Postier, how often do ahead and count- I, me and the whole of France, given my fragile confidence. And how often did you trust this humiliated with impunity? Your absolute dominion leaving us with little choice than the child who does not choose his father, I must love, or is death. I must love you, whether you are a model for high Dolto, corked or vermin, or the rabble to post. The father is the thread that connects the child to life and existence is made. The concern is that, born on the boards of your floor rotted, France, and myself have not had the chance of offspring extracting simple but loving, reliable and hardworking. No, we fell under the purview of the paternity negligent bodies eaten by pepper, deaf and blind to anything other than claims of its less effort.
Because yes, postman, you are the worst race of wankers nodes. Red throat, red face and red ass, you know not pull that side, trying to escape your mission simplistic, yet not without nobility delivered. Mission to which you are infoutu fill because there 's stairs. Or a key to turn. Or a button on which to base too. Then you will leave your calling card, your manifest uselessness and incompetence tone: pattern of nondelivery "is coded", but "I'll come back tomorrow! And yes asshole, magically, the door tomorrow will not be encoded! And an important part of me addicted to you will turn round again 2 days to get my power had been told that you got, because "the door was coded. And your friend, it bore pile of hand, which makes you all the damage to his small task correctly, which delivers the third floor? It was not coded door for him? It is never coded? It is the boyfriend of the door? Kissy-door? You have beautiful
you organize a herd red sink pastis emmancheur strikers to defend your nap and maintain perpetual futility of your existence at its worst ... There are those who knock on my door, have fun and do not fly 48 hours of my life. Him signals the lives of people of your race, it does exist and justifies hatred, my hatred. You ruined us, and we fuck you, whistling, without kissing, well protected behind your anonymity, the same donors who protected Jews, and you are scoffing a calling card. You make the instinct born of murder, the desire to wait for you in the stairwell, crowbar in hand, and grind your kneecaps to the act of laziness. You do need to live the melt by the millions on your union meeting and flay alive, you and yours until the last flap.
Hope of privatization is yet in us all rise to a forlorn hope. Service reliable and led by something other than a herd of rednecks pests, eaten by vermin of unionism, the sun high in the RMI. Then it will be completed and round-trips in the temples of the fourth world deserted by grace, that capitalism will most probably still cleaned the flames of our nemesis.
And thank you.
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