Excuse Me Lady But You're Making Me Sick

On Saturday I paid a visit to my local Exclusive Books store to buy a book. After wandering aimlessly around the place for a while with only a vague idea of the exact title and no recollection of the author (yes I'm an idiot I know) I decided it might be a good idea to ask for some assistance at the counter. I almost wish I hadn't for what greeted my eyes will haunt me for weeks to come.

The cashier lady (and I use the term lady in the loosest possible sense) had facial hair to make any 16 year old Ashton Kutcher stubble cultivator emerald with envy. Long black weaves of coarse hair dangling from her smile like the legs of an arachnid that danced and tickled across her lips when she spoke. All the years of being exposed to the phenomenon of fem-fur from the wayward hormonally unstable coloured woman at the Shoprite down the road couldn't prepare me for such social disgrace.

Perhaps she's just extremely sensitive to the harsh Cape Town winter climate and grows it out to prevent frostbite or maybe she was born without cilia in her nostrils and needs it to combat incessant nasal infections.

"Hey lady, it's the 21st century. Hot wax, plucking, electrolysis, take your pick, either way just get that fucking shit off your face."

Not only was this neanderthalic beast of a woman sporting a thick knit of black mohair on her upper lip but she was a bitch as well.

When I told her the title of the book that I was enquiring about she gave me a dirty look, patronisingly entered it into her special little computer, clicked around doubtfully and then seemed to derive some kind of sick delight in telling me that they didn't have it. I'm not sure but I think she may even have smugly twirled the corners of her snor when she spoke. It's hard to say 'cos at that point I was only half staring at the creature from the hairy lagoon trying rather to focus my attention on the poster about how great Mandela is behind her head.

So the title has one or two unsavoury words in it, no need to get all pissy about it and write me off as some kind of misinformed, uncultured joker (even though I am all those things). Yes that's me, I get my jollies dreaming up offensive book titles so I can insult and swear at the hungover suckers working the early shift at Exclusive Books on a Saturday morning. In fact next week I plan to ask her for a book called 'You're a no hope loser with a moustache, your job's a fucking joke and your life's going nowhere' let's see how that giant hairball likes that one.

I eventually found what I was looking for and went home to cauterise my minds eye with a red hot poker.