Breaking the silence on snoring

Ndumiso Ngcobo on what he’d like to do to people who make rasping noises

How many people remember the story about Dawn Weiser from Arkansas who was charged with attempted murder in 2013 after she stabbed her husband Doug in the chest because of his snoring? Apparently she left him with a punctured spleen, lacerated liver and three other stab wounds.

I know what you're thinking. Did she have a history of mental problems? Was there another issue between them? These were not the first questions that came to my mind. They weren't even in the top 10.

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The first question that came to mind was whether she had recorded his snoring. How many decibels was it? What kind of snorer is Doug? High or low pitch? Do his snores come with that really annoying wheezing retort? Had she warned him about his snoring? Yes, warning shots.

I wanted to know the answers because it would help me decide how I felt about Dawn damn near gutting Doug like a catfish. Not that I think it's ever right. It's just that if I had to play Judge Masipa in the ensuing court case, the answers would help me decide whether to send her to the medical wing of Kgosi Mampuru, sleeping on fluffed-up pillows and getting back rubs from nurses, or to Pollsmoor.

People are too quick to go to the "she must not be altogether well upstairs" default position. I'm not too sure, hey. I have personally sat up in bed with a bedmate, staring at them, wondering how long it would take before they suffocated if I put a pillow over their face.

I know it's more than 14 seconds because I once tried to suffocate my snoring brother with a pillow when I was 11. I stopped after he emitted a rear "belch" because I thought it was his soul leaving the body. As it turned out, it was just the cabbage stew he'd had for dinner. No, I don't believe in murder. All I'm saying is that I understand. It is amazing just how many seemingly insignificant little things annoy me to the point where I am a-quarter-to-murder.

It's the middle of July, at 9pm in a restaurant in Joburg. The temperature outside is about 3cm long at the urinal (that's roughly -2°C by my complex conversion logarithms). Because you're the dufus who didn't make a booking, you're seated next to the exit. A fellow with the face of a constipated turkey keeps going outside to have a smoke. Each time the turkeyman steps outside, he leaves the previously closed door open, giving you an instant nipple stand.

Now you have to leave your glass of cabernet and close the door. No sooner have you taken your seat than he returns, leaving the door open again.

block_quotes_start I was fantasising about carving him up like a wild rodent using the bluntest butter knife in the world block_quotes_end

I have found myself fantasising that I have a Jheri curl like Samuel Jackson in Pulp Fiction and a Glock so I can go, "Do you have a tail? A tail turkeyman! Do you have it? Say 'what?' one more time! I dare you! I double dare you!" Oh, people who leave doors open crawl up my behind and gnaw away at the last morsel of patience inside me.

Sinusitis is a pandemic, especially in heavily industrialised areas such as Joburg. My morning routine is: 1. Wake up. 2. Go to the bathroom. 3. Stand in the bedroom enjoying my three-minute sneezing fit. 4. Pop my first Allergex of the day. So I totally understand the daily struggle against sinusitis. But few things annoy me more than that noise made by people with their upper palates, trying to "scratch" the sinusitis itch.

I remember driving with friends from Durban back to Joburg some months ago. The fellow next to me kept making that sound. It sounded like a heavy baobab tree stump being dragged over a rough, uneven cement floor. By the time we got to Pietermaritzburg I was fantasising about carving him up like a wild rodent using the bluntest butter knife in the world.

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By Howick I wanted to be dropped off and stand on the side of the road with a cardboard sign with "JHB" written on it. But I didn't have a koki pen. Besides, I have this morbid fear of spending an entire weekend being used as a sex slave in a deserted farm building in Balgowan.

By the time we got to Ladysmith the idea of leaping out of the moving car was starting to appear really appealing. But apparently the ancestors frown upon suicide. Those who kill themselves are kept as sex slaves in the Balgowan of the life hereafter for an eternity, which is back to square one.

Finally, I went, "Do you have to do that?" He responded, "I can't help it. I wasn't even aware I was doing it." And for the rest of the trip I was the rectal orifice who had called someone out for something they couldn't control.

I have always been "that guy" who is irritable on account of the little things people do. And it's getting worse as I grow older.

Mrs N has this leg-tapping thing she does. I think it's an involuntary tic of some sort. I could see myself wearing red overalls and a red beret being carried out of the National Assembly bleating like a goat. But I don't see myself in orange overalls. This is why, after 45 minutes of that tapping sound, I get up, lock all the butcher knives in the safe and pour myself a triple bourbon to help me forget the access code.

E-mail  lifestyle@sundaytimes.co.za or follow him on Twitter @NdumisoNgcobo