When you enter the old taxi park, it’s a given that you’re going to be abused. Its therefore wise to prepare your mind, skin and ears for the brushing, grabbing, shoving, eardrumbusting trauma. Why? To avoid losing your temper, is why.
Because if you think that you have the hottest, most terrifying temper on the planet, be assured that the park contains (and will produce on demand) a person with an even hotter one. By bad luck, this is the person you’ll shout at for stepping on your toes and they’ll waste no time in tripping you, sitting on your back and rubbing your face in the dirt. Things can get bulade.
How do you prepare?
Step 1: Flare out your nostrils as far as they can go and breathe in khuuuuffff then breathe out phooooom.
Step 2: Make sure your money, phone and book are secure in your bag and that the handle of said bag is firmly clutched in your palm. Even better, to your chest.
Step 3: Hold your breath and plunge, elbows first into the seething mass of limbs and smells that is the park. Bolt like speedy Gonzales to wherever your damn taxis are hiding, not forgetting to ogle the pretty dresses on display over the taxis. This ogling is essential because you never know when or where you will find the dress of your life. Your toes are even more essential so try not to lose them to homicidal drivers.
With all of this going on, it doesn’t occur to one to protect ones chest, which is exactly what the boob slammer has been waiting for.
Boobs? Slamming? What’s going on?
Two Sundays ago, a few meters from my taxi, some stupid man ran at me and slammed my poor unsuspecting bosom with his shoulder and then swaggered away.
Yes. He cocked his shoulder in the attitude of an agitated cock, ran at me and shoulder-bombed my chest fat.
Being unprepared for any of this, my mind reacted slowly. I stood and gaped; wondering whether or not crying would help the situation and quickly decided it wouldn’t because this called for RAGE.
The famous Apenyo rage that puts people in mind of supernovas and exploding balls of lava, you mean?
Yep. But by the time my shock had turned into indignation, hatred and finally bloodlust, the suppurating cockroach corpse had already found safety in the leering crowd and all I could do was stand there thinking to myself, ‘Hmm. This can be turned into an article, can’t it?’
Really? That’s what you were thinking?
No. I was cursing and swearing and wishing him death by all sorts of painful bodily dysfunctions for example, I wished for his colon to liquefy and come rushing out of his fucking bums.
That experience left my twins and I with questions because even the bitterest misogynist will agree that my chest is fantastic. Its aesthetic value is inescapable. What kind of demons would make a man actively try to hurt these creatures that only seek to bring joy and bounciness to the world?
Ssebo, tell me. Do you habour a particular hatred of bosoms? Or was it my chest which offended your sensibilities?
This fool performed a random act of violence against bosoms, which can only mean one of four things:
a) His mom forcefully breast fed him until he turned 21
b) For the whole of his school life, he inspired violent, spontaneous hatred in his female teachers (who all possessed ample bosoms) and now he goes around tackling all the unsuspecting, unprepared female chests that he meets in revenge. Which is unfair. We’re innocent.
c) Once, in his haste to slam a very large, wobbly chest, he neglected to ascertain the sex of his victim and only realized that he had attacked a very fat man after receiving the worst punch of his life. That experience has made it impossible for him to ever stop because he doesn’t want to seem like a wuss, like he’s stopping because of that beating.
d) He’s bitter because he’s only been acquainted with boobs that look like squidward’s nose.
One more thing. This dude had really smelly armpits. I’ll never forget the way his underarms quivered as threw himself at leftie, the way sweat poured freel… eew you guy. Why don’t you just use a deodorant also you?
One day when I’m not so busy, I’ll seek you out and clobber you to death, watch you reincarnate into a worm and clobber it too.
I’ll smash your slimy wormy corpse (tchwack tchwack) into a paste, put it between two slices of mugati and refrain from eating it ONLY because it smells too much of armpits, a smell that even as a worm, you’ve failed to shake.