Why I don't do drugs: Fear & Loathing in Jo'burg
We circled the block sucking on a joint expertly rolled by Garth Nimblefingers. Pity Nimblefingers was no good at removing the pips, which spluttered and popped like a Fourth of July sparkler. One popped out completely, shooting up my left nostril like a tiny vicious meteor on a mission from god. “Holy Jaysus!” I coughed, snorting like bull as the tiny hairs in my nose crisped and fumed, decimating an entire population of the Little People Who Lived in a Nose.

“Whaaat the fuck?” Said Nimblefingers swerving to avoid the fallout.

“I need a wettie!” I sniffed. So we pulled over to a corner cafe conveniently located on a corner. There was a big red sign outside, which read Corner Cafe, just in case we hadn’t noticed. I went inside - my left nostril smoking. “Christ!” I muttered, “I hope nobody notices.” It was a small shop, but the aisles sped off into another dimension and diminished in the distance. This is going to take a long time, I thought, walking like a dead man toward the dot of a heavily stacked fridge at the back of the shop. The clock on the wall said 8:15 in a clipped baritone. I ignored it.

A big Indian behind the counter said, “Good Ewening.” I turned around slowly. “Is it?” I asked. He smiled and nodded. “Is that your freezer way at the back?” I asked politely. He nodded again. Apparently this man only knows two English Words, I thought. “It’s going to be a problem!” I stated calmly. He just Looked at Me with Raised Eyebrows Separated by Red Dot. The isles started to move slowly at first then faster and faster. “Can I take the Middle Aisle to the Freezer?” I shouted, lifting my voice above the roaring aisles, “I’m in a bit of a rush, you see!”

He frowned and the Red Dot fell off his forehead. I was starting to get worried. “I can pay!” I shouted. The Red Dot hit the wooden counter and rolled off the edge onto the blue swirly linoleum and continued rolling, under the speeding aisles and up to my left boot whereupon it fell over and spun like a 5c coin. I stared at it for a second and then bent down to retrieve it. When my fingers touched it, it smeared like hot butter.

Oh, shit! I muttered. Things were going pear-shaped in the worst possible way. I took a deep breath and stood up. “I can explain,” I said, holding up my left hand for him to see and rubbing my fingers together, “your spot just disintegrated when I touched it.” “Wot de hell ah you tokking abaht?” he asked suspiciously. “Your fucking dot, man! It fell off your head and rolled over to me. It’s gone! Kaput!” I was getting tired of his silly act. “Aye tink you bettah leave dis hestablishment, sah,” he said, “you obwiously need sum help or sumting.”

He scratched his jowl and I noticed that the dot was back on his forehead, except this time it was black. I looked at my fingers. The stain was gone. His words suddenly seemed like good advice and I started to sweat. “Take it easy, man,” I said sidling toward the door “just keep your dot on!” Nimblefingers stared at me in amazement when I climbed empty-handed into the passenger seat. “Where’s the coke?” he asked. “Don’t ask,” I snorted, “there’s some weird voodoo shit going on in there. Just drive.”

“I’ve got the droogies, for fuck’s sake! I’ll get the coke!” he huffed, climbing out the car. “Don’t go in there, Nim! You’re a young man with your whole life ahead of you!” I cried. He hesitated and glared at me. “What are you talking about?” he gritted. “The oke with a dot on his pip, man! It jumped at me!” I started to chuckle uncontrollably, “No, really, it...” Nim shook his head and disappeared round the back of the car. Hours went by. I leaned my forehead against the cool dashboard. Somewhere in the universe, a star swallowed itself. I sat upright. Jesus, what a night!

The door slammed and Nim was in. I looked at him. He grinned at me. “What’s so funny?” I started to ask and then noticed the red dot on his forehead. “OH, JESUS!” I screamed and fell out of the car. I got up and ran like the hounds of hell were chasing my ass! Fuck the Invasion of the Body Snatchers, a Red Dot was taking over the world! Luckily, my flat was only 3 kay’s away. I fumbled at the door and burst inside. Nim was sprawled on the couch grinning. “Man, you can run!” he chortled, “Relax and have a smartie!” He shook a red one out the box, licked it and smudged it on his forehead.

