I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’m not convinced that illegal tenders, ministerial overspending, and where Zuma sticks his salami should be considered top secret information.
Sensitive, yes – if by ‘sensitive’ you mean embarrassing and emotional.
One can only assume that the ANC, upon noticing the steady decline in support, has decided not to get their act together but instead to stop potential voters knowing about it.
The proposed Protection of Information Bill would allow ANY government institution to deem ANY information as ‘classified’ and impose a minimum 15 year prison sentence on reporters and whistleblowers.
So if you, as a concerned government employee, happened to notice another, more important employee taking baked beans from pensioners or sticking fingers in schoolboys’ bums – and you decided to tell a journalist about it – and said journalist took a picture and wrote a story – you and said journalist could face anything from 15 to 25 years in chookie.
There is no ‘public interest’ defence, meaning that no matter how much it might rightly concern you and me – taxpayers and citizens – won’t make a difference.
They want us to believe it’s all for our own good, and as far back as 2008 they’ve been trying to trick us into eating this steaming turd. But now they’re happy to aggressively force it through our clenched teeth and down our convulsing gullets.
If you’re unclear on the meaning of this all, check out ‘The Dummies Guide to the Secrecy Bill’ here. And if it’s still unclear, read this.
And if this upsets you, please sign the Right2Know petition here.
This bill will effectively murder investigative journalism. We will never again hear about our tax Rands being raped, our ministers’ wives as druglords, or even the next extramarital presidential impregnation.
Aside from not knowing what is happening in our country, the papers will be downright boring.
Sign the petition here.
Bond in the Bo-Kaap
As far as counter-revolutionaries go, James Bond must be right at the top of Julius Malema’s shitlist – Bond is the supreme mlungu.
The latest Bond novel, Carte Blanche by Jeffrey Deaver, has the MI6 assassin travelling to Cape Town’s Bo-Kaap, “eat[ing] bobotie” and “drink[ing] Zulu beer” – possibly because the waiter thought caviar was a brand of running shoe, and there’s no way he’d find a decent martini in Long Street.
One can only imagine Bond emptying his Walther into an attacker in a curious neon-yellow bib, completely unaware that it was just the car guard about to demand a “Five Rand” for his efforts.
I wonder if Her Majesty’s most famous spy, his mind on more important matters such as saving the world, would bother to find a bin for all the nightclub pamphlets stuffed behind his windscreen wiper or if he’d just throw them in the gutter?
“The Mother City features in more than half of the book and next time you walk through the streets of Cape Town, you may just look at it through different eyes,” writes Claire of Jonathan Ball Publishers.
What? We might imagine the streets of Cape Town rife with gunfire and intimidation? Violence and murder?
Not a stretch, I’ll be honest.
What does require an elasticity of the imagination is Bond teaming up with “a feisty police inspector in the SAPS” – all the coppers I’ve come across are more rotund than ripped, and about as feisty as the wife before her morning tea.
Bond villains have always been eccentric, and the everyday Capey with no front teeth, cap balancing precariously on his head and pants around his knees must have made JB paranoid beyond belief.
Was it intentional to name the book after MNET’s most famous investigative journalism show from the telly? Maybe he gets to meet Derek Watts – who’d definitely remind him of Jaws – or, Heaven forbid, he shags presenter Ruda Landman!
Malema, of course, would assume the British beefcake’s inherent racism as the reason he only visited the Mother City, but really they have a lot in common.
Both like to wear fancy watches, imbibe only the most expensive alcohol, and James and Juju know the importance of smart suits and automatic weapons. They also have the same views when it comes to a “nice time” without any future responsibilities.
Maybe in the next novel they’ll team up to nationalise the mines.
The latest Bond novel, Carte Blanche by Jeffrey Deaver, has the MI6 assassin travelling to Cape Town’s Bo-Kaap, “eat[ing] bobotie” and “drink[ing] Zulu beer” – possibly because the waiter thought caviar was a brand of running shoe, and there’s no way he’d find a decent martini in Long Street.
One can only imagine Bond emptying his Walther into an attacker in a curious neon-yellow bib, completely unaware that it was just the car guard about to demand a “Five Rand” for his efforts.
