Confessions of a Social Pariah, Reflections

Confessions of a Social Pariah: Healing the country one fist at a time

By Spliph, South Africa:

A discussion on slew comments, Tata Indica's and why you shouldn't make fun of short people.

The new terminator flick is something else; Arnold Schwarzenegger's saggy boobs aside, he still looks mightily dangerous. In all honesty, we can safely project that technology will soon have one over us.

Okay, I am not saying that artificial intelligence is about to take over and render the human species obsolete (although self-driving cars might strongly suggest otherwise), but tact and common sense seem to be scarce within humans.

I recently thought about this as the nurses wheeled one of my friends into the ER section of a certain hospital. I am sure you are asking yourself what the terminator has to do with my friend nearing a get together with his maker. It's a short story involving slew comments and a Tata Indica. Allow me to explain.

Due to his physical structure, this friend of mine has been appropriately named Schwarzenegger, or as wayward pronunciation has it “Shoznegga”. Now, unfortunately Shoznegga has the maturity of a bubble-gum chewing teenager and the personality of a serving of cream spinach, coupled with his nguni faction (Zulu) – he is the ultimate obdurate (his words) being.

On normal days Shoznegga and I usually compensate our poor social statuses by joking about silly things, such as people who operate Tata Indica's. As you know one doesn't drive a Tata – one operates it. On this fateful day we spotted a very short gentleman parking a Tata; he was also sporting a very pronounced moustache. Naturally we pounced on him with discreet unfavourable remarks.

The moustache bearer's hearing must have compensated for his gradient shortcomings because a minute into our train of ridicule he enquired on what we found so funny. The chicken heart I am I escaped explanation by mumbling something along the lines of Julius Malema's parliamentary contributions.

Unfortunately the Zulu DNA in my friend had other plans because he stood up and said in a clear resounding voice: “s'hleka wena” (we are laughing at you)

As the blows landed on Shoznegga's gut like Zionists land in Moria for Easter, I was caught between a rock and a hard place. If I run, what am I running for?  And if I intervene, this gentleman's blows might knock me out. I then took up my natural position in such instances and became chief-eyewitness and tactical advisor.

After the unplanned sparing match between my friend and the short boxer, I was tempted to take out my wallet and hand the short gentleman some money because the blows he delivered could surely receive much admiration from any professional boxer.

Bleeding at the mouth, we rushed Shoznegga to the hospital where it was discovered he was bleeding internally.

Shoznegga's stay in hospital was fortunately not a long one, a night in the wards and two days at home were enough for him to go on about his days as he used to.

Unfortunately or fortunately, the beat down has inspired a serious change with regard to my Zulu friend's behaviour. I haven't seen him for some time but I am told by his partner that he has found the Lord, and subsequently got born again some weeks ago.

Above is a very important lesson, there are too many people walking around thinking they can just make fun of people and get away with it. The more cynical reader is probably thinking that since I was with Shoznegga maybe I also needed a beat down. Unfortunately you are missing the point, I am not the subject here.

But if you are left wanting for an appropriate tag for me, tell everyone I am the “Catalyst”.

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