Dear dog who tried to bite me this morning

It is not cute. It is creepy. It is creepy to the highest degree of creepiness to try and take a piece out of my rear. Maybe your stupid owners have not fed you enough and you thought my juicy rear was a great way to get a week's supply of steak? Not amusing. It has taken me many years, my friend, many years, to build up a rear of this size. What a colossal waste to present it to you to fix your fangs on.

Also, I don't know if you have been inoculated against rabies. While I must admit I am curious, nay even fascinated, at the idea of barking at people and biting them, I like water and I like life. I understand with rabies you cannot drink water and you end up pretty dead. Ergo, I do not want to contract rabies through you.  So unless you can convince me otherwise in Doggese that you are not rabid, I am not going to let you get within biting distance of my person.

Today you caught me off guard. I was holding eggs in one hand and tomatoes in the other. Both you will agree are highly smashable commodities. You came in your creepy manner behind me and if I had not heard your feral breath and your ridiculously long claws clicking on the road behind me, I would have been sitting on the health centre's table getting my belly jabbed with anti-rabies liquids.

Fortunately, I think quickly on my feet having been brought up in the rougher part of a rough city. When I turned around and saw you with lunch on your mind, in a split second I decided the tomatoes would make a better assault weapon.

Luckily I buy tomatoes that are not red and squishy; I go for the harder orange ones. I could have flung the eggs, but tomatoes I can do without, eggs I cannot. All that flashed though my fevered brain with lightyear like speeds and I thwacked you on your stupid nose with all the force I could muster. Yes, I know you must have seen stars, I know that dog's noses are very sensitive and getting whacked with a kilo of hard tomatoes cannot be fun. But better you than me matey.

I did not wait to commiserate, I turned and ran for my life and what luck the eggs were in a hard plastic eggbox or I would have had the makings of an omelet all over the place. But you! If you had had any sense you would have run back to your home of hate, but you are stupid, and dumb and an idiot and a moron. You came after me, smarting nose and and all.

If you had returned to your home of hate to nurse your throbbing nose and wait for all those constellations to stop whizzing around it would have been a good thing. For the rest of my life, or yours, I would have made the necessary detour to avoid your salivating jaws. There was a small chance that you may be equally afraid of me but I would not be taking it.

But you came after me. That was a mistake. A huge error. There is one thing you should learn about me. I panic easily. Oh yes, I think quickly on my feet, but there comes a point in a quick thinking brain when logic quick-freezes and instinct kicks in.

I turned my head to see if you were really, unbelievably, stupidly, chasing after me. The thing is when I turn my head my body also turns, I think it's this slight crick I have in my neck. Or a center of gravity thing and a shifting axis. So before I knew what happened my body had turned right around and I was running towards you. At speed.

I saw the crazed look in your eyes turn thoughtful. Then the panic in your eyes mirrored the panic which was surely in mine. You tried to skid to a stop and skedaddle out of the way. But we were two meteors on a collision course. We met with some force. We both yelped as I fell on top of you. Yes, yes, I know it is unfair. I am 70 kilos and you are ... how much?  15 kg? I flattened you in a second. We were both winded.

You were yelping in a really sissy way and I was gibbering. A crowd collected and picked me up while your stupid owners came and peeled you off the pavement. The crowd shouted at the owners because a number of them don't like you. Some laughed. I found I was still holding the egg box and the bag of tomatoes. As I limped home, I could hear you yelping and felt a deep satisfaction.

Right now I have stopped hyperventilating, I have rapidly made and consumed a three-egg omelet. A steaming mug of strong coffee and I am feeling invincible again. Yes, the miracle of the morning was that the eggs were fine. Only three had cracked in the egg box. These egg boxes are bloody good!  Tomorrow I shall swing by with pepperspray. I have to show you who's boss. Be warned Dog Who Tried To Bite Me This Morning.

Dear Sadist who designed shoes for women and obviously hates their guts

I have never met you. I would not like to meet you. I do  not like what you have done to women over the years. We have enough hassles with leaking uterii (uteruses?) and cramps and bloating and people groping us in dark places, sometimes in bright places and you don't know what the hell to do, because everyone is looking. 

As I was saying, it is a tough life for us women, so only a sadist of the most vicious kind would actually force us to stand on the contraptions you call shoes. There are spiked heels which have got to be the worst invention ever. 

Most of us women are bad at maintaining balance in anything. Rollerskates, skis, frozen pavements, bicycles, chequebooks, budgets and there's that grey area of mental balance too. So to actually make a shoe and then raise it up to stand on a pencil heel, wow, that has to come from some really twisted brain.

The heel height and thinness of the thing is one thing. When you stand on the thing your entire weight then transfers to the heel. And then the brain gives out a red flashing signal saying, shit, the effing heel is gonna break so your body weight slides all the way down to the balls of your feet and your toes.

