"italians" poems
It's unfortunate that Parisians
Are very hard to bear,
In terms of flash obsequiousity,
They drive me to despair!
And patience is an attribute
I don't profess to have
To mercifully administer
When accents veer to Slav.
Baltics look like jellyfish,
The Germans are obscene
And loud and overbearing
But the Swiss are very clean.
Italians are a swarthy lot
Who gourmandize on food
And sacrifice their suavity
By being impudently crude.
The Spanish are no better,
In fact they are probably worse,
For obsessing in the blood sports
I actually rate them in reverse.
Starchiness is British
They're convoluted to the core,
The Old Boy system's lost it's sheen
Aspirants flock to it no more.
The Yanks are looking slightly crass
Whilst fighting foreign wars,
Their pinky held up squeaky clean
To call "foul" to China's flaws.
China sits inscrutably
Holding all the cards
Waiting for the moment
To strike beneath the guards.
India and Pakistan
Are squabbling like kids
The uproar over Kashmir
Rates them lower than the Yids.
The Yids are walking tightropes
With Iran's nuclear ******
Whilst currying Yank approval,
Eventual bombing is a must.
The Dutch behave so anally
They're always proven right
When faced with rigid negatives
They blanch with haunches tight.
But not the Argentineans
They love to dance and flirt,
To chase the senorita
Cavorting in the scarlet skirt.
The South Pacific's wallowing
They're adrift from World affairs
Oz's self preoccupation
Mirrors Kiwi's vacant stares.
Africa's way past comment
Lost to heat and dust,
Warfare, **** and pillage
And the rest decayed by rust.
Eskimos are OK
Clean living on the ice
The population static,
Zer-O pollution's nice!
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
14 April 2009
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 12:08 AM UTC
The last one thinks of, yet the most
Important ‒ the blind use it to feel
Bumps in the pavement, and the
Deaf are tapped on the shoulder
To get their attention.
Because of texture and good company,
The absence of smell and taste don’t
Ruin a good meal.
As infants we survive by being
Touched ‒ love is given by both
Parents, whose skin is recognized
As the warmth it provides.
When we grow ‒ the pubescent years
And beyond ‒ girls still whisper, kiss
And touch each other as signs of
Affection.
Boys grow up touch-deprived ‒ what
Makes them different? ‒ Male fears
That men don’t touch because that’s
A sign of being queer? Likely.
Sure, guys touch ‒ slaps on the ****
Playing sports, the snapping of
Towels in the shower room ‒ nothing
Gay about that!
Or is this sudden lack of tactile affect
A sign of maleness? If so, we wouldn’t
Shake hands ‒ or high-five or hug our
Brothers and best friends.
Consider the massage ‒ visiting the
Parlor run by Asian ladies, which for
A 20-spot more brings a ******* ‒
But answer an ad for online service
From a guy, and NOPE, not me!
Not unless of course the wife
Doesn’t put out no more or is
Sick ‒ then any excuse works.
But, that doesn’t mean I’m….
No, dude, it doesn’t, but any
Port in a storm ‒ we all know
What sailors do when at sea for
Months, or do we?
Maybe it’s just American men
Who are hung up ‒ The French
And Italians don’t seem to be
Paranoid, and Russian men are
Said to kiss each other on the lips!
So, maybe our psyches could use
A tune-up ‒ a lesson from a wise
And happy soccer player/philosopher ‒
“If it feels good, and doesn’t hurt
Anybody, do it!”
© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC
Old Cowboys, forts and shootouts
Black for bad and White for good
With a spinning canvas background
And cactus cutouts made of wood
The desert sits behind them
Fifty yards away at most
The heroes don't ride horses
They sip drinks and sit and boast
About their celluloid adventures
singing songs all dressed in white
While behind them in the background
The stunt men do it right
A canvas background rotates
Through valleys, hills and streams
While the hero rides his deck chair
And the director yells and screams
Central casting fills the tribes out
With Italians, and made up stock
While our hero stops an avalanche
Of fake paper covered rocks
Cardboard Cut out Cactus
And heroes smiling in the sun
Most have never seen a cowpoke
Let alone shot off a gun
But, it's magic when it's finished
the dusters up there on the screen
All the fakery and snake oil
Are all hidden, never seen
The white hats beat the black hats
The hero sings and gets the girl
And the background on the spindle
Is still spinning, watch it whirl
A celluloid adventure
Cowboys no where close to what they were
But..watch the next show for a nickel
And don't forget your spurs!!!
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.
Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.
They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****
As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.
It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.
He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."
Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.
How can I tell how Don Magregor went?
Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.
The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.
There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.
"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.
Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.
2.8k
There were no blacks
In our part of town
No Asians, no Latinos
None of them around.
There were Italians,
They were treated well.
But anyone of color
Might run into hell.
Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Whenever movies showed
A crowd of good folk
They were all Caucasian
And this is not a joke.
I was raised on TV shows
Like Lassie and ******
And there were no blacks
Living near the Cleavers.
There was no understanding
Of life for any non-whites.
When I grew up I saw
That little I learned was right.
Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Whenever movies showed
A crowd of good folk
They were all Caucasian
And this is not a joke.
There were radio stations then
Where black music could not play.
They had to get around that
Some other sneaky way.
That’s how we got Elvis,
To fill that gaping lack.
He got his first opportunity
Because he sounded black.
Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Maybe it will change someday
When we all celebrate
The diversity of humanity.
Wouldn’t that be great?
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
My great-grandmother lived in a time when if you sang too loudly in a public place
Such as on the bus
With no audible music anyone else could hear
You were thrown away
Reported by the sanest of citizens
Locked away in the mental ward of Bellevue Asylum
By your own family
She was an alcoholic
Well, she was Italian
As was that whole part of my family
And Italians like wine
And she liked her wine
Maybe a little bit too much
My grandfather said that by six o'clock
Everyone in the house was screaming
Throwing things
Alcohol-tinged, infant-like fits
The lot of them
Drunk
Every night of the year
But my great-grandmother
She was the only one who carried her drink
In a little metal flask
Tucked in her ragged coat
Took it with her on the bus
On the way to work at a hotel
Where people with enough money
To boost the world's economy
Slept, ate and yelled at her
For forgetting to put a mint on their pillow once
But she just hummed away
Took the flack with a smile
Sipped her poison
And rode the bus back to work
The next day
Drunk
Singing
La Donna e' Mobile
One day though
Her brothers caught up to her
As she was boarding that bus
She was singing again
And smiled
Asked them what they were doing there
And they looked at her
Smiled
And smacked her
They threw her in their car
And took her to Bellvue
In 1947
When the idea of mental health
Was shrouded in ignorance
And scrutiny
And the word "medicine"
Meant electric-shocks to the brain
Submerging in below freezing
Ice-tanks
And
Fiddling around
In people's brains
Through their eye-sockets
With screwdrivers
"Lobotomies"
My grandfather was born in 1945
He was only two when they took his mother away
And only three
When they told him she died
Rotting in the asylum
Experiments done to her
That my family will never know the nature of
Never know how much pain
She ****** up
Never know if the cause of death
Was actually "cirrhosis of the liver"
Or
An officially administered
Botched
Brain-fuck
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC
Trinidad and Tobagonians
Haitians
Egyptians
Mexicans
English
Liechtensteins
Turkish
Italians
Norwegians
Germans
Portuguese
Omanians
Tromelin Islanders
Orcas Islanders
French
African-Americans
Maldives
Ecuadorians
Romanians
Ice Landers
Chinese
Argentinas
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
Be proud to be white.
Be proud to be black.
Be proud to be Latino.
Not to the point you called a racist.
That's not truly what proudness is about.
Be proud to be Italians, German, really any nationality.
Except not to the point of being called a bigot.
