This one is for my girls - you deserve it!
Thursday, April 29, 2010
I'm Back...
And what a lovely long break that was!
Drinks with the girls were awesome – ended up more being like drinks with everyone I know, but the more the merrier! Then the darling boy took me wine tasting to some of the most amazing farms I have ever been to. The wine was incredible, the views beautiful. Finish that off with lunch at a wine farm…bliss! Sunday was a braai with the crew – another perfect day dawned and we ended off the day with some good old-fashioned bingo. Then Tuesday was the Cheese festival!
In any case, my no-longer-16-year-old-but-most-definitely-22-year-old body is screaming ENOUGH and is forcing me to take a rest. But since the boy’s friends are coming into town to visit, it will be more like playing house as they are sleeping on my floor. *Sigh* the things we do for love.
But tonight will be a quiet, early evening with some healthy red wine (just to keep the bugs at bay) and a delicious baked pasta. They can go out partying, but this little piggy is most definitely staying at home!
Friday, April 23, 2010
Sick
How irritating.
It appears that little viral space ships are taking up residence in my nose and throat (I find it more interesting to imagine little aliens invading my body than just saying “I have flu”. It does make killing them harder to do though. Being the human rights activist I am I have to remind myself that they are, in fact, germs). In short, I have the telltale signs of sickness setting in.
Luckily, I have the world’s greatest remedy for getting better: Echinaeforce, every hour on the hour. Hot bath (as many as necessary). R12 bottle of ascorbic acid tablets to blast the little alien forces with some hardcore Vitamin C. Cuddle up in bed all afternoon with the leftovers of my Easter haul and the newest 4 episodes of Gossip Girl.
I should be right as rain for wine with the girls tonight…
It appears that little viral space ships are taking up residence in my nose and throat (I find it more interesting to imagine little aliens invading my body than just saying “I have flu”. It does make killing them harder to do though. Being the human rights activist I am I have to remind myself that they are, in fact, germs). In short, I have the telltale signs of sickness setting in.
Luckily, I have the world’s greatest remedy for getting better: Echinaeforce, every hour on the hour. Hot bath (as many as necessary). R12 bottle of ascorbic acid tablets to blast the little alien forces with some hardcore Vitamin C. Cuddle up in bed all afternoon with the leftovers of my Easter haul and the newest 4 episodes of Gossip Girl.
I should be right as rain for wine with the girls tonight…
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Morals of Classic Fairytales Revisited:
Cinderella:
Sometimes it’s ok to be a gold-digging whore. But only if you want new shoes.
Little Red Riding Hood:
Murder is acceptable, if they tried to murder you first. Scary guys wearing check shirts wielding axes are your friend. Also, your grandma looks like a wolf.
The Three Little Pigs:
Don’t take advice from the first building contractor you meet. People with big houses are always the most generous.
Sleeping Beauty:
Doing drugs on your 16th birthday will cause an opium-induced sleep that will cause you and your boyfriend to hallucinate wildly. Chill out, princess.
Princess and the Pea:
The richer the bitch, the whinier she is.
Rumpelstiltzkin:
Trick people before they trick you. If you give your poor kids stupid names like ‘rumpelstiltzkin’, they will turn into creepy old men who trick young girls into giving them babies.
Rapunzel:
Bad things happen to good people, but good people have the heart to go on living through it. Man, I had forgotten just how sad and reflective of the human condition this story was.
The Emperor’s New Suit:
Being a celebrity is awesome because you can wear what you like (or don’t like). Lucky for him ‘Hello” magazine wasn’t around at that time…
The Little Mermaid:
I’d rather take fish legs and human body than vice versa. Sometimes hot chics are witches in disguise.
The Tortoise and the Hare:
Don’t be an overconfident douche.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Photo of the Day
These are the photos of the day (from two different websites) taken yesterday. I just wanted to share:
Volcanic Eruption in Iceland
Ice Chapel
Monday, April 19, 2010
Retecpa
I have so much newfound respect for my lecturers. I never had the hierarchical respect thing built in like the law faculty strives to cultivate, and so never really gave a sh*t about any of it. As I get older, and become more and more ‘staff’ than ‘pupil’, I have learned to appreciate the mammoth task they are set, and the daunting experience of teaching students.
The bored looks, the cynical scoffs, the relentless glee they hold onto when you make the tiniest mistake. I have been taught by some of the greatest legal minds, and still had the audacity to fall asleep in the third row. I have never until now appreciated just how hard it is to stand up there.
“Perhaps it’s me?” one has to wonder. Tomorrow is another day, and Thursday presents the opportunity of another class. Let’s hope it goes better the second time around…
Trepidation
I am lecturing my first class today. Nerves are pretty wracked, and I plan on getting wrecked after. I think it sets the right example.
In fact, I am more nervous than you would be if you saw this clown:
Wish me luck!
In fact, I am more nervous than you would be if you saw this clown:
Wish me luck!
Saturday, April 17, 2010
The rules of Facebook Etiquette
Dear Facebook ‘Friends’,
I have added you as a friend because a) I like you b) I met you drunk and added you while still drunk c) I like stalking your profile page d) You added me and I didn’t’ have the heart to turn you down e) You post awesome stuff or f) I don’t have the energy to delete you.
However, there are those of you who need to read the following. For me, for you and the future of the interweb as we know it.
1) You can only wish people ‘Happy Birthday’ before they thank everyone for the sentiments on their status.
2) If you ‘RSVP’ to an invite on FB, it’s not a virtual suggestion. Just like the event appears virtually, but is in fact a real event, so is the RSVP a real answer to the invite. SHOW UP.
3) Edit your photos before posting them. With the myriad of modern technology and photo editors, there is really no excuse for posting sideways profile pictures, or photos with red eyes.
4) If you tag people in stupid cartoon pictures saying things like ‘the smart one / the stupid one / the one who poops in his hands / the angelic one who smokes too much marijuana but manages to keep her weight down and usually isn’t the least attractive person at the party’, you should expect to be egged. In real life. Don’t breed.
5) NO-ONE cares about your Farmville/Yo-ville/Mafia Wars addiction. If you yourself are addicted, fine. I don’t publish my Lexulous ‘Bingos’ and remind you of my supreme word power, and I don’t care how many clumsy reindeer wander onto your farm that you help.
6) Quizzes about your former life as an Egyptian actress / ideal ninja turtle / tombstone engraving / FB blood group should, like masturbation, be done in secret, secret shame in the dark, alone.
7) Don’t ‘Like’ your own status. Duh. It’s just assumed. If you didn’t like your own status, then you probably have some serious self-esteem problems that can only be remedied by psychological help (and not, as you may believe, but a hundred FB quizzes that you publish to all your ‘friends’).
8) FB events like this picture annoy EVERYONE!
http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1803745
9) FB arguments like this one should never permeate your page, because this is the only one I have ever seen worth reading.
http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1803025
Happy Facebooking!
I have added you as a friend because a) I like you b) I met you drunk and added you while still drunk c) I like stalking your profile page d) You added me and I didn’t’ have the heart to turn you down e) You post awesome stuff or f) I don’t have the energy to delete you.
However, there are those of you who need to read the following. For me, for you and the future of the interweb as we know it.
1) You can only wish people ‘Happy Birthday’ before they thank everyone for the sentiments on their status.
2) If you ‘RSVP’ to an invite on FB, it’s not a virtual suggestion. Just like the event appears virtually, but is in fact a real event, so is the RSVP a real answer to the invite. SHOW UP.
3) Edit your photos before posting them. With the myriad of modern technology and photo editors, there is really no excuse for posting sideways profile pictures, or photos with red eyes.
4) If you tag people in stupid cartoon pictures saying things like ‘the smart one / the stupid one / the one who poops in his hands / the angelic one who smokes too much marijuana but manages to keep her weight down and usually isn’t the least attractive person at the party’, you should expect to be egged. In real life. Don’t breed.
5) NO-ONE cares about your Farmville/Yo-ville/Mafia Wars addiction. If you yourself are addicted, fine. I don’t publish my Lexulous ‘Bingos’ and remind you of my supreme word power, and I don’t care how many clumsy reindeer wander onto your farm that you help.
6) Quizzes about your former life as an Egyptian actress / ideal ninja turtle / tombstone engraving / FB blood group should, like masturbation, be done in secret, secret shame in the dark, alone.
7) Don’t ‘Like’ your own status. Duh. It’s just assumed. If you didn’t like your own status, then you probably have some serious self-esteem problems that can only be remedied by psychological help (and not, as you may believe, but a hundred FB quizzes that you publish to all your ‘friends’).
8) FB events like this picture annoy EVERYONE!
http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1803745
9) FB arguments like this one should never permeate your page, because this is the only one I have ever seen worth reading.
http://www.collegehumor.com/article:1803025
Happy Facebooking!
Good morning world
Good morning,
I am not in a good mood this morning, thanks to my little kitty cat who thought she'd come and say hello this morning, knocking over my bedside glass of water, sending it shattering to the ground and soaking my face. Baaaaaaad kitty. If you've ever seen me in the morning in a good mood, you'll know I look like something akin to Carrie on a revenge mission. This morning, brandishing a vacuum cleaner and mumbling obscenities re: aforementioned kitty, hair pasted to my head from the water, I am thankful my little brothers were sleeping out last night. I was f*cking terrifying.
Furthermore, I have to work today. On a Saturday! "Life's not fair, is it? You see I will never be king and you, well you will never see the light of another day." (refer here to previous post re: spoiler alert)
It's on days like these that I really appreciate the Postal Service (band, not the guys who collect mail) "Don't wake me, I plan on sleeping in. Don't wake me, I plan on sleeping in". Sigh. If only.
If you are lucky enough not to be working, then I insist that you go out and make the most of your day. Go light a fire under someone. Garden. Write. Watch rugby and get hammered. Have a sushi afternoon. I'll be quietly envying you...
I am not in a good mood this morning, thanks to my little kitty cat who thought she'd come and say hello this morning, knocking over my bedside glass of water, sending it shattering to the ground and soaking my face. Baaaaaaad kitty. If you've ever seen me in the morning in a good mood, you'll know I look like something akin to Carrie on a revenge mission. This morning, brandishing a vacuum cleaner and mumbling obscenities re: aforementioned kitty, hair pasted to my head from the water, I am thankful my little brothers were sleeping out last night. I was f*cking terrifying.
