The Cure - Lullaby

By now I know I’ve lost, here as elsewhere, any kind of credibility I might have had.
No one believes or has truly ever believed the stories I tell; I think (?) it’s because I write them almost as if they didn’t concern me.

But to hell with my whims: they hold no value, especially for me.

I was listening to this piece near the Friulian-Slovenian border, which I crossed every day because I was a meat salesman and had been assigned the Cividale area.
I would go there - since I was there - to fuel up, buy cigarettes, and, believe it or not, stock up on fresh meat, which is sublime & cheap.

There were two checkpoints: the first Slovenian - and up to that point no problem - the second, well, let’s say, less refined.

After two years of passing through there, the same two guys kept asking me: "Do you have anything to declare?"
And I would say: "A pack of Malboro, a Snickers (they couldn’t be found in Friuli!), and half a kilo of wild mouflon steaks."

At the umpteenth, repeated idiotic question, I lost it.
"Do you have anything to declare?"
"Nothing. Except for my genius."
I shouldn’t have said that.
"Oh, we want to be funny! Get out of the car and put your hands on the hood!"
"But I was talking about Oscar Wilde."
"We don’t care about your damn Wilde: get out!"

They literally took my car apart, and after a good two hours, they slapped me with a fine of two hundred thousand lire because, according to them, my tires were bald.

Never listen to the Cure and quote Wilde: a terrible mix. Yuk!