I wonder if Her Majesty’s most famous spy, his mind on more important matters such as saving the world, would bother to find a bin for all the nightclub pamphlets stuffed behind his windscreen wiper or if he’d just throw them in the gutter?
“The Mother City features in more than half of the book and next time you walk through the streets of Cape Town, you may just look at it through different eyes,” writes Claire of Jonathan Ball Publishers.
What? We might imagine the streets of Cape Town rife with gunfire and intimidation? Violence and murder?
Not a stretch, I’ll be honest.
What does require an elasticity of the imagination is Bond teaming up with “a feisty police inspector in the SAPS” – all the coppers I’ve come across are more rotund than ripped, and about as feisty as the wife before her morning tea.
Bond villains have always been eccentric, and the everyday Capey with no front teeth, cap balancing precariously on his head and pants around his knees must have made JB paranoid beyond belief.
Was it intentional to name the book after MNET’s most famous investigative journalism show from the telly? Maybe he gets to meet Derek Watts – who’d definitely remind him of Jaws – or, Heaven forbid, he shags presenter Ruda Landman!
Malema, of course, would assume the British beefcake’s inherent racism as the reason he only visited the Mother City, but really they have a lot in common.
Both like to wear fancy watches, imbibe only the most expensive alcohol, and James and Juju know the importance of smart suits and automatic weapons. They also have the same views when it comes to a “nice time” without any future responsibilities.
Maybe in the next novel they’ll team up to nationalise the mines.
Zenophobia
The problem with Enlightenment is… it sucks.
Conventional Eastern philosophy tells us that the way to Enlightenment is to give up our attachment to just about everything. Even an attachment to finding Enlightenment is to be left behind – but that’s really only in the pre-Buddhahood stages.
I once read about a guy in India or Tibet or somewhere who just sits on a streetcorner doing nothing. He doesn’t beg for food or clothes or money, he just parks off observing the foliage of his understanding.
As I mentioned, he doesn’t beg, but passers-by give him food and maybe a blanket and he gets by.
Of course in the Western world he’d be deemed a bergie, bum or tramp, and the vast majority would cross the street or at least grumble something about how disgusting he is and how he should get a job. If you bothered to ask and he happened to confide that he was on a spiritual journey of meaning and purpose you’d probably figure it was some new angle to get a fiver of your hard earned stuffs and either walk on or reward him for his creativity.
In his short story, ‘The Nightmare Box’, Chuck Palahniuk writes about a machine that, when one looks into it, shows them what the way the world really is. This, of course, destroys them completely; and causes them to abandon every dream or aspiration they once had.
If Enlightenment means having to get rid of your car and house and all the nice things you’ve collected over the years then maybe it’s not for everyone. I mean, how would I get by without political commentary and the Kardashians? If I don’t have a TV how can I watch the Super 14?
This is all important stuff! Far more meaningful than love, peace and understanding.
And it’s easy being all those things when you live in a mountaintop monastery. You don’t have to put up with bad drivers, rude waiters, and standing in bank queues. Send the Dalai Lama to work in Long Street for a week – he’ll soon be beating up streetkids and knocking back a double whiskey just to get by.
So maybe this Enlightenment racket is better left to those who already don’t have electricity, running water, and a Ben 10 toy with every KFC Chicky Meal.
It’s a lot harder when you’ve still got the memories of heated blankets and Heat magazine.
Conventional Eastern philosophy tells us that the way to Enlightenment is to give up our attachment to just about everything. Even an attachment to finding Enlightenment is to be left behind – but that’s really only in the pre-Buddhahood stages.
I once read about a guy in India or Tibet or somewhere who just sits on a streetcorner doing nothing. He doesn’t beg for food or clothes or money, he just parks off observing the foliage of his understanding.
As I mentioned, he doesn’t beg, but passers-by give him food and maybe a blanket and he gets by.
Of course in the Western world he’d be deemed a bergie, bum or tramp, and the vast majority would cross the street or at least grumble something about how disgusting he is and how he should get a job. If you bothered to ask and he happened to confide that he was on a spiritual journey of meaning and purpose you’d probably figure it was some new angle to get a fiver of your hard earned stuffs and either walk on or reward him for his creativity.
