NAUGHTY OR NICE

If I was Santa, we would definitely have to redefine what exactly constitutes "naughty" vs "nice" behaviour. In my rather limited experience, the naughty can be very nice. Actions AND outfits... Thankfully we do not live in a restrictive era. Imagine the mission it must have been to undo the yards and yards of billowing underwear just to find out you still required the services of a weed whacker. And that was just a few hundred years back. Must have been awful, especially since personal hygiene was also low on the agenda. And no internets! How did they even know what to do?!

So, what did I get up to this weekend, I hear you all asking. Well Friday Tarty Farty Tequila Party was lucky enough to sample some of my now legendary cuisine. A situation reversed last night, when I went over to her new digs to do some DIY. She lives on a road that has the (depends how look at it) most awesome/awkward name ever...

Saturday morning I was treated to an awesome breakfast at Ons Huisie in Blouberg by my better half. Yum. For both... I might as well have been in Mosselbay. I have never ventured further than the lawn of the Blue Peter in that area, so, much like a child that doesn't get out much, there was a constant stream of new stimuli. Then I embarked on what can only be equated to the Corneto Ad on the telly. You know, the one where the dude does all these romantic gestures and gets moered by his mates. We walked, arm-in-arm, hand-in-hand all the way along the beach to Big Bay, which looks nothing like it did in 1992, which is the last time I can remember being there. It's now nothing more than a gaudy mall full of restaurants and no atmosphere.

Then it was time for Axxon practice. The drumkit wasn't available. The drummer was. Cue the first full practice in history featuring "air-drumming". I almost peed myself. Unlike most "air-guitarists" who imagine themselves to be doing a fairly accurate job of mimicking whatever is wafting from the speakers and are sorely mistaken, our drummer actually played along perfectly. But wait there's more. We all went from practice to Terminatryx's CD Launch of their new disc Remyx V1.0. And our drummer won the guitar they were giving away! Scenes of incredulity and high fives all round. Terminatryx put on an intimate show for a selected few guests to showcase some of the new remixes on the album and play some of the more raunchy, original versions - all in all a wonderfully entertaining evening.

Please be aware that when I comment on newsworthy happenings, it's not because I follow the news, it's merely pieced together from comments left on friends' FB walls. I wasn't even aware of SA's latest mule crisis until quickly switching on the telly to see the weather forecast this morning, so don't know the details, but the following comment made by someone I know was priceless and too good not to share: "Doesn't trying to carry 5kg of meth into Red China in your luggage kinda mean you should be a victim of Natural Selection?"

Personally I think it's just a huge misunderstanding in our trade agreement...

Yes folks, it is definitely that time of the year again. A time to toast our achievements. A time to reflect on our failures. And a time to see how many fucking events we can cram into an already overfull calender. Don't you know I can't be at 3 places at once? Don't you know how much trouble i have choosing? Don't you know I suffer from acute Tremendous Missalitis?

At least the roads are a little quieter on the way to work. School is indeed out for Summer. Pity the damn Vaalies are descending en masse. Go away. Unless you're the Meyodies. And one or 2 others...

Speaking of, here's Neal Goldwyer's Daily Gem: "I have a new phone which is as unfathomable as a mechanical loom to a Luddite. I have one contact, but my number remains the same so texts with your name and shoe size are welcome."

Spread The Love. Elsewhere. Bastards.

INCONTINENTLY IRREVERENT - 4 MORE FRIDAYS THIS YEAR.

Heavens NO! Hell YEAH!!!

So far this week I've managed to avoid commenting on the state of our comedy-fodder politics. I present to you the COP17 climate summit. Dignitaries from around the globe congregate in order to spend their vast expense accounts and listen to so-called experts bleat about a meteorological phenomenon no-one can realistically do anything about. Then resolve to do everything about it until next week, when we're back to our loot 'n' burn methods. Our president Zuma, he of the shower/taxi/Lifebouy Zapiro cartoon attacks, was magnanimous enough to engage with some environmentalists activists, who promptly got moered for asking the wrong questions. Or pointing out the obvious flaws in whatever hair brained resolution had been reached. I got bored and stopped reading. The point is it's kak PR to allow the world's press to televise a bunch of para-military thugs putting the boot into a bunch of treehugging hippy crap. Surely the art of diplomacy has taught us to do our dirty deeds behind closed doors. Or have the powers that be just become that blase? And don't get me wrong, I'm all for the environment, I recycle and have a herb garden. It's just that these political schmooze-fests never achieve anything except to annoy everyone. Good intentions. Road to hell. All that. Wankers.

