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Case Buisson: "Nicolas the short, you are punished where you have sinned!"

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Case Buisson: "Nicolas the short, you are punished where you have sinned!"

The case of recordings made by Patrick Buisson splashes foremost one who promoted him in the first circle of power, Nicolas Sarkozy, who allowed himself to be fooled by "a small militia," say many columnists. Bonaventure, Miguel Medina

Paris, March 7,

Suffer you, sire, it is a soul to summon you here much you punished your excess, your outbursts, your tastes, your whims, your whims and your unforgivable naivety?

You are in agony: it will, without a doubt, endless. Treachery, betrayal of your old mage, Buisson the Claim, hits you in the heart, crushes you, and you hurt so deeply that it is now permissible to think that your return to the throne could be seriously compromised if d Other revelations were to be published, which no doubt in a court waiting anxiously following this infernal serial. Whether true or not will not change the case, your punishment is relentless, sire you are forced to seek the robins for the purpose of silencing the bazaar Mephisto, the traitor in miniature bites unscrupulous not the hand that fed him. What a farce!

So you are beautiful, Sire, to beg help from those who pursue without thank you! There has to say epigrams it. The picaresque drama of your return to power is written strangely well: one day, we see you in the sky, shrouded in glory, flanked by your lovely wife, the mask of happiness painted on your face, moved to tears before a faithful audience ecstatic. Another day, naughtiest, this is how you crucified, martyred by the revelation of an affair that one would have thought inspired by Monsieur de Custine who painted so the life of the All-Russian tsars.

Your mage, your confessor, your fashion guru from India, has betrayed you, he fascinated you, blinded, deceived you, your mind wandered. It was thus that Pythia throwing curses on your ministers, a species of Mullah fevered by the obsession of fatwa: he secretly burned dolls with their effigies, according to the rite of Rastafari in the New World? The will does one ever? The use of the Court wants us to only lend to traitors to felons, to Judas.

You have been abused, cursed, cheated, eroded by a snake you've hatched, bully that you were deaf to the warnings and cautions of your courtiers who hated him. Some mend now that these precautions were failing and your inclination to sink into the intricacies of his black illuminations stronger yet emerged.

The Court only noise this affair for the greatest happiness Cope Meaux who takes to breathe cleaner air, having narrowly escaped the stake for favoring intimate in the granting of certain sinecures.

Its small joy is however only cat pee in comparison to the joy that carries Blur and his courtiers! The king can he be pleased to see you and bring the cangue while under itself, no endless, irreversible disaffection of his subjects?

Shortly chaut it! Everything belly: he feared, you feared, you could see everywhere, behind the curtains, under the bed, crouched, ready to bite, to remove him and deliver his head on a pike to a raging Vulgate agglutinated to the gates the Ch√Ęteau. He who did not intend to give up his crown no price, which knew not where to turn to get out of the rut of failure, here now invigorated as valetudinary, dashing, light as the spring breeze.

Had he not taken great care to ensure that robins and weapons people do not too zealous for the purpose of preventing other fagots do the same barrel should come to be served in public square ?

Here you are, sir, tortured: Your torment is in the light of those the Son of Heaven know that they invent to last long, like a poison that can dispense drop by drop, leaving the executioners time to savor the administration of such a refined torture.

Suffering, Sire, that you do well you complain. It would be too hypocritical. You are punished wherever you sin. Pride, arrogance, contempt, ostentation, versatility, caprice, prodigality, anger: you have collected all these sins, like a small rude boy. You have listened to anyone, with the exception of the defrocked priest, this pocket demon that drives you now on the way to Hell. Have you seen only protest his good faith and summon, shamelessly, that you knew all of those nasty witch witchcraft practices vein?

By Heaven, Sire, one wonders still on the powers of this mystifying so lowly. He convinced you to embrace the cause of Marguerite for the purpose of seducing his zealots of the Black Order. He lead you on the banks of the Styx by blowing you the most nauseating anathemas: he caused the first time your loss bewitching you to convert to the cause of Marinella, that you were bathed in the baptismal font filled with water Vichy.

Here you are, sir, as the Master betrayed by his voice your resurrection now seems compromised and your comeback will, without a doubt, a long road to cross.

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