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Life sucks and then you die. But live first

19 Jan

A few people on Twitter and my mom suggested I revive this sorry excuse for a blog. I started the blog when I had nothing much else to do other than talk shit on the interwebs. Well, more than usual. I’d been retrenched and didn’t have to put my pants on and go to work. Sitting in front of the computer without pants on is extremely liberating. Ask Julius. Since being kicked to the curb by his former comrades, he’s had less reason than I had back then to put his pants on in the morning. But then my money ran out (wait for it, Jubes) and I had to get a job. I know, life fucking sucks. I reluctantly put my pants back on and sort of turned my back on this blog. But what the fuck, quitting is for quitters. That sounded more profound about a second before I typed it.

A lot has happened in one year. Japan got a bit fucked up by a tsunami, a few dictators kicked the bucket and Julius got his pants pulled down past his sorry arse where he’s left them. And we also entered the last year of human existence. According to those Mayan dudes and a few morons in Hollywood. The Christian fundamentalists, on the other hand, have been predicting the last year before Jesus comes back every year for two thousand years, but I’m scared of calling them morons. Just in case they’re right, you know. Imagine. Julius and me would be caught with our pants down. No seventy virgins for us. Wait, that’s another religion, isn’t it? God, I’ve got to cut down on the booze.

Speaking of the devil’s party juice, I got so shitfaced on New Years because I thought that was when the world was coming to an end, that I’ve only just recovered from the hangover. Turns out I have this entire year to party it up before pulling myself together before the end of the year and the lights go out.

So, here are a few things I firmly believe will make this final year of our existence fucking rock. Call it a bucket list if you like, I’ll just call it an excuse to fucking party like there’s no tomorrow. Because let’s face it, there is no tomorrow. There is only today. I should be the next Pope or something. Or the next reincarnation of that Llama dude who isn’t a lama.

Strive to establish a new world record for the most orgasms ever I have no idea how the hell you’re going to prove that you’re choking the chicken or bucking like a wild bronco more than your average porn star / teenager / me, but at least you can pretend that you are a masturbating legend. I think this will take your mind off the fact that the world is screwed. If you’re getting happily screwed all the time, that’s even better, because who cares if the world is about to get proper fucked when you are. There are so many puns in there my head is spinning.

No pants I know that Julius and I have dibs on this, but technically it’s not a work environment thing for us. You, on the other hand, can do what these (see below) beautiful underwear-clad people do every year in January. Doing it at home is beyond boring and like I said, Julius and I have dibs on that. Can you imagine if we tried this in South Africa? Fuck me gently, there’d be hell to pay. And that’s why I think you need to do it. Besides, I’m tired of flipping through women’s magazines to see chicks in their underwear.

Fight corruption Again, I have no idea how you’re going to do this, other than join them. You heard me. Fight fire with fire. Sure, you’ll have to somehow get your hands on billions of rands of tax payers’ stolen money and then turn it into gravy to fuel your gravy plane, gravy train and gravy boat. You can pretend (you’ll have lots of practice learning to pretend – just re-read the point about jerking off like a chicken-killer) that the money is headed in the right direction, when in fact it’s just headed straight for your live-like-a-king trust fund. I’ll leave the finer details up to you. If you struggle a bit to get going, call me. I’ll give you Julius’ BB pin and tell him to accept your friend request on Facebook. He’ll give you a few pointers.

I’m a little drunk right now so I can’t think of one more thing that is going to make this year any better – or worse for that matter. You’ve gotta love your man, if you’re a chick. And you gotta love your girl, if you’re a dude. And if you’re a chick who doesn’t like dicks or a dude who does, well you know what to do. This is our year, motherfuckers. Because it’s our last. Probably not, but you’re just going to sleep, eat and watch TV if I don’t scare the bejesus out of you. Get out there and make it count. Gotta go, my favourite show is coming on…

Power and Enlargement Cream

13 Nov

Dear Prof Ivan

Dude, I have a bone to pick with you. Quite a big one as it turns out.