That’s when I hit him...

We are still friends, 15 years on. But, it’s only coz we’re brothers. And, I love him. Also, he did come back with the coke. Erm, Coca-Cola.

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Fame, Fortune & Skinny Wimmin

Something very odd happened today. I was sitting in the office doing print quotes when a strange Indian man in a very smooth, slate suite sidled up to me and held out his hand. I shook it. He produced a laminated calling card in serious need of new laminate. On it was the legend: Mr. Yoga – Spiritualist, Palm Reader and Indian Curry. "I’m not hungry," I said, which was a lie. I just didn’t have any money on me.

"I give you some ‘ting." He said. "Cool!" I said. My ‘ting was running out and I just hate dealing with the Nigerians on my block. They are so needy. "Hey, Mon, we need to make a profit too!" They like to sob. "Think of me as your special, partially pro-bono client!" I tell them sternly, "You can’t just be taking and taking from the community and putting nothing back. Sixty bucks or I spread the word that your bong is really weedy." Nevertheless, they are committed businessmen. "How ‘bout a slender shorty to sex up your night? They wink slyly, "Only one fifty an hour!"

"You tempt me, Nigerian, but I have to say what Jesus said."

"What dat, whitey?"

"Get thee behind me, Satan."

"You killin’ me, Mon. Here, take da bank!"

"Why, thank you sir."

My reverie was broken by a pinched index finger. The swami was tracing my hand on a scrap of paper with a pen. I lifted my palm. The trace seemed a lot pudgier than my normal hand and there was something really wrong with the pinky outline. He began writing esoteric symbols on my paper fingers. "You will live a very long life," he said eventually, "death by natural causes, not by stabbing or gunshot!" Hmmm, the Nigerians were looking attractive again. I took it as a sign.

"Stay away from skinny wimmen!" he warned, " and from October your life will be very, very happy in business, money and love!"

"Um thanks, but on the skinny women thing. How skinny is skinny? I mean, anorexia doesn’t turn me on, but slender can be nice."

"Skinny wimmen are not good for you!" He snapped.

"Yeah, yeah, but talking ballpark figures now on a scale of one to ten with the number one representing skeletal and ten being curvy, what numbers should I avoid? Like one to three? You know, skeletal, gaunt and very lean?"

"Yes, okay, and one more ‘ting... don’t shave on a Tuesday. Now, do you have a gift of one or two t’ousand Rand for me?"

I regarded him with disappointment. He was obviously gifted. Obviously, heavily, cosmically connected. I wished him well but not all at my expense.

"How does twenty bucks sound?" I asked him.

"But I also have a lucky charm for you." He frowned.

"I will light a holy Roman candle for you," I said, "it only costs 20 cents."

"Twenty bucks is good." He decided after a short pause.

"A post-dated check okay, then?" I smiled, "You know, since I’m only coming into money in October."

He left a little richer but I was still worried about the skinny reference, so I decided to go online for the best definition. You just can’t be too cavalier with your assumptions when dealing with esoteric things. Luckily, I found what I was looking for.

Adj.: having unattractive thinness; "a child with skinny freckled legs"; "a long scrawny neck" [syn:
scraggy, scrawny, underweight, weedy
] n: confidential information about a topic or person; "he wanted the inside skinny on the new partner"

Source: WordNet ? 2.0, ? 2003 Princeton University

Thank God! I sighed with relief; it’s only incredibly nosy, unattractively skinny birds with long, scrawny, freckled necks that I gotta steer clear of. The attractive ones are still good for me! I’m sure they will all be very happy to hear that…

Visitations, Protestations and Dredd
On Friday, I fetched the wee mon from his mammie’s work as he was off sick from school and had to go to work with her. Shame, I thought driving over in rush hour traffic, imagine that! The poor little bugga’s not well and he has to face that sour lot! It’s abuse I tell ya and grounds for divorce...oh but wait a minute I am divorced. Eish! That meant I had to go shopping coz my cupboards were bare except for half a jar of peanut butter and a rusty can of chili pilchards. Half a jar of Black Cat with the yellow lid just wasn’t going to cut it between the two of us.

