ΠΛΑΤΥΤΕΡΑ ΤΩΝ ΟΥΡΑΝΩΝ (Foto, Piers)

Foto: Il Duomo dei Duomi--Pantheon

Dear Piers,
° Like Boccaccio’s Parisian Jew Abraam, I went questing for the true religion last Saturday.
° At the Haemorrhoid Festival admission was $25, there was a single booth where one threw balls at a largish disk with no other payoff than general laughter at seeing the afflicted homelessperson dunked by one’s skill in cholerawater, and the food tent featured warmedover bits of boiled sheeps’ lung in drammach.
° At the Uncle Thom Festival admission was a fierce asspaddling, but there were EveryKissIsaDollar booths manned by altarboys, some of them as old as eleven or twelve, still zitless, and for sustenance a sort of goulash of gnocchi, Uncle Benjamin’s oatmeal, and one’s choice of Polish sausage or Adolfwurst.
° At the Klingon Festival there was so much blood gushing across the highway from the hundreds of thousands of doves and kids being murdered to celebrate the invention of sharpened steel, the driveway was too slippery to ascend.
° At the Big Brother Festival there were luscious latkes in sourcream. But admission required a visit to the Dickclipping Clinick.
° At the Family Festival there were saganaki, spanakopita, tiropita, dolmades, gyros, mousaka, feta and ripeolive pizza, freshfried New Orleans loukoumades, amygdalota, baklava, diples, flogeres, folitses, kataiffi, koulourakia, kourambiethes, melomakarona, saragli, tsoureki, all washed down with ouzo or retsina or sweetspiced coffee. There were dancers, throbbing music, olive skin, and a crested chicken (head like a basilisk, feet like a hippie poodle’s) to pet.
° Sweet.

§§§§§

° But, providentially, on the way to Leggero‘s, I passed and looked in on the Oz Festival. The Ozzies donned tight nylon shortlets, rolled around in the mud and beat each other blackandblue with a football, then stripped to paleazzure speedoes, rolled up the fabric to bare their asses, and rowed out to the middle of the Millennium Park Lake, where they gave mouthtomouth to each other, then plunged into the duckexcrementrich water and raced to shore.
° It wasn’t as attractive as it sounds, but for $2 I got to pet a kangaroo, for $10 I could’ve sat in its lap and slipped my finger inside its pouch.
° Oz!

° Back in Paris and still unclipped, Giac.