Talk about thin-skinned! A 52-year-old man in Zimbabwe has to stand trial for telling a joke about despotic prez Robert Mugabe, News24 reports.
So in solidarity with office clowns across Africa, I hereby declare today ‘Mad Bob Bad Joke Day’, and to kick it off here’s one my dad told me back when he still walked this bizarre mudball we call home (I mean Earth, not South Africa).
Poor Bob Mugabe dies and the bus drops him off, suitcases in hand, outside the Pearly Gates of Heaven. He steps through the Gates and when he approaches Saint Peter looks down the long guest list, “I’m sorry, Mr Mugabe, but your name’s not here.”
Peter picks up the phone and calls the front desk at Hell. He’s on that list, and Satan says he’ll send two demons to pick him up.
Bob arrives in Hell to a warm reception. “Mr Mugabe,” says an elated Lucifer, “we’ve got your room ready. Just grab your bags and follow me.”
But, oops, Bob’s gone and forgotten his suitcases.
“No worries,” says Lu, “I’ll send some cronies to get them.” He clicks his fingers and two little demons appear, “Go get Mr Mugabe’s bags, will you.”
The demons salute and rush off back to the Pearly Gates. But when they get there the Gates are locked tight. They peer in and see Bob’s bags on the other side.
“Oh shit,” says the first demon, “what are we gonna do now?”
The second demon has a plan. He lifts his colleague onto his shoulders and tells him to climb on top of the wall. Then the first demon pulls the second up and they jump down to get the bags.
Meanwhile, Peter and the Archangel Gabriel are on their lunch hour having tea and sandwiches in the Peter’s office.
Saint Peter looks out the window and sees two demons standing next to a pair of suitcases. “For fudge’s sake!” exclaims Peter angrily.
“What’s up?” asks Gabriel.
Peter slams his teacup down and says, “That bloody Mugabe hasn’t been in Hell for five minutes and already we’ve got refugees!”
Drum roll, please. Thanks folks, I’ll be here all week. Be sure to tip your waitress.
Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts
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.
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.
Bible Bashing Bergie Buddhas
I sometimes feel sorry for God.
When I’m having lunch at a Long Street restaurant and a guy carrying a loudhailer and a Bible walks down the road shouting about how “filthy with sin” we all are, I think two things.
1. Get a job.
2. If I was God would I want this crazy person as a representative?
If a bloke in a moth-eaten sports jacket, with greasy hair and yellow teeth, tried to sell you timeshare, you’d surely think it was some kind of a scam.
Ditto for the people on the train waving the Good Book, railing against the Devil, covering the captive and unimpressed audience in spittle. All I can say is thank God for the iPod.
The same way the everyday Muslim must hate the fundamentalist fuckers strapping crackers to their chest and blowing up in shopping malls, the quiet Christian surely feels foolish when witnessing these mental misfits with their streetside sermons.
Could you be blamed for getting to the Pearly Gates and, upon realisation that Atheism wasn’t the best choice, telling the Big Man it was because of the bad press he got from paedophile priests and bonkers bergies?
I’m sure He’s a reasonable dude. I’m sure He’d have a chuckle and understand.
I’d like to think He’d rather tally up all the good stuff against the mean shit you’ve done and judge you on that.
I once thought that agnostics were the worst kind of fence-sitters, even though I was one. I mean, I have a personal belief based on personal experience – that evolves the older I get – but I’m well aware that this belief is partly there to make me feel better.
And if it makes you feel better then isn’t it a good thing?
As long as you don’t force it up anyone’s arse or kill those who don’t agree with you, then what does it really matter if you believe in a magic Tellytubby riding a steamroller who’ll have you shovelling horse manure for eternity unless you grow a mullet?
But they’d have me locked up if I went around preaching about that, so I’ll just keep my views to myself.
When I’m having lunch at a Long Street restaurant and a guy carrying a loudhailer and a Bible walks down the road shouting about how “filthy with sin” we all are, I think two things.
1. Get a job.
2. If I was God would I want this crazy person as a representative?
If a bloke in a moth-eaten sports jacket, with greasy hair and yellow teeth, tried to sell you timeshare, you’d surely think it was some kind of a scam.
Ditto for the people on the train waving the Good Book, railing against the Devil, covering the captive and unimpressed audience in spittle. All I can say is thank God for the iPod.
The same way the everyday Muslim must hate the fundamentalist fuckers strapping crackers to their chest and blowing up in shopping malls, the quiet Christian surely feels foolish when witnessing these mental misfits with their streetside sermons.
Could you be blamed for getting to the Pearly Gates and, upon realisation that Atheism wasn’t the best choice, telling the Big Man it was because of the bad press he got from paedophile priests and bonkers bergies?
I’m sure He’s a reasonable dude. I’m sure He’d have a chuckle and understand.
I’d like to think He’d rather tally up all the good stuff against the mean shit you’ve done and judge you on that.