You sold me with the poster, especially using smart marketing words like “power” and “enlargement”. And the 100% herbal bit — very environmentally responsible and all. No one wants to rub some artificial chemical shit on their dick that will only increase the size of their pecker because of massive inflammation. I should know. Been there, done that.

penis cream poster

I was quivering with anticipation when your package arrived in the mail — I would have preferred a courier service using a stripper dressed up as a courier person and offering one free lap dance per delivery, but at least the goods arrived after four weeks, which has never happened with any of the other dick treatments I’ve paid good money for over the internet.

Anyway, as there were no instructions with your 100% herbal penis cream, I gingerly set about applying the substance, which God has been keeping a sneaky secret until you discovered it while gardening naked in Nigeria. I’m writing to let you know that you are not a complete liar, Prof Ivan. This shit fucking works! But here’s the problem — it works on anything! While rubbing the stuff on very carefully to the bit needing power and enlargement, one of my testicles started itching. I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s only natural to give an afflicted nut a good scratch. I now have a very powerful and enlarged left testicle. It feels like I’m swinging a fucking watermelon in a hammock between my legs. I also scratched my right earlobe and must have applied your powerful cream there as well. If you look at that side of my head I appear to be one of those primitive tribesmen sporting gigantic earlobes that impress primitive tribal ladies. Earlobes stretched, I can only assume, by hanging something the size of my left nut from them.

Sure, I now also have a one-foot-long schlong. That’s all good and well until you look at me naked, as I have done in the mirror ever since while screaming “No, Jesus, noooooooooo!” I mean, I look like a fucking circus freak! With a dick the size of a donkey’s, one pathetically small testicle beside its retarded giant of a brother, and an earlobe flapping against the side of my face like Nelly the bloody elephant. Your product should come with a warning — don’t scratch your balls and earlobes while applying my awesome dick enhancer unless you want to look like a freak.

I’d like my money back. I’ll keep the enlarged penis, thank you very much, but I suggest you go digging around in your garden and find a cure to shrink my ball and earlobe back to their normal size. Send it with one of those lap-dancing courier services and we’ll call it quits.

Regards,

The Dalai Moron

This Little Piggy Played Hide and Seek

22 Sep

pig

You’ve heard about the local hero keeping the streets of Joburg safe for speeding motorists … you know, the dude who goes by the unforgettable username of @PigSpotter? This kind of real-life hide and seek game is why social media was invented.

@PigSpotter, with the help of plenty other motorists with cellphones, is ensuring that motorists slow down to the appropriate speed limit and avoid being pulled over and forced to bribe a willing officer of the law fined. Or just find another speedy route home.

So, if you’re a metro cop, you’ve definitely heard about the pig motherfucker. And you would love to get your hands on this pork chop who is fucking up all your fun. And fry his bacon. It’s okay, I would feel just as pissed off as you okes if some moron got the bright idea while taking a crap of using Twitter to alert motorists about cops hiding behind bushes with their cameras to trap all those maniac Joburg drivers who drive 150 in a 60 zone. In reverse.

Know what I’d do if I was the chief copper with his panties in a knot about @PigSpotter? I’d create a whole bunch of Twitter accounts just like Cliff’s (his real name is probably Frikkie). I’d use these Twitter accounts to alert motorists everywhere about my honourable police officers hiding behind fake bushes, in public toilets, in dustbins outside KFC, fucking everywhere you may expect a cop to hide. Motorists, bushwhackers, perverts, chicken munchers, practically everyone would be on high alert and driving about at a snail’s pace / jerking off at home / eating veggies. The world would become a better place overnight. And I, @FuckingAmazingCop, would silence this swine who has dared to embarrass me and all my honest fellow cops.

All you fascists out there who would like to control how social media is used, the joke’s on you.

Drive safely.

Long live pigs (the ones that look like Babe).

Namaste.

My Lewd and Lascivious Llama

29 Aug

A friend of mine, who is quite likely a descendant of a sub-species of hybrid human-giraffe, was passing through Wellington in the Western Cape the other day. With his camera. He came across a find almost as intriguing as the first glimpse of boob is to a young heterosexual boy — a baby llama.

head tilting baby llama

Now I know exactly where my pet llama wanders off to when he needs to get his rocks off. Little fucker. And this retarded cute looking baby llama with its tilting head is obviously the result of his frisky fornications.

