Parental Advisory. Explicit content, unsuitable for neo-stance children!!
Is this the story of Johnny Rotten?
Oh, hell, no, of course not! That was Neil Young, we were enjoying some good old songs, and that was just Neil Percival Kenneth Robert Ragland Young, or Don Grungio if you prefer, singing one of his hits, “Hey Hey My My”, strumming with his Gibson Les Paul “Old Black” guitar.
No, this is the story of Al Duhbour Akew, a very intricate and controversial story, starting from his own name.
Duhbour’s father was of eastern descent, somewhere from Afghanistan, or Pakistan, or some place in that region, he didn’t remember, as he complained his family name had been misspelled in the course of years. It had become Akew, which did not correspond yet to any other surname from that area. Akew was pronounced “uh-coo”, which later Duhbour decided it should have been uttered “uh-kju” stressing the final syllable as in the French style, while his first name, Duhbour, was pronounced “Duh-bor”, like the first two letters in “dun” and the word “bore”, which were two special marks of his character too. He would always repeat, “I am Duhbour Akew, a very accurate guy”, showing off his pride.
His father had named him Duhbour after a kooky eastern businessman to whom he had worked as personal driver. His middle name was Albert, after his mother’s father, who was of British descent, and since his Mom thought Duhbour a very stupid name, she had called her son Al for all of her entire life.
His pride for his eastern first name waned as soon as he befriended his colleague Angelo, whose grandparents were Italians and who had complete mastery of his ancestors’ language, as well as he knew various Italian dialects and idioms spoken by the diverse populations stuck within the Italian Republic. His grandmother had been a brilliant linguist and glottologist, and managed to give her passion to her beloved grandson, who gained a magna cum laude doctorate in linguistics and was at that time making a bright career at the business foreign department.
So, the story goes that Angelo told Duhbour that the sound of his first and last name, Duhbour Akew, in the language of an old Italian population, literally meant “pain in the ass”, “Like when your hemorrhoids are on fire”, he specified. From then on, he became Al Akew, a most accurate guy.
Years passed by, but Duhbour Akew, or Al, kept being a real pain in the ass. His ego and conceit were often the sole reason of his bad social life. Yet, life itself, whose legs are always rather ready and powerful, had kicked his ass time and again, but some habits die hard, you know. He used to reproach people with expressions like, “You have very little bad to say about me. I am one of the few living people to understand relativity theory, and this makes me one of the best salesmen in the country, most wanted by hundreds of businesses, and that’s why my boss would sign a pact with the devil himself lest I leave the company”. It goes unsaid, that nobody would tear their hair for him, nor were they desperately missing him, but some people find strange ways to express their deep wishes.
He had even joined a club called the Nationalists of the Sixth Moon, whose mission was to spread the supremacy of business culture, devotion to country, and traditional values. In short, he who was among the few to penetrate the secrets of relativity theory, allowed his conceit to fill himself so much, to the extent of being snared by dumb tricks for the simpleminded. Was he looking for a superior moral for selfishness? So many are, and willing to buy into any baloney. Poor devil, he had to face the music in front of a reality he had reckoned without. Al liked to look at himself in the mirror, but he wasn’t able to see, let alone recognize the seething of the social game. As often happens to those who join but they don’t belong, he could not see he was outside pushing the car, while the masters were cozy and warm and secured inside, and having great fun with those dunces who were striving out there for their masters’ peace of mind and happiness.
One day the CEO himself asked him to his office, and called him to account about why he was so reluctant about writing out reports. Al offered, “Sir, I have always thought this big company is a free organization, and you know that we live in a free country where the government, thanks to God and our Constitution, fears the people, which means there is liberty. So, as an employee of this free company, and a free man, I have the right to be trusted, and here I am, ready to report all you want through word of mouth”. His boss smiled, like when a grown man listens to fancy tales from a child, and rejoined, “Mr. Akew, a man of my position, shouldn’t waste such precious suggestions with his subordinates. However, take this as a gift from a man who wants to shed some light on that dark brain of yours. For your information, Mr. Akew, when the government fears the people, then, there is more control, not more liberty, you moron!!”
Damn! Al couldn’t keep up with the notion of authority. The meaning of power slipped his comprehension; perhaps he didn’t find anything like that in his interpretation of relativity theory.
Until on one fine day in spring, with blue sky and twittering swallows drawing wonderful aerobatics in the welkin—but this has nothing to do with this story, or maybe it has, since Duhbour’s meteoropathy often did funny things to him—during the final year of the past millennium, he decided to buy a motorbike. A brand new Honda CB he paid with a good part of his savings, and which nobody had really never understood what he needed it for, since he drove no more than four or five times a year. He called it his jewel, when his wife wasn’t around.
Well, there is always a wife, and, ouch, she was a central character in the play of his life. He had to face her rage and flaming arrows as soon as he went back home with his new jewel. She was fuming and threw at him all of her scorn and disdain, along with a good part of their house wares, “Why does a wimp like you want a motorbike for?” she vomited at him, along with many other insults.