I once thought that agnostics were the worst kind of fence-sitters, even though I was one. I mean, I have a personal belief based on personal experience – that evolves the older I get – but I’m well aware that this belief is partly there to make me feel better.
And if it makes you feel better then isn’t it a good thing?
As long as you don’t force it up anyone’s arse or kill those who don’t agree with you, then what does it really matter if you believe in a magic Tellytubby riding a steamroller who’ll have you shovelling horse manure for eternity unless you grow a mullet?
But they’d have me locked up if I went around preaching about that, so I’ll just keep my views to myself.
An Online Birth
A mate of mine’s kid had a Facebook page before he was born. His profile picture was the sonogram from his mum’s tum.
Reactions to this ranged from “ah, cute” to “fuck me, that’s weird”.
The kid’s status updates were along the lines of: ‘I am nine months away from being born’, and ‘I am kicking’.
Before the drive to the hospital mom just had to log on and punch in: ‘My head just punctured mommy’s amniotic bag’.
In between the screaming dad took time out on his Blackberry: ‘Long trip down the birth canal, but I’ve reached mommy’s vulva and can see the exit sign’.
These bizarre updates didn’t disturb me nearly as much as the fact that the parents felt it was okay to set their child’s ‘religious views’ to ‘Christian’, and add in some future favourite Bible quotes. It wasn’t the religious demographic I had misgivings with, but that the parents decided this for him.
And my concerns weren’t for the unborn son, but for mom and dad themselves.
So often teenagers resent their parents’ decisions that they have no control over but affect their lives – it just seemed like they were setting themselves up for future Slipknot t-shirt purchases and long, greasy hair hiding a perpetually sulky face.
And forget about embarrassing baby pictures being lugged out and shown to prospective girlfriends – the guy’s first potty session is right there, tagged and posted, for anyone with a modem to laugh at.
All the kid’s friends were obviously friends of his parents – a kind of virtual version of deciding who he should associate with – and I can only imagine the massive culling tantamount to online genocide that would one day come.
In the book ‘Blind Faith’ by Ben Elton, a future where we display every part of our lives on a social network, no matter how personal, is posited. In this reverse-Orwellian world, no thought or act is sacred; and videos of our first sexual experience and, yes, our actual birth are willingly posted.
Facebook is a place where we display not our true selves, but only the Self we wish to portray. We are our own press agents, building our image in the vain struggle to accumulate ‘likes’ and inspire comments with our attention-seeking updates.
Maybe our parents, who love us more than anyone else possibly could, are the best press agents we could imagine.
Reactions to this ranged from “ah, cute” to “fuck me, that’s weird”.
The kid’s status updates were along the lines of: ‘I am nine months away from being born’, and ‘I am kicking’.
Before the drive to the hospital mom just had to log on and punch in: ‘My head just punctured mommy’s amniotic bag’.
In between the screaming dad took time out on his Blackberry: ‘Long trip down the birth canal, but I’ve reached mommy’s vulva and can see the exit sign’.
These bizarre updates didn’t disturb me nearly as much as the fact that the parents felt it was okay to set their child’s ‘religious views’ to ‘Christian’, and add in some future favourite Bible quotes. It wasn’t the religious demographic I had misgivings with, but that the parents decided this for him.
And my concerns weren’t for the unborn son, but for mom and dad themselves.
So often teenagers resent their parents’ decisions that they have no control over but affect their lives – it just seemed like they were setting themselves up for future Slipknot t-shirt purchases and long, greasy hair hiding a perpetually sulky face.
And forget about embarrassing baby pictures being lugged out and shown to prospective girlfriends – the guy’s first potty session is right there, tagged and posted, for anyone with a modem to laugh at.
All the kid’s friends were obviously friends of his parents – a kind of virtual version of deciding who he should associate with – and I can only imagine the massive culling tantamount to online genocide that would one day come.
In the book ‘Blind Faith’ by Ben Elton, a future where we display every part of our lives on a social network, no matter how personal, is posited. In this reverse-Orwellian world, no thought or act is sacred; and videos of our first sexual experience and, yes, our actual birth are willingly posted.
Facebook is a place where we display not our true selves, but only the Self we wish to portray. We are our own press agents, building our image in the vain struggle to accumulate ‘likes’ and inspire comments with our attention-seeking updates.
Maybe our parents, who love us more than anyone else possibly could, are the best press agents we could imagine.
Me & Helen in Hell
Finally! A way to get away with occasionally forgetting to feed the hamsters and watching all that porn!
Dirty hands washed clean, and all it takes is a vote for the ANC!
According to our fornicating, DA-hating prez, Jacob Zuma, “When you carry an ANC membership card you are blessed. When you have an ANC card, you will be let through to go to Heaven.”
He goes on to say that a vote for Helen Zille's Democratic Alliance or any other party is a one-way ticket to hellfire, brimstone, and no Johnny Walker Blue.
