Disclaimer: The following piece is not recommended for sensitive readers. It contains strong language, politically incorrect utterances and general profanity. Reader discretion is advised.
I have confessed before that I am a walking bundle of personality disorders. One that I failed to mention is that I am fighting a losing battle against anger management. The only reason I do not get involved in road-rage incidents every day, for instance, is because of my aversion to any situation that might culminate in me using my face as the last line of defence against an ex-prop on ‘roids at the side of the N12.
And it’s not all the biggies that spark off my worst cases of rage. Sure, thousands are dying needlessly in retarded wars on the continent and the Middle East. Yes, morons are still driving around in 500-litre/2km automobiles while complaining about climate change. But these are the big things. We’ll congregate in Durban for yet another conference and send the carbon-dioxide emission index through the roof as we drive around in 4X4 vehicles to come up with more resolutions.
No, what crawls up my black, hairy behind are the little things. The easy-to-fix stuff. The low-hanging fruit. This morning I am minding my own business, driving to work and doing my bit to send the carbon-dioxide emission index through the roof. Something flies out of the window of the blue Citi Golf in front of me and gets stuck on my windshield. Some kind of silver foil material. A sweet or cigarette wrapper, who knows? And for the next 1,5km or so that I’m following this car, “it” spews out more foil fragments every 20 seconds or so.
To the driver of a blue Citi Golf registration BVG 988 GP, please stand up. You, sir, are an idiot.
(What is BVG 988 GP short for? B-in V-acuum-brained G-enerally speaking since 988 BC?)
So I continue following this cretin (god bless Zapiro) with his foil-shitting car until he starts indicating to go left. I made sure to stop exactly abreast of him at the traffic lights so I could get a closer look at the face of retardation. He has an oil slick where his hair is supposed to be. I think he used two-and-a-half canisters of hair gel this morning — you know, the “wet look”. His bottom lip hangs down to just above his navel, I think. A matchstick is stuck between his clenched teeth. I swear I heard a sound like “Wooo!” as the air flowed between his ears.
I’ve always said that my wife goes overboard with her strict adherence to the “no littering” rule. I’m the vice-president in charge of washing the cars in the house. (Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t actually wash the cars — I’m responsible for taking them to the carwash). Each time her car is washed, enough rubbish is collected from within the cabin to half-fill a black bag — sweet and chocolate wrappers, tissue paper, garage slips, chicken bones and apple cores from last Saturday, and so forth. Yeah, she’s a responsible citizen. And she always points out that I have my own neuroses as well. For instance, I have been known to drive through a township, spot a leaking tap, make a U-turn and go back to tighten it. I know, I know — this behaviour borders on Detective Monk territory.
So is this about littering then? Hardly. It’s a little bit more than that. It’s about a mindset that permeates throughout society that seriously pisses me off. The attitude is, “It’s somebody else’s problem. The government or somebody. I don’t care. The inside of my car is clean, that’s all that matters.”
Oh, this type of thinking gets to me! I have a few friends who smoke. I do not know what effect the nicotine (or is it the tar?) has on the part of the brain that controls being considerate to others. When smoking morons have congregated on an area, the place looks like somebody detonated a hand grenade, what with all the matchsticks, cigarette stubs and foil. At some point I think the cigarette smoke melts some neurons and all of a sudden people think it’s alright to sommer just throw kak on the floor. What is it? As you can tell, this is very close to my heart.
One of these moronic human chimneys who is my buddy feels that it’s quite alright to sit within 40cm of me and puff away. I took the decision early in my youth that inhaling and exhaling smoke was retarded — I could put that money to better use. Why must I be forced to inhale it now? Sure, he’s getting off on the smoke, but what about the rest of us? It’s the same “as long as I’m fine, I don’t care about anyone else” mentality I’m ranting about.
I’m sick of this! The next time I see an idiot snuff out a cigarette with his foot in the parking lot at the mall, a major misunderstanding is bound to ensue. I’m not kidding. I’ll approach him and shout: “You’re a moron, Bin Vacuum!”
Phew! I feel better now.
End of rant.
Ndumiso Ngcobo is the author of the recently released book Some of My Best Friends Are White. (Two Dogs, ISBN 978-1-92013-718-2)
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