That defeats the purpose of what proud is about?
It's not about a flag waving to create a disturbance.
Or pump fist with bad intention even if you're claiming it represent being united.
Be proud to be, whatever?
As long as it's serving a principle in life.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
I'm trying not to get overly excited
I'm on just this side of freak
I've finally gotten the call I've been waiting for
The one that for years has eluded me
There aren't to many farmers out there
That take as much pride in what they grow
That's why Chef Boyardee selected me
To join their team on SpaghettiO's
I've been raising spaghetti for years
Spaghetti straight and long and lean
So I really see no problem
In SpaghettiO transitioning
From the natural growth of spaghetti
To the famed shape of the SpaghettiO
I just need to learn the secret
Of how to roll the perfect hole
As day one arrives in all it's glory
I head out into the fields
Stopping during the day only long enough
For a delicious Italian canned meal
Where I enjoy only the finest ingredients
Straight from the heart of this multicolored can
From the sweet little O's to the...What color is this sauce?! "Orange?!" "Red?!"
And isn't the taste a bit overly bland...
Oh well...
When the day of harvest arrives
I bring in the Italians cause everyone knows
For generations they have perfected
The delicate picking of SpaghettiO's
Who ever thought the growing of spaghetti
Would bring this farmer so much fame
I just received a call from a little known farming cult
Who'd like me to try my hand at the growing of Spam
After my successful go at SpaghettiO's
I'm pretty sure I'm just the man who can
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
Some people say it with ease. I hear it when people talk to, let's say, a child or a parent on phone after conversation—or in person. I wished it were that easy for me.
I am quite sure my parents did not hear it as children. That is why I never heard it growing up. My parents were not affection-less people, though. It was just that the words were foreign to them.
When my grandma was dying of heart disease in 1985—my mom's mom—my mom told her on the phone that she loved her. I think my grandmother said it first, and my mom echoed it. But it was such an unusual three-word saying that my mom choked up and got quite emotional. I think it was more the words spoken, than the realization that her mom would die, that tore my mom up.
Well, my grandmother probably never heard it from her parents. Her father was supposed to be a very compassionate man, but her mother was a funny one. Her dad kept my maternal grandparents afloat. They had thirteen children—my mom being the oldest— and he gave his daughter his old house when he moved out. My mom also remembers him coming over the house with vegetables from his garden to help feed her big family.
My grandma's mom, on the other hand, was unforgiving. Her mother died back in Alsace—in Germany— in an air attack back in World War I. From then on, she despised Italians--even her own Italian son-in-law and the children she would avoid. She remained angry at my grandma for marrying my grandpa—because it must have seemed a foolish move—and from then on my grandma didn't see much of her.
My dad didn't get to hear, "I love you", either, from his folks. I'd bet the farm on that. One of his female cousins had a tale about my grandmother's mom. The cousin's mother was the youngest surviving sibling that my grandmother had. This sister, the cousin's mother, had a friend who came from a very loving and demonstrative family. They said they loved each other all the time, so my great aunt said it to her mother one day. My great grandmother was told to have given her such a look—not saying it back—that this aunt never said it, again. So when her children probably wanted her to say it, saying it wasn't easy.
In 1998, when my brother died of suicide, I was having a hard time with it afterwards. My dad told me I was dwelling on too much. Probably not even a month later, that was news to me. I let him have it.
"You never even told me that you loved me!"
Well, for a while we said it to each other. It was weird, and it didn't last too long, but we said it. It is a shame I had to demand it, though.
Well, saying, "I love you" is still not easy. I say it, but it still doesn't seem natural. I'm all for it, because many people don't hear it enough. It is a foreign language that just needs to be learned.
