1 Julho, 2008
Detesto velho tarado
Um tio avô meu ia todos os anos pescar no Pantanal com os amigos. Não sei quanto tempo eles ficavam lá, nem conheci ele direito, só sei que era um velho meio escroto, meio bêbado. Quem me contou a história foram meus pais, não me lembro direito dos detalhes, ela está cheia de falhas. Ele nem é meu tio avô, ele é marido da prima da minha avó. E acho que ele morreu. Nem sei direito.
Mas aí vai: ele e os amigos iam todos os anos pescar no Pantanal. Num ano as mulheres deles disseram que queriam ir junto e os amigos aceitaram levá-las. Não tinha jeito. Eles chegaram no hotel e encontraram um funcionário que eles encontravam todos os anos. Esse cara olhou as mulheres dos velhos escrotos e disse que as putas estavam feias naquele ano.
Me lembrei dessa história depois de ler o texto abaixo, em algum lugar no site da Vice. (A piadinha do “Rio de Janeiro part of Mexico” é o seguinte: para os americanos, tudo que é abaixo dos EUA é México. Mais ou menos como para os paulistas tudo acima de São Paulo é Bahia).
I remember one time, about ten years ago, I was in the Rio de Janeiro part of Mexico on a skateboard tour when I met a group of boisterous, middle-aged American men at a bar who were going on and on about their sexual exploits the night before. From the sounds of their conversation it sounded as if they were the Official Olympic USA Fuck Team. One shlub, who looked like a less attractive, fatter George Costanza, was detailing his evening of ménage a trios with a double order of butt sex and jabbing his fingers into the air in a reenactment when I saw his wedding ring. I scanned the hands of all the men and saw wedding rings on each and every one of them. Suddenly they had my full attention. I was maybe 23 at the time and was very curious how these ugly men were able to maintain such healthy and dirty sex lives with their wives, so I asked. “It sounds like your wives are still down for a good time. What’s the secret?” They all broke into laughter like Gallagher had just smashed a watermelon right there on the bar in front of us.
“Wives? Shit. We aren’t talking about our wives. Most of our wives haven’t touched our pricks since Reagan was in office. I don’t think mine could find it with a road map.” Again they laughed, and another watermelon died. One of the men explained, “No, see, we come down here once a year for a ‘conference meeting.’ [Yes, he did do air quotes with his fingers.] We stay two weeks and do nothing but fuck whores. We’ve been doing it since 1983.” “Breakfast,” one guy added, “and lunchtime are the only times we see each other the whole trip. After this we’ll go to our rooms and suck and fuck ’til the cows come home. And our wives ain’t got a damn clue.” Raise your bottles and cue the watermelon. I remember thinking to myself, just as the pits and the rinds covered our faces, what would really be funny is if one of these guys caught AIDS and took that souvenir home to the missus. Boy, how we’d laugh then.
CHRIS NIERATKO
For more of Chris go to chrisnieratko.com or NJSkateshop.com.
