It is three-thirty in the afternoon on a Sunday when our hero is roused from his weekend nap by a noise at the door. He stumbles angrily over to answer it. He is angry because he hates being woken up from his weekend naps. It is the three-year-old from next door, Screaming Lizzie.
- Yoo-hoo! Hello! Kodi! Baz, dear, open the door!
- It is you, Lizzie, the sum of all my loathings! Questions tumble around in my enraged brain like metaphors looking for subjects. What did I tell you about waking me up when I am napping? What did I tell you about my desire to ever see you again? And most urgently, what did I tell you about calling me mbu ‘dear’?
- I will pick the last question and ignore the others. You said some yaddayadda blah-blah about my being only three years old and then you went on an irrational rant about how patronising it is to have a three-year-old calling a grown man dear. But I can’t resist it, Baz, you are so adorable! I swear, if I was tall enough I would reach up and pinch your cheeksies!
- Cheeksies? Lord, smite this child! I am opposed, in general, to the physical punishment of children, but I will make this compromise. When you are 20, Lizzie you have an asswhupping due.
- Hah hah! You dinosaur! Do you think that by the time I’m old enough to catch an asswhupping you will not be too old to give one? I mean, look at the way your fists are trembling right now. Is that the waragi you had for lunch or is that the early stages of arthritis?
- It is rage. I am furious at having been woken up from my nap just before Beyonce, Shakira and Sheryl Lee Ralph arrived in their limo. I am made more livid by the fact that it is you who woke me up, and I am incandescent with ire at all these mean things you are saying to me and how much they hurt my feelings. Whooozaaaaah. I will try to control myself. I will suppress my anger and simply ask what it is that brought you to my door, in the hopes that an abrupt refusal will be enough to get rid of you. What do you want?
- Well, it is about your CD player. You are playing that Blackstreet album. I have come to ask you to be a bit considerate to your neighbours and turn it down.
- Inconsiderate? But you guys regularly play your Young Jeezy album at wall-shaking, stadium-blasting, brain-pulping volume…
- It is not the volume I have a problem with, it is the age of the music. Dude, us young and funky cats don’t want to listen to guys who shaved their names into the backs of their heads.
- Lizzie, at three you do not even qualify as young yet. And nothing funky wears pampers…
- Either way, can’t you update your music selection? Like get some Breezy or something.
- Breezy? Breezy is a reprobate. I refuse to play him.
- I don’t care about his morals. Breezy is a hottie! He can gerrrrrit! Whooo!
- Argh! My ears! I can’t believe I am hearing this sort of smutty talk from an infant! I mean, WTF!
- Watch your language, Baz, there are kids present!
- You are worried that I might traumatise you? You are the one traumatising me with your being there three years old saying you want Brown to gerrit! That is more obscene that the F in WTF! Aaaargh!
And our hero runs screaming back into the house. He quickly replaces the Blackstreet CD with Bebe And Cece Winans and cranks it up to eleven to drown out the protests of Lizzie at the door.
Update: This is for Mataachi and Ish.