Tuesday, June 11, 2013

DIRTY UNDERWEAR


In my last post, I started off with the very titillating, if entirely incorrect, title "FUCK YOU MICHAEL KEATON" and then added a picture of a young lady "going down" humorously on an escalator. What I meant to write, obviously (and I have since changed it to the correct name) is "FUCK YOU MICHAEL DOUGLAS". If you don't know by now that he has been doing his bit to curb the enthusiasm of teens the world over to indulge in 3rd base, then you live under a rock. Personally, and since I don't have a daughter, I am only pissed off that so-called rainbow parties did not exist in my youth. I don't think in my wildest fantasies that adolescent me would have known what hit him...

Anyway, the reason I write to you today is that I feel that I have been neglecting you, my dear, noble, honourable and literate reader(s). Well, truth be told, I have started feeling like I'm just writing for the sake of writing and that the content is becoming stale and predictable. That, and Tarty was nagging for some light entertainment while she chomped her sammitch on her lunch break.

But let me tell you a little story of a weekend, just so that L.I.Am can have a shit, since he so luuuuuurves it when people recount their recent adventures...

Nevermind Friday night and the awesome football. Never mind Friday night and the awesome evening I spent with The Hot Girlfriend.
Let us move straight onto the main course of hard drugs...
Got your attention, have I? Go watch Trainspotting.
Saturday I went shopping. I paid R9 for the privilege of traipsing my unimpressed arse all over the sticky halls of Canal Walk, only to emerge without a new phone contract. The reason? A glass-eyed sales clerk with the spark of a damp cum rag alleging that there was no literature on any of Game's (this includes Vodacom and Cell C) available deals. And none that could be accessed via that wonderful new invention called the intrawebnets. Wunderbra! Tit.
So, rather less impressed, I eventually pitch up at the Old Flat for an evening of revelry and phallic balloons - the purpose of which was to celebrate the dual birthday of that adorable couple: MSG & Dead Elvis.
Fuck, am I glad I didn't go to UCT...
Anyway, MSG was given a Fender Concord Nineteen-Voetsek acoustic guitar. Nice friends... A wee bit overcome, I thought he was going to have a mild seizure. Then Dead Elvis got some or other tickets for some or other show from her brothers and lots of hopping about happened. I love birthdays! Did I mention the huge cock-n-balls balloons? And the matching wrist cuff made from 1000 6-inch nails?

Sunday was an entirely more sophisticated affair, with another inevitable trek out to Tableau Voi, a suburb just aching to be washed to sea, having disregarded the Bible's most basic building principles. Picture it. Dressed appropriately in something straight from a Markhams catalogue, I stood there in water-colour Winter afternoon sun sipping an Amstel and admiring the freshly cut lawn and unpainted vibrocrete. Commander Conker, in his John Deere trucker cap (I shit you not - I couldn't make this up) did an exceptional job braaing enough meat to make at least 5 Lady Gaga ensembles. We spoke of cricket and the rand/dollar exchange rate. We planned shopping expeditions to buy hoodies. We listened to Rose Thorn complain and in the rarest of occurrences, aired the house out after My Sister set fire to whatever was cooking in the oven, rendering it so much ash. Also, I just realised the the words "stove" and "oven" share three consecutive letters. Guess who chose the wrong one first.

And don't get me started on the fucking pooh-flingers. Here's a question? If local government did provide more effective education, would the youth know better than to align themselves with the destabilising force that is the ANC Youth League? Or would historical president still compel then to affiliate themselves with the liberators of 20 years ago? The very same who have single-handedly managed to completely fuck up an entire country with the exception of the ONLY province in which they still fling pooh, merely because the anagram on the letterhead of State is wrong. It's funny, if the Western Cape were an independent republic, these people would be labelled terrorists and traitors. Ah, if only the ANC hadn't so effectively destroyed the rest of the country and its infrastructure, then so many disillusioned, disenfranchised and disadvantaged wouldn't come a knocking at our door, demanding double ply. Did you know, that of the 184 people arrested for illegally gathering, and transporting human feces on a public commuter train (with the express purpose of "dumping" it at the feet of our democratically elected Premiere) all are card-carrying members of the ANCYL? Or so the papers claim. Not one of them had a ticket either. Democracy, then, at its finest. We're all for it, as long as we win!

And speaking of democracy... We live in a land that was lauded, celebrated and saluted for triumph over inequality (at least in theory and the right to vote for the next corrupt bastard). Much of this, even most of this, success can be attributed solely to South Africa's so-called Father, Nelson Mandela, a noble and humble man that did more in his life for his people than anyone I can think of off-hand. He is 94 years old, well past his sell-by date, and the focus of a media frenzy every time he contracts the sniffles. In his old age and frailty, not only must he be disgusted by the systematic destruction of all he stood for and achieved in his life, the disgraceful way that even his family is hopping from one greedy foot to the other over his not-quite-expired carcass, but surely this great man is entitled to some privacy and dignity in his last days. Assuming of course these are his last days... Come on, South Africa. The man has done more for you than any man has done for anyone. How about showing some respect and allowing an icon some peace.

Fucking awful things, us human beings...

Except this guy.

NGDG:  Under different circumstances we could have been friends. Circumstances, you know, in which he wasn't such a little bitch.

Spread The Love. Not The Pooh.

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