Friday, December 2, 2011


It has. Believe me. Look at all the comments people leave on each others' cyberwalls, remarks that are designed solely to make the reader believe that the author is a debonair, suave, cynical, jaded and world wise cat. In some cases it serves merely to illustrate what an utter dickhole the author is, or in most cases the tenuous grasp most people have on the correct application of the English language. See what I'm doing here? Where's your wall...?

But let's stick to the importance of Fridays. Fridays are not considered working days by those of us fortunate enough to live full time in the Mother City. Fridays are generally merely considered a minor inconvenient obstacle between Phuza Thursdays and the weekend. No work gets done. No emails get answered. Boozy lunches are the order of the day and rarely does anyone return to work afterwards. One of these days we'll just stay at home and get all our "weekend chores" out of the way on a Friday so we can get to the important business of unadulterated hedonistic pleasure all of Saturday and Sunday. Never mind the laundry.

Seriously though, with the amount of actual work being done in an average working week (for the most part - graphic designers at this time of year don't count) we may as well revert to a 4 day week and a little less time on the intrawebnets for our personal entertainment. Next thing you know, Cosatu has my suggestion my the balls and is lobbying for the abolition of Farmville, Minesweeper and various xxx-rated NSFW sites.

So, as most of you have heard ad nauseum, I have recommenced the torture of trying to rid myself of this here beergut. Cutting down on my beer intake is ludicrous, obviously, so jogging it is then. The favourite pastime of Satanists, paedophiles and unofficial television repo men. It must be doing me some physical good, because I'm in agony. A situation that was exacerbated by last night's fun activity. I was roped into a chain gang helping Tarty Farty Tequila Party paint the inside of her house before moving out. Many hands make light work. My hands, however, are on the end of my considerable wingspan, a result of being roughly 6foot 3. In last night's Chocolate Factory, the rest of my fellow Oompa Loompas weren't much above 5foot 6, not any of them. Guess who Jane Fonda'ed his way up and down, on and off a rickety chair last night doing all the "high" painting no one else had a hope of reaching. I feel like I've just completed a step class administered by Billy Blanks. Using my stomach muscles as a convenient barrier to his TaeBo punching workout. Perhaps a gang of Cape Flats taggers armed with spray cans full of white paint would be a suggestion.

I am also going to suggest a serious bout of retail therapy for myself this weekend. And follow my instructions to the letter. After a nap.

NGDG: "I'm grateful that the parentals have started checking in with me for approval on all extravagant purchases before they squander my inheritance."

Spread The Love. It's Friday. Get Naked.

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