Which brings us to the reason why I think you need to be caught and forced to have ladies shoes fused on to your feet. The area left for the toes in ladies shoes is a joke. How can four digits and a big toe fit comfortably in a tiny triangular wedge? How can they breathe, wiggle and move? Toes like us need freedom, or didn't you know, Moron!? When they're  stuck together like that for so long, you know what's going to happen? They get squished and they stink! Moron!

Then the bunions form and you actually succeed in your dark evil plan to actually deform a woman's feet. The bunions stick out and get pretty painful and when where are we? We can't walk properly and that tiny pain you get? That's permanent Moron. That tiny niggling pain is deep in our brain.

Standing in that unnatural manner with body weight falling on squished smelly toes, bunions spreading out, you know what is happening to the rest of the woman's body? She gets curvature of the spine. Her backside sticks out and you fool her into thinking that it is sexy. It is not sexy. It is effing expensive, because you have to become a regular visitor to an orthopedic chap. And orthopedic chaps are effing expensive. 

So you say no one is forcing you to wear high-heeled pumps. No, no one is, except all the effing magazines and ads and films which show these lovely ladies with lovely legs saying how lovely their legs look ending in these fabulous heels. I know this is a canard you have spread. But you spread that canard to opinion makers and they have decreed that the more uncomfortable the shoe, the better you image.

Well I have had it. I am going back in time with a pair of Size 7 stilettos in my hand and when I catch you Moron Sadist Who Designed Shoes For Women and Obviously Hates Their Guts, I have outlined a Plan for you. I will first break your kneecaps with my stiletto heels, then I will make you eat the shoes, one at a time.

Dear neighbour who avoids sharing cost of building maintenance

You have five vehicles, six houses and you are five family members. That's fine. I have learned that your stress levels go up with each new vehicle and piece of property you buy. If you die of stress related diseases, I'm okay with that.

Your wife wears loud clothes and likes talking of how much you two help the community. I'm not fine with that, because I know it's a lie, but what can I do? What I cannot understand is why you refuse to pay a small sum of a little more than a thousand five hundred bucks. It was your share of the cost of the repairs to the roof.

Now I did  call you once, twice, thrice, fourice and fiveice. You answered only once and cut off my call on subsequent occasions. I sent you messages not once, or twice but forty-sevenice. Wars have been fought over less. You will agree I had reason and more for the actions I subsequently took.

The spray of quick acting gum in your wife's hair, just before she sat in her car was easy. A brief spritz was all it took. They had to cut her out with a scissors at the Church gate and the sacristan was not known for his steady hands at the best of times.

Next came your fat, ugly son. It was not easy chatting up the school bully, but once he heard that your eldest fat ugly son was trying to hit on his girlfriend, I guess things just took off from there.

I know it could not have been easy for your wife to meet the Principal to find out why your son was running through the school naked as a jaybird with red ants on his honey painted bottom. Not with whole chunks of her hair missing.

Your second son was a little difficult because I quite like him, but war is war. One cannot be soft. It's the end result that counts. The vanquishing of the enemy. Making a  Facebook page for him and putting Photoshopped pics on it was not difficult. He got 27000 hits on one day which is a good thing. His girlfriend dumped him which is a sad thing.

Your daughter now, she thinks she's the cat's whiskers. You know, I've never known why some idiot thought of cats' whiskers as something to be proud off. A cat looks perfectly fine without them. And they are of absolutely no use to anyone at all. Least of all to the cat. But your daughter now, taking a video of her while she sat alone in class was not difficult. A junior student had to tell her the class was in a different classroom. She went there and waited. I waited outside the window.

Now when you are alone you do strange and inexplicable things. Everyone does, but not everyone gets it documented in High Definition. All I needed was around four minutes of footage and I got all that, including her excavating deep, examining her treasure, sniffing her finger and then licking it. With the clip immediately uploaded on the internet - 45000 hits.

Then it was time to do you. Your family was already shaken and stirred. I knew of the room in your house with the big cabinet covered with a curtain. I knew of the large safe inside that cabinet. I knew of the loft and the contents of the loft. It took just one telephone call to the Vigilance Department and to the Income Tax department. Another few calls to the local news networks. Now you are suspended. Your days as a government servant are numbered.

I hear you want to sell your flat now.Would have been much easier on the pocket and the nerves if you had just paid your share of the repairs.

Dear People Who Say My God You’ve Had Your Car for THREE Years And You Have Only Driven 8230 km?

First of all you are nobody to tell me how many kilometers I can or cannot drive. This is a free country last time I checked. How much I drive is nobody’s business but mine.

Second of all I like driving on broad straight smooth roads. I do not even like roads with gentle curves. I don’t think much about slopes either.

