People often stop Mí in the middle of a trip to ask where “el toledo 🚾 ” is located at, and my first reaction is, ‘watt’EM# Eye, a salarié de la bendita Paris Tourism Board 🛹 ?’, and then after seeing their jeepers turn de UN indigo indigne-vous is when Eye tells them trav’Lers, “la taza 🚽 del lugar está al Fondo; ala Derecha”.
Jump from, “By the numbers with nombres” y viceversa en dorso, off–course.
🌬️🎶 Yo! Ha’ ya doin’
Sorry Eye can’t get true
Why don’t Ewe leave your nombre y tu número?
De La Soul, putos!
From l’Alma, putos!
Just the facts, Timeline. Where where you when Guerrero comenzó a temblar… and Timeline responds, en el 5⁰ Sueño, siñor del Toro. I know no Chronos!
In Contexto:
¿Dónde te agarró el temblor?
La Crisis sin Chico, Che!
Won’t Ewe, come see about Mí?
To The Moon, Alicia. Tú, the Moon.
Don’t you Simple French Fuchs Forget about Mí, because Eye, unlike otros ojos mexicanos lindos 🕵🏻♂️, Eye knows that l’Alma termina en dónde Longchamps comienza, es decir, en el mero culo del Caballo del General George WaWaLand en París, casi esquina con Tokio, el Palacio, —knot the Risin’ Sun 🌞.
Over at the Juanito Wannabacoa orbit, rfpp is sucking a big Bleu coq of Le Roi, no less. It’s not only tributary, but symbolic of yesterday’s Rosbif catastrophe.
A la memoria de Nazar Haro, mentor de los Guanabacoas en RFPP… Before Eye Accuse, Ewe… take another look in the mirror, mister Le Roi, or whatever your Nombre† est.
†~. That’s French for nomenclature… Can Ewe, entendre moi bien, mon écoute?
But speaking of slaves, is there anything missing in this 🚾? Except for accountability, and a Bud™ if youse a lowly peasant, Eye can’t think of a doG danG ThinG.
In the WO’ids of Pundita Rhulita³: don’t hate the Game, hate the ⚽ FIFA ⚽ and the 🇫🇷 elite 🇫🇷, not the game 🌬️ :
The RATP HandiCapable Bleus. In local News, Valérie Pécresse, Île-de-Saint Louis préfet, vows to install some kick-ass screens on Évry privatized inner-city collective transportation system bus 🚌 for the 2024 Olympics. The funds for such endeavor de envergadura, of course arrive via the SPLASH FUND from the Burning of Nuestra Señora de París, and that pesky hunchback, NostraCosa.
³~. Stephanie Rhule’s, “Hate the Game not the Players” δ Hour.
Any how, SoFy Velasco is not scheduled to tell those tales that she tells so well, Dommage en Dimanche, and–so, Öüï (that motherfucker) is going to continue reviewing Cousin Joe’s criticism of Messi 🇦🇷, and substitute El Gran LIO, for the soup sandwich of Sir Kane 🏴.
…