And whilst I'm on a bit of a rant, let's bring up the astonishing state of "service delivery" in our fair land. And I'm not talking about the type of service delivery - or lack thereof - that leads to projectile bricks, burning barricades of tyres (particularly good for the environment), or hopping up and down ululating. I am not in a position to comment because thankfully I do not share these hardships. My gripe is with the shocking level of service in shopping malls. Seeing that it's that time of year we commemorate the greed of the commerce sector, I recently found myself in a boutique shop in a mall. I had struggled to find what I was looking for until the kind lady in the shop offered to manufacture it for me. We'd discussed design and agreed upon a price, and I left very chuffed with the whole situation. After 3 weeks of calling to see when the damn things would be ready for collection I finally got the go ahead to pick them up. Super stoked with the outcome and totally amped to be able to give this amazing gift to someone, I was disgusted to find the price had increased. I queried this and was told bluntly that was what I'd been quoted so take it or leave it. Needless to say they didn't make their sale. The problem I have is twofold. Firstly I come off as some pauper that can't afford to just shrug off the added expense. This, for the record, is not true. Secondly, if this sort of dodgy business ethic is tolerated, it will simply continue. Strike me down for standing up for the principle. What sucks is that I've pretty much cut off my nose to spite my own face and I'm fucking disappointed because the product was so amazing. Still...

So now I'm thoroughly dejected and down. And I have to start the whole ugly process over. Maybe a bit of Elmer Fudd will cheer me up. Here he is with Wabbit SLAYER.

And on that golden note, enjoy your weekends everyone. Remember to avoid drinking at all costs if there's a chance you have to drive anywhere. The price of a taxi is a mere fraction of the cost of legal bills to avoid the Polsmoor Lovefest. The therapy if the legal assistance doesn't work is even more costly and never entirely effective.

There will be roadblocks. There is a zero tolerance stance being adopted. Do not take any chances.

NGDG: "Tonight we're going to drink so hard that all the hard-drinking, hell-fighting gods of history will fall from the sky like effervescent tablets in a watery dusk, leaving only flecks of mud that we'll wipe from our upturned hysterical faces."

Thank you Master Goldwyer! Good Fellas is gonna make a fortune this weekend.

Spread The Love. Show Me Yours And I'll Show You Mine.

MY PACE IS THE MOST AMAZINGEST.

The world and all the scurrying little creatures in it moves at its - and their - own dictated pace. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but NEVER in sync with MY pace. When is the world (and all the little scurrying creatures in it) going to realise that it needs to adjust itself to MY pace and not vice verse? I mean, come on!

If it's not some feeble octogenarian hogging the fast lane when I'm late for work, or a gossiping gaggle of tannies at the tills in Checker in Seapoint, then it's people that want something done in record time or, even better, those that don't deliver fast enough.

It's that time of year when the whole world wants to conclude business by the 15th of December so they can get on with the time honoured traditions of sunning their beer boeps around a boerie braai at the cricket, or trying to kill each other on the roads en route to some coastal place where they're not welcome. Dragging their idiotic offspring and silly caravans with them. "Jinne mama. Kyk net daai seun se haar styl!"

I've hit a train-of-thought cul-de-sac...

So tonight is the last Dinner Club of the year. It's a collaborative effort. I still don't know what I'm supposed to be supplying. I took a guess and decided to buy a very large jar of apple sauce (we're having gammon) and promptly forgot to buy it when I went to the shops. Maybe I'll pick something up on the way. I might be in the dwang otherwise...

In other news, today marks the anniversary of the needless and tragic death of a true rock legend. R.I.P. Dimebag - you are still fondly remembered and sorely missed. Wonder what his thoughts would have been on Wubstep.

NGDG: "I would appreciate due warning before the common area has its fecundity enhanced with bovine excrement."

Spread The Love. On A Vaalie. With A Half Brick.

[*Disclaimer: Except the Vaalies I know.]

COMPLAINTS DEPARTMENT

Things I don't like:

1. Jack Parow is allowed to fuck, and impregnate, Jenna Pietersen.


2. A colony of necromantic badgers has taken up residence in my mouth and are currently doing a homeless hobo naked version of a pornographic nativity play.


3. Everything hurts.


4. The glory-bound Team Burger King was cheated out of winning at last night's LMG Pub Quiz. I smell a conspiratorial rat.


5. People moan too much when they are offered a variety of entertainment. "You can't please all the people all the time..."


6. It's raining. In Cape Town. In December.


7. The fact that I'm actually moaning makes me no better than all the moaning, suburban, entitled little bastards I'm moaning about.


8. I don't have 'The Cure - Reflections' in my grubby paws yet.


9. Every time I am asked to compile a wish list for potential gifts, I end up only being able to remember things so rare and exotic that I know no one will ever be able to find them.


10. I hate it when I am restricted from buying my friends and family Christmas gifts.


11. Have I mentioned the hangover?


12. And the rather disappointing 4th place finish at Pub Quiz? (I must add how wonderfully received were the 5 questions I presented.)


13. Or the fact that we had such a good time despite that, that I can't remember the latter portion of the evening, leaving, being driven home or entering my house?


