Monster Moan

Seriously.

MONSTER moan...

Seriously.

Fuck today.

It's been going 2 hours too long already...

Irreverent Friday - the Middle Finger theory...

Well, well, well…
Another Friday. Another springboard into the weekend. Another reason to spit in the eye of convention and do what YOU want to for a change.
The nice thing about being basically cowardly is the lack of bruises. As the working week rapidly draws to its natural, beer-flavoured conclusion and fades in the rear-view mirror, it becomes easier and easier to raise that middle finger of “aggravation turned to satisfaction” and push the accelerator of “sod off you bastards”.
So.
I am going to watch the much anticipated Anaphys launch tomorrow night at Albert Hall in the ‘Stock. Details here: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=144170332273422&index=1
For the rest I think it’s a fair assumption that I shall valiantly be trying to block everything and everyone out with copious amounts of booze. Perhaps I should give Tequila Tart a call…

I hope you all have an absolutely fantazmagorical weekend. Irreverently so.

Spread the love - with a spade.

Wednesday gonna break?

I have been told on many, many occasions that I have what people lovingly refer to as 'Wednesday legs'. As in 'Wednesday gonna break?’ I happen to think having long scrawny legs rocks.
Until this morning. How fortuitous to have this happen to me on an actual Wednesday then...
I'm in agony. Played football last night and have a new found respect for shinpads. I've been taking them for granted for far too long. Not only did the opposing team kick the crap out of me, I did it to myself! I actually managed to kick my own ankle with my own studs. Now that takes some skill...

Then when I got home I found an actual Italian in the pantry - whoohoo! It's the only explanation I could possibly come up with for the delectable bolognaise I made. And I HATE cooking. Like, like, like, like vehemently. Like Donald Trump hates the hairdresser. Like Mugabe hates British Colonialists. Like everybody hates emos, including emos.
But I might just have a signature dish here. You know, to add to my ever expanding culinary arsenal of "bacon and eggs"...

Have a great Wednesday all, and the answer to the question is "they just did".

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Irreverent Friday - the new plan.

If I had 5c for every time some idiot quoted (or misquoted) a cartoon series catchphrase or similar on Facebook or Twitter, I'd be a millionaire. And not the Zimbabwean kind.

Seems people have lost the ability to be original, unless they're being extremely irreverent, which is the other favourite. We don't count the 3rd category of person, the one that incessantly gives each other f*cking flowers or hearts.

Losers.

Anyway, that being said, the news of the day is that one of my fellow intrepid blogger boggers is auditioning for Survivor South Africa 2010. I really hope it's being hosted on some pristine, if naturally scary, beach or piece of bushveld. Anyway, as said blogger is going to be "out of the office" (holding thumbs), I thought maybe I could blog their progress on their behalf.


Can you imagine, ANOTHER daily update/reminder/creepy stalker following thread on the sordid goings-on that happen on an episode of Survivor. What I don't understand is how engaging it is. I mean, I get the attraction of watching other people suffer (us humans are nothing if not all slightly mean), but none of these people are drinking! That's not particularly good viewing! Imagine them all drunk all the time - now that WOULD be entertaining! Especially the physically and mentally taxing challenges. They could win more booze, thereby keeping the circle going (bigger?). Smacks of old farming methods actually, probably shouldn't even mention it then...


Anyway, hope you all have an amazing weekend. Roll on beer'o'clock!


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Voice Of Rock live radio streaming up!

Exciting! Exciting!

Go here: http://www.voiceofrock.com/ to enjoy all the hard rock and metal to fit your daily requirements. You'll need to sign up / log in, and it is oh so worth it. Forget about the video, VOICE OF ROCK killed the radio jock!

No more Gareth Cliff and pseudo-RnB playlist crapola!

In related news, I am proud to announce the date for this years animal welfare charity event. We have successfully managed to secure Mercury Live for the 5th of Novenber and the evening will feature the very considerable talents of Terminatryx, Cold Hand Chemistry and Witness To Wolves. Watch this space for all the exciting developments!

Ok, bugger you lot, I'm going to listen to Voice Of Rock now...

Spread the love \m/

Suzanna Hoffs vs Darth Vader

She of the Bangles fame and the owner of the sexiest "oooh I'd do things to you" voice in rock n roll. Might have had a hit with a song about Mondays. Not unlike the Boomtown Rats, only with cooler lyrics...

VS

Darth Vader has nothing to do with Mondays. But hopefully the absolute randomness will give you an insight into my current frame of mind...