In his short story, ‘The Nightmare Box’, Chuck Palahniuk writes about a machine that, when one looks into it, shows them what the way the world really is. This, of course, destroys them completely; and causes them to abandon every dream or aspiration they once had.
If Enlightenment means having to get rid of your car and house and all the nice things you’ve collected over the years then maybe it’s not for everyone. I mean, how would I get by without political commentary and the Kardashians? If I don’t have a TV how can I watch the Super 14?
This is all important stuff! Far more meaningful than love, peace and understanding.
And it’s easy being all those things when you live in a mountaintop monastery. You don’t have to put up with bad drivers, rude waiters, and standing in bank queues. Send the Dalai Lama to work in Long Street for a week – he’ll soon be beating up streetkids and knocking back a double whiskey just to get by.
So maybe this Enlightenment racket is better left to those who already don’t have electricity, running water, and a Ben 10 toy with every KFC Chicky Meal.
It’s a lot harder when you’ve still got the memories of heated blankets and Heat magazine.
The Tea Girl's Beautiful Brew
More prone to racist slurs and incitant songs, it’s not surprising that Julius Malema refused to debate Lindiwe Mazibuko, referring to her as the “tea girl of the madam”.
“I’m not debating the service of the madam,” Malema moaned.
Helen Zille – leader of the Democratic Alliance, Premier of the Western Cape and Juju’s least favourite “madam” – said it was more likely that Malema was “terrified” and (being the sexist buffoon he is) didn’t want to lose to a woman.
Now we all know Julius couldn’t argue his way out of a paper bag, but after seeing Mazibuko’s impressive performance on e-TV where she even managed to shut Debra Patta up I don’t really blame him for running.
It would be like bringing a Ping-Pong paddle to a gunfight; the plastic balls bouncing off a bulletproof Mazibuko as Malema was mowed down with articulate ammunition.
Malema is a kapokkie in revolutionary clothing. Like abig cock rooster he puffs up his chest and struts around like he’s important… but really just makes a lot of noise.
Lindiwe Mazibuko, on the other hand, is well-spoken and knowledgeable. She has been elected to Parliament and is the DA’s National Spokesperson and Shadow Deputy Minister of Communications.
Malema is not much more than a bad stand-up comedian; a raffish rabble-rouser getting grunting guffaws from his asinine audience.
In a unique strategy, the DA has produced a politician who actually answers questions in a way that makes sense and refrains from adopting the clichéd public officials’ trait of ‘talking for a very long time but not saying anything’.
Julius Malema, so fond of pocketing people according to colour, fails to see the yellow glow emanating from his bloated belly.
But the jaundiced Juju should know that his cowardice will not go unnoticed by all, and soon the chickens will come home to roost... and take him along with them.
“I’m not debating the service of the madam,” Malema moaned.
Helen Zille – leader of the Democratic Alliance, Premier of the Western Cape and Juju’s least favourite “madam” – said it was more likely that Malema was “terrified” and (being the sexist buffoon he is) didn’t want to lose to a woman.
Now we all know Julius couldn’t argue his way out of a paper bag, but after seeing Mazibuko’s impressive performance on e-TV where she even managed to shut Debra Patta up I don’t really blame him for running.
It would be like bringing a Ping-Pong paddle to a gunfight; the plastic balls bouncing off a bulletproof Mazibuko as Malema was mowed down with articulate ammunition.
Malema is a kapokkie in revolutionary clothing. Like a
Lindiwe Mazibuko, on the other hand, is well-spoken and knowledgeable. She has been elected to Parliament and is the DA’s National Spokesperson and Shadow Deputy Minister of Communications.
Malema is not much more than a bad stand-up comedian; a raffish rabble-rouser getting grunting guffaws from his asinine audience.
In a unique strategy, the DA has produced a politician who actually answers questions in a way that makes sense and refrains from adopting the clichéd public officials’ trait of ‘talking for a very long time but not saying anything’.
