Is there a better way to advertise your small penis than with the purchase of a 4X4?
When I was a kid there was no such thing as a luxury SUV. A Land Rover was an average car on the inside, just big and powerful enough to climb over rocks and Third World natives. Politicians drove Mercs, and only gung-ho game rangers and Indiana Jones wannabes tooled around in such metal monstrosities.
But nowadays it’s necessary for every little big man to own one; as though he expects it to drive out when he opens the zipper on his trousers.
It’s all there on Top Gear – the self-conscious small-man-syndrome sufferer; the grumpy, pube-haired geriatric; and the guy stuck in a mid-life crisis with the long, varsity student locks. Prime examples of the ‘my car is a penis’ candidate.
I suppose it’s not as scary and much less invasive than a penis enlargement, and most men know they’d get arrested for showing off their nob in the company parking lot.
You’d never see Dirk Diggler driving one of them. In fact, I’m sure pornstars are more prone to buying sports cars; secure in the scale of their naughty bits.
And these guys handle their large, unwieldy cars about as well as they’d handle a gigantic portion of man-mutton – uncontrollably straddling lanes, unable to fit it in a parking space, and ramming it up your arse on the road.
While they’re struggling to control their oversized substitute for a phallus, they don’t realise their purple-headed pygmy is actually controlling them.
The truly insecure will even force an overabundance of automobile on their wife. Even more heartbreaking than watching a woman struggle to parallel park one of these giants is the knowledge that she’s suffering for her husband’s Lilliputian love-muscle.
Man’s selfish insecurity is responsible for most of this world’s ills – war, colonisation, unprotected sex – and now, as he carelessly pollutes with his unnecessary gas-guzzler, Man can add the destruction of the environment to that list.
If only the humble, fuel-efficient, compact car could be advertised as the well-hung man’s preferred mode of transport. Maybe then marketers could do something useful for a change and save the world.
Paying for Propaganda
I remember when the government-aligned New Age newspaper hit the streets. I wandered across to the supermarket in the morning and there it was proudly boasting that, like tik from a schoolyard dealer, the first one was free.
By the end of the day the massive pile was untouched – they literally couldn’t give it away. Not surprising because, as Julius Malema no doubt realised long ago, we are all “bastard agents” in the Western Cape.
So I could only groan upon news that another government publication, Vuk'uzenzelei, will be hitting the streets in April.
Published by 'coloured-redistributer' Jimmy Manyi (see: 'Too Many Capeys in Cape Town?'), the monthly tabloid will be free to the public. It will also be free of commercial advertising, lest it “clutter” the newspaper. “It might create confusion. Don't be surprised if we don't allow commercial advertising,” said Jimmy.
So the first question from any taxpaying packhorse would be, “Well then who’s paying for it?”
You are, of course! Propaganda don’t come cheap, and you can’t expect Zuma to forgo his right to a BMW for each of his wives.
And it definitely won’t come cheap. Jimmy told probably less-than-awe-inspired journalists, “We want it on the streets, in every township and rural area. It will be bigger than all of you guys put together!”
And with an impressive print run of 2 million copies each month at a cost of R1-million per edition, you can bet it will be the most pricey distribution of toilet paper and birdcage-lining in the history of the world!
Unless they somehow get people to read it, which fills me with dread of Lynne Brown as a ‘Page 3’ girl, and a ‘How to pick up chicks’ column penned by Jacob Zuma.
One can only hope that the taxpayers will march on Parliament to stop this nonsense, and that the unemployed will question whether R1-mill-a-month could be better spent elsewhere.
By the end of the day the massive pile was untouched – they literally couldn’t give it away. Not surprising because, as Julius Malema no doubt realised long ago, we are all “bastard agents” in the Western Cape.
So I could only groan upon news that another government publication, Vuk'uzenzelei, will be hitting the streets in April.
Published by 'coloured-redistributer' Jimmy Manyi (see: 'Too Many Capeys in Cape Town?'), the monthly tabloid will be free to the public. It will also be free of commercial advertising, lest it “clutter” the newspaper. “It might create confusion. Don't be surprised if we don't allow commercial advertising,” said Jimmy.
So the first question from any taxpaying packhorse would be, “Well then who’s paying for it?”
You are, of course! Propaganda don’t come cheap, and you can’t expect Zuma to forgo his right to a BMW for each of his wives.
And it definitely won’t come cheap. Jimmy told probably less-than-awe-inspired journalists, “We want it on the streets, in every township and rural area. It will be bigger than all of you guys put together!”
And with an impressive print run of 2 million copies each month at a cost of R1-million per edition, you can bet it will be the most pricey distribution of toilet paper and birdcage-lining in the history of the world!
Unless they somehow get people to read it, which fills me with dread of Lynne Brown as a ‘Page 3’ girl, and a ‘How to pick up chicks’ column penned by Jacob Zuma.
One can only hope that the taxpayers will march on Parliament to stop this nonsense, and that the unemployed will question whether R1-mill-a-month could be better spent elsewhere.
Earth Hour Activities
With Eskom warning of more rolling blackouts for the next three years, Earth Hour seems a bit redundant.
If the rest of the world followed South Africa’s example it wouldn’t be altruism that saved the environment, it would be general incompetence. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t latched onto this tree-hugger trend and marketed their fuck ups as intended eco-friendliness.
Maybe that guy in 2006 who threw the wrench into the big machine thingee that lights our bulbs and boils our tea wasn’t a saboteur after all, merely a concerned citizen. Just like those scallywags who sliced the tyres on my gas-guzzler last year, forcing me to walk around for at least a day.