So we're off to a flyer this week, folks. Well, not really. My eyes are glued shut and my intestines are discussing a COSATU style strike. Why do I do this to myself I hear you bleating. Circumstances, dear gentle reader, circumstances...
Friday night started and ended with a very friendly (no not THAT friendly, bastards) guy feeding me shots whilst I was trying with increasing difficulty to focus on the bands I had gone out to watch. Lots and lots of shots and suddenly I find myself drunk texting (first time I promise). Woke up as if I had been shot in a particulalry bad dream - to confused and confusing replies...
Saturday evening was spent in the opulent surroundings of a friend's bachelor mega-pad for his birthday party. Best party music playlist thing ever, but then we have virtually identical taste in music. Follow up said party with a jaunt, much to my tired and aching disagreement, to a local kiddiejol for some dancing at 3 in the morning, and you end up with a hugely grumpy old bastard standing in the corner and nursing a Coca Cola. I do not dance. Especially when cursed with an unfortunate bout of sobriety. And I despise being the designated driver. I am decidedly UNfun when I have to be and would rather tear my face off.
So, a most pleasant Moanday to you all, may your woes and tribulations evaporate like the Atlantic Seaboard mist...

Now, to find out what my dronk sms was all about...

Spread the luuuurve.

Irreverent Friday the 13th!

So...
Today is supposed to be the day of ghouls and goblins. And chainsaw wielding madmen in ice hockey masks. Pffft! The traffic on the N2 is way more terrifying...
Or local politics...

And in the spirit of all things irreverent, I am going to go a step further and post this post with nothing particularly irreverent in it. No NSFW images or clever quips denouncing the virtues of the virtuous.

And I'm going to put a picture of a wedding cake replete with "the good wife" and "the happy groom" figurines. Not that that has anything to do with today.

Enjoy your Irreverent Friday the 13ths y'all!

Spread the love wedding cake style.

Gut Busters

So there I was, loitering on the corner of Roeland and Buitenkant last night, when my good buddy JDP came zooting up the street under a brand new black helmet and astride his classic vintage Vespa. I didn’t know he had just bought it and didn’t even recognize him. Good laugh seeing him sitting there like a slightly inebriated meerkat as he took off Vespa-rado style…

That was a good gut-buster. This morning was a different story.

But let’s start at the beginning.

After 22 plus years of being the poster child for Stuyvesant Filter, I quit smoking just over a year ago and was astonished to find that I’d picked up a couple of kilos. All of which have apparently manifested themselves in a boep as new as JDP’s Vespa. So I’ve been putting off the ‘7 Minute Abs’ for some time now, and when another friend, Sheik Yerbouti, mentioned that they were starting a new tummy crunch fitness routine, I miraculously decided to match their endeavours. Something along the lines of “How ever many you do, I’ll do as well…”
Now there’s no telling if SY will be telling me the truth and thereby forcing me to do X amount of sit ups every morning, but let’s for the sake of this missive, assume that they do in fact do as many as they claim.
The first thing I had to figure out was where to do these damn ab crunches. Bathroom floor proved disastrous. Even with my legs hooked/dangling over the bath edge. No purchase. My first 20 or so crunches were less “crunch” and more “slide around looking stupid”. Off to the lounge then, where I finally settled on hooking my feet under the couch and could eventually get on with my exercise.
For the love of all things holy! This is going to be a long and arduous journey back to Sixpackville. It was excruciating. Somehow, when I was doing this in the Army, I could do millions (in my mind). I was flat out on my back puffing and wheezing and wondering who was punching me in my boep after a mere 12 or so. I lost count when I was on the verge of blacking out (possibly somewhere around 23) but I had a challenge to meet!
Successfully, if somewhat sneakily, I got there in the end and kinda sideways slithered my way back to the bathroom. The mirror revealed no progress whatsoever, so I soaked under the hot shower and tried not to cry…

Irrelevent Friday

After having gone through a number of other blogs, it has become apparent that in order to become part of the blogging community, one must post at least one picture of Paris What's-her-face...
Irreverent? Irrelevent? Poh-tay-toe, poh-tah-toe...
The problem with having an actual life, as opposed to merely reading about others', is that come the end of the week you're totalled.
After a week full of fun (and some very not so fun) activities, I'm utterly knackered. I feel as if I've been stampeded by Satan's herd of bastard bovine.
Do you think that'll stop me? Not a chance...
Or more accurately, I have planned to relax and take things as chilled as humanly possible this weekend, but know that these well laid plans will all mean shit the minute an opportunity comes up for some revelry.
So, everyone. Have an awesome long weekend. And to ALL the luuuuuuurvely ladies out there, have a very happy and blessed Women's Day! Next stop, Cleavage Day!
...maybe it should have been Irevelrent Friday.
Jeesh, can you tell I'm finished?
Stick a fork in me and spread the love.

