127 Express

Walkabout

Walkabout

For the reading of this episode: Land Downunder – Men At work

"What the hell are you doing here?"

What a start for a night that should have been legendary.

Friends are the only family which will never turn its back on you, if even if you are an unbearable dickhead who tries with every mean possible to sabotage the joys of others and sniff other people's girls like a hound.

A family won’t turn its back on you even if you are Moobs. And that’s exactly what we did during the night we spent at Walkabout the 8th of March, women’s day. A crazy s**t, in my opinion. The day, not our night. Our nights are always s**t. Everybody knows the story behind the 8th of March, so I'll spare you the lesson. I do not have anything against the female gender, this needs to be clear. In good days, I would f**k a good 40% of it. In dry periods, the percentage rises up to touch 80% of candidates. 0% instead is only for when I am in love. Who of your boyfriends can say the same? ALL OF THEM, effectively. But knowing they are lying. I am not. Think about it. Call me. I am almost certain that women in our days have h undergone a considerable mutation from the generation, let’s say, of our grandmothers. Now, I do not want to hear the feminists scream submission, male yoke, equal rights and so on. Go shave your pubis and let's talk about it again. You got equality, I’ll say, and every time that the cowardly male dares to say something, even if only "My love, you have just put out the cigarette on my scrotum" you get angry and vomit on the unfortunate two hundred years of bile that no one knows how you managed to inherit. The woman after ‘68 is like one of those loser kids, puny and insignificant that we always made fun of in high school. And then one beautiful day, they enter the class and, without saying a word, start shooting. But then we see every day how they resolve conflicts: the burning envy, the atavistic anger, the stabs in the back, the sideways words, the grim looks, the f*****g of others’ boyfriends.

Men simply measure their d**k and that’s it.

So, what is the night at WALKABOUT Night. Everything started with a question: why bother for hours in a place that can't offer us what we want? Why don’t we have the courage to change? Why stay 3 hours to look at a girl sitting at the bar trying to find the right words only for her to leave without you being able to say even a f*****g word? There is the need to have deadlines. If your minutes are numbered, if you know you only have half an hour before leaving for another place, your mind is emptied of all fantasies, all f*****g doubts to put you in front of just one thing: the PRESENT. The only rule of WALKABOUT is this one: you cannot stay in a place for more than thirty minutes. At the end of that time, you have to leave, without exceptions. It is not required to pick up a girl, order something or talking with somebody. You can just sit down and scroll on your phone. Nobody cares, the social animal that is inside each one of us will eventually wake up from hibernation. In the condition that Moobs was, we couldn’t ignore him, also ‘cause he kept on spitting in our coffee and since the house moka doesn’t make cappuccino, there is nothing to be happy about. So that’s us outside our apartment, me, Boobs, Zanna and Fangio, the head of the expedition. He knows all the hot spots of the city, the boiling points: where a fresh man risks incurring in an overdose of their own sperm: at the sight of so much feminine grace, the body responds by increasing the production of sperm troops which, ready for the battle, go to position themselves at their combat posts. The landing was in Vulvaland. Then, right at the bottom of the stairs of the building, like a ghost, an apparition, a spirit, MemberKid was waiting for us: skin cancer tan, sleeveless as if it were August in hell, the serene smile of someone who has not disappeared for two months without being heard or sending a notary to read his will.

“I came back from South America, chicos!” He replied to the question of Fangio, who was pretty pissed.

And we thought he was giving his a*s off in the worst bars in Caracas, better that way. We're all single tonight. Potentially, at least.

The first stop is a small glamorous pub frequented, for the most part, by Erasmus students. Good run for our money, in short. Money, which, if necessary, becomes dinero in the Spanish evening, مال in the Arab one and denaro when there is an elven aperitif.

Everyone is very intimate here, in the sense that asses and kisses rub so frequently tha b***r could be the name of the house cocktail. There is a lot of fog, I don't know why since smoking is f*******n, and the furniture in the room is left to the designer lamps and shelves full of books. I find it cool: there are a lot of ideas in books and if you are a discreet reader you can keep half of the pub's attention for at least ten minutes. Just enough to leave a mark and be remembered.

In my personal experience, Harmony are the perfect readings to do aloud: spicy topics, stereotypical dialogues you can play with and situations that are so idiotic to make you laugh even recited by David Attenborough.

Okay, maybe that’s too much.

However, the Parquet remains an excellent place for language experiences… LANGUAGE!, to taste the exotic tastes of the world, for adventurous and mononucleosis palates.

At the end of the time we went to Laser, a bedlam venue intended for an undefined customer target: ranging from diner furniture to the billiard room, from the stage for live concerts to a large wooden gazebo at the entrance. The counter is kilometers long and there are waitresses for all tastes, soft lighting, good music and counter elbows. Zanna must have been distracted for a moment as he's been playing pinball and forgetting the effect it has on him: the flashing lights, the beeping and twinkling sounds and the digital helplessness against the f*****g force of gravity have the ability to bring out the beast of Satan that is in him.

