The one and only time I was offered cocaine elicited a personal rule that maybe more people should adopt.
My response to the question was, “The only thing I stick up my nose is my finger.”
It seems logical to me that of all the male body’s orifices, there are three that should be used solely for substance expulsion – one of them is the nasal cavity.
Maybe this fairly straightforward rule should be taught in biology classes throughout the UK, because the Daily Mail reports that “hordes of young women” have been buying and snorting Ubertan – “It’s estimated that British users number tens of thousands.”
Ubertan’s alleged side effects include nausea, allergic reactions and heart palpitations.
A Google search directed me to a non-existent ubertan.com and a forum where the substance is enthusiastically punted by a woman named Catherine saying it was “totally brill” and that the only side effects were a “loss of appetite”.
The fact is that this Catherine sounds less like a real person and more like the boiled slugs that roll around in dodgy marketing departments. She claims that Ubertan is “a plant extract, with Amino and Fatty Acids that increases the Melanin in your skin.”
On the same forum Scott Stevenson tells us, “This is almost definitely rebranded Melanotan II…Claims that it is simply made of 'plant extracts' are dubious at best.” He carries on about something I’d never heard of called Melanotan, which is another tanning product sold as a nasal spray.
Further investigation found this site that calls Melanotan ‘The Barbie Drug’ and reveals that the product has been having trouble gaining regulatory approval in Australia and the US, whose FDA said, “The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) has issued a Warning Letter to Brian Manookian, owner of Melanocorp, Inc. in Hendersonville, Tenn. for the illegal sale and marketing of the product Melanotan II, which is not FDA-approved, on Melanocorp's Web site. FDA recommends that consumers who are currently using Melanotan II stop using this product and consult their health care provider if they have experienced any adverse events that they suspect are related to its use.”
Apparently, it is flat-out illegal in the UK.
The infamous Catherine gives her UK number (07542 287 148), so call her if you've had a bad day and want to hurl abuse at someone.
My advice is that if your hairdresser or beauty therapist offers this product to you, slap them across the face… and if you know someone who is using it slap them too.
And some more good advice: Don’t drink moisturiser!
Showing posts with label bollocks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bollocks. Show all posts
The Quotable Malema
If it was put to a vote, I’d bet that the majority of South Africans would ditch the proposed ‘African Union’ for the cooler sounding ‘United States of Africa’. Not because of any conceptual conflict, but just coz here in SA we’re kind of obsessed with anything American.
They’ve got bimbo Paris Hilton – we’ve got Khanyi Mbau. They’ve got floppy haired, reality show rich guy Donald Trump – we’ve got BEE wannabe Tokyo Sexwale.
And do I even need to mention Chuck Norris and Steve Hofmeyer?
Most of the time the Yanks top us, but when it comes to embarrassing politicians a hundred Bushes and Palins couldn’t reach the wading-in-his-own-bullshit ankles of our own Julius Malema.
I’ve picked ten of my fave quotes from Sir Juju on a number of topics, but there are hundreds more.
Here goes:
1. On the ANC’s chances of a two-thirds majority: “Two-third majority? Our aim is a three-thirds majority!” (My guess is that his maths is as bad as his woodwork.)
2. On rape: “When a woman didn’t enjoy it, she leaves early in the morning. Those who had a nice time will wait until the sun comes out, request breakfast and ask for taxi money.” (That's why, guys, it's safer for your confidence levels if you get a flat near a taxi rank.)
3. In response to his 14 traffic fines (over five grand): "I only know revolution, I don’t know anything about driving.” (Sounds like most of the taxi drivers.)
4. To a BBC journalist: “Rubbish is what you have covered in that trousers!” (The journo obviously forgot to comb his pubes that morning.)
5. On Zuma (in 2009): “If Zuma is corrupt, then we want him with all his corruption. We want him with all his weaknesses. If he is uneducated, then we want him as our uneducated president.” (Luckily for Zuma, SA women have such low standards as well.)
6. In a Third Degree interview with Debra Patta, asked if he would kill himself after failing Matric: “Kill myself? I would rather commit suicide!” (Well, what can you say to that?)
7. On the Caster Semenya scandal: “Hermaphrodite, what is that? Somebody tell me, what is hermaphrodite in Pedi? There's no such thing... hermaphrodite... in Pedi. So don't impose your hermaphrodite concepts on us.” (Actually, there is a word for 'hermaphrodite' in Pedi - it's 'Kgalamatona'.
8. After a complaint about noise from a party at his house: ““Do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do? Who the fuck are you?” (As far as catchphrases go, that's gotta be up there.)
9. On why he doesn’t read the newspaper: "When I want to know about a certain country I will make a research about it and go through the relevant material. I don't just read everything that is going to mislead me." (That's just what I said to the guy handing out free copies of The New Age.)
10. And the famous: "We are prepared to die for Zuma! We are prepared to take up arms and kill for Zuma!” (After the uproar he explained that the word 'kill' was used to show 'love and compassion'... he then asked for taxi money.)
We can look forward to even more when we elect Juju as our 'President for Life' in 2019 or around there.
So proud!
They’ve got bimbo Paris Hilton – we’ve got Khanyi Mbau. They’ve got floppy haired, reality show rich guy Donald Trump – we’ve got BEE wannabe Tokyo Sexwale.