Furthermore, I have to work today. On a Saturday! "Life's not fair, is it? You see I will never be king and you, well you will never see the light of another day." (refer here to previous post re: spoiler alert)
It's on days like these that I really appreciate the Postal Service (band, not the guys who collect mail) "Don't wake me, I plan on sleeping in. Don't wake me, I plan on sleeping in". Sigh. If only.
If you are lucky enough not to be working, then I insist that you go out and make the most of your day. Go light a fire under someone. Garden. Write. Watch rugby and get hammered. Have a sushi afternoon. I'll be quietly envying you...
Friday, April 16, 2010
Warning:
The CIA had an opening for an assassin. After all the background check,
interviews, and testing were done, there were three finalists...
Two men and a woman.
For the final test, the CIA agents took one of the men to a large metal
door and handed him a gun. "We must know that you will follow your
instructions, no matter what the circumstances. Inside this room, you
will find your wife sitting in a chair. Kill Her!!!"
The man said, "You can't be serious. I could never shoot my wife."
The agent said, "Then you're not the right man for this job. Take your
wife and go home."
The second man was given the same instructions. He took the gun and went
into the room. All was quiet for about five minutes. Then the man came
out with tears in his eyes. "I tried, but I can't kill my wife."
The agent said, "You don't have what it takes. Take your wife and go
home."
Finally, it was the woman's turn. She was given the same instructions,
to kill her husband. She took the gun and went into the room. Shots were
heard, one shot after another. They heard screaming, crashing, banging
on the walls. After a few minutes, all was quiet. The door opened slowly
and there stood the woman. She wiped the sweat from her brow.
"This gun is loaded with blanks", she said. "I had to beat him to death
with the chair."
Moral: Women are evil. Don't mess with them
interviews, and testing were done, there were three finalists...
Two men and a woman.
For the final test, the CIA agents took one of the men to a large metal
door and handed him a gun. "We must know that you will follow your
instructions, no matter what the circumstances. Inside this room, you
will find your wife sitting in a chair. Kill Her!!!"
The man said, "You can't be serious. I could never shoot my wife."
The agent said, "Then you're not the right man for this job. Take your
wife and go home."
The second man was given the same instructions. He took the gun and went
into the room. All was quiet for about five minutes. Then the man came
out with tears in his eyes. "I tried, but I can't kill my wife."
The agent said, "You don't have what it takes. Take your wife and go
home."
Finally, it was the woman's turn. She was given the same instructions,
to kill her husband. She took the gun and went into the room. Shots were
heard, one shot after another. They heard screaming, crashing, banging
on the walls. After a few minutes, all was quiet. The door opened slowly
and there stood the woman. She wiped the sweat from her brow.
"This gun is loaded with blanks", she said. "I had to beat him to death
with the chair."
Moral: Women are evil. Don't mess with them
How to tell if you are gay
In this metro, homogenous world we live in, it can be hard to decipher where one stands in light of everything going on. "Boy will be boys and girls will be girls, it's a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world, except for lola."
With Katy Perry kissing girls and liking it, while having a boyfriend who is gay but doesn't even like boys; a raging competition between the monarch and Elton John for the position of Queen of England, and ladies with tiny little lady testicles;
sometimes it's necessary to help out those confused about where they fit in.
The following may help:
1. IF YOU ARE OVER 30 AND YOU HAVE A WASHBOARD STOMACH, YOU ARE GAY.
It means you haven't slugged back enough beer with the boys and have rather been sucking-off the boys and have spent the rest of your free time doing sit-ups, aerobics, and doing the Oprah diet.
2. IF YOU HAVE A CAT, YOU ARE A FLAAAAMING FAG.
A cat is like a dog, but gay: it grooms itself constantly but never
scratches itself, has a delicate touch except when it uses its nails,and whines to be fed. And just think about how you call a dog..."Killer, come here! I said get your ass over here!" Now think about how you call a cat..."Bun-bun, come to daddy, pookie-wookie!"
Crises, you're fit to be ordained, you're so gay.
3. IF YOU SUCK ON LOLLIPOPS, RING-POPS, OR ANY SUCH
NONSENSE, REST ASSURED, YOU ARE A GAYLORD.
A straight man only sucks braai chops, raw oysters, cray-fish guts, pickled pigs feet, or titties. Anything else and you are in training to suck El Dicko and undeniably a fag.
4. IF YOU REFUSE TO TAKE A DUMP IN A PUBLIC BATHROOM OR PISS IN A PARKING LOT, YOU'RE IN A DEEP HOMOSEXUAL RELATIONSHIP.
A man's world is his bathroom, he defecates and urinates where he pleases.
5. IF YOU DRINK DECAF COFFEE WITH SKIM MILK, YOU LIKE A HIGH HARD ONE
IN THE POOPER.
Coffee is to be had strong, black (or with thick, wholesome milk) and
full-aroma. A poontang-eating man will never be heard ordering a "Decaf Cafe Latte with Skim" and he will never, ever know what artificial sweetener tastes like. If you've had Equisweet in your mouth, you've had a dick there too.
6. IF YOU KNOW MORE THAN SIX NAMES OF COLOURS OR FOUR DIFFERENT TYPES OF DESSERT, YOU MIGHT AS WELL BE HANDING OUT FREE PASSES TO YOUR ASS.
A real man doesn't have memory space in his brain to remember all of that crap as well as all the names of all the players in the Super 14, Wimbledon, Proteas, PGA, and Formula 1. If you can pick out Cherise or you know what a "pavlova" is, you're gay. And if you can name ANY type of textile other than denim, you are faggadocious!
7. IF YOU DRIVE WITH BOTH HANDS ON THE WHEEL, FORGET IT...YOU'RE
HUNGRY FOR MEAT-POPSICLE.
A man only puts both hands on the wheel to hoot at a slow-ass driver or to cut the sumbitch off. The rest of the time he needs that hand to change the radio station, eat his hamburger, hold his beer, grab the bee-yatch in the passenger seat (whoever she happens to be), or, if he is from JHB, talk on his cell-phone.
8. IF YOU ENJOY ROMANTIC COMEDIES OR FRENCH FILMS, MON-FRERE, VOUS
SONNEZ LE GAY, OUI?
The only time it is acceptable to watch one of those is with a woman who knows how to reward her man. Watching any of the above films by yourself or with another man is likely to result in SHC (spontaneous homosexual combustion), which is what happens to fags when they flame out too quickly.
Thus said, none of the above are
problematic! It's just that it helps to be informed.
But gu(a)ys, remember, the worst mistake you can make: MAKING YOUR OWN MAYONNAISE. It's the height of gayness. Seriously.
Stay tuned for the next segment on how to spot if you should ultimately be munching the rug.
With Katy Perry kissing girls and liking it, while having a boyfriend who is gay but doesn't even like boys; a raging competition between the monarch and Elton John for the position of Queen of England, and ladies with tiny little lady testicles;
sometimes it's necessary to help out those confused about where they fit in.
The following may help:
1. IF YOU ARE OVER 30 AND YOU HAVE A WASHBOARD STOMACH, YOU ARE GAY.
It means you haven't slugged back enough beer with the boys and have rather been sucking-off the boys and have spent the rest of your free time doing sit-ups, aerobics, and doing the Oprah diet.
2. IF YOU HAVE A CAT, YOU ARE A FLAAAAMING FAG.
A cat is like a dog, but gay: it grooms itself constantly but never
scratches itself, has a delicate touch except when it uses its nails,and whines to be fed. And just think about how you call a dog..."Killer, come here! I said get your ass over here!" Now think about how you call a cat..."Bun-bun, come to daddy, pookie-wookie!"
Crises, you're fit to be ordained, you're so gay.
3. IF YOU SUCK ON LOLLIPOPS, RING-POPS, OR ANY SUCH
NONSENSE, REST ASSURED, YOU ARE A GAYLORD.
A straight man only sucks braai chops, raw oysters, cray-fish guts, pickled pigs feet, or titties. Anything else and you are in training to suck El Dicko and undeniably a fag.
4. IF YOU REFUSE TO TAKE A DUMP IN A PUBLIC BATHROOM OR PISS IN A PARKING LOT, YOU'RE IN A DEEP HOMOSEXUAL RELATIONSHIP.
A man's world is his bathroom, he defecates and urinates where he pleases.
5. IF YOU DRINK DECAF COFFEE WITH SKIM MILK, YOU LIKE A HIGH HARD ONE
IN THE POOPER.
Coffee is to be had strong, black (or with thick, wholesome milk) and
full-aroma. A poontang-eating man will never be heard ordering a "Decaf Cafe Latte with Skim" and he will never, ever know what artificial sweetener tastes like. If you've had Equisweet in your mouth, you've had a dick there too.
6. IF YOU KNOW MORE THAN SIX NAMES OF COLOURS OR FOUR DIFFERENT TYPES OF DESSERT, YOU MIGHT AS WELL BE HANDING OUT FREE PASSES TO YOUR ASS.
A real man doesn't have memory space in his brain to remember all of that crap as well as all the names of all the players in the Super 14, Wimbledon, Proteas, PGA, and Formula 1. If you can pick out Cherise or you know what a "pavlova" is, you're gay. And if you can name ANY type of textile other than denim, you are faggadocious!
7. IF YOU DRIVE WITH BOTH HANDS ON THE WHEEL, FORGET IT...YOU'RE
HUNGRY FOR MEAT-POPSICLE.
A man only puts both hands on the wheel to hoot at a slow-ass driver or to cut the sumbitch off. The rest of the time he needs that hand to change the radio station, eat his hamburger, hold his beer, grab the bee-yatch in the passenger seat (whoever she happens to be), or, if he is from JHB, talk on his cell-phone.
8. IF YOU ENJOY ROMANTIC COMEDIES OR FRENCH FILMS, MON-FRERE, VOUS
SONNEZ LE GAY, OUI?
The only time it is acceptable to watch one of those is with a woman who knows how to reward her man. Watching any of the above films by yourself or with another man is likely to result in SHC (spontaneous homosexual combustion), which is what happens to fags when they flame out too quickly.
Thus said, none of the above are
problematic! It's just that it helps to be informed.
But gu(a)ys, remember, the worst mistake you can make: MAKING YOUR OWN MAYONNAISE. It's the height of gayness. Seriously.
Stay tuned for the next segment on how to spot if you should ultimately be munching the rug.
Fairytales and Other Tales
Shortest fairytale in the world:
Once upon a time was a lovely girl and a lovely boy. The boy asked the girl to marry him. She said 'No', and continued to live her life drinking margueritas, shopping as much as she wanted, always having a clean house and she lived happily ever after. The End.
