One out of Three ain’t False

One of these vignettes is true. The other two were dreams. Can you guess which?

Uno

They came in cars. A Mini and a Morris-minor both painted a shade of teal echoing the plumage of their passengers. There were no less than five inside each vehicle and a few more perched on the roof. Native parrots. Kea, Kākā, kakapo, kākāriki. All as big as the humans the cars were originally built for and by. Each bird had learned one or more phrases of human speech. They would shriek their pet-phrases at random intervals as if afflicted with Tourette’s and the bird-brained cacophony was hilarious. Then another vehicle pulled up. A white van this time. My grandmother hopped out of the van and kicked Liz up the ass. Then she got back in the van and drove away.

Dos

Young kids don’t think that way. That’s what a lot of women say. Bullshit! I was only five years old the first time we visited Toronto. School starts at age 6 in that part of the world. My age was more suited for the equivalent of what we call Kindergarten in New Zealand. Standing-desks were not trendy back then, but very common in school-type environments. So there we were standing by some table busy working away at … Goodness knows what … I can’t really remember, but that was probably when I was playing with the plastic castle that had a trapdoor leading into a secret room that could be accessed by locating the camouflaged sliding door on the side. The girl standing next to me was engrossed with something equally fascinating so I looked around to make sure no-one was watching, then bent down and looked up her skirt.

Tres

The beautiful and mysterious world of calligraphy. I don’t think the teacher was explaining it very well. Not my fault that I couldn’t read the blackboard from where I sat. Fortunately, my pencil-case was loaded for bear. I stopped scribbling with the blue ink and switched to felt-tips in bright colours. Then highlighters. At least two other kids at the same table followed my lead — either from boredom or rebellion — and we were soon making a fine mess on our pages. By the time my masterpiece was ready for grading I had used a decent amount of cellotape to ensure that the remains of my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwhich would remain fixed to the page. The thesis scrawled in bright red tomato-sauce “Remember: The bigger the spider, the bigger the mess.”


© Grumpy Axolotl

Worse than Crabs

Sex sells. So does itching-powder. Sometimes sex alleviates the need for powder as the subsequent itching – after relieving the initial itch – is free.  Herpes must be awful. Hey, is there anything worse than crabs? Sure, just wait till you try the pubic-lobster!  Speaking of crabs, I was at the beach once and a young girl chanced to pick up a beautiful conical-shell from the water’s edge. Screaming ensued when the pincers of the hermit-crab inside emerged and snipped the air menacingly. I have never had crabs – I doubt they would make good pets – but our house used to suffer regular slater infestations, which made great pests. Slaters are crustaceans (as are crabs) and they look a bit like trilobites, but they live on land and they couldn’t bite if they tried. I used to play with them. I would construct little mazes from LEGO bricks and encourage them to navigate the labrynth, but the little bastards would just climb straight over the walls.  Unfortunately, my Mom called a moratorium on labrynths when she discovered the minotaur hidden under my bed, reading Playboy magazine. Oh yeh, slaters are more correctly called wood-lice. In North-America they are colloquially referred to as pill-bugs. They have 14 legs and feed on decaying organic detritus, wood being a favourite dish. If you want to find a slater, go look under a log. You’ll likely find a spider too. That’s OK though; most spiders are harmless and even the venomous ones will ignore you unless you dick with them. Case in point: A tourist in New Zealand went to sleep naked, face-down on a sand-dune (so the newspaper says) and a Katipo (our native poisonous spider that lives predominantly in sand-dunes) reportedly bit his joystick. He went to hospital when his poor sausage swelled to twice its normal size (There’s just no pleasing some people). I guess pubic-spiders are worse than crabs.


Image: http://www.public-domain-image.com