And do I even need to mention Chuck Norris and Steve Hofmeyer?
Most of the time the Yanks top us, but when it comes to embarrassing politicians a hundred Bushes and Palins couldn’t reach the wading-in-his-own-bullshit ankles of our own Julius Malema.
I’ve picked ten of my fave quotes from Sir Juju on a number of topics, but there are hundreds more.
Here goes:
1. On the ANC’s chances of a two-thirds majority: “Two-third majority? Our aim is a three-thirds majority!” (My guess is that his maths is as bad as his woodwork.)
2. On rape: “When a woman didn’t enjoy it, she leaves early in the morning. Those who had a nice time will wait until the sun comes out, request breakfast and ask for taxi money.” (That's why, guys, it's safer for your confidence levels if you get a flat near a taxi rank.)
3. In response to his 14 traffic fines (over five grand): "I only know revolution, I don’t know anything about driving.” (Sounds like most of the taxi drivers.)
4. To a BBC journalist: “Rubbish is what you have covered in that trousers!” (The journo obviously forgot to comb his pubes that morning.)
5. On Zuma (in 2009): “If Zuma is corrupt, then we want him with all his corruption. We want him with all his weaknesses. If he is uneducated, then we want him as our uneducated president.” (Luckily for Zuma, SA women have such low standards as well.)
6. In a Third Degree interview with Debra Patta, asked if he would kill himself after failing Matric: “Kill myself? I would rather commit suicide!” (Well, what can you say to that?)
7. On the Caster Semenya scandal: “Hermaphrodite, what is that? Somebody tell me, what is hermaphrodite in Pedi? There's no such thing... hermaphrodite... in Pedi. So don't impose your hermaphrodite concepts on us.” (Actually, there is a word for 'hermaphrodite' in Pedi - it's 'Kgalamatona'.
8. After a complaint about noise from a party at his house: ““Do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do? Who the fuck are you?” (As far as catchphrases go, that's gotta be up there.)
9. On why he doesn’t read the newspaper: "When I want to know about a certain country I will make a research about it and go through the relevant material. I don't just read everything that is going to mislead me." (That's just what I said to the guy handing out free copies of The New Age.)
10. And the famous: "We are prepared to die for Zuma! We are prepared to take up arms and kill for Zuma!” (After the uproar he explained that the word 'kill' was used to show 'love and compassion'... he then asked for taxi money.)
We can look forward to even more when we elect Juju as our 'President for Life' in 2019 or around there.
So proud!
Floyd Shivambu should Remove his Foot & Wash his Mouth out with Soap!
I was always under the impression that a spokesperson was a sort of PR person for a company, celebrity or political party – there to make their employer look intelligent, thoughtful and concerned about whatever issues they wanted to appear concerned about.
But it seems to work a bit differently in South Africa, where ANCYL spokesman Floyd Shivambu seems to think the term ‘Rainbow Nation’ refers to the use of politicians’ colourful language.
On YouTube we can listen to the recorded telephone call from News24 reporter Jacques Domisse to Shivambu, in which the rather dim-witted sounding Shiv tells Domisse: “…you cannot force yourself to speak to people if they do not speak to you.” and then proceeds to tell the probably-rubbing-his-hands-with-glee journo to “fuck off”.
Then, a few days later, in lieu of an apology, he said that the report’s aim was to “divert attention” from the League’s national conference resolutions, and that reporters wanted to "engage in disgustingly provocative methods and means of engagement".
The “provocative” engagement on Domisse’s part was to ask for Julius Malema’s comments on the R78 000 His Jujuness spent at the Royal Malewane lodge, seeing as the Youth League prez likes to punt himself as a “champion of the poor”.
Baleka Mbete, the ANC’s chairperson, condemned the behaviour as being “unacceptable” – of course, in ANC-speak this means we’ll wait for it to blow over and forget about it.
It’s easy to write this off as arrogance or stupidity, but I think Shivambo is ahead of his peers when it comes to media relations.
He knows that when the Secrecy Bill kicks off they’ll be able to dispense with the tired response of “No comment!” and simply tell nosy media pigs to just “Fuck off!”
But it seems to work a bit differently in South Africa, where ANCYL spokesman Floyd Shivambu seems to think the term ‘Rainbow Nation’ refers to the use of politicians’ colourful language.
On YouTube we can listen to the recorded telephone call from News24 reporter Jacques Domisse to Shivambu, in which the rather dim-witted sounding Shiv tells Domisse: “…you cannot force yourself to speak to people if they do not speak to you.” and then proceeds to tell the probably-rubbing-his-hands-with-glee journo to “fuck off”.
Then, a few days later, in lieu of an apology, he said that the report’s aim was to “divert attention” from the League’s national conference resolutions, and that reporters wanted to "engage in disgustingly provocative methods and means of engagement".
The “provocative” engagement on Domisse’s part was to ask for Julius Malema’s comments on the R78 000 His Jujuness spent at the Royal Malewane lodge, seeing as the Youth League prez likes to punt himself as a “champion of the poor”.
Baleka Mbete, the ANC’s chairperson, condemned the behaviour as being “unacceptable” – of course, in ANC-speak this means we’ll wait for it to blow over and forget about it.
It’s easy to write this off as arrogance or stupidity, but I think Shivambo is ahead of his peers when it comes to media relations.