But with the telly off and no portable radio, I’m at a bit of a loss for something to do. Here are some ideas I had for those in the same predicament:
1. Get some mates round and have a braai.
That’s a barbeque for those not from around here. Although throwing mammal-meat on an open flame might take away from the ‘save the planet’/let’s-all-be-hippies vibe.
2. Tell scary stories.
A blanky on the front room floor, a torch, and that one about the snogging couple in the car and the guy with the hook-hand could be fun.
3. Organise a sing-a-along.
Go to scoutorama.com for all the campfire favourites.
4. Have sex.
This one doesn’t necessarily require a group of friends, but it’s not entirely out of the question.
5. Get an early night.
Perfectly suited to those with no significant other and even less friends; and just think of how refreshed you’ll be on Sunday.
On the other hand, you could get out of the house and down your local. With Capetonians generally finding any excuse for a piss-up you definitely won’t be alone.
Just remember to turn the lights out when you leave.
If the rest of the world followed South Africa’s example it wouldn’t be altruism that saved the environment, it would be general incompetence. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t latched onto this tree-hugger trend and marketed their fuck ups as intended eco-friendliness.
Maybe that guy in 2006 who threw the wrench into the big machine thingee that lights our bulbs and boils our tea wasn’t a saboteur after all, merely a concerned citizen. Just like those scallywags who sliced the tyres on my gas-guzzler last year, forcing me to walk around for at least a day.
But with the telly off and no portable radio, I’m at a bit of a loss for something to do. Here are some ideas I had for those in the same predicament:
1. Get some mates round and have a braai.
That’s a barbeque for those not from around here. Although throwing mammal-meat on an open flame might take away from the ‘save the planet’/let’s-all-be-hippies vibe.
2. Tell scary stories.
A blanky on the front room floor, a torch, and that one about the snogging couple in the car and the guy with the hook-hand could be fun.
3. Organise a sing-a-along.
Go to scoutorama.com for all the campfire favourites.
4. Have sex.
This one doesn’t necessarily require a group of friends, but it’s not entirely out of the question.
5. Get an early night.
Perfectly suited to those with no significant other and even less friends; and just think of how refreshed you’ll be on Sunday.
On the other hand, you could get out of the house and down your local. With Capetonians generally finding any excuse for a piss-up you definitely won’t be alone.
Just remember to turn the lights out when you leave.
Soccer Saves The World
For me, when it comes to sports, size matters.
Aside from rugby, I don’t follow much, but when a World Cup comes along I stock up on flags and facepaint and embarrass myself.
I don’t even think the games matter much to me; I just like being in a large group that’s laughing and shouting and emoting. It’s so easy to find common ground with strangers.
After the Fifa World Cup last year a newspaper columnist commented that events like this in SA don’t show us how we are, they show us what we could be like.
There was none of the clichéd violent rivalry associated with soccer. What the World Cup did was make it easier to talk to those from different backgrounds and contrasting cultures. Not just internationally, but local ‘Others’ we South Africans know so little about, and associate so seldom with.
And even now, when the cricket is being played so far away, it still seems natural to talk to the guy at the table next to yours. But if you took away the sport on TV it wouldn’t happen.
Other events lack this dynamic. At the recent Cape Town Festival I felt none of the camaraderie and Oneness a major sporting event infects us with.
Why is this? What is it about two teams smacking, kicking or passing a ball around that brings us together? How does a game dissolve the fear we seem to have about interacting with strangers?
Is it because we now feel we have something in common with the ‘Other’? Of all the people I met over that amazing month in 2010, I found I had a lot in common with most, if not all, of them.
I wonder if we had more things like this – things that somehow made us forget our fear and randomly befriend strangers – I wonder if our ideas would shift to such an extent that the attitude would become natural.
It would be natural to just talk to anyone. And it would be natural to not look at someone randomly talking to us as weird or over-friendly. We could learn so much when it became natural to not just stick to our ‘group’.
Imagine a South Africa where the goal isn’t to find a common identity – something that makes us all the same – but to enjoy and find fascination in the amalgam of identities and differences within our nation.
Aside from rugby, I don’t follow much, but when a World Cup comes along I stock up on flags and facepaint and embarrass myself.
I don’t even think the games matter much to me; I just like being in a large group that’s laughing and shouting and emoting. It’s so easy to find common ground with strangers.
After the Fifa World Cup last year a newspaper columnist commented that events like this in SA don’t show us how we are, they show us what we could be like.
There was none of the clichéd violent rivalry associated with soccer. What the World Cup did was make it easier to talk to those from different backgrounds and contrasting cultures. Not just internationally, but local ‘Others’ we South Africans know so little about, and associate so seldom with.
And even now, when the cricket is being played so far away, it still seems natural to talk to the guy at the table next to yours. But if you took away the sport on TV it wouldn’t happen.
Other events lack this dynamic. At the recent Cape Town Festival I felt none of the camaraderie and Oneness a major sporting event infects us with.
Why is this? What is it about two teams smacking, kicking or passing a ball around that brings us together? How does a game dissolve the fear we seem to have about interacting with strangers?
Is it because we now feel we have something in common with the ‘Other’? Of all the people I met over that amazing month in 2010, I found I had a lot in common with most, if not all, of them.
I wonder if we had more things like this – things that somehow made us forget our fear and randomly befriend strangers – I wonder if our ideas would shift to such an extent that the attitude would become natural.
