My nephew is the end of the worlda isso likeno the tecknical stuff ma willing to listenthe flablen e a volt pure in english as a foreign language mackironico, ergo ito a raccontare one classic fairy tale e quale…
Tant ma tant temp ago, in un Regn incantat lived one sgnocched girl chiamed Cenerentol.
Il Regn was incantat but the vit of Cenerentol was one infern!
She vived infatt with a matrign and two sorellastrs very ciofecons but that considered lor stess gran figons (qualcun, spiritoson, dissed lor che eran really figons…) and quest rendeved Cenerentol’s life ‘na vera schifezz type my neighbor de house.
Cenerentol had the obbligs of pulishing tutt la vill, the giardins, making da mangiars (and the two maialons and the matrign mangied com fagocers), tening the contabilit and, pegg of all, making the dichiarations of the tasses type Tarsup, Aimu, Half Past Seven, Only, etc etc.
Infatt the two racchions non faceved one mazz of nothing tutt the day, se non shopping, anch because eran very racchions e SHOPPING was the massim to sperar…(neanch of talk of scoping, we have capit…)
Cenerentol domanded: “Mi potet give a man, I’m scopping of lavor! Dev still prepar the meringates per pranz, stir the camiciett of set (that, you know, son very merdous to stir) and andar to the bank for the bonifics, talk with the direttor, trattar the titles, writer on Facebucche or Chirping, accatter the azions…”
“Ah ah!”, dissed and rised the two stronzetts, “Work, work that makes you one sacc of ben…”
And Cenerentol, che was scoping com one matt (making the pulizies! you pervert! what have you pensed…) pensed one sacc of bad coses on the two bastardells that I sorvol now…
The mes of Magg, pien of flowers and sun, was incantevol in the incantat Regn but, purtropp, in Giugn when togotuentinain go to the beach, the King Mountains riscuoted all the tass, and so the popols was non tropp content.
Tuttaway, the popols festegged the iniz of Summer (the Estat, ignorant! Stud the lings!) con balls, fests, pranzs and cens and a lot of trombing (no, not suoning the tromb… I will spieg it another volt).
Ogn year, ogn Giugn, Cenerentols triboled com one impazzed trottols to mett insiem the infamous and famigerate Half Past Seven or l’Only, the dichiarations of the reddits insomm, staying attent to pag the men tass possible!
She was brav, ma very brav in this. She was brav in tutt, ma the compilation of the HPS or l’Only was one capolavour.
The two sorellastrs and the matrign, sebben very ignorant, sapped the importanz of paghing very little tasses and, mentr Cenerentols prepared tutt the conts, comported one bit men of stronz (the stronzity of the three was really tant, one little men non made nessun differenz…).
Cenerentols triboled but continued to sogn the Gran Ballet in the Castell of the King, one event very pallos, but pien pien di Very Important Gent! She sogned she arrived in the Castell and parled in mezz of Finanziers, Banchiers, Imprenditors, Cavaliers, Berluskonier,Renzier, Faccendiers and cosi’ way.
And parling parling, the Important Gent sarebbs accorted of the talent and sgamatezz of Cenerentols in the affars, assumed Cenerentols and paghed one bell stipend: other that pulishing the cacc of paviment!
But it was a sogn, and sogning (or dreaming. you great rompiballs…stud the lings) non finished the long compilation of the HPS.
Inoltr the three sgrofolons non compred one computer efficient (figur you!) but ricicled one schifous 486 lent as one lumac (mort!) and so Cenerentols had to tribol the double and aspett as one pirlett davant the screen of the 486…
One ser, Cenerentols rincoglionited from the lavors com poch others, addormented on the tastiers of the (lent) 486.
Risveglied of colp (pensing “One of the stronzetts have combined one of the solits”) troved a scritt on the monitor: “Hey Cenerentols! Svegl, it’s hour to go to the Gran Ballet!”.
Cenerentols pensed: “Ok, the 486 has gone to puttans (one technic mod of dir: prend the 486 and butt it to the ortics…) and is scriving for his fatts or is pensing it is in Matrix…”
But the scritts continued: “Cenerentols, dont’ be tardons! The 486 is a merdacc, d’accord, but I’m the Fatin of the DOS, and you dev andars to the Gran Ballet”.