Julius Malema, so fond of pocketing people according to colour, fails to see the yellow glow emanating from his bloated belly.
But the jaundiced Juju should know that his cowardice will not go unnoticed by all, and soon the chickens will come home to roost... and take him along with them.
Asleep At The Wheel
OAPs will tell you a mug of warm milk does the trick.
Hippies swear by meditation and thinking of the colour purple.
But I’ve found the most effective cure for insomnia is Formula 1 racing.
Aside from the repetitive round-and-round-we-go, listening to enthusiasts telling you it’s not the racing but the individual racers that are exciting – or something as nonsensical as that – should get you to pop off in no time.
It’s kind of like watching traffic except all the cars look the same and there’s no hooting or rude hand gestures. But these guys have got nothing on Cape Town drivers when it comes to speeding and dangerous overtaking.
Much hullabaloo was made of CT’s bid for our very own F1 track through the Waterfront and Greenpoint, but I think we could do better on our own.
Rather get minibus taxis involved. With gogos climbing on and off with their grocery bags, loud kwaito and toothless sidekicks shouting from the windows it’d be much more colourful and entertaining.
A separate division that ran at the same time could include emo art students on Vespa scooters overtaking on the left and stopping to buy a banky of ganja.
Add to all of that the guys selling Funny Money and bergies collecting coins for their bottle store fund standing in the middle of the road and I reckon we’d have a hit.
Of course, McLaren and Ferrari would have to start making kombis, but if Porsche can build a 4X4 then I don’t see the problem.
I wouldn’t mind the noise if it ran past my house. In fact, it’d make a change from the police sirens every morning. And the whiny engines would bring back memories of last year’s Fifa World Cup vuvuzela craze.
Even though the races would be as boring as ever, I think we could do with having some of the gees back in the city… and I could do with the beauty sleep.
Hippies swear by meditation and thinking of the colour purple.
But I’ve found the most effective cure for insomnia is Formula 1 racing.
Aside from the repetitive round-and-round-we-go, listening to enthusiasts telling you it’s not the racing but the individual racers that are exciting – or something as nonsensical as that – should get you to pop off in no time.
It’s kind of like watching traffic except all the cars look the same and there’s no hooting or rude hand gestures. But these guys have got nothing on Cape Town drivers when it comes to speeding and dangerous overtaking.
Much hullabaloo was made of CT’s bid for our very own F1 track through the Waterfront and Greenpoint, but I think we could do better on our own.
Rather get minibus taxis involved. With gogos climbing on and off with their grocery bags, loud kwaito and toothless sidekicks shouting from the windows it’d be much more colourful and entertaining.
A separate division that ran at the same time could include emo art students on Vespa scooters overtaking on the left and stopping to buy a banky of ganja.
Add to all of that the guys selling Funny Money and bergies collecting coins for their bottle store fund standing in the middle of the road and I reckon we’d have a hit.
Of course, McLaren and Ferrari would have to start making kombis, but if Porsche can build a 4X4 then I don’t see the problem.
I wouldn’t mind the noise if it ran past my house. In fact, it’d make a change from the police sirens every morning. And the whiny engines would bring back memories of last year’s Fifa World Cup vuvuzela craze.
Even though the races would be as boring as ever, I think we could do with having some of the gees back in the city… and I could do with the beauty sleep.
Zombies Don't Work On Sundays
Around lunchtime on Friday, having coffee with friends, someone mentioned that the world was about to end. It was the first we’d heard of it, and the wife – mildly annoyed – mentioned that it would’ve been nice to have had a bit more notice.
So we skipped plans for a movie and early night and decided – seeing as it was the Apocalypse and all – to instead have drinks with friends and say goodbye.
“Ha!” I thought, “No morning means no hangover!” Definitely no babalazi in Heaven… and you’d probably not notice in Hell – what with all the fire and screaming.
Champagne and questions about what you wished you’d done rounded the table. Regrets were cried over and forgotten. Those who’d lived a good life said they’d wave down at me shovelling soot and stoking Beelzebub’s bonfire.
