Jennifer Tilly Gina Scene

VOLTA: NAKED PILGRIMS

Perhaps the lack of hygiene, speculation or the precariousness of the services offered around, San Giovanni Rotondo in southern Italy has ceased to be the preferred destination for Italian whores. Not that I have left alone and poor parishioners to Padre Pio, the saint of the wounded hands, stigmatized, born in Pietrelcina. Not at all. No. I still have the look, sings his miracles, prayer card and try retains its floral scent that perpetuate the apparent corpse. But surely have more than thirty years. The rest, all the others that were less than ten years when the fall of the Berlin Wall, have turned their gaze northward. To no avail South and the saints. Sicilian Lucani, Naples, Apulia, Calabria. These saints and miracles and turn them not worth even half of a candle. Now, go to Rome, Milan or maybe to Sardinia. That's what makes sense at this time, the beautiful, the trend. This is not a saint again. It is old, born just a year after the death of Gardel. War II lived and drank condensed milk from the American aircraft launched in huge packages. Might be insane. Parkinson's, Alzheimer's or vascular, why not? But like miracles. So the young sluts collapse roads and trains in Italy in an effort to reach the goal. Station Rome Termini is a Putiferio now. The screaming is deafening and there is nothing particularly as it always has been. The only thing really different is that the toilets smell has changed. If you have always casually smelled like shit, now smell perfumes of all kinds, cheap and expensive, good and bad, tasteful or devoid of it. This blend is what has always been known as a smell of whores. They smell like a whore, then. Termini lavatories smell whore. And the Central Station of Milan as well. The young pilgrims are changing the aerial view of Italy. From the sky look like a line that seamlessly connects all cities and towns to Rome and from there goes to Milan and Sardinia. These lines are nothing but a whore after another. If we enlarge the target would look like dots of different colors. Are your hair. Dominated by dark, but there are blondes and redheads. Points are coming even from Africa. They are also young pilgrims. Converts. But especially the young. All under thirty and most less than twenty. Those who are seventeen known their advantage. Will be a favorite of the saint. Reach all around, trample a strip club where while a little-known promise them something, will fall into the clutches of a consigliere to take your cell phone number in memory, listen a thousand times the promise to bring them into contact with him. Feel they are about to touch his clothes, to bite into his pants. But only those who are seventeen years, no matter where they come from, who you have slept the night before, if they have washed or not, whether drugs by nasal or just the smoke, will be chosen by a satirical newspaper. Don Emilio knows the tastes of the saint, known for its exact dimensions, has felt its capacity. He is the controller of this caravan infinite. He decides who deserves to go and who, regrettably, perhaps you should stay or return. In his office, before news of the eight, two dances a given faces, go to the house of the saint and climb into a magic box or staying at home watching it forever, criticizing, sputtanando with grandmothers who have always voted as Forza Italia those long legs, these cleavages infinite. If Don Emilio
allows some may pass. Twenty or twenty-five per night, maybe by the weekend. Among them, best chant the anthem of the party, which are more hookers but can pretend not to know very much that tolerate the company of young ministers in tits withered because of jealousy, they can get in the pool and then , prostrate before the holy, to introduce a Viagra pill in his mouth and then let journalists enter while friends, a singer and the other whores crying "Bravo, bravo." From that moment his life changed because the miracle will be granted. Depending on your mood may participate in Big Brother or later be designers, deputies, ministers or just famous. That depends on them. The saint is always willing to help, to reach out to and change their lives and fill in the leggy senile Italy. But even if everything goes wrong, if they had to return to the village and the truck ran over there and then in the hospital rats eat them, never, never be forgotten that at the time of parting, she kissed the holy and not at all discreetly handed them an envelope with five thousand euros and a card gold letters: "When you grow old, vote Berlusconi."