FILT: a new name for a very old thing: self-consciousness of a
blossom-burning path that drives inextricably to 'tapirologia'. But the
organization controls itself, the membership is hard to get. Several lassies
and lads attempted to, but immediatly went back rejected by the obscure
threatening: 'you'll meet the most important stiappon beans of the European
Union'. A 35-years-old man adventured itself in a FILT meeting, and
incautiously asked if there was a party. And the answer 'yes, indeed, the
frying-pan of your mother's party' draw him back to reality. A mysterious,
pyramidic, jubberwockian, sternian, misleaded, lefty (?), lofty, nasty,
self-centred, silent business in chain that once defeated the CIA and will
be the object of a next film (Tapirs make farts, the police get angry).
Industrials, men of the working class, lovers, students, muflons, musicians,
are kindly requested to share next initiatives of FILT, that would be the
U-turn of their lives, race of shitty sluggards.