A moment on the lips
2012-12-21 08:51
David Moseley
People can’t seem to help themselves or,
for that matter, control themselves. As soon as December rolls around the
normal rules of engagement no longer apply. See food, eat it. See drink,
consume it. Say hello, lock lips inappropriately while drooling all over the
face of someone you haven’t seen in 40 hamster months.
There are many things that rile me about
the “festive season” (it’s Christmas dammit, yule have a good time even though
nothing’s really different to the rest of the year, except now you have to
spend money on people you barely know because Woolies told you too. Fuck you.
I’m miserable all year round, retailers. Why should Christmas be any
different).
"Them"...
But most offensive of all during this time
of love and gaiety is the desire of the strays in your life, the lone strangers
who only lock eyes on you once every 18 months, who insist on locking lips at
times of greetings, gift exchanges or family get-togethers.
I now know what Osama Bin Laden must have
felt like, quietly minding his own business in his evil lair, rubbing Dapper
Dan pomade into his Fu Manchu, when next thing, kapow! Marines attack! No more
Osama. That’s the stealth with which your lips will be assaulted between now
and New Year’s Day. (At least Bin Laden’s lips never suffered the slobbering
suctions of a distant family member’s cousin’s wife’s puckered lips. The joys
of a precision military strike.)
But what you can you do? Short of
head-butting your assailant, there’s really no exit strategy. You’re fate is
inevitable. You can only grin and bear it, wiping excess moisture away
immediately and demonstratively, in the hope that the message is received.
Even a well-placed cheek is no deterrent.
With gobby smackers primed for the full-frontal assault, you can try turn the
other cheek, but nothing stops a lip-smacker in full flight.
In attack mode they simply follow your head
as you weaver from side-to-side, so while you take evasive action you end up
looking like a vigilant road-crosser checking traffic both ways, and they a
salivating St Bernard vigorously wagging their head at the thought of an
extra-juicy bone, until they’ve smooched the squeamishness you lost about body
fluids in Grade Five right back into you.
Find your happy place
I like kissing. But only when it’s my
fiancée (wife in 17 days - crumbs) who’s involved in the equation.
I don’t mind a prudent peck on the cheek
either. But when loose lips start quivering in my direction, my eyes close and
my mind drifts off that happy place where the only moisture caressing my
parched gums is an ice-cold draught as Dale Steyn tears in from the Wynberg
End.
Festive bliss.
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