Pub Quiz Nights - the new black!

Oh how I both love and loathe Pub Quiz Nights. The loathe part kicks in right about now with Mr Monumental Hangover and f*ckall recollection of the last part of the evening. The love part comes in whilst you’re participating, drinking and hanging out with like-minded people.
Your LMG (Live Music Guide) hosts what has very quickly become a very popular Pub Quiz Evening almost weekly. I felt obliged to enter a team of misfits and the rest is history.
It’s incredible how competitive one can become in such a situation. Although the other teams all include friends or acquaintances, I find myself slinging insults around with much gusto (obviously the booze helps a little in this regard).
We have never won. Which is unfortunate. But that’ll change. As long as there are always questions involving fish…
Anyway, back to the antics of last night. A favourite topic of discussion of mine made its way to the fore once again. Let me tell you I love my friends. The topic was how there is a disparity in the way different women view the act of fellatio. Personally I’m a big fan and can’t understand when met with any sort of resistance to the suggestion. I have always kinda assumed all women totally f*cking dig doing it. Much to my disgust I have met one or 2 that don’t. Which is a world gone topsy-turvy!
Anyway, I’ll let you imagine the rest of the conversation. And thanks to my mates and LMG for a spectacular evening.
Next week, on Monster From The Blog…

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Chicks and the World Cup

I love technology! Not that I understand how it works. The only thing I have managed to glean about the secret inner workings under the hood of my car are the things that have gone wrong.
I don’t care how things work, just that they work. So when Instant Messaging reared its cheeky little head and opened up a whole new world of communication, I was immediately hooked. Consider how awesome it is to chat without having to look interested or look someone in the eye... Many, many conversations have taken place over the ether, some saucy, some simply conversational, some constructive and some really, really funny. Like this last one I HAVE to tell you about.

You see I have this (very successful, charming and talented) friend…
We were comparing his love life history to the World Cup.
The South African chicks he dated were out early, but had some great shots.
The German chick’s defence was impenetrable, but was almost broken through. I almost literally pissed myself when he came up with that analogy…
Anyway, the Italian was constantly on the attack.
The Portuguese only had a short lived, but very successful campaign.
The Austrian also made a brief appearance, but was kicked out in the group stages.
And then there was the English. You know, the “one” that is usually the most hyped up. He had the following to say: Moaned too much, full of expectation, but no longevity and a lot of transfer speculation…
Well, my friend, just remember not to get caught offside with the next one, you’ll be penalized.
Ps It was FAAAAAR too easy to slip in something about “blowing” a vuvuzela, so I left it out…

pss, I also decided to leave out the "Brazilian" comment.

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Meat Market

Dear gentle reader.
I am not single. I spent most of Sunday particularly thankful for that fact...

Let me enlighten you.
One of my best mates came around to help me with my PC on Saturday evening (long story, don't get me started on my PC illiteracy) and it turned into me making him dinner. (He's probably blogging about food poisoning right now.) Anyway, buddy-boy has been single for some time now after a lengthy relationship and is quite keen to go out and meet a suitable young lady on whom to lavish his attentions.

So I stupidly agree to go along and play wingman.

The sense of desperation was un-f*cking-believable! Everybody was eyeing everybody else, sizing them up. I had the unfair advantage of not giving a f*ck, as my far better half was at home keeping the bed warm, so I managed a bit of objectivity. Admittedly I did some boob-staring, but that was strictly so I wouldn't seem out of place, you know...
It seems no-one in this fine establishment had heard of "beggars can't be choosers" for as much ogling as was going on, it was Strike Out City. Everyone wants the hottest chick or guy to make out with even if they certainly aren't. TV has f*cked up our generation's level of expectation.

And let me tell you this place was full. It was so full there was a queue outside (in this cold) of hopefuls. Which makes the phenomenon of being inside a teeming cesspit of desperate bodies and NOT scoring even more perplexing. Bodies are brushing up against each other with the general flow of people to and from the dancefloor and bar, however, barely an acknowledgement of contact between anyone...

Oh and do not get me started on the music either. At the end of the night I had come to the conclusion that all of these singles had been dumped for their pathetic music tastes.

Anyway, I delighted in blotting out the experience with copious amounts of alcohol yesterday, so I am sorely hung over right now - Happy Monster Moanday!