It would be natural to just talk to anyone. And it would be natural to not look at someone randomly talking to us as weird or over-friendly. We could learn so much when it became natural to not just stick to our ‘group’.
Imagine a South Africa where the goal isn’t to find a common identity – something that makes us all the same – but to enjoy and find fascination in the amalgam of identities and differences within our nation.
The Redemption of the Lukos
[This is the first draft of the first chapter of a novel I'm working on. I was just wondering what anyone thought. My working title is: 'The Redemption of the Lukos'. Hope you enjoy it.]
PROLOGUE: Awakening
If you believe that reality is subjective and that, depending on a realisation or awakening, your universe can be destroyed and recreated in an instant of epiphany, then my birth, or at least the birth of my purpose, was jagged, raw, searing pain and the hard, wet, dull sound of metal fist against flesh-and-bone skull.
The non-duality of all existence was pounded unceremoniously into my head, and while the Sentinel’s glowing, green eyes coldly stared into the black pits of my own soul I wondered if this golden, iron monster understood or cared about the orders it fulfilled; or if it could possibly comprehend that it and I were one; and that I couldn’t possibly bring myself to harm it.
As the universe held its breath and clocks ticked through mud I knew that there was nothing I could do about the possibly terminal beating I was taking. I could not fight back. Hurting another intelligence, organic or virtual, would be like slicing out my own eye and I could not bring myself to do it.
The Gunslinger, keeping a fair distance from the other dozen or so Sentinels hell-bent on ending our lives, was rapidly reloading and firing, reloading and firing.
Looking over at me and probably thinking I was on my way out, he gallops towards me, slides under and between a Sentinel’s gigantic legs, and fires one round, blowing the assaulting arm of my attacker clean off; then he pops up to his feet and with the other arm, the one that isn’t holding a gun but actually is a state-of-the-art, Orga-mech pulse-cannon, shoots and explodes the Sentinel’s head.
On my feet again and next to my partner I tell him, “Garrison, I can’t do this. I can’t… hurt people anymore.”
“It’s okay,” he says, panting, “they’re not people.”
I look back at Cyan, the small, blonde, eight-year-old girl they call the Orphan of the Apocalypse, and wonder if all my pain and loss and sin was to bring me to this moment, to this realisation of the nature of all existence. If I could save her then surely my life would mean more to this world than the suffering and death of others.
Cyan is curled into a ball in the corner of the room. Garrison and I thought this place would be safe; that we could hide out here while we exacted our impossible escape plan; we had no idea of how far Strange would go to get this girl.
The Gunslinger is fighting a losing battle and I, with my newfound way of non-violence, cannot help him in the slightest. The Sentinels have now passed through all our defences on every floor and, having smashed through most of the wall, are pouring through it in a dirty, golden swarm.
We both know the girl is what is important. Her survival is more crucial than either of our lives.
The room is on the top floor of the second highest building in Castle City. I peer out of the broken window to the streets three-hundred floors below. This is how it ends. After everything we’ve seen and discovered I know that to stay here would be to sacrifice Heaven and Hell and everything in between. It would be better if we all died here and now – especially Cyan.
I see Garrison Hollywood, my only friend and the terrorist known as the Gunslinger, overwhelmed and crushed by the sea of Sentinels. I pick up the Orphan of the Apocalypse and do the only thing I can think of: I jump out the window.
[I'd love to know what anyone thinks. I accept any criticism - constructive or abusive :)]
PROLOGUE: Awakening
If you believe that reality is subjective and that, depending on a realisation or awakening, your universe can be destroyed and recreated in an instant of epiphany, then my birth, or at least the birth of my purpose, was jagged, raw, searing pain and the hard, wet, dull sound of metal fist against flesh-and-bone skull.
The non-duality of all existence was pounded unceremoniously into my head, and while the Sentinel’s glowing, green eyes coldly stared into the black pits of my own soul I wondered if this golden, iron monster understood or cared about the orders it fulfilled; or if it could possibly comprehend that it and I were one; and that I couldn’t possibly bring myself to harm it.
As the universe held its breath and clocks ticked through mud I knew that there was nothing I could do about the possibly terminal beating I was taking. I could not fight back. Hurting another intelligence, organic or virtual, would be like slicing out my own eye and I could not bring myself to do it.
The Gunslinger, keeping a fair distance from the other dozen or so Sentinels hell-bent on ending our lives, was rapidly reloading and firing, reloading and firing.
Looking over at me and probably thinking I was on my way out, he gallops towards me, slides under and between a Sentinel’s gigantic legs, and fires one round, blowing the assaulting arm of my attacker clean off; then he pops up to his feet and with the other arm, the one that isn’t holding a gun but actually is a state-of-the-art, Orga-mech pulse-cannon, shoots and explodes the Sentinel’s head.
On my feet again and next to my partner I tell him, “Garrison, I can’t do this. I can’t… hurt people anymore.”
“It’s okay,” he says, panting, “they’re not people.”
I look back at Cyan, the small, blonde, eight-year-old girl they call the Orphan of the Apocalypse, and wonder if all my pain and loss and sin was to bring me to this moment, to this realisation of the nature of all existence. If I could save her then surely my life would mean more to this world than the suffering and death of others.
Cyan is curled into a ball in the corner of the room. Garrison and I thought this place would be safe; that we could hide out here while we exacted our impossible escape plan; we had no idea of how far Strange would go to get this girl.
