Look, I’m not one to go around saying nasty things about bleached women. I respect women that can go skinny dipping in chemical substances with the hopes that they will come out of the experience anew… I just think it would be better if said individuals spoke the English language a little better than a kid that has just discovered his or her vocal faculties and is experimenting with stringing words along. It would also be pretty nice if, once in a while, they did not smell like they’d fallen into a vat of very cheap perfume, reeking of a scent so strong, guys that empty cesspools would prefer to stay in their present environs than walk within a 50 mile radius of said individual. That said, I think what I encountered was a typical grade a anatomical sales associate… a slut if you will.
So here’s how it all began…
I witnessed Sunday morning earlier than most of you. Not because I was out hanging and sampling various beverages with very deceptive names that sought to hide their motives, a’la Southern Comfort, Amarula, Beefeater… actually, that last one doesn’t even try. It makes its intentions known. If it were a human being and it came to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage, it would undoubtedly be the scruffy guy that would walk in with a lecherous look and proudly declare, “Yes, I want to do things to your daughter. She and I will get it on in the fields of Kasese and the snakes will give us privacy!”
So anyway, I was not awake because of alcohol. I had myself the mother of all stomachaches. Yeah, I can boldly declare that knowing you won’t challenge me. I was in the bloody fetal position at some point, muttering over and over, “Why? Why now? Damn!” or something to that effect. I’d love to pull the macho card here and say, “I eat stomach aches for breakfast”, but screw that, this thing was a bitch. Anyway, that stomach ache went of its own accord leaving in its place, its inexperienced kids. That was all I needed, so I went to the pharmacy.
Yes, this is indeed the same pharmacy that has a lady behind the counter that has no qualms about shouting out at the customer hiding behind the door, “you! Is it an STD? Is it private?” to which he will deftly reply, “no sunshine, I have always had this rash around my crotch and I like to spend quiet evenings hiding behind doors.”
So into the pharmacy I go.
The dude behind the counter, a cheery bespectacled man, asks,
“Have you had the white meat?”
Now, I don’t know about you, but I believe medical practitioners like Father Ortega during confessionals deserve to know the truth, so I try to be as helpful as possible whenever I can. Which is why I felt compelled to ask, “Which white meat? Chicken, Pork or a Muzungu?”
And like Father Ortega, medical practitioners are not allowed to carry with them to their jobs, a sense of humour.
*jeer*, “of course, I mean the pork.”
I let him know that I did not. I just had a chap…the meaty slab of meat with fibrous thingies that look like hair, actually, when you describe it that way, it sounds like some guys I went to school with.
I then proceed to ask for some “deworming” tablets.
He lets me know that they do have some and they will set me back about five thousand shillings. I am not stingy or anything, but shit, this is not Kigali, plus I am dealing with a worm, not a friggin snake living in my body. I ask him whether he has a cheaper brand, to which he answers in the affirmative. He goes and picks a packet of “no-worm” or whatever and then…
What can only be described as a person that smells, looks and speaks like a slut…
This lady barges in and attempts to displace me, screaming out that she requires “candiderm”. I’m looking on and thinking, what the ****?!
She does not seem fazed at all, just agitated and in dire need of candiderm. From the way Microsoft word is constantly underlining the word, I’m guessing it is not an English word…
With the way she is all a-panic I figure candiderm is a remedy to some weird infection that she may have picked up and she has a high-paying client that generally doesn’t take nicely to his procured wares not behaving as they should.
The wonderful bespectacled guy behind the counter tries to tell her to be patient seeing as there was a customer he was dealing with.
She does not want to know, all she wants is her candiderm. At this point I start to worry about the severity of the situation and whether, more importantly I too will need candiderm after coming into such proximity of this psycho.
Goggles looks at me apologetically and tells her that she is lucky I’m patient, and he scurries off to look for bloody candi-whatever.
When he returns, she seemingly figures my patience is like some fancy credit card and has no limit, so she pushes it.
“I need cotton wool!” she declares with the feistiness that only a woman in dire need of candiderm can muster.
Goggles and her go back and forth over the right size and then something very unexpected happens. Goggles attempts a joke, “I think I can keep the change because you’re in a hurry” In some faraway part of the world, LOLS ensue, here… only crickets can be heard. If you listen closely they are saying, “What the hell? Call that humour? Don’t give up your day job”
She asks him, in a manner that suggests that if he answers in the affirmative she will pull out his internal organs just by staring at him, “You want the change, eh?”
Goggles backs off and is instantly rendered a little girl, declaring with a whimper, “no…” then his masculinity comes back from the shelf holding the candiderm, prompting him to add, “but you found this guy here…”
Lady that smells like what perfume from the middle ages would smell like now after going bad, decides she has had enough and stomps off after getting her change.
Goggles turns back to me and proceeds to give me my tablets trying to sneak in a few extra packs so we can go back to that magical five thousand number but I’m not having it, I need to get home and read up on bloody candiderm.