After all, don't we all crave it? Don't we all need it? No, not the contrived stuff—but we all need to know that we matter and we deserve to be here.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
I fell short of matching all of the stars in space with the raindrops that made its way to Earth
Instead, I matched the stars in your eyes with the old pain's last breath and otherworldly love's first
The clouds have opened back up for business, booming thunder and zooming lightning
Somewhere there, the flash of your smile
The beat of your heart
The coolness of your waters that quench my thirst for you
It's natural to look at nature au naturale
Like Italians and Nigerians talking with hands as expressive as Deaf lovers relay romantic verses
Clear, nimble fingers that massage my soul within the cumulonimbus and nimbostratus
Fueling, flooding, fostering the gods' apparatus
You
The final form of unfinished paintings
Give birth to worthwhile wishful thinking
On my mind like taxes and teacher's lesson plans
A soft brush adjusting to the sky's new hues kissed like ones we've missed or knew
A masterpiece in pieces of Vishnu's vision for when he returns to look for Lakshmi
Hopefully time will not be Shiva to end this for me
How does it feel to be adored by Indra, when showers descend and drench the deepest ditches to force creation of drawbridges for those dire to cross your path again?
- Ifeanyi N. Okoro II © 2021
Jul 6, 2021
Jul 6, 2021 at 5:00 AM UTC
The Italians dreamed of glory
Italian tacticians made many mistakes
The british surprised them on Dec. 9
British armor raced along the Libyan coast
Coastal towns had been turned into fortresses
They proved to be no match for the
Highly mobile British forces
One after another the towns fell to the British
The Italian army was trapped
By 1941 the British occupied the eastern half of Libya
Feb 12, 1941
Rommel took control of the Africa Corps
2 armored divisions
8000 men and 135 tanks
Plus the light infantry division
On April 1, the Germans
Mark III and Mark IV tanks
Outranged the British
The British were pushed back into Egypt
However one division remained in Tobruk
The infamous and stubborn rats of Tobruk
Tobruk held on at first
Barely enough food and water to stay alive
Tobruk was needed by the Germans
For their supply chain
Rommel said he would finish Tobruk for good
It fell on June 1 1942
Montgomery took control at El Alamein
Lend lease supplies came in
Axis shipping was badly damaged
By Allied air strikes
Oct 23, 1942
The British forces moved to the assembly areas
The First Battle of El Alamein began
The British halted the Axis forces from
Advancing into Egypt
Oct. 24, 1942
A vast troop convoy
Set sail from American ports
The next day, two convoys left Britain
El Alamein was the first great offensive
It coincided with the Battle of Stalingrad
And the Battle of Guadalcanal
The narrator said,
"El Alamein had been the end of the beginning.
For the Axis powers
It was now the beginning of the end."
Churchill said,
"It may almost be said, 'Before Alamein we never had a victory.
After Alemein we never had a defeat.'
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
I don’t remember my life in London
anymore
Barcelona -
tagliata da flussi di suoni come boulevard*
Stella is gone away on acid.
I trust her, what else?
Nat is Polish
but I thought she’d be Spanish
And Richard.
Young - and a monkey.
Deepty will marry an Indian engineer.
Wide hips, same problems.
******* Italians in El Born
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC
From marble and granite to steel and glass,
we were discussing Rhina Espaillat’s On the Avenue in class,
was it 1950s or 1980s NYC and were the fifties
the city’s halcyon days or is it now, the 2020s,
the boroughs teeming with immigrants
from the round earth’s imagined corners,
Hasidim and Muslim, Haitian and Russian, as we
Italians and Irish in an earlier era were. Everything will
be ok or not, the recombinations which make
prediction and intuition fortunately hopeless
and each individual an experiment gone well or wrong.
On the avenue God speaks by spewing
toy and clothing stores, breakdancers and ice skaters,
the Brooklyn Navy Yard seen from the Brooklyn Bridge,
the skyline admired when my car broke down on the Triborough Bridge.
The numbers of us overwhelm, there exist powers
overwhelming for the human body and mind.
I don’t mind but I can’t make sense of it.
Gandhi said What you do may not seem important
but it is very important that you do it. By that what is meant?
Linda complained Why does God always have to be a man?
