A Century Of Crap.

Well loyal blogger-buddies, we've done it. I've managed skryf 100 posts and you've managed to read them. Ok, not all of them but I reckon Kyk has cast an eye over 95% which makes him twinkle like a little star, whilst maintaining a certain degree of manliness of course.
For those who fell along the away, sies on them. For all you who joined along the way, how bored were you?

Anyway, should you feel so inclined, herewith a little collection of what i think were some of the noteworthy moments in this wild adventure that has been Granny Wrangling. Some to tickle, some to shock, some to emphasize the CRAP i've been through, and some just coz i loved writing them.

•• Mavis The Marvellous (no relation to Seth's chick)

•• I'm Blind!!!

•• who-what-where-how-when-why-me?

•• Keep Your City Beautiful

•• The Goddamn Fucking Chicken Wrangler Trilogy: Rustic Hell 101 closely followed by Coming and Going and of course the video The Chicken Wrangler.

•• Ode To A Skidmark

•• A Pint At The Typhoid Arms

•• F Is For Funny

•• Same Day, Different Shit

•• The End Is Naai

It troubles me to realise how many cleaning products are contained in the above content. Thanks y'all, i loves ya. I really loves ya. (If you didn't nominate me for the blog awards then i don't but i'm just pretending to).

**SMOOCH**

Whale Oil Beef Hooked.

I can’t get over these british accents. For such a tiny little puddle of mud, it never ceases to amaze me how many different ways there are to say something. Take broccoli for instance. Brocklee, brawclay, brohalay, brawklee, brohlee, glahchenfwilldergrish, if you’re welsh, and, if you’re just an eastend dirty knickers type, dem veg whoh are gween yeah?.
Is this just standard no matter which part of the world you in? Is a different accent warranted for every 100 km travelled? Sorry, make that 62.137 myowz.
Quite frankly, and I’ll readily admit, perhaps my ignorance, if that’s what it is, is due to my decidedly colonial upbringing. For me Durbs, Joburg, Cape Town and a general Vrystaat accent are pretty easy to distinguish between. When it comes to the locals however, the best I can do is ‘he’s from zim and he’s from South Africa’. Is this just me being a typically ignorant whitey?
Being a foreigner here, I really have to engage my ears and brain every time I ask anyone for anything and when the posh old BFG talks about orphans all the time, I take me ages to realize that she’s not pulling a Madonna on the crowd but rather referring to something which happens with regular occurrence. Mind you, if I had a pound for every time I’ve been asked if I’m from Australia I’d never have to wipe another bum or boil a piece of brawklee til it resembles the remnants of some student’s 3am kebab.
I ask you with tears in my eyes, do I look like I’d like to spend a romantic weekend curled up in front of the fire with Dolly the sheep?! For f*ck’s sake.

Reason To Love Your Job No. 1

You don’t have to come home after a long weary day and stand in a 5 litre navy blue bucket, toes curling up the one side, holding a shower head as close to you as possible so as to avoid the post-soap-down clean-up of the entire bathroom as the level rises faster than that of the swimming pool at fat camp.
You haven’t twisted and contorted in ways which, in other careers, could earn you an extra 50 quid an hour, just managing to get all the important bits, only to realize you still have to exfoliate, shave, wash your hair and brush your teeth. And Nicole Ritchie’s probably eaten 4 meals since you derobed. Go and give your calculator a hug. Go on.

Ode To A Skid Mark.

Oh Intrepid explorer,
Why do you stray so far off course,
Your amber tail streaming out behind you like a comet across a Percale milky way?
Nestled beneath a sea of duck down you lie in wait,
A sardonic smirk upon your face.
Have you lost your way?
Were you unwittingly separated from your herd?
A million questions to ask, but how will you ever answer.
Oh itsy-bitsy smear of repulsion, oh puissant poo,
So tiny your appearance yet so powerful your effect.
Your putridity abhors me to the core.
You may have conquered my sight and my integrity but you will never thwart the Omo army to which I shall now deliver you.
Be gone to the bowels of hell from whence you came!
Be gone!

Of Feet & Mouths

So, like, I can be a little outspoken at times. I know, I know, you wouldn’t think, would you? Well last night I can safely say I truly outdid myself.

The dinner conversation went something like this…

Me: What a lovely painting you have framed on your wall over there
(nose begins to grow faster than a cabbage in a cow pat)
Did one of your grandchildren paint that for you?

BFG: Excuse me?

Me: That painting which bears some semblance of a chicken (gulp) chatting with a see-through fish and what appears to be two fried eggs flying in the sky with a lopsided punk-ass star. (The exact wording isn’t important). Did one of your grandchildren paint it?

BFG: (Insert look of sheer horror/amazement/nausea) That is a Braque.

Me (aside): What the f*ck is a Braque?!? Other than vomit on a canvas.

BFG: He’s a very famous artist.

I pour a dash of single cream into my steaming bowl of humble pie.

Me: Oh. I didn’t realize. It looks like something I could have painted when I was in grade one.

Can anybody spell “apoplexy”?

Breaking The Curse

“Oh I do like to be beside the seeeeasiiiide…”

So. So far so good. But seeing as there are no longer any chickens to count I shall have to resort to not crossing any bridges in a hurry. The night is but a puppy. A Shar pei.

Enter the BFG, the local Bridge club’s answer to Roald Dhal’s gigantic hero. A freak of nature, as old biddies tend to be rather minute on the whole, the BFG is my height. Ok, let me rephrase that. Her hump is my height. Her head hangs somewhere near where her boobs would be were she 70 years younger. Minor details.

Loving being by the sea. In a city. With people. And cars. And shops. And public transport. And coffee shops which don’t have diseases crusted down the price column on the menu where vuilgat country types have dragged their bitten, bleeding fingers down the list in search of a good deal. Oh the common folk, how they turn my stomach.

I think I can cope for another 12 days. Think.