Friday, September 14, 2012


As opposed to "commando". I hear it's liberating.
Another thing I hear is liberating is a change. As good as a holiday some say. So I thought I'd speculate on a change in what I do for a living.

Professional striker sounds like just the ticket - I'll attach myself to whatever high profile strike is on the news at the time, stand at the back of the crowd so I don't have to toyi-toyi, spend lunch sleeping under a tree and get a massive raise. And goodness knows there are more than enough strikes going on continually. It's the only growing industry left in South Africa and I for one am quite excited at the prospect of some light dancing and destruction of public property resulting in an ever increasing income flow. Us South Africans really are "glass half full types"!

Coz you gotta get your chips up.

Coz our dear buddy and resident Lothario - the one that likes him a shoot out at the OK kraal - Prez 4 Lifebouy, yesterday explained democracy quite succinctly during a parliamentary session: The majority has more rights than the minority. By definition. Because they are the majority. And the minority, because they are less, have less rights. Than the majority. Who are more. So they have more rights. Now, unless he is talking very literally about hands or feet, I fear that he has just let the cat out of the bag. The cat that - smiling like it's originally from Cheshire - simply doesn't give enough of a fuck anymore to disguise the contempt in which we, the citizens, are held.

And.then.there.are.the.dumbfuck.halfwits who don't know about fake shit on the intrawebnets. Apparently intelligent people who insist on reposting old, tired, fake, trolled bullshit and in so doing perpetuating falsehoods and inflaming opinionated rhetoric just because they are too lazy or too ignorant to make sure that whatever sensationalist bullshit they're regurgitating is for real. Some days I just can't believe that people I know - who wouldn't buy the Heat Magazine, or Die Son for that matter - would lower themselves well beyond the online equivalent. It boggles the mind. Mind you, if like the TV, the internet says it's true, then it must be so...

Anyway, we're getting off topic here. I was talking about becoming a professional striker. Alas, I spent my entire childhood playing amateur club football as a defender and my most memorable moment was running onto the field at Hartleyvale 3 minutes into the game because I was so nervous for the cup final that I had to make a quick pooh first. We won eventually. Maybe I should have thought of adopting that as an idiosyncratic ritual. I'd probably have scored more that the princely total of 5 (including a hat tirck and an own goal) goals in ten years. Ah, if only. I hear professional strikers get paid top dollar. And they, like our local workforce, are permanently getting raises. I just don't know if I can get that level of immature petulance down. I'd need acting classes.

[Disclaimer: for those of you among my vast, erudite, and respectful readership that recognise this post for what it is, I sincerely hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have suffered, often on the brink of personal sacrifice, to bring it to you. But please, for the love of all things holy, unholy, or just plain "couldn't care either way", do NOT read anything prejudiced into any of the above. Do NOT indulge your trigger-finger inclinations to make any sort or sympathetic (leave the "sym" out if you so wish) racist remark, pro or con. You will be deservedly told to fuck off. Politely. After we all point and laugh at you until we find something more amusing. Like paint.]

NGDG: It's been a long day. Kick off those shoes and do a hopscotch in your steamy socks on the cool laminate flooring. See the footprints? Like a dance-instruction chart. Everyone needs a little tango in the evening.

Spread The Love. Hou My Vas Of Ek Skop n Goal.

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