At last, a humorous, uncensored language guide to the colorful slang and rude colloquialisms that are so essential to a true understanding of everyday Italian. For the first time, all those words and phrases that were deemed off-color for the classroom are included in one volume. How can you forget your Italian teacher’s flustered face when you asked her all those words and phrases that she would never translate for you? How about when you and your fellow classmates searched in vain for the mildest expletives in your Italian-English dictionary? Did you ever wonder what the young men lining the streets of Rome were saying to the American women? Or about those outrageous hand gestures that speak more than a thousand words? Here at last is a humorous, uncensored guide to the off-color colloquialisms that are so essential to a true understanding of everyday Italian. Merda! goes far beyond those prim and starchy lesson manuals to bring you the real Italian they’d never dare teach you in school: shocking idioms . . . hard-core curses . . . scatological words for body functions and body parts . . . pithy epithets for every nasty occasion . . . detailed descriptions of insulting hand gestures . . . and much more. Now you too can take on the Italian language in its most passionate form. Roland Delicio Illustrated by KIM WILSON EVERSZ Preface Italians are friendly, right? Smiling Latins who will give you everything they have, including their mellifluous language. You couldn’t possibly imagine the Italian language—whose very grocery lists sound like an aria by Puccini—being capable of producing the vilest obscenities, right? Or could you? You are in Italy and an old man smiles and says to you, “Americani, pezzi di merda!” Of course, you smile graciously. The old paisano is praising Americans and apple pie. Wrong. He has just told you—in the most unrestrained slang—that Americans are pieces of shit. You are an attractive young lady traveling alone in Florence and an abnormally handsome hunk you met in the Uffizi is sitting across from you at a cozy table in the Piazza della Signoria, and he says to you soulfully, “Come vorrei chiavare con te stasera.” You are delighted. He looks like the beautiful Italian in Hawthorne’s novel whose title you can’t remember. You have two degrees in literature and a bad memory, but you just love all things Italian. Obviously, he wants to discuss the iconography in Botticelli’s paintings with you. Wrong. He has just bluntly said, albeit in a poetic tone of voice reminiscent of Marcello Mastroianni, that he wants to fuck you tonight. You are walking down a street in Venice (yes, there are streets in Venice) with your wife, Myrtle, who has gone recklessly to fat, when you are stopped by a delicate old lady Myrtle has just bumped into. “Quella donna ha un culo pericoloso, ” says the frail lady benignly as she looks at Myrtle’s body like an appraiser. You have heard that Italians appreciate “buxom” women, so you accept what must be a compliment. Wrong. The old lady has just said, as bluntly and explicitly as the aforementioned young satyr in the piazza, “That woman’s ass is dangerous.” You are back in the United States visiting Greenwich Village in New York City, with its still-vibrant Italian-American population. You are with your girlfriend and happen to look at a guy in a perfectly casual way. “Finocchio, stronzo!” snaps the young man in smiling contempt. You nod pleasantly and answer grazie , the only word you remember from that two-week Perillo tour of Italy you and Sheila took. The guy said something gracious, did he not? Wrong. He called you a faggot and a turd. You continue walking. Somewhere in Little Italy, two very old Italian ladies seem to be having a disagreement. “ Figlia di puttana! ” shouts the first. “ Vaffanculo! ” answers her snarling antagonist vehemently. “ Cafona! ” howls the first. “ Avanzo di galera! ” rages the second. “ Tuo padre era un rotto in culo! ” shrieks the first triumphantly. Fortunately, their respective family members break up the slight disagreement. The women are in their eighties and fragile. If their exchange had had subtitles, you would have read: Daughter of a bitch! Go fuck yourself! Peasant! Jailbird! Your father took it up the ass! Mellifluous Italian? Puccini? Wrong. Now you are blushing slightly and quickly take off with Sheila in tow. You seem to remember some of the words exchanged by the two old crones. Dave Manfredi and Joe Anzalone, buddies on the team back at old Syracuse High, used to shout words (maybe in mutilated form) that sounded very much like these at each other in the locker room after those chilly autumn games. Even the guys who weren’t Italian had learned them and kicked them around in these mutilated versions. But you were never quite sure exactly what they really did mean. Now you wish you hadn’t been frightened by foreign languages in high school and college. But even if you had studied Italian, you would