Viagra Revenge - why you shouldn't have a six pack when you are in your late 40's

So this is a true secret story.

My brother-in-law, has just celebrated his birthday (in the high 40’s.)

Young looking, fit, kite surfing, six pack taunting bastard that he is.

So he is having dinner with an older friend who starts expounding on the wonders of Viagra.

“There are two types of Viagra, a strong tablet for old bullets, and a gentle 250mg tablet that you can take one every three days or so”.

His friend, like a drug dealer offering you your first hit for free, tells him he’ll give him a single capsule to try.

Interest piqued, he negotiates hard and walks away with three.

I get a reasonably awkward-feeling report back over the telephone the next day.

Regardless of how long they have been married. His wife is my sister after all.

The mild tablet is definitely the way to go.

You don’t fall asleep after getting through your only rations.

This is not a one course meal.

He gives me a glowing, glowing report.

Nice to know.

The kicker was that he was so impressed with it he went and bought a pack of like 530 boxes from the pharmacy. It might have been a carton of 30 packs.

The other thing was, he was kind of sheepish and awkward about buying it, being as young looking as he is.

So he slinks to the back of the pharmacy to the prescriptions counter, waits until nobody is around, and then quietly and secretively asks to buy a box.

He is good a slinking.

He is slightly alarmed when he sees the box though.

It is of olympic proportions and as heavily branded as a Christmas tree.

Shitsake, but no problem, he plans to cradle it in his arms and then slip through to the counter and pay before anybody notices him.

I should probably mention that he lives in the very small coastal town of Betty’s Bay, just  outside of Cape Town.

Population about 679 or thereabouts.

You want to keep your secrets secret.

And here is the thing.

This was one of those moments when God is re-affirmed (and as having a sense of humour too.)

In South Africa, when you buy prescription meds, they have small cages, the size of a shopping basket. They put all your prescription meds in the cage, and you then take this to the teller to pay. The cage is either locked or closed with a cable tie.

So before his eyes, the guy at the prescription counter, lifts his box of Viagra high into the air for all to see, and then lowers it into a completely visible cage and proceeds to take about ninteen and a half minutes to lock the lid.

There is only one way to carry those cages. Proudly in front of you like you are showing off a prize canary in a canary cage.

Beautiful. Just priceless.

Thirteen and a half minutes later the entire Betty’s Bay knows he was on Viagra.

“Don’t be a doos and write this on your blog okay”

Of course not. Of course I won’t.

What do you think I am. A prick?

Some of my best friends are Gingers’…

I felt a ginger mist descend on me. I experienced ginger rage.

Now before you make any assumptions I would like to clarify that I am not a closet ginger. Nor am I a gingerphobe. Why, some of my best friends are gingers.

Okay, so what are the odds of this.

Last week-end I very annoyingly had to go into the ABSA bank next to Blue Route Mall on a Saturday morning with two irritable young children. It was pretty crowded and there were too few tellers and the whole bank was pretty grumpy. But, we all worked together and made a real effort to be as quick as we could so that the next person could get their business done.

All of us that is, except the Ginger at Teller 4.

Oh no. Not him. He had the whole day to spend there leaning up against the counter doing everything in slow motion, chatting away to the teller like she gave a shitsakes.

Six or seven people were served and he was still at his post trying hard to get the most out of his visit.

We all had a secret understanding. We all hated him. Not just for taking long, but for asking stupid questions and trying to stretch his visit out.

But mostly for not noticing what page we were all on and not giving a shit.

I secretly vaporised him twice while I was waiting and it still didn’t make me feel any better.

And when I left, he was still there.

Knob.

So then this morning, a week later, and I am again forced into the bank and again there is a long queue, and again we all have the shits, and lo and behold, there is a single, slow, sloth-like customer holding up the works. Again.

And guess what. It was at Teller 4 again. Again.

And here’s the thing. It was a ginger again. Not a semi questionable ginger. A full blooded, freckled ginger. Legs crossed leaning up against the counter. Yakkity yak take his time. No time issues, sloth sloth.

Again.

This was different ginger completely.

It was made worse by the fact that this guy had on those old hang-ten surfer slops that we used to wear in the mid-eighties with slightly grubby feet and plenty of ginger leg hairs.

I felt a ginger mist descend on me. I experienced ginger rage.

I mean what are the odds of that?

Frickin low, that’s what the odds should be. Or are they actually? Are there a lot more gingers about than we actually realise.

Now before you make any assumptions I would like to clarify that I am not a closet ginger. Nor am I a gingerphobe.  Why, some of my best friends are gingers.

