I live in a Masonic family that in comparison the members of Gelli's P2 seem like those of Catholic Action, a diabolical sect that decides laconically everything that is placed in the cathodic sphere, an unusual acolyte that keeps in a cave the Sacred Share that gives the eternal broadcast, ghosts haunting a hovel waiting for a network director dressed as a priest to sprinkle their backs. We decide who goes on air and who goes to hell, the hosts call upon us, with their palms on the table they call Spirit, with ci be beat and shot Like hell! Do you want to talk to us? Well, for now, get your great-great-grandfather. You are sad, you want to photograph us like tourists, reveal us like Agata Christie but no one has ever seen us. Believe us, we are evil and satanic spirits, we lower our index fingers to raise our glasses. And when it gets dark we all sing together.
We are spirits in the darkness,
Tandighitè-Tandighitan,
we will reward shitty programs and not quality TV with advertising.
Well yes, we are Auditel and through a meter we complete mandates for which we are referred to as comets in Bethlehem. For TV sales Leten, for the TV user Requiem and if the show sucks he can get the sequel too. Setting a net will be humiliating for Boris Becker not for us, secrets like Nanni Loy's mirror but famous like Lee Roy, heroes like Brad Pitt in Troy, we who fill the graves more than hindsight. We have a plan with a key point: transforming purchasing advice into an order, burying quality programs because the intelligent user knows that he doesn't like advertising -tà-tà-tà-tà. There will be a couple of new things anyway, we vote for them by mistake and they block us with garlic, they will vanish as in commando dell'ubimaior Sciuscià, Il Fatto, Satyricon and Raiot.
No hornet's nest will arise.
You don't vote in politics but you complain if the conditions are critical, yet you televote the Island of the Famous of Egypt convinced that you have exercised your right. Follow the Army in a thousand playwright dramas, if the caramba stops you ask for an autograph, you espouse the fans' cause, there is more football on TV than a cure for osteoporosis. You have tons of problems but you entrust them to astrologers, you are interested in other people's dicks like andrologists and we who have perfect employees for Scientology turn you into corpses for cubic sarcophagi. Do you want to find us? Try it, the road is narrow, we are not second to the CIA, nor to the KGB, nor to Confindustria. Do the right thing, take the whip and go down to the gymnasium and be challenged by the Templar of Sant'Antenna who will fleece you with a tune.