Morning. Ek leef darem nog dankie.
Ja, gisteraand lê ek rustig en lees, bedlampie brand baie domesticated en
sag met die komplimente van Wetherley's, minding my own business toe ek so
geskarrel in die kamer hoor. Dog eers dis die f*kken mot wat wil selfmoord
pleeg teen die bulbpie en skerm. Kyk. Nee, mot sit ook rustig teen die
olyfgroen muur. Net weer terug by die boek toe wéér! Skarrel. Skarrel.
(Kriewel in die nek af). Probeer lees. Skarrel. (My oë vernou). Probeer
konsentreer. Lig brand. Skarrel. Kyk kyk kyk. En skielik! f*k ek skrik alles
regop en weg en pap en styf wat kan!
Haarskeerder, alias romanspinnekop teen 100km/h oor die vloer en teen die
bedkassie. My f*k. Ek kak my beste linne in 'n ander
kleurskakering in. Daar gaan die boek, bedlamp, bakkie met afgeëete
druiwetrossie, koeldrankglas, flits, bottel water, name it. tot die
selfoon. En die Doom is in die kombuis! In 'n ommesientjie flits ek soontoe
en terug in die Adamspakkie, nie nou tyd vir mooimaak en aantrek
nie...terug. Daar sit ta nog. Ek spuit. Die harige duiwelsvloek verdwyn
agter die bedkassie in. Met die wegtrek van die
muur af om nou te kyk jy sien, skielik hol daai f*kken aardsgedrog teen die
muur uit, reg voor my oë. Ek verlaat myself, my water breek, my knieë swik,
my longe vul, lippe parteer van mekaar, 'n kreet verlaat my binneste,
ontsnap oor my trillende labias. GIL! Maria Callas het in haar beste Lucia
Mad Scene nog nie so performeer nie. Bure se kinders ruk regop in hul
beddens. Ma's en pa's maak groot-oë vir mekaar. Honde blaf onrustig... Met
dié spuit ek weer verwoed.
Arachnida se kind plof grond toe - of eerder - spring. Ek sê dankbaar 'n
gebed boontoe vir die uitvinder van Doom Super (vir alle crawling insects -
alhoewel die ding nie crawl of 'n insek is nie - vir my is dit meerdoelig!)
Of dit nou die gif self was of die gesig van 'n
top-primadonna op haar beste met angswekkend gesperde kakebene, vasgevang op
'n C# drie oktawe bo middel C sal ek nou nie kan sê nie. Op daai stadium het
my brein nie meer gewerk nie. Afgeskakel.
Voorbereid op my laaste oomblikke op hierdie planeet..in 'n flitsoomblik
besef ek ek het nie eers 'n testament nie. Maar dit is nou maar tot
daarnatoe. Meer belangrik, ek het nog nie eers my boek klaargelees nie!
Ewentewille. Intussen het die spider laat spaander na die en suite toe. Nog
is het einde niet. Voor die wasbak op die vloer vind ons mekaar. Sy 8
onverskrokke oë pen in my 4 vas (dra mos bril onthou! - dankie tog vir die
sielkundige voordeel anders was dit 8 teen 2!) Hy: gewapen met miljoene
hare, magtige mandibels, 'n vet vieslike agterlyf, ek weet nie eers hoeveel
bene nie, en die feit dat hy 'n spinnekop is!! Ek: gewapen met slegs 'n Doom
blikkie (gevaarlik laag al in inhoud) in my bewende, dog ferm hand. Niks
anders nie. Nie eers 'n lende-kleed om my lieste om my van moontlike
vernedering te beskerm sou ek nou die tydige met die ewige verwissel nie, en
die polisie op my sou afkom twee weke later nie. (Ek sien al die
koerantberig: The bloated, naked body of a confined recluse was discovered
late last night in a Windhoek southern suburb). Op een gebied is ons twee
egter gelyk: spoed. Voordeel (vir spinnekop): ek is buite myself van angs
vir spinnekoppe. Ek kon netsowel Cornelis Arachnophobia van der Merwe gewees
het. Waar spinnekoppe en ek saamkom kan ek teen die spoed van witlig beweeg.
Terug by my stand off. Op daai stadium besef ek dit is nou of nooit. Met
Lords of the Rings se
horribale scene van 'n fenomenale spinnekop en gemummifiseerde bodies vars
in die wankelende Alzheimer-geheue (ek het mos 'n spasma geskiet in my been
in die fliek met die scene soos ek op my stoel geklim het) besluit ek net
f*k cfc's, f*k krimpende reënwoude, f*k die osoonlaag en al die pikkewyne
wat gaan sunburn, f*k kaapstede en sydneys wat gaan versuip onder stygende
oseane. My lewe is op die spel.
