Casse-tête de tra­duc­tion

Le Gaboteur - - Traduction -

EX­TRAIT DE SWEET­LAND, MI­CHAEL CRUM­MEY EX­TRAIT DE RIGHT AWAY MON­DAY,

JOEL THO­MAS HYNES

Keith took a mou­th­ful and shook his head like a dog clim­bing out of a pond. “Je­sus”, he said. “That’s still the worst brew ever I tas­ted. Re­mem­ber what we used to call this, Barr?“

“Piss & Boots.”

“Piss & Boots” Keith re­pea­ted and they fell over them­selves lau­ghing. They were both sto­ned out of their heads, eyes glas­sy as marbles.”

“We could make a for­tune of this stuff in Al­ber­ta,” Bar­ry said. “What is it they calls it? Bou­tique bre­we­ries? They’re all the rage up there.”

“But it tastes like shit.”

“They all tastes like shit, Keith. It’s just a ques­tion of mar­ke­ting.” Cant be­lieve I put up with that fat prick long h’as I did. And the tou­rists, rich, bus­tin-at-the-seams ro­ly-po­ly pig­gies with their h’end­less stu­pi­di­ty and h’igno­rance, their h’insatiable thirst for ’umi­lia­tion. Tel­ling me

’ow cute we all is, New­found­lan­ders. H’as­kin me to say things h’again cause they just lo­ved the h’ac­cent so much, ’ow it was just to die for. Saying stuff like

’ow they wan­ted to h’adopt one of h’us. And I fi­nal­ly snap­ped and said to one couple late h’on a Sa­tur­day night: — Yeah, take a run down to B—and meet the gang. Go scrape my child’ood h’off the bed­sheets.

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