We wondered if the Four Horsemen would turn up on Harley’s instead, if Jesus would make his comeback on ‘Pop Idol’ or ‘Dancing with the Damned’ for maximum exposure, and whether it’d be brain-eating zombies or Kurt Darren treffers that’d destroy us all.
I couldn’t help wondering if the minority that really truly actually 100% BELIEVED that the world was spitting off the cliffs of Armageddon were sitting in their compound biting their nails with worry, or were they secretly hoping that this time they’d got it right so a wagging finger and a self-righteous “I told you so” could be directed at all the heathens.
Quite probably the latter, because you must look a bit foolish when a week passes and the Big Man hasn’t smited (or is it ‘smitten’) the smelly non-believers.
How embarrassing to have to go to CUM books in Canal Walk and ask for your job back, or repurchase the loudhailer and sandwich board with ‘The End is Hear’ scrawled across it.
But for all we know it happened! The only problem is that the world is so poked and miserable we didn't really notice.
But in Hell the coffee's always cold, your cornflakes usually soggy, and traffic is a bitch... and that's before you get to work.
So we skipped plans for a movie and early night and decided – seeing as it was the Apocalypse and all – to instead have drinks with friends and say goodbye.
“Ha!” I thought, “No morning means no hangover!” Definitely no babalazi in Heaven… and you’d probably not notice in Hell – what with all the fire and screaming.
Champagne and questions about what you wished you’d done rounded the table. Regrets were cried over and forgotten. Those who’d lived a good life said they’d wave down at me shovelling soot and stoking Beelzebub’s bonfire.
We wondered if the Four Horsemen would turn up on Harley’s instead, if Jesus would make his comeback on ‘Pop Idol’ or ‘Dancing with the Damned’ for maximum exposure, and whether it’d be brain-eating zombies or Kurt Darren treffers that’d destroy us all.
I couldn’t help wondering if the minority that really truly actually 100% BELIEVED that the world was spitting off the cliffs of Armageddon were sitting in their compound biting their nails with worry, or were they secretly hoping that this time they’d got it right so a wagging finger and a self-righteous “I told you so” could be directed at all the heathens.
Quite probably the latter, because you must look a bit foolish when a week passes and the Big Man hasn’t smited (or is it ‘smitten’) the smelly non-believers.
How embarrassing to have to go to CUM books in Canal Walk and ask for your job back, or repurchase the loudhailer and sandwich board with ‘The End is Hear’ scrawled across it.
But for all we know it happened! The only problem is that the world is so poked and miserable we didn't really notice.
But in Hell the coffee's always cold, your cornflakes usually soggy, and traffic is a bitch... and that's before you get to work.
Finding Diamonds in Dogshit
Saturday night, Long Street. Lucy and I – among the sober minority for a change – fight our way through the crowd of piss-heads and prostitutes dancing to the atrocious covers of Bryan Adams and Robbie Williams, and up the stairs of the Dubliner.
God knows where they find that band, but their aural assault is well worth the light at the end of the terrible tunnel.
It is something akin to digging through dogshit to find a shining diamond; but if you can manage getting stepped on by inebriated tourists and the accompanying market of meat with their bovine eyes on all the Dollars and Pounds, you will meet the Piano Man.
His name is Dave. Cooler than a Tarantino movie, he drinks Southern Comfort on the rocks and has a voice like an icy glass of blended honey, angel wings and gravel. An odd combination, but much like stopping along a country dirt road for lunch, staring at the majestic mountains and thinking of God as a given.
If you can grab a seat at the glass-topped piano you’ll have a front row vision of his nimble fingers banging out everything from Neil Diamond to Coldplay and, of course, a large helping of Billy Joel.
His fans shout out requests and cheer like punters at an underground kung-fu death match – and more often than not someone from the industry passes by, gives Dave a kiss and a drink, and lends their voice to his soulful magic.
Now if they could only build a bridge over the dodgy, downstairs dancefloor, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth to get an icecream.
God knows where they find that band, but their aural assault is well worth the light at the end of the terrible tunnel.
It is something akin to digging through dogshit to find a shining diamond; but if you can manage getting stepped on by inebriated tourists and the accompanying market of meat with their bovine eyes on all the Dollars and Pounds, you will meet the Piano Man.
