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Cousin Tuk in Durban 3
by Albert Russo

Tuk smacked a resounding kiss on my cheek, which almost deafened me, thank goddess it wasn’t slobbery and stuff, coz I hate other people’s dribble on my sweet clean lil face. “We’re going to get along real fine you and I.” he concluded, locking his eyes into mine, like he was John the Baptist, bonding with Jeezette, from here to eternity and threafter.

Oh, I was so flattered to have met such an engaging and discerning cousin in this here strange rainbow country, where I still had so many tasks to fulfill - chores, chores, chores and triple shucks!

My uncle was veering to his SOS-boiled-alive-lobster complexion, on account that he was afraid his lovely lil niece might get swallowed up by the prurient perverts awaiting her at that ‘Balls in the Woods’ place (I forgot its name already).

It’s the Indians, not them Apaches or Sioux from America, but them from the Asian subcontinent, who have invented kitsch, them who gave the world Buddhism, Maharajas, fakirs - hey watch your language, especially your pronunciation, ok! -, Gandhi and his non-violence sit-ins and spread-your-whole-body-across-the-street lie-ins; these can last so long they become sleep-ins, very very restful, specially if you’re unemployed or don’t know what to do with your life.

In Europe kitsch is sill a swear word, but I just love it, coz it’s like mixing all the colors of the firmament in a magic bag and getting, abracadabra, a friggin’ piece of art, instantly. It’s so much livelier than all that modern junk you see in museums, like them so-called paintings that just have two parallel lines in the middle or else are totally blank, and which, feathermore, cost you a fortune. What kind of nonsense do they offer the public! And them moguls - hey, another Indian word! - who buy this stuff must be missing more than a few screws, coz to have such nannities in one’s livingroom would give anyone a terrible indigestion, let alone the owner’s Shushitsu - that’s not a new kind of sushi, you nerd, it’s a highfalutin’ race -, even and especially if it has just come back from the Royal Dog Beauty Parlor, with a French perm cum a pale blue halo circling over its head, goldilocks that would attract every single pooch in the neiborhood, and, which would, lassie with no leash - ha, you won’t hear me udder ‘last but not least’, smelling of ‘Parfum de Chien’.

A poop is a poop is a poop, I say, like Girdle Stoned who wrote about her rose being a rose being a rose (enough already I says oh I says oh I says, what kind of poetwy is that, and it is supposed to be literature), even if your best friend is wearing silk mittens around its four paws and a crocodile necklace studded with diamonds, rubies and emeralds.

From the GOSH ZAPINETTE! series (15 episodes in all)
9//21 Excerpted from Zulu Zapy wins the Rainbow Nation, by Albert Russo.