Newsgroup: it.politica
Titolo: L'intervista del Times

Noemi al Times: Berlusconi non e' mio papa?
Che altre avrebbe potuto dire ?  
Io comunque resto fra quanti, pensano e si augurano, che per davvero 
lo sia. 
Ciao
Luigino Ferrari
luf...@tin.it

 
luf...@tin.it
-- 
EU�

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I fatti hanno dimostrato ampiamente che Berlusconi � uno sporco pedofilo, e
l'aggravante � che ha intavolato una sceneggiata a Porta a Porta con il
tentativo di infinocchiare moglie e soprattutto popolo. Tutto il personale
del ristorante ha detto che la visita di Berlusconi era prevista e la
security era arrivata con un giorno di anticipo, mentre Berlusconi a Porta a
Porta ha parlato di un improvvisata dovuta a problemi metereologiche...poi
se ti vuoi bere anche questa, libero di farlo...
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Inviato via 
http://arianna.libero.it/usenet/


Ulteriori prove che avvalorano la tesi che questa non puo' essere che
sua figlia. In difetto, come  si spiega che la conosceva  sin da
bimbina ? E che se l'e allevata per .........
Ciao
Luigino Ferrari
luf...@tin.it


   E per quantro riguarda il TIMES � bene leggere TUTTO, ci prendono per il
culo come un popolo di cialtroni!!!
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My Week: Veronica Lario Berlusconi*
Veronica Lario Berlusconi
Hugo Rifkind
Lunedi.
 It is important, as the wife of a world leader, to remain contained. Even
when that world leader is very small, and un IDIOTA.
�Ciao bella!� says my husband, who has called from his boat. �Ha! So what do
you think of the new gardener? Una bella fica, eh?�
I look out of the window. The new gardener is showering under one of the
sprinklers. She runs her hands over her black bikini and pouts at me.
�How is she with aphids?� I say, mildly.
Excellent, says Silvio. So good that he�s thinking of making her Minister of
Agriculture. Although not until she�s older and can vote.
�But listen!� he continues. �More importantly! Has she seen my statue?� I
grimace.
�The new statue?� I say. �The one of Michelangelo�s David, but with his face
chiselled off and your face chiselled on?�
�Si!� smirks Silvio,
�Ha! Just tell her it isn�t accurate from the waist down, eh?�
 �Isn�t it?� I say, and I slam the phone down. TESTA DI MERDA! Damn.
Martedi.
 This morning, I learn that my husband has attended the birthday party of an
18-year-old actress. And worse, it turns out that I am expected to judge a
wet T-shirt competition between his gardener, his chauffeur and his Finance
Minister. No wife should stand for this! Normally I would merely write a
letter of protest to the newspapers. No longer. Ya BASTA! I call him and
declare that I want a divorce.
�I warn you,� says Silvio. �I have a very attractive lawyer.
� I don�t care, I tell him. And nor will the judge.
�Seriously,� says Silvio.
�Great ass.� I sigh. He belches.
�What�s your problem,� he says after a while, �anyway?�
Mercoledi.
 Now the bishops are criticising his behaviour. There is a front page calling
for �sobriety� in their official newspaper. Grande sorpresa! A few years ago
we had a very important Cardinal for tea. Silvio came home late, approached
him from behind, grabbed him on the backside and told him that all the best
tarts wore red.
We had an argument about it later. I was very angry. Silvio was very
defensive.
�She was the ugliest bitch I ever saw!� he said. �I was only trying to break
the ice.�
Giovedi.
 He calls from his sunbed. He says he wants more people to like him so he�s
trying to look more like Barack Obama.
�Nice,� I say.
�Amore!� sighs Silvio. �Sweetheart! My leetle stella di pornografia! This is
all so silly. My hot lawyer? She says we should patch things up. Me, I
agree. You have been led astray! Would I be involved with a minor? Never!
Not even a really sexy minor who was begging for it! You have been led
astray by the left-wing media. And why? For they are jealous! For the women
of the Left are disgusting!� Have I, he asks, never seen women in the
Cabinet of Gordon Brown? They all look like melting snowmen. �You, my
darling,� he adds, �could never be of the Left. Even now, in your mature
years, you could at worst be a Social Democrat!�
I hang up on him. He calls back to ask whether his lawyer can come and see
the statue. I hang up on him again.
Venerdi.
The new gardener is mashing up a flowerbed with a huge fork. Hair is
everywhere, mascara is running down her cheeks and her bikini is streaked
with mud.
�Arresto!� I shout. �What are you doing?�
The gardener turns to me, crying. He promised she could be an EU
Commissioner, she says. Or at least an MEP. Even Minister for Agriculture
would have done. But now he�s changed his mind.
She wants to know where the aphids are. He always asked about them. So now
she�s going to douse them in weedkiller.
�Aphids aren�t flowers,� I tell her. Then I tell her that, if she really
wants to upset him, she should smash up his stupid statue.
�He wanted you to know that it wasn�t accurate from the waist down,� I say.
�The brute.� The gardener goes storming off across the lawn. Later, she
comes back, brandishing a chisel.
�It is now,� she says.
*According to Hugo Rifkind
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