Ek sak soos 'n fighter jet op die vyand af, releasing my weapons of mass
destruction. Spinnekop lig sy pote en kake in die lug, aanvallend, kap woes
na my, sy sigbare enemy wat sopas 'n enema gehad het. Sy retireer, verstik,
veg teen die onsigbare Irakese indringer in haar borste. 'n Quick roundabout
in die badkamer (ek het weer gevlug terug na die veiligheid van my
koningin-bed) en die vieslike satansbraaksel syg stikkend en roggelend
neffens die porseleinvoetstuk neer. Ek verlekker my in haar uitmergelende
rukkings soos die gif haar tydelike bestaan met die ewige verwissel. Op die
bed dans 'n jubelende en oorwinnende, dog erg getraumatiseerde Jeanne d'Arc
boerinnetjie (met apologie aan Anette). Die seemingly onmoontlike is
reggekry. Met geweldige inspanning kry ek myself sover om die lyk op 'n
moerse lang papier op te scoop en sonder veel seremonie in die toilet te
dump.
Plunck! Vir oulaas en ook om haar verder te verneder pis ek sommer ook op
haar. As sy NOU nog lewe...! Met 'n welkome swoesj van die toilet verdwyn
die hoerkind uit die oog oppad na die Gammams reclamation water works van
die munisipaliteit om later weer gedrink te word. Dalk sal sy tog weer so
kan wraak neem?
Vir die oomblik, egter, het moi die saak gewen. Ek sê stilletjies 'n gebed
op vir water borne toilets en dat ek uitgespaar is. Stadig begin ek die
kamer tot sy oorspronklike vorm en toestand herstel, voor ek uitasem, dog
effe ontsteld nog, terugklim in die bed. Die Doom blik, bliksoldaat, my
beste vriend, sleutel tot my verdere toekoms, 'n armlengte ver. Ek kyk vir
Mr Doom en hy vir my. Ons smile vir mekaar. Saam het ons al baie battles
geveg, en gewen. Pofadder (ok ek het 'n graaf gebruik), wriemelende
honderdpote in rooi en swart kringe in my stort, eindelose spinnekoppe,
kakkerlakke, krieke, name it. EN nou vanaand, die Duiwel self... Ek groet,
oopmond, hortend, hygend, getraumatiseer, amper asof ek iets van my
innocence, my maagdelikheid (!) verloor het...
Sela Attila the Hun
In voorverlede week se Huisgenoot, wat ek by iemand geleen het, is daar toe
'n onderhoud met Danie Moffies Gaan Nie Hemel Toe Nie.
Die joernalis se broer is verlede week dood aan vigs, en sy wou by hom weet
wat van haar broer.
Die artikel was nogal vermaaklik, en volgens dit kan mens aflei is Danie se
varkies nie almal op hok nie.
Dit is hoekom hy nou politiek toe is.
Ek het dit êrens op 'n CD
maar kan dit nie vind nie.
Die 'Tokens' se weergawe.
Ek het ander weergawes
op my CD's gekry, maar
weet nie wat ek met die
Tokens s'n gedoen het nie.
Ten einde laaste het die sooise nou die ISDN tydperk betree by die huis.
Ekke het nie geweet dat prenkies so vinnig kan aflaai nie. Ek wou eintlik
die nuwe wireless internet kry, maar toe reken hulle ek bly in 'n holte of
'n gat of 'n doldrum waar hulle nie sein het nie. Mense in ander lande sal
hulle seker siek lag vir hierdie 'stap vorentoe' Wonner hoe lank ek tevrede
sal wees?
"Dingus" skryf in boodskap news:df8Yb.46378$9k7.941088@news.xtra.co.nz...
> I have yet to find better - although having said that, a chappy going by the
> handle
> Nude Raider has documented some pretty useful stuff!
>
> (NOTE: 5mths-2weeks left here in Canada.)
>
> "Jon Perre Lefique" wrote in message
> news:EOGQS2BO38033.4526388889@anonymous.poster...
>> This is surely a masterpiece of afrikaans literature.
>>
>> Bravo, Bravo.
>>
>> JP
>>
>
Ek sal nou nie probeer om hierdie verhaal te vertaal nie
This is brilliantly written and I think this guy should be knighted,
>> whoever he is!!!
>>
>> This morning, yours truly, decided to sneak in a pinch of top-secret and
>> highly professional canoe training at Emmerentia dam, before the first
>> farts
>> of sparrows could escape their imprisoning sphincters, and even before
>> the
>> glories-of-mornings of most non-gay South African men could rise to view
>> the
>> possible prospects of 'before work' swims.
>>
>> Yep, I was up and onto that little patch of water before sunrise,
>> tearing
>> around it at record-breaking pace, sneaking in a wee bit of pre-Duzi
>> training, in order to wrestle the crown away from the well slow and soft
>> Martin Dreyer (present Duzi champion, for those of you not in the
>> intellectual canoe mix) next time around. Anyway, the details of my
>> incredible canoe talent are not up for discussion here, but rather what
>> happened on my drive home after the session, in rush hour traffic, and
>> in
>> particular, on Jan Smuts Avenue near to the Old Parktonian sports club
>> around 8am.
