Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs
Viscerals

For those without money, August is a blessing, because thanks to the holidays, the city finally empties, and walking through the scorching streets becomes pleasant not only because there are no cars, but especially because it’s the moment when the damned become a nation.

In the Year Without Concerts, where at most one can enjoy the acoustic projects of friends (but in August, no one seeks the acoustic), it becomes even more important to make the weeks as grimy as possible so that their stench expands into autumn, making the return to the daily grind more bearable.

If the damned push their sweaty butts into the Temple of Punk (I could even remove the “if,” because as soon as the situation is freed up, every good man throws on his cargo shorts and leaves the house: there’s only one direction), they will undoubtedly notice that between Fritz “Scuresa” Perlenbacher and the messianic Finkbräu, three succulent steampunk sisters have appeared, perfect handmaidens for the summer of the Man of the Plains.

The blonde IPA, truly resembling the end-of-night taste, with its sweet floral notes seems to ask that you gently wrap your arms around it during the green days, when the afternoon twists into a kebab that sets oily in a living room where, with utmost dignity and seriousness, savans sandìr, one watches some auteur films of the caliber of Tokyo Drift.

The red one, the most stereotypically purzella, easily gets wet, especially if it’s in a 35cm deep pool where the exhausted Man of the Plains rests his already rested limbs, stretching them in the luke-warm water. She’ll be happy to float among bellies immersed, but if someone can drive, she’ll enjoy it even more if we take her on a date to a pleasant and classy place, such as an abandoned quarry, swimming with us among the grass snakes.

But of course, it is the brunette stoutella who wins hearts, she is the one you take where it counts, like when you enter the abandoned rehearsal room (no one has yet discovered I’ve duplicated the keys), the winds of destruction are tuned, and you jam in the complete absence of air conditioning and any molecule of air that isn’t distilled armpit sweat of the most disgusting magnitude. We give a kiss to this dear girl and spray our parched insides before stomping in brotherhood to the fuzz and the turborat…