Understandably, this has upset holy-Joes nationwide, most notably African Christian Democratic Party paragon, Kenneth Meshoe, who railed about how “disappointed and shocked” he was with how Zuma could “mislead and deceive” dumb South Africans into believing they would be ‘saved’ if they just voted the right way.
And damn straight he should be pissed off, blessings from the Big Man (JC, not JZ) is all the ACDP has got going for them – it’s their sole platform… the soul platform, if I may.
If Meshoe had had a heads-up, he could have been sitting pretty long ago. Alas, that gravy train has left the station.
The problem I have with politicos punting piety is the same problem I have with pairing contradictory terms like ‘instant classic’, ‘military intelligence’, or ‘SABC news’. – it just doesn’t make sense.
The Christians next door wake me up at an ungodly hour (get it?) every Sunday morning with church bells and exhaust fume smells. Their cars parked willy-nilly, blocking up the street; the happy hooting as they leave, joyous in having staved off penance for the week’s sins.
Fucking inconsiderate, if you ask me! But not a far cry from clogging up half of Cape Town, inconveniencing lowly taxpayers with an Oscars-style red carpet ride when government ministers come back to work after the Christmas holidays.
With a bit more thought though, I reckon maybe the ANC isn’t as idiotic is we all might think.
Their main support base consists of the uneducated, rural masses – walking kilometres every day to get water, sending their sons off to the City in the hope of some cash to send home.
The possibility that God might look upon them more fondly if they pencil an X next to Zuma’s humpy head couldn’t hurt. No matter who’s in power, it’s not going to affect their lot in the foreseeable future so tata ma chance and all that.
But implying that the ANC is God’s party and that a vote the wrong way will get you to Hell is in line with saying that all whities are devils… which is a showerhead’s throw away from hate speech, surely.
Devils are evil. And evil should be vanquished. So let’s drive all the evil devils into the sea and take their nice things.
The only upswing I can see is that if Heaven is not only going to be full of self-righteous Christians, but incompetent ANC officials as well, then in Hell the conversation won’t only be better, but the place will be run a lot more efficiently to boot.
In that case, a blessing would have to come with horns, a pointy tail, and a pitchfork.
Dirty hands washed clean, and all it takes is a vote for the ANC!
According to our fornicating, DA-hating prez, Jacob Zuma, “When you carry an ANC membership card you are blessed. When you have an ANC card, you will be let through to go to Heaven.”
He goes on to say that a vote for Helen Zille's Democratic Alliance or any other party is a one-way ticket to hellfire, brimstone, and no Johnny Walker Blue.
Understandably, this has upset holy-Joes nationwide, most notably African Christian Democratic Party paragon, Kenneth Meshoe, who railed about how “disappointed and shocked” he was with how Zuma could “mislead and deceive” dumb South Africans into believing they would be ‘saved’ if they just voted the right way.
And damn straight he should be pissed off, blessings from the Big Man (JC, not JZ) is all the ACDP has got going for them – it’s their sole platform… the soul platform, if I may.
If Meshoe had had a heads-up, he could have been sitting pretty long ago. Alas, that gravy train has left the station.
The problem I have with politicos punting piety is the same problem I have with pairing contradictory terms like ‘instant classic’, ‘military intelligence’, or ‘SABC news’. – it just doesn’t make sense.
The Christians next door wake me up at an ungodly hour (get it?) every Sunday morning with church bells and exhaust fume smells. Their cars parked willy-nilly, blocking up the street; the happy hooting as they leave, joyous in having staved off penance for the week’s sins.
Fucking inconsiderate, if you ask me! But not a far cry from clogging up half of Cape Town, inconveniencing lowly taxpayers with an Oscars-style red carpet ride when government ministers come back to work after the Christmas holidays.
With a bit more thought though, I reckon maybe the ANC isn’t as idiotic is we all might think.
Their main support base consists of the uneducated, rural masses – walking kilometres every day to get water, sending their sons off to the City in the hope of some cash to send home.
The possibility that God might look upon them more fondly if they pencil an X next to Zuma’s humpy head couldn’t hurt. No matter who’s in power, it’s not going to affect their lot in the foreseeable future so tata ma chance and all that.
But implying that the ANC is God’s party and that a vote the wrong way will get you to Hell is in line with saying that all whities are devils… which is a showerhead’s throw away from hate speech, surely.
Devils are evil. And evil should be vanquished. So let’s drive all the evil devils into the sea and take their nice things.
The only upswing I can see is that if Heaven is not only going to be full of self-righteous Christians, but incompetent ANC officials as well, then in Hell the conversation won’t only be better, but the place will be run a lot more efficiently to boot.
In that case, a blessing would have to come with horns, a pointy tail, and a pitchfork.
George Orwell is the Boogeyman!
Two stories my mom likes to tell: How I could fall asleep anywhere; and how when I was breastfeeding and she had company I would bite her nipples.