The Gunslinger is fighting a losing battle and I, with my newfound way of non-violence, cannot help him in the slightest. The Sentinels have now passed through all our defences on every floor and, having smashed through most of the wall, are pouring through it in a dirty, golden swarm.
We both know the girl is what is important. Her survival is more crucial than either of our lives.
The room is on the top floor of the second highest building in Castle City. I peer out of the broken window to the streets three-hundred floors below. This is how it ends. After everything we’ve seen and discovered I know that to stay here would be to sacrifice Heaven and Hell and everything in between. It would be better if we all died here and now – especially Cyan.
I see Garrison Hollywood, my only friend and the terrorist known as the Gunslinger, overwhelmed and crushed by the sea of Sentinels. I pick up the Orphan of the Apocalypse and do the only thing I can think of: I jump out the window.
[I'd love to know what anyone thinks. I accept any criticism - constructive or abusive :)]
My Mixtape Romance
Has technological advancement become arbitrary? When my friends show me iPhone apps that can identify their DNA and track the journey of their turd from toilet to ocean I think it’s cool and all, but pointless and sad too.
In kind of the same vein, so many people I know say the more music they have on their iPod the less they listen to – just around five albums over and over. A lot of people, myself included, upload albums to show off like a friends list on Facebook; but still just stick to the usual suspects.
So what’s the point of carrying around your record collection if it just sits there?
There was a time when the Walkman changed the world. Music became portable and personal – kids didn’t have to listen to their parents’ Abba tapes on family road trips anymore, they could plug the latest Pop Shop into their ears; and on the bus you could tune out the grannies’ gossip with equally depressing Cure tunes.
And you have to respect that while the iPod can store every album you own, the Walkman practically birthed our culture of public solitude. When we could personalise albums we began building soundtracks suited to our mood swings.
There’s something about making a mix tape (or Mixtape) that an iTunes playlist can’t match.
Back in the day, a ninety minute cassette compilation would take at least two hours to produce. When you gave it to your girlfriend she appreciated the effort you put in – not only having to listen to every song all the way through, but also obsessing over the flow of tracks.
You’d sometimes record six songs, then rewind back over the last four because you realised the third would be better a few tracks later. Sometimes one mix tape would take a whole day to make – you’d call it something like ‘OCD Hits’, and neatly write each song title and artist on the cassette-holder insert.
Nick Hornby believed that making a mix tape was an art, and outlined the rules in his novel High Fidelity: “To me, making a tape is like writing a letter — there's a lot of erasing and rethinking and starting again. A good compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. You've got to kick off with a corker, to hold the attention… and then you've got to up it a notch, or cool it a notch, and you can't have white music and black music together, unless the white music sounds like black music, and you can't have two tracks by the same artist side by side, unless you've done the whole thing in pairs and...oh, there are loads of rules.”
The same way that sending an email just isn’t the same as posting a letter, a mix cd lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.
Maybe it’s because, embedded in even the smallest romantic act is an element of the personal touch.
Nowadays, when we fuck up, burning a cd of love songs is faster than popping down the corner café to buy flowers, and therefore just as meaningless.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
In kind of the same vein, so many people I know say the more music they have on their iPod the less they listen to – just around five albums over and over. A lot of people, myself included, upload albums to show off like a friends list on Facebook; but still just stick to the usual suspects.
So what’s the point of carrying around your record collection if it just sits there?
There was a time when the Walkman changed the world. Music became portable and personal – kids didn’t have to listen to their parents’ Abba tapes on family road trips anymore, they could plug the latest Pop Shop into their ears; and on the bus you could tune out the grannies’ gossip with equally depressing Cure tunes.
And you have to respect that while the iPod can store every album you own, the Walkman practically birthed our culture of public solitude. When we could personalise albums we began building soundtracks suited to our mood swings.
There’s something about making a mix tape (or Mixtape) that an iTunes playlist can’t match.
Back in the day, a ninety minute cassette compilation would take at least two hours to produce. When you gave it to your girlfriend she appreciated the effort you put in – not only having to listen to every song all the way through, but also obsessing over the flow of tracks.
You’d sometimes record six songs, then rewind back over the last four because you realised the third would be better a few tracks later. Sometimes one mix tape would take a whole day to make – you’d call it something like ‘OCD Hits’, and neatly write each song title and artist on the cassette-holder insert.
Nick Hornby believed that making a mix tape was an art, and outlined the rules in his novel High Fidelity: “To me, making a tape is like writing a letter — there's a lot of erasing and rethinking and starting again. A good compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. You've got to kick off with a corker, to hold the attention… and then you've got to up it a notch, or cool it a notch, and you can't have white music and black music together, unless the white music sounds like black music, and you can't have two tracks by the same artist side by side, unless you've done the whole thing in pairs and...oh, there are loads of rules.”
The same way that sending an email just isn’t the same as posting a letter, a mix cd lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.
Maybe it’s because, embedded in even the smallest romantic act is an element of the personal touch.
Nowadays, when we fuck up, burning a cd of love songs is faster than popping down the corner café to buy flowers, and therefore just as meaningless.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
Don't Touch Me On My 'Culture'
You can say what you want about our president, but the man certainly is virile.
With the wife-count sitting at three, he has no less than two fiancées. And on top of all that his extra-marital philandering is public knowledge.
God only knows how many kids he has, and I think the official count is somewhere around 22.
Zuma has excused his actions, saying, “That’s my culture!” and also mentioned that many western, monogamous politicians have mistresses.
The thing is, if you’re defending polygamy and attacking extra-marital affairs, how do you explain your own cheating ways? The reason we always see Zuma with that fat grin on his mug is because he somehow manages to have his cake and eat it.
