Massimiliano Allegri (305 Viewers)
- Thread starter Mark
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- Tags 15 minute man < pep > pep dai doesn't know football halma il4j doesn't know football pasta mourinho spaghetti mourinho subs coming in any min now time's up
Dear Diary,
I exhausted my man juices because of our poor performance causing temporary paralysis stretching from my anterior and ulnar collateral ligaments to my homominimal scrotus. My instincts tell me it was the violent nature of the act but Google indicates the cold shower prior to the self-inflicted rape was the culprit. As methane seeped from my Totti from the Indian food I ate with Gregory the night before I couldn't help but smile as I felt an "I told you so" flow from my soul to my keyboard.
I mistakenly invited Hustini to California for a peace initiative because now I fear he thinks I want his Panucci and my Totti to do the Tango on a soft moonlit Northern California evening as the seasonal leaves fall from the trees and the brisk cool night breeze gently pushes his coffee soaked pores scent into my soft breezing nostrils as my hands grip his firm athletic 33 inch waistline trembling of what comes after the dance when the music stops.
My heart tells me I don't want this fantasy to end but my deck yearns for the future to weave this dream into reality. As I write I lose myself in my own confusion: Cam or the benefit to my argument after yesterday's dreary result? My eyes tear for my body and what it knows it wants and my mind scrambles to the CL game just around the corner. Will Max-effect strike again and we win? What then? How can I show my face again after throwing all my chips on the table after this match?
The Tuz God's surely will shed their fine faces and smile as my cause is noble. The pre-2006 confederacy will rise again. I will be there with my bayonet and uniform passionately cursing the BOD and the naysayers on the Juventuz Community Forum (Powered by vBulletin® Version 4.2.0 Copyright © 2014 vBulletin Solutions, Inc. All rights reserved). Hustini will bow to his knees (again) and one day...one magnanimous day I will reclaim my throne, the one I never had, and sit perched eloquently above the peasant race I'm destined to rule.
Mr. Agnelli, your historical never been seen before run of consecutive trophies will end soon. Marotta, you think you are so suave getting blockbuster deals like Tevez for peanuts, Vidal for a steal and the best all-around midfielder of our time in Pogba. You think you are so cool walking into our new stadium giving us more money to balance the books than ever before. This tight well run-greased ship you are operating will sink soon enough. I'll be there because unlike you, I'm exactly like Badass Devil...a pure Juventino & banderea.
I'm the real Uno di Noi.
always,
Dru
I exhausted my man juices because of our poor performance causing temporary paralysis stretching from my anterior and ulnar collateral ligaments to my homominimal scrotus. My instincts tell me it was the violent nature of the act but Google indicates the cold shower prior to the self-inflicted rape was the culprit. As methane seeped from my Totti from the Indian food I ate with Gregory the night before I couldn't help but smile as I felt an "I told you so" flow from my soul to my keyboard.
I mistakenly invited Hustini to California for a peace initiative because now I fear he thinks I want his Panucci and my Totti to do the Tango on a soft moonlit Northern California evening as the seasonal leaves fall from the trees and the brisk cool night breeze gently pushes his coffee soaked pores scent into my soft breezing nostrils as my hands grip his firm athletic 33 inch waistline trembling of what comes after the dance when the music stops.
My heart tells me I don't want this fantasy to end but my deck yearns for the future to weave this dream into reality. As I write I lose myself in my own confusion: Cam or the benefit to my argument after yesterday's dreary result? My eyes tear for my body and what it knows it wants and my mind scrambles to the CL game just around the corner. Will Max-effect strike again and we win? What then? How can I show my face again after throwing all my chips on the table after this match?
The Tuz God's surely will shed their fine faces and smile as my cause is noble. The pre-2006 confederacy will rise again. I will be there with my bayonet and uniform passionately cursing the BOD and the naysayers on the Juventuz Community Forum (Powered by vBulletin® Version 4.2.0 Copyright © 2014 vBulletin Solutions, Inc. All rights reserved). Hustini will bow to his knees (again) and one day...one magnanimous day I will reclaim my throne, the one I never had, and sit perched eloquently above the peasant race I'm destined to rule.
Mr. Agnelli, your historical never been seen before run of consecutive trophies will end soon. Marotta, you think you are so suave getting blockbuster deals like Tevez for peanuts, Vidal for a steal and the best all-around midfielder of our time in Pogba. You think you are so cool walking into our new stadium giving us more money to balance the books than ever before. This tight well run-greased ship you are operating will sink soon enough. I'll be there because unlike you, I'm exactly like Badass Devil...a pure Juventino & banderea.
