There are many deaths that I desire, not just those of Fidel and Raul Castro for kidnapping the freedom of Cubans over half a century and humiliate and enslave them. A Fidel would like to see him die sitting on the toilet, straining in vain because intestines have mutinied. Raúl I would like to see him die drunk, throwing up in a park, confessing that it was all a fraud to seize power and drinking good vodka and Mercedes ride.
Al Ortega scoundrel like to see me die of old age, bald, toothless, sentenced to life imprisonment in a dungeon Managua smelly breath as his perfidy, side by side German bastard, tremendous pillarajo and highwayman. And the heartless from his wife, who says he is a poet, I like to see it burning at the stake by conceal sexual abuse and agree that Ortega made his daughter. A Evo I would not like to see him die, because there is something in me that I inspired him tenderly. But I would to withdraw from politics and dedicated to playing football, which is what you lost and done for some dubious talent, especially to four thousand feet and chewing coca.
A Correa also like to see me die, or not yet, it is young and frustrated actor, I'd like is to stay silent or, better still, deaf and dumb, so let's say, that unbearably plaintive is the own, many trifles and nonsense. A Piedad Córdoba
I wish they had kidnapped and tied to a tree at least six years and forced to eat rice and beans on the same plate where once had a bowel movement so you know what he suffered when he was Ingrid Betancourt hostage to the angels that she argues with almost vaginal burning. Uribe
I wish it were immortal, however noble, gallant and brave. Ms. Bachelet may not immortal, but they live a hundred years and spend a weekend with multiorgasmic hot and Arjona, which is what he deserves for being a good woman, simple and humble.
Cristina Kirchner and her husband does not like to see me dead, I would like is to suffer a little reasonable. Cristina, as Chavez when he needs money, and as capitalistic as you need bags and shoes, I would hate to dress in all of Colorado, as a good revolutionary sold to Chavez, with guayabera and pants without any makeup, not hairdressers or stylists, without those vampire eyes repainted faded, all in red and raw, right out of the shower. And your husband I'd like to see more cross-eyed, squint-eyed and lost much, looking to one side with an eye to the opposite side to the other, so that no one knows, neither he nor his wife, who is watching. Alan García
I would not want him dead, but that, by law, submit to diet, to stop swallowing the obscenely in a starving country, jogging six miles every morning followed by cameras and then bathe at sea bathing suit brief display before the cameras that womb huge and growing, evening parties and revelry fact that taxpayers pay the poor Peruvians.
A Chávez would love to see him die, but not by a sniper shot or poisoned by a conspirator or a fight for power, but so accurate: it is speaking on TV in your program and suddenly infinite pause between each bluster and rant and swallow a good chunk of cachapa and try to keep talking but can not, and then choking, fits the whole cachapa with corn and cheese in the crop imperial and stay silent for a glutton and start cough, seizures and arcades, and that before dying a vomit-colored throw oil on the cameras and their sycophants and apandillados and his face buried on Bolivar finished black and sticky puddle of his vomit, stiff and silent finally, finally met with Bolívar, whose soul has withered disgusted by the foul-mouthed baboon.
But obviously I will not be given the privilege to attend these deaths as desired and unlikely because at the moment I am determined to lead my own, taking pills, which is like the knights die, sedated and in bed . Jaime Bayly
0 comments:
Post a Comment