The Bathroom.
Yesterday, I took fours to clean my bathroom. A name I found odd – just a shower, a wash basin and a seat with a hole in it to dispose of your recycled beer and roast pork.
My bathroom (for use of a better word), is tiled floor and walls to the ceiling. They were now caked with a really stiff, reluctant mix of severe lime scale from the shower steam with nicotine from me sitting on the potty, puffing away and thinking about the end of my anus due to overdoing the chilli.
I now very proud of my sparkling, shiny, nice smelling little room – so proud that as the imminent arrival of the evil eye and tongue of The Lady D, is popping around on Saturday to pick up her birthday present- I am shitting in the kitchen sink and not bothering to either shower or shave – when suddenly…
A thought occurred to me. If you get invited to someone’s house, lets say for dinner, and you need to use the little room to get rid of some excess, stored up erm… piss and/or shit.
You do not come back to the dinner table and announce -
‘Oh, Sarah, what a wonderful, clean smelling Kazi room you have. It was a pleasure to leave my recycled lunch in it.’
No Siree – nor would you the next day at work tell your fellow co-workers - ‘Oh, I had such a nice time at Henry’s and Sarah’s pad last night. The food gave me the shits and Henry had to vomit it all up, it was that bad – but such a lovely, clean, beautiful smelling bathroom. It was a pleasure to almost die in it.’
This does not happen. The conversation, I mean – but wo and behold what happens if, if the bathroom is…erm…?
The conversation at work would go something like this…
‘Yo, chinas.’
‘Yo, Karlie boy, eish man, ya looking bit pale around the gills boet. Yu okay ek se?’
Yesterday, I took fours to clean my bathroom. A name I found odd – just a shower, a wash basin and a seat with a hole in it to dispose of your recycled beer and roast pork.
My bathroom (for use of a better word), is tiled floor and walls to the ceiling. They were now caked with a really stiff, reluctant mix of severe lime scale from the shower steam with nicotine from me sitting on the potty, puffing away and thinking about the end of my anus due to overdoing the chilli.
I now very proud of my sparkling, shiny, nice smelling little room – so proud that as the imminent arrival of the evil eye and tongue of The Lady D, is popping around on Saturday to pick up her birthday present- I am shitting in the kitchen sink and not bothering to either shower or shave – when suddenly…
A thought occurred to me. If you get invited to someone’s house, lets say for dinner, and you need to use the little room to get rid of some excess, stored up erm… piss and/or shit.
You do not come back to the dinner table and announce -
‘Oh, Sarah, what a wonderful, clean smelling Kazi room you have. It was a pleasure to leave my recycled lunch in it.’
No Siree – nor would you the next day at work tell your fellow co-workers - ‘Oh, I had such a nice time at Henry’s and Sarah’s pad last night. The food gave me the shits and Henry had to vomit it all up, it was that bad – but such a lovely, clean, beautiful smelling bathroom. It was a pleasure to almost die in it.’
This does not happen. The conversation, I mean – but wo and behold what happens if, if the bathroom is…erm…?
The conversation at work would go something like this…
‘Yo, chinas.’
‘Yo, Karlie boy, eish man, ya looking bit pale around the gills boet. Yu okay ek se?’
‘Ahh, Ek, kranken man. Was at boet, Henry and Sarah for boeries and
sadza. Was lekker hey, but needed to park a coil as the nandoo chilli got me
sweating extra man, and Sandra’s beaver
was humming so hot, I thought I give the turkey a quick throttle at the same
time – ek se.’
Karl’s Boss, throws up his hands in horror. Being a leper they flew off - ‘Er, what the fuck were you doing there in the first place. Everyone knows that them two are the filthiest fuckers in town and going to their place is equivalent of volunteering to help Ebola victims suffering from aids!’
‘Ja, Boss’, kicking the twitching hands aside, that oke, Henry, he owed me 100 rand, ek-se- promised to pay it back.’
‘And did he?’
‘Sort of. He explained that if I lend him 200 hundred rand, he would pay me back the 100 he owed me. But then I need a kak to think about it, so I asked for the room, hey.’
‘You didn’t go there did you?’ Karl’s Boss splutters, loosing his lower lip.
‘Ja, man, I tell ya boet, it is worse than even our kazi! Next to the kitchen, like a swamp man. Just a plank on bricks hey. With a hole in it. The smell is bad hey. Then a crocodile jumps up, but it a piccanini croc, hey, so I pull it off my eggs, hey, and bite its head off. Just a zakanaka, boet – I tell you - no shit stirring with me. I am fucking hard core.’
‘So what happened next? The Boss by now has a speech impediment.
‘Ja, like, hey, I throw croc on the table. Tell him I give him the 200 rand but only if I can give his missus one.’
The
whole fellow members of the workforce (cleaners in a lunatic asylum), are
hanging on to every word…
Almost in chorus, eyes bulging in pornographic delight, chirp ‘Did ya, Ek-se?’Karl’s Boss, throws up his hands in horror. Being a leper they flew off - ‘Er, what the fuck were you doing there in the first place. Everyone knows that them two are the filthiest fuckers in town and going to their place is equivalent of volunteering to help Ebola victims suffering from aids!’
‘Ja, Boss’, kicking the twitching hands aside, that oke, Henry, he owed me 100 rand, ek-se- promised to pay it back.’
‘And did he?’
‘Sort of. He explained that if I lend him 200 hundred rand, he would pay me back the 100 he owed me. But then I need a kak to think about it, so I asked for the room, hey.’
‘You didn’t go there did you?’ Karl’s Boss splutters, loosing his lower lip.
‘Ja, man, I tell ya boet, it is worse than even our kazi! Next to the kitchen, like a swamp man. Just a plank on bricks hey. With a hole in it. The smell is bad hey. Then a crocodile jumps up, but it a piccanini croc, hey, so I pull it off my eggs, hey, and bite its head off. Just a zakanaka, boet – I tell you - no shit stirring with me. I am fucking hard core.’
‘So what happened next? The Boss by now has a speech impediment.
‘Ja, like, hey, I throw croc on the table. Tell him I give him the 200 rand but only if I can give his missus one.’
Karl pulls down his pants. Smiles proudly – ‘Check this out for knob rot – ek se.’
The End.
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