>>
>> I was happily chilling in my car, cruising along at about 60kph,in
>> pretty
>> much bumper-to-bumper traffic, with nobody going anywhere any faster, it
>> was
>> simply not an option. Well, not an option for anyone with a brain, with
>> an
>> ounce of logic within their crania, with a drop of sense inside the
>> membranes of their cerebral hemispheres. You'd think that a creature
>> without
>> a brain would equate to a fly or less, a category that includes
>> mosquitoes,
>> stones, anvils and . taxi drivers. Yep,enter Sipho"I'm a dickhead
>> without a
>> brain cell" Nshlovo, driver of a Toyota Hiace* 4 wheels, 1 brake pad, no
>> lights, half a steering wheel, about 30 people inside and 3
>> masking-taped
>> windows, yep, standard issue for a South African taxi driver.
>>
>> He had more than likely participated in the demonstration march last
>> month
>> with hundreds of other taxi driver idiots protesting about having had
>> their
>> 'vehicles' impounded for not being roadworthy, the rocket-scientists
>> couldn't understand what wasn't roadworthy about a taxi with a bobejaan
>> spanner for a steering wheel, or one without brakes (they reckon a
>> handbrake
>> is just as good as the foot brake pedal). Anyway, my mate Sipho decided
>> things weren't flowing fast enough for him, so started weaving in and
>> out of
>> the traffic, arm hanging out of his window like a baboon's tail hanging
>> from
>> its ringpiece (I'm certain his armpit smelt like a baboon's ringpiece as
>> well, he was sweating like Bruce Fordyce's crack after 90km's on the up
>> run
>> of the Comrades).
>>
>> I heard this aeronautical engineer-like taxi driver coming from about 5
>> cars
>> back, because everyone was hooting and slamming on brakes to avoid the
>> accident that he was trying his damndest to cause. After he narrowly
>> missed
>> the back of my canoe as he swerved in behind me, I made a stubborn
>> little
>> vow that he DEFINITELY wouldn't be cutting in front of me like that, and
>> so
>> began the fun and games. The bum-wart first tried the standard tactic of
>> intimidation, just gradually cutting me off, in the typical "you'd
>> better
>> slow down and let me in, or I'll crash into you" method. Well, I used
>> the
>> typical "Fack you faeces-brain" tactic, with one hand on the hooter, the
>> other pointing straight at him, with my foot firmly on the accelerator,
>> until he backed down like Mike Catt had done in 1995 when Jonah Lomu ran
>> straight over him. This had a snowball effect, which had me chuckling
>> the
>> whole way back to my humble abode. Syphilis-face then decided to put all
>> his
>> well acquired driving skill to the test, and adopted the smartest
>> technique
>> of them all, the "Eish, I weel ovah-take on the wrong side" method, one
>> that
>> sadly has caused numerous accidents in the past, including the untimely
>> death of one of our awesome mates, Mike Short, a year ago.
>>
>> This made old Maccatini madder than a spitting cobra, with a red hot
>> cactus
>> lodged up its rectum. No skin off the facking taxi drivers nose, he just
>> accelerated more, and tried to cut in front of the double-cab in front
>> of
>> me, this after he had hooted at me and showed me a middle finger
>> accompanied
>> with a few swearwords, something that made me want to beat him harder
>> than
>> Campbell hit the boy who stabbed him repeatedly with a pen all those
>> years
>> ago!
>>
>> Well, the fella in front of me had obviously also been observing the
>> proceedings, and likewise refused to let Sipho Dickdribble Nshlovo in,
>> so
>> the acceleration by the monkey continued, while he tried his hardest to
>> outstare the double-cab driver. Sadly for the nuclear physicist, the
>> emergency lane was shortly going to end, with a solid stone pavement to
>> mark
>> its ending. More sadly for him was the fact that he, and his 30-odd
>> passengers were all trying their damndest to "intimidate by staring"
>> myself
>> and the double-cab man, instead of watching the road ahead something
>> that
>> most brain-owners do when driving).
>>
>> I saw it coming, and was smiling my full-tusk smile even before they
>> hit!!
>>
>> Anal-bum-wart hit that pavement at about 70kph, 31 passengers bumped
>> their
>> heads on the roof of the hi-ace in poetic unison, adding an extra 31
>> dents
>> to the already-facked minibus, and the two front wheels were ripped off
>> the
>> chassis as the bus slid to a delightful halt.
>>
>> Thankfully no passengers were hurt, which made it the most fantastic
>> thing
>> to witness, sadly though, Sipho, arm still hanging out of the window,
>> was
>> also unscathed. However, his car was more facked than that prostitute at
>> PE
>> harbour named Deloris, and his mood was somewhat down-trodden. I hooted
>> and
>> made sure he got the full-frontal of my biggest-ever super smile, as did
>> the
>> driver of the double-cab, and then to my absolute joy, looked in my
>> mirror
>> to see every driver behind me doing exactly the same!
>>
>> The brain-cell-lacker had received his well-earned treatment! I was
>> happier
>> than Hudders when he passed his board, or at least as happy!! So folks,
>> what
>> a peachy morning it has been so far. The sun is shining, it's Friday,
>> I've
>> done my training, Long Tom Roodt is back in the country, there will be a
>> lot
>> of thirst quenched this weekend, and Sipho Faeces-face Nshlovo is one
>> mini-bus short of a taxi! Now that is justice....
>>
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