A match made in Babel...

This is a true story.

Well actually it’s based on true events with true characters.

It may sound a bit far fetched to begin with, but I assure you that these events have taken place and continue to do so on a daily basis.

In order to protect the innocent, names have been changed and events altered where possible, while still trying to make this documentary as accurate and interesting as possible.

This story is about dogs. It may seem to be about two dogs, but in some cases the combined experiences of several dogs was been collated in order to draw a more family friendly picture, while still maintaining the integrity of the writer, without straying too far off the narrow path of the truth.

THE STORY

The older one was black and white and had a permanent smile on her face, even though she suddenly developed a bit of a heart condition. She was mostly English, but was able, due to her highly intelligent ancestors, to pick up certain words in other languages as well.

It was just after six o’clock in the morning on any given day, as she stretched her elderly body, looked up to the sky and saw the first blossoms on the apple tree. The air smelt like wet earth, as it had rained the night before and she felt younger than her 80 human years.

“What does one have to do to get some breakfast around here?” she asked while nudging her much younger companion to her left.

He was off-white with a few black spots and although he had the heart and brain of a stuffed teddy bear, he growled with fright as he woke up. He was built like a brick out-house and resembled a medium built giraffe.

He was Danish and although he’s been with her for a few years now, he still couldn’t understand the highly proper and posh English she spoke.

“Hvad fanden Dudette?” (translation here) due to his still teen-age years, a high squeal was followed by a lowish growl in the most yodilly tone, which can only be expected from Danes.

She was Gemma, although due to her round firm bottom (even at her age), he insisted in calling her Pippa.

He was Erniessonn. Named after an ancient Viking god, who was well known for walking long distances on mowed lawns and hitting goose eggs into moles’ holes for fun. 

They had no mutual language they could converse in, although she did pick up on the boyish indecent proposals he threw at her a few times a day. The few Danish words she picked up related to various bodily functions, including procreation and orgasms, while his English was limited to what he saw on Game of Thrones, his human mistress watched while her husband wasn’t looking or racy YouTube videos.

The one thing the two dogs (except for being dogs) had in common was that they owned, and in some strange way loved and adored the same human. They loved that she fed them every day and took care of them by taking them to be groomed and pampered every so often. They loved it that she would pick up their poop off the grass. That especially made them feel powerful and vulnerable at the same time.

But the one thing they loathed and hated and felt really uncomfortable with, was the constant yapping their human did. She never stopped.

They had no clue what these noises meant, but they knew she was directing the flood of high-pitched utterances at them, while laughing and giggling a lot; as if she was actually funny! Maybe she wás in her own little way, but they didn’t know if this was actually true and didn’t give a toss either.

So on this lovely morning, Gemma (or Pippa), shook her ears to slap herself awake and with thunder in her voice said to the totally oblivious, non-understanding Erniessonn:”It’s your turn to look interested and listen to her gobbledygook-speak today, my young lover. I haven’t the faintest clue what she’s on about, ever and since we’ve, in so many years, not been able to teach her DOG, I’ve given up! I have a pain in my chest and she, unless she’s feeding us, is a pain in the arse!!”

Erniesson, without the faintest idea what his English Rose just got off her chest, smelt a snake in the grass and wailed in despair as he imagined that Pippa just told him to spend some time with that weird human, with the nonsense gabble and psychopathic-like giggles and laughs while she scratched his ears.

He liked the scratching. She would even scratch his soft tummy. That he liked too, but that consistent noise and yapping from her weird, small, flat mouth was his true and utmost kryptonite – he did see himself as a bit of a Super Dog, sometimes…..

But today was no day to be acting brave.

”Venligst ikke gøre mig gå med hende og få hende lave sjove lyde og fniser på mig i dag! Jeg har en stor hovedpine!” (translation here)he wailed.

Baring his teeth, he made it clear that he was not interested, even if it included a little nooky with his elderly girlfriend as an incentive.

“‘Ah ‘ave no awedea whot she’s sayin’ love, sow, leaf me out off diss” he tried to counter the assumed suggestion in a mock Cockney-Danish-David Beckam accent he picked up on Youtube.

Gemma faked a chest pain and fainted on the spot, but regretted it, as she became the sole center of attention for the day, while Erniesson played and ran and cajoled all day long and fruitfully interacted with his actual favorite human. The dark man who tends the garden and never, ever, speaks to him directly, assumes that he's answered or seems to expect a reply….

