“George, in questa casa non c’è la piscina

19 marzo 2017 ore 00:14 segnala
“George, in questa casa non c’è la piscina e non ci sono le galline. A me piace nuotare e poi farmi un zabaglione con le uova fresche.”
Gloria in ginocchio continuò a passare la miscela di olio e petrolio sul pavimento in terracotta per mostrarsi docile e sottomessa. George era contrariato da come si mettevano le cose.
“Gloria, smettila con quel pennello di setole sintetiche, ci vogliono setole naturali. Finirai per rovinare le piastrelle. Questa casa fa parte del patrimonio artistico nazionale. Ogni anno mandano la loro tipa col quadernino e la matita a controllare che ci siano tutti e trentasei i piattini e le tazzine in porcellana Capodimonte con la teiera e tutto il resto.. Se ci sono graffi sulle piastrelle la tipa se ne accorgerà e farà venire giù il fumo dal camino con i suoi strilli.”
Gloria rimase in ginocchio e continuò a passare il pennello.
“George, ce ne andiamo in campagna, aria limpida, montagne di uova fresche e polli arrosto.”
Gloria aprì leggermente le gambe per mostrare le famose mutandine di pizzo nero di fiandra, George ebbe un attimo di smarrimento ma si riprese.”
“E io dovrei lasciare che uno tipo di zotico arricchito di nome Joe Smith si compri la mia casa e si sieda sulle mie poltrone in pelle fatte venire da Vienna? Che appoggi sul vetro veneziano del mio tavolinetto in ciliegio pieno della California i suoi calzini con dentro i suoi sudici piedi? Questa casa ha una biblioteca di trecento anni con i volumi scelti uno a uno, il pezzo forte è una copia del Corano in arabo, le iniziali di ogni capitolo in oro, la carta sottile introvabile. Quello Smith strappa le pagine e ci si arrotola le sigarette di tabacco, a lasciarlo fare.”
Gloria si alza, si tolse le scarpe, lasciò cadere la gonna e si sfilò le mutandine. Con studiata lentezza si chinò a raccogliere le scarpe per mettere in mostra il suo sedere.
“Gloria, sei più bella di una cavalla inglese al derby di Epson’.
Gloria sospirò.
“Vado a farmi la doccia, George.“
Dopo qualche secondo, George infilò la testa nelle tendine della doccia. Gloria gli tirò un calcio.
“E il tavolinetto del Settecento nello scrittoio? Laccato e intarsiato, con un cassetto segreto impossibile da trovare e far scattare. Ci metteresti un mese per trovare le lettere della mia bisnonna in quel cassetto. Sono le lettere originali del suo bel capitano alla Guerra di Secessione.”
La testa di Gloria spuntò fuori dalla doccia.
“Spero che tu abbia trovato la lettura interessante e di tuo gusto.”
Gloria continuò a tormentare il miscelatore dell’acqua calda e fredda, si rese conto che il suo sedere non sarebbe stato sufficiente a farla vincere.
Infatti, la casa nasconde un segreto. Sotto il tetto fu ricavata una grande stanza per il trenino elettrico di George.

"My name is Gloria."

