Dead Kennedys
Nazi Punks Fuck Off

A minute of punk corresponds to a bad quarter of an hour. And a bad quarter of an hour is much more than half an hour.

...

An acknowledged case of proletarian urination.

That in '65, maybe '66, someone pissed inside Little Tony's sports car.

But sports cars are for chickens anyway, why compare the cx, why compare the shark? Because the shark could kick all the other cars' asses, even the Osibisluro.

It doesn't matter if, as kids, the one who knew all the capitals (Tegucigalpa!!! Tegucigalpa!!!) kept getting on our nerves with the Osibisluro. Go get screwed, you and the fastest car in the world!!!

Because then with the shark, Ginko would take us on trips to Altea. And Altea, according to Sancho, was ten times cooler than Eva Kant. My father, a die-hard reader of Diabolik, thought the same. "Better a brunette at the window than a blonde dressed up for a party," he always said.

But now let's jump to '82 slash '83. Any evening of any summer.

We were wandering around when we stumbled upon the enemy's car, he had left it there all for us, the idiot, and with the doors open no less.

So here's Sancho, a flash in his eyes and a nervous giggle, with his raspy little voice spitting the honey of justice at us: "Do you remember Little Tony's story?"...

We remembered it.

But this is already the end of the fair. Quickly back to the beginning then...

...

Imola, the '80s...

...So, the other day the bassist from the house of the rowdies shows up at my door. Wielding (with his right hand) "Bela Lugosi" and (with his left) Ezra Pound's Cantos.

Ezra Pound? How Ezra Pound? A month ago he was stuck on "L'intrepido" and "Lanciostory."

And anyway, I really liked Little Tony as a kid. Ezra, on the other hand, was gorgeous as an old man. Is it true he used to hold Strambelli on his knees?

It is true...

...

Do you remember the Nazis of Illinois?

"The Nazis of Illinois? I hate the Nazis of Illinois!!!"

"Great, we have one here."

"Are you talking about Charlie?"

"Yes, I'm talking about Charlie."

....

I give you Charlie's whole face.

Denial and a crooked moon drawing his look and his sulk. A kind of grin/grimace that Paz would have loved.

A true bad guy, and bad guys are only beautiful in the movies. But it doesn't matter, actually, it doesn't matter, now he's almost good. To the point that, cleaned/studied/sanitized, instead of hitting people, he just poses...

He just poses and philosophizes.

He quotes Evola, for instance, and mumbles esotericism randomly assuming a hyper-smart look that seems bovine to me, but makes some girls drop their panties in zero seconds. Oh, I'm not saying, it's a trick we all use, maybe the tone changes (from smart to dreamy, from dreamy to poetic) or the references change, but the game is as old as the world is round.

In any case, this super shit bangs Anna, the prettiest girl in town, the one who, when we went to her brother's house, used to say, "I smell kids."

"That guy has values..."

"Sure, sure..."

...

Charlie formed a band, the house of the rowdies, dry shit and billionaire equipment. He's the leader, the leader and the singer. The others are lackeys, people neither talented nor skilled who do nothing but hang on his words.

Besides, he has always been surrounded by monkeys, since the days when he used to hit people. But today's monkeys are as cleaned up as he is.

Take Andrea, the guy who showed up at my house, a simpleton as simpletons can be. We used to be schoolmates, a "brev basterd," no doubt, but would a "brev basterd" start reading Ezra Pound? Would I start dancing on pointe?

"If you want, I'll lend it to you."

He probably wanted to get rid of it.

The book is still at my house, in fact.

...

And what about the Little Tony thing?

Well, Little Tony was being too cool, so some guys from a not-yet-almost-famous band plotted revenge. It makes sense, right?

It was the Cantagiro, if I recall correctly.

...

You can do anything, but not piss on a shark.

The shark was the ultimate piece of metal.

In the comics, Diabolik's Jaguar looked better, but in real life, there was no contest.

Bulky and aerodynamic, abnormal yet classic, the shark was bombastic. Initially inspired by a drop, then by a fish, it was entirely akin to an avant-garde sculpture.

At the time it was subcontracted to the Funga genus: bay cavrones, acolytes of DJ Maselli or other similar rabble. But that was just the banal contingency, a sort of whim/inconsistency of history.

In any case, pissing inside it, just no.

But the fact is that the shark was also Charlie's car. Anyway, before proceeding with the spraying, all my pards mentally apologized.

I, however, just couldn't dare. So, to make up for it, I scribbled the message below.

"Dear hyper-nazi, Dr. Charlie, we have sprinkled justice on the noble vehicle. Not for your rather washed-up (post) punk, but for thoughts, words, omissions. This is indeed a case of proletarian urination. Best regards. P.S. the one writing couldn’t bring himself to pee inside such a car, but fortunately, the others took care of it.."

Trallallà...

Oh, I forgot: nazi punks fuck off!!!!