Filantropica Page #3

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The beginning position: the couples put the orange

between their foreheads!

During the dance, no matter what,

the orange must not fall on the floor.

You can only use your bodies.

The ones that touch it with their hands

are disqualified.

Finally, we have a winning couple that will

take the 3.000.000 prize from "Domident".

Well, it wasn't meant to be.

Can we get a drink?

What reason could I invent for leaving

a party sponsored by "Domident"?

A toothache.

Obvious, right?

If she didnt believe me...

it's her business.

The Conclusion for the evening was clear:

today's girls were too expensive.

I decided to quit fooling around and

start working seriously on the novel.

Come quick, daddy's on TV!

-What?

-Come on!

Can you hear me? Hello!

Hello, can you hear me? Hello?

-Yes, we can hear you, please ask your question.

-What are you doing, making a fool of yourself again?

Ask him about social security!

social security!

My question is, with all due respect,

if they think that this is the way

things should be in this country, sir.

-This way... how?

-Like they are!

Mr. Gorea, the subject on discussion is the fiscal

reform. Please ask a question to the point.

It's to the point, because all things go wrong

in this country, sir! What do they think?

Thank you for your question.

-Wait, I have one more question for...

-We'll come back after a short break.

-You made a fool of yourself again.

-Bullshit! Clearly they didn't like the question!

They don't like being proved wrong.

"Hey, babe, are you free tonight?"

"Look at you...

you still have baby teeth."

- "Your place, or mine?"

- "Domident. Anywhere."

What are you looking at? You can't

even bring home a toothpaste!

Ovidutz, commercials!

- "Your place, or mine?"

- "Domident. Anywhere."

Hello, Diana?

Ovidiu here.

Ovidiu Gorea.

Robert's Romanian literature teacher.

I'm sorry... I woke you up...

You don't remember?

Umm... we went to this

toothpaste party together...

Yes, I got a toothache, right.

Right.

I wanted to say I saw you

in that commercial on TV...

No, really, I thought

it was very good.

Sure, sure. Ok, I'll let you sleep, and

we'll talk again soon, sure...

Sleep tight...

Ah! Umm, just out of curiosity, did you have

time to look at my book?

Really?

You read it?

I had 4 readers in the world,

and one of them was Diana.

I was wasting my best years

in front of a typewriter...

...while somewhere there was a special

someone worth fighting for.

Someone up there loved me.

I had to do the impossible and get

some real money to take her out.

I couldn't afford to make

a fool of myself anymore.

A little respect, what the hell?

You'll throw away that paper tomorrow,

but this book will last you a lifetime.

I thought I'd sell about 100 copies.

After the first 2 hours,

I halved the price.

Even the beggars across the street

were doing better than I was.

-Are you in?

-In on what?

Get the f*** out of here.

-Do you have a problem with me?

-This isnt your turf, you bum.

This is the territory of Gigi Piedone.

-Do you work for Gigi Piedone?

-I don't know any...

I'm sorry, it's a public place and I

have every right to... Ahhh!

The writers' coffee shop.

A place I usually prefer to avoid.

I had to study the works of most

of these drunkards in high school.

They were the poets of

"The Golden Age"...

...who first saw the antagonistical contradictions

between the Russian Vodka and the Romanian Shpritz.

But, under the circumstances,

pride had to be set aside.

You must strike it while it's hot!

-Mr. Negreanu, if I may...

-Speak, I say you may.

-I've been an admired of your work for many years and...

-Ah, you want an autograph?

-No...

-I have no pen!

I'd like you to read a little something

and give me an honest opinion.

O, yes? I won't have any spare time

until after December 1st. But leave it here.

And if anyone else wants it,

it's 30.000 lei.

What?

You want to sell here, to the writers?

You know, we, the younger generation,

have a harder time...

You have a hard time!

That's preposterous!

I, with 17 volumes, tens of awards and texts

that are studied in schools even today...

...I have to drink and eat in this sh*t hole! And on credit,

since I can't pay, and neither can my friends...

And you little younger generation pricks

are complaining?

You have the nerve to ask great writers here

to pay you for your little fart of a brochure...

You know what I do with you, the 90s' writers?

Uh? This is what I do!

Up with the classics! Long live Eminescu!

Post-modernists to the toilet!

Sir... Sir, please

give me a vodka for a poem.

-What do you mean, I don't...

-Haven't you heard, I'm "the poet of the North Station"!

Come here, I won't bite.

-Then I'm "the writer of high school 22".

-I heard. You wrote a book, that's good.

Now give a vodka to a fellow writer.

-Ummm...

-The cheapest, the worst.

-And I'll recite one of my poems.

-Where did you publish?

He he. Do I look like an idiot

that messes with editors?

No, sir. You know what I do?

I recite my poem for a glass of vodka.

Look, let me choke on the vodka

if you won't like my poem.

-"The poet of the North Station".

-Yes!

Title:
"The poem of a man who wakes up one morning

and realizes he's f***ed".

I'm listening.

"In the small room,

on a crooked bed,

I lay smashed into the pillows

by an enormous fist".

-That's it?

-That's it.

-Not bad.

-You're harsh. I have another.

-Recite it.

-No, first another vodka.

Title:
"The poem of a girl that I saw on the 44 bus

who didn't fall for my pickup lines".

"The smile of the girl on the bus

charmed me for ever.

I have another drama now,

exactly like Mr. Ion Susai".

-Who's Mr. Ion Susai?

-Friend of mine, you don't know him.

-More, more. Ummm...

-No, no, that's it. I only have these two poems.

Only two?

Yeah, like you're Tolstoy!

No, you're right, ten stories are not

exactly the same as "War and peace".

Listen, how much

for those soap-opera "stories"?

less than a vodka.

I'll take all ten of them.

If you can afford that,

why are you begging for vodkas?

I'm begging for vodkas tonight because I'm thirsty.

Usually, I recite for money.

I couldn't believe it. The guy made in a month

more than five times my teacher's salary.

In the evenings, if he wanted,

he could afford any expensive restaurant.

He lived better than most of my friends from

two little poems that weren't even his own.

-What do you mean, you didn't write them?

-Not really, no.

"The poet of the North Station" sent me to

somebody named Pavel Puiutz, a.k.a. "Pepe"...

...about who he only said, I quote,

"he's the smartest smart guy in the world".

He told me to show him my book

and ask for his help.

~The "Philanthropic" Foundation~

Come in, please.

Sorry, I the coffee is boiling.

Excuse me, I'm looking

for Mr. Pavel Puiutz.

-You'll find him in his office.

-Thank you.

Come in.

Ok, ok, solve this immediately.

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