WOLF WOLF DIE WOLF

 

There was once a little shepherd-boy.

When I was at school, I just wanted to do what the other kids were doing. In Grade 5, all I wanted were braces. My parents refused, I had perfect teeth.  

 

The shepherd boy thought he would play a trick on the villagers.

So he ran toward the village crying out, with all his might,

“Wolf! Wolf! Come and help!”

I ran into a big glass sliding door at ballet class and bashed one of my teeth out, lying in a smidge of blood and faking a hit-by-a-glass-door coma.

 

All the villagers came running out to help the boy!

 

My mom conceded to embrace my lower teeth and I was soooo happy.  I had the braces removed after the longest and most painful 2 months, because all I wanted was a standing ovation for my exquisitely transformed mouth and my brand new dramatically made-over appearance. I stood in the kitchen grinning at my dad, he smiled back at me. I grinned wider, with slightly stretched facial muscles, he grinned back. I grinned grimacing, ‘DAD! I had my braces removed!’ He said, ‘Well done’ and carried on blending a Herbal Life fruit smoothie. ‘DAD! LOOK!’ He managed a very forced, ‘OH’ with a blatantly obvious, I-had-no-idea-you-had-braces-and-am-not-entirely-sure-what-braces-are-other-than-the-2-straps-that-hold-up-Mr-Chaplin’s-pants look. ARGH! All that pain and suffering for no reason and my teeth don’t look any different at all!

But the villagers saw no wolf, told the boy to shut up and went back for a beer in the pub.

The stupid Ornotholodontist guy had left a stupid piece of metal wiring in the back of my mouth so as to keep them straight, even though they had always been straight! A couple of months later, my friend gasped at my mouth. With a slow denying gesture toward the car mirror, I toothy-grinned my reflection.

 

“WOLF WOLF!”

 

My 4 bottom teeth looked like they’d been demolished with a nuclear sized implosion. They’d fallen in on one another and caused an enamel-calcium pile up only seen in the worst devastation horror tooth movies.

 

“WOLF WOLF” screamed the boy.

 

The villagers were past out drunk and didn’t hear the screams.

 

Running bare foot in tattered clothes and my waving arms, I blasted into the Ornotholodontist guy’s rooms and demanded he fix my gobber. All he did was remove the broken wire culprits from my toofs and left me with a broken house of cardteeth. The damage is still very visible and the property market in the area has completely collapsed. Surrounding teeth have rude graffiti and broken windows on their dulling grey paint.

 

The little boy went to bed, terrified.

 

Then, all my friends were getting their Tonsils out, I never even managed to scrape up fake tonsillitis except once in London long before it had became fashionable. It was like learning the words to all the Hanson songs and then them disappearing into bad-brother-music abyss. Now, all of a sudden, bursting red pustuly tonsils were the in thing and I had nothing, not even so much as an itchy and scratchy throat after standing outside in winter with my mouth open dropping infected pebbles into it!

 

One day, like magic, my jaw locked. Thank you! Thank you for my ailment so that I can fit in the world of cool people with victim complexes, so that we can sit around our packed lunches and share our adult experiences of pain and suffering during big break, while the boys place an eternal game of touch rugby, that they are probably still playing right now in the quad, a decade later.

 

A locked jaw! ‘MOM, MOM! I need my wisdoms out. Ow ow ow, it’s so sore oh oh oh ow’

 

“WOLF, WOLF”

The villagers left their work and ran to the field to see what the commotion was this time.

No sooner said than I was lying on a hospital bed in a green, backless robe with my mama and papa standing by my side. Oh I’m so brave. Oh I’m so grown up. I hope everyone in school knows that I’m having my wisdoms out. I hope they’re all talking about it! Counting down from 10, I got to ‘Te…’and was out cold.  

The villagers watched the boy as he lay  screaming, ‘WOLF WOLF!’ in his sleep.

The next thing I remember is my father pushing me on a wheelchair, with a massive ice-cubed head gear piece wrapped around my entire face, I was totally delirious and drowsy. My dad was having a ball pushing me fast through the slippery floors of the hospital

 

Then, a ridge in the floor. Doof. Hit it.

“WOLF! WOLF!” he screamed. “Help!”

WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. My completely paralytically drugged body flew head-gear first through the sliding hospital doors – DOOF – onto the outdoor pavement. And there my dad stood, in gawking giggles at his flung child.

 

“WOLF! WOLF!”

 

The villagers took a shovel and knocked the boy out.

 

My mom and dad were in hysterical laughter. I was unconscious. Again.

The villagers feasted on a big bowl of lamb curry and howled at the full moon.

Suck on That, DOC!

 

 

I had just graduated and felt like the cement ceiling of the universe had hit me on the head. What on earth do you do AFTER graduating if you studied something that has now become the arch nemesis of your very being?

 

So, like the rest of the bumbling idiots who just kind of wonder around after their degree, in search of part-time, temporary, contract, per-hour, non-permanent work…the die-hard rumour of Cruise Ships came up as the solution of the angels.

 

Oh 6 months away on the glorious seas of hope as you work 7 day weeks, 16 hour days and have to be eternally jolly to the obese tourists belly flopping their way through the lobbyists. Fuck you cruise shits. Fuck you. Now I know!

 

Back to the funnier side of cruise ship genocide, I applied through some totally illegit dodgy company working out of offices smaller than my dildo cupboard. First instinct? Stop right there. Leave with hands in the air, drop wallet and run as fast as possible in any other direction. But no no no, suicidal cat-curiousity-girl, let’s just go in and see…

 

A ridiculous interview about my parents’ relationship, my epiladied legs and what size tampons to use, I was the pathetic victim who paid a whoppingly large sum of money just to be waiting to be on the waiting list that gets you on the waiting list that gets you on the list. I think a mob of dead mafia gangsters runs this business of Cruise Ship Hiring with their cold dusty souls.

 

With my sick sum of moola, I must now go to the doctor for a full check up as the cruisy woozy ships take no prisoners, no ex cons, no people who’ve ever had a slight cold, a bruised arm, a breakdown or any form of any ailment EVER. They even asked me when the last time I cried was and why, just to test what kind of emotional strength I have. I wasn’t going to tell them that watching Oprah with my monthly devil often induces a deluge of salty works. I am strong like cow.

 

The night before my test, I went to my bad-influence friend to hang out. She’s the girl I blame for everything and anything that I have done wrong in my life. We drank, we ate, we got high, we watched South Park, I passed out as usual.

 

At sparrow’s fart the next day, I arrived sprightly for my full check up, grateful to not be a cigarette smoker, morbidly obese or Chinese, I was absolutely confident in my health, wealth and happiness. In the queue, the lovely secretary tart asked me to piss-in-a-cup ready for my inthpection. Squat, Aim, FIRE!

 

The white coat woman looked like a family-sized suitcase that was desperate to hold in a 4 storey house under her blouse – an eruption was imminent. She beckoned me in, wearing a lipstick colour that only attractive people should experiment with as a joke at a Halloween party. Perhaps she is a temping nurse? Or the slower mentally frozen sister of a doctor? No, this is it, this woman who looks like she has the qualification of a squirrel is going to be fiddling with my bits.

 

As I walked through the doorway, my peripherals picked up feint writing in the distance, ‘We test for infection, illness, acidity and drugs’. Ok! Cool! I am good with all of those, I have paid my large sum of money to be on the waiting waiting-list list and I am healthy! Yeah!

 

Oh.

 

Oh dear. Is weed a drug? Is marijuana, grass, pot, cannabis a DRUG??

Ho – Lee – Shit! Holy shit fucker!! Oh my Jihad! WHAT HAVE I DONE!!!???

