Cristina D'Avena
18

CRISTINA DA(cut off the)VEIN.

I was prepared for the worst: Marco Masini, Gianluca Grignani, Articolo 31, and further down to Amedeo Minghi or Ivan Cattaneo. I was even willing to take out that jerk DJ Francesco or that tart Dolcenegra. But no. I would have imagined anything but not pushing myself this far.

When I read her name on the slip of paper, I expected someone to unfurl a banner behind me that read "You’re on Candid Camera". But no: it was all damn real. I resisted, damn it, and raised a ruckus like you wouldn't believe. Eliminating this one somehow meant giving her importance, meaning to her work when everyone knows the only reason she's staying afloat is having transformed into a sort of babysitter-icon for that silent army of dumbfounded children who literally hang on her every word (an army that, through the intercession of their parents, makes our Peter Panna and her staff rake in something like a few million Euros a year, and I close parentheses).

I had reached the point of resigning as the punisher, but after various reconsiderations on what to do (and a substantial 20% increase in the fee!), I reluctantly accepted, provided I had an expert partner in the field. The general was undecided until the last second and then, as usual, screwed me over: I would be going on a mission with Spongebob, the legendary sea sponge who's always been the arch-enemy of Cristina d’Avena & Co. FREAKIN' HELL, going on a mission with a cartoon?!? I already can't stand cartoons, let alone having a mad optimistic sea sponge as a partner. Christ, bad luck was breathing down my neck, with the impending disgrace from the entire DeBaserian planet. If it's a challenge, then let it be a challenge.

On the first day, I descend to the bottom of the ocean and recruit Spongebob directly from Bikini Bottom, who, as always, enthusiastically agrees to participate in a "memorable phantasmagoric action with my favorite Punny" (his exact words, editor’s note). The next day, carrying my burden of doom, we head to FiveLandia studios, a kind of Cartoonia located beneath the Mediaset studios, adjacent to the sewers (and I've said it all!). Passing through the door of Fivelandia, we encounter Jeeg Steel Robot acting as a bouncer and Garganella asking us "what on earth do we want with Queen Cristina?"-"QUEEN CRISTINA?!?" My temper flares worse than Mazinga, damn it... I go for my revolver, but Spongy stops me, pulls out a giant Staedtler, and erases them from my presence without missing a beat. I could’ve really done without this stupidity. Damn cartoons! I advance with my pocket bazooka tucked into my belt while a slew of Smurfs greets us with songs and shouts of joy; as usual, Spongy sings and celebrates with them. Christ, I'm already sick to death of these cartoons and just want to finish the job quickly so as not to go insane myself. Lupin III joins me with his heap of junk and asks if I want a lift. I say no, he insists, I confirm no, he asks for the third time and I pierce his face with the long-necked chrome doll, granting him a third eye as large as a Jaffa grapefruit. His car obviously loses control and runs over Maya the Bee, Baby-The Mask, and three anonymous Smurfs who were jumping rope a little further on. Have you ever seen the blood of a Smurf? Well, I have, but like hell I'm telling you what color it is! : -))

Here’s the wrapped (?) castle with Spongebob shouting "Hurray, hurray". I don't understand where that damn sea sponge finds all this energy, but it makes me laugh, and that’s at least something. We jump over the drawbridge, climb the grand staircase lined with dusty Telegatti, and enter the Imperial Hall. We glance suspiciously around when suddenly Cristina D'Avena approaches, flanked by Kipper, Pippi Longstocking, and other miniature sh**heads acting as her shield. "YOU?! Here?!" she exclaims, with eyes widened like Wile E. Coyote. "Who were you expecting, Grandma Duck, darling?" Spongy says, playing the flirt. "But... with so many famous characters around, you had to take me out?", "It’s like the Wheel of Fortune, doll... today you, tomorrow Grignani, and so on... there will be only one left!" I say, sprawled on the couch, quoting Highlander in the shadows, playing with my chrome pistol. "But I don’t bother anyone! I just sit quietly in a corner, do my nonsense...", "My queen, please..." corrects Brother Rabbit by her side. "...I mean, I do my innocent and fluffy little songs, all fatty and pimpled that kids like so, so, so much, as Jovanotti says hi, hi, hi..."

Hell, I think, she's really out of it: by staying "here" she's lost all contact with the world "over there". She might make billions but... is this a life? "If you leave me alive, I'll do whatever you want!" says the Queen of These Freakin' Cartoons. "Front, back and... mouth?" I retort in a Libidum Tremens attack teased by the overwrought contrast. "But... queen, this we cannot allow!!" says Brother Rabbit unsheathing a truly ridiculous skewer sword. Damn cartoons!
"I can do what I want! I AM THE QUEEN!! Do you think I’ve gotten this golden spot in the Italian discography without, I repeat, WITHOUT any rivals? So I say: A SCREW FOR MY KINGDOM!" And stripping off her skirt, she risks giving me a double embolism with a latex red leather outfit, chrome spike heels, a bra with piston nipple clamps, and various Jessica-Rabbit-style accessories. I stand dumbfounded with my jaw dragging on the floor while Spongy’s nose stiffens, making 14 somersaults. She stretches out with legs spread on the imperial table and begs me: "Come on Punny, do your duty and punish me, make it hurt, make me enjoy it... just DO ME, in exchange for your mercy!!" I'm somewhat perplexed and puzzled. I didn’t expect such a reaction, not from someone like Cristina who, as ambiguous and flirty as she might be, I never expected could go so far. Can you imagine the world of showbiz! I grab my bag and leave her there, airing her legs wide open. Spongy asks to give her two shots "to make her happy" but then refrains and follows me, albeit muttering incomprehensible words. I can see it now: they’ll all call me a sissy, impotent, shy, and sentimental. She, in turn, will get mad as hell, but all things considered, I don't feel like taking out this character that's half woman, half cartoon, and half fool. A total of one and a half women, as tall as a bottle cap with a voice like a reverse eunuch, making Jonathan from Big Brother seem, by comparison, like a Belíze dockworker.

We exit Fivelandia, and I light a Marlboro light, inhaling nicotine into my lungs. I walk away dejectedly and, throwing the match on the ground, inadvertently spark a fire of Biblical proportions. Everything turns to flames, an uncontainable blaze that would make Nero envious: dancing dwarves, multicolored Smurfs, Captain Harlock, Mazinga, and a thousand of these animated pests, all dissolved, all roasted in a mixed grill that would make that butcher Vissani envious.
Damn, I didn’t do it on purpose. I swear, I didn’t mean to. "Like hell," says the general and hands me a wad of cash, too big to fit in my palm. It’s all fine, I think to myself, but they could’ve spared me this D'Avena... at this rate, my list will be infinite and I won’t have the strength to keep up the pace.

Night Jane Fonda. Spongebob is in front of the TV with a triple big cup of popcorn, having forgotten everything and cheering for Juve playing against Rome in the Championship final. Damn cartoons... how I envy them... give them a minute and they forget everything. The complete opposite of me, always brooding over the damn music, never a bit of joy, never any fun, always these depressing missions bordering on trash.

As I reflect on my life, I slide dejectedly, eyes red, onto the couch, munching beer and belching popcorn next to my friend dressed as a fan who cheers and jumps for the goal scored at the 90th minute. Damn cartoons.