(to all those with a flat bottom)
Now look, I remained in Bucharest ‘cause when all my pipes in the bathroom start leaking I hurry to the plumber from the 9th story and his wifey slams the door in my face and then what to do? I grab my headphones, give a play to AC/DC - Back in Black – and take off on my rollerblades. How’s this? Do I simply take off? Of course not! I firstly take off along the corridor, all night long, then slowly go down the avenue. The police tracing me, yelling in the loudspeaker: on the sideway! on the siiiidewaaaay!
What if my honey turns me down? Well, again on rollerblades skipping the block-of-flats into the park. Now and then the police car bustles into me right on the sidewalk, now and then I bowl the kids running berserk, everywhere but on the grass, now and then I quarrel with their grandparents and leave cursing the guardians, but it’s all right! You get your batteries charged, then discharged! Especially when you dribble the plastic cups lined one yard from each other. Or when you roll backwards, on top of the front wheel. Now if my arse gets flattened, on account of having been screwed into my chair listening to all the gibberish pouring out from my boss’s mouth, I can try a 360 degree loop. The same, if all the books and movies seem to get boring, who prevents me from rolling backwards, on only one leg, and from making some pirouettes followed by snake like windings?
And the top satisfaction, if the bus pickpockets stole my wallet, why shouldn’t I roll down the rail or jump at the take-off? Well, I use to get my knees bleeding afterwards, but the wounds from the battle are cool…
That’s the reason I haven’t left Bucharest yet. For Ciorogârla or for Barcelona. For instance, at Barcelona one has to tread 700 km of avenues up to a scarce strand of park. And what? Is it cooler in Paris? There, the poor guys have to forbid the traffic in the centre on Sunday so that the Algerian people could wash away their evil-disposition by hopping on roller-blades. Cause in Luxembourg Gardens they weren’t able to spread some asphalt, a crust of it at least. While in Bucharest is prime-time. It’s true they thinned the sidewalks to build multi-storied parking lots and now the walkers, the rollers and the bikers have to circulate in Indian file, like on a mountain path. It’s true they started replacing the asphalt in the parks with bumpy stone surfaces, so that you break your neck and the access is fully open only for the pimple-faced bikers riding with their front wheel upwards. Which is not exactly a true-to-life erection. But it’s only in Bucharest that I saw people in their eighties on roller-blades, mothers carrying babies on roller-blades under their arm-pit and fathers with push-chairs rolling on the same tiny wheels. And the parks is beautiful and is lots of guards who pays attention to those citizens liable to come here with their dogs muzzled. If you ask them, they can offer themselves as sweet-bones for bull-dogs and pit-bulls. And they survey the area in their jeeps so that all the citizens could safely spit the sunflower shells right between their legs. You can dribble all these specimens if you play at your headphones jive and foxtrot. All is escapable with the exception of pools. If you rolled across a pool, hallelujah! The roller-blades will screech like a church door.
And a piece of good news: Don Leoncio hasn’t yet raped Isaura. Two actually: a car bumped into me while I was rolling on the pedestrian crossing. And nobody cursed me! Wow!
Oi, everybody to their block-of-flats! Or I’ll kick your asses!