 

I had walked in looking and feeling fantastic. I felt like Belle from Beauty and the Beast in her trip to town, greeting everyone and singing, with my trousers accidentally tucked into my panties. As I digested the information on the distant sign, I had to act faster than President George BJ Bush on 9/11.

 

As she told me to have a seat, I burst into tears. ‘I have to tell you something, I really don’t know what to do *sob*…last night *gasp*… I went to a friends party *gulp* …and my friend was smoking a rolled tobacco cigarette and I don’t usually smoke cigarettes, but I felt like I was under pressure. *Close eyes so tears can fall hard and fast* …P..P..Peer pressure can be so difficult sometimes, especially at my age. So I took a few drags and…and…’

 

She got up off her chair, a minor workout for our house-boat lardlady. She put her arms around me, offering me some water and comforting me.

 

‘And…and…a few minutes after I’d had a few drags, I started feeling so sick *sniff* and I had to lie down in my friend’s room *swallow* and I really don’t know what happened, I started vomitting and I was sooo dizzy. *Short crying breaths* I think, I think someone spike…*breakdown in tears* …spiked the cigarette!! I didn’t knoooow waaaaaaa, I didn’t *choke* know!!!’

 

The woman’s shaven moustache shadow was now right in my face and I was converting all of my hysterical laughing energy into wailing tears. With my head in my hands, sobbing snot, hiccough-breathing, the woman starts rubbing my back saying, ‘It’s ok, shhh, it’s ok…’ She continued with, ‘it definitely sounds like someone spiked the cigarette. You poor thing, thank god you’re ok. You’re very lucky, you’re ok, but I hope you’ve learnt for next time.’ Wiping my face with my sleeve, I nodded and agreed to everything she said with a poor-me puppy-look.

 

Then she told me she was going to get my test results and that I must just breathe and relax and that she’s sure everything will be fine.

 

She came back in, trying to position her double-decker arse on the desk in front of me to create a ‘personal’ vibe. ‘The test has come back positive with dagga. Now, it’s come back with quite a strong sign of it which means that the cigarette must have been laced heavily with it. We’re very lucky it’s not a harder, more addictive substance.’

 

I started crying again, ‘Oh my god! I’ve never even touched a drug in my life. What must I do? How long will it take to be out my system?’

 

She looked at me, with tiny eyes that were somewhere on top of her base-caked chunky cheeks, ‘It’s ok. It’s our little secret.’ She smiled and marked off a big NEGATIVE to the drugs section on my form and I was fitted with an immaculate bill of health. Then I realised that this woman may be large, but she was beautiful and stunningly voluptuous, she was perfectly proportionate and glowed with goodness and warmth and kindness, like she was exactly who you’d want your kids going to Nursery School with. She was an angel, with wings and a halo and the tummy of a cherub’s mommy. I will call her Angela and dedicate my fluffy pillow of happiness to her. I love you Angela!

 

She gave me a big hug, where my hands got lost in the folds of her glorious angel fat. As she said goodbye, she looked at me and told me what a wonderful young woman I was and that I should really think about the type of people I was hanging out with.

 

I nodded sniffling and smiling at her sweet face of love, ‘You just never know who you can trust these days.’

 

Aim. Shoot. Score.

My Guava goes to Hollywood

PART 1:

 

Let’s get straight to it, like a poor man with a per-minute prostitute.

 

I had been with a guy for a month and we had already tried all sorts of exciting sexy up/down/in/out/wet/dry positions and god said, let it be good, and it was good. Then, last week, a little sparrow arrived on my windowsill chirping away. He sang, ‘It’s his birthday tomorrow, it’s his birthday.’ And I said, ‘Thank you sparrow, send love to your folks.’ And off he went.

 

Oh good lord, a birthday with a new relationship which is 5 shots short of serious. What to do, what to wear, what to buy, what to lick!

 

With little desire to spend my paycheck that always goes to feeding the starving and building orphanages, I had to take a nap to consider my options. In my dream an angel appeared, she was clothed in spandex with a pink whip and a petition against Eskom. I signed it. She asked me for R5 and then whispered ‘Hollywooood’ and she disappeared into a crowd of Indian dwarves

 

Hollywood! Let’s not be fooled by the shiny lights and fake boobs of the pantie-less 75 year old ladies whose wrinkled lips and tongues dangle aimless and muscle-less reaching the cold water in the loo when squatting down for pee. Let’s not be fooled!

 

Hollywood means one thing here! All off! Gone. Vamoose, Asta LaPasta baby. Shaved, plucked, ripped, torn, smooth as a baby’s…I’ll stop there. No grizzle, no forest, no 5 o’ clock shadow, no spike, no in-growns, no George Double-U. Nada! Just a warm, soft, nestling bed – an undisputable and 99% guaranteed fool proof pressie for Birthdays or Christmas or St Virgin’s day.

 

Hollywood, here we come.

 

 

PART 2:

 

There I was, with a dream in my heart and good intentions at my side, ‘Practice selfless, random acts of kindness’ they say; if a full bikini wax didn’t fit on that list, then no charity or NGO work ever could.

 

I arrived at the little beauty salon, underwearless, but still with trousers on so as not to tempt the parking guards. I wasn’t underwearless for this occasion, I always am.

 

Unfortunately my visit was uncalled for, which meant, that I hadn’t called first. Turns out, there are a lot of people who need beauty! Shocking, I know. The lady that I usually go to for my ‘trims’ or Brazilian airstrip was frantic and totally booked out for the rest of the day and for the next three weeks! I should also at this point, mention that she was deaf. The greatest waxer I had ever met, but deaf nonetheless.

 

I had driven far and drank little that morning and so my PMS that seems to last all month was in full bloom, self-pity and monogamy were on my mind as I weighed up having to buy a normal present, from his normal girlfriend, for our normal lives. OH GOD NO! So, I asked if there was anyone else who could take me and mow the lawn, but the lovely young and slightly gothic girl behind the counter didn’t speak a word of English or any other European dialect like slow-English, word-at-a-time English, are-you-stupid English. So, I resorted to my very sad and pitiful Afrikaans, ‘Is daar enige ander mense wat kan vir my vat om my bikini te doen?’ I asked with a knowing shame. So far, it wasn’t looking anything like the lesbian fantasies that I’d been having since the thought of a full-bikini wax had come to me in a dream. Then, like in the unmade fil, South African Beauty, she beamed at me…beaming. She nodded and stood up, closed the front shop door and said, ‘Kom’. 

 

Sweet Hesoes, it was happening, and all I could think of was, ‘but I haven’t shaved!’

 

It was a short corridor, the brilliantly talented deaf wax lady was working behind the first door, I felt a deep jealousy toward the lucky manwoman that was getting their back defurred as I thought of her gentle, delicate hands working ‘tuft by tuft’ so as to cause as little injury as possible. I had to accept it right there, I was with the Afrikaans goth now, it could either mean a lifetime’s worth of illegal ‘doctor-patient’ happenings, or getting my clitoris ripped out. The former was surprisingly more tempting.

She smiled and asked me to take my clothes off in her vernacular. There I stood, half naked and vulnerable at a quiet beauty salon in Cape Town with scarring and terror imminent. Had I told anyone where I was going to be? Who will keep my car? Should I call my mom? How many roads must a woman walk down, before she agrees to a full bikini wax?

 

The road to hell was indeed paved with good intentions, but the front door to hell was built with hot wax and a hairy guava.

 

 

PART 3:

 

There I lay, my gat was indeed kaal and the midsection area in question lay exposed to the elements. She tried to make small talk with her weird African dialect, but all I could do was nod and agree and giggle accordingly. In retrospect, I hope she wasn’t telling me about her dying sibling. Things started off okay, I have an exceptionally high tolerance for pain and in cases like piercings and the odd lip bite, I even quite enjoy the pumping adrenalin of it. I have a bad habit of laughing when I’m in pain, the more it hurts, the more I laugh.