The giraffe-fella also got a good look at the long-necked llama whore that has been getting all my pet llama’s wanton attention. Just look at that look — fuck me, Jezebel herself in the furry form of a llama!

the whoring llama

I have no doubt there will be plenty more baby llamas growing into their long necks popping up and bounding around all over the place thanks to Frisky the Lewd and Lascivious Llama’s fornicating ways. He’s just like some presidents.

Note: Ever wondered what batshit things some morons search for on the interwebs that lead to my awesome blog? Wonder no more. I’ve created a FAQ to answer all your whimsical curiosities and help you sleep better at night. You’ll read more about freaky llamas, something about my favourite pick-up lines and a question about anal beads. You’re very welcome.

Another note: In case you missed the link because you’re a moronThe Dalai Moron’s Most Amazing FAQ.

Namaste, morons. Have a fucking amazing week (yes, just like my pet llama).

Please To Find Me The Love On Interwebs

19 Jul

I’m an unemployed drunk who sits around all day looking like a fool with his pants on the ground a hard-working, charming individual who would be a tremendous asset to anyone bold enough to employ me. Until I meet that courageous person, whom I shall share many an expensive drink and occasional cigarillo with on the company tab, as well as entertain with endless mostly harmless office pranks involving cling wrap, I have to entertain myself with this blog hunt around on the interwebs for potential jobs.

This can be a very entertaining, if not occasionally suicide-inducing, experience. By way of example, take this fantastic opportunity for growing rich extremely slowly: a website where people in more affluent regions of the world outsource work they don’t want to do to the great unwashed — a virtual marketplace where soap is irrelevant. The idea was popularised by Timothy Ferriss of The 4-Hour Workweek fame. It definitely has its merits. Except when independent contractors like me with an internet connection and the ability to string a coherent sentence together are expected to work for much less than they would if they lived next door to their online employer. But they live elsewhere in a more dubious geographic location. Cape Town, for instance.

The rationale is that the people doing the crap work from the Philipines or wherever are actually earning a tidy sum of money when converted into their crap currency. Great for them. I need to earn more than a few dollars a day if I want to keep up my drug habit feed my cat.

I did see a job on this particular website the other day that especially piqued my interest — I was even tempted, for a brief but insane moment, to offer my services. For free. The dude posting the job is apparently too busy to hook himself up with internet dates. He wants someone to do this on his behalf. To write about how charming and wonderful he is and why his potential dates would be absolute fucking morons not to hook up with him — when he has a spare moment, of course. And he’ll pay a spectacular fee of around $4 per successful hook up — to the copywriter, not the date.

I’m sure I could make this idiot sound more or less like Mel Gibson Brad Pitt. Something like this:

“Hi, my name is Frederick. My mom calls me Frik. Frikkie when she’s pissed. Not that I live at home anymore. I make lots of money. I have my own place. Which I would like to show you. I would like to spend some of my cash on you. What say we hook up when I have a spare night. Next year work for you? I’m not implying that you are a prostitute. I just don’t have time to write a whole lot of bullshit about myself and convince you that I am Mel Gibson’s equal. I would love to treat you to a lovely dinner and then invite you home to my big house to look at my tiny woodpecker. And other pecker. He’s a rare midget species. The woodpecker. I look forward to meeting you when I have the time. Yours in hope, Frikkie.”

Frikkie would get so many happy endings. Possibly. Thanks to my convincing copywriting skills. He may actually have to outsource some of the action to me. So he can get back to work. It’s a win-win situation.

The Versatile Vuvuzela

12 Jul

Paul 'inked' himself after the Dutch suggested calamari for lunch

The World Cup is over. Paul the psychic octopus was spot-on again — Spain won the trophy and the Dutch have been advised to take up kick-boxing instead of football. South Africa will be remembered at least for another month for providing the ama-visitors with a lekker jol. We were just kidding about the lions roaming around in our gardens, but not about how many wives our President has. And we were definitely not joking about that annoying plastic horn. It’s fucking loud when blown directly into your sensitive ear drums, right? Haha, quit bitching, we told you to bring ear plugs.

