Going to a
Nightclub
by Albert Russo
My hissing shenanigans
prove quite efficient, coz people stare back at
me open- mouthed then totally flabbyghosted,
like they were the ones who did something wrong.
“Now, let’s not
get excited,” I was finally able to udder,
“my uncle doesn’t know how to sing at
all. If Jacques Brel ever heard him so much as
try to imitate him, he would rescoopcitate
from his Polynesian grave, bones and all, and
smack Unky Berky on his friggin head”.
Yeah, I know, it’s not
my uncle’s fault, but better warn everybody
at the same time, if you don’t want to have
leaks.
The pair in front of us
looked at me like I was the crazy one, not they.
Well I never, so sayeth Shake ‘m Pears. And
you should have seen Bonka’s expression, he
looked like I had flogged him the way the Iranian
mollars punish teenaged transgressors.
Under that Mamluk regime young girls get flogged
if they’re found wearing jeans under their
mosquito-net cassocks, the poor dudesses.
And of course, in this case I feel like twisting
my uncle’s nose and both his ears, coz he
loooves to show strangers what an underdog he is,
specially after he gets scolded - by me, who else?
Then, to win back my affection, he gives me that
slavish labrador look which almost breaks my
heart. Drivelling nincompoop that he is.
To break that poofy
atmosphere, I turned towards Miki and asked him
if we could go to one of them trendy nightclubs
mentioned in Time Out magazine after dinner.
«Of course, Zapy,»
answered the sweety pie - I felt like squeezing
his cute lil chin and smooch him on the cheek,
but I didn’t want to pass for a clot.
“I’ll take you to
the best one, where we might come across some
famous people from this country and even from
abroad. The bouncer looks like an enraged gorilla,
but don’t worry, he’s a buddy and
always lets me in, along with my guests.”
Our pair of freaky chums
started to clap their hands all the while my
uncle was shifting his backside on his chair, and
making squeaky noises on account that he wanted
to intervene. He gave an unwanted fart,
immediately followed by a boorish roar, which is
totally unexpected from such a delicate and pussy-mouseyed
guy. But I knew what it meant.
“Ahem ... er... grrr”
he insisted, half barking, so that the audience
paid attention. “Isn’t Zapy too young
for such ... er ... a place? She’s not even
thirteen you know.”
I cast him such a dirty
look that he had to turn his gaze above my head,
like he was suddenly staring at a bloomin fly.
“The lassie is as tall
as I am, no one will see the age difference,
specially inside the nightclub where the lights
are dimmed!” said Shanty with a funny smile
- was she jealous of me, the midget, or was it a
compliment?
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