Mr_Iko

ha hah ha! Last night I was having dinner with my Father and the Holy Spirit, we were talking about you, about that mistake when the Father accidentally snapped His fingers and blew the electricity just to see what His creatures would come up with... Then, you see what happens? Your parents, tired and weary, brought you into this world, a bit out of boredom, a bit out of desperation. 'Who cares?' I say! In my opinion, it would have been better if the Father had made you in your entirety, not just in your brain, in the form of a super hard and tough artificial conglomerate obtained by mixing sand, gravel, and cement or hydraulic lime with water...

I remember that time you called me an asshole... I replied that YOU HAVE an asshole!

And then, stop boasting about that time you made love for an hour and ten straight! We all know it was right on the edge of daylight saving time!

Because, you see dear Francis, if you have one testicle you're unlucky, if you have two you're normal, if you have three you're a phenomenon, but if you have four, like in your case, it means you're getting screwed! Come on, I'm joking, I promise not to call you a dickhead anymore, but in return can you stop being a dickhead?

Francis, it’s been a long time since I last made fun of you, and today, damn, today... my fingers typed this link on their own, driven by the irresistible repressed desire to send you again and again to have a baby with Mr. Siffredi.

I am in favor of abortion up to three months after the birth of the child. This doesn’t exactly qualify me to moralize at Francis, who is biologically older but whose mental age is close to zero. A few tips, dear Francis: 1.) Soon the priest will be going from house to house for the Christmas blessings. It’s not polite to put just a discount voucher for Bertolli oil in the offering envelope. 2.) Every good citizen should keep a bookshelf in the bathroom. You should do this. Also include your quote book: it makes you look intellectual, helps pass the time during difficult moments, and serves as a last resort in case you run out of toilet paper (your book, not Joyce or Wilde). 3.) The smell of your oropharyngeal cable will not help you in your dream of becoming the new Casanova. 4.) A penis, to be defined as normal, must measure at least 8 centimeters, the doctors say. However, unless you are having sex with doctors, only over 15 centimeters does your sexual organ stop causing hilarity. You, with a penis less than 8 centimeters, are severely handicapped, but don’t despair! It seems that only below 5 does your woman not reach (it’s really the right phrase to use) orgasm. And anyway, I can give you the name of a great circus. 5.) Masturbation will not make you blind, I swear. But it’s time you learn not to aim your penis at your face.

I would like it to be like this, that at the end of my life, when meeting the Almighty, he would look at me slightly frowning but not really angry, stern but just, and say to me, patiently sighing:
God: “What are we going to do, Berselli? I should send you to burn in hell, you know? You insulted my son, Francis!”
Maiko: “Yes. I admit I made a mistake, but what can I do? It would be ridiculous for me to cry and beg for forgiveness. You win.”
God (thoughtful): “Alright... this time I'll turn a blind eye.”
Maiko: “This time?”
God: “Yes. The tests are three: to live as a man, to live as a woman, and to live as an ashtray in a hotel.”
Maiko: “That wasn't in the Bible.”
God: “Uh, what? The Bible? That’s not our stuff; you wrote that on your own.”
Maiko (surprised): “So you’re telling me we don’t have to honor our father and mother?”
God: “Ah ah. Nice.”
Maiko: “...”
God: “But no. I turned my mother into an inkwell.”
Maiko: “And your father?”
God: “You’re sitting on him right now.”
Maiko (stroking the armrests of the armchair): “Cool!”..... PS: FREE ADAPTATION OF A PAGE FROM A BLOG.

I like to think of you at the moment when you write... I envision you in self-indulgence, already feeling that characteristic tingle in your fingertips, the tingle typical of the aspiring writer who laughs even before writing the lines, who answers readers' questions before they are asked and before there are people to ask them.

Dear Francis, I repeat what I wrote to you somewhere else. In my opinion, when you were born, the first thing you saw was a priest: immediate imprinting and transcendental vocation. I suggest you abandon your transitional object (a fluorescent baby Jesus) and attend a kindergarten. I don't really know if you've become aware of the functions of your penis or not, but I advise you not to squeeze it with such fervor: we know it brings you so much pleasure, but you risk finding yourself without a member at your tender age (23? 24?). However, I notice that your reviews are becoming a regular appointment for a few followers, destined to replace the Catholic Mass or the Sunday match. Congratulations!

I'm sorry Dear FRANCIS, it's not the review that's bad, it's you who are ugly! I just can't change my perception of you: you're a human herbicide! Look, you don't write badly (although I suggest alternative readings to the Kamasutra, which you flaunt as your daily reading. How about, Mickey Mouse, the Bible, the Quindici...). The problem is YOU, just YOU. I'm convinced that you've learned not to ejaculate in your face after getting in touch with your foreskin for the first few years of your tender life. Now that you have the awareness of the scrotum and are beginning to understand the cruel irony that permeates all human life, I ask you to learn to walk upright, putting an end to dragging yourself on all fours. And remember that your record in Bubble Bobble, which persists in an old bar in Desenzano sul Garda, is not something to brag about.