conrad’s dream come true. “

But Paris made sure to change that, as an heiress of this incredible empire. Nowadays if you hear the name Hilton, you almost immediately see this image, oozing its way into your ears, through your fragile brain and splattering right before your eyes:

“She’s a master of Yoga, you ignorants.

She’s quite the entrepreneur, having mingled with modeling, acting, singing, fashion design and whatever the fuck the last one was. I honestly don’t give a shit. Pardon my French. The whole point of this article is the reason why I have nightmares every time I hear about Paris Hilton. I must shamefully admit that she scares the living daylights out of me. She makes me crawl into a corner, close my eyes, cover my ears and scream until I forget why I started screaming in the first place. And how I ended up in that corner anyway… wait, what was I talking about? Oh.

Paris is one of nature’s fiercest animals. High up the food chain, wrapped in Guess clothes and at least one little dog who doesn’t really want to be there, drowning in Cosmopolitans and other brightly colored cocktails… she is the evil twin of the party animal. The sibling they never talk about. Allow me to exemplify.

“Whoops! I dropped my pen.”

The party animal is a majestic creature, pouncing its beers with grace and a positive attitude. The party animal makes you drink and dance like there’s no tomorrow and knows how to make an exit. Its evil twin, however, fails miserably at some of the basic challenges: standing up, getting up, sitting down, keeping clothes on and… worst of all, karaoke.

“What… is that a mic in her hand? Joe, what did I tell you about Paris and microphones?! For fuck’s sake, you’re fired!”


“You call this a basic challenge? YOU try getting out of a car with Belvedere replacing your blood cells, see what YOU make of it!”


“God, I sound so amazing, I think I’ll record an album. Waiter, another Appletini!”


“My endless loooooove… hey Tara, where you at? Let’s do a duet!”


“Ok, on the count of three, you lift up your skirt and I do a solo. Daddy’s gonna be so proud!”


The party animal’s evil twin has no control, no shame, no self esteem (don’t let those FHM covers fool you) and no interest in achieving something in its life. If that evil twin also happens to be the heiress of a multibillion dollar hotel business, the chances of becoming a successful personality decrease dramatically. But hey, while Gran’pa Conrad is doing backflips in his grave, Paris continues her fluffy ride through drugs, alcohol and jail.

“Jail wasn’t THAT bad.”

New definition of “Ridiculous”

Note: The song’s pretty much about Bush, but it fits another president too. You know who he is. I won’t say his name because the boogie man will hunt me down at night.

SOURCE HERE (in short, the Church plans to invest 400 mil. Euros on a cathedral. They say they HAVE the money to get things started but they’ll need to raise more. They’re “hoping” that the people will donate until they make the four hundred, so they can build the Cathedral, which will cover 11 acres)

There’s not a day that passes by without finding me by the window, smoking one and thinking about the country that I’ve left behind. And every time I get to the same conclusion: I am not going back there. Not ever.

They used to say that the situation was pretty bad out here too. They forgot to mention that there is a different level of civilization here. They also forgot to mention that people here do not thrive on opulence. They don’t pay rent on a two room apartment and the rates on a luxury SUV just to look good. Why the hell would I go back there?

I’ve heard that they plan to invest 400 million Euros to build a cathedral.

The country is in shambles – thousands were left without a job, the rent and bills have exploded, the prices are continously on the rise, there is no clear medical system (you have to pay in order to live or get out with all of your body parts still attached to you) and the schools resemble the haunted houses you see in horror films. There’s a clear lack of respect for the people, the wages are ridiculously low and don’t even cover 30% of the monthly expenses. But you know what? It’s no longer the government’s fault. We finally have something in common with the U.S.A. – we have chosen the same idiot for President, TWICE. We chose the same government, TWICE. It has gone from bad to worse and we only have ourselves to blame. Oh no, wait, we’re even dumber now: we’re actually going to raise 400 million to build a church. We won’t raise it for the poor, for the orphans, for someone who’s in desperate need of a brain surgery. We’ll raise it to build a church. Awesome!

I mean, come on! The people are starving or comitting suicide at an alarming rate, others are dying in hospital waiting rooms, children are missing out on their elementary education because they’re sent out to clean windshields at a stoplight … and our beloved church officials are stating that they’ll need another 400 million Euros to finish building a cathedral. Start looking through your wallets, redemption doesn’t come cheap these days.

With all due respect, what is the fucking point? Is that cathedral going to get us new jobs? Will our prayers in that 400 million Euro cathedral help a nation overcome this crisis? Are Jesus & Co. going to drop out of the sky in front of the 400 million Euro cathedral and pass around 400 million Euros worth of jobs, decent healthcare and food?

No wonder the rest of the world is laughing at us. I mean, I(!) am laughing at us. There’s a whole new level of “ridiculous” and I honestly didn’t expect to see it happen. It’s quite a surprise.

Or maybe they’ve decided to invest in the afterlife, since the present one is so sucky and beyond repair. We might as well stuff 400 million Euros in an oversized church and pray our asses off, since this country ain’t gettin’ any better. Right?

I look around these parts. They’ve got cathedrals built back in the 1400’s. They’re taking good care of them and they don’t intend to build any new ones. They’ll rather spend the tax payers’ money on better roads, better education and health systems, transport infrastructure and an agriculture based on local crops. People out here buy apples, oranges and dolls to help homeless kids and sick people. But no, Romania has to put 400 million Euros in a cathedral, while its most precious churches slowly fade into ruins.

I am so giving up my citizenship. No seriously, the first chance I get, I will renounce my citizenship. It’s an embarassment. I’ve never been more disgusted in my life. And don’t even get me started on the Romanians that came around these parts. 90% of them should’ve been sent back. There should be a test at the border. They should ask you several questions before letting you leave the country. I’m not even talking about general culture, like “How much is 2+2?”, because most would fail to answer anyway; I’m talking about common sense. We are a nation of thieves, liars and people with a general predisposition to delinquency, arrogance and disrespect. Not all of us. Just a very very large number. I’m telling you, they let the wrong people OUT and they’re keeping the right ones IN, to wither and die in misery.

People are scum pretty much all over the world. The planet would be better off with us in smaller numbers. And I’m not saying I’m any better, but there isn’t any hypocrisy oozing out of me while expecting an entire nation to pay for one of the church’s whims.

But really now. 400 million Euros for a friggin’ church?

This is embarassing.

However, please do smile. If you’re unemployed and can’t afford a slice of meat on your table, rest assured. They’re building a 400 million Euro church for you to pray in.

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