 

The outer edges of the hedge are usually manageable and she got through them like a semi-professional hairdresser shaving a bald man, easy and simple. For those of you who have never witnessed nor experienced a Hollywood or any other similar case of human torture, it is waxed from the outside in, from the fine and sparse to the dense and coarse, like a magical forest.

 

I was comfortable and relaxed, shaky, but at peace. Then…a cold shudder hit me as I felt a storm cloud loom overhead. My white-faced black-haired hair-remover turned a luminous version of pale. We both knew. The next moves required her to place her full hand on my fruit so as to avoid removing any internal organs with the waxstrip rip off. A full hand on my fruit! We were arguably the same age, but she seemed younger and far less ‘informed’ by the cruel outside world. To say the least, she was innocent with no chance of parole. The tension could have been plucked with a blunt tweezer. The air was snappable and my tummy growled. Then, like a female Jesus, Grace walked in. Grace, the talk, confident, experienced, deaf, waxing deity! She jumped to stop my Afrikaans geisha from putting boiling sticky goo between my labia and yelled a beautifully impressive, ‘Nooooooo’ in midflight. I pierced my eyes closed.

 

I tried to interpret the speech that was coming out, I didn’t understand either of them, all I knew was that I needed to wee. I was lying with my legs spread eagle, a strange local foreigner girl on my left leg and a deaf waxing god woman on my right and somebody was going to have to touch my poonani.

Then, I felt a warmth on my lovely lady lips. A soft and gentle recognizable warmth, followed by some more warmth, a smaller patch of it, but still, warmth. I opened my eyes and looked down, and there, right before me, were two ladies mid-demonstration using generic larger than life sign-language, each with one hand on one lip and a wax strip in the other. In some kind of sick and twisted slow motion, they both dabbed their wax sticks onto the very curve of my womanhood, patted it dry, as they leaned to the patch and prepared for the rip. Now, for just a moment, I must mention that there is a patch on a female that is far more sensitive than the other patches. It is the top of the ‘line’, where the split ends and the worlds meet as one again, this is the patch in question. The pain is comparable to falling groin first onto a serrated spear.

Be mindful. Don’t think. Think puppies. Think…

 

R.I.P!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Rest in peace, rest in peace, rest in peace!

 

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

 

Like a well-choreographed Grade 7 dance eisteddfod, they had tugged my rug in one violent and cruel act of synchronized waxing. I was in hysterics. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. I was sure I was going to wee everywhere. Tears were streaming down my cheeks. I was in some kind of hysteria-pain-shock. I was hyper and ventilating. I hadn’t even noticed that both were now rubbing me gently down under, patting me with talcum powder, stroking the suffering skin and reading my lips, so to speak.

 

It was over. They had done it. I had done it. I was a bare naked lady. A happy consumer with a ‘lovely to touch, lovely to hold, and if you wax it, consider it gold’ finished product.

 

Then, home sweet home for the celebrations. ‘Happy Birthday baby, I have a surprise of you.’ I said in my sexiest voice as I pulled down my pants. ‘Da da da da daaaaa’ to my best royal trumpet impression. There I stood, gift in hand and grin on face, ‘Do you like it?’

 

After slight deliberation, he stared at it for a while and then looked up at me, ‘You look like a f—ing 10 year old!’

 

He grabbed his bible and left.

 

And there I lay, spread bald eagle, in my birthday suit.

 

 

 

FREE ADULT PRAWN!

ADULT PRAWN ARE DYING! And they are dying for us to free them, free them from their shackled stripper lives having to feed dozens and dozens of child prawn! How can you just watch them strip to their pinky white bare flesh on the those cheap free download sites. HOW?! They are dying for us to log in our private information and our bank details and our sexual preferences and rub ourselves in salty walty fish sauce while they peel their crusty skin off layer by layer…so that we can see their dirty cracks.

STOP THIS ABUSE! STOP THIS ABUSE! No body, no land body, no air body, no sea body, NO BODY should have to be a victim of unconsenting PRAWN.

I just wanted a little glimpse at some fish! And I googled it and what did I find! PRAWN! Everywhere! PRAWN PRAWN PRAWN! Prawn by the kilogram, Prawn by the bucket load! Prawn specials, Prawn Platters! Prawn combos and Prawn on Prawn sites! WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE WORLD WITH SO MUCH PRAWN!

Please please free adult prawn from this terrible future of slavery in the online prawn industry. These prawns are being abused! STOP ABUSING FREE ADULT PRAWN! Stop it! They are just crusty asians like their crabby brothers. How would you like to be exploited, even tongue licked by sick sick viewers in the middle of the night who stare at their screens waiting for the download to complete their full length videos of adult prawn.

Let me just tell you something mister prawnographer addict! If you so much as look at one child prawn, you will die! DIE DIE DIE! Child prawn should be eaten not stripped! You’re a SHRIMP PIMP!

Everybody together: FREE ADULT PRAWN FREE ADULT PRAWN!!!

Amen.

Rome Shmome

PART 1

 

Midnight in Pisa. Brr. Perhaps the tower is just leaning so it can be close the fire. It was an icy and disturbing night at the Pisa Central. We were at the beginning of our long journey home. A train from Pisa to Rome. A train from Rome to the airport. A long flight to Doha and then a longer connecting flight home. A total travelling time of 36 hours with no sight-seeing or eyelash-batting time. With only a handful of Euros left, we were booked on the 2am-not-so-bright-hours-of-Sunday-morning-o-clock train to save on additional accommodation.

 

2 hours early for our first train, in a dingy station made up of people that could have been extras in Alien. There was a fully kitted army sergeant, groups of only-eye Muslims, some Chassidic Jewish tweens and of course…a nun or a well-dressed prostitute, one can never be too sure. I thought I was at ground zero. That this was it, that I would be the very first ashes of the mushroom cloud. Don’t look, don’t talk, play dead.

 

Then, a familiar shiver, the unmistakeable need to wee! WHY NOW?! WHY HERE?! WHY WHY WHY is one boob bigger than the other, WHY?! A half an hour debate took place whether it was worth going to find a toilet, who should go first or if we should both go with our 900Kg pulley-less bags. No, one at time, her first. I loved her, but the fish were biting and we were both bait. She was off. I waited, huddled, staring into the depths of my own retina trying to avoid eye contact with all major and minor religious groups around me and concentrating on flexing my lemonade muscles.

 

She came back, poltergeist-pale with the bottom of her long trousers drenched and the look of a 5-year old experiencing regret for the first time, knowing they had just done something very very wrong. ‘Don’t do it’, she said trembling and digging in the bags for clean trousers, ‘Just…don’t’.

 

Now curiosity as well as an exploding bladder was killing me. I got up and sprinted faster than an Italian stallion who had been caught having sex with a man’s wife and sister at the same time. I followed the universal picture of loo, not male or female specific, just loo.

 

Behind door number one ladies and gentlemen? A little room, similar to one you see in the opening scene of Saw, only this one had a mustard-coloured liquid layering the floor. I’ll keep it in, I thought, feeling a little starting to trickle down my thigh. NO, I CANT! I MUST I MUST I MUST! And I did! And it was wonderful. The most horrendous stench of old Italian urine now blended with the fresh perfumed dilution of mine. Ah, to be young, desperate, willing and able!