I pulled up outside the office and hooted. I must have waited for like 20 seconds. Nothing! So I hooted again but only louder this time. A first floor window flew open and my darlin’ ex-asperated’s face poked out. “Can’t you see I’m on the friggin’ phone, Deano, yoo madman yoo!” She yelled. “You’re also on the bleedin’ first floor so how in godz name...” I started to yell but gave up out of experience and sighed. “Sorry baby!” I shouted back with neck craned awkwardly out of car window. She’s ? Irish in Gemini stockings you see, so reasoning wid her is like trying to put a condom on inside out. It’s impossible. Ask me, I know. But more on that later.

“Howdy, Daddie!” beamed my 7 - year old climbing into the passenger seat with bulging weekend bag. Aye, he is a seriously beautiful child, and only ? Irish, which is an excellent amount of the old Cuchullain to have cussing through your veins. I kissed him. “Your lips are so dry, baby!” I noted. “It’s coz I have to go to school so early in the winter!” He explained. “Aah,” I said, “we’ll have to petition the Dept. Of Education and change that state of affairs.” “Yeah,” he sighed, “early just doesn’t fly with me.” I nodded sympathetically, “I’ll write to the MEC Rev. Tselapedi and ask him what’s up wid dat.” He nodded back thoughtfully, “Tell him that Ryan and Bululani’s lips are also cracking.” I put the car in gear and started to drive off, but not before a loud parting hoot. A blue telephone arced through the air and bounced lightly off my bonnet.

Hey! Her aim’s getting better.

We popped into Pick n’ Pay at Cresta on the way home. “Jeez!” he frowned, “what the hell’s going on here?” A small group of protestors were singing and dancing with placards at the entrance. “It’s a small group of protestors singing and dancing with placards at the entrance.” I explained. “Why don’t they play cards at home,” he asked, “they’re hurting my ears.” Play cards? I hesitated and shifted into right brain mode, “Placards, boy. It’s those cardboard signs they’re waving about.” “What’s on them?” he asked. I squinted, “I dunno, they’re jiggling them about too much to read what’s on them.” “Maybe, they’re just making wind coz they are hot.” He said. “Erm, could be.” I said agreeably.

We loaded up with supplies: Peanut butter, sliced bread, Coco Pops, loo paper, bacon, eggs, pumpkin, green beans, astro chocolate, cheese and a silver utility knife. “Aah,” I smiled happily, “that should hold us together.” My boy was clearly troubled, “Tell those people if they stop dancing and making noise they will cool down, Daddie.” I decided to come clean, “They want more money, boy, that’s why they are dancing and singing.” He pondered this for a second, “If Judge Dredd was here he would say okay deliver rules. It’s time to dispense some justice. And, on your knees perps I am the law. All you gotta do is press ‘e’ on the keyboard and he rerests them.”

“Arrests them. Who? The protestors?” I asked. “No, the vampires what run like doggies,” he explained patiently, “actually, he shoots them with a snotneus.” “That’s just nuts,” I said, “everyone knows all you need is a silver bullet.” “Nahah!” he retorted, “silver bullets are for woolveworths!” “Sorry, my mistake. Also it’s werewolves!” I said, “Besides, Dredd sounds like a real fascist.” “Oh, he’s fastest, Daddie, ‘cept I’m stuck on a level.” He sighed heavily. I pulled out my battered credit card, which coincidentally was also stuck on a level. “I know the feeling, my love. Let’s go home and eat chocolate.”

We left Pick n’ Pay with it’s Toyi-Toyiing protestors. I made a mental note to send a letter of thanks to their union – it was the end of the month and we didn’t have to wait in a queue. It’s funny how some shoppers just don’t appreciate that sort of thing.