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 a beautiful vierkleur flag:
Krisjan: "Goeie more. Maak vol met Super, a**eblief."
Attendant: "How much?"
Krisjan: "Vol a**eblief."
Attendant: "I only speak English!"
Krisjan: "No problem. Good day to you Sir. I currently feel a profound
desire to replenish the propellant of my motorized vehicle. 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 perambulation to the
brim."
Attendant: "Hau?"
Krisjan: "Do you have a problem Sir? I thought you said you spoke
English?"
Attendant: "English, that is not English!"
Krisjan: "My dear Sir, are you veritably attempting to insinuate that you
do not even recognize the language which you allege to be your singular
means of communication?"
Attendant: "Hau?"
Krisjan: "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 civilized intelligible language - Dit
is so fokken duidelik soos daglig dat jy FOKOL van Engels weet en jy mors my
tyd. Verstaan jy nou?"
Attendant: "Ja Baas. Vol Baas?"
Krisjan: "Dankie!"
