Dr. Michael Szalay Brisbane

the misfits of the misfits

You sent me a shirt. The wearing. You sober. With the writing of a group equally sober. A group that does not know and I barely heard anything. But just look at her, relief printing on rough cotton, it happens that I go back there.

We are on your car. It is one of those rare and painful happy days. It's hot. Because it's summer. Smell the salt and sand. We are. Maybe we did talk, maybe you have hidden under the sand his head, maybe something not quite right. But who remembers? He was the only indisputable, the indescribable. Grains between the toes and in costume. The texture of your skin on my palms. The salty taste of peace, the violence of happiness.

And suddenly screams. And laugh. It's like when one down a box of nails, your laugh. And I like the nails. We just passed a couple with a stroller. I had not even noticed. But you laugh and say that the boy has the Misfits shirt. I turn back just in time to catch a glimpse of the black T-shirt with what is perhaps a skull. To you enjoy so much that a father has a shirt like that.

And the cockpit is full of you, and I'll do my usual smile. And now I know. Now that I have this shirt that you've chosen is unclear to me why this moment is so important. Why does it happen that laughed when we thought the same thing. Perhaps never admit it. And maybe you can even realize that you've really thought about.

But at that moment, in that burst of happiness, our minds and our hearts are synchronized. Our mouths may not have had the courage to materialize a fantasy so far and seemingly impossible. However, for a moment, those three were walking to us.

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The dream of Christmas morning 2010

I wake up and my bed with me inside it is materialized in the house of your father, the morning after Christmas Eve dinner. You've just got you're still in her nightgown. There he and his father arguing heatedly. And not the least notice of my appearance. But you, you realize it but you're not so surprised. I tell you come away with me. You do resistance at first, I can not, how do I? But I do not know how you convinced. All this happens in the presence of two more intent on talking that they do not notice shit. Just get on my bed and fly away. Have you decided, you change. You take off your shirt and stand naked in front of your father. Which shows no sign of noticing. But I rather pissed off and I start to tell you but how are you naked in front of your father? And you with your typical face of a sly and roguish smile as you say you know for some time. It still has not noticed anything. The situation is paradoxical. And yes, by the end maybe you do not really even seen walking through the room with the bafiona outside. I do go to the nervous and I think that now go up on my bed and disappear magic. But I wake up.

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Tourist DIY? No Alpitour? ahiahiahiahiahi

inaugurate this triumphant return with the report of my last business trip. Pinerolo (TO) for a day and a half Fantozzi. Yes, because here's the genius who writes well thought did not want to drive that far, and it was abandoned in the arms of Trenitalia as would a ball of dung on his shit.

Travel schedule calculated on the fly by cashier smiling ( who hate you fucking laugh tuttiiiiiiiii ?!?!?! The Maghreb, which was in the queue in front of me has just cursed in three languages, your son will definitely flunked in 2nd grade and find that tomorrow afternoon watching Beautiful Ridge said he was gay and has organized a cow with his brother and father, just to close the circle ... ) that included 8 trains in two days, with connections more or less defined, alert you would like an old man who feels that a colonoscopy "is beginning" ...

The fact is that my boss had booked the booking and I was naively convinced that would be enough to support my ass on a reserved seat and I would have found its destination a few hours of sleep paid more .

Actually the first part, Ferrara-Bologna has not gone bad. The passenger sitting across from me has even - friendly - Stopped to wipe his shoes on my seat when he realized that I wanted to sit, that ass! Only her look guilty-fun made me suspect that he had just stopped passing the time by throwing boogers on my back while imagining Robin Hood full of arrows, a target far away ...

A bologna I get on the direct Frecciarossa in Milan. For the uninitiated the Frecciarossa is the modern version of the fast Faccettanera '20s, locomotive carrying Italian immigrants to find fortune in Ethiopia after the conquest ... It seems indeed that the functionality of the shipboard and processes remained the same since! But back to my Frecciarossa.

