FIFTH COLUMN

Oh my God, what a crazy year this is shaping up to be, with the five hundredth anniversary of the death of my bearded and extravagant painter, what he called himself?, Lionardo by ser Piero da Vinci... How much trouble, how many inconveniences, how many evil tongues are left over for the anniversary... Obviously, you want to stop tormenting me for five hundred years? Since that blessed man da Vinci, who did many jobs, he decided to take my portrait, I lost my peace. Without any will I became the most famous face in the world, they visit me constantly and bullshit me from morning to night. I'm on Feisebucche, on Uozappe and on Istagramme for five centuries before they invented it. But I too have no right to prayer and private death, There wasn't an edict from you? And women's rights, protection from stalkers, as the foreigners say, It doesn't apply to me?
First he teased her about her name and her stupid look, as if Giocanda wanted to say grulla; but you will be idiots who didn't write on your cheerful forehead because you are sad fools. Gioconda was my husband's name, he didn't want to say I was a happy goose. Then they stole me from the museum, they deported me around the world. Then the caricatures, and not only of little boys but also of artists like Dusciampe, Andivarolle and Botero. I won't even tell you the slander, Good Madonna, on intimate relationships with the painter, they said I was a man because the Master liked men more than damsels. But what do you know about Leonardo's brush and what made them blood? And what do you know about my love?, and of the little ones or the males who liked me?
And that strange professor, Sigismondo Froidde, who had sex stuck in his head, diosanto, he started saying that I wasn't Lionardo's girlfriend but his mother... But how dare he?, that libido-sick Ostrogoth, to pick me up for a bacucca, even mother of that old barb Lionardo; but think about your grandmother, rather, and to the barbarians of his house who fucked each other like a hoot.
Then the gravediggers started looking for my bones and those of my relatives, they dug in monasteries and tombs to find my remains, they have come to break eternal peace, because they want to understand if I really was Mona Lisa Gherardini and if I probably resembled the portrait of the unfortunate painter. Obviously, you don't understand, oh bisheri, that art is beautiful and divine because it goes beyond biographies and neglects small stories? Oh bisheri, I'm not Terragni.
Then we missed that Florentine idiot, who began to narrate the works of Florence and pass me by to the Damigella Boschi of my time... Diobono, but what have I to do with the states, the banks and their rulers? You see me all good, silent and smiling, but you don't know how much anguish gnaws at me inside and messes with my insides... But I was so happy before that crazy madonnaro who never minded his own business bullied me. One day or another if my strawberry trees turn, I think I'm getting out of the picture, I knock on the lady with the ermine, the kind friend, and let's start the MiTu movement too.
MV

source – http://www.marcelloveneziani.com/articoli/la-gioconda-ci-scrive/