Excitement abounds! I am on leave as of 4pm this afternoon as I gear up to celebrate the passing (like death, not like gas) of another year. I'm closer to death, and closer to finally finding out which side of the religious debates that rage on FaeceBoobs turns out to be the right one. Damn I hope I chose wisely. Anyway, I hope to go pretty soon, and wake up with such an afterlife hangover that it really doesn't matter which side won.
That might happen this Sunday, although it may dent the plans for the rest of the weekend.
Specially flying in for this most auspicious occasion is the South African version of Dr Rockso. He does cocaine. He also happens to be my derailed Cuz from up Norff. We share a birthday, so it's a double barrelled birthday celebration. We share a surname, which doesn't quite explain the vast gulf in class, but at least explains the fact that a lot of people think we're both quite clever chaps. We share a disdain for lesser mortals. Of which there are many. Obviously if you cracked an invite to this party, you are within the minuscule elite that is not beneath our contempt.
Yet there are still some people who haven't bothered indicating their intentions on the FaeceBoobs event. Yes, yes, I know. RSVPing is gay. Like place settings at dinner parties and playlists with Abba on them. But I need to know who to be upset with when they don't pitch and I'm left cradling DrHellCuz's drooling head in my lap as I comfort him through his drug induced meltdown. Someone else will have to bring Nine Inch Nails. I believe that's the accepted soundtrack for that sort of thing. You know, general disappointment and swaying back and forth hugging your knees...
Or. We could do what we do every year and test the physical limits of our livers, kidneys and senses of humour. Yup, that sounds infinitely better.
That's if Daft Rob doesn't pitch up on Friday night again, a day early for the party. Robin, we are having a potjie on Friday night. You are not invited, although after last time my parents would probably love another evening being regaled with outlandish tales of the absurd. Just don't wear your Winnie The Pooh costume again.
And, if I don't die, we're going to have Sunday roast with Rose Thorn. Whoohoo!
But first it's the Brother-In-Awe's birthday din dins tonight. All rather civilised compared to the Star Wars party he had on the weekend. Everyone was like, "Ah I see your Schwartz is as big as mine!"
And the inevitable panicked rush to get the house in some presentable state for the descending of the masses. Its permanent state of mid-renovation has to be hastily under rug swept yet again to accommodate guests. I hope no one sits on the new kitchen counters - they're liable to collapse.
Anyway, onward and upward. One more hour and it's beer o'clock. I have been informed that this is normal practice.
Oh, and did I mention the Swans have announced the imminent release of a new studio album. I think I soiled myself this morning when I heard. No, really...
NGDG: "Don't think about a blue tree! bluetreebluetreebluetree. Don't look at pictures of the cannibal victim's half eaten face! Curse you, insubordinate inclinations."
Spread The Love. Happy Birthday, Mr President!
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