Monday, 30 April 2007

Questions you don't answer.

As any married man can confirm, there are a few pearls of wisdom that we can give to our unmarried male friends.

Rule no 1: Do not ever answer the following question-

"honey, do these jeans make me look fat?"

If you say yes, you are SCREWED. Move straight to the doghouse, do not pass go, do not collect R200. If you say no, and her arse looks like two pigs fighting in a hessian sack, you are SCREWED. Move straight to the doghouse, etc,etc. (you know she knows she has a fat arse...what are you trying to prove?)You must avoid at all costs telling her that it's not the jeans making her look fat, it is her fat making her look fat!

Rule no 2: This question usually winds up with you getting married or in splitsville.(take your pick)

"Honey, where is this relationship going?"

Going? You did not know relationships went anywhere except to bed? Answer this at your peril.
Take a deep breath, step back from the TV and your beer and focus very clearly here. Your entire bachelorhood stands at risk here, so a careful, well considered "I dunno, " is not going to do the trick.
Let her speak first and take your cue from her. If she talks about the next level and you haven't hit the sack yet, rejoice, young man, rejoice. Your luck is in.

If you have been sleeping with your partner, and she starts asking this question, one of two things needs to happen.

a) run like hell, if you value your bachelorhood; or

b)surrender gracefully, you are heading for a church very soon.

Fear of Needles

I have to have blood drawn this morning for an insurance policy. I did not sleep last night:- visions of vampires in nurses uniforms haunted me. Half-erotic, half paranoia!

I am scared of needles. No, not scared, petrified of needles. I can't watch the vampire sticking me full of holes. If I make the mistake of looking at the syringe I go a light shade of green , start sweating and want to pass out. And this is while the syringe is still in the packet.

Why do they always want so much blood? Really- I am damn sure that there is an underground market in little tubes of blood, marketed as an appetizer in Vampire night clubs!
Sip this! Blood bomb!

I hate needles!

Tuesday, 24 April 2007

Back seat driver Road Rage

My mother picks fights with minibus-taxi drivers. That would not be an issue for me, if not for the fact that she starts shit when I am behind the wheel.

Think about it.

The Passenger is suffering from road rage. She shouts, swears, and gives the finger to any minibus taxi stupid enough to push in front of us, or drive past on the verge, or on the wrong side of the solid line!

This from a little old lady who collects toys and clothes for orphans and poor township kids. From somebody who spoils her damn dogs so badly that everybody who knows her wants to come back as one of her mutts in their next life.

Put her in my passenger seat. Bye-bye Granny. Hello Dr Jekyll, or is it Mr Hyde?

I am going to get seriously beaten up one of these days.

Tuesday, 17 April 2007


I hate standing in a queue. I hate Banks. I hate month end. Ergo, I hate standing in queue in the bank on a month end. It must be a peculiarly South African phenomenon that an obsequious Bank Clerk in her starchy uniform will wander up and down the queue, squeaking obnoxiously at every frustrated client clutching a deposit slip in his or her hand:
“Cheque deposits? Cheque Deposits?

“Why else would I be standing in a queue? In a Bank? To buy a loaf of bread and a pint of milk?
One thing guaranteed to make me paw and stamp like a Cape buffalo ready to charge is a queue jumper. Do Not Jump The Queue. I am not one of those meek souls that will watch you with gritted teeth help yourself to a spot in front of me, Nor will I stand there burning with rage, making loud remarks about queue jumpers.
O, no! I am one of those crazy people who will walk up to you and say very loudly:
“who the fuck do you think you are? Get in the back of the goddamn queue and wait your turn. I will grab you and move you!
No matter how big and tough or small and feminine you are!
You will be moved!
Don’t jump the queue!

Monday, 02 April 2007

Parking in autopilot

Don’t you just hate the fucker in the Beemer who steals your parking space? You know that space in the company parking lot. The one that does not have your name or a reserved sign on it, but which every other regular parker knows is YOURS!