Anyways, now what? There are more vuvuzelas than people on the planet and still more being manufactured by the minute in the sweat shops fair trade factories of China. Unless you’re a South African from Soweto who has been blowing his vuvuzela at weekend football games long before the World Cup and has no intention of stopping anytime soon, what the fuck are you going to do with your plastic souvenir? I have a few suggestions:

Self-defense A few days after the trophy has been carted off to Europe and FIFA has evacuated with its brand of instantly ruthless justice mostly aimed at ambush marketers, non-FIFA related crime will once again top the list of cheerful braai conversations. Except now we will be regaled with tales of how our mate John chased away three surprised would-be hijackers by fiercely blowing his vuvuzela in their general direction. And how Mavis irreparably injured a sexual predator by impaling him on her son’s vuvuzela and then continually blowing her one in his ears until the cops came. Five days later.

Poop scoop Dog owners are quite lazy about picking up the steaming piles of excrement their pooches happily leave all over the park. If you’re not planning to touch your lips to your vuvuzela again, you’ll find that it’s a nifty turd-removing utility.

Sex toy I’m not suggesting you insert the horn and blow it. Unless you’re trying to inflict a similar injury to the one Mavis unleashed on the remorseful sexual predator who needed three surgeries just to remove the thing. However, when the vuvuzela becomes the popular porn prop it was destined to become, we will all understand its true potential as a sex toy. Or probably just appreciate its less annoying but titillating entertainment value.

Multi-faceted funnel Ever run out of petrol and have to walk / hitch a ride to the nearest garage and then finally get back to your stranded car only to realise that without a funnel, most of the petrol you just spent your last ten bucks on is destined for the tarmac instead of the tank? You wouldn’t feel like such a moron if you had a vuvuzela-funnel. Any other scenario where a funnel would come to the rescue has vuvuzela written all over it. Beer drinkers have already found the vuvuzela to be a very handy bong. And I suspect Paris Hilton will continue to hide her weed in one.

There are many other useful things you can do with your potentially obsolete vuvuzela. I just felt a moral obligation to give you a few pointers. I’m all about creative options for the crime possessed and sex obsessed. You’re welcome.

Namaste, morons. And well done South Africa, you showed dem how to make da circle bigger. Back to work.

Ambush Marketers Are Very Cheeky

21 Jun

By now you should have heard about the “ambush marketing” stunt that got FIFA all pissed off and beer drinkers everywhere switching from Castle to something frothy from Bavaria breweries (note: not an official FIFA sponsor).

Thirty-six young women went off to Soccer City last week to support the Dutch football team, wearing nothing else but skimpy little orange numbers. The Dutch have a thing for orange, by the way. The sneaky little fuckers at Bavaria had the bare-butt cheek to send these women to a football game — wearing orange! That’s just fucked up.

FIFA were not ridiculous at all for having these chicks escorted out of the stadium and making sure two of them were arrested and their passports confiscated for this horrendous crime against modestly clothed humanity. I mean, if I got up really close to one of these ambush marketing terrorists and nestled my face in her lap, I may just have spotted a tiny label on the seam of her dress advertising the evil brewery. And then, with my head in her lovely lap of luxury, I would suddenly have realised the terrible truth — these women are just cheap beer whores! In protest I would refuse to drink orange juice, blow orange vuvuzelas or wear clogs ever again in my life. Because FIFA are fucking right, ambush marketing is despicable.

The label says it all - evil beer wench

I would have enforced much more drastic measures at Soccer City: Take off your skimpy dresses, ladies. Yes, I know, it’s a bit chilly, but that will serve you and your nipples right for pulling a stunt like this right under FIFA’s hairy nostril. Feel free to run around the stadium as much as you like, which will help to keep you warm and possibly distract the other team, which is not a crime at all. Please note, it’s unlikely you’re wearing underwear, but if you are and it’s branded by a non-sponsor, you will be required to remove it as well — you’ll just have to run around even more and jump up and down a lot. Enjoy the strip tease game!

Come on FIFA, you dudes make me laugh. Instead of ruining running football tournaments, you okes should take over law enforcement in South Africa. Swift justice like this would turn our country into a draconian paradise overnight. And hopefully a nudist colony as well.

More photos of the orange football pirates.

UPDATE: The two Dutch women arrested for wearing orange dresses have had the charges against them dropped. FIFA and Bavaria have reached an out-of-court settlement. I have my doubts whether this means they have to parade around naked with the other brand terrorists at the next Dutch match, but I’m staying glued to my TV just in case. And if you want yet another South African take on the vuvuzela, watch this.