April 8, 2008
Now Take Your Wheelchair And F*ck Off
Sunday is my favourite day of the week. After Tuesday, Friday and Ash Wednesday. I basically just lie around and try and do as little as possible on Sundays. It’s my day of rest, as it should be for everyone. Why then, do people insist on bothering me on Sundays?
Seriously, that’s not a rhetorical question, it’s not one of those “Why did this have to happen to me?” or “Can you do that thing with your mouth that I like?” where you just KNOW you won’t get an answer and you’re basically talking to yourself. No sirree campers, if anyone has an answer, please go ahead and tell me.
Anyoo, there I was, lying on my couch making farting noises with my mouth, when the doorbell at the HQ goes off.
Annoyed at this rude interruption which broke my concentration, I slowly rolled off the couch, slid down the fireman’s pole, and headed for the front door, ready to deal with this intruder.
It couldn’t be The Girlfriend, as she was passed out in the bedroom, after I spiked her tea. My friends know not to visit on the Sabbath – for fear of death and / or a public flogging – whilst my family finds me tiresome and slightly narcissistic, so would generally give me a wide berth whenever they can.
It was with great annoyance then, to be greeted by a strange looking white man with a checked shirt and deep creases in his face, like tanned leather shoes you have been frantically running in, because you got drunk one night and urinated in a mailbox, until a policeman saw you and gave pursuit.
“What the f**k do you want?”, I enquired politely, wondering how he managed to get passed the guard dogs and trained snipers I have outside.
“Good afternoon sir,” he said over-enthusiastically, even going so far as to tip his cap, which I took as quite a patronising gesture.
“Wait, how did you get in?”, I enquired – still curious as to how Schweinhond and Blitzkrieg didn’t rip him a new arsehole, as it’s a little party trick the two Dobermans are rather fond of pulling.
“Oh, the lady on the top floor let me in,” he said excitedly, as if that moment was the happiest day of his life.
F**king Mrs Liedermann, the senile old goat was fond of letting strangers come waltzing in off the street. I think she got a kick out of it, and suspected that she secretly wanted to kill me, and so made a mental note to kick her in the hip when I saw her again.
“Look, you’re dressed rather poorly, and you smell of copper. Would I be correct in saying you’re looking for a monetary donation of some kind?”. I was keen on skipping the inevitable little sob story and just wanted him to quickly state his case, before sending him packing.
He began ruffling through his pockets, which made me uneasy as he could have been looking for his gun, and I only had my six-shooter, which I hadn’t really used since the great shootout of ’99. Instead he whipped out a little scrap book containing pictures of a guy with a mullet who apparently needed a wheelchair after falling off a mountain.
I worked this out, as I was shown multiple photos of various rock formations, with the smiling mulleted man superimposed on each photograph, until finally, a few shots of different wheelchairs, which I gathered was some sort of wish list.
To my knowledge, these things cost several thousands of rants, and I couldn’t quite see what a few R2 or R5 coins would ultimately contribute toward this. I was also quite pissed off that he had managed to get through my intricate security system and was now practically begging at my front door.
He clearly didn’t share these sentiments with me and, after I told him off, gave me a sarcastic “Thanks, you have a GREAT day now”, which I obviously didn’t appreciate and so was forced to retort by unleashing the German dogs of hell on him.
Don’t knock on my front door looking for handouts on a Sunday, that is the last thing I am in the mood for. If you’re not someone I now, or you’re not the Mr Delivery guy, you WILL get your arse handed to you.
In a styrofoam box.
Now f**k off, and let me be. I’m busy making farting noises with my mouth.
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