Luckily I’ve grown out of both breastfeeding and nipple-munching – which was the reaction to some kind of fearful anxiety about being stolen away from my mother, I suppose. When I'm afraid, I bite!
The falling asleep thing is still a trait I possess.
I’m notorious for dozing off in the cinema – usually when the movie’s a bit boring – and often I’m woken up by the person next to me when I start to snore.
Even though I fell asleep in Paranormal Activity, I still gave the sequel a look-in.
And it was good! Not like the first that, as my good friend Mark commented, wasn’t bad until they found the big chicken footprints all over the house – like Foghorn Leghorn broke in and made off with the stereo.
It’s so hard to find a decent scary movie these days – you’ve got to look for your jollies somewhere else. Personally, there’s not much that scares me more than a George Orwell novel.
Anyone who’s read 1984 will know just how terrifying the man’s mind was – makes the latest Stephen King read like a Hardy Boys.
The most recent that made me hug my teddy and check the front door was properly locked is Keep the Aspidistra Flying about a writer who falls into poverty when quits his ‘good’ job to pursue a career as a poet.
Go figure.
The protagonist “loathes dull, middle-class respectability and worship of money” and consistently bangs on about the ‘money-god’ that is the only deity people seem to follow.
Makes sense; money has much in common with the mythical Master of the Universe – it’s eternal, omnipotent, and everyone loves it.
I think governments know this and that’s why they put the president’s face on bank notes. They’re feisty, governments.
The face-on-the-money bit is the way a despot tells the world, “I’ve arrived!”
That’s why in America the big man can get away with just about anything. They know that money = god = our beloved leaders. Maybe not the current guy, it’s more of a general respect of the Cheese.
Of course, in SA we’ve got the Big 5 on our cash; which made me wonder whether that showed the importance of certain species.
Cheetah and lion – good.
Elephant and rhino– eh.
But then I thought, hold on, we’ve got Madiba’s face on the five Rand coin! Surely Nelson Mandela is more important to our identity as South Africans than the wildlife?
So my theory, like a punctured party balloon, made a lot of noise but eventually lay pathetic and flat on the floor.
Or maybe it’s not the usual nonsense. Maybe it’s because we’ve got game on our notes that the militant left wing always complain that whites care more about endangered animals than poor people.
Wealth is still divided unfairly in the favour of us pale natives, and coins are mostly used not to buy anything of value, but to tip the car guard or donate towards a bergie’s booze fund.
Could this be sending us a subliminal understanding? Is it the reason rich people don’t care about other people, only themselves, their money, and getting to the Kruger national park for the holidays?
Or is it because of some traditional, African tribal worship of animals?
Did you know that if you fold a fifty Rand note a certain way it looks like Eugene Terreblanche’s face?
It’s interesting to note that the Vatican City issues its own Euro with the Pope’s mug on it, not the hippy profile of Jesus.
Putting the faces of lower-level gods (presidents, animals) on the body of our actual god (money) scares me because it hints at the possibility that Church and State aren’t as separate as I hoped!
The rationale is surely that being associated with that-which-is-most-holy makes one holy by association (Welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department). Kind of like name-dropping in a way:
“I was hanging out with George Clooney the other night.”
“Big deal, my face is on the new eighteen Rand note.”
Although I like to believe differently, I know I’m not smart enough to dodge marketing manipulation and bureaucratic bullshit all the time. To think of how often my thought processes and ideas are steered by another’s agenda is terrifying.
It scares me so much I think I might bite the next nipple that passes by.
Luckily I’ve grown out of both breastfeeding and nipple-munching – which was the reaction to some kind of fearful anxiety about being stolen away from my mother, I suppose. When I'm afraid, I bite!
The falling asleep thing is still a trait I possess.
I’m notorious for dozing off in the cinema – usually when the movie’s a bit boring – and often I’m woken up by the person next to me when I start to snore.
Even though I fell asleep in Paranormal Activity, I still gave the sequel a look-in.
And it was good! Not like the first that, as my good friend Mark commented, wasn’t bad until they found the big chicken footprints all over the house – like Foghorn Leghorn broke in and made off with the stereo.
It’s so hard to find a decent scary movie these days – you’ve got to look for your jollies somewhere else. Personally, there’s not much that scares me more than a George Orwell novel.
Anyone who’s read 1984 will know just how terrifying the man’s mind was – makes the latest Stephen King read like a Hardy Boys.
The most recent that made me hug my teddy and check the front door was properly locked is Keep the Aspidistra Flying about a writer who falls into poverty when quits his ‘good’ job to pursue a career as a poet.
Go figure.
The protagonist “loathes dull, middle-class respectability and worship of money” and consistently bangs on about the ‘money-god’ that is the only deity people seem to follow.
Makes sense; money has much in common with the mythical Master of the Universe – it’s eternal, omnipotent, and everyone loves it.