Being cynical is great, aint it?
Once upon a time was a lovely girl and a lovely boy. The boy asked the girl to marry him. She said 'No', and continued to live her life drinking margueritas, shopping as much as she wanted, always having a clean house and she lived happily ever after. The End.
Being cynical is great, aint it?
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Being 20-something...the Quarter-life Crisis
It is when you stop going along with the crowd and start realising that
there are many things about yourself that you didn't know and may not
like.
You start feeling insecure and wonder where you will be in a year or
two, but then get scared because you barely know where you are now.
You start realising that people are selfish and that, maybe, those
friends that you thought you were so close to aren't exactly the greatest people you
have ever met, and the people you have lost touch with are some of the most
important ones.
What you don't recognise is that they are realising that too, and aren't
really cold, catty, mean or insincere, but that they are as confused as
you.
You look at your job ... and it is not even close to what you thought
you would be doing, or maybe you are looking for a job and realising that
you are going to have to start at the bottom and that scares you.
Your opinions have gotten stronger.
You see what others are doing and find yourself judging more than usual
because suddenly you realise that you have certain boundaries in your
life and are constantly adding things to your list of what is acceptable and
what isn't.
One minute, you are insecure and then the next, secure.
You laugh and cry with the greatest force of your life. You feel alone
and scared and confused.
Suddenly, change is the enemy and you try and cling on to the past with
dear life, but soon realise that the past is drifting further and further
away, and there is nothing to do but stay where you are or move forward.
You get your heart broken and wonder how someone you loved could do such
damage to you. Or you lie in bed and wonder why you can't meet anyone
decent enough that you want to get to know better.
Or maybe you love someone but they love someone else too and cannot
figure out why you are doing this because you know that you aren't a bad
person.
One night stands and random hook ups start to look cheap.
Getting wasted and acting like an idiot doesn't seem as fun.
You go through the same emotions and questions over and over, and talk
with your friends about the same topics because you cannot seem to make a
decision.
You worry about loans, money, the future and making a life for
yourself...
and while winning the race would be great, right now you'd just like to
be a contender!
What you may not realise is that everyone reading this relates to it.
We are in our best of times and our worst of times, trying as hard as we
can to figure this whole thing out.
there are many things about yourself that you didn't know and may not
like.
You start feeling insecure and wonder where you will be in a year or
two, but then get scared because you barely know where you are now.
You start realising that people are selfish and that, maybe, those
friends that you thought you were so close to aren't exactly the greatest people you
have ever met, and the people you have lost touch with are some of the most
important ones.
What you don't recognise is that they are realising that too, and aren't
really cold, catty, mean or insincere, but that they are as confused as
you.
You look at your job ... and it is not even close to what you thought
you would be doing, or maybe you are looking for a job and realising that
you are going to have to start at the bottom and that scares you.
Your opinions have gotten stronger.
You see what others are doing and find yourself judging more than usual
because suddenly you realise that you have certain boundaries in your
life and are constantly adding things to your list of what is acceptable and
what isn't.
One minute, you are insecure and then the next, secure.
You laugh and cry with the greatest force of your life. You feel alone
and scared and confused.
Suddenly, change is the enemy and you try and cling on to the past with
dear life, but soon realise that the past is drifting further and further
away, and there is nothing to do but stay where you are or move forward.
You get your heart broken and wonder how someone you loved could do such
damage to you. Or you lie in bed and wonder why you can't meet anyone
decent enough that you want to get to know better.
Or maybe you love someone but they love someone else too and cannot
figure out why you are doing this because you know that you aren't a bad
person.
One night stands and random hook ups start to look cheap.
Getting wasted and acting like an idiot doesn't seem as fun.
You go through the same emotions and questions over and over, and talk
with your friends about the same topics because you cannot seem to make a
decision.
You worry about loans, money, the future and making a life for
yourself...
and while winning the race would be great, right now you'd just like to
be a contender!
What you may not realise is that everyone reading this relates to it.
We are in our best of times and our worst of times, trying as hard as we
can to figure this whole thing out.
(bad) Advice
By following the simple advice I heard on a Dr. Phil Show, I have finally found inner peace. Dr. Phil proclaimed the way to achieve inner peace is to finish all the things you have started.
So I looked around my house to see things I started and hadn't finished; and, before leaving the house this morning I finished off a bottle of Merlot, a bottle of Chardonnay, a bottle of Amarula, a bottle of Kahlua, a package of Oreo's, a pot of coffee, the rest of the Cheesecake, some SaltyCrax and a box of Chocolates.
You have no idea how freaking good I feel.
So I looked around my house to see things I started and hadn't finished; and, before leaving the house this morning I finished off a bottle of Merlot, a bottle of Chardonnay, a bottle of Amarula, a bottle of Kahlua, a package of Oreo's, a pot of coffee, the rest of the Cheesecake, some SaltyCrax and a box of Chocolates.
You have no idea how freaking good I feel.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Stephan's Things you Need to Know about Sex and the City 2
A friend's brilliant piece...needs to be shared.
As you may have guessed, having a Y-chromosome, I have hated Sex and the City, with an intensity that puzzles even me, since it appeared on the small screen. Nevertheless, a few episodes have slipped by my self-censorship nets, and I was drunk enough to watch the first flick. Not drunk enough to enjoy it though – not enough schnapps in the world... The trailer for the new movie filled me with a fresh wave of loathing, and once the urge to projectile-vomit everything I had ever eaten subsided, a few things occurred to me. Here they are, in no particular order. (It might make more sense if you've seen the trailer first: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjWl-82Yau4&feature=player_embedded)
1. Carrie is retarded.
I understand that this is all from her perspective, but this is just getting stupid. Hypothetical situation: You’re a woman (this is easier if you’re actually female) who has just married her dream man. But wait? What’s this? He’s talking to another woman? Talking!? That BASTARD! Naturally, your first instinct is to get revenge, and when destiny conspires to reunite you with your ex (who you cheated on with your current husband), you take that as a “sign” rationalising your selfish bullshit behaviour. End of hypothesis, beginning of a rage-tic in the corner of my mouth.
2. Samantha is just too old to be a slut anymore.
Samantha has been aggressively receiving man-meat for more years than most of her conquests have been alive. I think it’s safe to say at this point half of her STD’s have evolved into airborne pathogens – the CDC could save a lot of people by just euthanising this Outbreak monkey. Also, the slutty little jokes and skanky comments aren’t even slightly amusing anymore. Old people should be giving life advice and going for early-morning walks along Seapoint Promenade with orthopaedic shoes, not making sly references to their tomb of a vagina.
3. None of these females will ever be happy.
If they stopped complaining and being generally unsatisfied with their lives, this show wouldn’t have made it past season 1. “I want to be marrrrrieed. Now I’m married but it’s borinnng.” “I want to be a mommm. Now I’m a mom and it’s harrrd.” Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
4. Charlotte is still the only hot one.
Miranda and Carrie look like some sort of snarling beast and the horse she rode in on, respectively, and I’ve already gone into the problems with trying to fornicate with Old Mother Time. The fact that any of the guys in the TV show/movies would sleep with any of these women (besides Charlotte) is by far the biggest plot hole.
5. Carrie in that tux is terrifying.
If I saw that coming at me out of the dark, I would kill it without hesitation
As you may have guessed, having a Y-chromosome, I have hated Sex and the City, with an intensity that puzzles even me, since it appeared on the small screen. Nevertheless, a few episodes have slipped by my self-censorship nets, and I was drunk enough to watch the first flick. Not drunk enough to enjoy it though – not enough schnapps in the world... The trailer for the new movie filled me with a fresh wave of loathing, and once the urge to projectile-vomit everything I had ever eaten subsided, a few things occurred to me. Here they are, in no particular order. (It might make more sense if you've seen the trailer first: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjWl-82Yau4&feature=player_embedded)
1. Carrie is retarded.
I understand that this is all from her perspective, but this is just getting stupid. Hypothetical situation: You’re a woman (this is easier if you’re actually female) who has just married her dream man. But wait? What’s this? He’s talking to another woman? Talking!? That BASTARD! Naturally, your first instinct is to get revenge, and when destiny conspires to reunite you with your ex (who you cheated on with your current husband), you take that as a “sign” rationalising your selfish bullshit behaviour. End of hypothesis, beginning of a rage-tic in the corner of my mouth.
2. Samantha is just too old to be a slut anymore.
Samantha has been aggressively receiving man-meat for more years than most of her conquests have been alive. I think it’s safe to say at this point half of her STD’s have evolved into airborne pathogens – the CDC could save a lot of people by just euthanising this Outbreak monkey. Also, the slutty little jokes and skanky comments aren’t even slightly amusing anymore. Old people should be giving life advice and going for early-morning walks along Seapoint Promenade with orthopaedic shoes, not making sly references to their tomb of a vagina.
3. None of these females will ever be happy.
If they stopped complaining and being generally unsatisfied with their lives, this show wouldn’t have made it past season 1. “I want to be marrrrrieed. Now I’m married but it’s borinnng.” “I want to be a mommm. Now I’m a mom and it’s harrrd.” Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
4. Charlotte is still the only hot one.
Miranda and Carrie look like some sort of snarling beast and the horse she rode in on, respectively, and I’ve already gone into the problems with trying to fornicate with Old Mother Time. The fact that any of the guys in the TV show/movies would sleep with any of these women (besides Charlotte) is by far the biggest plot hole.
5. Carrie in that tux is terrifying.
If I saw that coming at me out of the dark, I would kill it without hesitation
Confessions
I have a confession to make today. I am now a dedicated ‘Glee’ addict. There, I said it. Something about those definitely-not-but-supposed-to-look-like-it teens lip-synching to their pre-recorded music makes me wanna get up and do my own Beyonce ritual.
The reason this is embarrassing is that not even my music/dancing best friend likes the show. She who made me sit through ‘Wicked’ and the on-stage version of ‘High School Musical’ thinks it’s a stupid show. But honestly, aside from 'Mama Mia', which quite frankly isn't worth the popcorn you later poop out after watching it, musicals freaking rock.
From my very young days “I could have danced all night’ was a bedtime lullaby, which progressed into hairbrush/mirror scenes of ‘I have confidence’. With childhood classics behind me, I was ready for my move into contemporary musicals. But the fever really struck when they started bringing out crappy high school musicals. Granted, ‘Grease’ was in the 70’s, so I never watched that. But after watching ‘Bring it On’, I started a cheerleading squad at our school. It only lasted about a week, since cheerleading is freaking lame, but I was hyped. After ‘Center Stage’, the musical friend and I choreographed a hundred dances. We were sh*t, but we were hooked. After ‘Coyote Ugly’, I too wanted to dance like a slut on a bar counter. Funny enough, that was the one that stuck. I still do that.
