Weekend Witness - - Games -

mon­key was eat­ing his bread, all bravado and chutz­pah, ma­cho bull­shit.

But one morn­ing, I tell this bar­man, a man with a small­bore shot­gun ap­peared in the gar­den, and an­other bloke from the SPCA in a white dust coat. They’re gaz­ing up in the avo tree and I know they’ve come for my mon­key. May I make so bold as to ask what the bloody hell you’re do­ing on my premises with an un­hol­stered firearm? say I with the ut­most sar­casm. Sorry, sir, I’ve got to do it, says the shooter, it’s my job, Mrs Mein­tjies in the cor­ner house has of­fi­cially com­plained that her grand­son name of Clunt gets hys­ter­i­cal when he sees wild an­i­mals. Well why don’t you go and shoot Clunt then f’Chris- sakes? say I, he’s a hor­ri­ble lit­tle shit with black teeth from eat­ing chocolate for his school lunch and he’s not do­ing any­thing use­ful upon this Earth. Ja, wouldn’t mind, says shooter, pity it’s un­law­ful, I pre­fer the mon­key. And what if I refuse to let you fire from my premises for fear of fright­en­ing my chil­dren? say I. Then I’d wait and fire from the street, says the shooter. I never miss. Ask this guy. The SPCA man nods. So he stands amongst my hy­drangeas un­til af­ter 45 min­utes no less he gets a clear line on the mon­key up in the leaves there and blasts him clean out of the tree­top in a grace­ful arc and he lands stone dead on his back on the con­crete path­way with his jaws still re­flex­ively chew­ing his bread.

Yeh, the Ab­boes, now … says the bar­man. Well, say I rather loudly, Je­sus got up off his bum and wad­dled over to the mon­key and picked it up and dropped it on the kitchen step for some rea­son only dogs know about. A dog is a crea­ture of ri­tual. Yeh, says he, it’s an il­le­git­i­mate blonde. What, the dog? say I. Nuh, Loife, says he. It’s a feh bas­tard.

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