People talk. People keep saying how bad the crime is in South Africa. People are right. I am, for the first time in my short life, a crime statistic.
Some downright dirty motherfucker broke into my old, but much-loved Toyota Conquest. Shed a tear for me at this moment. I don’t like that at all. I’ve written a poem about it:
I am sad.
Very very sad.
That guy is bad.
He made me mad.
My speakers were rad.
I am sad.
I’d like to put a question to anyone who may read this sad note. What kind of haemorrhoid-eating asswipe would go through the trouble of breaking a window in broad daylight and take only my speakers? The imbecile left an mp3 frontloader, a smooth black scarf, an Orlando Pirates™ Vuvuzela™ and a set of jumper cables behind. Honestly. I am in awe of the stupidity.
In spite of this sad happening, I remain upbeat and happy. I console myself with the fact that this person, like me, is a music lover. I trust that my JVC 6X9s will bring a bit of joy to what I’m sure is a miserable soul. I remain happy. They are just speakers.
Having stated how happy I remain, should I find said dirty motherfucker, I will break his most useful bones very slowly with a chisel and set a sex-starved donkey on his ass – for just a preview of what he might get in the dirty cells of South Africa’s prisons. But I remain happy. Please say a prayer for dirty motherfucker.