After being trampled by a herd of angry Cape Buffalo while on safari with WL Emery - world famous novelist, adventurer, and man about town - we decided to take a break and go hunting in New Zealand for a change of pace. It was just the break I needed - no real predators or man eaters, the place was full a pretty gals and bars - and the local aborigines minded their P's n' Q's. Whilst
pished to the gills sampling the local night club scene, I heard this band and assumed they were some unsavoury Jamaican or Haitian noggers or something.
Being experts on aboriginies on 8 continents - the band confused the hell of us by playing this one:
"Hellsh bellsh WL! These filthy wogs are beaners!" I slurred over my Balvennie. WL flinched away just in time as I vomitted all over the bar room floor. The man had the reflexes of a cat even after two bottles of bathtub gin! WL belched loudly and slurped half his glass in a breath and replied, "I'm quite certain your mishtaken, Filthie," he croaked. "If memory serves... and sometimes it does - they are head hunting savages that are indigenous to New Zealand..." After splashing 4 ounces of purple X grade gin into his glass to top up, he went on.
"These filthy oogah boogahs are quite entertaining actshually... they like to do this stylized dance and chant when they are about to decapitate their enemies and shrink their heads in a great big kettle..."
"Errrrrr... like they're doing now, WL? " I asked.
"Yesh - hic - yes, that's the one, Filthie! It's called 'The Haka... and speaking of which, after our indiscrete discussion of it - we might want to hack-hack-a-dack our butts away from this dreary place!"
"I wanna go back to Africa!" I sobbed.