If you’re a South African, crime is just something you grow accustomed to. Or you emigrate to New Zealand.
Like Hugh Hefner who has grown accustomed to dyed-blonde twins with massive silicon-enhanced mammary glands on each arm, South Africans know they will have their car windows smashed and their latest copies of Playboy and Huisgenoot stolen; they will have Zimbabwean exiles set up shop down the road and their women seduced by apparently more virile African men; and in the middle of the night thieves will try to break into their houses and steal all their shit.
I hide my porn mags in a secret bunker under my garage and don’t bother to lock my car doors. Because the locks are broken but that’s besides the point. So there’s nothing to grab. And I’m Hugh Hefner’s heir, so good luck seducing my blonde bimbos. But if you try to break into my house in the middle of the night, I will shout from the kitchen window in a loud and intimidating fashion and tell you to fuck off because I’ve called the police and also have a large sharp knife in my hand. You may not be aware that I have shat myself a little bit.
This is what happened last night around 10pm: I heard an intruder at the side entrance beside the kitchen. It sounded like he was walking around on the loose stones where I hang my washing to dry and deposit rubbish. As I was trying to peer out of the frosted glass window panes of the door, someone or something was suddenly right up against the door and adrenaline was squirting all over the place inside my manly body.
Oh my fucking god! What to do … scream like a girl with a man’s voice and bash the door loudly so he knows I’m a mean motherfucker who will not be taken without a bloody fight ending in his painful death? Great idea …
All sorts of crunching noises on the stones continues. And what sounds like a drunk homeless dude throwing old newspaper all over the place. So I shine my torch out the kitchen window and tell him to fuck off because I’ve called the police. I haven’t but he doesn’t need to know this. And he doesn’t need to know that I may need to change my underwear after he scrambles over the wall and runs for his terrified life.
The noises continue.
Eventually I accept that I have to go out the front door and climb over the wall to investigate. And possibly confront the yet-to-be-seen intruder. And then run ululating into the park across the road where I’m hopefully saved by concerned neighbours.
Who knows if this is another great idea, but I’m Jedi Master by day and Crime Fighter by night, bitches. Out the front door I go.
I tentatively look over the wall. Surprisingly, there is no armed tik addict intruder trying to cut through the burglar guards with a blowtorch. And there is no homeless drunk dude passed out next to the dustbin clutching a copy of Huisgenoot. There is only an old edition of the Cape Argus newspaper blowing all over the place. And a few roaches. That I violently terminate after jumping nimbly over the wall like Batman. Because I’m not to be trifled with.
This is called a false alarm. And forever to be remembered as that one windy night I imagined my house was being broken into by newspaper. Fuck. I humbly accept the Moron of the Week award.
Namaste, fellow morons. And be careful out there. Newspapers are everywhere.