|
 |
|
 |
||||||||||
 |
||||||||||||
| The New South Africa... Krisjan pulls into a service station in his battered bakkie clad in tattered khakis, velskoene, whiskers and ragged hat. He hands the attendant the keys complete with its beautiful vierkleur flag and says: "Goeie more. Maak vol met super, asseblief." "How much?" "Vol asseblief." "I only speak English!" Krisjan gives this some serious thought and then beams - No : problem. "Good day to you Sir. I currently feel a profound desire to replenish the propellant of my motorised chariot. Therefore, I cordially request you to transfer, from your subterranean reservoir, a sufficient quantity of combustible fluid of the highest octane rating to fill the appropriate receptacle of the said means of conveyance to the brim." "Hau?!" "Do you have a problem Sir? I thought you said you spoke English?" "English, That is not English!" "My dear Sir, are you veritably attempting to insinuate that you do not even recognise the language which you allege to be your singular means of communication?" "Hau?!" "Let me attempt to elucidate in the most elementary terms; your paltry grasp of English vernacular is frittering away the time at my disposal or as I would put it in a civilised intelligible language - Dit is so duidelik soos daglig dat jy FOKKOL van Engels weet en jy mors my bliksemse tyd! Verstaan jy nou?" "Ja Meneer. Vol Meneer? Afrikaans is beter Meneer." |
||||||||||||
|
||||||||||||
|
|
|||||||||||