In not what you’d really call a representative sample, I surveyed a couple of people I know about what they thought was the most common New Year’s resolution.
Almost 100% said, “To quit smoking!” with authority – as though they’d gone to the trouble I had to actually ask the population.
These days smokers are right up there with paedophiles and Crocs-wearers on the unsavoury list. In movies when someone cracks up a cancer-stick you just know he’s the one who’s going to betray the hero at the end. And when asking for a light you so often get a smug “Oh no, I don’t smoke” response, as though these people donate hours of their time each week to slopping lobster bisque into bowls in a soup kitchen.
When confronted about their discrimination against puffers, these Nazis will sincerely tell you, “Some of my best friends are smokers.”
I kind of gave up on resolving to change something about myself at the beginning of each year; mainly because I was always so pissed when I made the commitment I forgot about it when I woke up on the 2nd of Jan.
I think instead of promising to stop something – like smoking or aiming for pigeons with your car – it’s a better idea pledging to start doing something that will be for the betterment of mankind, the environment, or at least your self-esteem.
It doesn’t even have to be that serious. Maybe something small that will make you a less boring person or expand your horizons – listening to new music, reading more expansively, trying on women’s clothing for a change.
Or you could adopt the Fight Club theory that “self-improvement is masturbation; now self-destruction… well, that might just be the answer we need” and vow to let yourself hit rock-bottom so you can build yourself up into the person you want to be.
Either way, we shouldn’t let society, the surgeon general, or our mothers tell us what we should change in 2011; we should choose something that we want to do and do that instead.
Your Teeth Are Like Stars, They Come Out At Night
I reckon most people who say they’re afraid of clowns are just saying it coz they imagine it’ll make them seem quirky and cool. Pretending to be scared of something designed to make you laugh is the bluntest form of irony – a sign of a below-average sense of humour trying to be big and clever.
For those genuinely afraid of the kiddies’ icecream mascot at Spur – my deepest sympathies.
An old boss of mine was honestly terrified of clowns and rats, so I could only imagine if hordes of rats with painted faces and round, red noses busted in – but we never did get round to orchestrating that.
I know a girl who has a phobia of balloons. I’m sure there’s a proper name for it, but I couldn’t be bothered with Google today.
I don’t have any irrational fears, but I have to admit that the dentist makes me a bit uneasy. It’s not so much the pain or pulling of teeth, or even the judgement as he gazes down disgustedly at Beirut-in-my-mouth. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that’s hard to describe.
The problem starts with the attractive assistant. All men, whether in a relationship or single, want to impress the opposite sex no matter if they’re Jessica Simpson or Susan Boyle. It’s the basest, most shallow, absolute core of our fragile egos.
Having to open your mouth wide enough that a man’s hairy fingers can work around in there is like a cat exposing its weak belly. The reason women don’t find a man eating with his mouth open desirable is coz it’s quite gross inside – it’s like a big arsehole with fangs … not that I’ve peered into many arseholes, but… methinks I shouldn’t protest too much.
Anyway, your mouth’s open and she’s getting a good look at the biltong you munched over the rugby last Saturday, the saliva’s building up and you just know when you swallow your throat is convulsing disgustingly, and then once the dentist has done his thing she hands you a glass of that pink liquid and you’ve got to spit into the weird, metal, slurping funnel. Because your mouth is numb you can’t purse your lips in the right way and most of the slobber ends up dripping down your chin.
Not exactly James Bond.
Needles don’t frighten me, even if, as the pornstar said to the schoolgirl, it’s a gigantic prick, I just zone out and it’s over in a moment. But afterwards when it feels kind of like you’ve gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, or taken part in an outrageous collagen experiment, I can’t help feeling ridiculous.
You can’t drink water without it pouring all over your shirt, and when you get home and check it out in the mirror it’s disturbing to smile and only have half your face react.
But of course, the most terrifying thing about the dentist is the bill. You can’t dispute it because you have no idea what went on in there – like sending your car into a mechanic’s and he tells you the doohizzle-nozzle needs to be removed so he can get to the carbo-percolator.
It’s then that you realise you’re the clown, but with your flobbery lips and spit-shined chin no one’s scared of you.
For those genuinely afraid of the kiddies’ icecream mascot at Spur – my deepest sympathies.
An old boss of mine was honestly terrified of clowns and rats, so I could only imagine if hordes of rats with painted faces and round, red noses busted in – but we never did get round to orchestrating that.
I know a girl who has a phobia of balloons. I’m sure there’s a proper name for it, but I couldn’t be bothered with Google today.
I don’t have any irrational fears, but I have to admit that the dentist makes me a bit uneasy. It’s not so much the pain or pulling of teeth, or even the judgement as he gazes down disgustedly at Beirut-in-my-mouth. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that’s hard to describe.