Maybe it’s because his current wives really only care about the money and status that they don’t mind. Maybe being a woman within a polygamous culture makes you a bit more thick-skinned when it comes to your man sticking his dick into anything with a heartbeat. Maybe JZ actually is so damn charming that he manages to talk himself out of accountability for his indiscretions.
But playing the culture card is something I have a bit of a problem with.
Middle Eastern cultures allow family honour killings. Acts like virginity testing and female circumcision are excused as ‘part of our culture’.
In Mali, if a man leaves town and is worried his wife’s going to fool around, it is culturally acceptable for him to sew her vagina closed.
And why are all these ‘cultural’ beliefs patriarchal? Why isn’t it a case of ‘what’s good for the gander is good for the goose’? In this age of equality, why can’t a woman be let off the hook for infidelity as easily as a man is?
Am I being racist or ethnocentric for believing that it’s wrong for a man to be able to have as many sexual partners as he likes, while women must make do with just the one useless lump? It’s not the act of polygamy that I have such a beef with, it’s the unfairness of the whole set-up.
When you think about it, saying that men are allowed to do certain things but women aren’t is as bad as saying that whites are allowed to do certain things but blacks aren’t.
It’s as bad as excusing racism and intolerance as just part of our South African culture.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
With the wife-count sitting at three, he has no less than two fiancées. And on top of all that his extra-marital philandering is public knowledge.
God only knows how many kids he has, and I think the official count is somewhere around 22.
Zuma has excused his actions, saying, “That’s my culture!” and also mentioned that many western, monogamous politicians have mistresses.
The thing is, if you’re defending polygamy and attacking extra-marital affairs, how do you explain your own cheating ways? The reason we always see Zuma with that fat grin on his mug is because he somehow manages to have his cake and eat it.
Maybe it’s because his current wives really only care about the money and status that they don’t mind. Maybe being a woman within a polygamous culture makes you a bit more thick-skinned when it comes to your man sticking his dick into anything with a heartbeat. Maybe JZ actually is so damn charming that he manages to talk himself out of accountability for his indiscretions.
But playing the culture card is something I have a bit of a problem with.
Middle Eastern cultures allow family honour killings. Acts like virginity testing and female circumcision are excused as ‘part of our culture’.
In Mali, if a man leaves town and is worried his wife’s going to fool around, it is culturally acceptable for him to sew her vagina closed.
And why are all these ‘cultural’ beliefs patriarchal? Why isn’t it a case of ‘what’s good for the gander is good for the goose’? In this age of equality, why can’t a woman be let off the hook for infidelity as easily as a man is?
Am I being racist or ethnocentric for believing that it’s wrong for a man to be able to have as many sexual partners as he likes, while women must make do with just the one useless lump? It’s not the act of polygamy that I have such a beef with, it’s the unfairness of the whole set-up.
When you think about it, saying that men are allowed to do certain things but women aren’t is as bad as saying that whites are allowed to do certain things but blacks aren’t.
It’s as bad as excusing racism and intolerance as just part of our South African culture.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
Would You Touch My Brand New Boobs?
Standing in a luggage shop and my mate turns to me and says, “Nice fake boobs over there.”
I have a look, but can’t see who he’s talking about.
“Over there,” he insists, “Can’t you tell.”
Actually, I can’t. But it did make me wonder aloud, “Do women with breast enhancements mind men gawking at their rack?”
“Like a new pair of shoes,” matey says, “it’s flattering if one notices.”
I suppose he could be right. I once met an elderly lady, not a granny but a woman in her late forties, who, after a breast enlargement, encouraged people to “touch them, feel how firm they are!”
Many men obliged, but I thought it would be a bit weird to feel up some guy’s wife in front of him. The husband didn’t mind, though. In fact, he was standing by grinning with some kind of idiotic pride as a group groped.
I’ve always felt sympathy for very beautiful people. A lot of the time their beauty defines them, and as they get older and it inevitably crumbles their sense of self-worth falls apart too.
It is interesting to note that most cosmetic surgery practices have an in-house psychologist. This is to evaluate whether the reason behind the punter's facelift or liposuction will help with their insecurity or if there is a deeper problem.
Those with body dysmorphic disorder see themselves as fat or ugly no matter what, and will return to a surgeon again and again. The resident head-shrink is there to spot such customers and hopefully make some cash on a sideline business.
Part of the patriarchal conspiracy behind Barbie is that Ken has no junk at all. This is so that women will accept men with little or no pleasure package – merely a neat haircut, a nice wardrobe, and a chiselled chin.
Men are still sometimes insecure, because He-Man’s furry boxers clearly hid a bit of a bulge… and Skeletor was all-boner. But I have yet to encounter a man straight off the operating table extending the offer of touching his artificially-engorged cock.
Maybe it’s just the circles I move in.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
I have a look, but can’t see who he’s talking about.
“Over there,” he insists, “Can’t you tell.”
Actually, I can’t. But it did make me wonder aloud, “Do women with breast enhancements mind men gawking at their rack?”
“Like a new pair of shoes,” matey says, “it’s flattering if one notices.”
I suppose he could be right. I once met an elderly lady, not a granny but a woman in her late forties, who, after a breast enlargement, encouraged people to “touch them, feel how firm they are!”
Many men obliged, but I thought it would be a bit weird to feel up some guy’s wife in front of him. The husband didn’t mind, though. In fact, he was standing by grinning with some kind of idiotic pride as a group groped.