I'm the real Uno di Noi.
always,Dru
Dear Diary,
I exhausted my man juices because of our poor performance causing temporary paralysis stretching from my anterior and ulnar collateral ligaments to my homominimal scrotus. My instincts tell me it was the violent nature of the act but Google indicates the cold shower prior to the self-inflicted rape was the culprit. As methane seeped from my Totti from the Indian food I ate with Gregory the night before I couldn't help but smile as I felt an "I told you so" flow from my soul to my keyboard.
I mistakenly invited Hustini to California for a peace initiative because now I fear he thinks I want his Panucci and my Totti to do the Tango on a soft moonlit Northern California evening as the seasonal leaves fall from the trees and the brisk cool night breeze gently pushes his coffee soaked pores scent into my soft breezing nostrils as my hands grip his firm athletic 33 inch waistline trembling of what comes after the dance when the music stops.
My heart tells me I don't want this fantasy to end but my deck yearns for the future to weave this dream into reality. As I write I lose myself in my own confusion: Cam or the benefit to my argument after yesterday's dreary result? My eyes tear for my body and what it knows it wants and my mind scrambles to the CL game just around the corner. Will Max-effect strike again and we win? What then? How can I show my face again after throwing all my chips on the table after this match?
The Tuz God's surely will shed their fine faces and smile as my cause is noble. The pre-2006 confederacy will rise again. I will be there with my bayonet and uniform passionately cursing the BOD and the naysayers on the Juventuz Community Forum (Powered by vBulletin® Version 4.2.0 Copyright © 2014 vBulletin Solutions, Inc. All rights reserved). Hustini will bow to his knees (again) and one day...one magnanimous day I will reclaim my throne, the one I never had, and sit perched eloquently above the peasant race I'm destined to rule.
Mr. Agnelli, your historical never been seen before run of consecutive trophies will end soon. Marotta, you think you are so suave getting blockbuster deals like Tevez for peanuts, Vidal for a steal and the best all-around midfielder of our time in Pogba. You think you are so cool walking into our new stadium giving us more money to balance the books than ever before. This tight well run-greased ship you are operating will sink soon enough. I'll be there because unlike you, I'm exactly like Badass Devil...a pure Juventino & banderea.
I'm the real Uno di Noi.
always,
Dru
I exhausted my man juices because of our poor performance causing temporary paralysis stretching from my anterior and ulnar collateral ligaments to my homominimal scrotus. My instincts tell me it was the violent nature of the act but Google indicates the cold shower prior to the self-inflicted rape was the culprit. As methane seeped from my Totti from the Indian food I ate with Gregory the night before I couldn't help but smile as I felt an "I told you so" flow from my soul to my keyboard.
I mistakenly invited Hustini to California for a peace initiative because now I fear he thinks I want his Panucci and my Totti to do the Tango on a soft moonlit Northern California evening as the seasonal leaves fall from the trees and the brisk cool night breeze gently pushes his coffee soaked pores scent into my soft breezing nostrils as my hands grip his firm athletic 33 inch waistline trembling of what comes after the dance when the music stops.
My heart tells me I don't want this fantasy to end but my deck yearns for the future to weave this dream into reality. As I write I lose myself in my own confusion: Cam or the benefit to my argument after yesterday's dreary result? My eyes tear for my body and what it knows it wants and my mind scrambles to the CL game just around the corner. Will Max-effect strike again and we win? What then? How can I show my face again after throwing all my chips on the table after this match?
The Tuz God's surely will shed their fine faces and smile as my cause is noble. The pre-2006 confederacy will rise again. I will be there with my bayonet and uniform passionately cursing the BOD and the naysayers on the Juventuz Community Forum (Powered by vBulletin® Version 4.2.0 Copyright © 2014 vBulletin Solutions, Inc. All rights reserved). Hustini will bow to his knees (again) and one day...one magnanimous day I will reclaim my throne, the one I never had, and sit perched eloquently above the peasant race I'm destined to rule.
Mr. Agnelli, your historical never been seen before run of consecutive trophies will end soon. Marotta, you think you are so suave getting blockbuster deals like Tevez for peanuts, Vidal for a steal and the best all-around midfielder of our time in Pogba. You think you are so cool walking into our new stadium giving us more money to balance the books than ever before. This tight well run-greased ship you are operating will sink soon enough. I'll be there because unlike you, I'm exactly like Badass Devil...a pure Juventino & banderea.
