Rocking and reeking
I receive a fair bit of correspondence in response to this column. The e-mails range from marriage proposals to death threats to benevolent billionaires from Abuja offering me £4-million if I share my banking details.
A recurring theme in these e-mails is the number of readers who accuse me of consistently writing only in glowing terms about Mrs Ngcobo.
I didn't realise I wrote only positive things about her, considering the number of rompless nights I've spent as a direct result of titbits I've shared about my domestic life. If you must know; that's 84 nights this fiscal year alone, excluding the 12 occasions a certain Mr Jack Daniels convinced me that the laundry was my bedroom as I staggered into the house.
Let's ignore the obvious question, that is, why people would want me to write in disparaging terms about my wife?
I have my own theory. Most of these letters come from middle-aged housewives from suburbs such as Houghton, Kloof and whatnot and they're attempting to stir up a divorce so they can have me for themselves. Looking at my mugshot accompanying this column who can blame them?
However, after letting the matter swirl around in my head, I started taking it as a personal challenge. Am I capable of writing an entire column trumpeting my significant other's vices? You be the judge.
For starters, my wife's IQ score is significantly higher than mine. That's a scientific fact. And yet she married me. For a smart woman, that's pretty dumb. She achieved her master's degree in chemistry cum laude. It took several semesters of chemistry 101 kicking my behind before I scraped through by the skin of a Durban gecko's teeth.
She could have married an applied physics professor but ended up with a git who makes a living writing about getting his shoes urinated on by unbathed Brazilians at Ellis Park. While she married down, I hit the jackpot and married up. Ha ha! I call that a sweet deal.
Second, like most women, she has this moronic tendency of withholding my conjugal rights as punishment whenever I've been bad and returned home at 1am after a Champion's League Tuesday evening. That's a classic case of locking books away to spite Julius. For a porky man with toad dimensions who runs out of breath from fetching his Sunday papers, I think I still give the best three minutes any woman could ever desire.
So she's the one losing out. During the early years, she used to try that outdated "playing dead" routine. But she soon found out that I'm a man. And a man will mate with anything warm and soft - inanimate or not.
If you disagree, you clearly never watched that riveting piece of Hollywood cinematographic ingenuity entitled American Pie where an apple pie's dignity was grievously violated.
She quickly learnt that, for a man, a woman being awake is not a prerequisite to pleasure. So she soon adapted and adopted what I call the skunk defence - attempting to make herself so vile and repulsive that I'd recoil instinctively.
Her first layer of armour is her beige flannel pyjamas from her student days in Cape Town, underpinned by a pair of cycling shorts acting as underwear.
But like I said, I'm a man and, armed with a can of Jeyes Fluid and Right Guard deodorant, I could still find enough warmth and softness in a slutty skunk.
Her third layer of defence is a coat of night facial cream that renders kissing impossible because it tastes like a radioactive, toxic spill from the Chernobyl disaster. Even an inmate serving the 40th year of a life sentence would say no to this cream. Round two to her.
But I've got to have the last word. Before I got married, I never knew what people meant when they talked about insomnia. With the wit and tenacity of Sherlock Holmes, I have solved that mystery. Insomnia sleeps next to me every night and her 500-decibel snores are enough to send the neighbourhood canine community into a howling frenzy. Even I, the perpetual sex beggar, find myself voluntarily heading for the laundry at 2am to seek softness and warmth in the arms of our dirty bed linen.
On a completely unrelated matter, does anyone know what the Road Lodge overnight rate is on a Sunday evening? I have a sneaking feeling I might need it.
- ngcobon@sundaytimes.co.za