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere.

H of Arabia

Red Bikini Bottoms doesn't maketh the man. But it's a ballsy thought!!!!

This is November. Oh. And it’s also Movember!

I’ve supported this effort for Prostate Cancer for the past how many years. Growing my moustache to the horror of my wife and others, who, on the best of days bare the burden of looking at my face grudgingly, let alone when it is garnished with red, copper wire-like facial hair.

Since I was born and started remembering things, which was approximately at the age of 18, I learnt one thing. Well actually, strangely enough, I learnt many other things as well, but one thing that actually stuck was, that if you don’t want others to laugh at you on their own, you need to join them.

During the years I made an arse of myself a few times a day. The velocity increased to a few times every half a day then to a few times every few hours and eventually became an automatic, unstoppable storm of idiocies every few minutes.

That meant that I was laughing with the others all the time, while trying to ignore the embarrassed facial expressions (even sometimes agony and even sadness) of my extended family and prim and proper friends.

Hey, they chose me… OK in some cases I manufactured some of them and as for my wife… She did have a choice, even though I hid my “inadequacies” from her obviously very stealthily during our courtship…..

Anyway, as I said. It’s Movember and I have the old ‘stach growing at the speed of running super glue, but it will get there in the end.

In itself, except for adding to my rugged cowboy looks, it’s not such an embarrassment I hear you think.

And you’re absolutely correct! Well done for the insightful… ahm… insight.

The thing is. This year I’m not only thinking of the well being of my prostate. I’ve lowered the initiative a bit. Literally.

On Friday of this week, I, along with some other brave Daredevils will be running in the? You’ve got it. The annual Daredevil Run.

The great thing is that it will be quite a nostalgic run. I will be “competing” in this stunt filled exercise through the streets of the suburb where I grew up and where many, many, many people, including ministers of the church and elders and teachers (who tried their best – but failed miserably, I hasten to add) still live.

I will be half naked. The top half – don’t worry. I will be wearing some running shoes (with socks) and a Baywatch inspired red speedo…. Oh. And I may have the radio on as well.

So if you think you see David Hasselhoff running through the streets and parks of Rietondale in Pretoria and you think he lost a lot of hair and got a bit “round” at the waist line and decide against approaching for an autograph, just keep the following in mind.

It’s for Testicular Cancer and I HAVE THE BALLS for running for my BALLS!!

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere

Now I know – A Lesson in History - I had a crash in Africa

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As most of my three followers know, I’m currently in Nairobi, Kenya. This country was a British Colony for many years, while the Germans were carefully looking after Tanzania.

But Tanzania is a story for another time.

On the way back to my hotel this evening I had a very strange experience and things suddenly became clear.

I was in a motor vehicle accident. Nothing that made my life pass before my eyes or gave me whiplash and a stiff neck or anything like that.

We were making our way through peak hour traffic, going left around a bend, when some security company’s dilapidated mini bus decided to pass us on the right where there was no space and made contact with our front bumper.

There was an awkward scraping sound as he tried to push on, but he got stuck and had to stop.

In most countries this would have led to a lot of screaming and shouting and swearing and even shooting in some countries a bit more to the south…

However, what happened made me realize that the Kenyans probably had a major influence on the Brits, which is why they are, even up to today in most cases, very courteous and quite well mannered people.

We had to stop – obviously because the mini bus was stuck to our bumper and was going nowhere fast. There was contact between the two vehicles and some damage.

But here is what happened next.

My driver and the other driver got out of the cars with no real haste and walked towards each other.

Although they were speaking Swahili, this is basically how the conversation went.

My driver looked at the area where the two cars connected and said: “I say wot old fruit, quite a cheeky turn you made there and all that old chap?”

“Quite the most unfortunate set of circumstances I have to say mate” the other guys said, as he was obviously less polished than my driver.

The two men casually looked at the new scrape marks on the already “well tattooed” mini bus, which showed that that driver was a bit of a brute when it came to slicing through traffic.

“Jolly good dent you have there my good man” my driver remarked, while the other man nodded slowly, looking deep in thought.

“Jolly good indeed” the other man said.

We were holding up the already busy traffic behind us, but there was no hooting or shouting or hanging out the windows waving fists or anything like that from the other motorists.

“You think we should call The Bill over and do the necessary and all that old chap?” my driver asked.

“I’d rather not waste their precious time with this little misadventure don’t you think my good man?” the other guys asked.

“Yes. Let’s rather stop this unpleasant barney and avoid attracting more attention my old cabbage and get back on the road I say wot and all that thingamajig.” My driver suggested.

They got back in the cars and off we went.

Very unpleasant incident it was, but I survived….

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere

H of Arabia

My sad and heartbreaking divorce

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I need to share some really sad news. Heartbreaking actually.

  

For once I'm not sure how to start and while I sit here there is this lump in my throat and a burning in the pit of my stomach. It's all sadness and regret and everything that happens to you when you're about to lose something dear to you.

I catch myself remembering the good times. There were never any bad, except for maybe her hardness that sometimes surfaced when she was simmering slowly and wasn't left to soften up slowly by herself.

One or two times maybe there was a charred tint from too much exposure, but mostly the dry heat would make her golden brown. There were times when she was still Lilly white before the sessions in the exquisite heat and steamy liquid and I would be licking away the savory juices, exotic oils and spices, I covered her with, while softly, carefully biting into the soft white flesh.

It gives me goose bumps and at the same time makes me want to cry when reality returns and I realize once again… It is over…

She did nothing wrong and actually neither did I, was it not for the evil French sadist and wannabe doctor.               

All I did was expand. I expanded to such a state that we were forced to part our ways or run the risk of expanding even further to a point where we eventually would have been separated as death would have done us part.

My death.

We have said our farewells, I think and I hope to still be friends and maybe visit her once in a while, once I get back to a physical state where I can handle my giddy reaction to her presence. And maybe we'll be able to return to where we left off.

  

I really hope we can and I really hope she feels the same way. But for now we need to part and I'm crying my heart out.

I'll survive without her, but this divorce has broken me and I don't think I'll ever be the same.

All I want to say is thank you Pierre Dukan. You dog! I am bitter and I HATE you for what you did and for what you forced me into.

  

I will shrink back to my old self and I will once again love and caress and devour my beloved potato....

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere

How we love them but only in small bites and slow chews... My family holiday for 2013!

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I’m not one to tell stories outside my own circle of… ahm… let’s call it “family”, but sometimes some information is way too interesting and could even be some sort of a warning to other sane members of the species homo sapiens - just in case someone runs into some of the specimens I’m going to describe in this short novel...

 The people I refer to are actually my family-in-law and for one I’m not too worried about them reading this, as most of them can’t really read and those who can are not that good in reading English…..

We all ended up on a week’s holiday together recently and I have to say that if we all travelled in a bus, innocent bystanders might have thought that some asylum had an outing and through some horrible administrative mistake let loose the craziest of the crazies on the unsuspecting resort in the bushes of the northern part of South Africa.

Fortunately we travelled in four cars and no one noticed the “instability” until shortly after we arrived and started sorting out the sleeping arrangements….

There is nothing really sinister about the way we were supposed to sleep even though no hillbilly family I’ve ever seen has anything on this group.

You have to understand the dynamics of this unfortunate lot before I go on. 

There are four sisters and each one by some stroke of unbelievable luck found a husband and has so far only been married once and most unbelievably still are - even though I think there may be regular thoughts of either suicide or murder when it comes to their husbands.

For some other unbelievable reason God apparently had a plan, which still has to be revealed, decided that these groups should be “blessed” by offspring and that perpetuated this unbalanced melting pot (read witches brew) of semi-disfunctionality…

Then there are the two unfortunate parents - now grand parents for their sins, which is also still to be revealed.

They have tried their best but became old before they turned 30.

They did, however, had the good fortune of convincing four - at the time, sane, normal young men, to marry their daughters. What a laugh and probably several sighs of relief they must have had after the last daughter left the house…

So there we were. The cars were parked except for one which, due to lack of a “convenient enough spot”, was just left behind some unsuspecting, normal vacationer’s truck, while the children ran around whooping, carrying several heavy cases of alcohol (not mine as you will soon find out – I mean the alcohol) above their heads. This led to terrified screams and some savory language coming from their parents.

Once the hooch was rescued the whips, hand cuffs and leather restraints were removed from the cars, which was basically all that was needed for an interesting few days.

Oh…. No. Don’t misunderstand. The parents have all been banned by most foreign governments and many Security Agencies globally from having any sexual relations ever again, just in case there are more children lurking in their loins…

The equipment is to subdue the children already in existence, as violence is the basic language that calms them down and prevents them from eating too much and stealing their parents’ booze. It also helps to contain them to their sleeping quarters in case they plan to escape to socialize with the rest of the unsuspecting vacationers without parental supervision (for what it may be worth) or to attack the wild life that went into hiding the moment the four cars burst through the gates anyway.