17 marzo 2017 ore 06:45 segnala
Six months ago
George crossed the road with an annoyed and puzzled air. Two long female legs, and the tall brunette to which they belonged, occupied the window of his favorite bookstore. The brunette's legs weren't bad. Her feet may be a little on the big side. Her derriere filled the entire skirt, but didn't look quite round enough.
To get a look at the new arrivals in the store, he will have to wait for the intruder to go away. He tried some menacing and intimidating looks which were reflected back in the window.
The brunette did not look scared, but rather taken by the books on display. Indeed, she did not move from the window. Instead, she ran her forefinger doubtfully over her lips and slightly bent a leg. She had strong, almost athletic calves, but her legs as a whole could be called elegant. The checkered jacket tightened her shoulders. She could be an amateur swimmer.
On the whole her silhouette was pleasant, with no excess fat.
Surprisingly, the brunette turned to him and parted her plump lips. Then she opened her eyes wide, dropped her head to one side and smiled at him questioningly, showing a row of coral teeth.
If you think you're playing the shark with me, you will have a hard time, George told himself.
She went on smiling, half pitifully and half ironically.
Now the brunette moved on with an imperceptible swaying and George thought he could finally enjoy his showbooks, but the brunette was full of surprises. Before stepping off the sidewalk to cross the road, she gave him one more look. George knew when one had to change one’s mind. Something told him that in recent times he had given too much space to books in his life.
The brunette went from one sidewalk to the next, skipping up the kerb with a small hop like a child who plays and pays no attention to the rest of the world. Walking past a fashion shop window, she stopped to look at a white lace blouse. Caught off guard, George quickly turned around with indifference and stopped some distance away. She ran a thoughtful forefinger over her lips. Her long tapered fingers had nails coated in bright red polish. George decided that he could forgive this quirk of her finger over her lips.
The brunette moved wistfully from the blouse. George knew when a decision must be taken. He entered the shop and came out with a small rectangular box. Damn, he did not imagine that a lace blouse would cost so much. That's why women are always so nervous and dissatisfied. A restless George scanned the horizon. The brunette was in sight. She stopped and turned to George, throwing a long look to him. Then she entered the front door of a building.
What is your game, doll? Maybe now she will ask me for money to buy the medicine for her poor sick aunt, a disgusted George thought.
What was her game?
The brunette opened the wrought-iron gate of the elevator and waited for George to enter.
"Where are we going?" George was now ready for anything he would be asked.
"To the top floor, of course."
George had a drum in his stomach.
The top floor was under the roof of the building. There were no doors and no apartments on the top floor.
They looked each other in the eye, wondering who was the hawk and who was the dove between them.
The brunette decided to take the rectangular box.
"Why do my fingers tremble?" George asked himself as the box slipped out of his hands.
"Miss, I don't know if it's the right size."
"We are here to try it."
The brunette took off her checkered jacket and handed it to him. Then she took off her shirt and put it over George's arm on top of the jacket. George noticed the pink hippo painted on the shirt.
Her bosom was high and tense and her black bra had no particular problems to deal with. Her shoulders were broad, there were no straps inside the jacket. Her shoulder blades were prominent.
Her elbows were a little rough. Perhaps she liked to keep them on the desk. Her hands, that promised gardens of delight, were white on the backs, while the palms were pink, shaded by long soft fingers.
She opened the box, wearing the new blouse, and put her old shirt in the box. She threw George the box, which he grabbed in flight with some uncertainty, as he was attempting to watch both her and the box at the same time.
The brunette stopped stripping, leaving George a little disappointed but overall happy with the way things were going. She reopened the elevator door. As soon as they were inside, the unbelievable happened. The brunette turned her back to George and raised her skirt, showing her long embroidered green pants, in the style of a Mayflower Pilgrim. Then she bent over and lowered her pants.
"Look but do not touch" she said firmly.
George was an enchanted prey. He realized that the tight skirt unjustly flattened her bottom, which reflected the sun's rays through a window. My God, her bum is round and shining like the sun, George thought. As for the thighs, George could not remember a chick who had better thighs than hers.
"My name is Gloria" she said.
The two were now down the street. The brunette ordered George to stay where he was with a threatening forefinger.
e2157e05-70c1-4da8-bc25-89765ecebe3e
Six months ago George crossed the road with an annoyed and puzzled air. Two long female legs, and the tall brunette to which they belonged, occupied the window of his favorite bookstore. The brunette's legs weren't bad. Her feet may be a little on the big side. Her derriere filled the entire skirt,...
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17/03/2017 06:45:21
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Katerina