He knows that when the Secrecy Bill kicks off they’ll be able to dispense with the tired response of “No comment!” and simply tell nosy media pigs to just “Fuck off!”
SA Police Not Afraid To Show Musical Taste
Upon reading that the Locnville boys had been pepper-sprayed and beaten up by the police, my thoughts immediately ran to spaghetti bolognaise.
If my mum had a signature dish, it would without a doubt be ‘spagbol’. She’d make it for us at least once a week, and in such large quantity there were two days’ worth of lunchtime leftovers.
By the time I left home I must have eaten easily more than a thousand plates of tomato-ey mincemeat on top of Fatti’s & Moni’s pasta.
When I first started getting irritated by seeing the Locnville girly-boys every week in the esteemed Heat magazine (SA’s only weekly glossy!), I reminded myself that just because they were young, popular and airbrushed didn’t mean their music was plastic trash headed for the dustbin faster than a soiled Durex.
Don’t judge a book by its cover, I thought, and YouTube a couple of their hits.
The first one I came across I’d heard before on a Supersport commercial. It was fairly catchy, and had on occasion unconsciously flared up in my head like a mild case of Athlete’s Testicle.
The next few songs I uploaded were much the same as mum’s consistent cuisine – the same old recipe, but warmed up in the microwave and slopped on a plate.
But unlike Locnville, mum’s bolognaise wasn’t a mere flash-in-the-pan – enjoyed today and stinking up the bathroom tomorrow – but a regular performer in the gastronomic playlist of our youth.
Unfortunately no one filmed the Loc/SAPS mash-up, so those particular hits won’t wind up on YouTube, but with the twins’ popularity possibly waning and their following of fans (groin-achingly named ‘villens’) growing up and moving along to real music, one has to imagine that it all might be a publicity stunt.
It’s marketing brilliance, really.
Locnville’s fanbase must have aged and now be old enough to stay up past eight and watch the evening news, therefore being exposed to current issues like xenophobia and police brutality. And what better way for the boys to get in on their fans’ newfound social awareness by getting punched in the face by cops.
The fact that it got on the front page of the respected Cape Argus shows just how far the paper has sunk in terms of sensationalism and spectacle, and I’m afraid that upon receiving my next subscription form I will have to go for the lifetime renewal.
If my mum had a signature dish, it would without a doubt be ‘spagbol’. She’d make it for us at least once a week, and in such large quantity there were two days’ worth of lunchtime leftovers.
By the time I left home I must have eaten easily more than a thousand plates of tomato-ey mincemeat on top of Fatti’s & Moni’s pasta.
When I first started getting irritated by seeing the Locnville girly-boys every week in the esteemed Heat magazine (SA’s only weekly glossy!), I reminded myself that just because they were young, popular and airbrushed didn’t mean their music was plastic trash headed for the dustbin faster than a soiled Durex.
Don’t judge a book by its cover, I thought, and YouTube a couple of their hits.
The first one I came across I’d heard before on a Supersport commercial. It was fairly catchy, and had on occasion unconsciously flared up in my head like a mild case of Athlete’s Testicle.
The next few songs I uploaded were much the same as mum’s consistent cuisine – the same old recipe, but warmed up in the microwave and slopped on a plate.
But unlike Locnville, mum’s bolognaise wasn’t a mere flash-in-the-pan – enjoyed today and stinking up the bathroom tomorrow – but a regular performer in the gastronomic playlist of our youth.
Unfortunately no one filmed the Loc/SAPS mash-up, so those particular hits won’t wind up on YouTube, but with the twins’ popularity possibly waning and their following of fans (groin-achingly named ‘villens’) growing up and moving along to real music, one has to imagine that it all might be a publicity stunt.
It’s marketing brilliance, really.
Locnville’s fanbase must have aged and now be old enough to stay up past eight and watch the evening news, therefore being exposed to current issues like xenophobia and police brutality. And what better way for the boys to get in on their fans’ newfound social awareness by getting punched in the face by cops.
The fact that it got on the front page of the respected Cape Argus shows just how far the paper has sunk in terms of sensationalism and spectacle, and I’m afraid that upon receiving my next subscription form I will have to go for the lifetime renewal.
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.
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.
POpuLarITICS
After the last elections a lady I know from Khayalitsha told me about how at the eleventh hour she changed her allegiance from ANC to Democratic Alliance because the DA were handing out “nicer things” like t-shirts and boerewors rolls.
I also hear it’s not uncommon for candidates to hand out cellphone airtime to prospective punters.
I suppose with no hope of any real change the best bet seems to be ‘take what you can get now!’
It smacks of ‘stepfather syndrome’ – like your mom’s new boyfriend buying your good graces with gifts; it gets him in the door and into her panties, and later when you find out he’s a dickhead it’s too late.
I suppose giving away free stuff is one way to make friends, but the ANC know that to be prom queen you’ve got to get people to want to be you.
That’s why the ruling party big wigs tool around in cars that cost more than 520 weeks of wages, bring bodyguards to court sporting Armani and artillery, and base their campaigns on how good a dancer their president is.
And if status don’t do it, star power will. That’s why jazz guitarist Jimmy Dludlu can now be seen traipsing door-to-door telling his fans to vote the right way or it’s not only Jesus that will hate you, but celebs as well.
Having “offered [his] services to the party for this election campaign”, one wonders what those might be besides lending his famous face to election hopefuls.