So, where was I?

Oh yes. The sleeping arrangements.

This little “incident” was, to say the least, a storm in a tea cup…. compared to the rest of the week. 
Two pairs of grownups split and burst through the doors of the two houses occupying the only double bed in each of the apartments. This left the rest of the crowd with two more rooms with two single beds in each and two more rooms with four bunker beds in each. This situation was swiftly sorted after four hours of negotiations, by allocating two bunker beds to the grandparents and having 6 of the kids sleeping in the other bunker room and another one on a matrass in one of the living rooms. The grandparents were so grateful that they immediately forgot their claustrophobia and aching joints…

No one knew where their back pain complaints came from by the end of the week so it was just flatly ignored and put down to attention-seeking behavior.

Talk about back pain. One of the brothers-in-law, made the tiny mistake of offering his twin cab truck to assist the rest of the clan to bring along every single piece of clothing, the dining room set and the kitchen zinc on this four night excursion.

While loading a lounge chair he did his back in and was crippled for the rest of the holiday. I’ve heard that he’s still not well, but that’s probably mainly due to his wife’s giraffe of a dog, that greeted him very happily on his return to the metropolis of Christiana, which is where they live.

One thing I can say about this place we went to, is that to take the hiking routes is like choosing a lucky packet. If you ever happen to stumble along a sign mentioning the Bush pig walk, be warned. Don’t try it unless you have a week’s provisions of food and water with you, some mountain climbing ropes, hooks and other mountain climbing thingies. You will also need three pairs of climbing boots and very thick socks as you will wear out the boots in a few kilometers and the blisters you will have after this trek will be as big as satellite dishes. But this is a story for another day.

After offloading the entire luggage consignment and dividing up the kids, I was in desperate need of alcohol. And lots of it. To my disgust and heartbreak I had to find that none of the booze I thought would accompany me on this ultimate test for survival was packed. Probably a little trick my wife had up her sleeve. I didn’t ask and I also refrained from violence to keep the peace for a while.

Blind with thirst I high jacked a car and drove the 200 kilometers to the nearest town where I saw a booze store when we came past on the way to the bush camp. I emptied the store of all its stock and I was back at ground zero before the rest of the clan even missed me.

My alcoholic son immediately asked whether I provided for him as well and with the affirmation in place, he proceeded to hurt three cans in succession in the space of about twenty seconds and once I had him on a plug, it was time for me to apply the necessary “medicinal” attention to myself…..

The rest of the week actually went by as a bit of a blur and although I tried to remember how it actually went, I fail to recall any lucid moments. 


I do remember that I played beach volleyball with a team of Swedish Swimsuit Models at some stage, but even that hallucination might have been brought on by some of the liquid refreshments I forced on myself, so take at least this part of my story with a pinch of salt.

Everything said, I think the week went extremely well and I really look forward to do it again next year….

Groete uit die woestyn en aan al die Arabiere

H of Arabia

TAINTING A REPUTATION WITH CHEAP HOOKER PERFUME - so to speak....

I have to tell you something, but you need to make sure that this never gets out.

I'm so ashamed and I really don't need any more fingers pointed at me, while they whisper behind their hands.

It's all my own fault, I know, but at the time I was not thinking and I didn't realize the consequences then.

My children are such a disappointment to me and because of them I will have a tainted reputation forever. They will be tarred with the same brush as well, but since they are still young, I as the father figure will be blamed many years from now, not them.

If my daughter had come to me and said that she is pregnant with an English footballers love child or that she wanted to marry the son of an African dictator, I might have been able to absorb the shock and maybe see a shrink to recover. I would have been able to support her and looked the world in the eye and told those gossipers that it's human to err.

I could have done the same if my son came to me and told me that he's about to marry a Kardashian or Lindsey Lohan. It's human and the flesh is a horrible temptation - even though I would have seriously worried about his eye sight and standards if he came to me with something like this.

But all this happened because of my own weakness. My lack of foresight and keeping my brains together.

Blame me!! Yes it's me! I was weak and stupid and not a good father....
Regret comes too late. Let me tell you this. Learn from me. It's hard to take the responsibility and see the blame in the eyes of your wife, friends and other family. You can grit your teeth and laugh through it.

