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Norman had big nuts

1 Mar

Namaste, lady bastards!

You’re mistaken. I’ve not been locked up for the illegal possession of “llama” (it’s what the kids are calling weed these days). You’re absolutely correct; I’ve neglected this blog and should be shot at dawn with a staple gun until copiously bleeding from my nuts for having done so. But cut me some slack. I’m basically the equivalent of an internet hobo, squatting in the shadows of a logged off world in my apartment and then forgetting to take advantage of internet connectivity at work. I guess I’m just like you… a bit of a moron.

I suppose greater men would have continued to write hilarious accounts of invisible llamas and adventurous sexual exploits wearing nothing but their extra-large condoms and then hacked into the nearest local network through their microwaves in order to upload their magnificent prose for three people to read. But I like to think I’ve kept you all in a state of heightened suspense ready to… well, you know, gasp with pleasure at my sudden return from a writer’s premature grave.

Anyway, here’s some free advice to help you survive 2011, which is looking like the year people everywhere in Northern Africa decided to throw rocks at their oppressive regimes: If you’re walking around the streets like a lost fart in a perfume factory and see an angry mob of motherfuckers throwing shit at riot police, get on your llama or other mode of transport and head in the opposite direction. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you choke to death on tear gas.

Or, you could join them. Who knows, you may become a legend by throwing the stone that finally smacks Gaddafi between his shifty eyes, convincing him that he should quickly retire to his villa in Southern Spain before being sodomised by a llama and then disembowelled by angry revolutionaries.

But wait, there’s more free advice and llama love where that came from … Be tenacious. Just like those agitated mobs flipping the bird at Gaddafi and biting the bullet in the process. Tenacious like that Norman D. Vaughan dude who said, “Dream big and dare to fail.” Now, before you think he had tiny little balls like Gaddafi and a bigger ego, let me set the record straight: Norman had gigantic planet-sized testes made of titanium. He could have used his nuts as wrecking balls if he wanted to.

Norman was an American dogsled driver who was part of the first expedition to reach the South Pole. By the age of 68, however, he was divorced and bankrupt. Did poor old Norman crawl into a foetal position and whimper like a defeated twit? Not a fucking chance. He rebuilt his life. And then at the age of 88, he climbed a 3,150 metre mountain (10,000 feet for all you foreign morons). Fuck me gently, that’s an impressive pair of old man balls he swung between his legs.

When he turned 100, Norman was going to climb the same mountain again. But unfortunately, he died, as people tend to do at that age. I blame his mamma. You see, he had promised the old goat that he wouldn’t drink any alcohol until he was 100. So, on his 100th birthday he took his first sip of bubbly. He kicked the bucket a few days later, before he could pull his mountain gear over his wrinkled beach balls one last time.

A little tenacity chipped off Norman’s old block will take us all a long way in life. It sure did wonders for him. But I don’t advise you wait until you’re 100 to take your first sip of booze. That’s going to shock the living fuck out of your liver and kill you.

Live long and prosper. But get drunk once in a while.

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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

Aliens and the End of the World

10 Oct

we-are-not-alone

Some people think there is something special about numbers. Take the number ten for example. Thousands of years ago the Mayans supposedly predicted the world would end in 2012. But just so we would not be completely caught off guard when the world suddenly ends, they apparently also wrote some prophecies possibly using llama dung (that shit lasts forever) telling us that 10.10.10 would be, yes, just another day the earth continued its orbit around the sun, but also a special day when we’d all say to each other: Fuck! The world is going to end in 2012. If we don’t get right with God / pass a bill banning crocs / invent another calendar that somehow fast-tracks the world to a date after 2012 thereby fooling the universe and letting us off the hook for another 100 years, we’re all fucked.

The world somehow keeps on turning despite all the morons that live on it. Probably long after 2012. And morons keep on coming up with batshit ideas to understand why it does and when it may stop or who the fuck invented crocs. And just in case all those Mayan prophecies and mystical numbers and pyramids in the desert are actually the diabolical work of aliens, the UN has appointed an alien ambassador — or more specifically, space ambassador for extraterrestrial contact affairs. I llama-shit you not. It’s all hush-hush and no it’s not Will Smith. I’m as shocked as the rest of you. Our point person if the little green men from outer space visit us is Malayasian astrophysicist Mazlan Othman. It’s not a dude. It’s a woman. I think that’s a very clever move by the UN. Men only fuck things up. We’d either want to fight those little green fuckers with all the nuclear arsenal at our disposal and lose anyway because they have lasers or if they turn out to be gorgeous green women with perky tits, we’ll just want lap dances and stop worrying about 2012. We all lose again in that scenario, although we die with hard-ons.

Why the hell do we need an alien ambassador? According to this Othman chick, “someday humankind will receive signals from extraterrestrials. When we do, we should have in place a coordinated response that takes into account all the sensitivities related to the subject.” Exactly. Like whether it’s star wars or lap dances we should expect. Fuck me, is this woman wandering around the UN building with her cellphone fully charged hoping the aliens will give her a missed call just before they land in the parking lot? For all we know aliens would be far more interested in conversing with insects. After all, creepy crawlies rule the planet if we’re talking about sheer numbers here.

Fellow morons, eat, drink and by merry for tomorrow we may be visited by aliens.

Namaste

PS Thanks to my good friends the barefoot Mountain Man and his lovely veggie-eating partner Madam Marketing for the heads up about the alien welcoming committee. I would have been pissed if I woke up to find green people in my garden and didn’t know who to call.

