Ludd up in tha Bogs n' Surrounds

For those of you who have not had the joy of 'gizoogle' or 'gizoogling' a website and converting it to Gangster speech here is the poo story told in a different way.

(This only appears to work in S.A but google 'gizoogle' - go to the 'website tranzizzle' option and type in the address of a blog - it's like gangster magic).

A playa was at a doggy den jam up in England. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Majoritizzle of tha jam was takin place downstairs up in tha glass-roofed conservatory which had been converted ta a thugged-out dance-floor fo' tha occasion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  As is tha way wit partizzles durin tha course of tha night pimp meets girl, they hit it off n' head upstairs fo' a lil 'alone' time.  Da hoe slightly inebriated is up in dire need of tha loo so pops tha fuck into tha ensuite where her dope ass do a rather solid n' unflushable shittin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Afraid dis might fuck up her horny-ass chances her big-ass booty scoops it outta tha loo (the exact detailz of dis is a tad hazy) n' flings it outta tha window.

Downstairs on tha dancefloor one of mah thugs hears a thud n' looks up ta peep a turd parked on tha glass roof above em.  Da Turd-gazer stares up in bewilderment, wonderin softly ta his dirty ass  "Is dat a poo, biatch? I be shizzle thatz a poo, biatch? But whoz ass threw tha poo?" Amazed by dis turn of events tha pimpin' muthafucka turns ta tha crowd n' castin his wild lil' finger tha fuck into tha air decries,  "Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck threw tha Poo?"  

Suddenly all eyes is on tha suspicious heavenward turd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  As Turd-gazer leadz tha chant, "WHO THREW THE POO?" tha jam mobilises, n' shoutin in unison, raisin they arms up in protestation they head up tha stairs ta smoke up "WHO THREW THE POO?"

As tha crowd is bottleneckin on tha narrow staircase tha poo-tosser up in question has heard they shouts n' abandoned her romantic liaison. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.  Realisin dat tha only way up is down, da hoe bursts outta tha bedroom defiantly throwin her first up in tha air n' declares up in unison wit tha chantin crowd, "I THREW THE POO!"

Love in the Bogs and Surrounds

Oh poppy-cock! I've gone and lost The Husband again.  The poor man has been banished to the Northern Isles to earn his weight in fish and fish-related produce.

I should have been on the 11pm flight with him last night, the cheap KLM flight that was delayed for 3 hours and then still had a 2 hour stop over in Amsterdam.  That was the plan anyway - 6 months in South Africa and if neither of us is gainfully employed we use our return tickets and finance the next stage of Operation-Oh-Shit-Where-Are-The-Grownups?  But I couldn't do it, I bottled it at the last moment and told The Husband that I couldn't go back to Britain yet I was at a too crucial stage in getting my African back.

Of course now I wake up and the bed is rather empty - the section that should include a snoring, hirsute Scotsman is now occupied by his pillows. The same pillows we had territorial wars over a few months ago.  I don't even want them now, even though they are the two best downy ones, I'll cry my tears into the lumpy, orthopaedic one. (That's your cue to feel empathy & a smidgeon of pity for the author of this sad and sorry story).

It was of course my choice and now I've made it.  The thought of going back to Britain filled me with a cold, dread deep in the pit of my stomach and now perversely the absence of The Husband is producing a similar, bowel-loosening effect (strangely they don't wax on about that in 18th century love poetry).

There is a Rumi quote that says, “Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.”  When I met the Husband I felt like I had known him all my life (a terrible cliche I know) and when we part, as we so often do, it is a physical pain in the pit of my belly and the only way to get on with living is to cauterise it.  I get hard, I make my own decisions, meals for one, back-to-back episodes of 'Girls' and beer and cornflakes for dinner.  There is no one but the chickens to judge me.  Of course then The Husband will come back in my life and the thought of opening my newly healed wound is too much too bear.  So we both rail against it, fighting all the little things that make a life together - the decisions and intimacies shared so callously by the always together couples.  Inevitably we fight, flinging horrible words at each other behind an armour of 'Me and I and you always'.  But somehow we always find our way back to each other because perhaps Rumi is right and we were in each other all along.
I know the course of true love never did run smooth and all that jazz, but does it have to be such a pain in the gut?  

Luckily in lieu of my husband I have my hilarious, glorious and downright dirty friends.  They truly understand my depraved humour and so to cheer you up, here is a story told by one of the funniest people I have the privilege to know, the Bowlzation (I'm only sorry that you don't have her facial expressions to truly illustrate this cautionary tale):

A friend was at a house party in England. Majority of the party was taking place downstairs in the glass-roofed conservatory which had been converted to a dance-floor for the occasion.  As is the way with parties during the course of the night boy meets girl, they hit it off and head upstairs for a little 'alone' time.  The girl slightly inebriated is in dire need of the loo so pops into the ensuite where she does a rather solid and unflushable defecation.  Afraid this might ruin her romantic chances she scoops it out of the loo (the exact details of this are a tad hazy) and flings it out of the window.

Downstairs on the dancefloor someone hears a thud and looks up to see a turd parked on the glass roof above them.  The Turd-gazer stares up in bewilderment, wondering softly to himself  "Is that a poo? I'm sure that's a poo? But who threw the poo?" Amazed by this turn of events he turns to the crowd and casting his finger into the air decries,  "Who threw the Poo?"  

Suddenly all eyes are on the suspicious heavenward turd.  As Turd-gazer leads the chant, "WHO THREW THE POO?" the party mobilises, and shouting in unison, raising their arms in protestation they head up the stairs to find out "WHO THREW THE POO?"

As the crowd is bottlenecking on the narrow staircase the poo-tosser in question has heard their shouts and abandoned her romantic liaison.  Realising that the only way out is down, she bursts out of the bedroom defiantly throwing her first in the air and declares in unison with the chanting crowd, "I THREW THE POO!"

The girl in this story has become a bit of a heroine to me, she reminds me that A) many people suffer for love and will go to extreme (insane) lengths in pursuit of it, so really I am so very lucky to have found it B) you should never be afraid to own up if you threw the poo.