Tag Archives: Marie Gentric — Blowout sale salé sale-d’Haÿ

Opposing Viewpoints — La Moto de Bernardo Gómez

One:

Pages 176 and 178 appear to have a conflict of FAITH… tout le THON is gone Ton-Ton!

 

Two:

Mac The Knife: “Parents need to police their children, the lycée is not in place to… never mind ». For this year’s French National Holiday military paredes, the Indians will be paying tribute to the 49.3 law by showcasing all 64 fuck positions of The Kamasutra on the Stretch-marks of les Champs Elysées. La Gentric will lead with the ceremonial first BLOW at the Tomb of The Unknown Soldier with the music of The Doors… C’mon Baby Light My Fire.

 

Three:

Yup… Seen That Movie, Aussie.

 

… and

Fo’ :

LAnCasTer, Califas.

Of graves 🪦 and graves grammar 🇺🇸 pronounced: peek•poohs

O Ladies in Gemini, con ustedes, The Paris Tourism Board.

Louise Michel is at the mound, and the Mademoiselle d’Ayen is at the plate, and in TROU French fashion (no pun intended at Lafayette’s Gallery) the Paris Tourism Board designated the grand daughter of Ol’ Guts and Glory to throw the ceremonial first pitch at Picpus Stadium. On our next section Öüï head back to Ciudad Juaréz, Chihuahua, where Professor Quintana (of morena-francia / Acción NATIONAL fame at the IHEAL) and 500 horsemen re-enact General Pershing’s persuit of a bad Fello’ called GENERAL Francisco Villa… Old Gringo Brice and Zimmerman are standing-by in Hidalgo del Parral, casi entronque con Rodeo, Durango en Inde.

Live from the Hanoi Hilton… on a Holiday Inn.

Hotel 🇨🇵 Métropole… Frivolité en fip. Public 📻, today it’s a fucking french spa. Colonialistes! The whole hexagone of youse, shouted the Jacobins who are just joining the Terror Gardens at Nation where the “last of the French people’s king” is about to enrage a los ancestros of the French version of don Ándres Mélenchon en l’Alliance Française de Chapultepec³.

Here we are now.

 

14h05… Picpus remains the same… exclusive, to go say the least, even with all them Crackers outside on the street.

Quema Cocos Por Paname.

After the break, Governor “Green Witch” Withmer, I will tell you how your constituents, middle school pedagogs no less, starred as the stingy-entitled-UGLY-opportunistic-NETWORK of Americans in Paris. And if you need coordinates, ask the future author of Lafayette’s wife fiction-ography, she spoke to those fuckers and even exchanged présentation cards, next to the General’s grave, Madisonian democracy at it’s most bare.

Lulu the grey Husky there,
and her human
can not let me tell a lie, Martha…
🪓

Léon Gautier, the last survivor of the 177 members of the Kieffer Commando, who landed on the beaches of Normandy to help liberate France on June 6, 1944, died on Monday, July 3 at the age of 100.

Öüï salutes that dirty, rotten, frog.

My name is Armando, soy gerundio g’diondo³ del Nazas, —pero no soy mocho mozo de los Nazis de Nantes en Angers.

³~. Del lat. vulg. *foetibundus, de foetēre ‘heder‘.

Grabando graves con el Excmo. señor Embajador J–P Asvasadourian en gravelandia🪦 de los graves 🤕 grabados 📼.

 

Llanamente hablando

⁵~. adj. Dit du style : Qu’il se distingue par sa circonspection , son décorum et sa noblesse.
https ://dle .rae .es /gravegrave

 

 

Affirmative Action at the P.E.N. Club de France — Dew Ewe fuckers like tuna?

It’s Friday night Primetime in Hilo, Hawaii, and over in at the putas red light district de Pigalle, home of “Les Rats du Petit Moulin” y… de las tunas de un nopal it’s the Deadline for Entry into the P.E.N. Club (elitist) Translation Prize of 2023.

Today’s word of the They, dear Martin at “Le Grand institut de la statistique publique française”, en la bagagerie de Marie-Ange Schiltz is:

Shadenfreude

from the German (joy of the French’s misfortune).

I did ask if youse motherfuckers, “sprechen sie Deutsch? », didn’t Eye? So get back, honky cat. ÖÜÏ didn’t start that fire, but we did forewarned BRONTIS and Stephanie Menou at the Cité préfecture all those years ago. And, Bruno, que dice la Doctora, J-G Poisson 🩺 🐟 que por favor le saluden a Talía Olvera y a su patrona de ella, Barbara Carol de Obeso, en el show de Juanito Guanavacoa en Botzaris.

 

Under all that American ruble in the Academy, Öüï just learned that her name was Nicolle, and she once brought back a ROSE 🥀 to life.

Yeah, so normally as a norm our shit is fucked up, period! With that in mind, police radio interference is bunchin’ up today’s Deadline feature… bola de —putos.

In France, your won rights are closer than a crash-test dummy appears.

La tuna no es como las sardinas la pintan, en primer lugar, la tuna es desértica y tú mamá también, have some atún, it’s a cold platter.

Any how, shit’s going down at the Pinault Collection…Get Off’ my Lawn! You young people. And homie, leave those cops z’alone

The Death of French Commerce, long live the market.

And Gene Robinson… yo’Black-ass knows what goes good with Thon?