Maybe he’s planning to strum along as Zuma sings his famous ‘machine gun’ song, or possibly an up-tempo version of the ‘kill the boer’ ditty comrades are so fond of.
Poor old Helen Zille tries to keep up – learning to toi-toi and boning up on some struggle tunes – and we can only hope she won’t get an Idols runner-up to tag along with her this time.
A friend of mine reckons politicians shouldn’t be allowed to bang on about what they’re going to do, they should only be allowed to talk about what they’ve done already. If the best they can come up with is a keyring and hotdog then it might give us something to think about.
If our democracy keeps sinking deeper into a mere popularity contest, with issues given brief lip service and the real question being how many famous people we can get on board and how many t-shirts we can hand out, then we might as well make the elections an SABC reality show and we can all phone in our votes.
At least then the airtime will be useful.
I also hear it’s not uncommon for candidates to hand out cellphone airtime to prospective punters.
I suppose with no hope of any real change the best bet seems to be ‘take what you can get now!’
It smacks of ‘stepfather syndrome’ – like your mom’s new boyfriend buying your good graces with gifts; it gets him in the door and into her panties, and later when you find out he’s a dickhead it’s too late.
I suppose giving away free stuff is one way to make friends, but the ANC know that to be prom queen you’ve got to get people to want to be you.
That’s why the ruling party big wigs tool around in cars that cost more than 520 weeks of wages, bring bodyguards to court sporting Armani and artillery, and base their campaigns on how good a dancer their president is.
And if status don’t do it, star power will. That’s why jazz guitarist Jimmy Dludlu can now be seen traipsing door-to-door telling his fans to vote the right way or it’s not only Jesus that will hate you, but celebs as well.
Having “offered [his] services to the party for this election campaign”, one wonders what those might be besides lending his famous face to election hopefuls.
Maybe he’s planning to strum along as Zuma sings his famous ‘machine gun’ song, or possibly an up-tempo version of the ‘kill the boer’ ditty comrades are so fond of.
Poor old Helen Zille tries to keep up – learning to toi-toi and boning up on some struggle tunes – and we can only hope she won’t get an Idols runner-up to tag along with her this time.
A friend of mine reckons politicians shouldn’t be allowed to bang on about what they’re going to do, they should only be allowed to talk about what they’ve done already. If the best they can come up with is a keyring and hotdog then it might give us something to think about.
If our democracy keeps sinking deeper into a mere popularity contest, with issues given brief lip service and the real question being how many famous people we can get on board and how many t-shirts we can hand out, then we might as well make the elections an SABC reality show and we can all phone in our votes.
At least then the airtime will be useful.
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.”
... so that's what Outside looks like!
I think most people would get more out of life if they practiced forced deprivation.
I realised this upon getting the windows cleaned and marvelling at how beautiful the view of Lion’s Head was from our front room. This wasn’t the ‘forced deprivation’ I’m talking about; the dirty windows didn’t get that way because I was attempting some meditation-free Zen Enlightenment – but coz I’m just fucking lazy.
It also didn’t help that we live three stories up, and the risk to life and limb didn’t seem worth it. Funnily enough, though, I didn’t mind paying someone to place their health on the line to climb out there and do the job.
The point is that this small improvement has brought a lot of enjoyment and – I hesitate to say, but here goes – inspiration.
We’ve all been fed this idea that it’s the rags-to-riches story that has the happy ending. More likely it’s the riches-to-rags one that will end in you finding more beauty in life – when you learn to appreciate the small stuff.
But is the only way to appreciate life through deprivation? Maybe.
It’s a fact that the more you have, the more you take for granted. This is sometimes also true when it comes to relationship dynamics. An odd proverb that is scarily accurate is: Never do your best, or people will expect that from you all the time.
There are few in life that will appreciate your thoughtful acts if these actions are constant. It’s strange that no matter how good the ‘status quo’ is, it’s still just becomes an everyday existence.
But I don’t think it’s wise to become a mean shit so anything nice you do for someone else seems outstanding. Helping your friends when they need it and bringing the one you love brekkie in bed should be a given.
The word ‘unconditional’ should be struck from our vocabularies. All relationships are reciprocal. This is not immoral (or amoral) or self-satisfying; it is the only way to know whether others appreciate your kindnesses.
Those you help should return the favour when it is you who needs help. The people you make feel special should strive to show you how special you are to them. It’s the way it should work… it’s the only way it does work and not eventually inspire bitterness and resentment.
So the trick is not to deprive loved ones of our care, but to change our perception of all good acts needing to be unconditional.
And maybe the trick is not to deprive ourselves of things that bring us joy and inspiration, but to stop saturating ourselves in experiences that bring us fleeting happiness.
I realised this upon getting the windows cleaned and marvelling at how beautiful the view of Lion’s Head was from our front room. This wasn’t the ‘forced deprivation’ I’m talking about; the dirty windows didn’t get that way because I was attempting some meditation-free Zen Enlightenment – but coz I’m just fucking lazy.
It also didn’t help that we live three stories up, and the risk to life and limb didn’t seem worth it. Funnily enough, though, I didn’t mind paying someone to place their health on the line to climb out there and do the job.
The point is that this small improvement has brought a lot of enjoyment and – I hesitate to say, but here goes – inspiration.
