Tuesday, April 21, 2009
FAIL: ‘Sunday is Fun Day’
Drinking wine with two overseas visitors – a strapping German and a strapping Brit – on a Sunday. Screw the Carte Blanche music, let’s get messy. Let’s get punished, because Monday hangovers are fiiiiine. On a bottle of wine they’re a breeeeeze, especially in such company.
FAIL: ‘Don’t be frightened of Monday’
A Tuesday hangover is bad. A Wednesday hangover isn’t the kiffest. A Thursday hangover is somewhat unbearable and a Friday hangover is something I do when I’m stupid enough to Phuza.
A Monday hangover is complete naaing testicular cockbollocks. It’s arriving in the fiery blazes of Hell and realising that the afterlife consists of call centre operators trying to sell you insurance, and finding that Milosevic is your bitch; Hitler is your boss.
FAIL: ‘Gender signs on bathroom doors are only useless to blind people’
Going for a pee in the men’s bathroom, not knowing it’s the men’s bathroom. Even when you’re washing your hands with other hairy legged he-creatures who quite obviously don’t own boobs, still no realisation. At least to those who were not of sober disposition.
FAIL: ‘Hair folly isn’t punishable’
Staring at a mullet and then fall off chair laughing whilst staring at aforementioned mullet.
ULTIMATE FAIL: Not being smooth. This is hard to write, wince-wise.
‘What’s that then?’ enquires one Strapper, at my desk yesterday.
[Hangover sentence construction rapidly kicks in, with added pressure of trying to appear effortlessly charming and devilishly sexy]
That’s my holiday wall worm. It’s kind of like a tapeworm. You know…..made up of segments. That break off.
[Somewhere in the background, a siren goes off. Indicating dangerous territory. The words ‘worm’ and ‘segment’ should be omitted in charfing scenarios, in any country, in any language.
Except. The hungover bitch who lost 8000 braincells over the weekend just fires on, attempting a harmless stint of office flirtation, thinking she should say something intelligent, to blow the victim away with an impressive intellect. Suddenly, out of nowhere, it happens. The words tumble from the pie hole before the brain stops the lethal rolling snowball, which avalanches as such:]
Yeah….All South Africans have tapeworms.
Asspounding fuckwittagery tits up, SHIT.
What WAS that? THAT was my line?
How the fuck, what the fuck, FAIL, where in God’s name did that emit itself from? What shit talking piece of bollocks is that? It’s total bullshit, [Charlize doesn’t have a tapeworm] and yet why?
Maybe worm biologists with phD’s in Tapeworm Anatomy would find this juicy piece of lying trivia incredible.
But a normal man?
[ Pack up. Pack up your PC, and run bitch. Just go. Just leave. Just turn around and walk out.]
See, sometimes we say stupid shit when we’re blundering in the spading department, and yes, sometimes when we’re hungover and therefore have the aptitude of a dribbling retard, we say some vacuous kak.
Maybe you’ll say something lame; maybe you’ll just have an entire cauliflower plantation stuck in between your teeth when flashing him that confident smile.
Usually we learn our lesson and leave immediately.
Maybe you’ll just coin a piece of fucked up trivia, let it come hurtling out, and even though somewhere in your head you believe fobbing tapeworms off onto your entire nation will somehow soften the blow.
Not fucking likely.
Because whether other Saffas have worms or not, without any shadow of a doubt, he’s going to think YOU have a worm. Not the other 45 million South Africans, he’s going to think YOU’RE the one with the fucking tapeworm.
‘Nice.’ He says.
How does one backpeddle out of something like that? You desperately scour your empty cranium for any sign of intelligentsia, and nothing. Just awkward - Stephen Hawking in a black hole - silence. Cue the impeding sound of aforementioned call centre operators as you descend unto said Hell.
Being the bumbling idiot I was yesterday, I pushed the foot only deeper into my aural orifice; the trap that should’ve been muzzled shut as I rose from my bed.
Oh no. The idiotic tart just dug in deeper. Further fail:
Yeah, um…..it’s just that we don’t have access to worming medicine.
I HAVE A FUCKING VERMOX CATALOGUE FROM THE DOCTOR’S. READING MATERIAL FROM THE WAITING ROOM. YOU CAN BUY VERMOX LIKE YOU CAN BUY LIGHTBULBS AND CHEESE.
Christ woman, what are you doing to yourself? Make it stop, somebody make it STOP.
Twas already done. There’s a man out there who thinks I have a fucken tapeworm, because why would someone mention that in the first place?
I have been a smooth bitch on irregular occasions, but frankly, my entire life’s worth of almost-acceptable ‘you have such big muscles, He Man’ has been wiped the fuck clean.
Just so we’re clear, I. Don’t. Have. A. Tape. Worm.
There’s just no coming back from something like this. Because already his mental picture is of you - with a tapeworm. You tell someone not to think of a blue kangaroo and they think of a blue kangaroo.
I pushed beads for the rest of the afternoon. Turning to Lady Gaga in desperation to remind me that having a poker face isn’t a bad fucking idea.
PS: Driving with a hangover should be illegal.
PPS: Three days. Left. Of holiday worm fragments. Attached to the wall.