Cousin Tuk in
Durban 3
by Albert Russo
Tuk smacked a resounding
kiss on my cheek, which almost deafened me, thank
goddess it wasn’t slobbery and stuff, coz I
hate other people’s dribble on my sweet
clean lil face. “We’re going to get
along real fine you and I.” he concluded,
locking his eyes into mine, like he was John the
Baptist, bonding with Jeezette, from here to
eternity and threafter.
Oh, I was so flattered to
have met such an engaging and discerning cousin
in this here strange rainbow country, where I
still had so many tasks to fulfill - chores,
chores, chores and triple shucks!
My uncle was veering to his
SOS-boiled-alive-lobster complexion, on account
that he was afraid his lovely lil niece might get
swallowed up by the prurient perverts awaiting
her at that ‘Balls in the Woods’ place
(I forgot its name already).
It’s the Indians, not
them Apaches or Sioux from America, but them from
the Asian subcontinent, who have invented kitsch,
them who gave the world Buddhism, Maharajas,
fakirs - hey watch your language, especially your
pronunciation, ok! -, Gandhi and his non-violence
sit-ins and spread-your-whole-body-across-the-street
lie-ins; these can last so long they become sleep-ins,
very very restful, specially if you’re
unemployed or don’t know what to do with
your life.
In Europe kitsch is sill a
swear word, but I just love it, coz it’s
like mixing all the colors of the firmament in a
magic bag and getting, abracadabra, a friggin’
piece of art, instantly. It’s so much
livelier than all that modern junk you see in
museums, like them so-called paintings that just
have two parallel lines in the middle or else are
totally blank, and which, feathermore,
cost you a fortune. What kind of nonsense do they
offer the public! And them moguls - hey,
another Indian word! - who buy this stuff must be
missing more than a few screws, coz to have such nannities
in one’s livingroom would give anyone a
terrible indigestion, let alone the owner’s Shushitsu
- that’s not a new kind of sushi, you nerd,
it’s a highfalutin’ race -, even and
especially if it has just come back from the
Royal Dog Beauty Parlor, with a French perm cum
a pale blue halo circling over its head,
goldilocks that would attract every single pooch
in the neiborhood, and, which would, lassie
with no leash - ha, you won’t hear me udder
‘last but not least’, smelling of
‘Parfum de Chien’.
A poop is a poop is a poop,
I say, like Girdle Stoned who wrote
about her rose being a rose being a rose (enough
already I says oh I says oh I says, what kind of poetwy
is that, and it is supposed to be literature),
even if your best friend is wearing silk mittens
around its four paws and a crocodile necklace
studded with diamonds, rubies and emeralds.
From
the GOSH ZAPINETTE! series (15 episodes in all)
9//21 Excerpted from Zulu Zapy wins the Rainbow
Nation, by Albert Russo.
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