Vittorio Feltri against Andrea Scanzi: or "The last time I had sex? With his aunt's nun"

Premise. The quarrels between journalists have nothing interesting. Titillate the nipple, the head is too much, they are idiots who peck each other to believe they exist. This time, however, it is necessary to make known to Libero readers something that concerns you directly. this Andrea Scanzi, that you may have noticed by pulling verbal blissfully greeted by Lili Gruber's curled-up coarseness, flooded with insults and falsehood the sheet for which you pay the mite of one and a half euro a day and above all time and trust. All three precious goods, which moves me to know from you reserved for the work of this company of donkeys that I am honored to drive together with Pietro Senaldi.

I would like to tell you: let us make sincere wine for you, if sometimes it tastes like a cork, it's my fault. Criticism is welcome, even the most bitter. However, those who accuse us of adulterating the product, poisoning you and bypassing your good faith, do not have the right to get away like a worm on the web amid the applause of its peers. In court there is room. Finite introduction. The other day Andrea Scanzi vomited ill-written lies about Il Fatto Quotidiano about Libero and his reporters. It reads Scanzi verbatim that "(Felt) lay down the last gin with one hand and with the other he throws the umpteenth writing at random and then blames the Senaldi. Vittorio makes the shit and Senaldi takes the slaps ». I would use it as "fig leaf": that is, for cowardice, I would force him to sign my articles, so as to preserve myself intact from attacks and criticism. It's a factual lie and a moral disfigurement: Senaldi's pieces are unmistakable, he writes too much better than me. And don't believe the gnome to be able to dribble and be excused under the pretext that his would be satire. Satire a par of bales. This yes that is cowardice.

Disguise envy and fake news behind a vocabulary that manipulates and degrades the style of Marco Travaglio, to get away with the Court. The theme that gave pretext to the dance of this keyboard giant was the controversy over the amatory virtues of Nilde Iotti, shadowed with joy by Giorgio Carbone despite having sipped the homonymous pippone script by Rai. Carbone is a gentleman who for fifty years has provided impeccable reviews and competent finesse. I wanted it with me, having tried the prose of it over the decades. Senaldi and I pride ourselves on having hosted the text, actually very valuable, and reviled by the straw tails because he dared to put a sacred monster close to virtues appreciated not only by the proletariat. Horror. Shattered taboo? Scanzi arrives with scotch.

Until he takes it out on me, maybe a superstructure. Instead he throws acid in the face to his colleagues at Libero convinced that he could hide between Travaglio's legs and some judge. He professionally disqualifies them by calling them "journalists" where the quotation marks work as a denial. He distorts them physically, judging them to be "crooked features" such that "the last time they had sex may have coincided with the Yalta conference". If it refers to me, I confirm: exactly. And he was with his aunt nun. But the next one will be with him, if I understand correctly, lovingly attending the grillini, what is his preferred relevance. Having read Scanzi's article too late, I had limited myself to a tweet at the time: "It turns out that Il Fatto Quotidiano lost 11 percent of copies sold in October compared to last year. We recommend Travaglio: if he wants to regain as many, he just has to lose Andrea Scanzi the bouncer ». I repeat it on paper.

Well Scanzi, instead of defending the Fact that he does? The genius of the latrine calls me Littorio: he has plagiarized a nickname whose inventor (Marco Travaglio) he has been prescribed for years, but perhaps Scanzi thinks that Bonafede will allow his recovery. And so far peace, Giorgio Bocca also won the lictorian games. Above all he boasts of selling a lot of books more than me. I am pleased to. The more it sells, the more it accumulates money to enrich me.

by Vittorio Feltri