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GALFRIDAY: Naked truth about nudity

Veoma Ali

GALFRIDAY: Naked truth about nudity

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Seems like everyone’s naked these days. Harry Styles from One Direction, sitting exposed in an armchair watching television, the cyclists in America riding for the environment last weekend, and RiRi . . . well, “almost”?naked, she was.
Love it or not, there’s no need to get panties in a knot . . . there aren’t any to knot up! I think it was honourable Chris who started the trend by suggesting a stripped sprint down Broad Street; and by the mere power of suggestion, nakedness has become a trend.
At the end of the day, though, it was so in the beginning; before Original Sin, according to Scripture, right?
Only when Adam and Eve ate the fruit did their “eyes become opened” and they realised they needed to cover themselves. Clothing then is as a result of sin. So, I’ve decided to put it to you today that people like Rihanna and the other nudists are not into any marketing ploy, nor expressing themselves; neither are they artistically making a fashion statement. They perhaps are closer to innocence than we, with our minds clothed in judgement.
Closed in peaceful slumber, my eyes were forced open last Saturday morning before six.
An overconscientious and inconsiderate neighbour decided to trim the dried, limp vestiges of hay in his yard. There was certainly no need to “cut the grass” but I’m certain that he’s had delusions of rally driving or motorbiking, since he was revving the weed whacker like a man with a big engine like “The Sherriff” or “The Surfer”.
I understand time (and thoughtfulness) is tight for some.
I appreciate that chores must be done when one gets the chance. What I don’t quite get is how a big 20-something-calibre gun could have a silencer; how a big S-Class Mercedes could drive past me and not make a sound; but a 2×4 weedwhacker could make such dreadful noise!
We like we like too much noise of late. A fella walked straight into my stationary car this week because he was grooving to whatever was pumping through his green headphones. He simply couldn’t hear the horn, looking in the opposite direction and “boodoops” . . . onto the car.
I rolled the window down and shouted, asking him what was wrong. “Eh?” he shouts, headphones apparently stuck in auricles. Same time, his cell rings and he answers it, headphones still in, nonchalantly walking away. Amazingly, he could hear the cell, but neither shouting nor horning.
As I mentioned shouting, I was at a store on said Broad Street and a scantily-clad senorita from Venezuela was asking the clerk about a pen. “¿Marca?” she asked. (She meant, “Brand?”) The clerk gave her a Sharpie; and thus began an exchange of comical communication: clerk shouting, “No marker? Pen? Pencil?”
It’s hilarious whenever we begin shouting, even though the other person is speaking an entirely different language. They can hear us perfectly, but simply can’t understand. Then again, when some people talk plain English, I still don’t get it. That’s the naked truth.
Veoma Ali is an author, actor, broadcaster, advertising exec and, most importantly, a karaoke lover.