I replied He could be a she but She’s probably really
a Tyrannosaurus rex. I like to be in America!
Oct 26, 2021
Oct 26, 2021 at 7:21 AM UTC
Maybe I need to remember that when you make my back arch and I moan, does not mean you want to set up home.
And just because I make you hard and you want more, does not mean I'm going to link you at your yard.
Let's get this in perspective cause maybe just maybe our wires are getting crossed.
This is getting a bit hazy and I'm getting a bit lost.
If you want to **** me, then tell me how it is, cause I can't be believing it's more and thinking "oh I'll be his".
Don't you dare kiss and cuddle me in your bed, when all you wanna do is give me the D and get some good head.
See for women kissing is a passion, a representation of feeling.
So when you kiss me that's when I start believing.
Now *** is more animalistic and when you pull my hair and slap me, I can start to be a bit more realistic.
I can start to see this is all you need and when I'm gone there is more women you want to breed.
But that's fine just don't text me with "hey babe how is your day?" and "I was just wondering if you wanted to stay?".
Cause that's when miscommunication starts to appear and those feelings arise like I was beginning to fear.
I'm beginning to believe that *** is passion, that's why italians are so good at it just like their fashion.
And I can't put up with this meaningless *** I want love and friendship like I had with my ex.
So this is goodbye to you all, now there is no *** let's see if you call.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
Come.
Come to one of the greatest country on earth.
Italians came.
English came.
Irish came.
Africans came.
Spanish came.
Hispanics came.
Japaneses and Chinese and host of others came
We an open invitation to others to come.
Immigrates, we all are.
History has pointed out that certain power sectors complains.
Mainly because they can't continue on with their selfish ways.
Certain percentages was started by this group.
Way back in in the decades.
We accept them doing times of wars.
To join our forces and fight our wars.
That's life.
We seen the worst of America, at certain times.
Segregation, is a great case that comes to mind.
We place Asians groups within concentration camps.
And they was legal Americans.
No one group made this country great.
All races has something they know they contributed.
Some of our best scientists came from all races.
Some we read about within the papers.
And it was because of immigration.
As long as their live and dreams.
Let that soul seek America's to achieve those dreams.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
i sometimes watch a cooking show and feed myself, finding old italians very funny with everything simple being a milanese delicacy, ambrosia of a doubly baked bread, sprinkled with water, a juicy tomato and some olive oil... mmm, yeah, am bro sia... where’s the salt? if this is ambrosia please give me a haggis in a bagpipe. by the way... the best sarcasm is found in a hangover.
i still don’t know how a cat managed
to knock on my bedroom door
while slayer’s seasons in the abyss
stopped me munching on violins and cellos:
i got paranoid being the only person in the house
with that eerie sound of knock knock...
but i guess greeting him in the morning
with a head-butt utilised his head for the ‘being human’
initiation... only yesterday he managed to open
the door to the kitchen using the handle -
and like any man with his middle finger outstretched
in defiance... he did the same, but with a thumb.
p.s. poetry and collage have a lot in common,
as does poetry and music, i still don't know
why philosophy started the fight, poetry has
nothing in common with philosophy to be
even remotely related for a boxing match,
it's poetry as music and collage, the classical stances
of philosophy are becoming more and more obsolete;
i guess someone had to point that out and side
with plato rather than socrates, but i have to add
one blatant innovation i'm working on,
no not the plagiarism of tristan tzara by william burroughs
of the famed 'cut up' method of writing poetry,
i'm talking Bach, yes, BACH, polyphony, multilayering,
spontaneity, and everything that tzara attempted
picking out bingo ball snippets of newspaper
articles from a bag like some ****** doing the same,
writing a abduction-ransom letter to a rich girl's family
enigmatically... also enclosing a portrait of the girl
done with crude pointillism in cartoon shock colours
with a signature that ræd: antoinette warhol -
yep, and some people will be famous for 15minutes in
a repetitive loop.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
I am from a Saturday afternoon living room overflowing with the sounds of Fleetwood Mac, John Lennon and Bob Dylan.