I'm the real Uno di Noi.
always,Dru
@Bianconero_Aus. I can't find that gif of the two guys dancing and the little one getting slapped. Here's the description tho. Reminds me of what @Hustini is doing to @Dru
Droovh had decided to go out that night. The neighborhood guys would spend their afternoons outside of the naan bakery. They would usually play small games of cricket, holler at girls walking by to get their daily ration of baked, yeast-free, wheat concoction but most importantly of all, they would have dance-offs. Dance-offs, that's right. You see, Droovh lives in Bangalore and the movie "Honey", starring a fluid and young Jessica Alba, had just hit the street-side vendors. Everyone had a copy and it was the next big thing in that city since the British invasion. Girls and boys alike would put together their most impressive body thrusting movements to win the respect of their neighbors in the slums.
Droovh didn't go out much but he had finally made a makeshift mirror in his bedroom by spray painting some black on one side of a slab of glass he had found a year ago behind his house. It had taken him a whole year to gather enough almost-empty cans of spray paint in order to finish painting the whole slab. But this might have been the most worthwhile investment of time he had ever undertaken. With a mirror and all the free time at his disposal, Droovh now had the chance to practice his dance moves whenever he could. And practice he did! Froovh didn't go out much but now he was confident in his dancing abilities and knew it was his turn to turn some heads.
That Saturday night was the night. Everyone had off and more people than usual would gather outside the bakery. Droovh met up with his friends Parth and Deepak beforehand to pre-game by drinking some masala chai and prepare himself for what was about to come. Both Parth and Deepak were regulars at the bakery. They started telling him about this new guy who had just moved there. He was different. His effortless moves and confidence would radiate through the whole street and no one had been able to outdo his incredible and strong displays of dance. Droovh couldn't wait to see him!
The dance-floor was electrifying. The new guy had just started dancing. Everyone was cheering wildly. He didn't seem from those parts. Sure, the skin color matched but he could easily be from the Balkans. Droovh had just recently heard people from those parts were not white. Even though they seemed to think so. But the main reason the new guy didn't seem to be local was his size. He was thicker and taller than everyone there. He was obviously well-fed and naan bread with tea and guano didn't have the necessary nutritional values to balloon someone up to that size. His hair was also very greasy. Droovh had read that was a symptom of Italian heritage. Those people would spend an inordinate amount of money on hair product to keep their scalp looking like that. This sort of oil consumption also showed the new guy didn't seem to care about climate change. And he gave off a Republican vibe.
He was done dancing. That seemed easy. Once the new guy finished shocking everyone in the street, Droovh's body had just strolled into the dance floor, repeating the same moves he practiced for months in front of his mirror. He thought he did good. Cheering was heard. Most of it came from the high school janitor. He had moved there from Russia. People would talk about the lifeless, yet intense look his eyes seemed to emanate. But Droovh didn't care. This janitor would be there every day so he had to know what good dancing lookedlike. Droovh knew that because he had once walked into the janitor drawing circles around a human stick figure. It seemed to Droovh at the time that the Russian was analyzing the intricacies of the human body and how it could better move to dance.
Droovh finally came back to himself. The adrenaline wore off and he found himself face-to-face with the new guy. He had given him a run for the money and the cheering had subsided. He was now the best dancer! The new guy didn't seem very phased however. The guy just stood there. Drooch just stood there. And he shouldn't have. Because what followed was a barrage of slaps that stung like the sting of a malaria infested mosquito. It wasn't that they were painful, it was the future implication they had on Droovh's career as a street dancer. And the new guy just won again.
Droovh had decided to go out that night. The neighborhood guys would spend their afternoons outside of the naan bakery. They would usually play small games of cricket, holler at girls walking by to get their daily ration of baked, yeast-free, wheat concoction but most importantly of all, they would have dance-offs. Dance-offs, that's right. You see, Droovh lives in Bangalore and the movie "Honey", starring a fluid and young Jessica Alba, had just hit the street-side vendors. Everyone had a copy and it was the next big thing in that city since the British invasion. Girls and boys alike would put together their most impressive body thrusting movements to win the respect of their neighbors in the slums.
Droovh didn't go out much but he had finally made a makeshift mirror in his bedroom by spray painting some black on one side of a slab of glass he had found a year ago behind his house. It had taken him a whole year to gather enough almost-empty cans of spray paint in order to finish painting the whole slab. But this might have been the most worthwhile investment of time he had ever undertaken. With a mirror and all the free time at his disposal, Droovh now had the chance to practice his dance moves whenever he could. And practice he did! Froovh didn't go out much but now he was confident in his dancing abilities and knew it was his turn to turn some heads.
