Almighty above, I just love this century.
There is nothing more pleasurable (except a sexual orgasm, or drug-induced euphoria perhaps, I dunno, not having experienced either of them) than seeing the plebeian, the masses take on their own course of action. We, the people, are finally beating the hell outta the system, literally or otherwise, under the throes of a newfound political and democratic awareness which, as I foresee it, will go on to cease corruption and all that bad Jazz, and if this doesn’t, then only an apocalyptic end to this earth presumably by a crazy comet careening out of control and crashing on us will.
Now there are great many hypotheses that go on to explain the reason as to what propelled the attack, ranging from high taxes levied to acting a Muntazer Al Zaidi, the Iraqi who threw Nike at Bush, but none of them are scientific and logical. Here is one which goes on to reinforce the infallibility of the Chaos Theory, which states that even a butterfly flapping its wings in Wyoming could trigger a typhoon in Tokyo ( must have been a pretty big one, huh?). The Butterfly Effect is a film that has taken inspiration from this theory.
Early in this day, Mr. Berlusconi would have woken up quite normally, have had a normal shit, normal brush, normal piss, normal breakfast and other normal unmentionables. Hell, he might even have said to himself while reflecting retrospectively the instance where he was taking a crap, “What a normal day it is turning out to be, oh Mamma Mia!”. He might have gone on to his office giving his aides those customary cursory glances that meant straight fucking business. He might have picked up the phone and barked a few orders that made him feel ultra-normal. Here was a day, he thought, you seldom get during a regime as a Prime Minister. He smiled a deep, satisfied, knowing smile.
Meanwhile, pandemonium reigned.
Not anywhere else, but in the heart of Mr. Massimo Tartaglia (tongue twister of a name!).
He had got up, feeling pretty abnormal and had glanced up to the calendar. Another day. Another fucking day had passed and he still hadn’t got laid. His memory failed him as he struggled to remember the last time he had a good time, but it sure had been a fucking long time since. He then went on to have an abnormal constipated shit, abnormal erratic brushing, abnormal piss that just failed to get inside the commode, abnormal burnt breakfast and other abnormal unmentionables. That he was seething with unspent, unbridled fury as he reflected retrospectively was an understatement.
His unwanted celibacy had earned him nothing but ridicule. Once while on a booze overdrive, his friends had commented over how big a sissy he was not to even try to nail a woman, he had gone completely overboard, vomiting over them and telling them atleast he had a better chance of fucking a nice hooker than Berlusconi who must be locked up within the confines of his hectic schedule.The next day the papers screeched like Banshees the sex scandal of Berlusconi and his alleged romp with a high profile prostitute. Several calls rang at the Tartaglia household that day, none of which he answered.
He went out, bought a newspaper. And glanced at the headlines. It did nothing to stem his already growing anger, and if possible, inflamed him even more.
Berlusconi was going to be in Milan.
* * * * *
“Friends, Romans….err….Milanese people, countrymen, I welcome you all to my…” droned Berlusconi a few hours later, completely oblivious to all the developments that had taken place. He glanced towards his left. A group of jackasses were shouting incoherently but audibly. They were exasperatingly pestilential, not unlike a swarm of mosquitoes, and it was getting on his nerves.
After a while, it got on his nerves.
It took all his self control not to shout, “Shut the fuck up you motherfuckers! What do you want from me, a resignation?”
Instead he shouted, “We must oppose you, because you want to transform Italy into a screaming piazza!”
This outburst, far from quelling it, conveyed to the protesters that they were getting the attention they sought. The decibel level rose.
Again it drained a good amount of stamina of Mr. Berlusconi to not shout, ”Fuck you! Fuck YOU!”
Instead,”Shame on you, shame on you!” while waggling a fat accusing finger at the protesters. He thought it must look pretty good on the television, so he went on to add a harried look upon his face to give that extra zing to the effect.
He didn’t interrupt his own speech until he ended it. Then stepping down the dais, he mingled with his fellow Milanese people, signed autographs, kissed babies (on the forehead that is), waved to his supporters when all of a sudden…
He clutched his nose, his senses going berserk at seeing the blood spurt, but he kept his cool and did not shout out in agony because on TV it would have been uncool. He saw Sirius Dogstar, Alpha Centauri, and then the Orion one by one. Some aides grabbed him and put him inside his car.
And as he drove away, he thought to himself, ”What a horrible day it has turned out to be, oh Mamma!”