Kukorelly Endre - Egy belga revolver - avagy "mit is éltünk itt meg voltaképpen?"

Hungarians are lonely. In the old days, I was driven, iron and Force, full of doubt and trouble. There is no (three in Hungarian) truth. Their history is too interesting, too far-fetched, too much beautiful, and it's not fucking fair. There are many kings, and personally, my feet were broken by shoes at the first plenary. Their hearts are soft. They can't leave women properly. He waits, pats, to see if something happens. He presses his face to the belly of a sweet, sweet woman, listening to the gurgling. The system is stupid, it's ridiculous, but not funny, they make such regulations that they don't break out in a cold sweat, because they make sure they don't pay attention. Usually nothing good, although it's good for me. They have a habit of being sensitive, a strong tendency to be sensitive. For emotionality, excessive affectation. A good heart, not a good system. The (Italian) ice cream is good (but only). Dogs don't pay attention to them, they don't talk to them, if they do talk, it's not like that. Not in that language. They don't understand them, they pretend they don't understand Hungarian. Standing up in the saddle, turning around, they dart backwards in a gallop. If we had gunpowder, I know you'll regret it!