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Rating: Genny is a pragmatic kid.
Too much, I would say.
Residing in Brusciano—a town in the Neapolitan hinterland with more or less a school, where when you see a cute girl you think she’ll say some sweet words, but instead she’s ready to roar with a "Ue pisciò!"—he goes on vacation in the cheerful village of Bagnara, in Castelvolturno, in Caserta, flanked by ditches of freshly burned trash. Luckily, the avenue he lives on is picturesque, so to speak. Unluckily, his house is next to a kind of landfill.
Anyway.
One fine day, I was counting the hairs on my arm when the aforementioned lad pulled up next to me on his bicycle made of pure virgin rust and began to speak in an ornate turquilopio.
"Ue bucchinar ma ch sfaccimm stai facenn, ma sientet a Raffaell e a tutt'e cantant neomelodic"
Trans. "Hey lover of cunnilingus what on earth are you doing, do me the favor of listening to the very pragmatic Raffaello and the noble band of neomelodic singers".
"Well," I replied, "Go take a look on DeBaser and see if I haven’t listened to them. Anyway, don’t call me a lover of cunnilingus. Rather, can you sing me a serious song you’ve invented using the formula of £$%&78797&/8)/&(&%%$ divided by 7/%&%/(&657544 sin %&%/())6586586 cosine 7899000676//)())&)))=/ divided by &/88997648498/&%?"
"Nun sacc ch cazz stai ammaccann"-capitulated the dear Doge-"Comunq, sient sta bella cos, ch'essana ricer tutt quant e lavuratur o cap llor"
Trans."I don't know what phallic shape you're talking about, anyway, listen to this beautiful piece, that all employees should say to their boss".
No sooner said than done.
He began to drum cheerfully first on his stomach, then on the living rust of his bike, also on his portable chicken chest, finally bringing his filthy hands to his penis and howling, in the prog-metal style of Dream Cinema:
"Daddy...accong o'cess a nonneta!"
Trans. "My father... kindly fix the toilet for your father's mom" euphemistically.
More than the substantial insult, I was astonished by his deep inspirational vein. Incredible, I thought. Progressive metal in neomelodic form. A grandeur never heard before. Percussions like Underoath, vocal flashes like Bob Haltford, penal (of penis) aroma like Axl Rose.
"My brother" I countered, "Rock is not dead!"
"No, l'eccis tu co ciat e o' fiet re pier tuoi!"
Trans. "No, you were the one who made it expire with your breath emission and the stale aroma of your sweet extremities".
I didn’t speak. I hinted at a smile. I took my shiny CD player from Ali for 3 euros, inserted a disc by Rizxdq (just a small precaution...), handed him the package, he inserted the headphones hoping to find "Machina 50" by the supreme Rosario Miraggio, king of fiction, but instead he found a Zmfdm Ne Cdzsg (another small precaution...).
From that day, he started to learn to read and write.
Miracles of providence.
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