Sweet Retching

So this past weekend I retched. Not because of my affinity for whiskey but rather a comment that I did not see coming. I was described as a “sweet kitten of a man!” Surely! OK let me put this in context. Obviously I was under the influence of some lethal concoction, courtesy of a benevolent neighbor. One of the people she introduced me to that evening told me and I quote “Underneath that veneer of false bravado you are obviously a sweet kitten of a man” ergo the retching. . At that point I would have given almost anything to be teleported to the smoking section of Blanco’s Sports Grill.

Knowing thyself (biblical or otherwise) is a good thing. I wouldn’t under any circumstance describe myself as any feline, syrupy or sour. I think what horrified me most was that the statement was within earshot of other men folk in attendance. Most accounts I have of my actions when properly smashed indicate a certain consistency in character. A Saccharine disposition does not feature in any of those accounts.

My personal view is that she must have been beer goggles blind! That is my story and I am sticking to it. I know that I am not exactly endowed with loads of sex appeal and this knowledge has led me to evolve into somewhat of a lecherous gentleman whose natural evolution culminates into dirty old man. I have always had to whisper sweet little nothings in some ear to get my way. Most of the time they whisper sweet little “nothing-doings” right back but that has never deterred me. I considered that statement a sweet little “nothing doing” but gamely soldiered on for a while before packing it in.

The thing is in much the same way women admit that they have had to kiss a few frogs before meeting their own version of prince charming I have had to endure quite a bit of bodily harm for the two and a half notches on my belt. The half is a novella all its own. Trust me on that one. I have had to learn the hard way that women more often than not get to have their cake and eat it too. Despite their constant whinnying about the quality of men this side of the Sahara; they make do.

Like any storyteller worth his salt, women know the ending of the story. That is why they watch every Mexican, Philippine or Indian soap that airs. (Indian! Do they end each episode with a song and dance routine?) They know how it ends. They just revel in the detail! So a woman knows exactly how your story ends a couple of minutes into your pitch. Woe unto you if it is a tragedy, women love a good tragedy!

Regardless of whether it is a comedy of errors to be rehashed to the girls the next day or a torrid night of debauchery to be recounted in even greater detail your die is usually cast. What I learnt this past weekend is that other than this shameless gluttony for details, women are quite brutal when they want to be. I saw a dude get shot down before he could ask air traffic control for clearance to take off. Severally. Granted the guy was probably on the better side of half a crate of whatever his poison was but the guy was a trooper! Stoic to the inevitable blacked out end!

As the sun came up later that morning I was too exhausted to have a crack at maneuvering what seemed to me the treacherous single flight of stairs to my apartment. I reclined on a welcoming sofa and curled up for some shut eye. Screw minimum staggering distance I thought. I should have taken the risk of breaking my neck on my unsteady, bleary eyed way home. I was suddenly privy to conversation that kept me awake due to both morbid curiosity and my insatiable hunger for new curse words.

They shouldn’t call it girl talk. It’s more like sailors on crack and rum! Whore! Whore! Whore if you catch my drift! I had to demonstrate Buddhist will power keeping my eyes shut and my ears open to the filth that should have had me screaming bloody murder when the “sweet kitten” voice of a few hours ago began recounting the conversation we had. The embellishments were neither flattering nor restrained.

They say that we all have a choice all the time. I personally think there are times when choice is overrated. Act fast first and damn the consequences. This was one of those gung ho moments. I was too exhausted from all the activities of the previous night but more so from my inadvertent eavesdropping of the morning after to think my actions through .Stifling giggles and rage in under a minute whilst hangover is quite draining.

I did the only reasonable thing a man in my position could. I decided to wind down my act with an act of defiance and conviction that I was truly a man obliviously asleep. I waited for the topic to change then I had my revenge! I turned around faced the back of the sofa and let rip a long raspy choma and whiskey flavored fart! How I managed not to break out into paroxysms of mindless giggles after that is a true testament to my real nature. Vengeful and dour the quintessential sourpuss!

Advertisements

About BMK

I have always been overwhelmed by the exuberance of my own verbosity and the fecundity of my mind's eye. View all posts by BMK

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: