Despite all, luckily, good evenings out around a table at Sandton Newscayfe (the place was packed!) with The Ant, C, Jam and Kevvie-poo, and HPF, tends to distract one.
I couldn’t have spent the evening in better company, quite frankly.
Other good distractions:
1) A shot of tequila and a suitcase
2) Crime Scene Psychics on the Discovery Channel.
3) Cars. Vehicles rock, hey. When the Ant gets her new vehicle, C and I are going to pull out Thynthia La Poenette (her car – Thpanith and French in one), and Ludwig (my car) and drag race the Ant in her new car. Even if she kicks our asses doubly timeably, it’s cool. I still get a test drive.
4) My dad. He left this morning about an hour when sparrow’s emit noxious gases from their collective rectums, but left us a gallon of petrol in our entrance hall as a present. Some people leave fruit baskets; my dad leaves Sasol fluid. It’s dodgy petrol, they can’t use it in the plane. And it’s leaded, so therefore I can’t use it. But we thought of sticking it into Ant’s car, since she’s trading hers in for the new one in, like 24 hours. The Ant isn’t keen.
I fail to see why.
5) Some schvitzing balding nutcase decided to accost me at the bar while I waited for my mates to arrive. People don’t know what bubbles are hey. Like stand at two arm’s length if you don’t know me, don’t hit on me by invading my personal space so that I see all but your nasal hairs. C saved me.
6) It must be extremely satisfying being a fire fighter if you actually get to put the raging inferno out. And save people as well. But it must be shite if you can’t, and have to watch the building combust before your eyes.
7) It’s Friday. And it’s C3’s birthday tonight. Wonderful.
8) Ashton Kutcher is a bloody punk. No pun intended, sort of. I used to think he was all that and a super-size bag f chips, but really he’s just full of hot air. Someone needs to Punk him back to reality.