Oh, he is funny. Very. He writes in pure
Rhodesian slang. For a Jew boy I am amazed. I couldn’t be arsed to learn half
of the slang, unless I was paid for it. Still, saying that, I struggled to
learn English and even that is debatable.
First you have to read this. Unless you are
Rhodesian, it comes across as complete and utter gibberish.
And how I laughed - but - I do not compare, nor do I even try to
match his skills. We both do our own
thing – So, I read, laughed out loud and replied…
As usual - hilarious. I am surprised that,
as a Jew boy, you do not charge an entrance fee. We could be a double act.
I recall being ‘tested’ when at Blakiston Junior School.
Blakiston was that idiot who got slotted along with the other land thief, Rutledge,
out there where they were looking for gold and landed up just planting orange
trees. Which is of course why I write this because orange is sort of the same
colour as urine.
So, I get the injections on the shoulder.
You should have heard the girls crying - such a pathetic yowling, I could
hardly hear them above my own blubbering. I recall that if you had two ‘bumps’
it could mean you had the parasites in you. I, as usual, managed to achieve
that. Was I concerned – of course not. It all made sense. It was the reason why
I slept through my entire education. I was a sick little boy.
The thing is that these ‘tests’ were not a
100%, a bit like Windows Vista or version 8. What you had to do then was rather
sick. You had to wee for three consecutive days in some form of container, and
better still ;shit on the floor and scoop some of it into another sort of container. Because of sanctions we were severely
short of them.
The plan was that after three days your
innards were sent off somewhere and clever people would examine it all. Why? I mean,
what kind of job is that? Going a little lateral thinking here… Imagine having
a merry old party with a load of bores and as usual you ask each other what you
do for a living. I can proudly announce ‘nothing’ but what about the bloke who
empties those portable shit houses?
‘Oh, I have great form of employment. I
suck shit out a plastic box with a huge pipe, give it to farmers for free and
they spray onto their fields to help grow potatoes that turn into French fries
and you eat them.’
Besides the point. So, I am weeing away and
using a spoon to ladle crap into a rather worn out Tupperware box and all this
is put in…the fridge. Yeah, where else is the piss and shit going to be stored
for three days? My sister opens the fridge one of those days and gets all
excited. Oh look, someone has put a bottle of Mazoe orange in here. She reaches
for it with much enthusiasm.
Luckily, step-mom clocks and hollers –
‘Stop taking the piss, it belongs to your
brother and whatever you do; don’t eat the chocolate fudge. He made it also. If
you are hungry, stick to the cheese.’
I tell this for free, what kind of people
were The Last of Rhodesians that kept piss and shit in the fridge between the
gem squash and awful tasting lumps of cheese. And we called it ‘The good old
days’ Yussus, I would hate to know what the ‘Good old new days’ are like.
I look in my fridge now and it has one of
two options. Full of piss or empty because I have pissed it all away. I
certainly do not have containers of crap chilling away waiting to be examined
by some expert who has nothing else to do but spoon shit all day under a
microscope. And you thought Gary Glitter
was a pervert!
In conclusion – I was beaten yet again by
my dearest Daddy. Sadly for me I had no things crawling in my system that made
me weak, tired and listless. I had something worse that the best doctors in the
world could not cure – laziness.
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