We’ve all been fed this idea that it’s the rags-to-riches story that has the happy ending. More likely it’s the riches-to-rags one that will end in you finding more beauty in life – when you learn to appreciate the small stuff.
But is the only way to appreciate life through deprivation? Maybe.
It’s a fact that the more you have, the more you take for granted. This is sometimes also true when it comes to relationship dynamics. An odd proverb that is scarily accurate is: Never do your best, or people will expect that from you all the time.
There are few in life that will appreciate your thoughtful acts if these actions are constant. It’s strange that no matter how good the ‘status quo’ is, it’s still just becomes an everyday existence.
But I don’t think it’s wise to become a mean shit so anything nice you do for someone else seems outstanding. Helping your friends when they need it and bringing the one you love brekkie in bed should be a given.
The word ‘unconditional’ should be struck from our vocabularies. All relationships are reciprocal. This is not immoral (or amoral) or self-satisfying; it is the only way to know whether others appreciate your kindnesses.
Those you help should return the favour when it is you who needs help. The people you make feel special should strive to show you how special you are to them. It’s the way it should work… it’s the only way it does work and not eventually inspire bitterness and resentment.
So the trick is not to deprive loved ones of our care, but to change our perception of all good acts needing to be unconditional.
And maybe the trick is not to deprive ourselves of things that bring us joy and inspiration, but to stop saturating ourselves in experiences that bring us fleeting happiness.
Does this Zimmer Frame come with Cup Holders?
Mike Gayle writes in his novel Turning Thirty that hitting your thirties means never going down the pub unless you know there’s somewhere to sit.
It’s the decade when you begin to rethink your ideas about Clint Eastwood being the icon to emulate, and start to browse the section in Clicks with male moisturiser and L’Oreal eye-wrinkle cream. You tell yourself the receding hair at your temples isn’t that bad, and hang on to the hope in that Nicolas Cage is still cool in spite of it.
Men drew the long end of the stick in this regard. We are often told that we get better looking or at least appear more distinguished as we get older. I can only thank the patriarchal, sexist Illuminati for organising this facet of our social psyche.
The thirties aren’t all bad, and I guess it’s got a lot to do with perspective.
Gone is the immature insecurity of one’s twenties. We’ve learned enough about the opposite sex to stop being such bumbling retards in their presence, replaced feigned confidence with acceptance or actual aplomb, and know enough about life to understand that wisdom is not measured by our successes but by the number of mistakes we’ve made.
You stop arguing with your parents about what you should be doing with your life, and realise that the only thing you should be doing is something that brings you some sense of purpose. As you edge closer to middle-age and eventually death, the fact that money and status are ridiculous endeavours is knowledge secreted from your soul.
But it’s not all shits and giggles. You start to make ‘that noise’ when you bend down to pick something off the floor, and it often takes more than one try to get off the couch. The years of beer culminate around your protesting belly, and the comfort of Crocs causes one to reconsider their trendiness.
Also, in the early stages of thirtyhood, a crushing despair of “what have I done with my life?” can set in.
All others fears are put on the back burner, and the terror of growing old alone starts to scratch at the door. It is the age when men discard the idea of being a player and strive to settle down.
As you hack your way through the years like a lost explorer in a confounding, ever-changing jungle, the direction of your life more often than not changes. This is scary and many will urge you to stay on course.
This biting, clawing feeling can be early onset mid-life crisis, or a reaction to a spiritual emptiness one might feel upon the realisation that so much of what they thought they knew turned out to be bollocks.
So just when you’ve thrown out so many childish insecurities, a set of nicely wrapped new ones is opened.
… now where’d I put that facial scrub.
It’s the decade when you begin to rethink your ideas about Clint Eastwood being the icon to emulate, and start to browse the section in Clicks with male moisturiser and L’Oreal eye-wrinkle cream. You tell yourself the receding hair at your temples isn’t that bad, and hang on to the hope in that Nicolas Cage is still cool in spite of it.
Men drew the long end of the stick in this regard. We are often told that we get better looking or at least appear more distinguished as we get older. I can only thank the patriarchal, sexist Illuminati for organising this facet of our social psyche.
The thirties aren’t all bad, and I guess it’s got a lot to do with perspective.
Gone is the immature insecurity of one’s twenties. We’ve learned enough about the opposite sex to stop being such bumbling retards in their presence, replaced feigned confidence with acceptance or actual aplomb, and know enough about life to understand that wisdom is not measured by our successes but by the number of mistakes we’ve made.
You stop arguing with your parents about what you should be doing with your life, and realise that the only thing you should be doing is something that brings you some sense of purpose. As you edge closer to middle-age and eventually death, the fact that money and status are ridiculous endeavours is knowledge secreted from your soul.
But it’s not all shits and giggles. You start to make ‘that noise’ when you bend down to pick something off the floor, and it often takes more than one try to get off the couch. The years of beer culminate around your protesting belly, and the comfort of Crocs causes one to reconsider their trendiness.
Also, in the early stages of thirtyhood, a crushing despair of “what have I done with my life?” can set in.
All others fears are put on the back burner, and the terror of growing old alone starts to scratch at the door. It is the age when men discard the idea of being a player and strive to settle down.
As you hack your way through the years like a lost explorer in a confounding, ever-changing jungle, the direction of your life more often than not changes. This is scary and many will urge you to stay on course.