You sweep in off the road, swear at the automatic boom that is not working again, swing around the corner to your spot, and THERE IS SOMEBODY PARKED IN IT! Instant frothing at the mouth! You always park there! That is your space! Doesn’t he know he cannot park there?

Parking next to the thief is just not the same. The feeling of loss and intrusion overwhelms you! Should you open the door a little harder and wider than you really need to? It is very tempting to leave one of life’s little dings in the illegal parker’s door. You get out muttering to yourself.

Your whole day is stuffed!

Too Tasty?

I have decided I must have the best blood in the world. Well, if not the best, then the best tasting blood. I can prove this assertion very easily.
Requirements for this experiment:
400 volunteers.
One auditorium
20 rolls of duct tape
One Tupperware box
One female anopheles mosquito

Take 400 people, put them in the auditorium. Put me slap bang in the middle of this group of people. Seal the doors and windows with duct tape, so that nothing can get in or out. We need to prove the validity of this experiment; therefore, no external variables must be allowed to get into the room. Place the box in the stage and open it, allowing the mosquito to get out.
Wait 1 minute.
Whom will the fucking mosquito bite?
Conclusion: I have the best tasting blood in the world.
Now only if I could find the bug spray!

There is a rat in my kitchen

Living on a plot has an upside and a downside. I love the fact that I am half an hour’s drive away from the big city, away from the freeway noise, yet being close enough to nip down the road to the Pick & Pay for groceries. I love giving my dogs the freedom to roam a large piece of ground…to be able to bark their fool heads off at all and sundry without having a neighbour calling the Metro Police about disturbing the peace.
However, the one thing that drives me wild is having rats in my roof. Great big fat hairy buggers with long tails and an up yours attitude to their human host.
I have tried everything from traps to poison to lying in ambush with a pellet gun. Nothing works.
Rat traps?. I bait the trap, (after much swearing and pinching of fingers. Whoever designs these things must be a twisted engineer), put a tasty piece of cheese on it. Where to put it? Top of the cupboards, behind the stove, in the ceiling, next to the geyser. Ha! These buggers could teach a burglar how to steal. Not one trap worked. Every morning I would check the traps. Cleaned out: no cheese, no dead rat! What I was doing was opening my fridge, taking out the Gouda in bite sized chunks and feeding these damn rodents! Rodent heaven! In the mean time, my books are being shredded for rat bedding, rat droppings everywhere!

Ok, poison. Not a good idea…these blue squares contain warfarin. Major warnings on box – do not use where pets or domestic animals can be find the stuff. MMM. How to do this? Can only be used in the roof…at least the buggers can die in the dark and stop their three in the morning jogging in my ceiling. Into the crawlspace I go, spreading blue blocks of poison as far as I can throw.
I might as well have thrown blue toilet blocks up there. I must have the toughest rats in Midrand living in my roof. I looked in about three days later when the scratching in the ceiling had not stopped…where were the blocks. Nowhere? Eaten? Gone!! No dead rats to be seen!

Desperation! I borrow my neighbour’s BB gun. Buy a box with 100 pellets in it. How hard can this be? Aim, fire, and kill the fucking rat! I did my two years national service, shot hundreds of rounds away with an R4, 7.65mm semi automatic rifle. OK, let me have a few practice shots at a tin can. Line of ten old coke cans on the wall. First three shots missed. Are my glasses dirty? Quick scrub! Shoot! Miss! Shit!Miss! Maybe if I stand a bit closer? Miss! Closer? Miss? I either am going blind or suddenly developed Parkinson’s disease? I don’t think any right thinking rat will hang around until I can press the muzzle of the BB against his skull. Shooting is out.

What about a cat? Not a good idea. I am allergic to cats. So is my Rotweiler. We exhibit different symptoms for the same allergy. I sneeze. She eats them. After chasing and killing the cat. Slowly. Exit the feline solution.

I have given up. It is the new South Africa after all,…we all need to live in harmony. I have given up collecting books, and the rats have given up eating them.