I have a seat in first class - Sticazzi! - I'm sitting in front of 2 managerssss not remove his eyes from the monitor even when the extension to the Journal from under the laptop as a magician would take away a tablecloth from a table. In the meantime, get the cart with the food, the company offers passengers a ^, and watch these dudes who kidnapped close calls with their secretaries ( phone calls in which they dictated letters to write and mail with utmost urgency, convinced that the Blackberry and portable data call them to him have to play solitaire ...) and stuff themselves to munching pretzels and chips loudly with his mouth open ... are infected by this friendly and informal atmosphere and decide to join the group by emitting a loud belch that is greeted by two standing ovations of the entire car. Now I am a member of the comp, and when the other raga will be set to see the progress of their securities on the stock market (all Arial, centered and bold, they are big boys ... ) I relax in the chair, winked at the hostess - which is immediately seized with violent orgasm and runs to change the inner - and I ask his colleague, not without a certain arrogance: champagne, cohiba, the Wall Street Journal, a scratch behind the shoulder blade that itches, caps for ears, a blinkered, one Paraculo, a foot bath, massage, shiatsu and its telephone number . She replied that the madman over there, what I had mistaken for the No. 3 car, it's her boyfriend, and then I'm a bit 'disappointed I tell you to think of it, I just want you a glass of juice' orange, and please ... no hurry.

change train in Milan, Frecciarossa always, always first class. Now I'm getting used too well. Too bad that my place is on the second carriage and I both got on 11. The next 15 minutes are a sequence of PIMM - "excuse me" - PAMM - "Pardon!" - STRAAAC - "ahiaaa!" - "Excuse me" - "Imagine" , which eventually allow me to sit more or less at Piacenza, after 150 km from the start. Finally seated, look at the card and know the words

WITH THIS TRIP YOU SAVED 68kg of CO2 emissions

that impresses me greatly, and makes me realize that I should actually give a little ' CO2 ... Too bad that the bathroom of my first-class carriage of the red arrow is out of order, and so that the carriage 3 and 4. So, in short, PIMM - "Excuse!" - PAMM - "Pardon!" - STRAAAC - "ahiaaa!" - "Excuse me" - "Imagine" , refer back the whole train and get access to the toilet, and then repeat an endless PIMM - PAMM - STRAAAC until my seat. A kind of odyssey shit, in the true sense of the word, the end of which I am seized by hallucinations and see the hostess of the previous train that weaves a web and smoking a Cohiba bevendosi my champagne. Immediately interrupt my fierce look when I realize that her boyfriend is pointing to me like a panther in the bush who sees a lame wildebeest for dinner.

Return not much more fortunate, indeed. Already at the regional, which must lead to Turin I sense that the moon (black) is in the sign of Mars, Jupiter and Pluto is sodomizing, actually a lot of bad luck for me. Throughout the journey the conductor, to which I was directed to get clarification on a coincidence that I came back, spends all his time shaking his head and repeating in a low voice "is not ever going to make" every time I pass by. On his indication off the train by jumping from the window (after checking that there were no passengers slapped nostalgic type My Friends), overtaking on the right on escalators, I get the fly on the subway, climb the escalator, across the tracks with a liana, shot two Indians who were attacking the apache pendulum Milan, making him throw a punch at the guard swallow the whistle on which I wanted to leave on foot and finally I get on 954 for BO.

Exhausted - but pleased with the compliments received from Harrison Ford for the way in which I made the connection - I fall asleep. When I woke up I look a bit 'sleepy around, and just when I think I have found in the nose that nugget that haunts me for days to know that in my back seat is Finocchiaro (yes, that Finocchiaro) that I observed in the reflection the window, shaking his head. Register the agenda # 4682 figure shit and I look forward to the arrival of the trolley, which I purchase a bag of corn cones, of which I am notoriously greedy. Well, the trip took a positive turn, and fly to Bologna. But here, just turn the nose to discover that the board probably will spend the night at the station, because the minutes of delay time for intercity 654 SL for Venice were piling up like presents under the Christmas tree. 20 ... 25 ... 30 ... 35. And for more up to a minute from the actual departure no one knew where I was leaving the train. He seemed to play flag: all ready to run, loads of luggage. The voice of the speaker increases the suspense: Train departing from binariooooooooooooooooo ........................ SEVEN! Taking the band Massarenti dribling of 2 toxic flying kick given to the machine with contempt of snacks the day before he fucked me 1 euro, position number 1 on the wagon. In post 51, because my 56 was squatted by a pair of Bari that just could not help but making out in front of my eyes tired.

Once home, while exploiting all the hot water of the district to remove the horrible smell of the train that I'm wearing, I remember the words of the Marine Rueda before my departure, "but is not the country of Pinerolo Fantozzi's aunt? ".

Aha!

NOTE: The contents of this post is true, except for the burp, scaccolata the front of the VIP and the two dead apache ...