You can keep up appearances and hope the stigma that sticks to your person and those of your innocent (albeit stupid and disappointing) children, like cheap, revolting, sweet, hooker perfume will eventually wash off and people will forget or maybe move to another country or die and all will be good again, but the damage that might be done to the psyche of two young kids is still unknown and that may haunt me forever.

I am guilty. I take responsibility. I am sorry!!!!!

I bought them the Justin Bieber tickets....

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere

H of Arabia

If at first I don’t succeed…

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It came out of nowhere.

Completely out of the blue.

I was absolutely stunned and speechless for a few weeks now.

It was so unexpected that my words nearly dried up for good, but I’m back and ready to look the world in the eye again.

I do, however, have something to say, but this will be the last of it.

Those back-stabbing, motherless, dress wearing, deceiving, altar boy pinching, sniffling, lying, two-faced, forked tongued snakes!!!

Picking that Argentinian above me…. What a bunch of sad oinks!!!!

I’m not bitter at all. I’m just voicing an opinion…

Anyway. So the Pope position was eventually filled by some unknown from Argentina. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is some Nazi fugitive’s son formerly know as Helga. But enough about my former potential employment. I will not act like a potential disgruntled employee that was fired before he was potentially appointed.  I’m moving on.

See. The thing is. I realized that there are better and more important things in life than being Pope.  I read somewhere that there will be an election in South Africa next year and I’m starting a new campaign on this 3^rd day of April in the year of our Lord 2013. The position of President of the Republic of South Africa is up for grabs!!

I know my mate Jacob (with a “J”, not a “K” otherwise it would have been Kacob), who likes me to call him Zumfie, is looking at sneaking in one more time, but he actually put me on to applying for this esteemed position.

Not in so many words as you can imagine, as I’ve been told that he is currently already looking at some real estate below Table Mountain. No. Literally below Table Mountain in that area where the nuclear warheads, PW and his cronies manufactured, were hidden from the Russians and Americans. Remember those days hey? PW was too ashamed to admit that we had those capabilities as South Africa was only able to destroy planet earth three times over, which paled in comparison to the 9 times and 12 times of the Russians and Americans respectively.

Apparently Zumfie is looking at some more spending money from his private piggy bank aptly named SARS, in order to build another fortress for him and his extended family in the hollowed-out Table Mountain, so he and his family can be safe when the Iranians and Israelites start World War III.

I’m not telling Zumfie of my plans yet, as he might need more than cold a shower to recover from the shock. I’ll keep it as a surprise for him as long as I can.

Initially I thought of an early onslaught on his position by maybe arranging a hostile take-over now that every single military weapon and person has been shipped off to some dark alley in the Central African Republic, but because I don’t wear a red frock and a funny hat and live in Rome potentially anymore, I’ll play fair.

I do plan however to make a few changes. “President” has been past its sell-by-date now for quite a while and “King” has been on the books for thousands of years. So I plan to, like Thabo Mbeki so unwisely thought he was, become the Emperor of not only South Africa, but the whole of Africa. The convenient fact that my military will be deployed all over the continent and will crush any resistance from any of those corrupt and thankless Governors of, what I will call “The Provinces”, is such a bonus that I nearly became emotional for a second.

I am therefore calling on my voters to unite. I’m actually calling a few dodgy politicians – not that I know of any politician who isn’t – tonight to see if they could be so kind as to make way for the ruler, which is me off course; or face the possibility of being made Minister of Tolls, Sport, Health, Education, Potholes or any other department which will take millennia to sort out.

In the meantime I will lie awake at night to think up more changes and a few threats to bring any dissidents back on the straight and narrow. I’ll keep you informed of any new innovative ideas I come up with.

Once the word gets out that Zumfie and his cronies are under threat to lose their cushy positions in the front benches and may be relegated to “Ministers Without Portfolios” – no this time they will really have nothing to do, which is good as they’ve had a lot of practice – or even Deputy Ministers of Agriculture or Correctional Services, the fox will be in the grapevine and some worms might flee the can.

I still need a name for my new party though, as I apparently need a party to belong to in order to appear on the ballot paper. I personally prefer a rave instead of a party, so it may be another change I’d like to make, but in the meantime I need some suggestions. So if you don’t mind, sharpen those voting pencils and creative minds for a name for my new rave….

Groete uit die woestyn en van al die Arabiere.

H of Arabia