My road, and let me be very clear on this, has to be straight, broad, smooth, no pedestrians, no cycles, no scooters, no motorbikes, no cars, no buses, no level crossings – therefore no trains, no stilt walkers, no elephants, no scaredy cats, no confused dogs, no buffaloes and no speed breakers. Straight empty roads is what I require.

But you chose to make this statement to me about how my car is three years old and I have driven only 8230 km. Because of that I decided I must drive, just to shut your damn mouths.

Now I am a person who prides herself on her elegance of mind and person. I walked elegantly to my car. I leaped elegantly backwards when seven dogs bolted out from under it.

This is important. Not driving around like a fool, means the dogs in the neighbourhood know that they have a roof over their heads for days at a time. The world does not have compassion. I have compassion.

Because of your stupid statement about years and kilometers, I began calculating how many km I drove on an average per day. Yes, your stupid statement made me actually do mental arithmetic and for other road users that is as dangerous as anyone talking on a cell phone while driving.

First of all I have never been strong in mathematics. It will be clear from what happened while I was calculating. I glanced at the odometer. It read 8230km.

Now reading an odometer is not easy. You have to take both eyes off the road. Said eyeballs have to read four tiny digits. It is very unpleasant when you look up and see the bumper of the car in front of you suddenly within bumping distance. Especially when your eyeballs pop right out of their sockets.

As it turned out Mother Car, yes she has a name duh, has always saved my sorry ass from an accident. She stopped just a hairsbreadth away from the other bumper. If the other driver was a bad one, he might roll backwards and hit my front bumper, which meant that I could get out and be the larger person and make snide comments on his poor driving skills. But the son-of-a-bitch moved off without incident.

I drove on and returned to my mental arithmetic. I told myself no looking at the odometer any more. Mustn’t take eyes off road.

That was a mistake. Soon as I told myself sternly not to look at the odometer, I just had to look at it. So I began snapping my eyes back and forth between odometer and the car in front of me. I found myself slowing down and the son-of-a-bitch behind me began tooting his horn. If you’re feeling horny go to a fucking brothel, don’t fucking toot at me.

I moved to the side and let him overtake, hoping I would see him being pulled out with pincers from the mangled remains of his car further down the road.

Then I began crunching numbers. 8234 kms in a total of 3 years, how many kms did that crunch to? I would have to divide the bigger number by 3. I knew that, but fuck knows why I broke my head dividing 8234 by 12.

Maybe because it was now 8236. That offended me, so I began dividing it in my head. Very difficult, a Swift wanted to overtake me, not only was the shit tooting at me, he was also flashing his headlights. Never could understand what is the fucking POINT of flashing headlights in broad daylight.

By the time I finished cursing him the odometer read 8238, so I got smart I would round it off to 8240. Divided by 3.  686 and 2/3. What’s WRONG with me? That’s 12! I was dividing it by 12! I want to divide it by THREE! Jeez how simple could it be? Okay now it is 8239! Quick quick quick! 8240 divided by 3. Divide or die you stupid cretin. 2746 and 2/3. Shit it’s still a big number. NOW divide the damn thing by twelve.

Now if you think a number like 2746 and two-thirds is an easy number to remember, well fuck you is all I can say. So I had to memorize it 2746 and two thirds divided by 12. Why 12? Because moron I have driven 2746 and two-thirds km per year.

Now I need to know how many km I drove per month. 2746 and screw the two-thirds, 2746 divided by 12. 228 and five-sixth. Ignore the fucking five-sixth. 228 kms per month that makes it. 

So now hah, we are coming close to how much am I driving per day. 228 divided by 30. 7.6km per day. Not bad. There you are, I tooted the horn triumphantly. 

I have calculated how much I drive per day. 7.6 is pretty damn good. I looked at the odometer. It was now 8250. I looked out of the window. This was not where I had to go. I had to take a turn off 10 km back. Now I would have to turn around. I have driven 10 km extra, so how does that add to my daily kilometrage? 

You want to know what it adds? It adds rage.

It was at that time that I screamed a primal scream, a scooterist was startled, he swerved, his pillion rider slipped off. His scooter ploughed into Mother Car. Wtf! He wants to make a police complaint. The scooter driver said I screamed at him right in his ear for no reason at all. The cop asked in a disinterested tone of voice:

“Why did you scream in his ear?”

“You are not going to believe it,” I told the cop.

“Tell me, I have to make a report,” he said.

“I raised my arm to signal,” I said, “I was turning right and a bee flew right into my armpit and stung me.”

“It was an act of God,” the cop told the scooterist, “adjust.”

I could have told him exactly why I screamed but he would not understand. But you, you have to understand why I feel compelled to write this letter to you. 

Do not in future express surprise or contempt that I have had this car for 3 years and 8 months and have driven only 8____, shit 8 months. I should have converted the years into days and then crunched the numbers.

Let’s see. 365 days in a year, leap year 366…

No.

It ends here.

Good day.