Audrey is Pulvar Buzz niche that rises about following the racist Jean-Paul Guerlain .... Beyond these indefensible about is the lack of reaction from the world and mediatic policy that spot.
Arabic liar, thief Arabic, Chinese worker but dirty, greedy Jew, the French sexually free, hot Latin rabbit, panther negress, the negress lascivious, the Negro dancer, negro Interior, the Negro footballer the lazy negro ... Bingo! A little research, you might find other ideas to provide Jean-Paul Guerlain for its accurate small of racist cliches. It is thus that the negro faineant, good for nothing, he has chosen to serve in silence staggering, on the plateau of France 2 13 hours last Friday.
"I worked as a Negro, I do not know if the negroes were always so works, but ...". This is the second part of the sentence, 13 words, which are worth ... what?
It was good looking, well we all waited for the weekend, in the mouth of all these politicians, an early condemnation, emoi, indignation.
Only Christine Lagarde has reacted. For others, we are still waiting. In France, we can say racist words at a time of great listen, a national media without any great voice, political, intellectual or artistic work will be moved.
Oh, the associations do their job, which threaten to complain. But speaking of scum? Scandal? Shame? On the obscenity? Sputum? Sputum, that very distinguished Mr. Guerlain thrown in figure not just all black today, but, dear Mr. Guerlain, stripped of the millions of dead, bilge, to fund the ocean, deported from their homeland to the New World.
Millions of people enslaved, degraded, dehumanized, for four centuries, reduced to the rank of arms and hands destinies in cotton fields, the cane fields, the lash of the whip or the mastiff that all these slaves, sold as a work force ...! No men, no, nor fathers nor mothers who are tearing their children as are other animals, not humans, but tools, equipment. Goods.
Dear Mr. Guerlain, one of which you perfumes enough alone, to reassure the child that I was when her mother was away, you whose name I was accompanied from mother to daughter, sister to sister, as far as I can remember and I can no longer, never wear any fragrance, my negress, I reread, I dedicated a few lines, SIGNED Aime Cesaire: "... Vibe vibrating essence of shadow in wing throat, that is forces perish, the word negro, who came weapon howl of a poisonous flower, the word negro, while pouacre parasites ... the word negro, full of bandits who roam from mothers screaming, children crying, the word negro, a sizzling of flesh burning, acrid and horn, the word Negro as the sun bleeding claw on the sidewalk clouds, the word Negro as the last laugh calves innocence, between the fangs of the tiger, as the word sun is a snap of the ball, and as the word night a torn taffeta one ... the word negro, dru you know, thunder one was that arrogate to themselves incredulous freedoms. " Aime Cesaire, who insult, replied as one day: "Well, the Negro, he fuck you! ".