I’ve always felt sympathy for very beautiful people. A lot of the time their beauty defines them, and as they get older and it inevitably crumbles their sense of self-worth falls apart too.
It is interesting to note that most cosmetic surgery practices have an in-house psychologist. This is to evaluate whether the reason behind the punter's facelift or liposuction will help with their insecurity or if there is a deeper problem.
Those with body dysmorphic disorder see themselves as fat or ugly no matter what, and will return to a surgeon again and again. The resident head-shrink is there to spot such customers and hopefully make some cash on a sideline business.
Part of the patriarchal conspiracy behind Barbie is that Ken has no junk at all. This is so that women will accept men with little or no pleasure package – merely a neat haircut, a nice wardrobe, and a chiselled chin.
Men are still sometimes insecure, because He-Man’s furry boxers clearly hid a bit of a bulge… and Skeletor was all-boner. But I have yet to encounter a man straight off the operating table extending the offer of touching his artificially-engorged cock.
Maybe it’s just the circles I move in.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
Don't Feed The Trolls
Urbandictionary.com defines the verb ‘trolling’ as: “Being a prick on the internet because you can. Typically unleashing one or more cynical or sarcastic remarks on an innocent bystander, because it's the internet and, hey, you can.”
The same site further defines the noun ‘troll’ as: “One who posts a deliberately provocative message to a newsgroup or message board with the intention of causing maximum disruption and argument.”
Anyone who’s followed an article’s comment threads will know that there are many trolls skulking on t’interweb; drooling disgustingly and attacking for the most obscure reasons.
With a little imagination, one might envisage a mean-spirited oaf, hiding in the shadows beneath a bridge, just waiting for a carefree rambler to jump out and scare.
An internet troll would be much the same – an ugly, smelly ogre hunched in a dark room; the eerie, ethereal greenness of its visage created by the glow of its monitor. There might be screams in the background, but these will be from some website devoted to torture porn or Jerry Springer reruns.
Andrew Heenan’s page on www.flayme.com/troll/ informs that the term comes from “a style of fishing which involves trailing bait through a likely spot hoping for a bite.”
He continues, “I believe that most trolls are sad people, living their lonely lives vicariously through those they see as strong and successful.”
Heenan maintains that trolls are harmless, but “when a troll becomes persistent and personal, you may need to consider the possibility that it has fermented into an Internet Stalker - equally pathetic, if not more so.”
A British journalist, tired of the shit he was getting from vindictive fucktards, managed to track down the perpetrators. When he approached them, all were apologetic. One troll even went as far as to say, “The internet got the better of me.” – so it’s not only in government that there’s a lack of accountability.
Some maintain that the best thing to do is just ignore trolls, but I think they cause damage. The problem is that those with perspicacity, upon seeing a trollish thread, will realise it’s beneath them to get involved.
This blog doesn’t get many comments, and it used to cause great insecurity on my part that no one gave a shit. But on second thought, maybe readers of these ramblings are of above average intelligence, and choose to process my opinions and disagree silently.
Or maybe that idea just strokes my ego instead of flailing it.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
The same site further defines the noun ‘troll’ as: “One who posts a deliberately provocative message to a newsgroup or message board with the intention of causing maximum disruption and argument.”
Anyone who’s followed an article’s comment threads will know that there are many trolls skulking on t’interweb; drooling disgustingly and attacking for the most obscure reasons.
With a little imagination, one might envisage a mean-spirited oaf, hiding in the shadows beneath a bridge, just waiting for a carefree rambler to jump out and scare.
An internet troll would be much the same – an ugly, smelly ogre hunched in a dark room; the eerie, ethereal greenness of its visage created by the glow of its monitor. There might be screams in the background, but these will be from some website devoted to torture porn or Jerry Springer reruns.
Andrew Heenan’s page on www.flayme.com/troll/ informs that the term comes from “a style of fishing which involves trailing bait through a likely spot hoping for a bite.”
He continues, “I believe that most trolls are sad people, living their lonely lives vicariously through those they see as strong and successful.”
Heenan maintains that trolls are harmless, but “when a troll becomes persistent and personal, you may need to consider the possibility that it has fermented into an Internet Stalker - equally pathetic, if not more so.”
A British journalist, tired of the shit he was getting from vindictive fucktards, managed to track down the perpetrators. When he approached them, all were apologetic. One troll even went as far as to say, “The internet got the better of me.” – so it’s not only in government that there’s a lack of accountability.
Some maintain that the best thing to do is just ignore trolls, but I think they cause damage. The problem is that those with perspicacity, upon seeing a trollish thread, will realise it’s beneath them to get involved.
This blog doesn’t get many comments, and it used to cause great insecurity on my part that no one gave a shit. But on second thought, maybe readers of these ramblings are of above average intelligence, and choose to process my opinions and disagree silently.
Or maybe that idea just strokes my ego instead of flailing it.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
Snackbox in 3D
Why is it the only time I ever hear about this band is when their name’s attached to some product or gimmick?
Cheap wine, logo’d tekkies, KFC kiddies meals… and now 3D.
Before the fans start shouting that U2 did it first, it must be noted that the producers of U23D approached the band after initially planning to 3D-ifise American Football. They couldn’t get hold of the band’s manager, Paul McGuinness, and punted the idea to Catherine Owens, the group’s art director since 1992.
According to U2 bassist, Adam Clayton, the band didn’t want to do another concert film (along the lines of 2001’s ‘All Access’), but Owens “pushed it down [their] throats”.
