I hope it's clear, at least here, that my (l)ego has nothing to do with it: it's just a building block without significance.

I've done many jobs in my life, from welder to comic book artist, from musician to graphic designer (my current "occupation"), from a representative of bovine, equine & porcine meat to Proto Proofreader - a term that will make anyone familiar with printing feel a lump in their throat - without ever excelling in any of them, but always with honest Furlana dignity.

But - and here we come to the piece I'm trying to post - I must admit that as a Talent Scout I would have been UNBEATABLE!

Everyone insulted me because I loved this piece, written by this then-underage Romagnola with strong thighs and a willful nose who, finally, talked about a Marco less unfortunate than usual: no longer "Marco! But how much do you cost me" or "Marco big shoes and little meat" or - the one that hurt me the most - the parody of my namesake apostle made by Dario Fo in his "Mistero Buffo."

"Look, this one has something different from the usual girls at the first dampening of their panties," I said.
But no.
They didn't understand my prescient genius.

Years later, after she became what she is (was), obviously none of them remembered that I had said it.

To us qvltori of the qvltura Poppe, they only understand us after we’re dead.