So, he rushed to the closest ATM, checked his bank account and, though sniffing and sighing, he bought his wife a Gucci bag. No money was left, but he managed to gather ground and soothe her anger.
The story goes that she showed off her new posh Gucci bag, and told all of her friends that that was Al’s peace gift to reconcile after that stupid Honda CB, “…which he didn’t need either!”
It was thus that his friends started mocking him with jokes like, “Where’s your Moto Gucci?” or, “Hey Al! Why don’t we take a ride with your spanking new Moto Gucci”, or again, “Al, my, tell me. I was thinking about buying a motorbike. What about a Moto Gucci? Is it worth the expense?” and a blunt sarcastic and sneering shower was served to poor old Duhbour Akew, or Al, as he liked to be called after Angelo dishonored his prided first eastern name.
And now you know why we have Moto Gucci!!
Is anybody puzzled about Moto Gucci? Soon explained. Moto Guzzi, as many of you are acquainted with, is a famous Italian motorbike house, and its brand name was perfect to pun and make fun of Al, seeing how things went upon his unfortunate purchase.
Poor Al, his story is studded with setbacks and mishaps, insomuch that he thought his superlative intelligence and unmatched acumen were too much for such a mediocre world. All of his ideas were pure genius, but the world couldn’t comprehend them. Like when, years before, he had screwed up big business with a client because his secretary wouldn’t date him, or when he lost an order for 50K because the customer supported a football team he didn’t care for, or again, when he arrived three hours late for a meeting with the marketing director, who reacted by sending him to collect bad debt from defaulting clients for three weeks. Whoa, the things one has to stand, if you are one of the few to understand relativity theory. He had to bow down and suck up to his supervisor, beseeching him to please don’t mention anything to the CEO. As if to say, this world is hard enough on myself, must you do your breast to screw my life up anymore than I already have?
Notwithstanding, just a couple of years before he had the genial idea of buying his Honda bike, he had got the sack, officially due to internal business reorganization. He hadn’t been judged suitable for another position, and aside from his odd manners, two other factors had come out, his own sloth to move to another town, and his sloth was legendary as such. Since then, he had tried so many ways and means to become a successful businessman, as he didn’t want people to think he took pleasure at living off his wife’s expenses. He would repeat, indeed, “It doesn’t take long for a guy like me to get big. I have a plan for a new business with demand exceeding supply. Money galore, you’ll see!”
Unfortunately, all his attempts failed, and the world is still waiting to see him make it big.
He had met his future wife by chance during one of the business meetings at the company where he worked. She was there accompanying a friend who was Al’s colleague, Lara, a woman he had tried to flirt with, needless to say, unsuccessfully.
Those meetings were a festival of dullness and boredom while the boss and his cronies were making the scene on the stage addressing all with charts, inane speeches, and the rigmarole about business performance, market, sales, and blah, blah, blah. The same old bullshit carried by using the stick and the carrot, and that ended in a crescendo of frenzied enthusiasm singing praises and lauds at their ability of managing production, markets and finances. Ah, what a benevolent and merciful God we have. Yet, once the same old song was sung and sung over again, the staff and their companions were invited to enjoy a Lucullian buffet, with succulent food and noble wines. The employees eagerly awaited those banquets; many of them would go to any lengths just to be there. Numerous funny episodes had happened through the years, indeed, like when Matt informed his supervisor that he couldn’t take part at the spring summit, as his mother was dangerously ill at the hospital and his brother was disappeared. But the day of the meeting Matt was there, cheerful and foaming at the mouth, and it was thus that one of his colleagues scoffed at him, “Hey Matt! Did you kill your mother to join us here?”
He didn’t kill his mother he resorted to another option. He managed to call his flown bird brother over the phone, and told him their mother was having problems at remembering his name as she was writing her last will. Next thing, his brother was there at his mother’s bedside, shortly after noon.
But don’t get off the point, let’s go back to our subject.
The day Al met his future wife; he went to the business meeting resolute to make a further crack at dating Lara. He noticed she was sitting two rows across from him, as elegant and fiercely beautiful like never before, and glued his eyes on her like never before.
Needless to say, the minute the break signal was given, Al pointed straight ahead towards Lara, as the rest of the staff rushed to the buffet like hungry wolves to the prey. He ran after her interrupting, “Oh, Madam, I would never imagine you could be even more beautiful than You are tonight!”
Lara didn’t even have the time to look annoyed, she introduced her friend to him, as if she had taken her with the clear intention of throwing her to him, hoping this would divert his clinging attention away from her. She abruptly interjected, “Meet my friend, Minka Miasuki”, but Al was troubled by a shooting pain coming from his left arm. He turned around to find Angelo, who had pinched his biceps, breaking into a muffled laughter. Then he looked again on the direction of the two women and burbled, “Nice to meet you, Minka”, stretching his arms to shake hands like mesmerized, as if the arrows from Cupid had run all throughout his heart. A peculiar circumstance, which didn’t pass, unnoticed to Lara’s watchful eyes, who thought to herself, “This time, I have taken this pain out of my ass once and for all”, without too much regret about her friend.