 

PART 2

 

We got on the train, found an empty bunker and put my phone alarm on for 5.55am, with the train arriving at our station at 6am. Cuddling for warmth, we passed out, tired eyes and empty bladders, safe at last. A couple of hours into our quiet meditative slumber, a stinky, buffalo-shoe wearing, hair sprouting from weird moles, sweat-bathed man climbed into our bunker. He woke us up with very obvious gropes looking for a cuddle-snuggle on the midnight train. ‘No no no’, we both mumbled. His hands went up in the defensive ‘it-was-an-accident’ position. With every half-asleep push away, he would try again moments later. Just let us sleep Stinky Man! Stop it! STOP IT! *WHACK* Finally, he got the message as my friend elbowed him in his willy and we all fell asleep, hopefully with a little internal bleeding on his side.

 

In an exhausted daze, we woke up at a station in Rome just before 6am, but we thought we were going to the main one, Roma Termini and this certainly wasn’t it. We asked the Stinkman if the train was still going to Roma Termini and he replied, ‘Si Si Termini Si’ along with the hand motion of ‘next’ so we thought Oh it’s the next stop and stayed on the train in a delirious haze-state, waiting for the next stop. The next stop wasn’t it and nor was the one after and so we asked him again to which he said, ‘Si Si 8 o clock Roma Termini Si’. OHH, it arrives at Roma Termini at 8! I hesitated, slightly worried about missing our flight. My friend convinced me that the train obviously went AROUND the whole of Rome and then came back again and I was like, ‘Oh Ok’. Great, we can go back to sleep for a couple of hours instead of waiting in the ice-cold Italian morning. It’s a half an hour trip to the airport from Roma Termini and with our flight leaving at 12 noon. that works out perfectly! Great! Well done Stinky Man!

 

After a nap and some more attempted fondling from the Dodge, we woke up at quarter to 8. We got up and looked outside our bunker. Our eyes had to get used to the bright light. Our eyes also had to get used to the landscape. Things started looking a tad suspicious…rotting houses with smoke coming out of them, anorexic dogs and gross fly-swarmed mounds of litter covering dirt land. This was definitely NOT Rome.

 

After a minor panic and the #(%$^ idiot in our bunker now nodding, ‘Si Si Roma Termini 9 o clock Si’, we both dashed off in opposite directions looking for someone who spoke a sentence a little longer than SI SI ROMA TERMINI FUCKING SI! After knocking on windows and waking whole families, we were on the heart attack side of anxiety. Then a little Chinese girl who had watched our antics said, ‘Napoli Termini’!!! NAPOLI!! Isn’t that a type of PASTA!!!!! Oh my god, we’re about to arrive in Naples and are over 2 and a half hours away from our first 6am stop that was at the right station!

 

It was now 8.45 and we were about to arrive in Naples with no money and we were supposed to check in in an hour and a half!! We jumped off the train the second it stopped at 8.46 and by absolute fluke, at that instant, there was one going in the opposite direction leaving at….8.46 – we had 60 seconds to swap trains and get seated without having a chance to check if it was the right train. The conductor asked for our tickets, I gave him our last ones and threw an unbrushed toothy flirt-smile. Oh? This is not the right ticket? But we just bought it? We have no money? We’re pretty girls and have boobs? Oh, we can stay for free? Gracias!

 

With our sweet smiles and fake ignorance, we got away without paying the 30 euro each ticket. And somehow, they took another route which only took an hour and a half – but it still meant we arrived at Roma Termini at 11.20, leaving 40 minutes to travel a half an hour journey with ten minutes to find check-in, go through security and board! We jumped on the first available train and got away with not paying that ticket either, oh to be a female travelling is just not fair on menboys. We arrived at the airport after boarding time had ended; I had to ask a stranger to help with my dead-buffalo-heavy bag. The stranger’s name was Jesus. I said, ‘Oh thank god you’re back!’

 

We were outrightly refused to even check in; all the desks had closed centuries ago. We ran up and down, boobs jiggling, bags flinging, accidental farting and eventually, the man who had completely refuted gave in to our whinging minge, but it turned out 5 Arabic men had arrived late for the same flight and no one was going to say no to them. The guy who got us through? His name was Christian. Nice try! But I’m still an agnostic cynic. With a marathonesque finish, we got on the plane the minute it was supposed to take off.

 

We sat down, dripping with sweaty brows and underarms, thirsty for any form of alcohol, exhausted and hungry, but more relieved than after my Italian Crouching Wee experience. Still having learnt no more than ‘Si Si Roma Termini Si’, the Captain welcomed everyone in Italian. Moments later, a female with the English translation, ‘Hello and welcome and…the flight is delayed until further noticed.’

 

Obviously.

Colonic Hydrolic

Being a female in the mod con world of sex drugs and parole, usually always come with one common universally unifying factor, excess weight and the social demise that comes with it.

 

In this big world, green is the new Nike, hurricanes virtually host the weather report; people are cold and hungry and life is cruel; a time when we need to come together to save the planet and work the land and preserve our Earth…and the most important thing, above all else, is being skinny. Soooo skinny that you can post myself, and Postman Pat can sling you over his shoulder with his happy cat.

 

I am just about to reach my quarter-life crisis birthday, if, of course, I live to…(hold on 24 x 4… um…I’ll get there…20 x 4 is 80, and then 4 x 4 is 16…so 80 plus 16 is…94! Right 94!) …if I live to 94, unless of course, I eat myself into a shallow grave full of pudding or if I just quit eating altogether and pray to Gandhi Wandhi and rot away in the pits of Manic Obsessive Obese Hell!

 

In this story, I was still in pre twenties and I had just discovered the unbearable life of quitting eating. I thought, well, if I want to be patted and posted by Patman Post, then I must do it cold turkey and eat nothing but cold turkey. It is a small price to pay for the ability to fly like paper in the wind – unlike those curvy girls. Oh no, those curvy girls with real female bodies who enjoy mud wrestling and sumo sandwiches, no no no, they will die lonely and fat and with warts on their nose, because FAT = WITCH. ‘Fat witch die, fat witch die’ they shouted to Joan of Arc’s obese sister as her blubber boiled and they all enjoyed a lovely roast after the celebrations.

 

Basically, I pretty much royally fucked my body up in a couple of weeks of eating only cold turkey and cucumber. My insides were screaming, ‘Give me deep fried chicken NOW!! I want deep fried battery-grown, leg-growing-from-beak, suicidal crumby chicken! NOW!’

 

My digestive system had quit on me. It had out rightly refused to carry on working. The previously functioning sewerage system was now…out of order. With a broken removal van, the whole city of my body started wasting away. Acne that could be mistaken for puss-filled bubble wrap, limbs so weak I could barely lift 2 hamburgers. Oh woe is me! I am worried that this is the very end of my little life. Oh daddy of mine, if the cranes cannot life me, I am happy for you to set fire to me right here and burn me. Die, Fat Witch Die.

 

He took me straight to his friend the Colonic Hydrotherapist. This is one of the very special professions where someone has actively chosen this as a career, gone to university and then specialised in the art of poo-pumping and opened their very own practise to allow for many people of all shapes and buttocks to come and release their foul beast bowel feast.

 

It began. ‘Make yourself comfortable’. No. No I can’t. You’re about to drive straight into a one-way only alley and I’m not sure I’m entirely happy about this. What about we go for dinner and then to a movie, get to know each other a little and we’ll go from there? How does that sound? No? Alright. I’ll try it your way.

 

A kind warning of, ‘It might be a little cold’ and *cough*, we’re in! OH MY GOD! I think you accidentally rammed an apple into my don’t-look-me-in-the-eye eye, TAKE IT OUT! TAKE IT OUUUUUTT!!! Mommmmmmmy. Somebody call my mommmy. I want to go back to the warm place of womb where I was safe and nobody could shovel me with a cold, metal rod!! Waaaaa!