PPS Let’s do this again next year on 11 November.

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.

Crime Fighter Extraordinaire

21 Aug
Newspaper

Stop the press: extra special moron in town

If you’re a South African, crime is just something you grow accustomed to. Or you emigrate to New Zealand.

Like Hugh Hefner who has grown accustomed to dyed-blonde twins with massive silicon-enhanced mammary glands on each arm, South Africans know they will have their car windows smashed and their latest copies of Playboy and Huisgenoot stolen; they will have Zimbabwean exiles set up shop down the road and their women seduced by apparently more virile African men; and in the middle of the night thieves will try to break into their houses and steal all their shit.

I hide my porn mags in a secret bunker under my garage and don’t bother to lock my car doors. Because the locks are broken but that’s besides the point. So there’s nothing to grab. And I’m Hugh Hefner’s heir, so good luck seducing my blonde bimbos. But if you try to break into my house in the middle of the night, I will shout from the kitchen window in a loud and intimidating fashion and tell you to fuck off because I’ve called the police and also have a large sharp knife in my hand. You may not be aware that I have shat myself a little bit.

This is what happened last night around 10pm: I heard an intruder at the side entrance beside the kitchen. It sounded like he was walking around on the loose stones where I hang my washing to dry and deposit rubbish. As I was trying to peer out of the frosted glass window panes of the door, someone or something was suddenly right up against the door and adrenaline was squirting all over the place inside my manly body.

Oh my fucking god! What to do … scream like a girl with a man’s voice and bash the door loudly so he knows I’m a mean motherfucker who will not be taken without a bloody fight ending in his painful death? Great idea …

All sorts of crunching noises on the stones continues. And what sounds like a drunk homeless dude throwing old newspaper all over the place. So I shine my torch out the kitchen window and tell him to fuck off because I’ve called the police. I haven’t but he doesn’t need to know this. And he doesn’t need to know that I may need to change my underwear after he scrambles over the wall and runs for his terrified life.

The noises continue.

Eventually I accept that I have to go out the front door and climb over the wall to investigate. And possibly confront the yet-to-be-seen intruder. And then run ululating into the park across the road where I’m hopefully saved by concerned neighbours.

Who knows if this is another great idea, but I’m Jedi Master by day and Crime Fighter by night, bitches. Out the front door I go.

I tentatively look over the wall. Surprisingly, there is no armed tik addict intruder trying to cut through the burglar guards with a blowtorch. And there is no homeless drunk dude passed out next to the dustbin clutching a copy of Huisgenoot. There is only an old edition of the Cape Argus newspaper blowing all over the place. And a few roaches. That I violently terminate after jumping nimbly over the wall like Batman. Because I’m not to be trifled with.

This is called a false alarm. And forever to be remembered as that one windy night I imagined my house was being broken into by newspaper. Fuck. I humbly accept the Moron of the Week award.

Namaste, fellow morons. And be careful out there. Newspapers are everywhere.

Panjo the Tiger Goes Walkies

28 Jul

It’s been a crazy week for local news in sunny South Africa, home to the vuvuzela, a possible cure for HIV/Aids [take a shower, says our president] and missing tigers. And here all you civilised foreign peeps thought we only have lions, elephants and llamas roaming around our neighbourhoods.

A dude who goes by the name of Goosey Fernandes lost his pet tiger, Panjo, on Monday night/Tuesday morning, depending on which news source you stick to, while he was taking it to the vet for shots. Goosey was reportedly transporting Panjo on the back of his bakkie. But the sneaky tiger, who sleeps in Goosey’s bed with him (this story has more freaky bits than Lady Gaga), escaped. And he’s been wandering around the Delmas area of Mpumalanga, probably wondering where the fuck his fluffy pillow is.

If you see this, do not run. Feed it chicken. Wait to die

If the owner’s name was Frik van der Merwe and his illegal pet tiger answered to the name of Fokken Groot Kat, I would be more inclined to believe this story. But Goosey? And Panjo? I think something far more sinister is taking place in Delmas. My hunch is that the sequel to The Hangover is being filmed in the charming bushveld of Mpumalanga — The Hangover 2: Drunk in Delmas. I’m sure it’ll be hilarious, like the first movie. Pity they didn’t cast a llama instead of a tiger.

But if the story is for real, you okes who live in Delmas had better listen up to the advice of Wild Life South Africa spokesperson Johan van der Walt who reckons you should stand still if you spot the tiger. “If you run you are fucking dead.” He may not have said “fucking” dead, but he should have. Because being eaten alive until you die screaming in agony and then being eaten some more by a hungry tiger is a pretty fucked up way to die.

And it’s only Wednesday. Or Hump Day, as some perverts call it. There’s a lot more that can happen to round off a week of bizarre news. For instance, I could be proven right about the second Hangover movie. Or more likely, my missing pet llama, who may also be illegal but fuck them, could elope with Panjo. Just think of the cute babies they’d have.

Namaste, morons. Happy humping.

UPDATE: It ended well. Panjo the lost tiger has been found after an extensive search. The big striped kitty is doing fine. It survived by eating three KFC employees, who took to heart the instruction to feed the tiger chicken if cornered. I guess they must have smelt a bit like chicken as well. They died for a good cause.

FURTHER UPDATE: I’m just fucking with you. The tiger is safe and no humans were devoured. Goosey is overjoyed because he can snuggle up with Panjo again on his bed like before the fiasco. By the way dude, I can organise a pet Komodo dragon for you, in case you want another wild animal to snuggle up to. Hands off my 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.