Violence and Vincent
It was quiet in the M&G offices. All Vincent could hear was the steady beat of his keyboard as he slouched over the screen. He did not, nay, could not hear the clickety-clicking of high heels heading down the passage towards his desk. The blogmark chicks had decided to Take-Him-In-Hand.
KC, Arb, Marijayn, Morticia, Dolce and Dolorez – oh it had been easy enough to track him down. They knew his cellphone number even. This was not the time for electronic communication, however. This would take a personal touch. A very firm, cold, silvery touch…
“Vincent?”
“Tired grunt.”
The four in unison said sweetly: “We are here about our blog.”
Vincent cowered as he saw the nail files, sharp ones…
“Matt!” he shrieked.
“Oh, we already had a word with Matt,” said Arbchick, smiling as she reached out and firmly grasped his hair.
“Now, let’s talk about fixing things up around here,” said KC wiping her blood stained fingers on her Levis.
Dead Animals
I don’t understand the general revulsion for skinned and/or stuffed dead animals as décor and apparel. In no way do I think hunting is ok, but there is a great deal of antique and vintage dead animal paraphernalia around that should be made better use of. These animals are dead. Long dead. And they were killed in order to be worn or displayed on a wall. The *vomit* noises and general shunning I received from my artist upon my exuberant discovery of a full fox fur stole, is entirely uncalled for.
It was attractive. It had nice glass eyes and still had its claws, nose and tail. Very good condition and only R240. Yes, folks, two hundred and forty ZA Rand. Good deal huh? Not according to my family.
Then there was the ancient zebra skin. It had holes and mangey looking patches, but it was done it that old way where the ears are pinned back and everything left on. Very nice. Except the guy wanted just under R4k for it. I could get a better rug out of my mother’s daschund (one example of humane pet euthanasia if ever there was one – the little rodent eats books, passports and half done jigsaws). If it had been reasonably priced I would have stuck it onto the old kelim rug that was killed in a flood at my old house.
I am not sure how this dead animal fetish started. I was anti-fur for the longest time. Now I find myself scouring antique shops for them I just have not yet found the perfect thing. Someone suggested today that I go to some taxidermist out in that god-forsaken hell hole called Fourways, but they miss the point. I don’t want a NEW dead beast. I want an old one. That wasn’t shot in some sort of canned fashion. I want one that was stalked across the savannahs and shot by some crusty old pom called Nigel or Rupert or something.
It is my dream to one day have one of those giant stuffed polar bears in my hallway to put my hat collection on. It’s glassy little eyes can peer out at visitors from beneath the brim of my panama, while he dangles the others off various other parts of bear-body.