His name is Dave. Cooler than a Tarantino movie, he drinks Southern Comfort on the rocks and has a voice like an icy glass of blended honey, angel wings and gravel. An odd combination, but much like stopping along a country dirt road for lunch, staring at the majestic mountains and thinking of God as a given.
If you can grab a seat at the glass-topped piano you’ll have a front row vision of his nimble fingers banging out everything from Neil Diamond to Coldplay and, of course, a large helping of Billy Joel.
His fans shout out requests and cheer like punters at an underground kung-fu death match – and more often than not someone from the industry passes by, gives Dave a kiss and a drink, and lends their voice to his soulful magic.
Now if they could only build a bridge over the dodgy, downstairs dancefloor, it wouldn’t feel like pulling teeth to get an icecream.
Tetris! (now with added msg)
I know it’s getting bad when I look at my wife on the couch and see little blocks raining down on either side of her. My imagination twists the blue, red and yellow blocks to fit into one another.
A strange anxiety is eased.
If you used to play Duke Nukem in the Nineties you’ll remember the feeling of walking through a shopping mall and mentally shooting out the air ducts. Or holding down ctrl and looking round corners to see if a blocky alien was waiting for you.
Maybe Starcraft was your thing, and you’d find yourself drawing squares around groups of people and trying to direct them to one spot. Or when you took a leak an imaginary toilet bar decreased, a la Sims.
I never really got into games. After fifteen minutes on Playstation I’d get bored. I much preferred beer, pizza and knockout Teken with a group of mates. My cousin and I spent a weekend playing Brian Lara’s Cricket on Playstation 1 – now that was a game.
These days it’s too complicated; too many buttons to hold down and things to remember. I reckon if we’re not careful our species will evolve four thumbs, all so we can play Halo better.
But the other day I took a smoke break and had a go at the Tetris I’d downloaded.
Five smokes later and an umbilical cord had grown from the monitor into my frontal lobe. The pain of chewing through it and getting back to work was a bit like showing a baby a fluffy scarf and blowing a vuvuzela in its ear.
That’s how you make a kid scared of rabbits.
I now had this odd little fear of addiction crawling through me, gnawing with its pincers underneath my skin.
We all know about alcoholism, drug addiction and compulsive gambling, but no one really thinks that much about gaming addiction.
Those that do tell us that kids who spend too much time vaporising aliens or invading virtual kingdoms “displayed higher levels of depression and other mental health issues than their peers who played fewer video games.”
The game makers, much like tobacco companies, skirt the issue: “There simply is no concrete evidence that computer and video games cause harm,” a statement from the Entertainment Software Association said, “In fact, a wide body of research has shown the many ways games are being used to improve our lives through education, health and business applications.”
Of course, those aren’t the games that are being sold by the millions, are they?
But addiction is a tricky thing. Addicts are just that, addicts! And whether it’s alcohol, gambling, or gaming, they’re likely to latch onto it in a socially and psychologically negative way.
Like the nasty chemicals in ciggies and booze, games are designed in a way that exacerbates the situation.
Obviously, there are men and women more intelligent and qualified than me who will have to deal with this one day. But it’s something to think about before buying your kid an X-Box for Christmas.
A strange anxiety is eased.
If you used to play Duke Nukem in the Nineties you’ll remember the feeling of walking through a shopping mall and mentally shooting out the air ducts. Or holding down ctrl and looking round corners to see if a blocky alien was waiting for you.
Maybe Starcraft was your thing, and you’d find yourself drawing squares around groups of people and trying to direct them to one spot. Or when you took a leak an imaginary toilet bar decreased, a la Sims.
I never really got into games. After fifteen minutes on Playstation I’d get bored. I much preferred beer, pizza and knockout Teken with a group of mates. My cousin and I spent a weekend playing Brian Lara’s Cricket on Playstation 1 – now that was a game.
These days it’s too complicated; too many buttons to hold down and things to remember. I reckon if we’re not careful our species will evolve four thumbs, all so we can play Halo better.
