The Dove gave me such a kiff present over the weekend. And right now, presents are good. I properly shat myself on Monday morgen on driving into town. Now as I have reiterated on several occasions, I simply never pooh – I'm way too much of a lady to embark on such faecal behaviour – however, driving out of here at the end of each day has thus far made me come pretty close. I have considered the fact that I might actually be a normal bowel-moving human being. For a girl that doesn't pooh, this is big stuff.
I mean, put it this way: when I drive now, I'm trying not to stop. At all. This creates a whole other ream of problems, as I see bumpers fill my windscreen at quite a fast pace and hope to fuck that they move out of my way by the time I get there. Or otherwise I just swerve into another lane. It also poses issues, because town is categorised by a grid system comprising robots, pedestrians, cars, you know, stuff. Which is getting in the way. I'm driving in second gear, the engine is screaming, I'm hyperventilating, I'm timing how quickly I can get the fuck out of here. (So far, 3 mins 24 is my record).
I have since Monday already taken on two pavements.
Dude. I've ramped two pavements to get past two taxis.
Now going home, I take two Biral, turn on the radio (I never do that, I listen to CDs – but I assume a DJ talking, even if he's an irritating fucktwat should give me a menial distraction.) I turn into Rissik Street - Street Of Doom - as I do, and I drive at 20k's an hour until I get to the robot and, then roar over it, go through orange and red lights and basically risk my life all over again just to get the fuck out of the chaos as quickly as fucking possible. Once past Braamfontein, I've broken a sweat and I am watching every single character on the side of the road, in my rearview and in front of me, basically paralysed in fear if they come too close to my window.
Jesus. Who knew a mugging could be so fucking traumatic?
Then once home, I turn to close the main door and a dude walks up behind me – just to get past – I turn around, jump and then scream. At an innocent man. This has happened a few times this week.
Right, but back to my present. The Dove gave me a talking mug. This fucking amazing mug with Daffyt Jones from Little Britain on the front, dressed in red latex. In large letters it says: I Am The Only Gay In The Village. It sure beats the Pussy: A tasty meal in a little box cup, and on top of this – the mug talks to me. Everytime you put it down, the voice of Daffyt Jones filters through from beneath with a plethora of classic Daffytisms such as:
(OK by default: “I am the only gay in the village”), but also:
“Oh Euphamwie, I'm so down. It's not easy being the only gay in the vill-udge!”
“Another Bacardi & Coke please Euphamwie.”
“That's exactly the kind of homophobic behaviour I expect in this village! Good Day!”
(My cup. My cup says that.)
“We couldn't possibly go all the way over there, these hot pants are giving me terrible chafing.”
(My cup. .....)
“I'll have a copy of Gay Times please, it's my only outlet.”
Jesus what a fantastic gift! I will start my day with Daffyt everyday! Morning coffee has just got so much better!