I think governments know this and that’s why they put the president’s face on bank notes. They’re feisty, governments.
The face-on-the-money bit is the way a despot tells the world, “I’ve arrived!”
That’s why in America the big man can get away with just about anything. They know that money = god = our beloved leaders. Maybe not the current guy, it’s more of a general respect of the Cheese.
Of course, in SA we’ve got the Big 5 on our cash; which made me wonder whether that showed the importance of certain species.
Cheetah and lion – good.
Elephant and rhino– eh.
But then I thought, hold on, we’ve got Madiba’s face on the five Rand coin! Surely Nelson Mandela is more important to our identity as South Africans than the wildlife?
So my theory, like a punctured party balloon, made a lot of noise but eventually lay pathetic and flat on the floor.
Or maybe it’s not the usual nonsense. Maybe it’s because we’ve got game on our notes that the militant left wing always complain that whites care more about endangered animals than poor people.
Wealth is still divided unfairly in the favour of us pale natives, and coins are mostly used not to buy anything of value, but to tip the car guard or donate towards a bergie’s booze fund.
Could this be sending us a subliminal understanding? Is it the reason rich people don’t care about other people, only themselves, their money, and getting to the Kruger national park for the holidays?
Or is it because of some traditional, African tribal worship of animals?
Did you know that if you fold a fifty Rand note a certain way it looks like Eugene Terreblanche’s face?
It’s interesting to note that the Vatican City issues its own Euro with the Pope’s mug on it, not the hippy profile of Jesus.
Putting the faces of lower-level gods (presidents, animals) on the body of our actual god (money) scares me because it hints at the possibility that Church and State aren’t as separate as I hoped!
The rationale is surely that being associated with that-which-is-most-holy makes one holy by association (Welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department). Kind of like name-dropping in a way:
“I was hanging out with George Clooney the other night.”
“Big deal, my face is on the new eighteen Rand note.”
Although I like to believe differently, I know I’m not smart enough to dodge marketing manipulation and bureaucratic bullshit all the time. To think of how often my thought processes and ideas are steered by another’s agenda is terrifying.
It scares me so much I think I might bite the next nipple that passes by.
Giving the Devil Head
When I was a child, that grizzled drill sergeant we call God tried to teach me about hangovers.
Occasionally mum would allow us a chocolate Mighty Milk – they later changed the name to the odd-sounding Steri Stumpy, which for some reason always made me think of a guy with his legs cut off at the knees.
Dad would punch a hole in the top of it with his keys so we could drink it, and I would without fail down the lot in a series of frantic gulps.
I knew it was a bad idea, and that not long after I would suffer a painful belly-wrench. But I didn’t care; I loved that Mighty Milk so much I just couldn’t stop myself.
I got so used to the hurt that by the age of eight I could take a punch in the gut from Mike Tyson and carry on building a model airplane without skipping a beat.
So you see it’s not so much the headache part of a hangover that bothers me. The hangovers that I dread are the ones when I wake up feeling like Linda Blair.
I’m talking about that floating, hazy feeling; that heavy lump of shame; when you can’t remember what you did or who you offended, but you know it was along the lines of a 360 degree head rotation and projectile pukage onto a priest.
Losing mates this way is a bit more dramatic than finding you’ve been unfriended a few months after the fact, and it’s usually just as public and embarrassing as a series of angry wall posts ping-ponged across t’interweb.
Naturally, this hasn’t stopped me from drinking as much, but rather just to identify the types of poison that turn me from a jolly Jekyll to a heinous Hyde.
And much study has brought me to the conclusion that if Satan gave golden showers, you’d smell like you’d been in a Mexican barfight – tequila is the Devil’s discharge.
Seriously, they should just package Jose Cuervo in veiny, red penis-shaped bottles – maybe with two great testes so it won’t fall over as easily… and horns on its bell-end.
It looks like piss. It tastes like piss. No, no, it’s from the blue agave plant in Mexico. It’s just a coincidence that it resembles a liquid by-product excreted through the urethra. Don’t worry about the taste, lick some salt and suck a lemon afterwards.
You’d have to be shitfaced to fall for that!
All the teenage Satanists from the Eighties grew up to be Brandhouse reps pushing what they tell you is cactus juice.
With God telling you one thing and the Devil winking and suggesting another, it’s tough.
If, as Eric Draven in The Crow tells a junkie, Mother is the name for God in the hearts and minds of children, then Satan is the tattooed slag you wouldn’t take home to meet her.
I stopped drinking once, until a good friend told me I was much more fun drunk. And according to Chuck Palahniuk all God does is watch you and then kill you when you get boring, so...
I guess life’s just more exciting when you’re confused.
Occasionally mum would allow us a chocolate Mighty Milk – they later changed the name to the odd-sounding Steri Stumpy, which for some reason always made me think of a guy with his legs cut off at the knees.
Dad would punch a hole in the top of it with his keys so we could drink it, and I would without fail down the lot in a series of frantic gulps.