This biting, clawing feeling can be early onset mid-life crisis, or a reaction to a spiritual emptiness one might feel upon the realisation that so much of what they thought they knew turned out to be bollocks.
So just when you’ve thrown out so many childish insecurities, a set of nicely wrapped new ones is opened.
… now where’d I put that facial scrub.
Where can I study Juju-gese?
If South Africa were a sane country, I’d say Juju Malema’s days were numbered.
The leader of the ANC Youth League said a while back that young people had “a responsibility to party” - a sentiment I’m sure he wasn’t too sure of the next morning with his head down the toilet, vomiting up sushi, Johnny Walker, and a nipple cap.
Oh well, we must all suffer for the revolution.
Most recently, at the opening of ex-con Kenny Kunene’s ZAR nightclub in Cape Town, our pudgy leader of the upstarts told the press that DA leader Helen Zille (PBUH) “will not close ZAR at 2am, like she does to other clubs in Cape Town. The ANC owns ZAR and we will party until the morning."
A political party raising capital selling liquor from the bar and condoms from the toilet vending machine seems strange; but this is Africa, after all – we do things a little differently around these parts.
As usual Floyd Shivambu – ANCYL blackboard monitor – lost sleep translating into English a language that could only be called Juju-gese, “The ANCYL president said that the freedom and right for black people to own a club in a predominantly white territory is a freedom and right that came because of the ANC."
Wow! I bet those stuffy old archaeologists had an easier time deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphics.
I’m not sure what is more embarrassing to the ruling party – Julius’ ridiculous statements or Shivambu’s laughable translations.
The thought that such a drunken buffoon would have his public office rug pulled out from underneath him is quaint, but looking at the ANC’s internal politics I’m sure this man will one day become our country's president.
Hopefully he would have sobered up by then, but I doubt it.
The leader of the ANC Youth League said a while back that young people had “a responsibility to party” - a sentiment I’m sure he wasn’t too sure of the next morning with his head down the toilet, vomiting up sushi, Johnny Walker, and a nipple cap.
Oh well, we must all suffer for the revolution.
Most recently, at the opening of ex-con Kenny Kunene’s ZAR nightclub in Cape Town, our pudgy leader of the upstarts told the press that DA leader Helen Zille (PBUH) “will not close ZAR at 2am, like she does to other clubs in Cape Town. The ANC owns ZAR and we will party until the morning."
A political party raising capital selling liquor from the bar and condoms from the toilet vending machine seems strange; but this is Africa, after all – we do things a little differently around these parts.
As usual Floyd Shivambu – ANCYL blackboard monitor – lost sleep translating into English a language that could only be called Juju-gese, “The ANCYL president said that the freedom and right for black people to own a club in a predominantly white territory is a freedom and right that came because of the ANC."
Wow! I bet those stuffy old archaeologists had an easier time deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphics.
I’m not sure what is more embarrassing to the ruling party – Julius’ ridiculous statements or Shivambu’s laughable translations.
The thought that such a drunken buffoon would have his public office rug pulled out from underneath him is quaint, but looking at the ANC’s internal politics I’m sure this man will one day become our country's president.
Hopefully he would have sobered up by then, but I doubt it.
I was a Middle-Aged Buddha
Whenever I sit down to enjoy a slice of pizza or a Mickey-D quarter pounder with cheese, my mother’s voice echoes in my ears, “You’re digging your grave with a knife and fork.”
Strange, as I tend to lean towards food that requires the least amount of cutlery – burgers, chicken pies, spaghetti bolognaise is tough, but I’ve found a thick drinking straw can just as easily do the trick.
My mom is a veritable volcano of clichés. One of her favourites is, “Don’t have a champagne taste on a beer bottle budget.”
Genius!
Some of them I took literally as a child – I thought one should “save your money for a rainy day” so when you couldn’t play outside you could at least go see a movie at Cavendish Square.
Not a bright kid, me.
She taught us that “wisdom comes with Winters” and to “always forgive your enemies because nothing annoys them so much.”
I’ve always wanted to pen a self-help book entitled, ‘Mother’s Book of Wisdom’ – I envision the sole copy of this handed down through the generations; yellow pages, leather-bound, notes in the margin.
Forget the propaganda of the global schooling systems – teach the kid how to read and let him get on with it.
My mom is one of those rare individuals who doesn’t like to sugar-coat reality. When I was sixteen and going through the obligatory boo-hoo-I-hate-the-world phase she asked me, “Do you think your friends are going to want to be around someone who’s miserable all the time?”
When, many moons ago, she arrived at her parents place to find my grandfather with an MX-6 parked outside and a car salesman on the crux of a big commission, she looked the young salesman up and down, turned to my grandfather and said, “You don’t want that, daddy, it’s a poor man’s Porsche.”
A tongue of sharpened steel, wielded as mercilessly as a shogun samurai’s sword.
In a round-about way she has taught me that while knowledge may come in the form of a university text book, wisdom is best passed along through proverbs and sayings.
Words: Nathan Casey
Pic: Lucy Yearling
Strange, as I tend to lean towards food that requires the least amount of cutlery – burgers, chicken pies, spaghetti bolognaise is tough, but I’ve found a thick drinking straw can just as easily do the trick.
My mom is a veritable volcano of clichés. One of her favourites is, “Don’t have a champagne taste on a beer bottle budget.”
