Ah, sweet victory. While we’re not sure which, if any, memories of the 2006 World Cup will survive the atrocities we regularly serve up to our axodendritic synapses, right now we’re hoping that we never drink away the things that nice girl from Mott St did to our salsiccia del destino last night after a whirlwind courtship that involved us paying $9 for each Moretti she drank until our largesse and persistent whining finally convinced her to take us back to her weird basement apartment that she shared with her glowering––but, luckily, quick to pass out––brother. We also hope we remember our new friends Claudio and Marco, two cousins from our part of the boot that kept feeding us weird little shots of grappa (that’s Italian for “lighter fluid”) and entertained us with their terrible ringtones. Claudio’s was that weird circus music you hear in Fellini films and Marco’s was––holy shit––“Disco Duck.” When we ridiculed him for his choice in what sort of noise his phone makes whenever someone equally excitable and swarthy calls him up, Marco very good-naturedly would shout, “No! Is good song!” and then dance like Adrian Zmed waiting for a urinal to free up backstage at Dance Fever. We also hope never to forget the man who grabbed us roughly about the shoulders immediately after the deciding PK and boomed, “Come! Now we go see the French people cry.” (He was dead-on about that: Les Ribbets were weeping on West Broadway like someone just told them that Tom Hanks had spent the entire 105-day Da Vinci Code shoot violating each of Audrey Tautou’s dewy orifices while dressed like The Grimace. It probably didn’t help that he kept throwing cloves of garlic at them.)
By 7:00, we were so drunk that we could only see geometry. As such, our conversation was limited to screeching the names of random Azzurri players over and over at anyone who hove into our field of vision. “Buffon!” we would shout. “Totti!” we would also shout. In this manner, we met our new distaff friend who, parenthetically, had way less arm hair than most Italian girls we know. And if making our escape this morning was at once a little uncomfortable and a lot scary––the only way you could replicate what it felt like to tiptoe past the snoring, yet still vitriolic brother of hers is if you somehow arranged to have Geri Jewell give you a handjob while you both watched a Cassavetes movie, one of the ones with Peter Falk in them––we were glad to have been able to reach out and make that human connection without having to fall back on our advanced English language skills. We’ll also be saying a Novena to sort of ask Jesus’ Mom to maybe deliver us from Herpes, Amen.
Lastly, for that dirty fucker Zidane, who brought shame to himself, his team and his entire nation––dude, unless you’re The Man of 1,000 Languages, you can’t get mad about shit talk you don’t actually comprenez––here is the second installment of The Suck Trilogy, the unambiguously titled “French People Suck.” Enjoy.