Italian meatballs

My old circus chum Mario the Bum-pincher sent me a couple of news stories from his native Italy. 

The first one is about a college student whose mother wouldn’t leave him alone. It seems she was ringing him a hundred times a day and visiting his lodgings without warning. He got her off his back by using the anti-stalking laws to persuade the courts to issue an order against her. She can now only phone him once a day and isn’t allowed to visit without permission. 

I must say I don’t have much sympathy for the lad, who seems like a bit of a sissy. Pursuing litigation because your mother is harassing you is like scratching an itch with a pineapple. He could have easily put Mama in her place by letting her catch him in bed with a girl. When a mollycoddling mother finds a naked woman in her son’s bedroom, she knows the game is up. It doesn’t matter how tasty her ravioli is, she can’t compete with poontang. 

The second story is about a crook who begged to be sent back to prison after serving a term for fraud. He told the police he would rather spend the rest of his days in gaol than live with his nagging wife. You don’t have to be a baboon to smell the buffalo crap in that one. No man chooses to stay in prison because his wife is vexatious. Italy is a big country, with many places for the henpecked husband to obtain refuge. My guess is that the fellow was on chummy terms with the prison governor, visiting his mansion every day to help with the household chores, and shagging his trophy wife on the quiet. Men have done stranger things than incarcerate themselves for totty. 

Anyway, the reason Mario sent me these news reports was to demonstrate that Italian men are frequently tormented by the women in their lives, which places them under abnormal stress. They should therefore be viewed sympathetically, he argued, if they let off steam by groping the buttocks of strange women. When I later phoned him to dissent from this squalid suggestion, he forcefully reiterated his point: 

“Supposing your females bugged you every minute of the day?” he asked pointedly. “You wouldn’t go out and squeeze some nice-looking ass?” 

“Mario,” I said gravely, “my females could pester me until the parrots stopped squawking and I still wouldn’t go around pinching bottoms without permission. People do such things because they are dissolute and incorrigible, not because they are driven to it by events in their lives.” 

“Hey, whaddya judging me for?” asked Mario indignantly. “Are you a priest now?” 

I told Mario that although I had not taken the holy orders, many rank-and-file Catholics wished they had a pastor like me. 

"They know a gorilla is supremely qualified to scare off the kiddy-fiddlers and kick the Devil’s arse," I explained.

“Haha!” laughed Mario. “Why doncha pinch the Devil’s ass instead?” 

“Because I’m not Italian, Mario,” I replied. 

That shut him up.

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