Methinks that the Fates have played a cruel joke on poor little Ralphie. These divine ladies are responsible for weaving the design of every human’s destiny. However, I find that what could have been the beautiful tapestry of my destiny has turned out to be a travesty. Am I correct in saying that a tapestry should be made up of threads? I am seriously starting to doubt the existence or said threads, because what passes for them in the design of my Kismet was probably a Monday job, where they used just a couple of hairs from some mangy, decrepid sheep that had a terminal case of scurvy. What these three spinning ladies have created for me has been used by all and sundry as a doormat or a dishcloth, if not worse…
Why oh why was I born so obtuse? There is a saying somewhere that even a donkey only trips over the same rock twice. But ole ‘Ralphie has kicked this proverbial rock so many times already as to have developed a club foot. When it comes to putting my foot in it, I have an uncurable case of foot-in-mouth disease (to quote my good friend Gogol from Scotland). It’s gone so far that my feet have been made illegal and are refused entry in several European countries. This is of course the reason why I have emigrated to Africa, where my appendages have as yet gone unnoticed, possibly because the majority of folks around here haven’t got a clue what I’m on about(abstain from comments, please!)
All this not-so-dainty footwork comes from the fact that I am so very easily confused. I’ll give you an example. We drove passed a soccer field, where some lads were having a friendly game of football. The next bit is where the confusion starts! I remarked to myself that these were the first gentlemen of a certain variety that I have seen here. But first I should say that I read a lot of American blogs and that I watch a lot of American TV. I know for a fact that this particular variety of gentlemen are called African Americans in the USA. I’m sure you see my dilemma, because everyone who is born on this continent is an African. However, I am referring to the African-American lookalikes, that is to say of the non-Mediterranean kind and also non-Caucasian. Are my feet still in the no danger zone? I am starting to sweat a little for fear of being considered politically incorrect! I shall try a different tack!
So, us honkies are called Caucasians, hey? I always thought this was a mountain range! Not to worry though, I have been called a lot worse, but I would like to state for the record that I am in no way so obese as to be referred to as a mountain range. A molehill would be much more appropriate, were it not that moles are of the wrong persuasion, colour-wise. ‘Feet, stay on the ground! This is proving to be a very frustrating article. It is so difficult to avoid using certain terms, when talking about certain aspects of a particular(lovely) group of people.But I am feeling a bit reckless and I will dive in at the deep end now with an anecdote about a viking friend of mine, the late Rauli, may he rest in peace.
This blond, blood-thirsty friend told me that his step dad in Finland is African(of the above-mentioned variety). Does this not sound a trifle incongruous to you? That’s a bit like having an Eskimo ask you, in the middle of the Sahara desert, if you saw a polar bear pass by. And there’s more! We wouldn’t want to label this kind of bear white, for fear of putting our foot in it yet again.
There are many, many more things that confuse me no end. How on Earth is a body supposed to know who’s who these days, when men are growing tits and women are growing beards( on their faces, that is!) I seem to be exhibiting symptoms of foot-in-mouth disease again. I should really watch what I say, because I may easily acquire a case of foot-in-arse aswell, with someone’s boot up my behind, that is. I blame my father for this congenital defect. although I’ll have to ask him, who exactly conned him with whose genitals!!??