Recent political events (in the literal sense that a politician have very little, but many) that afflict our country are a source of hilarity for many (me included).
Personally, I hope that many in the hilarity comes after a healthy dose of desperation, as a kind of hysterical, so to speak.
But that is not here I would make a political disquisition. I'm not very good at these things.
But I have a story to tell.
The word Bung Bung, only that in itself has an onomatopoeic extraordinary power and it's really interesting to be observations of its effects in these two contexts:
- Explains pronunciation and the word bunga bunga an English husband
- explains pronunciation and the word bunga bunga to a 13 year old daughter
In both cases, the conversation takes a turn and paroxysmal enough to transmit broadcast worldwide expressions of the two sides to convince all to bring down the government, I feel I can say. After the conversation
branches. The branch
adult, cultured and refined side of her husband in a socio-political history of the country with sophisticated parallels, intersections, and cross-cultural comparisons.
I yawn, alas, disappointing all.
The branch of the teenage daughter ignites exactly on the line that demarcates white from black, with a focus indomitable. Doth a series of a tight logical that a worm would be felt even a saint (in fact, I feel like a worm, because while listening I realized that if applied paro paro half of that logic to me and the life that I led so far, I would straight to the gallows without going through the street)
not yawn, but I get distracted while waiting for the storm passes. I'm learning slowly peel the white-black adolescents is virtually scratch-proof and infusible, and then the Serbian energy for discussions truly essential from a educational point of view (and the bunga bunga it is not, at the time. At the moment I'm concentrating on charity and understanding towards the older generation, but that's another post).
In realtà le discussioni politiche in questa casa sono abbastanza patetiche.
Ci sono io che m'arrabatto con dati incerti e interesse insicuro; Giacomo e Davide non li nomino neanche perchè loro stanno in un mondo a parte, di maschietti dalla maturazione lenta, il sorriso sempre pronto e l'appetito che supera ogni ostacolo (le discussioni si svolgono sempre durante la cena: vogliono solo un altro pezzo di salsiccia per essere sereni); Philip si dimena frustrato come un adolescente con un'erezione insoddisfatta; Marta declama rossa in faccia la sua commuovente etica mormonica.
Il sottofondo risultante è il solito casino entropico. Idee, opinioni, fatti sviscerati si accavallano a "mi passi l'acqua?", "Stop rocking chair," "Mom, I have to sign the check," and so on.
But then Martha says one thing and I get impatient ears.
"I have an idea," he says. "On March 17, the day should be a no-berlusconi"
"What?" I say.
"We can not do that March 17th is a day when all the people refuse to do, read, see, buy anything that belongs to Berlusconi? It would be nice, mother?"
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