Well, that was an interesting evening. I ran into my dear friends, the ex-neighbours who used to live above my wonderfully over-priced, under-equipped apartment. It was a brief, but unnecessary encounter that I would soon like to forget. Thankfully, I had not eaten anything otherwise I would have felt compelled to empty the contents of my stomach all over his cheap shoes and knees of his female. This all brings me back to little ditty that I wrote a few months back on my eye-opening experience with these wonderful individuals. They are the inspiration for this post, and may they be forever blessed with cement flooring. Or cement boots. Either way a win for humanity. Please read and enjoy:
Hate…. It is such a strong word; often used to describe a number of feelings, reactions, or perhaps casually inserted into our sentences, easy as 1, 2, 3. Perhaps we lack the vocabulary to research deep into our memory banks for a word that is a tad more descriptive; a smidgen more appropriate than something so simple to recall.
Let me attempt to explain my rambling. Where it is used in the context – “I hate Mondays” or “I hate brussel sprouts” – one really must ask – do Mondays make your blood boil, your vision blur, cause your adrenal glands to head into 5th gear and speed down the highway of your bloodstream? If you’re nodding humorously over this, then you’re falling into the trap again. Words should ultimately be used where necessary and where applicable. If you’re finding that hard to accept, go buy a thesaurus.
For instance, what Hitler did to the Jews, the Gays and the Gypsies was terrible. Your version of a ‘terrible day’ would pale in pastely, anorexic comparison to the reality of the word. It seems that, for the sake of drama, we often interchange words for ones that are less appropriate, but terribly impressive sounding. While it is perfectly human to exaggerate, often we need to curb our desire for enthusiastic boasts to really and truly explain the emotions and events that actually deserve the meanings of the words attached to them.
Oh no, words like “hate” should be reserved for things that truly deserve it. Which leads me to my next point – and please bear with me as I begin to express my feelings of pure, unadulterated hatred where they are most truly deserved.
First, this needs a history of the fauna of the building that I currently live in.
The first floor is home to Dawie, the minute black dog of mixed heritage that someone manages to look like a pug. It’s a bit harder to describe, so imagine a lump of coal that has somehow had legs attached, and a curly little tail thrown because the original buyer got a 2 for 1 special. Imagine a miniature pig, dipped in crude oil with bulging eyes that used to belong to an alien. Attach a leash around its neck, and pretend to talk it.
This is Dawie and he is pleased to meet your acquaintance.
Dawie owns an old Dutch woman of advanced years, who he takes for walks on regular occasion. Dawie is also highly fluent in English and Dutch, and is able to converse in a number of different languages, including Hindi, Afrikaans and American. While the little old lady, who shall be referred to as the little old lady from hereon, enjoys many a rambling conversation with Dawie on the likes of important world events, like the chronicles of “Did we get mail?” and “Oh, I see it is cold outside”, these conversations are strangely one-sided. Dawie knows that his words of wisdom should be kept silent, lest they fall on unwanted ears and has since made a vow of blessed silence for the rest of his doggy life. Dawie also enjoys rolling in faeces, long walks in the park and chasing the seagulls that tell him the “hondenpoep” is theirs, theirs, theirs.
Dawie also hates black people.
This is a rather sensitive topic, and we are going to skim over the greater details of this issue. When questioned on this matter, the little old lady has on occasion mentioned that Dawie is merely expressing his desire to urinate on the next passing fire hydrant, which causes him to become excitable. This should not be confused with the crazed dog-shrieks that are directed at those of darker complexion. Moving on
The second floor is, of course, occupied by our resident princess, her royal Burmese highness – Tori. Tori cannoned into our lives a few months back, with the aid of a large bank account, endless amounts of cuteness and a strong desire to spend 500 Euros on “something pretty to match the furniture”. Anyone who has ever owned a Burmese will already know that the lines between Owner and Owned are quickly scribbled over like a 3 year old attempting to colour in a Disney picture in an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Now this is where the story leads us. To the jungles of the third floor. Each floor of the apartment building contains a most rare and interesting furry companion. We have spoken about Dawie, the wise and venerable racist mutt. We have spoken about Tori, and her obvious feline disregard for humanity and pot plants and the bank account. Now we get to the wonderfully misunderstood creature that inhabits the third floor.
The pygmy elephant.
Do not let its four-foot-five appearance deceive you. Or the fact that it wears a skirt and cannot reach the top shelf in the kitchen. What this creature loses out on in terms of size, it makes up for in foot-pounding, earthquake-shattering, behemoth-stomping madness that could only be described as small nuclear explosions detonating on your ceiling. If Helen of Troy was the face that launched a thousand ships, then this creature is the beast that launched a thousand stampeding feet down the canyon. For many months, my little family and I were terrorized – no, molested – by the frequent stampedes of this creature. Often times I have lain awake thinking of how it really has, has, has to be a washing machine making that noise during the midnight hours (including complimentary squeaking).
Words like hatred should be reserved for times like these, where I can truly say that I HATE this creature from the depths of my small, grubby little soul. This uncomprehending, socially unaware little demon that possesses the floors above me, haunting my waking hours with the noise of its travels, and my dreams with the sounds of its mating rituals.
Yea my fellow readers. Do not disregard the power of exaggeration, for often it can capture truly the nature of the beast. When I reserve the use of the word hate, I hold it back in the corner of my mouth, just next to the tongue, and when I need it, I will spit it out into the face of the pygmy elephant and its boyfriend.