But it was Bono who convinced them to do it. Interested in the project purely as a technological experiment because, let’s be honest, they don’t need the money.
Maybe it’s fitting that the Parlotones, three years later, are following. They sound just like the Killers, they wear make-up just like the teenagers in A Clockwork Orange, and now they’re making a 3D movie just like U2.
Aside from the fact that they’re perpetuating the eventual zombification of South Africa (See ‘I warned you about that 3D TV’), I find the crassness of the whole thing offensive.
Shouldn’t the music speak for itself? Shouldn’t your talent be what gets attention?
You can’t blame them. It’s not their fault that these days we only notice something if it’s shoved in our faces, below a Coke or Nike logo. And if selling out is the only way one can make money through their passion, who is anyone to judge?
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
Cheap wine, logo’d tekkies, KFC kiddies meals… and now 3D.
Before the fans start shouting that U2 did it first, it must be noted that the producers of U23D approached the band after initially planning to 3D-ifise American Football. They couldn’t get hold of the band’s manager, Paul McGuinness, and punted the idea to Catherine Owens, the group’s art director since 1992.
According to U2 bassist, Adam Clayton, the band didn’t want to do another concert film (along the lines of 2001’s ‘All Access’), but Owens “pushed it down [their] throats”.
But it was Bono who convinced them to do it. Interested in the project purely as a technological experiment because, let’s be honest, they don’t need the money.
Maybe it’s fitting that the Parlotones, three years later, are following. They sound just like the Killers, they wear make-up just like the teenagers in A Clockwork Orange, and now they’re making a 3D movie just like U2.
Aside from the fact that they’re perpetuating the eventual zombification of South Africa (See ‘I warned you about that 3D TV’), I find the crassness of the whole thing offensive.
Shouldn’t the music speak for itself? Shouldn’t your talent be what gets attention?
You can’t blame them. It’s not their fault that these days we only notice something if it’s shoved in our faces, below a Coke or Nike logo. And if selling out is the only way one can make money through their passion, who is anyone to judge?
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
Too Many Capeys in Cape Town?
What? You mean Juju Malema is NOT the only racist in the African National Congress? Colour me ‘not fucking surprised at all’.
Way back in 2010, Jimmy Manyi – chief ANC spokesman – told a television talk show audience that the Western Cape had an “over-concentration of coloureds” and that they should “spread in the rest of the country”.
For non-South African readers, a ‘coloured’ is a person defined by the previous Apartheid regime as too dark to be ‘white’ and too light to be ‘black’.
Instead of ‘coffee’ or ‘caramel’, they unimaginatively labelled them ‘coloured’ - kind of the in-betweeners; South Africa’s middle-children.
Mad Manyi continues: “So they must stop this over-concentration situation because they are in over-supply where they are, so you must look into the country and see where you can meet the supply.” – this is how our government’s head mouthpiece actually speaks.
As is the case with many ‘comrades’, a translation is in order.
What Jimmy Manyi seems to be implying is that we need a new kind of Group Areas Act in order to redistribute the much-loved ‘Capey’. Move them somewhere else so there’s more room for the darker-toned ANC supporters. It’s not just a war on whites that some in the ruling party want to wage, but a war on anyone deemed ‘not African enough’.
The real reason, no matter what the spin doctors in the ANC might tell us in the coming days, is because the ‘coloureds’ of the Western Cape just don’t seem to be voting the right way. They prefer the no nonsense, no corruption, no jobs-for-pals way the Democratic Alliance and partners run things.
Room on the dangerously creaking bandwagon is in short supply. Just about every opposition partygoer has flipped their taxpayer-purchased wigs, but these comments haven’t just pissed off non-blacks in general, even ones in the ruling party itself.
Trevor Manuel, former Minister of Finance but now just plain old Minister in the Presidency and one of the few respected members of ANC hierarchy, in an open letter, accused Manyi of being “a racist in the mould of HF Verwoerd” - ouch!
Independent Democrats parliamentary leader, Joe Mcgluwa, stated that the ANC “continue to be guided by a policy of narrow racial nationalism, and are even now trying to engage in social engineering that would push millions of coloured people out of the Western Cape,”
Western Cape Premier and head honchette of the DA, Helen Zille, has called for Manyi’s “immediate dismissal”, but the truth is she’s probably praying they keep him on – like wrapping votes in Quality Street paper and chucking them in a pram.
Gwede Mantashe, ANC secretary-general currently holding the reins of the bulging-eyed, frothy-mouthed, nostril-flaring steed that is South Africa, when approached for comment by Cape Argus reporters, curtly told them: “It’s none of your business.”
In other words, “Fuck off and stop interfering with our diabolical schemes.”
Way back in 2010, Jimmy Manyi – chief ANC spokesman – told a television talk show audience that the Western Cape had an “over-concentration of coloureds” and that they should “spread in the rest of the country”.
For non-South African readers, a ‘coloured’ is a person defined by the previous Apartheid regime as too dark to be ‘white’ and too light to be ‘black’.
Instead of ‘coffee’ or ‘caramel’, they unimaginatively labelled them ‘coloured’ - kind of the in-betweeners; South Africa’s middle-children.
Mad Manyi continues: “So they must stop this over-concentration situation because they are in over-supply where they are, so you must look into the country and see where you can meet the supply.” – this is how our government’s head mouthpiece actually speaks.
As is the case with many ‘comrades’, a translation is in order.
