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Those Cheeky Christians on Facebook

20 Oct

What’s my favourite Bible verse? Other than that one about the woman lusting after her lovers who have schlongs to rival donkey porn stars and the ejaculating potential of sperm whales, I love the one about Jesus turning water into vodka. Wait, brandy? Maybe it was a very nice Cabernet, I don’t remember. But it was booze and that makes him super awesome. And then I also really love the one where good Christian people are told to turn the other bum cheek. You know, to not get all fucking angry and pissy every time shit doesn’t go their own way.

Like today. When Facebook nearly exploded with all the comments about Woolworths making a “business decision” to no longer stock religious magazines. It was the most excitement our local social media has enjoyed since that Pigfucker dude decided to use Twitter to alert motorists about speed traps and road blocks and flying pigs.

Christians took to using the devil’s very own tool forged in the fiery pit of hell — Facebook! The Woolworths fan page was buzzing with angry tirades about how God was going to fuck up the retailers if they didn’t put all those Christian magazines no one reads back on their shelves. But they forgot that other lesser-known Bible verse that teaches religious people not to piss in the wind. Simple fact: you’re probably going to piss yourself. Moron.

Piss was flying all over the place, to tell you the truth. Plenty of it in the general direction of all the bent-out-of-shape Christian folk who want to buy expensive food and read all about God’s love for the poor and hungry while they wait in the check-out line. There was also a lot of pissing against the metaphorical wall of the retailer’s fan page, probably because it’s fun to try to pee-write your name against a wall when you’ve had a few. Take this person’s comment for example: “Jesus listens … to Slayer!” Right on, but not quite on point, you silly fucker.

And then this smart-ass joins in with “as a hotblooded male with natural urges I demand Hustler and Loslyf [naked chicks showing the world what the good Lord gave em] to be stocked on Woolworth’s shelves!” Very fucking mature. I bet he reads this blog.

If you’ve always wanted a forum on Facebook where Christians tear their neighbours a new one in the name of Christ and then their faithless hellbound friends just use the much bigger hole to crap all over them, your prayers have been answered. And there must be a God, because Woolworths has retracted their decision and made another business decision to once again sell those magazines that no one reads. But not Hustler. Sorry for the dude who would like his wanking material close at hand when he waits to pay for his overpriced goods. But maybe he’ll finally discover the internet.

There you go. Hot under the dog collar over nothing really, while real wars continue to be waged and children die of hunger and morons continue to reproduce. I think I’ll go and quaff some Merlot while I page through my latest subscription copy of Hustler.


Aliens and the End of the World

10 Oct


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.


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.

Dung Facials, Donkey Dongs and DIY Eye Surgery

14 Aug

True story: once upon a time in the Bible, a donkey talked. And then we got Shrek

Do you believe that every single word of the Bible was spoken by Morgan Freeman God in a deep but soothing tone and that each of these words should be obeyed to the letter or else your ass is going to eternally roast as Lucifer holds your writhing impaled body over a big braai? You need therapy We should have a beer.

Chris Juby, a worship director in the UK, is undertaking a tweeting venture that will excite the jocks socks off the Pope. And maybe knock his silly hat off, too. Joyful Juby is going to tweet the entire Bible over a three-year period. He’s already making speedy progress through Genesis. You know, the first book in the Bible where we learn that God took all of six days to make the bazillion galaxies that make up the universe and was so exhausted by the effort of proving Darwin wrong (who wouldn’t be) that he took a day off.

I’m quite disappointed in this Chris dude. I was fully expecting him to do the admirable thing and tweet every single solitary inspired word of the Bible, even if it took him thirty years. But oh no, Chris the worship dude is going to summarise one chapter per day into a 140-character tweet for us. He probably means well, but seriously, unless you’re special like Moses or St Paul or the Dalai Lama, don’t assume you have the divine right to dilute all the good stuff into itty bitty bite-sized tweets.

I’m not saying the Bible is not an important part of literature. But I do think people need to know that among all the tedious instructions about when to have sex and who not to have sex with (get it wrong and you’re going to be fucked up by the Devil), there are also some frisky, crazy, scare-the-bejesus-out-of-you bits that don’t exactly make for cute Sunday school lessons. Or snappy tweets.

“I will corrupt your seed and spread dung upon your faces.” Malachi 2:3

Actually, that’s quite a snappy tweet. But giving people shitty facials and doing unmentionable stuff with sperm? Anger management, people, anger fucking management.