Genius!
Some of them I took literally as a child – I thought one should “save your money for a rainy day” so when you couldn’t play outside you could at least go see a movie at Cavendish Square.
Not a bright kid, me.
She taught us that “wisdom comes with Winters” and to “always forgive your enemies because nothing annoys them so much.”
I’ve always wanted to pen a self-help book entitled, ‘Mother’s Book of Wisdom’ – I envision the sole copy of this handed down through the generations; yellow pages, leather-bound, notes in the margin.
Forget the propaganda of the global schooling systems – teach the kid how to read and let him get on with it.
My mom is one of those rare individuals who doesn’t like to sugar-coat reality. When I was sixteen and going through the obligatory boo-hoo-I-hate-the-world phase she asked me, “Do you think your friends are going to want to be around someone who’s miserable all the time?”
When, many moons ago, she arrived at her parents place to find my grandfather with an MX-6 parked outside and a car salesman on the crux of a big commission, she looked the young salesman up and down, turned to my grandfather and said, “You don’t want that, daddy, it’s a poor man’s Porsche.”
A tongue of sharpened steel, wielded as mercilessly as a shogun samurai’s sword.
In a round-about way she has taught me that while knowledge may come in the form of a university text book, wisdom is best passed along through proverbs and sayings.
Words: Nathan Casey
Pic: Lucy Yearling
Sex, Drugs and Bat 'n Ball
So Herschelle Gibbs has revealed it’s not really such a gentleman’s game after all.
Not the greatest of contradictions – it is a ghostwritten autobiography, I believe.
How does that work exactly? You want to big yourself up and prove you’re not just a dumb jock, but everyone knows someone else wrote the thing, so really you’re just showing some insecurity or need for recognition.
Or is it because the writer is just lazy and doesn’t want to do any research so he says, Hey!, I’ll just transcribe whatever you say and structure it into some chapter format? A kind of glorified secretary.
I haven’t read ‘The Herschelle Diaries’ or whatever they’re calling it because, well, I don’t really give a shit, but apparently it’s ‘Trainspotting’ meets ‘Shaving Ryan’s Privates ’ meets the ‘Hansie’ movie – sex, drugs and bat ‘n ball!
I have to admit I wasn’t that surprised. Professional cricketers are kind of schoolboy jocks who never had to grow up. I don’t think anyone will disagree with me that playing sport for a living isn’t really a real-real job.
But parents are anxiously biting their toenails, puffing their cheeks out, terrified that their little Southern Suburbs boytjie is going to be negatively influenced by such a prominent ‘role model’.
It’s not like growing a mullet and dangling the new kid feet first off the boarding house balcony has anything to do with their parenting – it’s just teenage antics – and picking up prozzies while smoking a fatty is good fun for a grown up but something you just don’t talk about.
I don’t quite understand why professional sportsmen are considered such great role models in the first place. They spend the greater part of their existence playing a relatively insignificant game – a nice life, I guess, but not really a vocation that adds anything meaningful to society.
I can understand the benefits of exercising outdoors, being part of a team, and slapping your mate’s arse with a wet towel after you’ve showered together, but surely that’s better as a hobby than as a career.
I’d rather my kids idolised someone like Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama or even Julius Malema – at least he’s open about what he believes in and not afraid to speak his mind.
Or fictional characters like Atticus Finch who fought racism in the American South, Tyler Durden who turned a generation of disillusioned men against a materialistic society, or Green Lantern who incinerated a planet in order to collect enough power rings so he could unravel reality and recreate it as a much nicer place.
Do we want our children to grow up as brawny meatheads who hit a ball or run fast for a living? Seems ridiculous, but what do I know?
I can only imagine that Herschelle Gibbs – not the not the sharpest shiruken in the ninja utility belt, and ugly as a parking lot – had the pressing need to brag about his sexual exploits and tell everyone how much beer he drank the other night.
Just like every other jock needs to.
Not the greatest of contradictions – it is a ghostwritten autobiography, I believe.
How does that work exactly? You want to big yourself up and prove you’re not just a dumb jock, but everyone knows someone else wrote the thing, so really you’re just showing some insecurity or need for recognition.
Or is it because the writer is just lazy and doesn’t want to do any research so he says, Hey!, I’ll just transcribe whatever you say and structure it into some chapter format? A kind of glorified secretary.
I haven’t read ‘The Herschelle Diaries’ or whatever they’re calling it because, well, I don’t really give a shit, but apparently it’s ‘Trainspotting’ meets ‘Shaving Ryan’s Privates ’ meets the ‘Hansie’ movie – sex, drugs and bat ‘n ball!
I have to admit I wasn’t that surprised. Professional cricketers are kind of schoolboy jocks who never had to grow up. I don’t think anyone will disagree with me that playing sport for a living isn’t really a real-real job.
But parents are anxiously biting their toenails, puffing their cheeks out, terrified that their little Southern Suburbs boytjie is going to be negatively influenced by such a prominent ‘role model’.
It’s not like growing a mullet and dangling the new kid feet first off the boarding house balcony has anything to do with their parenting – it’s just teenage antics – and picking up prozzies while smoking a fatty is good fun for a grown up but something you just don’t talk about.
