Landscaping decisions

This post has been shamelessly inspired by Milo’s. Yes, I am completely unoriginal – sue me.

N’ways, reading about bolingos being coochied threw me to the other side of the coin – the bolingolette, if you may. This piece of biology probably resulted in the first case of someone humming, “My My My Ma Ma Myyyyyyyyyy” – no wait. That was Johnny Gill. I meant shouting “LordGodAlmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiighty!!!!!!!!!”. Whether in pain or in pleasure is a story for another day.

Now, bolingolette is a loner and prone to boredom. She needs entertainment, nay, she demands it. She has an entire fan club whose members salute the very thought of her.

But even of more importance, she needs a nice secure welcoming home. This is clearly a case where you need to judge a book by its cover. Overgrown weedy compounds, though once the norm – before the Great Rift Valley that is – are no longer acceptable. Due to many painful, surprising, shocking, horrific lessons from the past, it is now generally expected that all compounds will be neat and kept trim. The decision on how high to let the weeds grow came about after cases of:

Plague

Rodents! Auuuuuuu! No amount of ratkill, doom or even the Pied Piper can get rid of the little crits. Of all the plagues known to man, the Great Plague of NaHuKos is the worst, so fatal it is that not only can it wipe out entire generations before they are conceived, but it is said that it also leads to the unwarranted fasts forcing some landlords to resort to DIY and you know females are still trying to figure out which end of a hammer goes into the socket.

And can you picture this: bolingolette and member enjoying a lovely afternoon chat. Getting on like a house on fire and suddenly member starts scratching like he’s on fire???

It aint rugby

Yes, landlords have regretfully learnt that a majority of bolingolette’s club members get grass burns from rugby and rugby alone. A stroll through bolingolette’s compound should be no reason, or opportunity, to think of a man’s locker room. The very sight of foliage may induce such images in a member’s mind, more often resulting flu-like symptoms such as droopiness, the shakes and even shriveling. Unless it is one day discovered that the weed is of economic value, i.e. it can be harvested, exported and smoked, the grass has to go.

Treasure hunts

Many a treasure hunt has been abandoned for the lack of a map – which is what you would need if you were on a sojourn through the wilderness. The search for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow – scratchy though the ride may be – need not read like a safari through the jungle. A fan can only endure so many grazes and scratches. Which leads me to the next scenario.

Blind man’s buff

When things are thick and thicketed lost members have been known to take desperate measures. Not one to stop and ask for directions, or God forbid, confirm that they are lost. Like using the back door. Auuuuuuuuu!

And so we live in an era of trimmed lawns.

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"Don't laugh!" said the patient.

"Of course I won't laugh," the doctor said. "I'm a professional. In over twenty years I've never laughed at my patient."

"Okay then," the patient said, and proceeded to drop his trousers, revealing the tiniest 'whoo-ha' the doctor had ever seen. It could not have been bigger than the size of a AAA battery. Unable to control himself, the doctor started giggling then fell laughing to the floor. Ten minutes later he was able to struggle to his feet and regain his composure.

"I am so so sorry," said the doctor. "I really am. I do not know what came over me. On my honor as a doctor and a gentleman, I promise this will not happen again. Now what seems to be the problem?"

To which the patient replied...

"It is swollen,"

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Overheard at the ongoing WSF:

“We are not even agitating for legalization of gay unions yet. It’s not time for that. What we would really like is a consideration in the budget reading – just like they give to those living with AIDS. The government should seriously consider lowering the price of lubricants….”

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Pick – up line: I’ll be Osama. You be a cave. Let me hide inside you.

Mchongoano: “I ain’t fat! Hell no.” Indicating his girth. “This is my d**k wrapped around me.”