Cenerentols pensed: “Fatin of the DOS? Yes, and I am the Principess of Unix… go and prend it in the port serial…”.
But the Fatin persevered (one little incazzed, at this point…): “Cenerentols, you romped me! Go to the Ballet or contin with the HPS and fikk it…”.
“Ok, ok! Don’t incazz, Stregh of Windows, I ascolt you!”, dissed Cenerentols, a bit scorned.
“I am the Fatin of the DOS, you rintroned! Adess lav, that is megl, prend the vestit in the armads (it’s a modellin of Valentin that I rubated online…) and esc and trov the Mercedes (pien of benzin and autorad with CD e tablet inclus) and go to the Gran Ballet and incontr The Azzurr Princip that is a gnoccolon and riccon! But you must torn prim of mezzanott, altriment la poliz… the Mercedes torn one zucchin!”
“Ok, this is all very bell.. but what do you vogl from me? Money, porn filmetts or dev make you the HPS?”
“Mmmm Cenerentols, don’t preoccup, I’m not venal… magar the HPS the prossim year: quest’year I cred I have fatt qualch error, ad esemp in the rig N21…”
“Scus fatins, adess I scapp, magar another volt… the Azzurr Princip? Never sentited… fors one Cavalier, mah! The solit young nobil spakkon and coglion type Il Trota ex legaist…”.
Cenerentols controlled the three zoccolons, uscited for another ballet, semper spering in one (little) trombat (illus!), vested and prended the Mercedes and corred … to the pomp of benzins: the Mercedes was not pien of benzins, pazienz: you don’t look in the bocc of a horse donated? (what cacch of proverb…)
Arriving to the Castells (a great figuron: a figon with a rubated vestit, no cavalier, on a rubated Mercedes…) she entered the Gran Salon of the Gran Ballet: what a meravigl! A sacc of riccons cadavers with Madam: banchiers, finanziers, faccendiers, politicants and Velins (they are dappertutt!).
She cominced immediately to parl in mezz of the vecchions of titles, azions, saccs of solds and all methods of fotting tasses: all very interesting arguments to the vecchions that ascolted the young gnocc very arraped!
The old Madam Babbions detestated this impertinent girl and proved to serv a portat of avariated gamberetts with Nutells spering in one vomit and squaraus of the Eva: nothing to do! Cenerentols was very occupated parling and risponding and … sapeved the old trucc of the gamberetts (provated with the three stronzetts: little scherzett, big soddisfaction!)
But, in the mezz of the serat the Azzur Princip entered the Gran Salon of the Gran Ballet preceded by the Gran Fanfare: this fests are a Gran rottur of balls…
Subit veded Cenerentols, anch because the other were tutt old babbions, ma pensed: “What a tronk of gnocc, but for sicur she’s a gnoccon senz a neuron in the cranic box… che peccat!”.
The Azzurr Princip was very sensible to gnoccons but wanted neurons in the cranic box: just to chiacchier of qualch argument between one trombat and the other…
Avvicinating Cenerentols (she was pensing: “What a figons, but sicurament cretin…”) the Azzurr Princip was presented by the Grand Ciambellan, who was semper in mes ai ball, chieded her name and Cenerentols inizied chiacchiering: “Come vedete Voi, Principe, la svalutazione del dollaro nel contesto macroeconomico attuale? Ritenete opportuna la politica di intervento nel debito pubblico in atto in Messico? Alla luce della teoria keynesiana…”.
The Azzurr Princip sbaved com one lumac: she was the girl of his sogns, gnoccolon and a lot megl than one bocconian (nothing to do with Lewinski…).
He comincied to chiacchier amabilment and they continued fin 23.58 when Cenerentols ricorded the parols of the Streg … ops, the Fatin and dissed the Azzurr Princip: “Scuss me! I dimentiched the caponate on the fire, must schizz!”. The Azzurr Princip, sbigotted, risponded: “One moment, where are you scapping (before scop…ops)! Com ti find? Where do you abit? In which contrad? The numer of your cellular?”.
