So I walked into someone today. That in itself is an awesome story, and should be made into a movie. I would be played by Tom from Home and Away (remember Tom, he was Pippa’s first husband who had a heart attack while driving and died), and as we are basically identical twins, and I figure he needs some acting work, it makes perfect sense. The guy I walked into would have been played by Jonathon Brandis, except I learnt recently that he died last year. So in respect to the dead, that guy will now be played by Michael Hutchence.
I was meandering along the footpath, thinking worldly things (for instance: Last night, I saw an ad for nappies that had some kind of slow-release wet patch mechanism on them, so the toddler knows when they’ve just pissed themselves. I didn’t have this when I was toilet training, and I rarely wet myself these days. What the fuck is wrong with kids today that they need special help to let them know that they’ve got a plastic bag full of urine and baby shit around their waist? And how will letting them know they’re wet help anyone? Surely they’d think, “Well… fuck. I’m wet,” take off their pants and run around the house naked, pissing and shitting on anything and everything they can. I know I would.) and then I bumped shoulders with this guy coming the other way. When I say ‘bumped’ I mean ‘brushed’, and by ‘brushed’ I mean my sleeve may have lightly touched his sleeve. It was quite a hit, it almost made the cotton of my shirt move. Almost.
“Sorry mate,” says I, all apologies and sincerity.
“Fucking watch where you’re going.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” And I turned to walk away, and muse on other things, such as what all the little black bits on the concrete are – some friends I have say it’s chewing gum, but really, do that many people eat chewing gum and spit it out right on the footpath? I mean, there are heaps of those little black blobs, and if it was chewing gum, wouldn’t it be more easily removed? Those blobs are pretty impossible to lift up, if you’ve ever tried (like me), and they sure as hell don’t taste like chewing gum… and then when my back is turned, I hear, “Fuck you, fucking faggot.”
Alliteration aside, it wasn’t the greatest use of English I’d ever heard. “Fuck you.” Is that the best we can do here? Some of the greatest literature known to man hath been borne of the English language. Shakespeare, Coleridge, Yeats and Suess would be rolling around quite discontentedly in their graves, I should think. And I’d know, I’ve been digging around all afternoon, swearing at corpses to see if it had any effect. (note: not yet, but keep trying)
Fuck you. Poor form, English. Take heed on your Spanish cousin:
Mecagum les cinc llagues de Crist, "I shit on the five wounds of Christ," in Catalan. Even better is Mecagum Deu, en la creu, en el fuster que la feu i en el fill de puta que va plantar el pi, "I shit on God, on the cross, on the carpenter who made it and on the son of a whore who planted the pine."
Are you a Swahili mother with a kid in need of Super Nanny’s obvious advice? I am. So I say, Matumbo yangu huzaa maradhi, "My womb has born a disease."
Slightly less harsh, but a shitload easier to say comes from our stoned friends, the Dutch. Krijg de mazelen, "May you get the measles.”
I have been known to dabble in Dinga, a language spoken in Zaire, Mabial agpi-agpi ke mabial nganswang, "[You have] very short breasts like the breasts of a porcupine.” I usually say this to my pet porcupine, just so no-one gets hurt by it. And my porcupine doesn’t speak Dinga.
And thankfully, we have a new “mama” joke. So all you little wiggas out there, read this (or: reed dis, mang!) Melewe silom we ie maragus, "Your mother has yaws," Ulithian (Ulithi is a coral atoll in the Pacific.) Or try Falfulul silom, "Your mother's pubic tattooing!" Gold, baby.
Bi damaghi babat rydam, "I shit on your father's nose," which you can say next time you're hanging around in Iran and looking for a fight. Or you could try Guz bi rishit, which means "May a fart be on your beard."
So Captain Cranky Pants, FUCK YOU. You arse clown.