That one time when we killed the drug dealer

Technically, I haven’t yet murdered any peddler of narcotics. Nor do I intend to. That is not to say that I haven’t used the line above in wriggling out of undesirable social conversation. It trumps any other form of inappropriate activities you may describe to snivelling little losers that are draining your time and joviality in disenchating soirees.

“Yes, Cancun was exciting. The sun shone like a polished golden plate floating silently in the murmuring ocean. Birds giggled like blushing schoolgirls. We were snorting coke off of some mermaids. Then, suddenly, the dealer got all “funky” and shit and I had no option but to pop him a few hot ones from a .55. Croaked on the spot, the old mug. Though, to be fair, he did have a great forehand and made for an excellent tennis partner. But when you are  weighing your options, life trumps tennis. It was about survival, out there in the rainforests, red in the claws. In the end, his temperament got the better of him. Dumped his torso in the waters and quietly went to my hotel, I did. They found him entangled in sea weed, looking a shrivelled dill. Freaked out some American kids when his cadaver emerged from the saline flow. 

So, what did you do on your vacation?”

A mail comes in asking me if I’d like to do a column. A “Column”? What kind of savagery is that? As a civilization haven’t we moved beyond columns and tablets as forms of mass communication? Asking me to do “columns” is the equivalent of Moses tweeting commandments to Israelites.

Only a gormless philistine would condescend to populating columns - iron or stone, in this modern era of ham radios and telegrams. I, for one, consider myself technologically advanced enough to type-write my communique.