 

Great, how lovely, the kind doctor decided to make small talk while going about her business, or rather while doing my business for me. She started, ‘Oh you should meet my son, he’s visiting for the week! He’s 6 foot and has just graduated. You guys would get on so well!’ Cool. I’m so in, but talking about it right now? Is that entirely necessary? ‘I know! Could I give him your number and you could show him around?’ Totally! I’d love to, whatever you say, just stop waving your cold, flagless stick around in me! I agreed to a blind date while a woman was rearranging my organs.

 

For a very quick specialised medical lesson, this simple and effective procedure works like this. Water is flushed in, gunk is pulled out. Lovely to think about, no? And if you’re very lucky, some doctors may have see-through tubes so you can see your codswallop pass by on its own little waterslide. Very fancy doctors may even wrap Christmas lights around the tube to give your dingleberries a sense of celebration at it exits. A celebration!! Hoo-ha!

 

After finally accepting what I was going through, I calmed down, made jokes at the tord’s various appearances and almost starting to enjoy the whole excavation. Then. Blackout! What’s going on! What’s happening! Are we under attack? Oh my god! There’s something stuck in me! Oh wait, that was there before. Somebody put the lights back on!! The lovely lady tsk’ed and said, ‘The switch keeps tripping, let me just go and flip it back on, I’ll be back in a jif’. Ooohhh OK. I’ll just wait here? In the dark, like this. And off she went. There I lay in the pitch-black, facing the wall, back to the door with a large transparent glow-in-the-dark tube that wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

 

Like the early days of stop motion animation, where each frame tells a story in itself, the following happened.  

 

A small breeze. The door was opened. She must be back. 

‘Mom, are you here?’ I heard.

Oh cheese and rice and cod and brother hairy, save me! There’s someone else here. Don’t move. He can’t see anything, but the glowing tube. Don’t…

Light’s On!

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKK!!! Fuck fuck fuck fuckity quack fuck! Don’t breathe. Don’t turn around.

It was as if the underworld had grabbed me and was tugging me down with its razor-laced blood-dripping claws, one limb at a time.

‘Oh, sorry Sir’, the voice said.

I blocked my throat and in my closest and deepest Mr. Bean impression I mumbled, ‘It’s ok!’

 

For moments, I lay ready to be buried, quite literally having died from mortification. She returned apologising for her delay, but her son is visiting and had popped by to say hi. “Oh really, that’s great!’ I forced. She pulled the pipes out and let me get dressed, chatting away about how she was so excited for her son to meet me.  

 

I was shuddering with thoughts of him first seeing the luminous tunnel attached to my derriere, then to the lights coming on to a full, unforgiving back-view to him calling me Sir!!! Sir?! What!? I want a dark well to plummet down. We walked out her office, she was describing her findings in acute detail and tell me when I should come for my next appointment. I was still shaking and couldn’t concentrate on anything, while digging in my bag for my car keys. Found them! Then, the little professional stool sucker lady put her arm around my shoulder, as she shouted to the gorgeous man sitting on the waiting chair.

 

“Mark! This is the girl I was just telling you about!”

 

Dying. Dying. Dead.

 

 

 

 

Fun at the HIV Clinic

 

Give me an H (H) Give me an I (I) Give me a V (V)! What does that give you? EITCH-AY-VEE! And what does that give you? AIDS! Well, now, that’s debatable!

 

I suffer from an acute case of political incorrectness. In a court of law, with my hand on the first Harry Potter book, I solemnly swear, ‘I am a good person, but I do like to laugh. In or out of a propriate. Amen. Oh and Voldemort is a demon in the bedroom.’

 

It was a happy day. The birds had shut up from their incessant wrist-slitting chirping and I hadn’t gotten up to pee all night. Not even once. Oh yes, it was a day of miracles!

 

I had just fallen in love; you could even still see the bruises on my knees. I jumped out of bed after 17 snoozes, ate breakfast while standing on the scale and threw on my very sexy gym clothes, black baggies and an old t-shirt donated by the winner of The Biggest loser. Let’s go let’s go let’s go! I’m a gym girl, yes I am, woo! Go team! SHUTUP INNER VOICE!

 

Jogging at a walking pace, fantasizing about my new man, my brain started sawing its way out and hitchhiked to a very very dark place. I wonder if he’s been tested. Have I been tested? When was the last time I was tested? Have I been with anyone since then? Should I be worried? Why did Bambi’s mom have to die? Bambi is probably dead by now or the oldest deer in the world! I should get tested again. I can go next week. But what if I’m positive, I should go sooner, I… And with that last thought, DOOF, missed a step, head first onto the handlebars. I gotta go!

 

Every time I’ve taken a friend to get tested, I’d volunteer to go as well because I’d had unprotected sex with 593 people, men, women and hermaphrodites (slight exaggeration).

 

Nerves had kicked in and built a nest in my wind pipe as I walked into the clinic. YAY! Free condoms! Grab grab grab. And they aren’t even the ones that the Government accidentally stapled. After trying to transfer my rubber acquisitions from one hand to the other so that I could put my name down, the receptionist gave me a box. I said my name was Jeremy. A girl named Jeremy, too obviously a lie?

 

I waited for half an hour before I went even though there wasn’t anyone else there. I think they wanted to give me the allusion of busy-ness. I’m fooled ya’all, you got me, you’re busy!

 

I was called in, it felt like the principal calling me personally over the intercom announcing that my dad had come to fetch for my colon cleanse.

 

The young consultant started with quick questions, ‘Have you been tested before bla bla bla, how often do you have sex bla bla bla, what’s your favourite position bla bla bla’, the usual makes-you-really-think oral examination. Then there was a quick prick and all the formalities were out the way. 15 minutes until the results are out. Just enough time for 2 cigarettes. But I don’t smoke. Enough time to go through every possible outcome and scenario, have an anxiety attack and conceive 15 children.

 

I got up to leave the little room and wait outside. The chipper chap stopped me, asking me what I did for a living. I told him. OH! His eyes glowing at the prospect of me snatching him from out of his pre-HIV-test-consultancy per-hour job and saving him! ‘I’d like you to read something’ he said. WHAT?! I just had a fucking needle in me testing me for a life-threatening disease, you are stealing my 15 minutes of WHAT-IF time and you want me to reeeead something?!! Do you know where we are?!! Do you know what your job is?!! Do you know how many calories are in a kilogram and you want me to reeead something??

 

I managed to get out, ‘Er, W-w-w-hat is it?’

He smirked, ‘It’s a play I’ve written. I’m looking for a producer. Can you read it and see if you like it?’

‘What’s it about?’ I asked.

‘It’s a Zimbabwean musical!!’

‘Oh. Um. Could I perhaps read it when I come back, after I’ve got my results?’

Despondently he said, ‘Ok lady! Come back in 10 minutes’

 

I’d lost 5 minutes of my feel-sorry-for-myself time. I walked slowly to the bathroom. I tried really hard to look into the mirror and find something deeper, more meaningful. Nah, what the hell! I wonder what they have in the vending machine. A minute had passed in what seemed like a millennium-long, scream-filled space/time vacuum. I was twitching and cold, I thought I had rigor mortis.

 

Finally! Time to go back. Oh my whatever-is-the-right-religion’s God. Help me. Protect me. Let things be ok. If I’m positive, I’ll be a pioneer of the Virus, I’ll motivate school kids and college students, I’ll climb Everest and show how you can be positive being positive. And dear holiness guy, if I’m negative, I’ll never ever ever have sex again!

 

I walked in and the guy is sitting at his little desk talking with his back to me. And then I realised, HE WAS ON HIS PHONE! He was llaaauughinng and having a good time while the future of my bodily planet was in his hands!! EXCUUUSE ME?! He looked at me and gave me the hand! He gave me the hand! Wait, I’m busy it said. Wait, I’m talking to my fried on my phone and we’re having fun!! Oh yes, yes yes yes, I know your results but I’m not going to tell you because YOU didn’t read my Zimbabwean musical! So now you can wait! That’s what THE HAND was saying! I need to know my results!! Just tell me! Just tell me!! And get off your $%^P(*^ phone!!!

