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At The Paris Gay Pride 2
by Albert Russo

Someone behind us whispered: “Dragadoons! Just look at these degenerates. The next thing you know, they'll want to convert us all. Fagga-maggots!”

At that very moment my uncle turned around and, flushing like an overripe blood orange, gave them hell, in a tone I had never heard him use: “What the fuck are you doing here? Getting an eyeful, to see how we do it, huh? Wanna have a try at it, huh? Wanna join us? Bunch of petit-bourgeois hypocrits. Goddam gay bashers, scram!”

It was frightening, Unky Berky's eyes seemed to be leaping out of their rockets, like they wanted to punch them straight in the face, then they sprang back between his lids with a loud bong. I almost got a heart attack and for a while my left temple was completely numb, as if an electric wire had zipped through it. My uncle had never, ever spoken this way, even when he got maddest at Parisian car drivers whom he compared to cavemen and called them four-wheeled nuts and bolts.

The nerd and his missus Unky Berky had so insulted remained flabbyghosted and nonpussied for a couple of minutes. He sported a monster shnozel crisscrossed with veins that looked like disgusting worms ready to jump into your nostrils, yuck... she was dressed in her Sunday worst, wearing a large pink straw hat she probably thought elegant and transparent gloves, in spite of the heat. The perspiration had drawn rivulets along her wrinkled forehead and flabby cheeks, which were so heavely powdered she looked like a fat and sick old geisha. They had a hard time pulling away from the crowd on account that people were flocking around us to see who was creating such a ruckus.

Then suddenly the old geisha yelled: “Ouch, a S.O.B. just pinched my buttocks!” And everybody started giggling, essept for Unky Berky whose eyes were still full of mist (not mystery, you ninny!), due to emotional overheating.

Once they succeeded in getting out of the parade, the old geisha bellowed in our direction: “Let's get out of here, Emile, they're so depraved! And did you see that little slut? What is France coming to? This country needs someone like Le Pen to clean the smut and the corruption, I'm telling you.”

They decamped as people were booing them. In the meantime, however, I started feeling sick. I had put on my prettiest dress, the peach-colored one with frills, accompanied by the lovely plaited Mexican belt my mom gave me for Christmas and that expensive pair of glossy white and brown mocassins bought a couple of years ago, which I only wear on special occasions. True, I used some of my mother's lipstick, but it was so light in shade you could hardly see it, and I did paint my nails with mauve varnish, that was the only extravaganza I allowed myself here. Yet, she called me a little slut. Little slut, me a slut!

From the GOSH ZAPINETTE! series (15 episodes in all)
30/8/21 Excerpted from Zapinette in Gay Paree, by Albert Russo.