What Jimmy Manyi seems to be implying is that we need a new kind of Group Areas Act in order to redistribute the much-loved ‘Capey’. Move them somewhere else so there’s more room for the darker-toned ANC supporters. It’s not just a war on whites that some in the ruling party want to wage, but a war on anyone deemed ‘not African enough’.
The real reason, no matter what the spin doctors in the ANC might tell us in the coming days, is because the ‘coloureds’ of the Western Cape just don’t seem to be voting the right way. They prefer the no nonsense, no corruption, no jobs-for-pals way the Democratic Alliance and partners run things.
Room on the dangerously creaking bandwagon is in short supply. Just about every opposition partygoer has flipped their taxpayer-purchased wigs, but these comments haven’t just pissed off non-blacks in general, even ones in the ruling party itself.
Trevor Manuel, former Minister of Finance but now just plain old Minister in the Presidency and one of the few respected members of ANC hierarchy, in an open letter, accused Manyi of being “a racist in the mould of HF Verwoerd” - ouch!
Independent Democrats parliamentary leader, Joe Mcgluwa, stated that the ANC “continue to be guided by a policy of narrow racial nationalism, and are even now trying to engage in social engineering that would push millions of coloured people out of the Western Cape,”
Western Cape Premier and head honchette of the DA, Helen Zille, has called for Manyi’s “immediate dismissal”, but the truth is she’s probably praying they keep him on – like wrapping votes in Quality Street paper and chucking them in a pram.
Gwede Mantashe, ANC secretary-general currently holding the reins of the bulging-eyed, frothy-mouthed, nostril-flaring steed that is South Africa, when approached for comment by Cape Argus reporters, curtly told them: “It’s none of your business.”
In other words, “Fuck off and stop interfering with our diabolical schemes.”
An Online Birth
A mate of mine’s kid had a Facebook page before he was born. His profile picture was the sonogram from his mum’s tum.
Reactions to this ranged from “ah, cute” to “fuck me, that’s weird”.
The kid’s status updates were along the lines of: ‘I am nine months away from being born’, and ‘I am kicking’.
Before the drive to the hospital mom just had to log on and punch in: ‘My head just punctured mommy’s amniotic bag’.
In between the screaming dad took time out on his Blackberry: ‘Long trip down the birth canal, but I’ve reached mommy’s vulva and can see the exit sign’.
These bizarre updates didn’t disturb me nearly as much as the fact that the parents felt it was okay to set their child’s ‘religious views’ to ‘Christian’, and add in some future favourite Bible quotes. It wasn’t the religious demographic I had misgivings with, but that the parents decided this for him.
And my concerns weren’t for the unborn son, but for mom and dad themselves.
So often teenagers resent their parents’ decisions that they have no control over but affect their lives – it just seemed like they were setting themselves up for future Slipknot t-shirt purchases and long, greasy hair hiding a perpetually sulky face.
And forget about embarrassing baby pictures being lugged out and shown to prospective girlfriends – the guy’s first potty session is right there, tagged and posted, for anyone with a modem to laugh at.
All the kid’s friends were obviously friends of his parents – a kind of virtual version of deciding who he should associate with – and I can only imagine the massive culling tantamount to online genocide that would one day come.
In the book ‘Blind Faith’ by Ben Elton, a future where we display every part of our lives on a social network, no matter how personal, is posited. In this reverse-Orwellian world, no thought or act is sacred; and videos of our first sexual experience and, yes, our actual birth are willingly posted.
Facebook is a place where we display not our true selves, but only the Self we wish to portray. We are our own press agents, building our image in the vain struggle to accumulate ‘likes’ and inspire comments with our attention-seeking updates.
Maybe our parents, who love us more than anyone else possibly could, are the best press agents we could imagine.
Reactions to this ranged from “ah, cute” to “fuck me, that’s weird”.
The kid’s status updates were along the lines of: ‘I am nine months away from being born’, and ‘I am kicking’.
Before the drive to the hospital mom just had to log on and punch in: ‘My head just punctured mommy’s amniotic bag’.
In between the screaming dad took time out on his Blackberry: ‘Long trip down the birth canal, but I’ve reached mommy’s vulva and can see the exit sign’.
These bizarre updates didn’t disturb me nearly as much as the fact that the parents felt it was okay to set their child’s ‘religious views’ to ‘Christian’, and add in some future favourite Bible quotes. It wasn’t the religious demographic I had misgivings with, but that the parents decided this for him.
And my concerns weren’t for the unborn son, but for mom and dad themselves.
So often teenagers resent their parents’ decisions that they have no control over but affect their lives – it just seemed like they were setting themselves up for future Slipknot t-shirt purchases and long, greasy hair hiding a perpetually sulky face.
And forget about embarrassing baby pictures being lugged out and shown to prospective girlfriends – the guy’s first potty session is right there, tagged and posted, for anyone with a modem to laugh at.
All the kid’s friends were obviously friends of his parents – a kind of virtual version of deciding who he should associate with – and I can only imagine the massive culling tantamount to online genocide that would one day come.
In the book ‘Blind Faith’ by Ben Elton, a future where we display every part of our lives on a social network, no matter how personal, is posited. In this reverse-Orwellian world, no thought or act is sacred; and videos of our first sexual experience and, yes, our actual birth are willingly posted.
Facebook is a place where we display not our true selves, but only the Self we wish to portray. We are our own press agents, building our image in the vain struggle to accumulate ‘likes’ and inspire comments with our attention-seeking updates.
Maybe our parents, who love us more than anyone else possibly could, are the best press agents we could imagine.
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