Oil Compatible With Condoms

The new enemy of the Millennium

There is an invisible enemy, creeping, that undermines the peace of Italian families: pediculosis.

All infants, in fact, seem to be affected by this invisible parasite.

The children live in the "mishap" with solar superficial, barely scratched by the bureaucracy of school circulars and the anathemas of the teachers.

Families are destroyed by this war of nerves, and my not be free.

analyzing the positive side, I can say I learned new words, for example in the whole world there are nits, or eggs from which blossoms a brownish animal commonly called louse (a being that I, personally, I do not have ever seen in his quiet routine daily).

The first sighting - and capture and Executioner - the enemy was my wife, in a dreary evening two months ago. I put it under my nose, accompanying the exposition with a piercing cry and a principle of fainting. The night he passed was, needless to say, virtually sleepless fires between cleaners and pest control capillaries. Since then, that evening, everything changed.

First, we rely on the noble art of pharmacy, applied to the skin of the poor child - my daughter, damn - the best variety in the world for the treatment of head lice. Two treatments per day ("But the information is written once every two days", I protest. "Sconfiggiamoli definitely! You do not understand the drama of the situation," he says piqued my wife).

48 hours later, the blow: the nits have reappeared. After a medical examination of a brain pool (composed of myself, my wife, a distant aunt in Sicily, a sorceress in Romagna to heresy and hardware) fail to understand that this is old or dried nits, that do not contain the enemy parasite. But to my wife this partial victory is not enough: it wants to win the final battle, whatever the cost.

So we cling to ancestral rites handed down verbally by ancient ancestors: washing with vinegar, combed with magic ointments, emulsions with rare herbs, the collection of which must necessarily take place in the nights of the waning moon.

me soon to the humblest tasks (collection of herbs at night, looking across the mysterious land of oil, buy pallets of vinegar in the supermarket of the area), just to put an end to this disgrace. At the end of the louse is defeated. But evidently the harem around me that is not enough. We proceed, then, as a last resort , shortening of the crown of the baby - which is, Always my daughter, damn -. Following a short course to the accompaniment of the child, after which I will set a delivery I can not compromise: absolute silence. The louse is an indelible stain on the record of the family tree of the family toilet. Concentrated in agony, take my daughter to take the school van. The mother of another child is already at the bus stop with a bag full of glass recycling (bottles of vinegar? Inners oil?).

Note the new hairstyle and my daughter asks me to do mischievous: "Did you cut your hair?". Fresh course for accompanying retort: \u200b\u200b"Short hair is more practical with the summer. " By the way the day is definitely winter temperatures many degrees below the seasonal average: in fact, one of the coldest autumns of human history. She smiles, sardonic. I understand that he understood. Here comes the van and she walks away, leaving a trail of pungent vinegar.

few days ago was his daughter to have her hair trimmed considerably. It's my revenge, "Even for her is a matter of convenience?". Her back, as if he read the script of a film: "But no, it's the new look of Patty."

a battle is still long. Loooong long ...

Rotel Velveeta Recipe From Commercial

Pulp Of

It was hard. It took a medium intense fight to take possession of the remote control. The other contender was my eight year old daughter. Like all addicts, I'd need my daily dose of news. Scroll through the headlines: Most of the newsletter is devoted to crime news. They start the service launched in the studio with the eerie air reporter. My daughter is hypnotized by the trail of blood. Approaching her hand to mine: I understand that fear. She looks at me, look at her. Here comes the demand for stone, "Dad - I wonder - why?". Mechanically, the pull toward me as if to protect it. I kiss her head. With your free hand to take the remote and tune in on Rai Gulp. Terror leaves room for Tom & Jerry. Better, much better ...

The vision of Tigga and reading the newspapers these days, should be accompanied by a red dot. It is not recommended for minors and even the depressed (and we are many). It could be inferred that we live in a world of rapists, serial killers, mobsters hardened. And then bombers, mad with jealousy, kidnappers and molesters of minors. At the mercy of chaos and insecurity. Information as a whole, seems to be a testimonial to relentless vigilante pittbull payment and farms. But the security situation of today are not much different than those of any age, at least in this part of the world. It shows that the media is a giant amplifier of human obsessions. A catalyst of horrors, dementia, ugliness. It is useless to deny that any form of sweetening the news stinks regime of censorship.

But it is equally agglutinated apodictic that the information about the monstrous, the abnormal, painful to work as a system. "I'll show you the bad part of society and distract you from others, and perhaps most important, problems. Do not think the global crisis, the loss the work is not that little girl. This is the problem. The others are false problems: we take care to solve "this could be the retropensiero of Puppeteers. Explain the murder of a young girl took place a thousand miles away, after all, it's easier than explaining why there is poverty in the home. Easier and more profitable.

So increasingly, we are forced to look elsewhere for the truth. Turning off the television, for example. Or leaving the house and watching my grandmother that her grandchild by the hand. Or are you still watching the Senegalese and the native flying high-five. It is not difficult to find even the good news. Just want it. Just scan the course, now illegal, the common life ...

College Going Away Party Invitation Wording

news Crimes and Punishments

Me and my friend Brunin the landlord we think the same way. We tend to average civil and respectful of others' lives. We often find ourselves in agreement on issues that are meaningful rewards mollifying the patrons of the bar (okay, I'm Genoa player, he takes the bull, however, there is always a point of agreement).

But the other day, before a cabaret hot buns, I made him goggle. He failed to even finish the glass of which is Gutturnio Left, y final sad lonely on the counter of slate. I confessed to him that I support forced expulsion from national territory, with a mandatory stay in Senegal, Moldova and Western Sahara. It was a fatal blow to Brunin, as he's wrong.

is punctual. At 18.30 down from his SUV 4x4 Limited Edition, made by a very expensive German brand. Park in the middle of a narrow one-way street. Square four arrows and blocking traffic for a time ranging from 4 to 7 minutes. The tragedy is that that is the only route that I can go to get home. She, the driver of the semi half tracks, Bitch (so I call it, but I doubt that that is his real name) is dressed in leopard print complete, the legs are wrapped in pantyhose blacks flirtatious and sometimes wears hats. She made me change my mind on the Bossi-Fini.

I consider myself a thoughtful person. Before expressing an opinion so trenchant, I have documented. The Bitch could you need that car home, as an educator of a colony of infants in temporary conditions of poverty. But the only passenger who goes up on the Jeep No-limit is a child of a blonde washed by the apparent age of ten, branded from head to toe. The Stronzetta attending a singing course in a very expensive private school. I think for her, for Stronzetta, can be applied to the forced expulsion, and already I see myself in twenty years to block traffic on highway with his truck Td, never mind handsomely bells and whistles of the ozone hole and other accessories. DNA rarely wrong.

But none of this was enough for me to arrive at the conclusion to be drawn above. I thought that maybe the Bitch lives in a stone cottage situated in a particularly uncomfortable. I thought I was and hills, ponds and ravines. I thought at one stage of the Paris-Dakar route for that type of vehicle to travel one hundred meters consumes in a year what I use (my machine is powered methane). But the caterpillar will not crush even a grain of sand, has jumped by any atom of mud. The Bitch lives three hundred meters from the private school Stronzetta.

Sometimes the 4x4 limited edition also drops a poodle. Here, I would like to save dall'anatema. But at that level, I fear, that nobody can consider itself immune ...