That Saturday night was the night. Everyone had off and more people than usual would gather outside the bakery. Droovh met up with his friends Parth and Deepak beforehand to pre-game by drinking some masala chai and prepare himself for what was about to come. Both Parth and Deepak were regulars at the bakery. They started telling him about this new guy who had just moved there. He was different. His effortless moves and confidence would radiate through the whole street and no one had been able to outdo his incredible and strong displays of dance. Droovh couldn't wait to see him!
The dance-floor was electrifying. The new guy had just started dancing. Everyone was cheering wildly. He didn't seem from those parts. Sure, the skin color matched but he could easily be from the Balkans. Droovh had just recently heard people from those parts were not white. Even though they seemed to think so. But the main reason the new guy didn't seem to be local was his size. He was thicker and taller than everyone there. He was obviously well-fed and naan bread with tea and guano didn't have the necessary nutritional values to balloon someone up to that size. His hair was also very greasy. Droovh had read that was a symptom of Italian heritage. Those people would spend an inordinate amount of money on hair product to keep their scalp looking like that. This sort of oil consumption also showed the new guy didn't seem to care about climate change. And he gave off a Republican vibe.
He was done dancing. That seemed easy. Once the new guy finished shocking everyone in the street, Droovh's body had just strolled into the dance floor, repeating the same moves he practiced for months in front of his mirror. He thought he did good. Cheering was heard. Most of it came from the high school janitor. He had moved there from Russia. People would talk about the lifeless, yet intense look his eyes seemed to emanate. But Droovh didn't care. This janitor would be there every day so he had to know what good dancing lookedlike. Droovh knew that because he had once walked into the janitor drawing circles around a human stick figure. It seemed to Droovh at the time that the Russian was analyzing the intricacies of the human body and how it could better move to dance.
Droovh finally came back to himself. The adrenaline wore off and he found himself face-to-face with the new guy. He had given him a run for the money and the cheering had subsided. He was now the best dancer! The new guy didn't seem very phased however. The guy just stood there. Drooch just stood there. And he shouldn't have. Because what followed was a barrage of slaps that stung like the sting of a malaria infested mosquito. It wasn't that they were painful, it was the future implication they had on Droovh's career as a street dancer. And the new guy just won again.
@Bianconero_Aus. I can't find that gif of the two guys dancing and the little one getting slapped. Here's the description tho. Reminds me of what @Hustini is doing to @Dru
Droovh had decided to go out that night. The neighborhood guys would spend their afternoons outside of the naan bakery. They would usually play small games of cricket, holler at girls walking by to get their daily ration of baked, yeast-free, wheat concoction but most importantly of all, they would have dance-offs. Dance-offs, that's right. You see, Droovh lives in Bangalore and the movie "Honey", starring a fluid and young Jessica Alba, had just hit the street-side vendors. Everyone had a copy and it was the next big thing in that city since the British invasion. Girls and boys alike would put together their most impressive body thrusting movements to win the respect of their neighbors in the slums.
Droovh didn't go out much but he had finally made a makeshift mirror in his bedroom by spray painting some black on one side of a slab of glass he had found a year ago behind his house. It had taken him a whole year to gather enough almost-empty cans of spray paint in order to finish painting the whole slab. But this might have been the most worthwhile investment of time he had ever undertaken. With a mirror and all the free time at his disposal, Droovh now had the chance to practice his dance moves whenever he could. And practice he did! Froovh didn't go out much but now he was confident in his dancing abilities and knew it was his turn to turn some heads.
That Saturday night was the night. Everyone had off and more people than usual would gather outside the bakery. Droovh met up with his friends Parth and Deepak beforehand to pre-game by drinking some masala chai and prepare himself for what was about to come. Both Parth and Deepak were regulars at the bakery. They started telling him about this new guy who had just moved there. He was different. His effortless moves and confidence would radiate through the whole street and no one had been able to outdo his incredible and strong displays of dance. Droovh couldn't wait to see him!
The dance-floor was electrifying. The new guy had just started dancing. Everyone was cheering wildly. He didn't seem from those parts. Sure, the skin color matched but he could easily be from the Balkans. Droovh had just recently heard people from those parts were not white. Even though they seemed to think so. But the main reason the new guy didn't seem to be local was his size. He was thicker and taller than everyone there. He was obviously well-fed and naan bread with tea and guano didn't have the necessary nutritional values to balloon someone up to that size. His hair was also very greasy. Droovh had read that was a symptom of Italian heritage. Those people would spend an inordinate amount of money on hair product to keep their scalp looking like that. This sort of oil consumption also showed the new guy didn't seem to care about climate change. And he gave off a Republican vibe.