But Al’s biceps was still aching, and that’s when he remembered Angelo who was standing there showing a mocking mug. Al asked, “What’s that?” while Angelo answered whirling the fingers of his right hand, as to say, “Later”, Al nodded, looking raring to know, but at the same time raring to get to know Minka better.
Then Al cast a leisurely look at Lara’s friend, who rejoined him with an embarrassed smile. She came from the east coast and was a short shapely woman in her early forties, of Polish and Japanese descent. She was ten years older and divorced, but her position as a bank officer was recommendable enough to eventually determine him to get married.
Minka is a name of Polish origin and means someone strong-willed, and although her sentimental life had delivered her bad conclusions and a remarkable successions of losing streaks, she was certainly more determined and concrete than Al, and she knew that her opportunities to catch a man to marry were desperately getting less.
Nobody cares too much about knowing how Al and Minka hooked up with each other, made their next date and so forth and so on, that’s not the interesting part of the story. The juicy thing comes when Al nabbed Angelo in a corner of the patio enjoying a smoke, after having tortured his neck stretching it out in all directions for over an hour, struggling to distinguish his colleague amidst the crowd, while entertaining his future bride talking his improbable stories stuffed with quotations and episodes stolen from someone else’s life. He offered, “Huh, very sorry Minka, please, wait me here. I am back in no time. Sorry, but I spotted a colleague with whom I have to arrange a few details of an important business I have been entrusted by the boss himself to carry on. Don’t go, enjoy your meal and wine. Back soon, promise!”
And yes, she was most likely waiting for a little quiet to enjoy her meal and wine.
“Why did you pinch my arm, dude? Anything I should know?” Al began, approaching Angelo who was sprawled on a low wall by the grass outdoor.
“Huh, well, nothing”, Angelo replied, taking a drag on what that didn’t look a regular cigarette.
“Nothing? You pinched my arm so achingly and broke into laughter, what’s that? Do I need to pull out your teeth to make you speak?”, Al insisted.
“Well, I saw you’re having a great time with Lara’s friend”
“What do I need to know?”
“You might not want to know”
“Getting real sick of your shit, Angelo”
“Whoa! Her name. The sound of her name in Italian, it’s… it’s…”
“It’s quite funny. Minka Miasuki. Huh, dude! It means that she is supposed to blow your horn”
“Blow my horn?”
“Yeah, blow your horn, your trumpet, y’ know?”
“You’re freaking me out”
“Okay, now imagine a blow”
“For example a blow of wind?”
“Not a blow of wind…”
“Ah, a blow, like when you strike a blow, boooom!!! Is that right?”
“Okay, I got it! A blow, like flowering, a flower, a blossom”
“No! You’re freezing cold!”
“Hey! Are we playing the hot-warm-cold thing?”
Angelo shrugged and sneered.
“What the hell is a blow for you?”, Al maintained
“You are blo… oh, damn, not you… Say, someone, a girl, yeah, a girl. She is blowing into a pipe”
“Ah, okay, a pipe, like a barrel”
“No, not a barrel, a tube! Well, a blowpipe”
“Ah, a blowpipe, yes. So?”
“Yes, so, she is blowing into the blowpipe and…” and Angelo faked as if he was holding a pipe with both his hands and started to blow
“Okay, she is using a blowpipe to launch a dart, a poisoned dart, yeah?”
“Whoa, no! Her name in Italian means that she is going to delight your thing with a small job”
“What is she going to do?”
“She is going to blow your what-d’you-call-it! Is that quite clear to you now?”
“Huh… And…”, Al mumbled looking puzzled
“When you call her, Minka Miasuki, it is as if you are telling her, suck my…” Angelo indicated his genitals
“All this hard work for a blow job?” Al said, and then added, “Man, quite a strange name. Hope she is not going to live in an Italian barrio, or wherever she goes to make her home”
Six months later Duhbour Akew, by now known as Al, and Minka Miasuki, got married. That day Al called Angelo aside and told him, “From now on she is Minka Akew, not much to laugh about now”
“Okay, this is good as long as you never go to Italy, live in an Italian neighborhood, frequent Italian people”
“Did you forget the thing about your name? Duhbour Akew? Hem! Remember what I told you about the sound ‘Akew’?”
“Well, that’s just an idiom from a small population in Italy, you told me!”
“Whoa no! The sound Akew is quite universal in Italy. So now, everybody who speaks Italian understands that the what-d’you-call-it is meant to be placed straight between the buttocks of your lady. Dig?”
Al’s look became pale and wan. He has never been a lucky guy, indeed.
Well, there is no more to say, Al or Duhbour, as you prefer, leads a quite dull and opaque existence, wired and snared by life, wife, and his strife.