And they lived happely ever after
You just know that’s how the story ends. It always does, doesn’t it.
In stead of telling you what really happened – they lived in excruciating agony for about five years, then he took to the drink and came home early, pissed as a fart only to find her sucking the milkmans vainy pecker after which a bitter divorce ensued over who could have the Vectra. They never tell you that, do they ?
They just serve you the same warmed up horse shite over and over again. Boy meets girl, girl plays hard to get, but it all works out in the end.
Ok, maybe Bill threw us something of a curve ball with his Verona lovers. But he’s not fooling anybody, is he. An Englishman telling us about boiling, hot Latino loving. Surely not. Bare table leggs are enough to arouse your average Brit’s sexual ardour. And they are going to explain to us the basic rules of the Art of making the beast with the two backs ?
Romeo and Julliet, huh ;? What about the black dude. I’m sure little Juliet didn’t mind Mercutio Junior (probably not SO Junior) being introduced to her. Once you go black, you don’t go back. Anyway, Mr. Shakespeare didn’t do his research properly. I know a thing or two about Italian love.
One : All Italians have a serious Oedepus-complex. They only love la mama, that’s why they live with them ‘till they’re sixty-five. Freud would have had a field day with each and every one of these suckers. Paolo Maldini has won more heroïc battles in San Siro then Russell Maximus Meridius ever did in Germania, but you can bet your rear-end that Paolo still shits his knickers when he has to tell la mama he lost to Internazionale.
Two: Italian women are very much like Italian cars. Beautiful curves, amazing red exteriour, loads of shiny knobs you just want to fiddle with : in other words a very smooth ride. Only, once they hit forty-five it all goes horribly wrong. They’re impossible to handle, make the most frightening noises and you have to pay rediculous amounts of money on spare parts if you don’t want to be the joke of the neighbourhood. And I’m not talking about the cars here. My conclusion : Italian love is very overated and shouldn’t ever be the starting point for a universal love story.
In stead of telling you what really happened – they lived in excruciating agony for about five years, then he took to the drink and came home early, pissed as a fart only to find her sucking the milkmans vainy pecker after which a bitter divorce ensued over who could have the Vectra. They never tell you that, do they ?
They just serve you the same warmed up horse shite over and over again. Boy meets girl, girl plays hard to get, but it all works out in the end.
Ok, maybe Bill threw us something of a curve ball with his Verona lovers. But he’s not fooling anybody, is he. An Englishman telling us about boiling, hot Latino loving. Surely not. Bare table leggs are enough to arouse your average Brit’s sexual ardour. And they are going to explain to us the basic rules of the Art of making the beast with the two backs ?
Romeo and Julliet, huh ;? What about the black dude. I’m sure little Juliet didn’t mind Mercutio Junior (probably not SO Junior) being introduced to her. Once you go black, you don’t go back. Anyway, Mr. Shakespeare didn’t do his research properly. I know a thing or two about Italian love.
One : All Italians have a serious Oedepus-complex. They only love la mama, that’s why they live with them ‘till they’re sixty-five. Freud would have had a field day with each and every one of these suckers. Paolo Maldini has won more heroïc battles in San Siro then Russell Maximus Meridius ever did in Germania, but you can bet your rear-end that Paolo still shits his knickers when he has to tell la mama he lost to Internazionale.
Two: Italian women are very much like Italian cars. Beautiful curves, amazing red exteriour, loads of shiny knobs you just want to fiddle with : in other words a very smooth ride. Only, once they hit forty-five it all goes horribly wrong. They’re impossible to handle, make the most frightening noises and you have to pay rediculous amounts of money on spare parts if you don’t want to be the joke of the neighbourhood. And I’m not talking about the cars here. My conclusion : Italian love is very overated and shouldn’t ever be the starting point for a universal love story.