The problem starts with the attractive assistant. All men, whether in a relationship or single, want to impress the opposite sex no matter if they’re Jessica Simpson or Susan Boyle. It’s the basest, most shallow, absolute core of our fragile egos.
Having to open your mouth wide enough that a man’s hairy fingers can work around in there is like a cat exposing its weak belly. The reason women don’t find a man eating with his mouth open desirable is coz it’s quite gross inside – it’s like a big arsehole with fangs … not that I’ve peered into many arseholes, but… methinks I shouldn’t protest too much.
Anyway, your mouth’s open and she’s getting a good look at the biltong you munched over the rugby last Saturday, the saliva’s building up and you just know when you swallow your throat is convulsing disgustingly, and then once the dentist has done his thing she hands you a glass of that pink liquid and you’ve got to spit into the weird, metal, slurping funnel. Because your mouth is numb you can’t purse your lips in the right way and most of the slobber ends up dripping down your chin.
Not exactly James Bond.
Needles don’t frighten me, even if, as the pornstar said to the schoolgirl, it’s a gigantic prick, I just zone out and it’s over in a moment. But afterwards when it feels kind of like you’ve gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson, or taken part in an outrageous collagen experiment, I can’t help feeling ridiculous.
You can’t drink water without it pouring all over your shirt, and when you get home and check it out in the mirror it’s disturbing to smile and only have half your face react.
But of course, the most terrifying thing about the dentist is the bill. You can’t dispute it because you have no idea what went on in there – like sending your car into a mechanic’s and he tells you the doohizzle-nozzle needs to be removed so he can get to the carbo-percolator.
It’s then that you realise you’re the clown, but with your flobbery lips and spit-shined chin no one’s scared of you.
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 Not Personal, It's Monopoly
It’s like a tree stump in your gut.
Like someone has shoved a great big boxing glove down your throat and is punching you from the inside of your stomach.
It’s kind of like one of those sandworms from the movie Dune is eating its way out through your belly button.
Losing at Monopoly is an excruciating thing.
I’m not talking about having lost – when it’s all over and you’re packing up the board – but sitting in front of a fifty and a couple of fivers, with all your properties mortgaged and glaring red hotels on everyone else’s squares.
This is probably one of the most depressing moments of anyone’s, of any age’s, life.
You shake the dice like a schoolboy in the bushes watching the girls’ netball practice, mumbling the number you need to land on Community Chest or Water Board, closing your eyes as they bounce across the Free Parking money, only to be one move away from another round’s respite.
Landing on your soon-to-be-ex girlfriend’s Eloff Street, you’ve got to fork out what might as well be a hundred billion Rand and the freshly-plucked hairs from the inside of your left ear.
You know you can’t come up with the money, but you look glumly from side-to-side at your lot as though there’s a pile of hundreds you might’ve missed.
Oh, ha ha, it’s just a game, the winners always say; but then why does it feel so kak to lose at Monopoly? It’s not a poker game with real cash! Sure, it might be worth more than Zim Dollars, but you can’t buy as much as a night with a Wynberg Main Road Tranny with it – believe me, I’ve tried.
Robert Kawasaki – or whatever the ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad’ guy’s name is – says you should play Monopoly with your kids a lot because it teaches them how to manage money and ruthlessly fuck over their friends. I played my fair share of Monopoly as a kid and it didn’t do squat – I’m terrible with money!
I think it’s so depressing because being on the Monopoly skids feels real!
It brings back those memories of emptying your piggy bank to buy a loaf of bread and a tin of sweetcorn for dinner, scrounging through jacket pockets for coins to buy a couple of single cigarettes at the corner café, and closing your bank account to get the last R50 so you can buy booze and a piece of rope to get pissed and hang yourself.
It’s a terrible toy; designed to make you feel like a loser.
I always preferred the Mad Magazine Game, the point of which was to lose all your money… funnily enough, I was always very good at that.
Like someone has shoved a great big boxing glove down your throat and is punching you from the inside of your stomach.
It’s kind of like one of those sandworms from the movie Dune is eating its way out through your belly button.
Losing at Monopoly is an excruciating thing.
I’m not talking about having lost – when it’s all over and you’re packing up the board – but sitting in front of a fifty and a couple of fivers, with all your properties mortgaged and glaring red hotels on everyone else’s squares.
This is probably one of the most depressing moments of anyone’s, of any age’s, life.
You shake the dice like a schoolboy in the bushes watching the girls’ netball practice, mumbling the number you need to land on Community Chest or Water Board, closing your eyes as they bounce across the Free Parking money, only to be one move away from another round’s respite.
Landing on your soon-to-be-ex girlfriend’s Eloff Street, you’ve got to fork out what might as well be a hundred billion Rand and the freshly-plucked hairs from the inside of your left ear.