I knew it was a bad idea, and that not long after I would suffer a painful belly-wrench. But I didn’t care; I loved that Mighty Milk so much I just couldn’t stop myself.
I got so used to the hurt that by the age of eight I could take a punch in the gut from Mike Tyson and carry on building a model airplane without skipping a beat.
So you see it’s not so much the headache part of a hangover that bothers me. The hangovers that I dread are the ones when I wake up feeling like Linda Blair.
I’m talking about that floating, hazy feeling; that heavy lump of shame; when you can’t remember what you did or who you offended, but you know it was along the lines of a 360 degree head rotation and projectile pukage onto a priest.
Losing mates this way is a bit more dramatic than finding you’ve been unfriended a few months after the fact, and it’s usually just as public and embarrassing as a series of angry wall posts ping-ponged across t’interweb.
Naturally, this hasn’t stopped me from drinking as much, but rather just to identify the types of poison that turn me from a jolly Jekyll to a heinous Hyde.
And much study has brought me to the conclusion that if Satan gave golden showers, you’d smell like you’d been in a Mexican barfight – tequila is the Devil’s discharge.
Seriously, they should just package Jose Cuervo in veiny, red penis-shaped bottles – maybe with two great testes so it won’t fall over as easily… and horns on its bell-end.
It looks like piss. It tastes like piss. No, no, it’s from the blue agave plant in Mexico. It’s just a coincidence that it resembles a liquid by-product excreted through the urethra. Don’t worry about the taste, lick some salt and suck a lemon afterwards.
You’d have to be shitfaced to fall for that!
All the teenage Satanists from the Eighties grew up to be Brandhouse reps pushing what they tell you is cactus juice.
With God telling you one thing and the Devil winking and suggesting another, it’s tough.
If, as Eric Draven in The Crow tells a junkie, Mother is the name for God in the hearts and minds of children, then Satan is the tattooed slag you wouldn’t take home to meet her.
I stopped drinking once, until a good friend told me I was much more fun drunk. And according to Chuck Palahniuk all God does is watch you and then kill you when you get boring, so...
I guess life’s just more exciting when you’re confused.
The Eighth Deadly Sin
After a near-death experience involving chopsticks, a small Asian woman, and a particularly authentic Jungle Curry from Yindee’s the other night, I decided I better check my status with the bossman upstairs.
Apparently, it’s not looking so good.
I wasn’t sure if the Ten Commandments had rendered the Seven Deadly Sins redundant, so I asked around. My enquiry was mostly met with a kind if glazed expression, followed by a quick check of the watch and rapid re-memory of an urgent proctologist appointment.
I decided to run with the seven. Mainly because there’s less to remember and I prefer Brad Pitt to Charlton Heston.
We all know the seven most reprehensible characteristics are lust, greed, gluttony, pride, envy, sloth and wrath.
I considered these and then considered myself.
My ratings weren’t looking good. Just the other night I was slobbed out on the couch eating my third bag of Cheese Curls, watching a Jessica Simpson movie and wishing I had Apple TV like Mark.
That’s four right there!
I think humanity’s pretty screwed all round. Just looking out my window made me feel better – at least I’ll have company, I thought.
And then I thought that maybe God left out the most inexcusable and common sin of all. Call it the Eighth Deadly Sin, or even better, push it right to the top of the list.
I’m talking about the inexcusable and incredibly annoying trait of attention-seeking.
We used to think that it was only little kids who broke a vase, started crying, or messed around with a Ouija board to get their parents to punch them in the face.
But people everywhere, of every age, seem to think they need a good face-punching.
Psychologist M. Farouk Radwan, of course, lays the blame squarely on the shoulders of parents – mommy didn’t hug you enough and daddy was too busy playing golf to stick your bunny drawings on the fridge.
Narcissists also want your attention all the time, but I tend to ignore them because I know I’m much more interesting.
Children naturally think they’re the centre of the universe, but wouldn’t seeing to their every whim and constantly telling them they special make that worse?
How do we stop ourselves wearing jauntily-angled Emo hats and blaring hip-hop out our car windows? Is my haircut going to draw more attention to me if it’s not the same as everyone else’s? Is it my fault when children point at my hairy ears and shout, “Shrek! Shrek!”?
Through much spiritual reflection and great philosophical reasoning I was comforted by the thought that I’m not a “beautiful and unique snowflake” but merely as poked as everyone else in God’s eyes.
It made it much easier to not change and carry on my heathen-esque existence. Heaven probably wouldn’t be a good idea for me anyway – it’d be full of Christians!
So I’ll just order a double and a side of chillies and let the super-sized fries fall where they may. Have fun, that’s my motto, and I’ll see you in Hell.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photography: Ross Hillier (http://rosshillier.com)
Apparently, it’s not looking so good.