The ‘High School Musical’ kids are too young for me, and I feel like an elderly pedophile because a) they look 10 and b) I cannot relate to any of them. Which is why ‘Glee’ is awesome. In true ‘Buffy’ style, high school kids are portrayed by 28 year-old actors. I feel confident and law-abiding to perv over all and any of them. They don’t shy away from portraying the gay, he’s as queer as a 9-bob note. The lead teacher is a Justin Timberlake clone. And the songs are just AWESOME! Yes, there is a part of me that loves seeing 16 American football players dancing to Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’.
And those clever executives down at Fox know that although everyone loves a good musical, people are going to want to discredit it as being cheesy. They then inserted the delightfully cynical, ball-crushing, one-liner delivering Jane Lynch as the cheerleading coach. So I can defend my loving it to my pseudo-intellectual colleagues.
If you haven’t already caught the fever, it’s time.
The reason this is embarrassing is that not even my music/dancing best friend likes the show. She who made me sit through ‘Wicked’ and the on-stage version of ‘High School Musical’ thinks it’s a stupid show. But honestly, aside from 'Mama Mia', which quite frankly isn't worth the popcorn you later poop out after watching it, musicals freaking rock.
From my very young days “I could have danced all night’ was a bedtime lullaby, which progressed into hairbrush/mirror scenes of ‘I have confidence’. With childhood classics behind me, I was ready for my move into contemporary musicals. But the fever really struck when they started bringing out crappy high school musicals. Granted, ‘Grease’ was in the 70’s, so I never watched that. But after watching ‘Bring it On’, I started a cheerleading squad at our school. It only lasted about a week, since cheerleading is freaking lame, but I was hyped. After ‘Center Stage’, the musical friend and I choreographed a hundred dances. We were sh*t, but we were hooked. After ‘Coyote Ugly’, I too wanted to dance like a slut on a bar counter. Funny enough, that was the one that stuck. I still do that.
The ‘High School Musical’ kids are too young for me, and I feel like an elderly pedophile because a) they look 10 and b) I cannot relate to any of them. Which is why ‘Glee’ is awesome. In true ‘Buffy’ style, high school kids are portrayed by 28 year-old actors. I feel confident and law-abiding to perv over all and any of them. They don’t shy away from portraying the gay, he’s as queer as a 9-bob note. The lead teacher is a Justin Timberlake clone. And the songs are just AWESOME! Yes, there is a part of me that loves seeing 16 American football players dancing to Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’.
And those clever executives down at Fox know that although everyone loves a good musical, people are going to want to discredit it as being cheesy. They then inserted the delightfully cynical, ball-crushing, one-liner delivering Jane Lynch as the cheerleading coach. So I can defend my loving it to my pseudo-intellectual colleagues.
If you haven’t already caught the fever, it’s time.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Removing the missing link
I love my i-pod, I love my laptop and if someone would just get me one, I’m sure I’d love my i-phone. Those deep feelings aside, the last thing I really want is an intimate relationship with my computer.
As technological advances rapidly develop and become more and more self-sustainable, it seems inevitable that humans will gradually be phased out of many of their current fields of operation. And, depending on how pessimistically one views the world, it seems computers are quickly becoming smarter than their operators…
While computers may be capable of managing other computers, there is still a large-scale human element which involves the programming and processing of these systems. With the drastic increase in the use of sensors in technology, soon computers will be managing sensors which will subsequently be in command of a whole fleet of computer systems. One such sensor is that used in many of the shopping centres in the USA, attached to the products and correlating to their barcodes. The trolley full of goods can merely be passed through a detector which communicates with the various product sensors, coming to a total amount. This can then be deducted off the shopper’s smart card, also by means of a sensor, eliminating the need for check-out attendants. Phase one complete…
Furthermore, once the barcode has been registered and paid for on the consumer’s smartcard, a message is sent back to the stock computer to register that stock has been removed from the shelves. Arduous hours of manual stock count will quickly become a thing of the past. As just one of the simpler benefits of sensors, the idea can be stretched far further. Sensors can be used to monitor employee timecards, collate criminal data and even monitor employee stress levels in the workplace (as can be seen from Microsoft’s new patent which monitors breathing, heart rate and brain signals).
While this may sound scary and conjure up images of creepy Asimov-esque chronicles or Matrix scenes foretelling human destruction at the hands of machines, in reality this is a huge step in the universal “making-our-lives-easier” project. Most humans generally just look at a system and, provided it works well enough, are content not to know the inner workings or the individual components that go bleep bleep bleep. With sensors to take care of those mundane monitorings, it means more time can be invested by the ordinary person in other projects.
While it sounds like the machines are taking over, it merely means that computers are doing their optimum job by hiding the intricate calculations and details and providing us with only what we need to know.
As technological advances rapidly develop and become more and more self-sustainable, it seems inevitable that humans will gradually be phased out of many of their current fields of operation. And, depending on how pessimistically one views the world, it seems computers are quickly becoming smarter than their operators…
While computers may be capable of managing other computers, there is still a large-scale human element which involves the programming and processing of these systems. With the drastic increase in the use of sensors in technology, soon computers will be managing sensors which will subsequently be in command of a whole fleet of computer systems. One such sensor is that used in many of the shopping centres in the USA, attached to the products and correlating to their barcodes. The trolley full of goods can merely be passed through a detector which communicates with the various product sensors, coming to a total amount. This can then be deducted off the shopper’s smart card, also by means of a sensor, eliminating the need for check-out attendants. Phase one complete…
Furthermore, once the barcode has been registered and paid for on the consumer’s smartcard, a message is sent back to the stock computer to register that stock has been removed from the shelves. Arduous hours of manual stock count will quickly become a thing of the past. As just one of the simpler benefits of sensors, the idea can be stretched far further. Sensors can be used to monitor employee timecards, collate criminal data and even monitor employee stress levels in the workplace (as can be seen from Microsoft’s new patent which monitors breathing, heart rate and brain signals).
While this may sound scary and conjure up images of creepy Asimov-esque chronicles or Matrix scenes foretelling human destruction at the hands of machines, in reality this is a huge step in the universal “making-our-lives-easier” project. Most humans generally just look at a system and, provided it works well enough, are content not to know the inner workings or the individual components that go bleep bleep bleep. With sensors to take care of those mundane monitorings, it means more time can be invested by the ordinary person in other projects.
While it sounds like the machines are taking over, it merely means that computers are doing their optimum job by hiding the intricate calculations and details and providing us with only what we need to know.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Hangovers
As I get older, I realize (god-damned Microsoft Word that keeps wanting me to spell this word with a ‘z’….I am not American!) that there is no way to escape a hangover if you drink. Even a glass over my limit and I wake up with a taste like a dead mouse in my mouth, a fuzzy buzzing in my head and slightly bloodshot eyes. Ok, I’m lying about the one glass, but only because I have never only had one glass over my limit. It’s usually more like 7.
When I do something, I do it properly.
However, each hangover has its own defining characteristics:
The wine hangover: dry mouth, fuzzy head. Headache is the worst. Unless you are drinking fancy ass wine off the top shelf, red wine leaves you feeling like a Frenchman is dancing on your brain. White wine leaves that dizzy pain around your eyes. I drink ‘affordable’ wine, which is code lingo for box wine. And I’m not talking Woolworths box wine either. It refers to Robertson box wine for R16 for 500ml. Only time can cure this one.
The beer hangover: Wake up feeling hundreds, bru. And then at about lunchtime it hits you and you want to die. Remedied by a greasy lunch with chips and burgers and hot sauce. And oddly enough, another beer. Which leads me to believe that beer does not in fact make you fat, but in order to remedy the beer drinking, you get fat.
The whiskey hangover: The sneaky one. Gives you a smash headache at around 5. You absolutely cannot eat all day for fear of the nausea. Just take a sick day and sleep it off.
The champagne hangover: Very similar to the wine hangover, but remedied with cappuccino. Not as offensive either, unless it was JC le Roux la fleurette, which I do not consider champagne. You’d be better off drinking Autumn Harvest Crackling.
The “Bhuddist” Hangover: named so because you made sure you had a night when you thought you’d have ‘one with everything’. Combinations of wine, beer, shots and cigarettes. Makes. You. Want. To. Die. You feel like Baglett when she says she was so hung-over that she made a compound sentence and saw it as reason to celebrate. Not encouraged for people over the age of 21. In fact, on your 21st is the last time this sort of drinking is every recommended.
Well I’m suffering from the champagne variety, so I definitely think it’s time to remedy it with a cappuccino. And some cake…
Friend Recruitment
Currently, the position of friend is being well-filled by my colleague and associate, and also office-sharer. However, next year when she runs off to do her articles, that position will be open. I am therefore recruiting for a friend next year. There is already one strong candidate and if he gets a position will in all likelihood move into my office. But I want to keep my options open. I am reviewing people based on certain criteria, which I will disclose when I find the perfect candidate.
Cv’s are encouraged, but only candidates who can be observed at close range will be accepted. I have to know what I’m getting myself into. Good looks are important, but a healthy sense of humour may also suffice.
I am open to bribes.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
My commentary on Fight Club - a long lost artefact
“After Tyler and Marla had sex about ten times, Tyler says, Marla said she wanted to get pregnant. Marla said she wanted to have Tyler's abortion.”
These words signify to me some of the most important characteristics of both Marla and of Tyler. So much of their world view can be contained within such a short sentence.
Firstly, when people are having casual sex, the aim is NOT to get pregnant. Boys are taught that it’s the worst consequence of sex. No one says that with nonchalance. But Marla says it with carefree abandon. Do Tyler and Marla have a relationship? It doesn’t seem so. In fact, the relationship the Narrator has with Marla seems to have more substance (even though Tyler is a part of his subconscious, for most of the book we are unaware of this fact.)
However, when we realize at the end of the novel that Tyler and the Narrator are in fact the same person, Marla’s idiosyncrasies and her nymphomania make a lot more sense, as does her destructive relationship with Tyler.
Another aspect is that abortion in not exactly spoken about in an everyday “oh-i-had-one-over-my-lunchbreak” manner in conventional society. We may fight for the rights to have it over and over; we have pro-life, pro-choice, pro-women rallies all over the world. But wait, have you had an abortion? Well then, society condemns you. Think about the stigma attached to it.