He told his friend to hold and then he looked at me and said, ‘You’re fine’ and carried on with his call!! ‘You’re fine’ THAT’S IT! That’s all I get? No hug, no congratulations, no use a condom, no nothing? I stood there unearthed as he reached into the draw with one hand and waved the tube in my face so I could see for myself.

 

Ok, thanks. Thanks nice man who has really made this a fantastical experience for me. Fun fun fun at the HIV clinic. Come on everybody, come and have fun with Bozo who’s on the phone and has written an international bestselling Zimbo singalong! Come on! Free tests, get your free tests today! Party tiiiiime!

 

I motioned to the door, forgetting the hard-arse in me who would have usually erupted at the incident, but considering the sensitivity of this particular issue, I was genuinely shaking with nervous laughter. Then, of all unacceptable things to say and do, Bozo, the clown consultant, tapped me on the shoulder waving some paper in my face, ‘So, are you going to read this?’ Am I going to read it? AM I GOING TO READ IT!? I nodded, thinking what a wonderful firestarter it would make when I burn down his devil-ridden soul! I snatched it and left the office snarling.

 

There was now quite an impressive sized queue at the front desk. I walked toward the exit, head held high, desperate to get to the car.  The receptionist after shouted at me, ‘Jeremy! You forgot this!’ I turned around and saw her grinning at me waving something in her hand. And that very moment, it felt like I had farted while making an announcement at school assembly. I stopped. I looked at her. I looked at everyone now glaring at me. And with one quick move, I stormed back toward her, grabbed my box of free condoms and left!

 

Ask a Stupid Question…Get a Seat in Hell

I was in heat that made my boobs slap together like wet, golden cymbals. I was part of a film crew ‘on location’ far from home. It had already been a horrendous waking nightmare of car accidents, injuries, hurricanes and the drunk gay stand-in humping the hot nanny in the pool of our very motelish hotel. Oh it had been an adventure alright.

 

My job? Well, I’d had a few. The first AD had a bit of a thing for me and so kept making sure that when one contract ended, I had a new one…nearer him. Oy Vey as the Joo-ish people say, Oy Vey indeed.

My job on this tit-drippingly hot day, Cast Coordination. Oh the joys! Oh the bountiful pleasures of coordinating 400 extras, NONE of which who had the decency to ever learn Great Britannia’s mother tongue. I mean, so what, so you can’t afford an education, I mean, I know you can barely pay for food or shelter in your should-be-illegal-to-live-in-these-conditions squatter camps, but for God’s sake, have a little decency, learn the way of the Brits goddamit. I mean, why on earth should I, privileged, educated, not-ever-disadvantaged, why should I learn your language? I mean, it doesn’t make any sense, you are so spoilt. I spit, spoilt. Oh, to be a flagrant vagrant…!

 

So, there I was, eloquent and well-dressed and there they were, all 400 of them, in torn old clothes (excellent job wardrobe department), thirsty, tired and very poor, working a 16-hour day to earn a pathetically small amount of money. Pathetic, really. The only reason the film crew had chosen this spot in the depths of Africa was because of the cheap labor and to have sex with monkeys. Um, the latter is not 100% true. So, my job was to get all of their details: height, shirt, trouser and shoe sizes.  Easy enough. I also wanted to keep them in high spirits through the tedious work, or rather, keep high spirits in them. So, I had a secret stash of cheaper-than-free vodka. Poison, I’m sure, but wondrously effective in causing acid-like hallucinations to make the time go by. On our breaks, we laughed as they taught me their African language and I forgot the horrid torrid weather for a while.

 

The sun was violent with its laser heat by midday, I thought my skin itself was going to clamber off my body and go and bathe in the marsh mirage with the elephantoms.  Hot hot hot. Blisters started emerging on my lips, a very effective Botox replacement! Half my nose scraped off, burnt and bleeding. Cheaper than plastic surgery! My tongue and throat were like sandpaper trying to make a fire in my mouth. HOT!! And my pale complexion reddened minute by minute, damaged and ageing from the cruel rule of the African sun! You’re a bully, sun! A pimple-faced bully! I was HOT! And my African counterparts? Laughing, dancing, stripping and unconsciously tipsy with a perfectly-even lineless tan! Why God! WHY ME!? Why do I get burnt with uneven bikini lines and blistery lips. WHY?! Oh. Wait. Um. Oh. Right. I remember. Nevermind. All’s fair. Forget it. Sorry to bother! Love to your wife!

 

I was about over half way in the queue, and pretty pooped. So pooped in fact, I was doing an impressive would-be-foxtrot trying to stand up straight. My frustration levels had gone higher than Willy Wonka’s elevator. I could only communicate in violent hand gestures and a very broken combination of their must-not-be-named language and mine. Directly translated, I was saying, ‘How long is your weight? How tall are your feet? How much is your shortness? How big is your bodytop?’ END IT! END IT ALL. 1, 6, 19, 54…how many people to go? Need a drink. Need a rub. Need a good shag. Oh wait, I just had one. Sorry, time juggled.

Typically, as a consumer of the dialect of Her Highness, when trying to speak another language, my tone may sound like,’ I’M TALKING YOUR $%^&* LANGUAGE! ARE YOU $%^&*%$ HAPPY NOW!!? ARE YOU! YOU DIRTY DEAD DILDO! DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND ME YOU IDIOT!!?’ Yes, it may come across as arrogance, perhaps, but the truth is, I’m just very ashamed that I can’t communicate in any other way, at all. AT ALL!

 

I was racing through the queue now, if I finished in time I could go and play pool with the sexy French cameramen who could speak English. Who’s next? A man was pushed forward in a wheelchair. I greeted him, trying very hard to focus on the task and not show any sympathy or acknowledgement, trying to treat him normally, making him feel normal. Oh the pitiful human race. What has television taught you. NOTHING!

 

I spoke my unforgiveable samples of his language asking the questions which I had almost perfected. I asked him, ‘How tall are you?’ He shook his head. Of course, he was in a wheelchair, it didn’t matter. Next question! Don’t show emotion. Think French man fondling. Just act normal. Treat him the same, ‘What size shoe are you?’ No reply. Deep breath. Asking again, now with hand gestures, ‘WHAT (gesturing with shoulders that I’m asking a question) SIZE (putting hands together as if measuring a fish) SHOE (lifting up my foot) are YOU? (pointing to him)? No reply. Feeling my blood boiling to vapor and my heart rate matching the Hulk doing a cardio workout, I looked to the guy who had been pushing him. ‘WHAT SIZE SHOE IS HE!!!!??? ASK HIM.’ The pusher stared at me blankly. ‘SHOEEE SIIIZE. WHAT? SHOE? HELLOO? DOES ANYONE UNDERSTAND ME?!’ Louder now, ‘HOW BIG ARE YOU FEET?!!”

 

Then. With a horrified sadness, as if Oprah had called me personally to tell me that she had put all the weight back on. The old man in the wheelchair shook his head, looking down. I followed his eye line. My heart atrophied. The heat had frozen around us. The tiny hairs on my lip bleached themselves. I felt a torrent of vomit surge upwards looking for an exit wound. As I looked down, I saw that this quiet, honest and simple man…was an amputee.

 

Ring Ring, Ring Ring

 

‘Yes, Hello’?

 

‘Hello ma’am, Front Desk here. Congratulations! Your place in hell has just been confirmed!’