I personally know a ginger who is quite a good bloke. He’s just like us.

We all know one good one.

But when I grow a few days growth and my wife squeals and says I have ginger on my chin she is wrong man. Dead Wrong.

Auburn! I have a mix of blond and auburn beard hairs. Nothing more.

And I have nothing against gingers, but…

But it is so treatable. I mean there are so many options available to them. They can shave, they can colour they can pluck and they can wax. They can do so much. And yet they don’t.

Instead they hang around at Teller 4 and sloth.

 

A List of Nine Words your Wife Might Use (sent in by my brother in law)

Fine:

This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to shut up.

Five Minutes:

If she is getting dressed, this means a half an hour. Five minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes to watch the game before helping around the house.

Nothing:

This is the calm before the storm. This means something, and you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with nothing usually end in fine.

Go Ahead:

This is a dare, not giving permission. Don't Do It!

Loud Sigh:

This is actually a word, but is a non-verbal statement often misunderstood by men. A loud sigh means she thinks you are an ass and wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about nothing.

That's Okay:

This is one of the most dangerous statements a woman can make to a man. That's okay means she wants to think long and hard before deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.

Thanks:

A woman is thanking you, do not question, or faint. Just say you're welcome. (I want to add in a clause here - This is true, unless she says 'Thanks a lot' - that is PURE sarcasm and she is not thanking you at all. DO NOT say 'you're welcome'. That will bring on a 'whatever').

Whatever:

Is a woman's way of saying "Go to hell."

Don't worry about it, I got it:

Another dangerous statement, meaning this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is now doing it herself. This will later result in a man asking 'What's wrong?'

Attention: Mr. Bill Bryson, Writing Bloke.

Attention: Mr. Bill Bryson
Living on the Big Island

Dear Sir.
I was heading down to our new loo recently with my well worn copy of A Short History of Everything under my arm. Let me hasten to assure you that the book was for reading and no other purpose. (Also please do not feel insulted, I reserve some of my best reading on the loo)

I am into my fourth read of the book.
I managed to understand at least 80% of what you were explaining in my first read. And then promptly forgot about three quarters of it within a two day period. I find that the 20% of the facts that I can recall from your book don’t quite get me though a decent discussion at a dinner party. (By the way, I am amazed by how few people, while eating their soup, actually know what percentage weight of their pillows are made up by dead skin and mites)

 

I have thus promised myself that I would read your book at least twice this year. Slowly, and with furrowed brow. This should get me up to about a 50% recall of the fat presented, and that sir, should see me through a good dinner discussion, or at least until dessert is served.

Anyway, back to my visit to the loo and my dilemma.
The problem that I experienced had to do with my wife.

On my second visit, to what was planned to be am oasis of quiet time in the chaos of a three children household, I noticed that my book was missing once the show had got underway as it were.

Needless to say this upset my routine awfully and something that I was really looking forward to, turned out to be a very ordinary experience indeed.
Afterwards, having made a more thorough search, I found the book, pushed down between a wash basket and the wall.
I suspect this was no accident as there is a member of my family who frowns at and looks down upon my particular reading habits.

I carefully monitored my wife’s next visit.
She hypocritically also carried a book in with her. Careful detective work on my part proved that the book was a Xhosa Speaking course that we are both meant to be studying.
Yes, in short,  homework.
Now homework is obviously important in anybodies life. But I would as soon take homework to the loo as I would take it to some other pleasant and peaceful event, like a trip to the cinema. It makes no sense.

(I am prepared to admit that there may be an argument for me to learn Xhosa, although I will not being using a structured study approach, but rather plan to free my unconscious mind, to allow me to suddenly begin to understand a foreign indigenous language.
Instantly, and out of the blue.
Anyway. This is my plan. And it is my business.

And my choice of reading matter is also my own business.

However, in the interests of meeting my wife half way, to the crux. Please could you and your publishers consider including an abridged English-Xhosa dictionary at the back of your next print run of A Short History of Everything.
I cannot imagine I am the only one in this predicament.
Who knows, it might even boost sales.

In the meantime, I have removed pages 83 to 127 from our Oxford English-Xhosa dictionary (Flower/intyatyambo to Monday/uMvulo) and pasted them in the back of your book.
This is obviously not ideal, as general aesthetic and practical issues aside, I also lost quite a few words when I trimmed the dictionary pages to be the same size as your paperback.

Even though I am sure my wife will be happy to see that I am making a move in the right direction I feel the only real answer will be getting a move on with the new print run.
Lets shake a leg.

Yours in appreciative reading.

Hamba Gashle