I am from home cooked meals, roaring laughter at the dinner table and short tempered Italians.
I am from Frank Sinatra singalongs, Lifetime movies and swimming lessons from my Mimi.
I am from my Pop’s war stories, tomato picking and ***** jokes.
I am from the grandparents that didn’t want my dad and the grandparents that did.
I am from the stoic grandmother that wasn’t involved in my mom’s life and the deadbeat grandad that didn’t seem to exist.
I am from the ten years of Catholic school, plaid skirts and polo shirts.
I am from spoon-fed customs of Catholicism every day except (coincidentally) Sunday mornings.
I am from rose scented mornings because of regretted whiskey words from the night before.
I am from words muttered impulsively, apologizes not offered graciously and too many family nights turned into family fights.
I am from cigarette infused hugs, plastered smiles and “I’ll quit tomorrow”.
I am from twenty-six years of handholding, couch cuddling and kitchen dancing.
I am from goodnight kisses, chocolate chip cookies in my lunch and red heart emoji’s in a text.
I am from love and anger and happiness and remorse.
I am from memories in the making and a future unknown.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
We know of black racists?
We aware of white racists?
And the opinions of both even if lost in myth and facts.
We know of Italians with bigoted views.
But for whatever logic?
Many are afraid to address the Jews.
And yes, some of them are racist too.
It's more than black and white issues in society.
We know of churches that preach love.
And racist in the tone of many within the church.
Which why many have lost some great leaders of the flock.
You can't preach love for one another.
When you surrounded by a racist flock.
Life, meant to learn, live and adapt.
God doesn't need to intervene between us to love.
Just reading the trouble faced by the Almighty Jesus.
He faces more and more harshly.
So racism more than between to groups.
We see this daily as living proof.
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 5:39 PM UTC
She says, "tell me more about you handsome"
I tell her I am Johnnie Alvarado, I am soul searching
She says, "No, tell me what makes you different from the rest"
I tell her I am expressive as the Italians,
I am passionate as the French,
I speak as **** as the Spaniards,
I am artistic like the late Pablo Picasso,
I play with words like captain J Cole,
I am as adventurous like "Captain Jack Sparrow"
I am handsome as the African men, but a rare gem
I am like Naruto Uzumaki I never give up
I am an African and I pride myself in that
I tell her I have a will of fire and that i am a museum full of untold tales waiting to be told.
She can't help but but say "You've touched me without touching me"
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 11:29 AM UTC
~
*Romantics find her flawless
and the mystics find her wise.
The ancients found "The Huntress"
in her sharp and searching eyes.
Italians say "bela luna"
when they look at her and sigh.
The cavemen painted pictures
as they wondered at the sky.
The moon has many faces
and her light's a work of art...
And to the simple poet...
she is tonic for the heart.*
~
Sep 15, 2020
Sep 15, 2020 at 8:13 AM UTC
Q: Doctor, I've heard that cardiovascular exercise can prolong life. Is this true?
A: Heart only good for so many beats, and that it... Don't waste on exercise. Everything wear out eventually. Speeding up heart not make you live longer; it like saying you extend life of car by driving faster. Want to live longer? Take nap.
Q: Should I reduce my alcohol intake? ...
A: Oh no. Wine made from fruit. Fruit very good. Brandy distilled wine, that mean they take water out of fruity bit so you get even more of goodness that way. Beer also made of grain. Grain good too. Bottom up!
Q: What are some of the advantages of participating in a regular exercise program?
A: Can't think of one, sorry. My philosophy: No pain...good!
Q: Aren't fried foods bad for you?
A: YOU NOT LISTENING! Food fried in vegetable oil. How getting more vegetable be bad?
Q: Is chocolate bad for me?
A: You crazy?!? HEL-LO-O!! Cocoa bean! Another vegetable! It best feel-good food around!