14. I am very, very disappointed that the story of the tattoo artist who tattooed a pile of steaming pooh on his (ex)chick's back is a hoax.


15. I am pissed off that the Audi A5 is beyond my financial grasp.
    

Things I like:

1. My new guitar stand.


2. My girlfriend.


3. There's a good chance that Fetish will be playing 2 shows in Cape Town. Watch this space...


4. Die Vegas Show. It's gonna be on MK soon. Check it out.


5. The new Terminatryx Remyx v1.0 album.


6. Having mastered basic potty training at a reasonable age.
   

And on that rather disappointing note, I bid you farewell for another day, safely far enough away from my drivelly drivel.

NGDG: "Why do people quote the classics but read the trash? If one sentence resonates with you, imagine what an entire chapter will do. Yes, let's not get ahead of ourselves here."

Spread The Love. In A Quiet Dark Place For Preference.

I AM JACKIE SELEBI

Damn! A promising (lucrative) career in law enforcement (evasion) awaits! I have all the credentials. In fact I may just be overqualified, since I totally beat Jackie Selebi at the whole avoiding prison time thing. He used my move. Is no one capable of originality anymore?

Back in the old days when we still had to go to the army, and the rule of law meant that children listened because there was always a more extreme punishment if you didn't, I did my civic duty and trotted off to defend the country. Actually I got shitfaced for a week in Gansbaai and decided in my inebriated state to "join the army, be someone" and a day later found myself in a cattle train on my way to Bloemfontein. Boy was I disappointed when the porter in a brown uniform wouldn't allow me to change my mind and go back home.

Anyway, long story short, the army wasn't for me. Middle aged losers with inferior intellect barking instructions at me in Afrikaans didn't sit well with my religiously held belief that I am, in fact, better than everyone and don't respond well to people lacking in the appropriate levels of respect. Basically I'm as self absorbed as Spongebob Squarepants.

You can imagine then, that I found myself playing truant quite often. At first it started all innocently, booking myself in at the medics with a wildly imaginative array of ailments. I got a LOT of Voltaren injections. This later progressed to full blown forging of Doctor's appointment cards and leisurely breakfasts every day at 3 Military Hospital. One fine autumnal day while strolling back to my barracks for an afternoon snooze and feeling quite chuffed with the ongoing success of my brilliant ruse, I was whisked into a bungalow and warned in hushed tones that every single officer and non-commissioned officer in my entire squadron was desperately trying to find me. I also learned the purpose of this was to send me to Detention Barracks for a period of 3 months without trial. I hightailed it back to 3 Military Hospital quicker than any of those okes in Basics EVER did a 2.4km run (I was usually standing on the side making little stars with my hands...) and busted into the dentist's office declaring an impacted wisdom tooth that required immediate extraction. Of course there was fuck all wrong with my tooth, but I was quite prepared to sacrifice one in order to avoid eating all my meals while running on the spot, cleaning driveways with my toothbrush and building steps in my bed blanket using shoe polish and an iron in the Red Helmet Deathcamp.

I had been informed that the standard practise was to allow 6 days recovery leave for such an operation. I was misinformed. I was pretty unthrilled when the dental butcher cheerfully bade me return to my barracks, without even offering me a lollipop for being a good boy. In a split second, life changing moment of absolute clarity and infinite genius I pulled off the most theatrical swoon/faint/nose dive ever to not have won an Oscar. It was so convincing I was immediately wheeled into the Wounds Ward, where I spent the following week high off my tits on a wonderful concoction known as a Codeine Cocktail - which was administered with every whimper of my continually successful performance. I should have been given flowers.

Instead I was given a nifty piece of paper declaring me mentally challenged by a sympathetic shrink. I love that guy. No one was allowed to make me do anything, but I was still allowed to indulge in my daily Sports Pass, a situation that infuriated my Sergeant Major to distraction. I found it rather amusing. At least the rest of my tenure as a Troep was now relatively comfortable. Of course I didn't take into account that they'd call my mother to inform her of my 2 week stint in the Mental Ward...

Jackie Selebi - you should take notes.

We can discuss your technique next week when I'll be in attendance at the unveiling of Shabir Sheik's Star on the Walk Of Fame. In Benoni. Where all the truly talented actors come from.

I have since honed these acting skills to imitate all the moves of a rockstar guitarist. See pictures of the Industrial Band I play for, Axxon, in the January Issue of Marie Claire. Yes. Marie Claire. The women's fashion magazine. Fuck yeah! Taking over the world!

NGDG: "I cut an entire minute off my route - that's comfortably under 4mins/km now. And just when I was getting fed up and ready to pack it in in favour of booze and girls."

Spread The Love. On Jackie Seleb(rit)i. In The Showers. In Prison.

IRREVERENCE... SEEMS TO BE CATCHING ON.

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.

DAMAGE INC.

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