Brenda’s 17-year-old niece, Roxanne, has finished her matric exams and is coming to stay with us over the holidays.
When I told my unspeakable loinfruit the news, his face turned scarlet and he went all slack-jawed and glassy-eyed. I have seen that look before and it usually means trouble, so I smacked him sharply across the back of his so-called head and said, “Get a grip, you dirty little pervert. She’s related to you.”
He started blubbing like a girl and looked at me accusingly. “So how come it’s okay for homosexuals to get married and I can’t even …”
Hands trembling and heart pounding, I left the room before he could finish the sentence. His words hit me like a kick in the solar plexus and it all became horribly clear. This was going to be used as a defence in every trial involving monstrously aberrant behaviour of all shades.
“Your Honour, my client was under the impression that with men now being allowed to marry each other, it would be acceptable for him to hijack a bus taking disabled orphans to the beach, steal their money and clothes, abduct the supervisor and later roast him over an open fire outside parliament while wearing nothing but the hollowed-out head of a Shetland pony.”
Friday is the day that same-sex marriages become legal. It is also World Aids Day. Let no one say the Constitutional Court lacks a keen sense of irony.
The love that once dared not speak its name is right now shaving its legs, drinking pink champagne and putting fresh batteries into the bullhorn.
Cities and towns around this previously fine country have contingency plans in place to deal with any spontaneous outbreaks of mincing, squealing and bitch-slapping.
Police in Cape Town say they will use water cannons to break up lesbian catfights and gay biker dogfights. A spokesman said that as a one-off concession, police would fill their tanks with jasmine scented rose water.
Riot police have agreed to use sawn-off swimming pool noodles instead of rubber batons and officers have been issued with handcuffs lined with fake fur.
Troublemakers will be hosed down with Eau de Cologne instead of pepper spray and the authorities will in all likelihood turn a blind eye to acts of aggression committed between consenting sado-masochists. Coprophiliacs will be expected to clean up after themselves.
Yea, verily, life will never be the same again. For a start, going out for a drink with the lads will be laced with an undercurrent that never existed before.
Just when you think there’s nothing left on earth that could possibly surprise you, Bruce from accounts follows you into the toilet and drops to one knee while you’re having a wee. “Marry me,” he says, giving you a good once-over. Being a red-blooded God-fearing hetero, your typical knee-jerk reaction leaves him on his back spitting out broken teeth. Who would have thought? Bruce, of all people.
It’s bad enough women wanting to get married after the third date. Now we have to keep a close eye on our drinking buddies, too. Well, there goes the comradely arm around each other’s shoulders while staggering drunkenly to our cars singing filthy songs about our wives and girlfriends.
This once robust manifestation of male bonding is now open to serious misinterpretation and you simply cannot risk fumbling to get your key into the door if there is even the remotest possibility that your best mate will try to take you roughly from behind.
From Friday, it will no longer even be safe to play traditional macho blood sports like rugby. All that sweaty scrumming down and lunging for each other’s legs is like foreplay to the tighthead prop who has made up his mind not to allow his ex-wives to put him off marriage for life.
I am also worried about Ted. Having known him for so many years puts me at even greater risk. For starters, he has spent countless nights slumped in a chair or sprawled in the flowerbeds listening to me expound on the psychology of women. Now, looking at it through a pair of rhinestone-studded spectacles, I can see how a healthy expression of misogyny could be misconstrued as an unhealthy attraction to people who aren’t women.
Like most straight men, Ted got married so that he could have someone to cook his supper, do his laundry and have sex with whenever he wanted. He seems to eat okay and his clothes are generally clean, but the third pillar holding up that crumbling edifice of marital discord is calcified from years of neglect.
A partner’s failure to fulfil his conjugal responsibilities is unlikely to ever be cited as the reason for a gay divorce. Gay men have sex all the time, even when they are feeling tired or emotional. And come Freaky Friday it’s going to get even worse.
This weekend the country will be awash in proposals and engagements. The constant cry of consummation will wake the babies and send stray dogs scattering and I think it is safe to say that anyone who fails to make it to the office next week is almost certainly gay and should be ridiculed mercilessly when they return.
However, I doubt that Ted would turn gay simply to get more sex. That would be like converting to Judaism just to get more holidays. But I’m taking no chances.
The next time he drops by for a drink, I’m going to make him wear my welding gloves.
And maybe a muzzle.
28 November 2006