But the other day I took a smoke break and had a go at the Tetris I’d downloaded.
Five smokes later and an umbilical cord had grown from the monitor into my frontal lobe. The pain of chewing through it and getting back to work was a bit like showing a baby a fluffy scarf and blowing a vuvuzela in its ear.
That’s how you make a kid scared of rabbits.
I now had this odd little fear of addiction crawling through me, gnawing with its pincers underneath my skin.
We all know about alcoholism, drug addiction and compulsive gambling, but no one really thinks that much about gaming addiction.
Those that do tell us that kids who spend too much time vaporising aliens or invading virtual kingdoms “displayed higher levels of depression and other mental health issues than their peers who played fewer video games.”
The game makers, much like tobacco companies, skirt the issue: “There simply is no concrete evidence that computer and video games cause harm,” a statement from the Entertainment Software Association said, “In fact, a wide body of research has shown the many ways games are being used to improve our lives through education, health and business applications.”
Of course, those aren’t the games that are being sold by the millions, are they?
But addiction is a tricky thing. Addicts are just that, addicts! And whether it’s alcohol, gambling, or gaming, they’re likely to latch onto it in a socially and psychologically negative way.
Like the nasty chemicals in ciggies and booze, games are designed in a way that exacerbates the situation.
Obviously, there are men and women more intelligent and qualified than me who will have to deal with this one day. But it’s something to think about before buying your kid an X-Box for Christmas.
A Cock In The Arse Really Gets Me Down
They used to say, “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time!”
Nowadays it’s probably something like, “If you do the crime and the time starts you cryin’, then it’s fine.”
When Shabir Shaik gets off a fifteen year jail sentence due to depression you can’t help losing faith in our system of justice. It’s as if the authorities completely lack any form of bullshit radar.
Of course he’s gonna be a bit blue… fifteen years without a decent curry will do that!
When I was a kid, my mum told me that in prison all you got was stale bread and water – kind of like a long-haul flight on SAA cattle class except with more legroom – but she never mentioned the bumsex with a guy lacking his front teeth, which would have made me a lot less likely to step out of line.
Unlike my mum, the booze pushers last year released that ad totally focused on the unromantic interludes you can expect in a South African jail. Like speed-dating with the Numbers gang, the commercial told you that with more than two beers in your system you ran the risk of a brutal bumfucking from a grizzly gangster.
The irony is that the very same arse-rapers are probably prone to calling you a moffie and beating the crap out of you on any other day.
But the high-flyers don’t have to bunk with the plebs and degenerates, the politically connected surely get their own room with a telly and tea every hour.
And now that Shabir is walking free, drinking and playing golf, with a parole officer who more than likely wears shades at night and sends a seeing-eye dog under the table for a fat envelope of cash every month, you’d think he would have cheered up a mite.
But still the man punches reporters who dare to take his photo, and doesn’t seem appreciate his butt-cheeks’ escape from the clutches of a tattoo’d tsotsi.
This English Dewani fellow, whom South Africans seem more upset with over the bad press our tourism industry received than the death of his beautiful young wife, has been pulling the same “ooh, I’m depressed” shite. I’d like to meet the guy who’s the prime suspect in a murder case cracking a bottle of bubbly and popping an Abba disc in the karaoke machine.
I’d bet the reason these guys are so bummed is because they’re imagining the literal bumming they’re likely to get in Pollsmoor.
And if that’s enough to get you off, then I don’t understand why we have such a problem with overcrowding in our prisons.
Nowadays it’s probably something like, “If you do the crime and the time starts you cryin’, then it’s fine.”
When Shabir Shaik gets off a fifteen year jail sentence due to depression you can’t help losing faith in our system of justice. It’s as if the authorities completely lack any form of bullshit radar.
Of course he’s gonna be a bit blue… fifteen years without a decent curry will do that!
When I was a kid, my mum told me that in prison all you got was stale bread and water – kind of like a long-haul flight on SAA cattle class except with more legroom – but she never mentioned the bumsex with a guy lacking his front teeth, which would have made me a lot less likely to step out of line.
