No hi ha al món re més repugnant que un botifler

Extret d’entre les darreres cròniques als guaitajorns literaris

Prou sabíem que, per a qualsevol catalònic, el pitjor, el més repel·lent insult que hom mai li pugui etzibar és el de merdanyol. Merdanyol, jo et fot, ecs.

I tanmateix, això d’avui, ca? Això de veure-ho reconegut internacionalment, home, t’eixoriveix d’allò pus.

Trec-ho d’un llibre avençat, a frec d’eixir al món, on ha de fer caure de cul el solemne ziggurat intel·lectual, com tots els grans llibres d’en Tim Catalonian.

(…) Here’s an excerpt from Tim Catalonian’s beastly dazzling new novel The Great Unamerican Activity (2005).

In chapter twenty-one (The Cracked Old Crock) of the third book, page 864, it says:

“After the interminable yawn of the week, Marcel accosted anew the damned office drones. They seemed to be contagious, for even some of the postulants yawned. “Your quarantine will last forever…” He overheard, without trying to eavesdrop, and knew that the curse addressed to a neighbor in distress well applied to everyone else present.

“He hoped to be excepted.

“Merry Baloney, the spic, was behind his accustomed grid. “For starters, a pearl,” he slumberously said. “Any member perusing for too long this boring speech shall automatically become a spicier intestinal malaise; obversely, here is some help…”

“Which help…? Marcel found no handle in these words. “Lewd smirks and winks whenever any member rose and thanked, jerking tears, the gentlewoman for yielding…?” The other insisted, creepily chuckling at some private joke. More obscurely still, he said: “Get it…? Tall ships, and especially on windy days…?” The spic stank of cheap purl.

“To them (the cursed traitors) the bad name will follow for ever, even as far as able, and beyond death… Dirty invaders, Marcel thought, oh for a selected epidemy…! “Next!” the other said.

“Now Marcel, by-passed, stranded, was fretting for an insult, the most grievous and foul. Let us be blunt, he thought.

“Histrionic became his lineaments as his mind fumbled among classic put-downs. He studied the ugly fool in front of him, brooded over his turd-encrusting slops-slurping way of talking, his pestering way of behaving, his bacterial way of being in the world. Such a malapropist back-stabbing avaricious damp squib, and yet always trying to pass for a farty somebody, I guess…

“Looking for the killer insult, he saw monstrous epiphanies of slugs in slings, of greedy scavengers choking with some rotten smoldering discarded mechanism disguised as a moldering piece of carrion, and the ravaged disgusting beast, instead of speaking, screeching in death…

“His eyes grew bleary, his mind numb with images of the gloomier grisliest tints… Then he got it: spaniard — “spaniard!”” he shouted, and the other cringed, for that was the worst any organism, albeit a defective or flawed one to the utmost, could endure… As the spic screamed for the cops to arrive, aggrieved and flustered and mad, as any fuckingly ninety-six year old virgin would, Marcel was twenty-seven blocks past the diplomatic district, back into the world of plain decent humanity.”

Excel·lent! Gairebé ni eu no ho deia millor.