Now Marla uses a typically romantic gesture to express how she would like to get pregnant and then have Tyler’s abortion. Her non-conformity oozes out of her every pore. "You know, the condom is the glass slipper of our generation. You slip it on when you meet a stranger. You dance all night, then you throw it away. The condom, I mean. Not the stranger."
Interesting, since Marla isn’t using condoms (surely that goes against her motive?)
Marla Singer is the girl every emo-kid hopes to grow up and be like. She’s sexy, carefree, depressed, interesting and completely the opposite of the skinny super-sluts we’re supposed to adore. She keeps her mother’s fat as an insurance policy so that she can have lip implants later, and she steals jeans from laudromats to sell for food money.
Any girl who’s ever dreamed of being rebellious, at some point, wanted to be Marla Singer.
Which brings me to Tyler. Tyler uses his cocksure, don’t-care attitude, his disregard for capitalism and for the consumer-driven America, and his ability to just be a man to undermine and mock the typical structure within Western culture. His commentaries on God, the generation of men brought up by women, freedom and letting go of things that don’t matter inspires the reader to want to watch his every move. We want Tyler to splice porn into family movies and to urinate in the soup. Trapped in a society where deviant behaviour is frowned upon and discouraged, it is easy to understand why someone like the Narrator would create an alter-ego who lives out all these acts of rebellion to deal with all the repressed desires he himself feels. Evidence of this is seen by the fact that thousands of people wrote to Palahniuk after the film was released to tell him that many of Tyler’s pranks had already been pulled and that they were performing their own little acts of rebellion all over America. Even though by the end of the film, he is the patriarchal God-like father to his army of space monkeys (supposedly what he fights against), Tyler embodies a new structure where anarchy replaces capitalism and where we’d rather be free than own a condo full of condiments.
"We are the middle children of history, raised by television to believe that someday we'll be millionaires and movie stars and rock stars, but we won't. And we're just learning this fact. So don't fuck with us.
These words signify to me some of the most important characteristics of both Marla and of Tyler. So much of their world view can be contained within such a short sentence.
Firstly, when people are having casual sex, the aim is NOT to get pregnant. Boys are taught that it’s the worst consequence of sex. No one says that with nonchalance. But Marla says it with carefree abandon. Do Tyler and Marla have a relationship? It doesn’t seem so. In fact, the relationship the Narrator has with Marla seems to have more substance (even though Tyler is a part of his subconscious, for most of the book we are unaware of this fact.)
However, when we realize at the end of the novel that Tyler and the Narrator are in fact the same person, Marla’s idiosyncrasies and her nymphomania make a lot more sense, as does her destructive relationship with Tyler.
Another aspect is that abortion in not exactly spoken about in an everyday “oh-i-had-one-over-my-lunchbreak” manner in conventional society. We may fight for the rights to have it over and over; we have pro-life, pro-choice, pro-women rallies all over the world. But wait, have you had an abortion? Well then, society condemns you. Think about the stigma attached to it.
Now Marla uses a typically romantic gesture to express how she would like to get pregnant and then have Tyler’s abortion. Her non-conformity oozes out of her every pore. "You know, the condom is the glass slipper of our generation. You slip it on when you meet a stranger. You dance all night, then you throw it away. The condom, I mean. Not the stranger."
Interesting, since Marla isn’t using condoms (surely that goes against her motive?)
Marla Singer is the girl every emo-kid hopes to grow up and be like. She’s sexy, carefree, depressed, interesting and completely the opposite of the skinny super-sluts we’re supposed to adore. She keeps her mother’s fat as an insurance policy so that she can have lip implants later, and she steals jeans from laudromats to sell for food money.
Any girl who’s ever dreamed of being rebellious, at some point, wanted to be Marla Singer.
Which brings me to Tyler. Tyler uses his cocksure, don’t-care attitude, his disregard for capitalism and for the consumer-driven America, and his ability to just be a man to undermine and mock the typical structure within Western culture. His commentaries on God, the generation of men brought up by women, freedom and letting go of things that don’t matter inspires the reader to want to watch his every move. We want Tyler to splice porn into family movies and to urinate in the soup. Trapped in a society where deviant behaviour is frowned upon and discouraged, it is easy to understand why someone like the Narrator would create an alter-ego who lives out all these acts of rebellion to deal with all the repressed desires he himself feels. Evidence of this is seen by the fact that thousands of people wrote to Palahniuk after the film was released to tell him that many of Tyler’s pranks had already been pulled and that they were performing their own little acts of rebellion all over America. Even though by the end of the film, he is the patriarchal God-like father to his army of space monkeys (supposedly what he fights against), Tyler embodies a new structure where anarchy replaces capitalism and where we’d rather be free than own a condo full of condiments.
"We are the middle children of history, raised by television to believe that someday we'll be millionaires and movie stars and rock stars, but we won't. And we're just learning this fact. So don't fuck with us.
Golden Shower
The old joke goes,
“How do porcupines mate?
Carefully.”
But I was informed today that, while they may be careful (although it’s very difficult to ascertain whether or not a porcupine is being careful. Maybe I should enlist the help of a pet psychic…), apparently they also engage in a golden shower as part of the mating ritual.
Not to leave anyone out of the loop, the urban dictionary defines a ‘golden shower’ as the following:
"The act of urinating on another person, usually for sexual gratification, or as a way of humiliation. More common than a Golden bath, where, during anal sex, one partner urinates into the colon of the other.”
Now, I gotta ask: If God made them little porcupines to be red-neck, german schiezer loving creatures and that’s their ritual, why not? But humans. Really? The urge to urinate on another person has just not arisen in my life. Once, after an angry encounter with an unnamed bank, my mother phoned my father enraged, saying:
Mom: Have you taken a pee yet?
Dad: (confused) er….no?
Mom: Good. Now go and pee on (unnamed) bank’s carpets.
THAT I understand. Peeing on carpets to illustrate rage, sure. Peeing for sexual pleasure? Just strange man. The golden shower to me falls in the ranks of these: the Spiderman, the Baked Alaska, the Simba and the Roman Helmet. Perhaps you disagree?
“How do porcupines mate?
Carefully.”
But I was informed today that, while they may be careful (although it’s very difficult to ascertain whether or not a porcupine is being careful. Maybe I should enlist the help of a pet psychic…), apparently they also engage in a golden shower as part of the mating ritual.
Not to leave anyone out of the loop, the urban dictionary defines a ‘golden shower’ as the following:
"The act of urinating on another person, usually for sexual gratification, or as a way of humiliation. More common than a Golden bath, where, during anal sex, one partner urinates into the colon of the other.”
Now, I gotta ask: If God made them little porcupines to be red-neck, german schiezer loving creatures and that’s their ritual, why not? But humans. Really? The urge to urinate on another person has just not arisen in my life. Once, after an angry encounter with an unnamed bank, my mother phoned my father enraged, saying:
Mom: Have you taken a pee yet?
Dad: (confused) er….no?
Mom: Good. Now go and pee on (unnamed) bank’s carpets.
THAT I understand. Peeing on carpets to illustrate rage, sure. Peeing for sexual pleasure? Just strange man. The golden shower to me falls in the ranks of these: the Spiderman, the Baked Alaska, the Simba and the Roman Helmet. Perhaps you disagree?
Updates
Scrabble News:
I am not as good online as I am in real life. Considering you are reading my blog, think about that really. No seriously. In real life I am a scrabble demon. Children whimper when they hear the hallowed name of the scrabble champion. Mothers, lock up your dictionaries. Dictionaries, the word ‘mother’ doesn’t get very many points. The Scrabulator is in town and you better beware. And yet online, I am a sad sad shadow of my former glory. I’m not even Rocky VI coming out of retirement. I am the Mark Darcy of dirty street fighting, the Meryl Streep of Screamo music and the Marilyn Manson of Christians (in case none of that made any sense to you, I am a far cry from the real thing). In a game today, I actually made the word ‘HOG’. And not on any scores. Sniff. And then, I stooped to making the stupidest word ever (though fairly high-scoring) of ‘QI’, which belongs only in shows hosted by Stephen Fry. Sigh.
Cat News:
Cats are stupid. Not my cat, of course. My cat is a stealth cat extraordinaire with the life span of a vampire, the brains of Mufasa, the sleek sexiness of ….. Eva Longoria and the cuteness factor of Claudia Schiffer in hiking boots. In short, my cat is freaking awesome.
Other people’s cats, like other people’s children, are stupid. I had to sit and listen to a story about an English Blue Short Hair cat for which you sit on a waiting list for 6 months, and even after you have been selected, you have a play date with a kitten so the owner can assess whether or not you are suitable. They (the pretentious, self-loving, sexually-unsatisfied owners) prescribe the food, the activities and probably even check your garbage (do we even call it that in South Africa? I only know that line from American adoption movies). While everyone else nodded sagely at the narrative, I sat in mouth-open, slack-jawed silence. Not as sexy as you think, but I was hoping to convey something a little more robust. It’s not a baby, it is a cat. A rather fat, insolent looking one at that. Luckily I caught the eye of a sympathizer who was quietly categorising the levels of hierarchy “Humans….babies….plants…..geckos….lazy Sundays….pets….cats who require more attention than me”. I fell in love on sight.
Love
There are first day's for everything: for being born, for tasting wine, for turning 16. But today was a first day on another level. Today I am in love. I think I have been in love for a while, and certianly before in my life, and yet it stills feels like the first time.
The boy cannot be described as my dream man - I mean he's nothing I expected. He makes me laugh and all the rest but come on - is that what we're looking for in this mixed up, shook up world? Never mind that, coz when he looked into my eyes this afternoon and...what am I saying?
He is perfect. Despite having imperfections, despite his definite fate of growing old like the rest of us, his ability to fail and his lack of attention when its necessary, I need him.
One thing I'm sure of (if I ever have been sure of it) is that we all need an angel. And angels aren't obvious. They dont come with wings. Most of the time they have no idea they are angels. They wear blue ties. They test out patience. They make us laugh and cry and sing and dream. They don't show us what to do or lead us the right way. But if we look, if we truly look deep into the very essence of the truth of existence, these angels make the ugly transfigured. Their touch turns the ordinary into an event worthy of the divine grace of the Saviour. And then, in the fullness of the Grace of Love, we are saved through the preternatural magnificence. I may even be saved.
So back to being in love. I know who my angel is. And i know that today is the first of many. Many more love filled days.