11 marzo 2017 ore 19:21 segnala
John Gerard Sapodilla
J J Piglet

It was because of Gloria's stormy temper that George found himself with the pan in one hand and the fresh egg in the other. Gloria had left his house five minutes ago without even slamming the door. George had gone after her with the idea that she had had second thoughts. Instead Gloria had gone away silently, as if to make him understand that she did not consider him important enough to slam the door. Gloria was one of the very few women who could cook like a real chef. Her fried egg in a cloud of butter was unsurpassed.
Be brave, George! Grease your pan with butter and let the egg down gently. George had always thought that breaking an egg into a pan was an instinctive deed that everyone could do. In the end he resolved to let it drop.
The egg crashed against the bottom. Pieces of shell intermingled with the yolk and the white. George picked out a few pieces of shell and told himself he would remember the rest later. He switched on the timer to three minutes and went back to stare out of the window. At the trill of timer, George went back to the pan and looked at the egg. The egg looked up at George with his big yellow eye and George realized that he had forgotten to light the burner under the pan. After less than three minutes a smell of burnt egg dragged him back to the pan before the timer could ring. After chewing some shell pieces mixed with burned egg, George decided that he would order a pizza over the phone. But he didn't dial the number. They would bring a pizza that tasted of cardboard. It would be much better to go to one of those Italian restaurants with those names full of affection, like Mamma Rosa or Zia Teresa. George was fastening his tie when he realized he would have to sit alone at a small table in a corner, between tables full of cronies and smiling ladies.
George lowered his head and began to explain to his socks what was happening.
"You need a cook, George," said Left Sock.
"You need a maid to wash and iron your socks" the Right Sock said.
George picked up the phone directory to find a Cook and Maid Agency. The TV set was on and began to speak up, introducing the commercials. The voice stopped him:
"Katerina Robotika is your handywoman. Cooking, dusting, washing and ironing. Katerina recognizes your voice and only obeys your orders. You can tell her to fry you an egg or sit still and be silent."

Il Ritorno di Pimps - John Gerard Sapodilla

20 febbraio 2017 ore 05:26 segnala
Il Ritorno di Pimps

John Gerard Sapodilla

"Ti piacciono i porci, Elisabeth?”
“Il volto paffuto e romantico di Lady Fannyflower si fa rosso peperone e la costringe a agitare il ventaglio veneziano. Le sue amiche le hanno dato molti consigli su come affrontare un gentiluomo di campagna incline alle perversioni.
“Suppongo, Algernoon, che un certo grado di divertimento sia di beneficio a un matrimonio durevole. Con una ragionevole moderazione, potrei aggiungere. Sono certa che non hai intenzione di farmi saltellare nella biblioteca rivestita con solo penne di gallina.”
Siamo giustappunto nella biblioteca di Sir Algernoon Everybottom. Pimps serve il tè e guarda con premuroso affetto i due piccioncini.

Una settimana fa
Una settimana è appena passata da quando da quando Sir Archibald passeggia calmo lungo il corridoio dei ritratti. A Sua Grazia non sfugge l’arrivo silenzioso di Pimps da una delle dodici porte.
“Ebbene, Pimps?”

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“Temo di dover rassegnare le dimissioni. Lascio la casa senza rimpianti a questo punto.”
“Dimissioni respinte. Ha altro da dire, Pimps?”
“Trovo inappropriato che Vostra Grazia passeggi in pantofole e cappello di paglia nel corridoio dei ritratti. Inoltre ho sorpreso Dorothea, la cuoca, mentre tirava i baffi al sergente O’Hara. Non appena si è accorto della mia presenza il viscido O’Hara si è messo in tasca la torta di mele. Stiamo parlando della mia torta di mele, sir. Alle mie rimostranze quell’idiota piedipiatti ha risposto che doveva indagare su alcuni furti di torta di mele che si sono verificati nel vicinato. Questa casa ha bisogno della mano di una donna.”
“Cosa ti succede, Pimps, ti serve una moglie per farti rispettare dalla cuoca?”
“Non esattamente, sir. A questo proposito mi sono permesso di cerchiare in rosso una inserzione del Tripplewood Times.
‘Fiore maturo attende di essere colto da un gentiluomo rispettabile. La sposa porta in dono un migliaio di pecore e tutta l’erba di cui hanno bisogno. Preferito un pretendente delle terre confinanti. E F’
Sir Archibald ha ascoltato con impazienza la lettura:
“Si tratta certamente di Lady Elisabeth Fannyflower. Cosa hai in mente, Pimps? Che io mi porti in casa una femmina dispotica e le sue pecore?”

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2878f1d2-25d8-4d09-aa83-09209cfbc103
"Ti piacciono i porci, Elisabeth?” “Il volto paffuto e romantico di Lady Fannyflower si fa rosso peperone e la costringe a agitare il ventaglio veneziano. Le sue amiche le hanno dato molti consigli su come affrontare un gentiluomo di campagna incline alle perversioni. “Suppongo, Algernoon, che un...
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20/02/2017 05:26:44
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