two posts

Both are the same.

One is verbose circumlocutorily loquacious.
For those with exempt sagacity, spot the one replete in pleonasticism.

Dad crashed into my cock last night.

Let me explain.

At 2:30am this morning I heard a loud ker-thunk. Immediately followed by a manly screech, and obscenities ranging from “what the fuck”, “what the fuck is this thing...a fucking bird?” “Tasteless piece of shit...” “The bloody cock fell on me.”

I have a giant wooden rooster statue in the entrance hall. A large white bird. It nailed him on the foot and, like a true man, the world has come to an end because “he can't walk now.”

I examined his foot with a “there there Dad, what about a nice cuppa tea?” To which I got, “The bird fell on my bone, Peas. Look at my injury! I'm in dire pain....Dire.”
The final word was a breathless dramatisation. I got this message while I was tapping away at a review yesterday: Under Panado sedation for rooster bite. Please bring home a walking stick.

The problem with men and their ailments is – do you take their threats seriously? “I'm dying.” Maybe they are really dying?

Because when I say I'm dying, Mr 747, it's when I've truly hit the bottom of my mortal demise. Do you really need a walking stick Dad? Maybe he does.
Does this make me a shitty daughter if I'm slightly skeptical?

Either way, Dad needs mothering. My gran has long passed, so he has no mum; he has no wife, and God knows what's up with all the girlfriends. I don't even ask anymore.
On getting home, “This chicken is a bloody disgrace. It's jaw punctured me.”

So I will make him tea and marvel in the way his bruise looks oh so very purple.

And so...we shall perdure as ere:

My progenitor crashed into my rara avis last night.

Allow me to elucidate.

At the aurora of 2:30 ante meridium, I heard a loud cacophony. Immediately followed by a manly malediction, and obscene licentiousness, such as: “What the fornication is this thing...an ornithological effigy?” and other offalic detritus.

I have a giant cockalorum simulacrum in the threshold atrium of my apartment. It lacerated him on the foot, and like a true male australopithicus afarensis, the world has come to a cessation. Because “he can't walk now.”

I examined his retractile with a “there there Dad, what about a nice thermogenic beverage?” To which I got, “This poltroon fell on my osseous matter, Peas. Look at my affliction! I'm in moribund indisposition....moribund.”

The final utterance was a breathless dramatisation. I got a communiqué from him while I tapped away at an apalogue: Under Panado sedation for rooster bite. Please bring home a pikestaff.

The problem with men and their exigent importunances is – do you take their fulminations seriously? “I'm in extremis...!” Maybe they really are indubitably perishing?
Does this make me a countrified offspring if I'm slightly dissenting?

Either way, I must enmatriarch my Dad. My gran has long passed, so he has no forebearer; he has no spouse, and God knows what's up with all the sexual compatriots.
On getting en domicile, “This chicken is an ensanguined disgrace! It's mandible perforated me.”

So I will make him a recalescent brew, and marvel in the way his haemotomic contusion looks oh so very purple.

catastrophe

Mr 747 is sick. Stop the Earth rotating on its axis please, we have a sick man on our hands.

After a debaucherous weekend in the bush (he proudly told me that the butler did say they broke the record for most beers consumed in the house in one sitting), he now has 'flu and a sore foot, which means, translated into Man Code: “I am both lame and dying.”

It's funny. But even the most silverback-alpha-of-all-males who save the world on a daily basis fear the terminal worst when their nose starts running.

We went to watch a movie on Sunday, with him limping pitifully across The Zone, while blowing his nose, and at the ticket counter, swear to God, he turns to me and speaks those unforgettable words, I have heard so many times before:
“I think I'm dying.”

This statement is one I've heard from the mouths of countless men before, so I wasn't overly surprised, however, one can't tell a guy to: “Pull yourself together and pop a Corenza C.” One has to switch to Man Code and speak in his language. One has to be Shakespearen about the whole affair, because that's evidentally what Amist A Man Being Sicketh and Dyingeth is all about.

“Oh my little bokdrolletjie. Are you going to make it through the movie without alerting NetCare for a stretcher and drip?”

Mr 747: No really, this just may be it. This could be the last thing we ever do together.
Peas: Oh no! What are we going to do? We really are in a pickle if you kick the bucket. Can I stroke your hair and swab your forehead?
Mr 747: Whose going to take care of you if I die?
Peas: If you die, I will die.
Mr 747: Well I better not die then.
Peas: And you better get your foot sorted out. What if they have to amputate?
Mr 747: Now that's a bit over the top don't you think?
Peas: Touché, MacBeth.

I am not his mum; I'm his ho. And I love being the on-death's-doorstep nurturer. But not forever. So let's hope my lame, dying dude gets better soon.

PS: He has written himself an obituary for his Facebook profile that I have to post if he does die.

low key, sick & cupboards

So as some of you may know, Third World Ant my flatmate, is going to move out. Work has unexpectedly fucked her over, and she's looking for work and such closer to her boyfriend, the Gilb.

I'm sad as all hell, but I'll save the lament for another time.

A dude came to check out my flat on Saturday. I was on my best behaviour, so I don't think he realised his potential new flatmate was rolling around on the floor, doing the Fandango to Monster Hits and polishing off a bottle of Southern Comfort with the aeroplane dude the very night before.

The evening is a bit of a blur, and I'm not quite sure of minute details, but a lot of fun.

Unfortunately, I am sick. Perhaps someone sneezed on me at the post office, but I have unwittingly picked up an inconvenient cold. Saturday was spent with another equally sick mate, sipping wine and 'talking sloth' as she likes to say. It was fantastic. We only had to blow our noses 5 000 times in between wine sipping.

Seems the corner cafe guy doesn't have the hots for me anymore. Or maybe he found my blog. (More likely. It's hard to keep a secret for 2 years.) But he was not his usual chatty self.

I also cleaned out my closet Sunday. It took about 4 hours, because, trust me, it's like Darfur in there. A disaster zone. I found shoes, bras and shirts in there I forgot I owned. I folded and organised everything ever so precisely and found my low-cut black boobie top, which I thought had disappeared forever. Hurrah. That's got to be a good thing.