You know you can’t come up with the money, but you look glumly from side-to-side at your lot as though there’s a pile of hundreds you might’ve missed.
Oh, ha ha, it’s just a game, the winners always say; but then why does it feel so kak to lose at Monopoly? It’s not a poker game with real cash! Sure, it might be worth more than Zim Dollars, but you can’t buy as much as a night with a Wynberg Main Road Tranny with it – believe me, I’ve tried.
Robert Kawasaki – or whatever the ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad’ guy’s name is – says you should play Monopoly with your kids a lot because it teaches them how to manage money and ruthlessly fuck over their friends. I played my fair share of Monopoly as a kid and it didn’t do squat – I’m terrible with money!
I think it’s so depressing because being on the Monopoly skids feels real!
It brings back those memories of emptying your piggy bank to buy a loaf of bread and a tin of sweetcorn for dinner, scrounging through jacket pockets for coins to buy a couple of single cigarettes at the corner café, and closing your bank account to get the last R50 so you can buy booze and a piece of rope to get pissed and hang yourself.
It’s a terrible toy; designed to make you feel like a loser.
I always preferred the Mad Magazine Game, the point of which was to lose all your money… funnily enough, I was always very good at that.
Voldemort is an African
A guy was arrested last week with a bucket of body parts – an old man’s head, a baby’s torso, and arms and legs from another infant.
These were to be sold for muti.
People in Europe and America will be shocked by such things, but here in South Africa the story was on page 5 of the paper.
In Angola, albinos are hunted because sangomas – witchdoctors – pay big money for their limbs, which are believed to hold magical qualities.
The Oxford dictionary defines muti as a Zulu word that means traditional African medicine or magical charms. It specifically means African medicine using body parts.
A report by Under The Same Sun reveals that if the body parts are taken from a live victim, it is believed the screams enhance the muti’s effectiveness or magical qualities.
Muti is said to solve anything from money troubles to health issues, and body parts are traded across African borders for large sums of cash.
Muti is big business.
This evil underworld is, obviously, incredibly secretive; but earlier this year it was discovered that “you get just R10,000 for coming with a person”, Simon Fellows, project manager for the Mozambique Human Rights League, told the Argus in March this year of information received from the sister-in-law of a victim in KZN.
The sister-in-law said that the person’s eyes, nipples, clitoris and tongue were removed.
"Based on the accounts we received, there is internal trafficking and cross-border trafficking, but it is difficult to establish where the body parts are going. There is talk in South Africa that witchdoctors come in from outside." Fellows said.
There is a UN Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, but this barely covers organ trafficking. The Under The Same Sun report states that “in essence the protocol prevents human trafficking in the event that the victim is alive and the purpose of movement of that victim is to remove body parts. The protocol does not cover the issue of movement of body parts that have been removed without any… coercive elements…”
This problem does not have a legal solution. At the risk of sounding ethnocentric, this can only be solved through a massive change in cultural beliefs, and with so much anti-Western sentiment on this continent it is not something overseas human rights organisations can tackle – the change must come from within.
These were to be sold for muti.
People in Europe and America will be shocked by such things, but here in South Africa the story was on page 5 of the paper.
In Angola, albinos are hunted because sangomas – witchdoctors – pay big money for their limbs, which are believed to hold magical qualities.
The Oxford dictionary defines muti as a Zulu word that means traditional African medicine or magical charms. It specifically means African medicine using body parts.
A report by Under The Same Sun reveals that if the body parts are taken from a live victim, it is believed the screams enhance the muti’s effectiveness or magical qualities.
Muti is said to solve anything from money troubles to health issues, and body parts are traded across African borders for large sums of cash.
Muti is big business.
This evil underworld is, obviously, incredibly secretive; but earlier this year it was discovered that “you get just R10,000 for coming with a person”, Simon Fellows, project manager for the Mozambique Human Rights League, told the Argus in March this year of information received from the sister-in-law of a victim in KZN.
The sister-in-law said that the person’s eyes, nipples, clitoris and tongue were removed.
"Based on the accounts we received, there is internal trafficking and cross-border trafficking, but it is difficult to establish where the body parts are going. There is talk in South Africa that witchdoctors come in from outside." Fellows said.
There is a UN Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, but this barely covers organ trafficking. The Under The Same Sun report states that “in essence the protocol prevents human trafficking in the event that the victim is alive and the purpose of movement of that victim is to remove body parts. The protocol does not cover the issue of movement of body parts that have been removed without any… coercive elements…”
This problem does not have a legal solution. At the risk of sounding ethnocentric, this can only be solved through a massive change in cultural beliefs, and with so much anti-Western sentiment on this continent it is not something overseas human rights organisations can tackle – the change must come from within.
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