I wasn’t sure if the Ten Commandments had rendered the Seven Deadly Sins redundant, so I asked around. My enquiry was mostly met with a kind if glazed expression, followed by a quick check of the watch and rapid re-memory of an urgent proctologist appointment.
I decided to run with the seven. Mainly because there’s less to remember and I prefer Brad Pitt to Charlton Heston.
We all know the seven most reprehensible characteristics are lust, greed, gluttony, pride, envy, sloth and wrath.
I considered these and then considered myself.
My ratings weren’t looking good. Just the other night I was slobbed out on the couch eating my third bag of Cheese Curls, watching a Jessica Simpson movie and wishing I had Apple TV like Mark.
That’s four right there!
I think humanity’s pretty screwed all round. Just looking out my window made me feel better – at least I’ll have company, I thought.
And then I thought that maybe God left out the most inexcusable and common sin of all. Call it the Eighth Deadly Sin, or even better, push it right to the top of the list.
I’m talking about the inexcusable and incredibly annoying trait of attention-seeking.
We used to think that it was only little kids who broke a vase, started crying, or messed around with a Ouija board to get their parents to punch them in the face.
But people everywhere, of every age, seem to think they need a good face-punching.
Psychologist M. Farouk Radwan, of course, lays the blame squarely on the shoulders of parents – mommy didn’t hug you enough and daddy was too busy playing golf to stick your bunny drawings on the fridge.
Narcissists also want your attention all the time, but I tend to ignore them because I know I’m much more interesting.
Children naturally think they’re the centre of the universe, but wouldn’t seeing to their every whim and constantly telling them they special make that worse?
How do we stop ourselves wearing jauntily-angled Emo hats and blaring hip-hop out our car windows? Is my haircut going to draw more attention to me if it’s not the same as everyone else’s? Is it my fault when children point at my hairy ears and shout, “Shrek! Shrek!”?
Through much spiritual reflection and great philosophical reasoning I was comforted by the thought that I’m not a “beautiful and unique snowflake” but merely as poked as everyone else in God’s eyes.
It made it much easier to not change and carry on my heathen-esque existence. Heaven probably wouldn’t be a good idea for me anyway – it’d be full of Christians!
So I’ll just order a double and a side of chillies and let the super-sized fries fall where they may. Have fun, that’s my motto, and I’ll see you in Hell.
Words: Nathan Casey
Photography: Ross Hillier (http://rosshillier.com)
Zen and the Art of Doing the Dishes
My first job in England when I was over in 2003 was washing and polishing plates and cutlery for eight hours a day.
Sounds like a shitty job, and I suppose it was, but one benefit was it gave me a lot of time to think about stuffs. Not things like, “Why am I in such a kak job!”, but things like the meaning of life and why hippos are grey.
The three months before I was promoted were like a crash course in Zen meditation. I would totally zone out, focus on my breathing (and on the polishing), and sink into that calm, ethereal ocean of the subconscious. The only time I took a break was to go for a smoke or make chef a cup of tea.
Chef was a bit of a bastard. If the plates weren’t polished properly (on the bottom too) he’d send the lot back to be redone. The meditation made it possible to laugh about it on the odd occasion it happened, which kind of annoyed him.
The most basic form of meditation is to count your breaths. Inhale and count one, exhale and count two (in your head, not out loud), try to empty your head and focus on the in and out of said breaths, and if you get to ten without your thoughts trailing off then start back at one again – or start again whenever you find you’re thinking about Liz Hurley naked or how broke you are.
This training has since made doing the dishes at home a pleasure. Lucy does pretty much everything else, but she hates the dishes and cleaning the kitchen.
The fact that I have no problems in that department helps her to love me.
All I do is pop some Travelling Wilburys or Wrestlerish (a kick-ass SA band) in the cd player and zonk out – and before you can say Buddha it’s all sparkly.
I think that’s why so many rich people are stressed out and miserable; they just don’t realise the value of a monotonous, menial, mentally-unchallenging job.
It’s the reason lamas don’t give a… well, a llamas ass about money and possessions. They know something we don’t – once you’ve found Enlightenment you don’t need a fancy car to be smug, and you can laugh at all those rat racers perpetuating their own misery.
Sounds like a shitty job, and I suppose it was, but one benefit was it gave me a lot of time to think about stuffs. Not things like, “Why am I in such a kak job!”, but things like the meaning of life and why hippos are grey.
The three months before I was promoted were like a crash course in Zen meditation. I would totally zone out, focus on my breathing (and on the polishing), and sink into that calm, ethereal ocean of the subconscious. The only time I took a break was to go for a smoke or make chef a cup of tea.
Chef was a bit of a bastard. If the plates weren’t polished properly (on the bottom too) he’d send the lot back to be redone. The meditation made it possible to laugh about it on the odd occasion it happened, which kind of annoyed him.
