The Best Medicine...
There comes a time in life when all around you avoid you like a rat would avoid a meeting in the light with that whiskery predator called a cat. They cower in mortal dread at your approach, as a lamp post would fear the approach of a sniffing mongrel. You feel an incessant grating at the back of your bamboozled mind, as – huddled under the depth of obscurity – you marvel at your new found state of pariah. Maybe it’s your mouth – but no, man, it can't be: you’ve just brushed your teeth this morning. Could it be the armpits, then; ‘cause they could be pitfalls full of shit, y’know? No way; 'cause I just spent some light years scrubbing my ass away in the tub, with particular emphasis on pits – all pits, holes and crevices, for that matter. All the time, the grating behind your mind's back keeps rising to a blaring crescendo, and you give an impatient shake of the head – wait a minute, seems you dropped something on the floor. It is a question – ARE YOU ZIMBABWEAN?