The Short Humour Site

Home : Writers' Showcase : Submission Guidelines : A Man of a Few More Words : Links

Writers' Showcase

Two New Friends
by Albert Russo

The swarthy guy whose muscled body shone as if dipped in a thin layer of olive oil - yeah he looked scrumptious - chuckled and said:

“Mademoiselle has a nice sense of humorrr!”

In the meantime, my uncle had difficulty opening his mouth, he seemed awestruck by the sudden apparition of these two splendid Israelis, who, there could be no doubt about it, were gay buddies, or even partners. For every now and then, they would wink at each other all the while pursing their lips in mock kisses.

There was nothing sissy about them, which, I believe, made Unky Berky feel even more spare. Unlike in Paris, when, on my insistence, we join the sun-bathing August crowds on the banks of the Seine, everybody keeps to his/her quant à soi (meaning, ‘to each his own’), and if someone happens to give you the once over, he/she pretends that you are not the the target of hir (his/her) curiosity, as if you were totally transparent. This is so very parisien. And that is when I prefer being American, even if you smile at people you don’t know, hypocratically, for, at least you exiiist! Then you can pull faces back, pretending you are a bit retarded. I know how to do that, and people, who at first want to insult me, end up saying “the poor soul, she’s a bit deranged”. But when some of them conclude that I shoud be locked up in a looney bin, I retort, cackling like a chicken ready to lay an egg, “Kot kot kot, go look at yourself in the mirror, your face has gone all funny, you must have caught the cowvid!” And they freeze like Lot’s wife in the Bible, turning into statues of salt.

If you can’t defend yourself, people trample on you, like they do with my uncle who thinks he can get away with silly compliments they don’t even deserve. As I said before, I serve as Bonka’s bodyguard, acting so fiercely that no one dares laugh at him when we are together. Coz, between you and me, he sometimes dresses like a Christmas tree, wearing socks of different colors, unmatching shoes, or buttoning his shirt wrongly. I oughta charge him for my makeovers, like in the reality shows, specially since he praises me for making him look decent.

For someone who grew up in Italy where women and men dress beautifully, my uncle must have been so traumatized by his father that he lost all sense of taste.

“How about joining us for a drink at the beach café after showering!” suggested the Viking-looking blonde.

“That’s very nice of you,” pussy-mouthed my uncle, who suddenly seemed to have caught a sunstroke, “but my niece and I should really go have a rest.”

“Wa wo wee,” I blurted out, “If you are so tired, put your jammies and go to bed. And, facing the two guys, I added, “Thanks so much, I’m coming with you.”