Yes, Öüï knew this – your farts smelled like tortillas

Header subject to change… you French Phucks 🍟

I love horse racing, period.


Silly Love Songs 🐏, it’s an El Ey thing, to understand you’ll need to consult The Frisco Kids:

But first… it’s Arthur Aitch (h) 👺💨


Eye is here fo’Yer soul, phuckers. Don’t fear Macario.

In the meantime, we now ketch-up with the CNRS Special Editions series, Los Clochardos de Doña Vilma–en Châtelet:

It’s like one-hundred Frida’s and all the mercado de abastos, and a French 🇨🇵 Ambassador 🤺 de pilón. No GASpil’age allowed.

Back to Sébastien. It’s springtime, and he’s putting down roots on the sidewalk. Sometimes I stop, sometimes I walk around him – the guy’s too wacky. Today is his birthday, fifty-something; all the suffering in the world is in him. He looks at his hands, turns them, shows them to me. His fingers are swollen, deformed by abuse, the street, misery. Sébastien cries out for his life, I can do nothing for him, I remain silent. He too, disappears. I see him again in autumn, lying on a metro vent on rue de Rivoli. He shares the grate with another companion in misfortune. I pass by. On our last meeting, breaking the rule, he hits me up for cash. I abandon my principles, I know what to expect. A few hours later, he’s slumped on the floor, two bottles of rosé by his side. Alcohol kills slowly, sometimes too slowly.


Tacos – Flautas – Gorditas – Sopes… just don’t drink the water.


¶2 p. 180

In Marie-Ange Schiltz’s «Rag time comedy hour »… It’s a re-play.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.