 

MAN WITHOUT A CAUSE

I have a funny kind of bad luck with all sorts of medical practitioners, ones that prod genitals, bums, ears, but this one was a mouth-prodder of the dentistry kind.

 

I have always loved dentists; my dentist for the last forever has been the same cuddly, balding, baby-powder smelling, sweet sweet huggable man. The last time I went to him, though, he was a bit distracted and aged and didn’t really do anything and so my lifelong attachment to him was severed.

Then, a few days before a trip overseas, the toothache fairy damned me and my very soul! The she-devil fairy cursed the 4 corners of my mandibled hole! With no over exaggerated description, I was in clear and present pain.

 

Near my house, having driven past it for almost 10 years now, is a dental surgery, an ‘In case of emergency 24-hour dentist’ and I was leaving in 2 days time. This was indeedy emergency time and it seemed like a lovely house on the outside and so I phoned and booked barely able to swallow my own saliva.

 

I arrived clock-perfectly, knowing that without fail, every practicer of medicine around the expanding universe, runs late, unless they don’t have other clients because they are so awful. He had another client and ran late, I was relieved.

 

Then it started, the chamber of horrors worse-than-a-ghost-tour-in-a-cemetery. Makes me gag just thinking about it. I followed him into his orifice-like-office. An old piece of material hung over the doorframe so as not to close the door and keep fresh air in, but right on the otherwise of this fabric, was the highway. Incredibly fresh.

 

As I sat in his chair I got a vivid and appalling view of thick dust glistening in the sunlight of the window-door thing and even more clearly, from under the chairlight. I should mention that my last trip to a dentist other than my old out-of-it man was in London, at a high-end highly-technologically advanced practice with a warm and intuitive man who just knew exactly what was wrong and why. I was now in a dentist chair made somewhere in the days when the Bible was first published.

 

I wish you could see my face while writing and remembering this: my nose is curled up and my eyes frowning with a stupid grin on my face, it’s like looking at a severed arm with maggots crawling on it and a man eating the maggots.

 

Also, I am a friendly person. Always. It’s a bad bad habit and has got me into trouble. And so even when I am slightly quiet or nervous or contemplative, I am still nice and do my best to make someone else comfortable. So I really was doing my level best not to show my shock at the state of the place.

 

Sitting in the chair I see paint-worn walls and weird memo’s stuck all over the place, not the usual certificated and accoladed wall one usually sees in the medicine profession. At least put up a Grade 4 Hockey trophy, anything! Anything to show me you excel at something! There was nothing, nothing but his kids’ pictures – sweet – but not what I wanted from a man who is about to touch my shallow insides. Still I forgave it, kept me gentle natural smile and waited for the treatment, while grimacing inside.

 

He told me to lie back and open my mouth, comforting – words I appreciate from both my boyfriend and a professional mouth person. He didn’t ask me what was wrong, that should have been my first warning sign. No, actually, the dangling fabric should have been my first warning sign. That should have been my tenth.

 

Jingles of metal pieces touching broke the silence and things seemed normal again. I have a firm belief that dentists and doctors alike should always ‘walk through’ what they’re doing, step by step or at least ask the patient if they’d like them to. Being that vulnerable to a stranger’s prods welcomes comforting imformation. With this man, not a word! Not a powerpoint presentation, not a little jig and not the slightest mention of any kind of brief explanation, NUH-THING!

 

He started dabbing an ice cold instrument, tooth by tooth, as he moved to the back I started wriggling a bit, knowing that the MAIN FUCKING REASON I WAS THERE WAS BECAUSE OF TOOTHACHE!!!!!!!!!!!!! I said uh-uh as he got to my back molars, and moved my head to get him to stop. Then, he did it, he placed his piece of frozen cold metal onto my back tooth and I sccreeeeeeammmed, I howled in a deep otherworldy state of pain. I don’t remember ever experiencing such an awkward sharp stab that felt like it went all the way to my unconscious core! The roar ended and I was gasping for breath and some kind of redemption from almost life-threatening discomfort that he had just caused.

And him? He humphed behind me, irritated that I, the patient was not having a jolly time in his irresponsible hands. ‘Let me try again’, he had the audacity to ask. ‘Um…my teeth are very sensitive at the back’ I reacted quietly, but quickly, my animal instincts starting to kick into survival mode. Try again! Are you out of your blood-stained cowboy-pyjama filled mind!!?

 

Ah, finally, a word of wisdom. A suggestion to take an X-Ray. Good fucking idea! Now that I’ve been dangled off a cliff by the salivating teeth of starving wolves, yeah, let’s take an X-Ray!

 

Oh, what a surprise, an old X-Ray machine that can only display images, but can’t actually print them. Very clever doc! So now a patient can’t take their X-Rays with them or show them to a qualified dentist and get the appropriate work done! An uncomfortable photo-taking time, the chords of the machine got tangled and I had to bend my neck in a mangle fashion. He pointed out various things on the X-Ray that didn’t mean anything to me, he didn’t explain anything at all, just used very foreign jargon with no explanation. I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t said much since the coma-inducing backtooth stab.

 

Then. The unbelievable happened.

 

After his totally uninterpretable X-Ray demo, there was silence, his back turned to me. I was kind of angry. I was kind of irritated. I was kind of in pain. And I was kind of getting impatient. None of which I let show, or so I thought. This man, turned around and started yelling at me! He accused me of judging him and wriggling in the chair! And how could he do his job if I didn’t do mine?! Oh he was angry, oh he was mad! He shouted that my teeth will cost me R16 000 to fix (+ $2500) and that he was the only one who could do it so I have to put up with him! So what, so he didn’t have a lot of awards or certificates or that it wasn’t a fancy office (these are his words now)! So what! Why should it make a difference!

 

He ended his rant and there was silence again. Have I mentioned that I am 23? This man was at least last forties, early fifties. Not really a point, but you see the oddity of this outburst. Also, I’m a pacifier, a conflict avoider, a I’d rather you think you win than us fight about it type of person.

 

I stood up and said quietly, ‘I am a new patient of yours. It is your job as a dentist to make me feel comfortable. It is your job to ask me if I’m ok, not the other way around. I came to you for a service, of which, you have done nothing useful. You hurt me and didn’t so much as comment. It is not my job to make you feel good, competent or secure, how dare you shout at me?

 

Silence again.

 

He sat down shaking his head. Then he put his head in his hands, I wasn’t sure if he was going to grab a knife or bash my head into the cupboard. Then he spoke, again. Gently. Peacefully. He said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry I shouted. I’m sorry I took it out on you. Please forgive’

 

WHAT THE #$(&^% was I supposed to do!

 

I was on the verge of tears, an unlikely cliff for me to be on. What had just happened!! What?! What is going on!

 

Then I, and I am so angry with myself for this, so deeply angry, asked how much I owed him for the session. I was in such a weird headspace, I just wanted to get out. He said R760! (+ $100). For what? For damaging my teeth and my little fragile heart?! Ha! And for a pathetic X-Ray that he couldn’t even print and give to me! For what?! So I paid!! I know! I paid!! I’m so mad about it! The greatest character flaw of my life so far! I paid so I could leave! ARGGGHH!!

 

The weird thing was, other than the whole insane fiesta that had just taken place, was that he said I could pay him in his office through his Paypoint with my Debit card. So I did. On the way to the airport the next day, his secretary called me asking me to pay, I laughed and told her to speak to her boss, turned my phone off and thought nothing of it again!

 

Until…today.

 

I was in the shopping mall and I saw him. We walked past each other. I knew who he was instantly and I could see he didn’t recognize me at first, but greeted me with a smile knowing he knew me from somewhere. I stood at the bottom of the escalator as he got on it. And as the stairs went up, his smile slowly faded and he turned to look at me again with a look of absolute horror and despair. Because…we both knew what he had done.

