“I LIKE A INDEPENDENT WOMAN; once she could pay she own rent and buy she own food, I could deal with she.”
So says my cousin – unemployed by choice – who is in his 40s and lives with his mother, who lovingly cooks for him every day. Irony of ironies!
On Saturday last, I was to meet another independent lady, Raquel Wilkinson, who invited me to Spago in Holetown.
As you may know, the streets in Holetown tight like Doddy Dodson. So, with one car stalled and a wall on the other side of the road, I tried to manoeuvre between. It took me about two minutes. Shouting, Ninja Man-style, was a bare-backed man on a rusty, rickety bicycle. “I know it was a woman driver; it had to be a woman driver!”
Grammar book – bought by a grandma for her pretty little granddaughter; and costing a pretty penny too – states in its preface, “Put your best foot forward by speaking properly and impressing others.”
Good, better, best. Remember learning that? One foot, two feet . . . a third foot would be a case of polymelia.
Anyway, I need to remember that this column is not an avenue for me to vent; and neither is it appropriate for the dispensation of English lessons.
Double-entendre
So I will end on a humorous note. I have to tell you this joke, with a bit of double-entendre in it. If you have thin skin or are prudish in any way, please stop reading for now. I will join you next week.
For those of you who are still reading, I think this joke tops the charts for originality; and I was reminded of it by seeing all the “Crab for Sale” signs recently posted along our highways. Here it goes:
One Friday, two fellas get their salary. It’s end of month, so they feel extravagant and decide to drink and gamble. They continually lose money, but they still keep playing. Approaching the wee hours of the morning and with only 50 cents to their name, they have no choice but to walk home. While walking past the race-track, some ladies of the night whistle, beckoning the men towards them with their eyes.
One of the ladies recites the price list, with sultriness and pride, like a winning beer ad.
“All we got is 50 cents, girls,” one of the men state sadly. Well, it’s a slow night and the ladies look at each other and agree that 50 cents is better than nothing. They visit the nearby bushes and the men can’t believe their luck, considering the price list and their paltry offering of only 50 cents.
Next day, men wake up, itching and scratching, with a bad case of crabs. They vex. Real vex.
They go in search of the ladies and with some colourful language, accuse them of giving them crabs. Well, one of the ladies, quick on the draw, rebuffs them and emphatically states: “You give we 50 cents, man! What you did expect? Lobster?!?”
Veoma Ali is an author, broadcaster, advertising exec and most important, a karaoke lover.