Unlike my mum, the booze pushers last year released that ad totally focused on the unromantic interludes you can expect in a South African jail. Like speed-dating with the Numbers gang, the commercial told you that with more than two beers in your system you ran the risk of a brutal bumfucking from a grizzly gangster.
The irony is that the very same arse-rapers are probably prone to calling you a moffie and beating the crap out of you on any other day.
But the high-flyers don’t have to bunk with the plebs and degenerates, the politically connected surely get their own room with a telly and tea every hour.
And now that Shabir is walking free, drinking and playing golf, with a parole officer who more than likely wears shades at night and sends a seeing-eye dog under the table for a fat envelope of cash every month, you’d think he would have cheered up a mite.
But still the man punches reporters who dare to take his photo, and doesn’t seem appreciate his butt-cheeks’ escape from the clutches of a tattoo’d tsotsi.
This English Dewani fellow, whom South Africans seem more upset with over the bad press our tourism industry received than the death of his beautiful young wife, has been pulling the same “ooh, I’m depressed” shite. I’d like to meet the guy who’s the prime suspect in a murder case cracking a bottle of bubbly and popping an Abba disc in the karaoke machine.
I’d bet the reason these guys are so bummed is because they’re imagining the literal bumming they’re likely to get in Pollsmoor.
And if that’s enough to get you off, then I don’t understand why we have such a problem with overcrowding in our prisons.
Kim and Kourtney Krap on my Kranium
It was the oddest thing. I don’t know what it says about our society or psychology. All I know is it fascinated and disgusted at the same time.
On an uneventful afternoon, lying on the couch, having finished the paper and flipping through television channels, I happened to catch an episode of ‘Kardashians Take New York’ or whatever it’s called.
The not-so-pretty sister was telling her husband he would get sex when her more-famous sister went out for dinner, but on the discovery that her sibling was going to stay in and watch movies they headed off to the gym where they supposedly shagged in the bogs.
The disgusting part wasn’t the thought of them bumping uglies next to a sloshing urinal – for we only got to see them enter and exit (with feigned naughtiness expressed on their heavily made-up mugs) – but the fact that it was all so obviously staged.
Maybe I’m new to the idea of reality tv just being badly scripted and horribly acted fiction, but if so an even more disturbing revelation is that millions of people across the world tune in every week to watch a sitcom where the ‘sit-’ is boring and the ‘-com’ non-existent.
And then I thought that if life imitates art and we are all mediated beings (learning our way through the world via television et al) maybe future generations – thinking this is a kind of real-time art form – would learn their responses to situations from the worst actors.
Would future sincerity appear fake to older, less mediated generations if later generations have learnt to express their emotions from these ‘stars’?
Is it going to be harder for our kids to spot a lie if they believe the ‘reality’ on television to be just that?
If so, then I think I’d advise my kids to careers as conmen, car salesmen, or politicians.
On an uneventful afternoon, lying on the couch, having finished the paper and flipping through television channels, I happened to catch an episode of ‘Kardashians Take New York’ or whatever it’s called.
The not-so-pretty sister was telling her husband he would get sex when her more-famous sister went out for dinner, but on the discovery that her sibling was going to stay in and watch movies they headed off to the gym where they supposedly shagged in the bogs.
The disgusting part wasn’t the thought of them bumping uglies next to a sloshing urinal – for we only got to see them enter and exit (with feigned naughtiness expressed on their heavily made-up mugs) – but the fact that it was all so obviously staged.
Maybe I’m new to the idea of reality tv just being badly scripted and horribly acted fiction, but if so an even more disturbing revelation is that millions of people across the world tune in every week to watch a sitcom where the ‘sit-’ is boring and the ‘-com’ non-existent.
And then I thought that if life imitates art and we are all mediated beings (learning our way through the world via television et al) maybe future generations – thinking this is a kind of real-time art form – would learn their responses to situations from the worst actors.
Would future sincerity appear fake to older, less mediated generations if later generations have learnt to express their emotions from these ‘stars’?
Is it going to be harder for our kids to spot a lie if they believe the ‘reality’ on television to be just that?
If so, then I think I’d advise my kids to careers as conmen, car salesmen, or politicians.
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