Swearing and insulting a plastic and iron light box can be inconvenient if you are trying to pick up a girl. I mean, not that it's a problem for Zanna, since with his Spanish girl everything is going fine, but you must keep in mind that what you do will probably have repercussions on the whole team. None of us, therefore, could save him from the mighty slap of Moobs which overturned him.

The bathrooms are adjacent to the common entrance, which allows us to finally answer the question that has kept philosophers awake at night since the dawn of time: σκατά που πηγαίνουν στην παραγωγή τους το μουνί στο μπάνιο (what the hell are girls going to do together in the bathroom)?

They complain, whimper without dignity of unrequited loves, gossip about the s**t who poses as a femme fatale, they hold the bag while the other squats.

Nothing fancy, but now you know it.

In nights like this, even if when you go back home, you feel like you have not accomplished anything, they almost always grant a legacy. Whether it is considerable or not depends on how much we can make of it.

The group is our fortress, our shield, our mansion. If it were not there, we would sail on sight without tools, with the risk of running aground and breaking the hull on the rocks of shame.

For this reason, every group of friends is also an obstacle, a prison, a nest of cotton wool that keeps us warm from everything.

Who hasn't happened to meet the gaze of a beautiful girl or a mysterious-looking young man and feel blocked, not so much by ourselves, but by the people around us?

Companies are a big hindrance when you want to start a conversation: you must not only impress the person you are interested in, but you must also overcome the resistance that their group, unwittingly, moves against you.

Now listen to me carefully because what I will tell you could change the history of all ars amorosa from Casanova onwards. The Miyagi Diagram.

The Miyagi diagram is shaped like a cross-eyed breast, the result of a failed mammoplasty.

The boy from Group A and the girl from Group B have to face each other to look at each other. In this position it is almost unthinkable that they would start talking, things should be shouted from one side to the other of the crowd of people that separates them. If one of them does not get rid of their entourage, the two strangers, who could also have loved each other, will leave without even having heard the name they wanted.

Since women never stop reminding us that the cavalry is dead, I thought of a solution that takes all of this into consideration.

A word is enough, a universal code that leads to action: at the shout of SENSEI, the members of the groups should begin to turn, bringing the two young people to meet and exchange numbers, fluids and everything they owe.

I'm not saying it will be easy. But if you help me, ten years from now, the word Sensei will echo strongly in all the clubs of the world. I don't know if I deserve a prize, but if there was, at least the Nobel Prize for Pasture should bear my name.

And now here we are, the third bar of the Walkabout: the Heptagon.

The Heptagon is an alternative pub that has been in style lately. You go there if you are someone, you go there if you are nobody. It is a social stage for the entire city: sooner or later everyone passes through it.

Housed in what was once an old warehouse on the second floor of a large appliance store, it has a large alcoholic suicide terrace and a too modest parking for the comings and goings it is supposed to accommodate. The furniture is varied and slightly vintage: there is no chair, armchair or table that is the same as the other; the DJ corner is reduced to the bone and the bathroom door falls in love with your nasal septum every time you have to pee.

At Heptagon everyone is free to do and be whatever they want, the air of competition is so low as to make it a perfect test bed for all kinds of love techniques. I would not be able to explain the reason why, I think it is a question of alchemy. At the Heptagon you are not judged, we are like many white mice who have to reach the end of the maze. Audacity and madness.

Sucking into an armchair sipping kalua coke like a pro, Member * waited for 11.42 pm to tell us:

“Guys, I am getting married”.

What kind of noise does a news like that makes?

The one of a chair and an a*s that fall loudly on the ground. Fangio.

We, on the other hand, had no words. Maybe the loud music played a bad joke on us.

"How much did he drink?" asks Moobs.

"That's the first drink, and it's all ice." I replied.

"What's up?" Member* asks him.

"Do you even have the courage to ask what's up?! Holy s**t, did you hear yourself?! ". Fangio gets back on its feet.

"The thing that I'm getting married?"

"He said it again! I do not believe it!" Fangio yells addressing the Heptagon customers who look at us distracted without really seeing us.

"Congratulations!" compliments Zanna.

"Here he is going to cry like a p***y! Moobs, go and hold his hair while he's throwing up! " downplays Member *.

"I thought you had had enough of weddings!" I say.

“And that was true, my friend, until I met Marcela. Never turn your back on providence, Spanky..." he winks at me.

"What then buggers you!" yells Fangio seeking our approval.

“She's from Rio. She is a fantastic dancer, I met her at the carnival! "

"And does she have balls?" Moobs jokes, pretending to weigh a testicular bag with his hand.

"It's all fine".

"But is she dying? How bad is it? Did the doctors let her go anyway with the severe mental deficits she has? Does she know that you are a s*x maniac? Where do you plan to park her whole family? " Fangio is a train launched at insane speed against a school.

"We are getting married at the end of April".

"Why wait so long?"

"For the bachelor party".

"Just know I will be dressed for a funeral."

"Something worse awaits you."

"It's hard for me to think what it could be."

"You will be my best man."