— Ketch-up… in Mexico a Zero Plus game es un “cero a la izquierda”, dijo El professor Alejandro Valenzuela en Sciences Po. Elítismo Immaculado.

Friday, June 30th, 2011… Paris, Francia_ To stand in solidarity with the new cuts at la Maison de La Radio on JFK Ave., in Paris, France, MGMT fucked with the models and fondled the mannequins notwithstanding the Summer Break. In Babylon Two (NYC) it’s “death and taxes” but in France it’s mimosas for Breakfast 🥞. Indeed.

A Closer Look… Soy, un perdedor. The Winner is: La Valentina

El Carnal de las estrellas de HAUSSMANN 🎩 in reel 🎥 time.

 

🎶 Forces of evil in a boNzo nightmare…

It’s another edition of “Miss Heard’s Lyrics” from The Mothership.

“Cut it…”,  it’s an “off-the-record” mouvement.

 

Soy sauce, it’s like an army without a compass. So, for all intents and purposes, right now it’s Primetime in Hilo, Hawaii, and 2011 in Famaºgusta, Chipre, and my 16 hundred horses have been delayed on their way to Havre, the same port from which Alexis Tocqueville, de Francia set sail from on it’s way to claim Democracy for General Phillipe Petin, or something along them stitches 🪡.

🥢 🥡 🥢

And, the chilaquiles just don’t care… because El sope está enºtoºmatadoº, pass La Valentina³

³~. So, in the times of “las lágrimas de perro” por pillo, Clemente 🐔 Jacques industrialized a salsa 🌶️ that those French motherfucker’s from the Great State of Delaware-sur-Potomac, baptized as Salsa 🕺🏽 Búfalo… it had a shelf-life, so by the Time that EL GATT 😼 entró en México, and all of the nuclear engineers emigrated to Los Ángeles, California, to become taxi drivers, or Robert Downey Junior’s, gardeners, there was only one thing that Sean Penn (that motherfucker) could do, The Stark Coffee Company diversified onto Clemente’s territory and introduced la salsa Valentina, it’s like Siriachia with no shelf-life, legend has it that OPPENHEIMER stole the recipe from a burrito vendor on the SET of {Fat Man} and {Little Boy} in San José de Las Panochas, Durango.

It’s been done before.

In Local Twitter® news:

Hear Ye’ — hear Ye’, the French Ambassador to México, the Excelentísimo señor Jean-Pierre Asvasadourian, or his Twitt Monkees, have muted my CONºVERSºATION tamaulipeca from his pretty-little Mexican 🌮 PROºPAºGanda 🥐.

What’s the matter, mister Excmo., are you like French, or just a little CUNT?

If only the Paris Tourism Board
had the fucking Imagination.

Context? Ewe can’t handle the context*.

 

📯

Not unlike the moral right in the Trapeze of Jason Mott³, a British cunt who claims that he wrote “A Hell of A Book” but that nigger doesn’t even know what trou tacos taste like, let alone what a Mexican Peso is worth, he inherited cotton but never had to pick the bol’ :

Page 58…

I STEP OFF THE PLANE LOOKING LIKE A MILLION EUROS AND FEEL-ing like about two pesos.

³~. Hell of a book, by Jason Mott, a British cunt in my faction.

Outshined? C’mon now Minnesota, North Carolina, the two Virginia’s and CaCa’laki (South Carolina) ain’t got nothing on Tabasco, the original, not that acid vinegar from New Orleans.

Book it! The entire FICTION Phucks. And here is why, on the same motherfucking page, and the one before (nº 57, if youse keeping count of them cunts) because it is obvious that the jury panel either skipped the Angry Husband on a hot airplane landing or those sons-of-bitches don’t know what “So it goes” is supposed to mean, and if Mott was being “ironic” like a Pearl Jam³ fan, then he clearly’s never been to DRESDEN EN TIEM-pos de hambre en Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

³~. Or fans of Serge Gainsbourg who come to the Ol’ Alice Cooper nightmare shack to search for the precise word, which of course in-and-of itself is always a “con” and not a SANS.

Page 57/58:

Hell of a Book tour takes me out of the Midwest—with it’s flat earth and angry husbands— and deposits me somewhere on the West Coast this time, yada, yada, yada…

¶ … yada, yada, … In Florida—I remember sweaty armpits and air humid enough to drink— {kinky⁸}…

The plane landing out west is a little bumpier than expected. Yada, yada, yada… —from the fuselage to fun-sized pretzel bag— is shaking, So naturally, I assume we’re in a free fall and death 

End of page 57.

Meanwhile at The Toledo…

Start of page 58:

is imminent. I reach out and grab the hand of the man sitting next to me and tell him I love him, I’m proud of him, and that I hope there are Nic Cage movie marathons in the afterlife.

Then the announcement comes that we’ve landed wherever we are and everything between me and the gentleman next to me feels odd and out of place all of a sudden.

So it goes. 🛬

Tabasco. Birth place of the current Mexican President, just south of La Louisiana, and in this section the student will remember that salsa 🌶️  has no correlation to merengues 🥐. This is your cue to ignore the CAUCES in translation.

As Promised… una de Mel Brookz.
— So, mister “Beck”, it says here that, « In the time of chimpanzees » you was a monkey. How do you explain, la Scientology, you son-of-a-bitch?

After the break, it’s a Closer Look.