I don’t quite understand why professional sportsmen are considered such great role models in the first place. They spend the greater part of their existence playing a relatively insignificant game – a nice life, I guess, but not really a vocation that adds anything meaningful to society.
I can understand the benefits of exercising outdoors, being part of a team, and slapping your mate’s arse with a wet towel after you’ve showered together, but surely that’s better as a hobby than as a career.
I’d rather my kids idolised someone like Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama or even Julius Malema – at least he’s open about what he believes in and not afraid to speak his mind.
Or fictional characters like Atticus Finch who fought racism in the American South, Tyler Durden who turned a generation of disillusioned men against a materialistic society, or Green Lantern who incinerated a planet in order to collect enough power rings so he could unravel reality and recreate it as a much nicer place.
Do we want our children to grow up as brawny meatheads who hit a ball or run fast for a living? Seems ridiculous, but what do I know?
I can only imagine that Herschelle Gibbs – not the not the sharpest shiruken in the ninja utility belt, and ugly as a parking lot – had the pressing need to brag about his sexual exploits and tell everyone how much beer he drank the other night.
Just like every other jock needs to.
How I Became A Parlotones Fan
I’d like the record to show that Nathan Casey is man enough to admit when he’s wrong.
I’d foolishly thought my skill on the tambourine and triangle in junior school was enough to secure a successful musical career. The rejection of my first homemade single, ‘Ring-sting coz I swallowed my bling-bling’, set this “failed musician” on a terrible path of bitterness and jealousy.
My eyes were opened to my folly by DJ Raine whose “25 years’ experience in the music business” proves you’re never too old to throw your granny panties on the stage, and by Jackie B, a man with little patience for punctuation or paragraphs, who breathlessly pushed me to the floor [that one’s for the fans].
The opportunity to promote barely edible, mutated chicken offcuts was a “reward” for all the Parlo’s hard work, Raine told me, and then proceeded to place her idols in the same class as waka-waka soccer promoter, Shakira – gently reassuring me it was alright for fans to be cruel sometimes, so I shouldn’t worry about it.
Not one to answer a rhetorical question such as, “what’s the point in being an artist if no one recognises your work?”, I could only sympathise with the likes of Leonardo Da Vinci and ponder on the meaninglessness he must have believed his life life’s work amounted to – I’m sure he was just in it for the recognition.
If that wasn’t thought-provoking enough, Jackie B forced me to reflect on my “anger issues” and soon I was curled under my desk, thumb-sucking, crying in a foetal position. I can only thank him for my awakening.
It does “take talent to become famous” I suddenly agreed – I watch enough reality tv to realise that.
Who am I to judge those who turn a blind eye to the plight of four-legged, beakless box-chickens if it “reminds them of the people who have given them joy and filled their lives with the beauty of music”?
And now I can see that those kids in South American sweatshops probably wouldn’t have jobs if it wasn’t for shoe manufacturers.
I was a convert!
With a mascara job that would’ve made Stanley Kubrick proud I rushed to the nearest church, clutching my new favourite band’s cd to my heart, and forced it into the pastor’s hands.
When he told me they were just a wannabe Killers tribute band I punched him in the face and quoted my mentor, Jackie B: “Even Jesus was unwelcome in his own country!”
I can only hope for your forgiveness and offer a big hug when I see you at the next Parlotones concert.
I’d foolishly thought my skill on the tambourine and triangle in junior school was enough to secure a successful musical career. The rejection of my first homemade single, ‘Ring-sting coz I swallowed my bling-bling’, set this “failed musician” on a terrible path of bitterness and jealousy.
My eyes were opened to my folly by DJ Raine whose “25 years’ experience in the music business” proves you’re never too old to throw your granny panties on the stage, and by Jackie B, a man with little patience for punctuation or paragraphs, who breathlessly pushed me to the floor [that one’s for the fans].
The opportunity to promote barely edible, mutated chicken offcuts was a “reward” for all the Parlo’s hard work, Raine told me, and then proceeded to place her idols in the same class as waka-waka soccer promoter, Shakira – gently reassuring me it was alright for fans to be cruel sometimes, so I shouldn’t worry about it.
Not one to answer a rhetorical question such as, “what’s the point in being an artist if no one recognises your work?”, I could only sympathise with the likes of Leonardo Da Vinci and ponder on the meaninglessness he must have believed his life life’s work amounted to – I’m sure he was just in it for the recognition.
If that wasn’t thought-provoking enough, Jackie B forced me to reflect on my “anger issues” and soon I was curled under my desk, thumb-sucking, crying in a foetal position. I can only thank him for my awakening.
It does “take talent to become famous” I suddenly agreed – I watch enough reality tv to realise that.
Who am I to judge those who turn a blind eye to the plight of four-legged, beakless box-chickens if it “reminds them of the people who have given them joy and filled their lives with the beauty of music”?
And now I can see that those kids in South American sweatshops probably wouldn’t have jobs if it wasn’t for shoe manufacturers.
I was a convert!
With a mascara job that would’ve made Stanley Kubrick proud I rushed to the nearest church, clutching my new favourite band’s cd to my heart, and forced it into the pastor’s hands.
When he told me they were just a wannabe Killers tribute band I punched him in the face and quoted my mentor, Jackie B: “Even Jesus was unwelcome in his own country!”
I can only hope for your forgiveness and offer a big hug when I see you at the next Parlotones concert.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)