Monday, April 19, 2004
Service: * * *
Food: * * * 1/2
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * * * *
It's backgammon time. Tonight I'm playing Doc Peter Wisniewski, one of the stronger players. I haven't been doing too badly this season. Out of twenty-four players, I'm standing at the solid mid-point. I'm exactly the twelfth strongest player in the club. Glass half full, yeah?
I order the chicken schnitzel with cheese sauce and rice. "Danny," I say to the waiter, "does this dish involve mushrooms? Please answer correctly. Just say no."
"I'll make sure they don't put any mushrooms in it," he says.
"Are you sure, cos I've had this dish before, and they had mushrooms in the stir fry."
"I'll make absolutely sure."
"Good answer, oh Dannnnnnny Booooooy," I sing.
"Why is it that EVERYBODY sings 'Oh Danny Boy' when they first hear my name?"
Doc Pete tells me that it's very important to do a daily cleansing of the prostate, utilising manual massage.
I say, "Whaddaya mean? Are you supposed to use an electric toothbrush???"
"Nah. A finger will do the trick. I told my wife that it's recommended by my urologist. She said I have to get a doctor's note from him."
Now if you don't know what's involved in massaging the prostate, lets just say that it involves KY Jelly, preferably heated to body temperature. And a rather intimate massage partner who has clipped his or her nails. And it's probably a good idea if you've gone to the loo some time before. And a good scrub with an old facecloth is also probably not a bad precaution.
The sex books recommend that if women want to please their men, they should consider slipping a finger in and massaging his prostate while he's busy doing the wild fandango. I've submitted to this treatment, and I must say that it doesn't work for me. Kinda feels like her finger has travelled up my gut into my throat. Quite unpleasant. But hey. Maybe it takes practice?
We get down to some serious backgammon. Peter's written a kiddie's poem which he's hoping to turn into a book. We talk about his writing career while we play. "I've just submitted something to the New Yorker," he says, throwing a crippling double six.
We're pretty even until I accept a mad, bad, terrible cube, which hits the horrid "8", the feared spider. If I lose this game, he'll overtake me, and go into a convincing lead. We play to 21 points in these matches.
Peter goes into a convincing lead when I lose the spider.
The food arrives. No mushrooms. Very appetising. I'm happy with it. Tasty. Wholesome. Better than my mom could have made it, I suspect.
Not that I'd ever tell my mom anything like that.
I spoke to my mom last night. She's now in Port Edward, across the river from the Transkei, officially in Natal, where the law is taken pretty seriously. She's staying in the spare bedroom of one of my brother's buddies, and they're looking for a spot for her to call her own.
"Mommy," I said to her on the phone, "have you managed to find a counsellor yet?"
"Ag," she says. "What for? I'm talking to lots of people. What will a counsellor help?"
"Oh, Mommy, I used to be a crisis counsellor. There's nothing wrong with speaking to a professional. They can help you. Most police stations can put you in touch with a free counselling service. Try it, Mommy. Please?"
"Ag, I'll see," she says.
The babe count in Wiesenhof is actually quite high, seeing as Maliska and Renee and Sophia are here. They're all very pretty, and they're all glowing. The only reason I don't give them five stars is to stop them from getting big heads. And they're all in relationships, so a lower babe count score than reality would demand is actually an insurance policy for me. No jealous lovers coming to hunt me down.
But they're the ONLY babes in the joint. There's not another centimetre of babeflesh in sight. Maybe it's the backgammon? Maybe we scare the babes away?
Thwack. Peter flings his dice into the board. Crash. Beats me 21-15.
"You played well," he says.
And I realise that he's just massaged my backgammon prostate without lube.