samedi 11 juin 2011

La chasse aux abstinents

From : Senator Joseph Mc Carthy

Date : November 30th, 1960

To : Senator Richard [expletive deleted] Nixon

CONGRATULATIONS, MISTER PRESIDENT, DEAR TRICKY DICKY MY FRIEND. I HAVE VOTED FOR YOU. TWENTY FOUR TIMES.


Hey, I was just kidding. This is Lieutenant Colombo again, from the LAPD. Sorry to get you worried again, but it's only a small detail I forgot, you know, to mention yesterday, see, and that bothers me a little. Well, it aint really a problem, sorry again, just only a little bit of, but...Now let me tell ya, I'm having kinda brainstorming session over here in my office with Chief Inspector Clouseau of the French Sureté, and a nice couple of detectives, Nick and Nora they say, they even have an ugly dog with them. I have two lousy priv’s in addition to that, names Samuel Spade from Frisco and Philip Marlowe from LA, dont think you know them, and, Oh Gosh I almost was about to forget, a belgian gentleman, name's Hercule Poirot. Wearing a very funny mustache. But first thing the asshole did was to ask me for a hot chocolate, can you believe that ? And when I told him no one in the LAPD, as far as I remember, had never drunk not a single drop of hot chocolate, even at home, he has started being vulgar. Up to a point I had to take him to the cell right beneath my office, that one with the junkies, the bums and the hookers. Always full. Gonna stay there one week at least, I tell ya. Damn Europeans!


So, I called them for some help, cause these last days I wasnt feeling too much comfortable and I didnt know why. And yesterday night as I was watching The Pittsburgh Rottweillers on TV playing against The Cleveland Pittbulls, my wife suddenly woke me up saying, Hey, look, yesterday W has said something intelligent, so I said Stop fooling at me and she said I swear it to you, it's written in The New York Times and I said gotta stop buying The New York Times. Cause she was reading The New York Times, ye understand? Fine. And right at that moment the detail I was bothered with, it came back to me. Incredible, right?


Yeah, I dont want to have you waste your time too much, I know you're very busy, so, maybe you've already guessed, this problem it has got to do with The New York Times. You know, this guy you have for the computers records, I see he says you have received actuators, that's the way you call that stuff, right? If it's not I dont care anyway. So I read you got 73 and 74, did some repair on 73, and nothing on 74. It's marked TBD on the file and I dont understand what the hell that means, but dont worry, you'll explain me later, there aint no rush, let's say tomorrow for example. And now comes my question. How come you never received the four other ones : 75 and 76, 94 and 70 ? Me you know I just didnt do nothing. Chief Inspector Clouseau has just found those numbers for me. They were written on a empty pack of Marlboro one of his nephews has offered him last week for his ninety-seventh birthday, and on which it was printed : SMOKING KILLS (Mr Clouseau smokes five packs per day). What do you think of that?


Sounds curious to me as I believe that I remember, but I aint sure, that you told me you had checked a whole chipset of them godamn screws and that the operator, dont know what that means either, was awfully pissed off with his jackscrews condition. Damn, you, with your actuators, operators, screws, jackscrews, what the hell does this all mean? It's doesnt make any sense to me. And corrosion, what is it, for chrissake? Rust, you mean? I have seen those screws. Nice. Brand new, I would say. I'd be glad to use them for my Peugeot, but I'm pretty afraid I couldnt afford it, according to Clouseau' nephew. If you wanna make some money, in the LAPD, see, you gotta have to do some business with certain people, hem, yes, but it's another story. Forget it.


Oh, by the way, this Clouseau, he drives me crazy, you know, with his awful accent. He keeps asking silly questions like, Whure us thu tuileet, pluse, or, Du yu mind muy smuking, or even I wunt a glass of buur. And when I tell him that over her we got the beer but not the glasses, he says voui, a druught buur, thun. Hell, gonna give him a couple of LAPD teeshirts and lighters, and then I put him in a cab and rightaway to the airport.


Oh Gees, I got a headache with that piece of shitty stuff. I really need your help, Mister Bioletto. So, well, please be kind enough to gimme a call before, let's say, 10.00 am, Miami local time. If you dont, no trouble. I will. Be sure I like you well, Mister Bioletto. I'm your friend. You Italians are the beautiful people. The salt of the earth. The goodfellas. Saw them on TV last month.

Even meself I was born an Italian. Now I speak American good, but when I was a kid it was kinda, you know, you toucha my car I breaka you face. Fortunately times have changed. Now it's sort of, well, Fuck, dont touch my fuckin' car, you motherfucker. Gonna shoot your fucking head, fuck you up! What an improvement!


My grandfather, you know, he was a big shot in Chicago's 30's. Every one called him Spats, cause he was wearing spats. Among other things, he owned a very nice place, a speakeasy named Mozarela Funeral Parlor. I was raised there. Man, what a joint it was ! You should have seen that milk they had. Alas, poor grandpa died in an accident. He was shot in a a movie they were shooting in Miami. With Marylin Monroe. I guess some like it hot is the title. But I personally prefer classical music.

Please call me Spats, Mister Bioletto. I'll feel honored. I very well know you're an honest man, didnt do nothing illegal, trust me. Relax, be quiet. You certainly aint a man I would like to be obliged to read his rights to. Well, take good care of yourself anyways. Waiting for your call, Mister Bioletto.

Mike, october 2003

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