Q: Is swimming good for your figure?
A: If swimming good for figure, explain whale to me.
Q: Is getting in shape important for my lifestyle?
A: Hey! 'Round' is shape!
Well... I hope this has cleared up any misconceptions you may have had about food and diets.
And remember:
Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways - Chardonnay in one hand - chocolate in the other - body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO-HOO, what a ride!!"
AND......
For those of you who watch what you eat, here's the final word on nutrition and health. It's a relief to know the truth after all those conflicting nutritional studies.
1. The Japanese eat very little fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than Brits.
2. The Mexicans eat a lot of fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than Brits.
3. The Chinese drink very little red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than Brits.
4. The Italians drink a lot of red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than Brits.
5. The Germans drink a lot of beer and eat lots of sausages and fats and suffer fewer heart attacks than Brits.
CONCLUSION: Eat and drink what you like. Speaking English is apparently what kills you.
Concocted (for a sort of reconciliation) ...for our weekly fatty club weigh in.
Ha!
M.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 4:54 PM UTC
Unfold the map of the world and trace
a kaleidoscopic boot-shaped country
rising from the waters lavished by Atlantic
in a multicultural basin at the heart
of a flat globe. The Mediterranean birthed
by the Zanclean deluge, witness of myriad
exoduses intertwining genes to encompass
peninsular cradles of early civilisations,
a medley of ethnicities trading goods
discoveries and ideas on sailing caravels.
Two thousand years later the remnants of
the Roman Empire vote, the democracy
they had co-founded two thousand years
before, on philosophies of justice, equality
and human rights. Power to the people,
lost in the process of history making,
populaces disillusioned and frustrated
at millenary successions of failed rulings
corroborated by corruption and personal
greed of those chosen to represent them.
Today Italians vote anti-establishment
thereby at long last rejecting ideologies
of the past, too old to bare credibility
electing a party set outside the box,
no left right nor centre, victory of populism,
communism and capitalism burned
at stake for their crippling sins albeit
international cold-war renaissance attempts.
Marking the end of the twentieth century
the twenty-first bets on the refreshing breezes
of new tantalising illusions, cuts to public debt,
income of citizenship, youth employment,
tax reductions campaigned to allegedly increase
family spending, for whatever we do we are
all bound by a unique reigning doctrine under
the unified global empire, of consumerism.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 11:15 AM UTC
Do not let growing up in the streets define you as a person?
You are older now and don’t need to talk the street talk and slangs.
Educate yourself to what you can be, not what you was.
I do not want to be defined as a street **** or a ghetto rat
But as a person who has learned to talk properly and has
Left the streets to the streets.
Because I do not have a college degree does not mean
That I am an illiterate; it just means that I did not pursue my education.
No one has to be defined as low class, trash, or ignorant.
Because you are born in the hills does not make you a hillbilly!
Or born in the swamplands does not make you a swamp rat!
Titles have always been given to every ethnic group, such as
The Hispanics was spicks, the Irish – miks , the Italians as wops
Or guinies and the blacks as ******* and so on down the line.
If you are one who likes to use titles on others, then there is
Only one title that you can use.
“HUMAN BEINGS” which classifies everyone.
I want you to stand proud, because you are a HUMAN BEING
Made by GOD, and he doesn’t make garbage.
Learn your own self-respect and others will respect you! DON’T BE DEFINED!
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
Our corner graveyard
Looks so inviting,
The lawns are cut,
There's solar lighting.
A wrought-iron gate
Is freshly painted,
Shade trees shelter
Graves of the innocent.
The Italians built a mausoleum,
Where pictures of their deceased greet them,
Looking full of vim and joy
At having pictures taken.
Beneath the temples, in the crypts,
Celtic crosses and brass plaques,
Olympians and outcasts,
All professions, our world's best,
Lie wasting just like us,
In their oak, brass-handled coffins.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 9:20 AM UTC