He was done dancing. That seemed easy. Once the new guy finished shocking everyone in the street, Droovh's body had just strolled into the dance floor, repeating the same moves he practiced for months in front of his mirror. He thought he did good. Cheering was heard. Most of it came from the high school janitor. He had moved there from Russia. People would talk about the lifeless, yet intense look his eyes seemed to emanate. But Droovh didn't care. This janitor would be there every day so he had to know what good dancing lookedlike. Droovh knew that because he had once walked into the janitor drawing circles around a human stick figure. It seemed to Droovh at the time that the Russian was analyzing the intricacies of the human body and how it could better move to dance.
Droovh finally came back to himself. The adrenaline wore off and he found himself face-to-face with the new guy. He had given him a run for the money and the cheering had subsided. He was now the best dancer! The new guy didn't seem very phased however. The guy just stood there. Drooch just stood there. And he shouldn't have. Because what followed was a barrage of slaps that stung like the sting of a malaria infested mosquito. It wasn't that they were painful, it was the future implication they had on Droovh's career as a street dancer. And the new guy just won again.
Droovh had decided to go out that night. The neighborhood guys would spend their afternoons outside of the naan bakery. They would usually play small games of cricket, holler at girls walking by to get their daily ration of baked, yeast-free, wheat concoction but most importantly of all, they would have dance-offs. Dance-offs, that's right. You see, Droovh lives in Bangalore and the movie "Honey", starring a fluid and young Jessica Alba, had just hit the street-side vendors. Everyone had a copy and it was the next big thing in that city since the British invasion. Girls and boys alike would put together their most impressive body thrusting movements to win the respect of their neighbors in the slums.
Droovh didn't go out much but he had finally made a makeshift mirror in his bedroom by spray painting some black on one side of a slab of glass he had found a year ago behind his house. It had taken him a whole year to gather enough almost-empty cans of spray paint in order to finish painting the whole slab. But this might have been the most worthwhile investment of time he had ever undertaken. With a mirror and all the free time at his disposal, Droovh now had the chance to practice his dance moves whenever he could. And practice he did! Froovh didn't go out much but now he was confident in his dancing abilities and knew it was his turn to turn some heads.
That Saturday night was the night. Everyone had off and more people than usual would gather outside the bakery. Droovh met up with his friends Parth and Deepak beforehand to pre-game by drinking some masala chai and prepare himself for what was about to come. Both Parth and Deepak were regulars at the bakery. They started telling him about this new guy who had just moved there. He was different. His effortless moves and confidence would radiate through the whole street and no one had been able to outdo his incredible and strong displays of dance. Droovh couldn't wait to see him!
The dance-floor was electrifying. The new guy had just started dancing. Everyone was cheering wildly. He didn't seem from those parts. Sure, the skin color matched but he could easily be from the Balkans. Droovh had just recently heard people from those parts were not white. Even though they seemed to think so. But the main reason the new guy didn't seem to be local was his size. He was thicker and taller than everyone there. He was obviously well-fed and naan bread with tea and guano didn't have the necessary nutritional values to balloon someone up to that size. His hair was also very greasy. Droovh had read that was a symptom of Italian heritage. Those people would spend an inordinate amount of money on hair product to keep their scalp looking like that. This sort of oil consumption also showed the new guy didn't seem to care about climate change. And he gave off a Republican vibe.
He was done dancing. That seemed easy. Once the new guy finished shocking everyone in the street, Droovh's body had just strolled into the dance floor, repeating the same moves he practiced for months in front of his mirror. He thought he did good. Cheering was heard. Most of it came from the high school janitor. He had moved there from Russia. People would talk about the lifeless, yet intense look his eyes seemed to emanate. But Droovh didn't care. This janitor would be there every day so he had to know what good dancing lookedlike. Droovh knew that because he had once walked into the janitor drawing circles around a human stick figure. It seemed to Droovh at the time that the Russian was analyzing the intricacies of the human body and how it could better move to dance.
Droovh finally came back to himself. The adrenaline wore off and he found himself face-to-face with the new guy. He had given him a run for the money and the cheering had subsided. He was now the best dancer! The new guy didn't seem very phased however. The guy just stood there. Drooch just stood there. And he shouldn't have. Because what followed was a barrage of slaps that stung like the sting of a malaria infested mosquito. It wasn't that they were painful, it was the future implication they had on Droovh's career as a street dancer. And the new guy just won again.
