When I got to New Orleans, I tried to make sure that I didn’t get into a brothel, although the whole city seemed like one. I ended up in a diminutive digging in the ghetto of Iberville. That landlady, that piece of flesh, all in her shouting “meat meat meat”, was a fucking ugly bitch with very bad temper. They called her LaPepsi, and had a bar downstairs where there weren’t hookers, but other garbage, as dykes and diesel lesbians, hustlers, drag queens, and hetero-flexible. She was very fat, very tall, and very black, and she liked those little Filipinos, the kind making those pornographic tricks, man, things a white wouldn’t dream of, not even I. She was married to a faggot and limp dick old nigger. No wonder why the little macaques shit! Nor why the husband was an auntie, unable to stomach that ignorant seal. I was almost broke and the essay about a guy who grabbed crabs at the Opera House wasn’t progressing. Well, the thing was there was nothing to drink, and I was sitting there, in that room, going crazy, getting very nervous, fucking fed up. Then I remembered Davonte, I don’t know why, maybe because he was always very nervous, well, during the war a bomb gutted him up, one of those fucking bombing you assume would be right on target as showed on CNN, and before kicking the bucket he was in the hospital, the sawbones told me, much time, three or four weeks, and the strangest thing is that he had said, no, he had asked me, “Can you imagine that some moron motherfucker throw me a bomb and I split in two?” Well, he was no longer anxious, and the moron was one of ours, and the “accurate” shell made mincemeat of him, and of a whole family of dawdler gypsies, the pop a horse tamer, and the mom a daily, anyway the kids didn’t deserve it. And Davonte —fuck off, he was asking for it— recalled me the fucking war, but as I was no longer in an underdeveloped country, with a coup every Tuesday, with its genocide, that racist killing, with death camps and all the stuff, as it all was over, as I was in New Orleans now, a safe place, but somehow wrathful, I decided to turn on the computer and play a less dangerous war videogame. I’m a geek of videogames as much as I like being boozy, well, maybe not so much. I was killed three times. Shit! I went to take a crap. I needed a beer. I put on my labor shirt, the heavy shoes with holes in the soles that needed to pay a visit to the cobbler, the hardened dirty socks, and the wrinkled pants, the bitch crisis uniform, with its massive layoffs and tax increases, and the poor, as me, paying for all of it, and on the top the global warming. I went down to the bar. The lift man was a Filipino dwarf with junkie eyes, inept and looking like a hitman, the landlady’s spy, sure, ugly as hell, he opened the door reluctantly. At least the beer was fine. I bombed out of my skull that night.
Worldwide, there are 6,912 known living languages which are spoken in nearly two hundred countries. In fact 6,912 plus one: the PCL or Politically Correct Language. This soft language has been designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of consistency to pure wind. In short, to an already weak in spirit society, some want it also poor in language.
When I got to New Orleans, I tried to make sure that I didn’t get into a buoyant enterprise where sex care providers received affirmative action, although the whole city seemed like one. I ended up in an ideal for couples room in the disadvantaged socioeconomic status area of Iberville. That internal movement coordinator and proprietor, that largely wide enhanced person, all in her shouting “cosmetic deficiency cosmetic deficiency cosmetic deficiency”, was a little facially controversial and a bit distracted moral’s woman with a temporary dysfunction of tolerance. They called her LaPepsi, and had a delivery area of addictive liquids downstairs where there weren’t playful products distributors, but other transient availability elements, as LGTB. She was very horizontally enhanced, very vertically enhanced, and very African American, and she liked those vertically compromised persons of a ethnic minority from a developing country called Philippines, the kind making those promoter of the adult imagination tricks, man, things a Euro-American wouldn’t dream of, not even I. She was married to a reverse spirit and erectile dysfunctional experienced senior African American citizen. No wonder why the vertically compromised beautiful apes-like personal solid gastro-intestinal waste! Nor why the husband was a reverse spirit and erectile dysfunctional citizen, unable to breakdown mechanically and chemically into smaller components that thinker by alternative methods and semi-aquatic marine mammal. I was almost a person at risk of social exclusion and the essay about a gentleman who was the amusing host of obligate ectoparasites of humans at the Opera House wasn’t progressing. Well, the thing was there was nothing to mitigate thirst, and I was sitting there, in that room, decelerating basic rationalization, sensing an acute, time-limited psychiatric disorder that manifests primarily as severe stress-induced in a previously functional individual, temporarily overwhelmed. Then I remembered Davonte, I don’t know why, maybe because he has a permanent psychotic disorder, well, during the attempt to repel a perceived military operation a explosive ordnance produced him a substantial loss of internal body mass, one of those mechanical accelerators of social metabolism you assume would be a smart preemptive artifact as showed on CNN, and before being put to sleep he was in the polyclinic wellness maintenance organization, the healthcare delivery professional told me, much time, three or four weeks, and the strangest thing is that he had said, no, he had asked me, “Can you imagine that some thinker of alternative methods and underlying capabilities son of a distracted moral’s person throw me a reactive substance that contains a great amount of potential energy that can produce an explosion if released suddenly and I split in two?” Well, he was no longer feeling uneasiness or anxiety disorders, and the thinker of alternative methods was friendly fire, and the smart artifact made fine particles of fatty material of him, and of a whole family of alternative human resource self-referential titrator of a bohemian Central European ethnic minority, the head of family with a degree in equine behavior, and the foundation of the economics and reproductive aspects of the nuclear family, an operator of private elements in transient availability, anyway the citizens in integration period and positive development didn’t deserve it. And Davonte —make rectally love in reverse, he was asking for it— recalled me the making love armed humanitarian operation for defensive purposes, but as I was no longer in an developing national entity, with a pronouncement of the military sector every Tuesday, with its ethnic cleansing, that institutional logistical accelerator of social catabolism by counteracting segregation, with concentration facilities and all the stuff, as it all was over, as I was in New Orleans now, a safe place, but somehow under an emotion related to one’s psychological interpretation of having been offended, wronged, or denied and a tendency to react through retaliation, I decided to turn on the computer and play a less dangerous depopulation operation videogame. I’m a full time technical operator of electronic-leisure as much as I like being an avid user of addictive liquid legal substances, well, maybe not so much. I was neutralized three times. Let’s expel feces with a frequency varying from a few times daily to a few times weekly! I went to motivate waves of muscular contraction in the walls of the colon. I needed a beer. I put on my delivery of services by person for payment shirt, the heavy shoes with holes in the soles that needed to pay a visit to the external podiatrist, the hardened not too clean socks, and the almost ironed pants, the person of easy virtue economic negative growth uniform, with its massive company rationalizations of the task force and programs aimed to calm the markets, and the economically disadvantaged, as me, suffering the asymmetric impact of the financial slowdown, and on the top the climate change. I went down to the delivery area of addictive materials. The supplier of vertical internal human resources was a slightly vertically compromised extra-territorial citizen from the ethnic minority coming from Philippines with addictive substances user’s eyes, in conflict with the establishment and looking like an accelerator of social catabolism, the landlady’s intelligence apparatus, sure, with severe appearance deficits and facially controversial, he opened the door reluctantly. At least the beer was fine. I got a mass attack delivered to disheartening myself by liquid accelerators of the playful process of my skull that night.
Politically Correct Language – By Dugutigui
In the “Diula” language in Mali, the term « dugutigui » (chief of the village), literally translated, means: «owner of the village»; «dugu» means village and «tigui», owner. Probably the term is the result of the contraction of «dugu kuntigui» (literally: chief of the village).