The boy cannot be described as my dream man - I mean he's nothing I expected. He makes me laugh and all the rest but come on - is that what we're looking for in this mixed up, shook up world? Never mind that, coz when he looked into my eyes this afternoon and...what am I saying?
He is perfect. Despite having imperfections, despite his definite fate of growing old like the rest of us, his ability to fail and his lack of attention when its necessary, I need him.
One thing I'm sure of (if I ever have been sure of it) is that we all need an angel. And angels aren't obvious. They dont come with wings. Most of the time they have no idea they are angels. They wear blue ties. They test out patience. They make us laugh and cry and sing and dream. They don't show us what to do or lead us the right way. But if we look, if we truly look deep into the very essence of the truth of existence, these angels make the ugly transfigured. Their touch turns the ordinary into an event worthy of the divine grace of the Saviour. And then, in the fullness of the Grace of Love, we are saved through the preternatural magnificence. I may even be saved.
So back to being in love. I know who my angel is. And i know that today is the first of many. Many more love filled days.
Why should you get to know BillyJeanJane?
I. She was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.
II. The average chimpanzee (hairless though they may be) finds comfort in the belief that the universe is doomed.
III. The third rule is simple: don't stare at BillyJeanJane or talk too much.
IV. The grey sky, the loss of faith, the embarrassment, the sense of being humiliated by one's very time and place, the inadequacies of love and human connection. BillyJeanJane greedily placed all this on a slice of linseed toast and wolfed it down.
V. What would happen to this thing we all call life, without negative emotions? What would happen to what we call art, to the theatre, to drama, to most of the novels? Where would BillyJeanJane’s flailing attempts at being published be?
VI. Half way through our interview, exactly half way (I swear she timed it), BillyJeanJane exclaimed 'There is nothing more marvellous or madder than real life.'
VII. BillyJeanJane nibbled her sandwich and clearly had something on her mind. 'It looks like a duck,' she suddenly announced. 'It walks like a duck. It quacks like a duck. It's a duck. Things often are just as they appear. Pretty girls are nicer than ugly girls. Children are amazing. You are transfigured by love. Proverbs are true. Nietzsche said God is dead. God said Nietzsche is dead. My existence is terrible. Sometimes I can't see how I'll get out of it alive. Reinventing sensibility? Yes, I'll buy that, though it wasn't a conscious programme - it just happened that way.'
VIII. I shake hands with the free man, founder of the united front against bullshit (though she’ll swear she doesn’t swear). 'I have just written a pamphlet on the importance of being self-centred,' she announces.
IX. When I arrive at the bar, BillyJeanJane is standing on the table proposing a toast to decay (obviously not (m)oral).
X. BillyJeanJane is animated by the feeling that to be out of step with a large body of opinion is in itself the most likely indicator of being right.
XI. BillyJeanJane longs to die in a world who reveres the colour of Majick. She longs to be held. She longs to hold onto the dream that she will one day die explaining how she had been the hero in her own life.
Does the average person not wonder why there are 11 reasons and not ten? “Ah,” exclaims BillyJeanJane, her face radiant with the knowledge of attention in her direction.
“But why pick a number so many others have destroyed. Eleven is the new ten. It is the number of eloquence, or of the individual so wrapped up in their own existence they cannot follow convention if it means losing out on valuable speaking time and…” her voice trails off as she slams the glass down forcefully on the counter and exclaims “Another gin, Barman! By Jupiter man, its nearly lunch and I’m still sober!”
In conclusion, follow the bricked road – regardless of its colour. I mean, urine is also yellow. Never trust a man with glass in his stomach. And furthermore, don’t believe everything you read or have read out to you.
II. The average chimpanzee (hairless though they may be) finds comfort in the belief that the universe is doomed.
III. The third rule is simple: don't stare at BillyJeanJane or talk too much.
IV. The grey sky, the loss of faith, the embarrassment, the sense of being humiliated by one's very time and place, the inadequacies of love and human connection. BillyJeanJane greedily placed all this on a slice of linseed toast and wolfed it down.
V. What would happen to this thing we all call life, without negative emotions? What would happen to what we call art, to the theatre, to drama, to most of the novels? Where would BillyJeanJane’s flailing attempts at being published be?
VI. Half way through our interview, exactly half way (I swear she timed it), BillyJeanJane exclaimed 'There is nothing more marvellous or madder than real life.'
VII. BillyJeanJane nibbled her sandwich and clearly had something on her mind. 'It looks like a duck,' she suddenly announced. 'It walks like a duck. It quacks like a duck. It's a duck. Things often are just as they appear. Pretty girls are nicer than ugly girls. Children are amazing. You are transfigured by love. Proverbs are true. Nietzsche said God is dead. God said Nietzsche is dead. My existence is terrible. Sometimes I can't see how I'll get out of it alive. Reinventing sensibility? Yes, I'll buy that, though it wasn't a conscious programme - it just happened that way.'
VIII. I shake hands with the free man, founder of the united front against bullshit (though she’ll swear she doesn’t swear). 'I have just written a pamphlet on the importance of being self-centred,' she announces.
IX. When I arrive at the bar, BillyJeanJane is standing on the table proposing a toast to decay (obviously not (m)oral).
X. BillyJeanJane is animated by the feeling that to be out of step with a large body of opinion is in itself the most likely indicator of being right.
XI. BillyJeanJane longs to die in a world who reveres the colour of Majick. She longs to be held. She longs to hold onto the dream that she will one day die explaining how she had been the hero in her own life.
Does the average person not wonder why there are 11 reasons and not ten? “Ah,” exclaims BillyJeanJane, her face radiant with the knowledge of attention in her direction.
“But why pick a number so many others have destroyed. Eleven is the new ten. It is the number of eloquence, or of the individual so wrapped up in their own existence they cannot follow convention if it means losing out on valuable speaking time and…” her voice trails off as she slams the glass down forcefully on the counter and exclaims “Another gin, Barman! By Jupiter man, its nearly lunch and I’m still sober!”
In conclusion, follow the bricked road – regardless of its colour. I mean, urine is also yellow. Never trust a man with glass in his stomach. And furthermore, don’t believe everything you read or have read out to you.
Hayibo - Disappointed Gautengers
CAPE TOWN. Thousands of disappointed tourists from Gauteng have condemned Cape Town tourism authorities for not reminding them that the sea was a disappointment last year. Sitting listlessly on towels or picking sand out of their teeth, visitors say they seem to remember swimming with dolphins and seeing coloured people playing cheerful tunes on ukuleles.
Visitor Debbi-Shay Potgieter of Randburg said that she felt betrayed by both Cape Town and her memory.
"If you live in Gauteng you don't really have anything to live for, except maybe dying under anesthetic during liposuction, which is an awesome way to go," said Potgieter.
"So Vleis and I were pinning all our hopes on the coast.
"But this is kak. The waves just go in and out, and that's all."
She said she was certain that she had swum with dolphins last year, but conceded that she might have been remembering trying to drag her husband Vleis from a hot tub after he had gone into meat shock.
"But I'm pretty sure it was a dolphin," she said.
Tourist Bambi Ngema of Sandton said she was "gutted" to discover that Cape Town's coloured citizens did not permanently wear carnival makeup and sing songs on ukuleles.
"It's disgusting," said Ngema. "When you come to Cape Town you expect cheeky coloureds with no front teeth saying 'Hoesit melaaaanie!' and playing 'Hie' kom die Alabama' on their ukuleles.
"But all they do is walk around in normal clothes. And they've even got teeth."
She said that she and her husband Charl-Sizwe had asked a coloured person to play something on his banjo, but that he had been "unenthusiastic".
"He said something about my mother's Porsche, which was weird because Mom drives a Bentley."
Meanwhile tourist authorities in Cape Town have confirmed that many of the visitors from Gauteng are already severely malnourished just a few days into their visits.
"The main problem is that there are so few Dros steak ranches in the city," said spokesman Happytime Magubane.
"They just don't know where else to find their traditional diet. We've been trying to lure them to the Spur, and we've tagged and released quite a lot near the Cattle Baron, but they just wander away, whimpering. It's heartbreaking."
She said that many of the tourists had also rejected emergency rations of fish and chips, saying that Cape Town fish was inedible because it tasted of fish and not of chicken and bone meal like Gauteng fish.
www.hayibo.com
Visitor Debbi-Shay Potgieter of Randburg said that she felt betrayed by both Cape Town and her memory.
"If you live in Gauteng you don't really have anything to live for, except maybe dying under anesthetic during liposuction, which is an awesome way to go," said Potgieter.
"So Vleis and I were pinning all our hopes on the coast.
"But this is kak. The waves just go in and out, and that's all."
She said she was certain that she had swum with dolphins last year, but conceded that she might have been remembering trying to drag her husband Vleis from a hot tub after he had gone into meat shock.
"But I'm pretty sure it was a dolphin," she said.
Tourist Bambi Ngema of Sandton said she was "gutted" to discover that Cape Town's coloured citizens did not permanently wear carnival makeup and sing songs on ukuleles.
"It's disgusting," said Ngema. "When you come to Cape Town you expect cheeky coloureds with no front teeth saying 'Hoesit melaaaanie!' and playing 'Hie' kom die Alabama' on their ukuleles.
"But all they do is walk around in normal clothes. And they've even got teeth."
She said that she and her husband Charl-Sizwe had asked a coloured person to play something on his banjo, but that he had been "unenthusiastic".
"He said something about my mother's Porsche, which was weird because Mom drives a Bentley."
Meanwhile tourist authorities in Cape Town have confirmed that many of the visitors from Gauteng are already severely malnourished just a few days into their visits.
"The main problem is that there are so few Dros steak ranches in the city," said spokesman Happytime Magubane.
"They just don't know where else to find their traditional diet. We've been trying to lure them to the Spur, and we've tagged and released quite a lot near the Cattle Baron, but they just wander away, whimpering. It's heartbreaking."
She said that many of the tourists had also rejected emergency rations of fish and chips, saying that Cape Town fish was inedible because it tasted of fish and not of chicken and bone meal like Gauteng fish.
www.hayibo.com
College Admission Letter
I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.
I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.
Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets. I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.
I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat .400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.
I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.
I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four-course meals using only a Mouli and a toaster oven. I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.
But I have not yet gone to college.