The most basic form of meditation is to count your breaths. Inhale and count one, exhale and count two (in your head, not out loud), try to empty your head and focus on the in and out of said breaths, and if you get to ten without your thoughts trailing off then start back at one again – or start again whenever you find you’re thinking about Liz Hurley naked or how broke you are.
This training has since made doing the dishes at home a pleasure. Lucy does pretty much everything else, but she hates the dishes and cleaning the kitchen.
The fact that I have no problems in that department helps her to love me.
All I do is pop some Travelling Wilburys or Wrestlerish (a kick-ass SA band) in the cd player and zonk out – and before you can say Buddha it’s all sparkly.
I think that’s why so many rich people are stressed out and miserable; they just don’t realise the value of a monotonous, menial, mentally-unchallenging job.
It’s the reason lamas don’t give a… well, a llamas ass about money and possessions. They know something we don’t – once you’ve found Enlightenment you don’t need a fancy car to be smug, and you can laugh at all those rat racers perpetuating their own misery.
It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas Sucks!
I’ve never really had a definitive view on Christmas. Some years I walk around with a gormless, smiley expression, like I’ve been smoking rooibos tea again; and some years it just doesn’t seem like Santa’s going to come at all.
Almost everyone I know is broke already even though the first prezzies haven’t even been bought yet! I think for a lot of us it feels like January, but without the added depression of another Earth-shattering family dispute.
Unless every uncle and auntie pulls out all the stops to remind your mum or gran about how badly that childhood slight emotionally scarred them a hundred years ago, it just doesn’t feel like Jesus was born.
Even the Testament-wrestlers get upset! Banging on about how it’s all so commercial and we should remember that if it wasn’t for God there’s be no turkey sandwiches on Boxing Day – like we all don’t know already and just thought it was a funny coincidence that Jesus was born on the 25th.
I’d almost forgotten, but was reminded last night when I heard a guy in Woodstock singing a Christmas song. Something along the lines of, “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth removed.”
You can sing miserable old hymns all year round, but December is reserved for the more up-tempo but equally depressing Cliff Richard or Elvis track… I lie, of course; I love the Elvis Christmas cd – it makes my bad dancing seem contrived and not merely genetic.
And it’s always interesting to browse music shops and see which artists are hard up for cash.
I think the last, dying breath of any musician is the Christmas album. It might have seemed like a good idea at the time, but there’s nothing that says ‘uncool’ like singing wholesome, happy, holiday tunes. This is the age of Emo – Santa’s got to be a dirty, old man or serial killer.
You can also tell it’s Christmas because shops have got spray-on snow in their windows. In a country that wouldn’t know snow if it fell from the sky, we’re so dying to be American that we fake it for December.
But I think fake happiness over the festive season is better than the alternative. If anything, it’s more of a cliché to be a Grinch.
The people who hate this time of year are probably the same people who hated the World Cup or anything that forces them to see other people happy. Not liking Christmas is kind of like not liking puppies and kittens.
Just think of it as a good excuse to get pissed, eat a lot, and bring up that time your brother played Wrestlemania with your favourite teddy and snapped its head off… I’ll never forgive him for that!
Almost everyone I know is broke already even though the first prezzies haven’t even been bought yet! I think for a lot of us it feels like January, but without the added depression of another Earth-shattering family dispute.
Unless every uncle and auntie pulls out all the stops to remind your mum or gran about how badly that childhood slight emotionally scarred them a hundred years ago, it just doesn’t feel like Jesus was born.
Even the Testament-wrestlers get upset! Banging on about how it’s all so commercial and we should remember that if it wasn’t for God there’s be no turkey sandwiches on Boxing Day – like we all don’t know already and just thought it was a funny coincidence that Jesus was born on the 25th.
I’d almost forgotten, but was reminded last night when I heard a guy in Woodstock singing a Christmas song. Something along the lines of, “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth removed.”
You can sing miserable old hymns all year round, but December is reserved for the more up-tempo but equally depressing Cliff Richard or Elvis track… I lie, of course; I love the Elvis Christmas cd – it makes my bad dancing seem contrived and not merely genetic.
And it’s always interesting to browse music shops and see which artists are hard up for cash.
I think the last, dying breath of any musician is the Christmas album. It might have seemed like a good idea at the time, but there’s nothing that says ‘uncool’ like singing wholesome, happy, holiday tunes. This is the age of Emo – Santa’s got to be a dirty, old man or serial killer.
You can also tell it’s Christmas because shops have got spray-on snow in their windows. In a country that wouldn’t know snow if it fell from the sky, we’re so dying to be American that we fake it for December.
But I think fake happiness over the festive season is better than the alternative. If anything, it’s more of a cliché to be a Grinch.
The people who hate this time of year are probably the same people who hated the World Cup or anything that forces them to see other people happy. Not liking Christmas is kind of like not liking puppies and kittens.
Just think of it as a good excuse to get pissed, eat a lot, and bring up that time your brother played Wrestlemania with your favourite teddy and snapped its head off… I’ll never forgive him for that!
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