I’m a wog and this means I grow hair from many locations on my face and body, and my pubes can wrap around the Earth. It’s the price I pay for being able to make my own gnocchi. And sure, once upon a time, I didn’t care for this balance sheet. “I’m sorry,” Mum told me, “but you have a moustache and you need to do something about it.” I did what I usually do in situations where I have no control: threatened to kill everyone and blamed my parents. Continue Reading
I’m a wog. And I can say “wog” because I am one.
My father, like many other wogs, came out on a boat from the old country (Italy) in the ’60s. His father (my nonno) was an ex-soldier who fought under Mussolini and took a bullet in the butt for the Nazi cause. His mother (my nonna) is a homemaker who believes that God blew up the Challenger spacecraft because humans were trying to get “higher than Him” and blowing them up was his way of saying, and I quote, “Fuck you.”