V his is a small text that could be satisfied with the closeness for public comment, without the arrogance of the author who found it should perhaps be to feature on the front page.
Otherwise, he would have thrown his wild oats, as they say in Charentes, in the text of Stephen " One Saturday afternoon "
Cher Stephane, I will first confirms your statistics.
And all that, still, it makes me want to puke his guts and his guts .... Smudge vomit stinking shoes all mutt who, in the frenzy of their vile stupidity, is are murderers.
It is not so Drucker revolts me that his admirers. Him, he is miserable in his role as jester. The others are in their role of slaves brainwashed, morons legionary serving in the killing of ideas, and it is this role that we have to suffer much more than the headliner.
It is not so much that I hate that Sarkozy's 53 percent bastards who gave him the microphone!
And, you know, to return to literature and books, I'm not sure Houellebecq would have done less than Drucker.
I see very well the Prix Goncourt, despite the value of the text which is not provided a masterpiece, far from it, to stand in line at the center Leclerc ...
Besides, he told himself, Houellebecq: "People no longer interested in literature, so there must be a price to make them read ..."
a loss leader, what ... No matter what the packaging and bottle!
For that alone, I wanted him to stick his map and its territory far into her ass, me!
It's like a hooker said: most people do not kiss, then I must show them my pussy to make them bend a little.
Literature, if she dies, she dies on an altar where you saw people trampled brandishing the knife while other, more sordid still manipulate the arm.
While you all, fellow Non Non!
Bertrand
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