Dinner
Last night’s dinner went smoothly, with the least amount of awkward conversation that can really be expected during dinner with your boss. Far too little wine was consumed, but unfortunately when you are used to a bottle on your own, that tends to happen. It is a weird thing indeed to view your boss in his natural habitat, and observe him in a social realm. Interesting, no doubt, but strange. Luckily in a group full of lawyers, there is seldom a quiet moment because no-one can allow a statement to go unchallenged, so four hours passed fairly quickly. It would have been a far more interesting 4 hours if I we drank like we ate, but so be it.
However before the dinner, yesterday afternoon, the boy left his keys in the flat and of course, didn’t have spares. After trying to break in with a wire for 20 minutes (it’s just not in my blood to be a criminal), we decided to go for a more serious measure. So, in true Rambo/cop/james bond style, he dramatically kicked the door in. Hot stuff man! I don’t care if I am turning 6 000 years of feminist progress on it’s head, when a man kicks a door down, I get all hot under the collar and want him to father my children and protect me from woolly mammoths. It’s a primordial thing, I suppose. Something to do with pheromones, no doubt. I wonder how many times he’s going to ‘forget’ those keys now…
However before the dinner, yesterday afternoon, the boy left his keys in the flat and of course, didn’t have spares. After trying to break in with a wire for 20 minutes (it’s just not in my blood to be a criminal), we decided to go for a more serious measure. So, in true Rambo/cop/james bond style, he dramatically kicked the door in. Hot stuff man! I don’t care if I am turning 6 000 years of feminist progress on it’s head, when a man kicks a door down, I get all hot under the collar and want him to father my children and protect me from woolly mammoths. It’s a primordial thing, I suppose. Something to do with pheromones, no doubt. I wonder how many times he’s going to ‘forget’ those keys now…
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Putting Out
Being a very English girl in a very Afrikaans environment, I sometimes encounter the very real (and often hilarious) language barrier. Occasionally it’s a six-foot brick wall that with my level of training is virtually insurmountable, but usually it’s a rickety old fence that just needs to be kicked a little to make a hole through it.
Perhaps I should explain JUST HOW English. When I was ten, my favourite brand of ice-cream was “Roomys”, when I was 12 I went to an ATM to draw money and it said “SORRY – JAMMER” and I assumed there was a paper jam and I couldn’t get a receipt. At 16 I was a waitress and a customer ordered a “spyskaart” which to me sounded like a spiced gold. Luckily, he drank rum and thought I was totally cute. Point is, I’m THAT English.
However, most of my friends are fully bilingual, and of Afrikaans origin. But occasionally there are phrases I need to explain. I have one naïve and fairly conservative friend who was heading out on a date. I jokingly encouraged her to ‘put out’, to which she replied, “Put out? Is that like paying half?”. Well, yes actually. After explaining it to her, she now encourages just about everyone to put out on just about every occasion.
Ha. Beautiful. Although when you are heading to campus to speak to one of your lecturer’s and she encourages you to put out, perhaps don’t take her advice…
Perhaps I should explain JUST HOW English. When I was ten, my favourite brand of ice-cream was “Roomys”, when I was 12 I went to an ATM to draw money and it said “SORRY – JAMMER” and I assumed there was a paper jam and I couldn’t get a receipt. At 16 I was a waitress and a customer ordered a “spyskaart” which to me sounded like a spiced gold. Luckily, he drank rum and thought I was totally cute. Point is, I’m THAT English.
However, most of my friends are fully bilingual, and of Afrikaans origin. But occasionally there are phrases I need to explain. I have one naïve and fairly conservative friend who was heading out on a date. I jokingly encouraged her to ‘put out’, to which she replied, “Put out? Is that like paying half?”. Well, yes actually. After explaining it to her, she now encourages just about everyone to put out on just about every occasion.
Ha. Beautiful. Although when you are heading to campus to speak to one of your lecturer’s and she encourages you to put out, perhaps don’t take her advice…
Etv
Last year at the career fair, while jealously guarding the tea table, I had the pleasure of observing a classic piece of humanity. Wait, I was guarding the tea table from the hungry hordes of students who see stuff and want to have it, regardless of what it is. A well-dressed, highly groomed Jo’burg boytjie is standing a few paces away, loudly chatting away on his cellphone. As he finishes, he looks up and catches my eye.
Jo’burg boytjie: (Nodding) That was E-tv.
Me: Oh.
Jbb: They want me to do an interview.
Me: Oh.
Jbb: I know. It’s ridiculous. I can’t be back in JHB by then.
Me: Oh.
Jbb: But you know, you gotta do what you gotta do. When you play in the big leagues…
Me: Mm.
Granted, I was hardly what I would call erudite, but I had absolutely no idea what to say to this man. Thank god he wasn’t from Natal and didn’t say “hey” with that questioning look after each sentence. There would have been twice as many “ohs” and perhaps another “mm” in the dialogue. I just love the way he had to drop his info all over me. Like, super stuff dude, I’m happy e-tv want to interview you. What the hell am I supposed to say about it? He then followed it up with:
Jbb: It’s another one of those high-profile cases. You know, like the decision in *some incomprehensible case name*.
Me: Mmm.
Jbb: And we all know how that turned out!
Me: Mmm.
Once again…what?
So, this year I was not working at the career fair, but rather roaming the halls trying to score free sh*t, as one does when free sh*t is available to be scored. One of the interesting stalls had peak caps, and despite the fact that I own thousands and never wear any peak caps, I wanted one. So I asked the guy behind the table what I had to do to get a free cap. Lo and behold! Jbb answers:
Jbb: What do you study?
Me: Ag, you know. Like, my masters (well-educated as usual).
Jbb: Give me a CV (with a look in his eyes like Andy Samberg jizzing in his pants).
Me: Er, ok.
Jbb: Now. Do you have one? I want one from you.
Jbb: (Proceeds to discuss in detail why his firm is the sh*t and why I should be blown away. Things ensure. Companies I have never heard of are bandied around. Names are dropped. All of this is lost on me, since I have glazed over and am eyeing the free cookies at the next table)
Me: (realizing he has stopped speaking) Oh?
Jbb: So what are you looking for in a firm?
Me: Um, like, not too conservative?
Jbb: Well we are far from f*cking conservative! Hey? I’ll kick a baby right now! I’ll do a lesbian black midget in front of you and then not marry her! I’ll even….even say the P word!
Me: Mm.
And yet he wants to hire me. Go figure?
Jo’burg boytjie: (Nodding) That was E-tv.
Me: Oh.
Jbb: They want me to do an interview.
Me: Oh.
Jbb: I know. It’s ridiculous. I can’t be back in JHB by then.
Me: Oh.
Jbb: But you know, you gotta do what you gotta do. When you play in the big leagues…
Me: Mm.
Granted, I was hardly what I would call erudite, but I had absolutely no idea what to say to this man. Thank god he wasn’t from Natal and didn’t say “hey” with that questioning look after each sentence. There would have been twice as many “ohs” and perhaps another “mm” in the dialogue. I just love the way he had to drop his info all over me. Like, super stuff dude, I’m happy e-tv want to interview you. What the hell am I supposed to say about it? He then followed it up with:
Jbb: It’s another one of those high-profile cases. You know, like the decision in *some incomprehensible case name*.
Me: Mmm.
Jbb: And we all know how that turned out!
Me: Mmm.
Once again…what?
So, this year I was not working at the career fair, but rather roaming the halls trying to score free sh*t, as one does when free sh*t is available to be scored. One of the interesting stalls had peak caps, and despite the fact that I own thousands and never wear any peak caps, I wanted one. So I asked the guy behind the table what I had to do to get a free cap. Lo and behold! Jbb answers:
Jbb: What do you study?
Me: Ag, you know. Like, my masters (well-educated as usual).
Jbb: Give me a CV (with a look in his eyes like Andy Samberg jizzing in his pants).
Me: Er, ok.
Jbb: Now. Do you have one? I want one from you.
Jbb: (Proceeds to discuss in detail why his firm is the sh*t and why I should be blown away. Things ensure. Companies I have never heard of are bandied around. Names are dropped. All of this is lost on me, since I have glazed over and am eyeing the free cookies at the next table)
Me: (realizing he has stopped speaking) Oh?
Jbb: So what are you looking for in a firm?
Me: Um, like, not too conservative?
Jbb: Well we are far from f*cking conservative! Hey? I’ll kick a baby right now! I’ll do a lesbian black midget in front of you and then not marry her! I’ll even….even say the P word!
Me: Mm.
And yet he wants to hire me. Go figure?
Monkeys - Not my own, but something to share
I like monkeys.
The pet store was selling them for five cents apiece.
I thought this was odd since they are normally a couple thousand apiece.
I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I bought 200 of them.
I like monkeys.
I took my 200 monkeys home.
I have a big car.
I let one of them drive.
His name was Sigmund.
He was retarded.
In fact, none of them were really bright.
They kept punching themselves in the genitals. I laughed.
They punched me in the genitals. I stopped laughing.
When I got home, I herded them into my room.
They didn't adapt very well to their new environment.
They would screech and hurl themselves off the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall.
Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into it's third hour.
Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died.
No apparent reason.
They all just sort of dropped dead.
Kinda like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later.
God damn cheap monkeys.
I didn't know what to do.
There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room; on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase.
It looked like I had 200 throw rugs.
I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work.
It got stuck.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey and one hundred ninety-nine dead, dry monkeys.
I tried to pretend that they were just stuffed animals.
That worked for awhile, that is, until they began to decompose.
It started to smell real bad.
I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in my toilet and I didn't want to call a plumber.
I was embarrassed.
I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them.
Unfortuantely there was only enough room for two at a time, so I had to change them every 30 seconds.
I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't go bad.
I tried to burn them, but little did I know that my bed was flammable.
I had to extinguish the fire.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and one hundred ninety-seven dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed, and The odor wasn't improving.
I became agitated at my inability to dispose of the dead monkeys and I really had to use the bathroom.
So I went and severely beat one of the monkeys.
I felt better.
I tried throwing them away, but the garbage man said the city was not allowed to dispose of charred primates.
I told him I had a wet one.
He couldn't take it either.
I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.
I finally arrived at a solution:
I gave them out as Christmas gifts.
My friends didn't quite know what to say.
They pretended to like them, but I could tell they were lying.
Ingrates.
So I punched them in the genitals.
Man, I like monkeys.
The pet store was selling them for five cents apiece.
I thought this was odd since they are normally a couple thousand apiece.
I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I bought 200 of them.
I like monkeys.
I took my 200 monkeys home.
I have a big car.
I let one of them drive.
His name was Sigmund.
He was retarded.
In fact, none of them were really bright.
They kept punching themselves in the genitals. I laughed.
