Green Day
American Idiot

GREEN DAY. BLACK NIGHT. RED END.

"Uot du iu cam from?" I awkwardly say to the girl in my De Agostini Basic Level English.
"America", she says while sucking the third Monito of the evening through the straw.
"Ah America... you know that's America it (how do you say 'mi sta'?)... it gets on my nerves... on the cocks!" or whatever the hell it's said.
The girl shrugs and smiles like a true Yankee who doesn't understand a thing like almost all the few Yankees I know.

I met her half an hour ago at the Micca Club and I've already gotten to pinching her thong between chat and chat. Four Mojitos, three Mai Tais, and I sent my tongue into her mouth like young explorer Tobias.

Keys.
Car.
Motel.
Stairs.
Door.
Room.
We enter while the girl unzips my fly. "Hey, hey, hey, baby... let's take it slow, I don't even know your name". I struggle to convey that her name is Carol, from Texas, she's 21, and has been a lap dancer for three years. She has a body that would resurrect Lazarus without bringing any religion into it.
A phone rings: it's a friend of hers asking for shelter.
"What is she like?"
"She's American too, models for Versace, and wants to have fun tonight" all this in Italian reminiscent of Shel Shapiro.
"Okay okay", I say "let her come up... let's go up".
Finally, I think, after so many shitty evenings always thinking about how to get rid of the filthiest singers, Italian or not, here's a nice spicy evening just right.

Dling dlong titillates the doorbell, I open it and in front of me stands a stratospheric babe straight out of a Penthouse Christmas issue, half drunk and with a face exuding "vulgarity-want" from every pore.
This night will be hard to shake off, and even my young alligator understands it immediately, sparking down below.
Carol greets her: she's already in a thong wobbling a size 5 pre-collapse Parmalat model.
Even Nadine (that's the name of the Viking who just entered) makes herself at home, getting practically naked, leaving only the steel stiletto heels on.
If I could record everything, I'd send the tape to slow motion forever, I think to myself as the thoroughbred in the depths pulses and rears in anticipation of its sacrificial lamb.

Carol pours some Chivas Regal and offers some to Nadine, they start laughing and getting naughty. Nadine slurps the inner thighs of Carol, who returns the favor by thoroughly cleaning the model's ear with her saliva.
What a night it is, and who'll ever forget it?! Godzilla demands his moment of madness, it's not staying inside any longer, and I'm struggling to keep him at bay.

Nadine dims the lights and makes the one gesture she should have spared me from seeing. She takes the last Green Day CD "American Idiot" out of her Ferragamo bag, the one with the picture of the hand holding a grenade, and slips it into the CD player.
On the big bed, the two friends are playing at putting-most-things-in-the-most-holes, and from the little I can distinguish, Nadine is winning as she ...(CENSORED)... while sweet Carol is dying to ...(CENSORED)... feet.

And me? There's nothing to do... what seemed to be the sleek, hairless arm of Rambaldi's King Kong a few minutes ago has turned into the dangling banana peel of his meal. A nothing... damn, it can't be.
Damn it can't BEEE!

I stride towards the CD player and flip over the damn cover: "who the hell are these guys playing this fake-punk with three chords and these fake-rebel fake-lyrics recycling the fake-bases that any fake rock'n'roll band of fake kids should rehearse with in the basement, fake as well??"
"What do you care" says Carol on all fours with Nadine's tongue...(CENSORED)... "join you us and don’t think about! Come on and let's play together... the night is very long" the American doll says to me in an Italian-American accent like Totò Le Mokò.
"Let's have fun my ass!!" I say, throwing the plexiglass to the other side of the room. Maybe it's my professional obsession, but I just can't enjoy myself if I listen to shitty music, DAMN!
IN FACT, WORSE... my balls start spinning in a whirl and the blood goes to my brain!!
I listen to the 4th track and run straight to the bathroom to vomit.
The two are all moaning and having a blast while I'm on the edge of the toilet pouring out my soul.
"..and fuck these damn Green D..." I can't even pronounce their name when I launch into another bout.

This damn blockbuster rock'n'roll only suitable for stupid kids who, if I say Clash, they mistake it for that famous Chinese novel on car discounts and if I say Velvet Underground, they think it's the color of the new metro line in Rome... yeah, this superficial, phony, candy-like, and insubstantial rock like the cotton candy at fairs, this FUCKING adolescent rock, banal in everything, in the transitions, in the choruses, in the used chords, this SHIT is ruining my only and fucking porno-trash night in the last six months.
My balls are spinning a thousand while over there they're heaving and enjoying themselves like sows in mating season. "Come on loooove, we're waiting just for you... ah...uhhh...". I lift my face from the toilet and rearrange my thoughts. But, I say, "how the hell did that little bitch dare to bring such a fucking record into my house?! What was she thinking?! Did she do it on purpose?! Did she want to soften it more than Ground Zero in NY? Was that her goal?! Oh yeah? I'll show that filthy American whore!!".
I can't understand a damn thing anymore. What was once a relaxed and excited punisher is turning worse than Hulk into a fierce, uncontrollable beast aiming to take down the twin American whores.

I exit the bathroom still dressed and with one unhesitating move of my katana, I slice Nadine's head clean off, making it bounce on the floor. Carol screams like she's gone mad, and I cover her mouth with my left hand. Her eyes resemble those from Pixar Studio: enormous, three-dimensional, and crying yet, open wide and helpless.
She's shaking like a leaf, and there's a puddle of pee under her on the silk sheets of the still intact bed.
"Tell me one thing..." I whisper at 0.5 decibels and 5 cm from her right ear. She nervously nods yes, but I understand she's not doing it out of conviction. "Tell me... you... yes, you precisely... do you like the Green Day, love?" She hasn't understood the question's meaning, I can tell from the puzzled look floundering in the dark.
"Let me repeat... do you like this Green Day music or does it make you puke?" 10 seconds pass, and she provides her answer. Indeed, to the initial yellow stain, an amorphous mass, the color of tree bark, is added. Hm, I think, I could almost sell it in some modern art gallery, I know people who would buy this stuff by the ounce...

I let go of the girl who has saved herself by giving me "that" answer and tell her to run and warn the Green Day that sooner or later, it will be their turn. The walls of the room look like four Pollock installations, all red stains on a beige background: if I resold these too, I could live off the income for the rest of my life.
I clean my katana's blade and carefully dry it with the bathroom's micro hairdryer. Soon it will be hell here, and it's better to leave the motel room in due time.

I walk out into a torrent of incessant rain, thinking back to that damn music: I will never forgive Green Day for ruining one of the most exciting nights of my life. I will never forgive the millions of damn Yankees for making them billionaires by pushing them to the tops of the charts all over the world.
But perhaps I am the one who's wrong: first of all, I should learn to separate work from free time. Always. And then I should learn to pick out the positive sides of things. For example, now, in the world, if I think about it well enough, really well... there is one less fucking American.
For instance.