Zio Pino

I navigate these lands to psychologically torment other people’s reviews. Essentially unpleasant. Neckless, and as mean as the Devil. I feast on spite, rancor, and bile. I hate the round world, cordially reciprocated by it. If there’s one thing that annoys you, rest assured: I like it. Or, I created it. I am self-atheist: in the sense that I don’t believe in myself. I am well-endowed, but too shy: my erection arrives by mail about a month after our meeting. By special delivery, though. I put my fingers in my nose: unfortunately, almost always it’s not mine. I roughly know how to use running water: well, let’s say those lines are definitely rough. I smash cats against walls, for pure pleasure: at least, I wish I did that with ones already dead. It would be a small step for man. But immense for humanity. I sing at the top of my lungs in the bathroom late at night, disregarding the horrible gurgling coming from the tube applied to my tracheotomized throat. When I kiss, the kissed one wishes to die. Some kind of horrible death. To then be forgotten. By everyone. I am so dishonest and bastard that I forge restaurant tickets for myself, manage to forget them, and so make a huge fool of myself at supermarket checkouts. I’m also a bit ugly. A bit. In short. Elsa Fornero would have offered me a pension at 18, just not to give it to me. For example. And we’re talking about Fornero, who isn’t all that great. I am the only one who has been awarded two Nobel prizes. Never collected, though. They told me to go to the Swedish embassy. I showed up at Ikea. Serious thing: even the second time. Then, I can’t think of anything else. IN SHORT: a guy to contact, meet, and then hang out with, without a doubt. If your name is Von Sacher-Masoch.