Cenerentols corred away griding: “I will mand you a cartolin, don’t preoccup, bel bigulun!” (a simpatic nomignol, because anch Cenerentols was innamorating of the Azzurr Princip) but … meravigl and stupor, corring like a ladr lasced a 5″ 1/4 (vecch, quadrat, flessibil) dischett (casualment ported to the Gran Ballet) with the HPS of the stronzs and an etichett “386 – lent com il lat ai ginocch”, the Azzurr Princip raccoglied the dischett and sospired: he corred un sacc and had the fiaton, maybe megl far un bit of footing in futur…
Naturalment the Stradal Poliz troved the Mercedes at mezzanott precis, and so Cenerentols decided for 4 o 5 passes lontan from the Stradal Poliz… but the Castell was a casin far from the Vill and so Cenerentols decided for autostop.
At the quart camionist (TIR lungh 46 meter, adesiv dappertutt, fognesque alit) trying to ingropp her, she decided to cammin that is better…
She arrived at the Vill at 5.00 AM, just in temp to cominc to stir (what a bott of cul!).
The Azzurr Princip was nervosissim! Inkazzed like a procion, chiamed all Ciambellans and Cavaliers of the Regn (fin that moment only a mass of inutil and magnons rompicoglions) and ordined to trov the little, carin delicat fanciull that used a vecch 386. The Azzurr Princip was so rintroned by the innamoration that did not pensed to look into the dischett, anch because, who cavol uses ancor the 5″ 1/4 dischetts?
Naturalment no one of the skazzed Ciambellans was capac of troving a girl with a 386, they troved (and trombed) a lot of girls but not the one that the Azzurr Princip was cerching: inkazzed as 200 procions (inkazzed procion, I intend) he condanned them to ascolt Victor Sgarbs to life (a terrible condann, some of the Ciambellans and Cavaliers fugged urling “This is trop!”).
“Who makes for se, makes for 3″, dissed the Azzurr Princip, “Adess I vu’ and trov ‘sta girl, look a bit!”.
And in men than you can dic (anch men) using the principesc culaton, he troved Cenerentol (the Regn was not China, four cats after all!).
The Matrign and the two racchions esulted when the Spider carrozz of the Azzurr Princip stopped di front of the Vill.
The Matrign pensed: “It is the good volt that we tromb!”.
But the Azzurr Princip urled: “You 3 are only (non-trombing) racchions! You are so imbecill but you are paying very little tasses in a legal manier! There must esserc some other under!”. (he finalment guarded the dischetts… and now are bitter dicks!)
The door of the cess opened and, sudated as a bergamasc murator, appeared Cenerentols! (who was pulishing the cess of three cagons)
The Azzurr Princip pensed: “Beh, better after a good docc with a lot of sapon, but she is the girl of my cuor! (and other parts…)”.
“I will regal you the life of a principess, luxury, money, respect and pan and Nutell (senz gamberett) all day!”, declamed the Azzurr Princip, “And we will chiacchier un sacc of new economy, tasses (com make pay this stronzs evasors) and so avant…” and Cenerentols asked timidly: “… and no trombing???”.
The Azzurr Princip sorrided from one orecch to the other…
“Vien with me in my camer that I mostr you my 386″ (not the collection of farfalls, strange!)
The three zoccolons, in the frattime, have schiatted in the salott… megl.
“Ok, I really desider to see you mentr you compil a HalfPastSeven!”, the Azzurr Princip wasn’t staying more in his pell.
She compiled a HPS domanding 2 o 3 cosettins to the Azzurr Princip: how many castells, navs and barchetts, Porschs and Rolex, conts in Svizzer, black fonds…
When she lanced the calcol of the HPS, she chieded: “The 486 is VERY lent, when I’m da sol, I go to pulish some stanz or stir, but now that you are qui, how can we ammazz the time?”.
They troved the mod of ammazzing the time.
And ammazzed even the lett and the materass, and the paviment and the lavatric (centrifug, 60 grads)…
“Oh, my love, I will spos you! and I will compr you a Pentium 19 veloc com one agent of the tass (very veloc in the Incantat Regn)! Never never attes lung davant al computer…”
But then the two pirlons guarded ciascun other and pensed insiem: “No long attes, no … Mmmh non ci sound benin.”
Cenerentols and the Azzurr Princip vived felix and content, and to stay more tranquill butted out the 486 and prended from a robivecch a 386, more lent quind more…
(Ah, Cenerentol condanned the Minister of Finanz to decapitation and to listen to Charlie Accounts and metted new tasses, the popols ringrazied…)