Dates To Remember

I’ve been told a few times that I have a silly habit, that sometimes for no reason in completely the wrong situations, I just sit and snicker, giggling at my own thoughts, getting lost in ridiculous memories or imagining situations turning into circus-worthy events. This is the one that made me snicker today.

 

NIGHT 1:

 

There I was at the fancy pancy Edinburgh festival of 2 thousand und 7 with my very own show. How exciting, how lucky! Until, of course, one must hand out fliers, competing with all 2800 other shows. Upon the buzzy High Street handing out fliers, suddenly a very handsome Australian gentleman took a flier from my friend and my hormone controlled default kicked in. Ooph, he was hotty at first sight, a tall Matthew Fox-esque mancreature and lovely little ray of light in the dark dark world of flier-handing-outing-ness. Lettuce call him Johnny.

 

Oh Johnny. He was witty and clever and very charming. And I, ah yes, with my long eyelashes and convincing giggles, was guilty of the Flirt. Some may use the word ‘cocktease’, but there were no feathers I assure you. A harmless flirt, I swear.

 

What a first impression, what a match we were! But No! Tragedy! He was leaving the festival the next day and so took my number for one single night of hangout pleasure.

 

My dad had driven from London to see me and my show and so I was a very bad daughter and ditched my dad for a guy I didn’t know and wangled the use of his car at the same time. Bad child. Bad manipulative child. Sweet, kind father.

 

I picked him up and we went for a drive, I noticed he smelt a bit funny, kinda like a wet dog wrapped in a wet towel, but thought maybe he’d had a really long interesting day, walking from play to book launch to a meditation in the park. We parked. In a dodgy, no-one around parking lot, but we parked. The thing about new people and especially girls, is that something happens to the bod that causes a pathetic release of giggle-mones, hormones that just make you fuckin giggle, for no reason. Then your body lies and tells you that you’re falling in love and like this new manfriendbeast and want want want. But don’t be no fool no.

 

I found out he was travelling round the world. Oh romantypantic! Smell now totally forgotten. *Flutter flutter*. He told me he didn’t drink at all and I was super impressed after having seen many a man lose his face when liquor licks. Ah a sober man, how truly new age and liberating. Love, it must be! He said he was a ‘recovering performer’ – failed, recovering, whatever, but I didn’t think much of it.

 

He was talking a lot, though. A lot. Shutup new man, shutup and let me say something. Shut shut shut! I didn’t even get a sentence out, probably because I was so stupidly giggling at first, so I didn’t think much of it.

 

He was about to go to Berlin and joked about how cool it would be for me to be there, but I didn’t think much of it.

 

Then he mentioned how frustrating it was that we were stuck in a car with nowhere to go. Why God? Why would we need somewhere to go? Oh so innocent am I, giggle giggle. Because he wanted to bed me. That’s why, but no, no no no, I’m not that kind of girl, besides, I was sober and we had nowhere to go.

 

Eventually I got a little bored of jokes I’d heard before and awful impersonations that in any other situation would get shot by a firing squad after a paralysing-but-not-lethal electrocution. But he was hot and foreign and we were both in a new city, so, I didn’t think much of it.

 

And we did kiss, briefly. And I swear by Jehova and his merry men that this man had not had a cleaning substance of any kind in his mouth since I was bathed in placenta.

 

I dropped him off and all in all, despite the incessant talking, the should-be-illegal body odour and the possibly fly-infested mouth, I had a good time. I’m always up for new exthpewiences, besides, he was leaving the next day so I didn’t think much of it.

 

NIGHT 2:

 

Ah, a surprise from a ‘private number’ phonecall, ‘Hello? Oh hi Johnny, you’re still here? But why? For me? Oh. Oh my. That’s…nice. Tonight? Um…’ OH! DEAR! FUCK! I had lied the night before and told him how much it sucks that he’s leaving, because, I knew he was leaving and it was a nice thing to say. Silly silly naive girl. ‘I’m busy, I…have no legs or face, I lost it, I can’t, I’m dead, I hate cats, I…Ok Ok Ok, I’ll meet you.’ Wow, I was embarrassingly easily pushed over.

 

We found a lovely little bar. He doesn’t drink. I do. And thank god I’d had a glass of wine before, so I at least I had my sense of humour warmed for the proceedings.

 

Ooooh yes, by the way, he was wearing the exact (down to the underwear scrambling out the top of his jeans) outfit as the night before. Ah, but he is a traveller and so all would have been forgiven, but only now, OOOOnly NOW, the smell that no human should exude was so god forsakenly awful, that I think the rotting rats wrote a complaint.

 

After ordering his fruit smoothie (hoo-fuckin-ray), he started speaking…for over 2 hours. Timed, literally, on my mobile. And no, I didn’t stop him because I was sooo amused that I was in semi-impressed awe – and also my mind wondered off. I tried to count my eyelashes and pondered that a quarter times a quarter actually means a quarter of a quarter, but 20 times 20 doesn’t mean 20 of a 20, it means 20 20’s. Fuckin fascinating. I must mention that we did have a brief break so he could have a roll-up, where he managed to do a handstand on a public bustling Edinburgh festival street. And he refused to come down. No, he said. No. I won’t come down from my handstand. Look at me, look at me, look at me! So I went inside and waited for the proud handstanding man to return.

 

These are the things he politely confided in me. I share with you, as my gift to you:

 

- He doesn’t drink…because he’s a recovering heroine and ecstasy addict and alcoholic from the age of 15

(Oh. That’s ok. There are lots of wonderful recovering addicts)

 

- He only has 2 changes of clothes and wears them until they smell so bad that he absolutely has to do something about it.

(A traveller, marginally forgivable)

 

- He…hadn’t showered that day…or the day before, now that that he thinks about it

(Also, the travel thing and easy to overlook, but then…)

 

- He dropped out of school when he was 15

(Some of the most successful people didn’t finish school)

 

- He went to rehab for 10 months when he was 19

(At least he knew he needed help)

 

- He has slept with 65 women…

(Ok I guess. He must be very good in bed?)

 

- And 10 men

(Oh)

 

- Only 4 of those 10 were relatively pleasant

(Almost 40%, that’s a good average)

 

- He’s a male slut

(Nooo?!)

 

- I mustn’t worry because he has taken loads of Aids and other STD tests after all the injections from the Heroine.

(Whew, what a relief)

 

- He loves hard core stuff where he can completely dominate

(Everyone has a fetish of some kind I suppose)

 

- He worked for charities in London doing surveys on the side of the road

(At least it’s work and it’s for a good cause)

 

- He was suicidal while being a drug addict so at least gave him something to look forward to

(Heart breaking, have a hug)

 

- He’d love to see me in Berlin, but I mustn’t expect him not to have sex with other people before then…

(Ok thanks for the warning, I was really banking on your fidelity for our true love to survive)

 

- He went to clown school

(UNFUCKING-FORGIVABLE! FUCK FUCK FUCK What am I doing here!!!?))

 

It was the clown comment that drew the line.

 

He told me how much he knew that I would long for him when he leaves and that he’ll see me in Berlin in 2 weeks, that we may not have a place to stay there, but we’d have each other. (I’m not going anywhere near Berlin! I’m not even going to stay on the same hemisphere as you!!)

 

His last line? “I’m going to sever this umbilical chord and make it as least painful for you as I can”. WHAT #^&*(%% UMBILICAL CHORD? WHAT ARE YOU ON SMELLYMAN?

 

And with that, it was all over. It was an exthpewience alright. I must just say:

 

*Dear God and your Reindeer, I thank you and every force in the universe that I did not have sex with this man on Night 1. And THIS is why I don’t believe in one night stands, because you just never know if they went to Clown school