Eat Lard

Mondays. Bringer of harsh realities, schoolyard shootings and for the unwary aasvogel, evil car shattering destruction and whiplash that could paralyse him in the next fifteen years. (Divert. ‘could’? What sort of value does the the word ‘could’ bring here? Could PARALYSE sounds exactly the same to me as: you will be paralysed NO MATTER WHAT. It’s like your doctor saying: “Good tidings, I’ve reduced your chance of PAINFUL DEATH by 12%. Who’s the Man?” And pats his own buttocks for a few minutes while you look away politely. )

Elaborate. The Aasvogel in question drives a car, a little Satanic Suzuki Swift with a manual transmission that is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Weekends and late evenings have seen such a diabolic vehicle accelerating happily, maniacal laughter ringing through the streets, a fellow speed demon or unfortunate trapped in the front seat as we challenge the widely held view that: thank you, the price of gasoline is high enough already, we get it, Mr Gore, we should use less. Now show us the pretty picture with the polar bear trapped on the rapidly dissolving ice floe.

There are two states of driving for the Afrikaaner Vulture. Lets call them Go Satan, Go! and Sitbackitsgoingtotakehoursinthistraffic. The former is fun, exclusive to clear roads and gives that happy feeling as guess what, those boffins in Suzuki thought lets build tiny cars with 1300cc’s of JOY and they’ll fling themselves forward like there’s loads of Suzuki pussy out there they are missing out on.

The second state evolved as a reaction to those journeys that are the daily trips from Battaramulla to the places of work that invariably feel like an Odyesian journey, sans sirens. Perhaps the occasional Cyclops. The Return on Effort Invested while driving at such times is minimal and weaving, creeping and swearing just have not shown any clear incremental benefit. Even the swearing, dear reader. For those who don’t know me or haven’t been in earshot at a wedding or a baptism or whatever it is your allowed to drink at, (oh wait, that’s work) I like my profanity. Nothing relaxes me as much as expelling the majority of my breath shouting something Inspiring and Educational. (Like ‘fuck’) It’s like untying a cerebral knot. After a fashion.

It is to be said that we are in sad state where even the profane cannot elevate you. Nevertheless, years of reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and forgetting the central theme has left me with: Tools. I can zone out from this crap. Which is why the decision to throw in my lot with Suzukius Diabolus was clear when i was presented with a choice of two cars, one with an automatic transmission, the other with a CD player. I had already got half my CD collection into the car before my lessor pointed out gently, this is the point you tell me whether you want to rent this car or not.

So there you have it, mornings were gentle strolls into work, listening to the Zephyr Song or Mozart’s Requiem (Deutsche Grammaphon recording). Cars would no longer be elbowed out of the way but allowed to pass if belligerent enough. Hardly anyone’s mother’s sustained any verbal abuse anymore. None was needed. Choirs sang Kyrie Elieson at studio volumes reminding all around that yes, you are going to die, get some good grovelling in while you’ve got the chance. Or at the very least learn Latin.

Today was different. If the Fates left a comment on my blog it would read “Dear Assvogel, you were so anxious about the work you need to get done this Monday morning and have been pondering your long term career directions and what you need to do to get there, we decided to help you out on both counts. Guess what, you only got in to work now at 11am and everyone was so understanding that you’ll feel impelled to stay till 8:30pm to finish your work. Oh and your career’s sorted. BMW will hire you shortly. As a crash test dummy.”