Ted and I went into the Cape Point nature reserve on a perlemoen poaching expedition when something went horribly wrong and I woke up 48 hours past my deadline covered in rotting kelp with a crotch full of sand fleas and some kind of rodent gnawing on my foot.
My obsession with perlemoen began one morning when I fried one up as a special anniversary treat and delivered it to Brenda as she woke. The effect was remarkable.
She locked the bedroom door and set about the most alarming shrieking and whooping I have ever heard coming from a white woman. I doubt she could even hear me banging on the door begging to be let back in.
When I finally smashed my way through the window, I found her naked and hunkered down on her haunches in the far corner, sweating heavily and sucking on the perlemoen shell with a crazy look in her eyes.
My courage failed me and I stood there, shoulders hunched, feebly pawing the floor like a Spanish bull who knows when it is beaten.
I have since changed the locks and hidden the keys. The next time I get some of this satanic shellfish into Brenda, I want to be right there to take full advantage of her remarkable metamorphosis.
Ted keeps warning me to be careful, but I have long recognised sex as a blood sport and always prepare accordingly.
When it comes to making advances of a carnal nature, whether on your wife or somebody else’s, the most important thing to remember (apart from the protective goggles) is to have a haircut before you go in.
More men have lost fights through having long hair than short swords. Look what happened to that elvish ponce in Lord of the Rings. It took a troll to save his lily ass.
William Wallace painted his face blue and gave King Edward a damn good thrashing at Stirling, but then he grew his hair and thought he could get away with sleeping with hundreds of Celtic sluts. By the time he got to Falkirk, his hair had been yanked by so many mad women that the first blow in that fateful battle in 1298 dislodged his temporal lobe from both cerebral hemispheres and soon afterwards he was caught and executed by the bastard British. Braveheart, my butt. Anyway, look at Scotland today. He need not have bothered.
Hippies are another long-haired lot who lost a revolution because they refused to cut their hair. That’s why people like Mitt Romney and the pope make regular trips to the barber. They know that if they hope to keep Americans off crack and Catholics off contraception, they cannot afford to have the internet full of pictures of them being dragged around by the hair by jealous White House interns or frustrated Vatican altar boys, even if it is on a subscriber site.
Anyway. It was after my trip to the reserve with Ted, when the debauchery reached unprecedented levels, that I decided to clean up.
So, with loins girded in anticipation of a little early spring action with a post-perlemoen Brenda, I went off to get de-fleaed, have a tetanus shot and visit the hairdresser.
Not being the leader of the free world or the head of a heavily over-subscribed cult, I choose not to go to barbers. Not many people know this, but the word “barber” is a corruption of “Berber”, a North African tribe which deals with long hair by removing the offender’s head.
I have a hairdresser who knows better than to talk to me. For too long I have allowed myself to be at the mercy of strange women who say things like: “So where are you from?” and “So what do you think of Cape Town?” even when you repeatedly tell them that you are from Cape Town. I mentioned this to Ted, and he said I was thinking of hookers, not hairdressers. Some friend he is.
Why, I don’t know, but I always decide to have a haircut just as I am careening off one of those crippling benders that men go on when they have nobody around who cares enough to stop them. This happens more often than you might think.
Fighting off the dry heaves while the synapses splutter and fuse is not always the best time to be bent over backwards with your head in a sink while an unidentified androgynous biped wearing leopard skin pants and tight frilly top massages your scalp in time to some pseudo-sexual tune sung by a bottle blonde teen vixen with swollen breasts and shrunken morals.
Being a sensitive man, I try not to be rude to people of indeterminate gender. Instead, I chew the inside of my mouth to a bloody pulp and keep my eyes closed so the popping of the ophthalmic veins does not disturb the other poor swine getting their heads rubbed by the rest of the hip-swaying transsexual mutants on the payroll.
It gets worse. The wash is over. Now it is time to wear a Day-Glo pink sheet and sit in front of a giant mirror without moving your head more than one millimetre in any direction.
Your body a lurid amorphous blob, you find that your face doubles in size. By the end, you cannot even bring yourself to look into the mirror. You resemble some sort of queen from the gay insect kingdom without any of the perks, like allowing the warriors to suckle your breast so they may go back out there and conquer new kingdoms.
This is what happens when you get into the habit of channel hopping between National Geographic and e.tv’s pitiful excuse for porn. No wonder I’m in trouble.