They punched me in the genitals. I stopped laughing.
When I got home, I herded them into my room.
They didn't adapt very well to their new environment.
They would screech and hurl themselves off the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall.
Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into it's third hour.
Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died.
No apparent reason.
They all just sort of dropped dead.
Kinda like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later.
God damn cheap monkeys.
I didn't know what to do.
There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room; on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase.
It looked like I had 200 throw rugs.
I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work.
It got stuck.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey and one hundred ninety-nine dead, dry monkeys.
I tried to pretend that they were just stuffed animals.
That worked for awhile, that is, until they began to decompose.
It started to smell real bad.
I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in my toilet and I didn't want to call a plumber.
I was embarrassed.
I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them.
Unfortuantely there was only enough room for two at a time, so I had to change them every 30 seconds.
I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't go bad.
I tried to burn them, but little did I know that my bed was flammable.
I had to extinguish the fire.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and one hundred ninety-seven dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed, and The odor wasn't improving.
I became agitated at my inability to dispose of the dead monkeys and I really had to use the bathroom.
So I went and severely beat one of the monkeys.
I felt better.
I tried throwing them away, but the garbage man said the city was not allowed to dispose of charred primates.
I told him I had a wet one.
He couldn't take it either.
I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.
I finally arrived at a solution:
I gave them out as Christmas gifts.
My friends didn't quite know what to say.
They pretended to like them, but I could tell they were lying.
Ingrates.
So I punched them in the genitals.
Man, I like monkeys.
Reality
I’ve been whining and complaining about my cousin and her tendency to invade my (and my family’s) space and in fact today’s post was supposed to be a cynical rant about her. And then I received a message that she is in hospital with appendicitis and a cyst on her ovary (or possibly worse). Shoot. Poor thing. Just the thought of waking up to that kind of scary reality makes me want to stop doing anything unhealthy. In any case, in the interests of not being s soulless bitch, the complaining will be postponed until the health status returns to healthy.
Last night in town was amusing – for some reason everyone was on a mission to boost my ego. I spent a day full of flattery and compliments. And genuine ones, like the ones you want to write down and keep. Not that it’s in any way comparable to my friend’s 3 valentines dates, for which none of them received any putting out. But it felt good. I even had gay guys hitting on me. Naturally, I left early since the night wasn’t going to get any better than that.
Instead of waking up slow and going for a leisurely (paid for) brunch with the boy’s parents, I am up early and stuck working at the wine farm. Ok, fair enough, it’s not the world’s most grueling work and it certainly makes for an interesting office, but still. Work is work. No matter where. Plus this little ‘gem’ of a wine farm is so tucked away and so unobtrusive that no-one ever comes in here. I spend weekends here reading Douglas Adams and googling hot asian girls (I had a reason – I needed inspiration for a schoolgirl outfit. In the end I went with Serena Vanderwoodsen). On top of that, I’m missing rugby. Not that I watch rugby for any serious reason, but a) the players are so full of testosterone that it’s just beautiful to watch b) I can start drinking as soon as the game begins and I have every reason to carry on after, since there is usually another game after and if not, then you’re celebrating/commiserating (delete as applicable) and c) really? I need a third reason to love it??? The boy told me it must be awesome to be gay, because then watching rugby is both a dirty porno and it’s rugby. “Yes, dear. That’s why the gay lifestyle appeals!”
To you NOT working today, I salute you. Come and drink some wine and entertain me!
Last night in town was amusing – for some reason everyone was on a mission to boost my ego. I spent a day full of flattery and compliments. And genuine ones, like the ones you want to write down and keep. Not that it’s in any way comparable to my friend’s 3 valentines dates, for which none of them received any putting out. But it felt good. I even had gay guys hitting on me. Naturally, I left early since the night wasn’t going to get any better than that.
Instead of waking up slow and going for a leisurely (paid for) brunch with the boy’s parents, I am up early and stuck working at the wine farm. Ok, fair enough, it’s not the world’s most grueling work and it certainly makes for an interesting office, but still. Work is work. No matter where. Plus this little ‘gem’ of a wine farm is so tucked away and so unobtrusive that no-one ever comes in here. I spend weekends here reading Douglas Adams and googling hot asian girls (I had a reason – I needed inspiration for a schoolgirl outfit. In the end I went with Serena Vanderwoodsen). On top of that, I’m missing rugby. Not that I watch rugby for any serious reason, but a) the players are so full of testosterone that it’s just beautiful to watch b) I can start drinking as soon as the game begins and I have every reason to carry on after, since there is usually another game after and if not, then you’re celebrating/commiserating (delete as applicable) and c) really? I need a third reason to love it??? The boy told me it must be awesome to be gay, because then watching rugby is both a dirty porno and it’s rugby. “Yes, dear. That’s why the gay lifestyle appeals!”
To you NOT working today, I salute you. Come and drink some wine and entertain me!
Friday, April 9, 2010
Quiz
So, last night I realised, I definitely am not made for responsibility. Despite making a list, and checking it twice, I still made the inevitable slip up when it comes to say, remembering to give a question paper! And looked stupid. Basically, the rule goes that if something can go wrong, it will. Thinking I had now made my mistake for the week, I was happily sitting in my office this morning, recovering from quiz night (more on that in a bit), when a student walks in all innocently and asks “Do we have tutorials this week?” Doh! I had totally forgotten to give class. Hopefully they don’t report me…
Luckily, I felt mildly less stupid last night when one of the students couldn’t open the door after the test. When I turned the handle, she literally looked at me with new-found admiration. Hey eyes had been opened. And the door. But I thought to myself “like, you can open a door another way? How does this child function? Can she breathe without being coached?”.
The weekly report on Quiz: we seem to be steadily on our way to a fairly mediocre second place. Every week that bbbbbbb bird is the word just seems to top us, some way or another. In any case, last night was a pathetic third place. Seriously? High-fiving to patchiness? Not really my style. The partying was good though. One of those parties where you arrive and feel like a total outsider since everyone is already on the train, so you play catch up and end up dancing like a total skeez to every sh*tty 50’s song you hear, which for some reason every dj insists on playing. My theory is that if I am constantly dancing then the calories from the beer don’t have time to attach themselves to my ass. Or something. It probably didn’t help to come home and basically inhale half a loaf of sweet potato bread, but then at the time, sensible calorie-counting decisions were not being made!
The big problem was that I decided I was better than my sensible self, and drunk me had a cigarette. Or 20. I feel like my mouth is contributing carbon emissions to the ozone layer. But the way it goes is that you decide not to really ‘drink’, just to quench your thirst. Turns out that quenching one’s thirst by downing two hunter’s dry’s is not the smartest idea. I resigned myself to a 2am curfew, and this time, I actually nearly made it! But considering my work situation, being hungover is actually preferable. At least I have something to occupy my time ie not throwing up.
I am now quietly whiling my way away to the weekend by playing online scrabble – new high = 75 points for SEMILLION! Sweet…
Oh, and I came up with a new advertising slogan for American Swiss (I was helping a friend on a work assignment, ok). “Don’t be jewish this Easter…”
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Bp Pies
So, the theory on the BP pie/guy goes as follows:
Every girl, whether she will admit it or not, has one guy that she is hopelessly attracted to, despite how revoltingly bad he is for her. No matter what her friends think, no matter who says what about him, no matter how he treats her, she will always have a sneaky corner of her….well, let’s call it heart for him. (When I say heart, I mean vagina.)
And basically, he can be explained by the BP pie phenomenon.
You get ready and put on your party shoes. You look at yourself in the mirror, thinking “I am tall, confident, skinny and gorgeous”. You go out with the girls and you think to yourself “Whatever happens tonight, I will not drink too much. And if I do drink too much (which I won’t), no matter how much tequila and beer we insist on pouring down our throats, I will NOT eat a BP pie”. And then you go out for cocktails, but cocktails turn into dinner, dinner turns into an orgy of food, and then 74 00 bottles of non-descript white wine and fourteen tequilas later, you are dancing on the bar. Your friends slowly start to gravitate towards whatever looks appealing and you think “Still, I’m not going to give in and I will not eat that pie”. But, by 2am, when you’re starving hungry and that rumbling noise in your stomach yells “give me unnecessarily bad food…NOW!”, you think “Why not? It’s just one. It’s not the worst thing in the world.” And your greedy little tummy takes you straight to that pie. You always choose the worst one, like chicken mayo (don’t even get me STARTED on hot mayo) or a cheeseburger pie. Even as you are eating it and that greasy pie is slipping down your throat you think “I am so going to regret this tomorrow, but right now it feels AWESOME!”. And you love it.
Then you wake up, the next morning, feeling like ass and death combined in a blender, with that dirty BP pie wrapper lying on the floor, and it all comes flooding back…
Now, substitute “pie” for “guy”, “hungry” for “wine-induced horniness” and “stomach” for….well, you get my drift. I leave it up to you as to what the crumpled wrapper in the floor is…
Weekends
And the awesome weekend draws to a close…However I shouldn’t complain too much. I mean, it’s not like my day job really takes it out of me. Considering I come to work just to write this blog and play online scrabble, it’s obvious to all that I don’t consider work taxing.
I thought my weekend of drinking wine would also have upped my stamina and I would be able to sustainably drink now. Lent make a huge dent in my ability to down sh*t, but I have been working on it so that I don’t have half a glass of wine and look like a dribbling lush. Anyway, last night I had about a billion bottles of red with the Physicist, and so I’m feeling slightly like cottonwool this morning. Funny, I used to think that most of my hangover was just a ‘smoke hangover’ and once I stopped smoking I would wake up feeling like a princess as soon as I stopped. Lies. All lies. I feel worse these days, like a little Frenchmen is dancing on my brain. The only sensible solution is to drink steadily until I no longer have hangovers. When you think about it, it really is the only choice.
I have to get back on a treadmill (when I say treadmill, I mean run the four blocks around my flat until I pass out for sheer exhaustion). Family weekends are fantastic, but when every meal has three courses and at least 6 glasses of wine, it’s fairly easy to start looking like the Easter bunny. And not in a hot “look at my fluffy tail, I’m playboy bunny” kind of way. More like a plump furry thing that twitches every time it smells food. Speaking of which, I haven’t eaten in at least 20 minutes which means my stomach is grumbling and groaning of sheer starvation. No point in going cold turkey on it, I’ll have to ease into this diet. Mmmm….cold turkey. Mayonnaise. Panini…Ok stop. Concentrate.
Inspirational picture for the day:
Enjoy!
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