So, The Ant has told me to remain at home this evening.
Ant: Because I said so.
Peas: What are you doing?
Ant: I refuse to answer any more questions.
Peas: Can I at least stay in my pyjamas?
Ant: No, not really.
Peas: Pyjamas and heels?
Ant: Sure, whatever.
So I’m being taken seige in my own house. I am a voluntary hostage. I still have to pack for Grahamstown, visit Ex S’ mum, finish a [quite frankly annoyingly deadlined] feature, pay a bill before I get arrested, and fit in a spot of training before I head to the Eastern Cape, land of horny farmers that I tend to smash in my face in drunken and dark circumstances involving Jagermeister and high libido.
Speaking of the Eastern Cape, and Rhodes, I heard an hilarious story the other day from a Rhodent mate of mine. It’s incredible, and only in Grahamstown, let’s face it:
This oke went to a 21st at a farm nearby, where there are lots of baboons traipsing around. He had to shoot one apparently, for what reason it is unknown, and being drunk and disorderly, placed this baboon in somebody’s car. With a backwards Fred Durst cap on, kind of chilling there behind the wheel, propped up, arm hanging out of the door like a taxi driver.
The guy freaked, but can you imagine how funny that must’ve looked? Anyway, the baboon seemingly made it’s way around Grahamstown and Rhodes as a prop. A dead prop, which honed like nothing on Earth. It was found in people’s cupboards, chilling out on the lawn reading a newspaper, sitting in lectures, dressed up, dressed down. Appalling, but hilarious.
This interesting part of the country is where I will find myself in the next 24 hours. I’m scared.
This will probably be my last blog entry before I hit the DCI Blogging Conference tomorrow evening. Also check out the DCI Blog For The Bloggers over the next few days. Till then, keep grooving and stay away from small dogs.