Wait! Before all you Showerhead suppottas grab hold of your pangas, knobkieries, stolen SAPS 9mm Berettas, spears, and other traditional weapons. I’m not saying that it’s difficult to bribe the President – it’s not. And I’m not saying it. At all.
Maybe I should first explain what I’m talking about.
That little thingy in the cubicle of your bathroom – with the tiny nozzles – where the water comes out onto the top of your head, is called a “shower rose” – although it is not a flower and has no fragrance. Unless you live in Sannieshof. There, it has a rotten smell, with traces of algae growing from it.
At home, we used to call the shower rose a “showerhead.” But that was before this name was bestowed, in a derogatory manner, upon the King of Nkandla. I will never allow a Showerhead into my house. Ever. So, for a while, our showerhead had no name – until it broke, and fell on my shoulder while I was taking a shower. Then I gave it a name.
“Bliksem,” I called it, and picked up the pieces from the shower’s floor – while trying to steady my rapidly beating heart.
Bliksem was no ordinary piece of sprinkler mechanism. It was a modern marvel of hydro-engineering: six-speed, pulse action, multi-vibrate, rubber holes, rough and fine settings, with a little control lever on the side. (Sounds disgusting, doesn’t it, Dominee?)
Unfortunately, Bliksem (who I suspect was related to Humpty Dumpty), could not be reassembled by someone with my meagre technical skills. The shower floor was covered with old Bliksem’s innards – springs, nozzles, washers, O-rings, self-tapping screws, vanes, percolators, various mysterious doohickeys, and other unmentionable stuff.
So off I went to buy Bliksem’s replacement – at a shop called *Amper Alles.
On Monday, I brought Bliksem’s replacement home, and screwed it in the shower. What a piece of rubbish! Made in China, nogal. With me screwing it! Instead of squirting out the nozzles, the water leaked out through the sides of the “rose”, leaving the showeree completely dry. I called the replacement Leaking Rose.
I took Leaking Rose back to Amper Alles. This was when the fun really started.
The salesman of Amper Alles told the manager of Amper Alles that I wanted to end my relationship with Rose. The manager, in trying to impress me, entered into some serious indigenous dialogue with the poor sales guy. After listening to the conversation between them for quite some time, I asked the manager what the problem was.
The arrogant bastard didn’t even look at me, but simply said: “I’m talking to him,” indicating the Amper Alles salesman.
Well, I never! **I plukked my gat into such a krul!
To cut a long story short: I bought another shower rose – quite a bit more expensive than Leaking Rose, and left the building.
My new shower rose is called Dripping Pizza – it never stops dripping and is about the size of a large family-size pizza. It has none of Bliksem’s erotic mechanisms, and, if it should ever fall on someone it will be with fatal results.
But one thing is for sure: I shall NEVER again go shopping at Amper Alles – even if the manager gets his customer relations jacked up, and they change their name to “Alles.”
*Amper Alles – Almost Everything
**I plukked my gat into such a krul – I got a little annoyed
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