And you probably think the Psalms are all zen-like poetry possibly written by Deepak Chopra, don’t you? Unless of course you wake up in the morning with a hangover and want to kill the neighbour’s kid for blowing his vuvuzela. In which case, fuck those happy psalms. Go with this one:

“Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones.” Psalm 137:9

There were obviously no good therapists around when David was playing his harp and fucking up giants. And speaking of doing naughty things with your junk, this woman may have been the very first porn star:

“There she lusted after her lovers, whose genitals were like those of donkeys and whose emission was like that of horses.” Ezekiel 23:20

After reading that verse, you need to jump right into the New Testament and do this:

“If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out!” Matthew 5:29

I may be proven wrong three years from now when Chris the Bible Twitterer has come up with some awesome summaries of the more violent and salacious chapters of the Bible. He may even single-handedly start up a few more religious wars. Or possibly reignite the porn industry that is prophesied to die out with the rest of us in 2012. But hopefully he will inspire all his Twitter followers to read the whole Bible and then agree with me … that Stephen King is probably God.

Namaste, morons

Stop Crying Over Spilt Oil

12 Jun

I’ve been in a mild state of panic ever since that whole Boobquake thing and have avoided Nando’s (mainly because it’s too fucking expensive) as well as my unopened subscription copy of Hustler (the postman ‘found’ my ‘lost’ copy after I threatened to shove a vuvuzela up his asshole). I have not been able to look at a tit the same way again thanks to that motherfucker in Iran who says earthquakes are God’s way of telling us to stop bouncing boobs on the unstable Earth’s crust. Because it’s evil.

And now I’m equally fearful of abortion clinics.

If you haven’t yet heard of the worst environmental disaster in American history and BP’s alleged claim that we’re all just crying over a bit of spilt oil (an estimated 40,000 barrels leaking into the Gulf of Mexico daily, for over a month), then you must have your vuvuzela stuck very far up your poophole. Or you’re trying to help the postman dislodge one from his and keep missing the news (I may have received my ‘lost’ copy of Hustler after impaling the reluctant postal service worker — tip: KY has more than one use, just in case you’re also tempted to help an annoying South African suddenly ‘lose’ his vuvuzela during the next Bafana game).

Back to the deep-sea fuck up of gigantic proportions oil spill that BP wants everyone to believe can be fixed with a bit of oil dispersant. The boob-hating God of the Iranian dude and the angry God of fundamentalist Christians have teamed up (they may be conjoined twins) to give us the lowdown on this leaking catastrophe — an abortion clinic caused it. That’s right, Joseph Herrin reckons that an “abortion supercenter” in Houston, Texas is the reason why the Baby Jesus allowed BP to fuck up the ocean (the oil slick is likely to end up in the Atlantic as well, in case you’re interested in how far oil can be dispersed).

Just in case you were also wondering how many pieces of dried fruit he has where other people usually have an evolved brain, this pickled-Herrin chap observes that the Houston clinic has six storeys. People who  have fruit pips rattling around inside their heads really fucking hate the number six. It’s supposedly the number Satan has invisibly tattooed on the foreheads of all homosexuals, secular humanists, lesbians, vegetarians, barefoot runners, bisexuals, catholics, environmentalists and just about everyone else on the planet who is going to miss the Rapture-train. Most of us, in other words. And because this wicked building has six storeys, it must have been built by the devil and the Whore of Babylon. And caused the oil spill.

So there you go, BP you’re off the hook. This has nothing to do with your incompetence.

Abortions caused this. Not BP. Yeah, right!

Other than shoving the occasional greased vuvuzela up an annoying South African’s asshole, I suggest that after the World Cup we all donate our exhausted vuvuzelas to BP. They will have more than enough plastic to create a massive pipeline from the gushing oil leak all the way to the nearest McDonald’s (please, not Nando’s — we have enough problems with breasts).

Namaste, morons. Including you idiots who run BP. If you implement my ingenious plastic plan, your share price will shoot right back up into the Stratosphere. Except for vegetarians and health-conscious dipshits, everyone loves the oily taste of McDonald’s.

Memorable WTF Quote: ‘Unless the church embraces the pain of childbirth the creation will perish. Make no mistake, Yahweh will have His sons. The question remains, “Will you be one of them? Or will you be found in the pleasure-loving harlot when her plagues are meted out to her?”‘ — The Pickled Herrin

[Yep, he said ‘in’. In like a pleasure-seeking vuvuzela.]

Note to BP: Plug. the. fucking. hole. already.

It’s Boobquake All Over Again

3 Jun

In case you’re perplexed as to why people are driving around with South African flag mirror socks on their cars, it’s the Soccer World Cup in a few days. It’s also why I saw some families hiking up Lion’s Head on Sunday with vuvuzelas — yes, going on a hike with a fucking vuvuzela. To do what? Let their kids blow those horrible bloody things and scare the living shit out of the poor dassies sunning themselves on the rocks? Dassies have feelings too, you silly little fuckers.

It’s the World Cup. People are going to do unbelievably stupid things. Like not let Benni McCarthy play for South Africa because he’s too chubby arrogant. I mean, so what if he wants to look like that dude Bra Chris on the Nando’s advert. You know, the cheerfully heavy chap that rocks a leapard-print vest and has invited God to shake the living crap out of the earth during the World Cup. You better believe it, thanks to this guy encouraging our beautiful South African women to show off their titties to the visitors, there is going to be some serious ramifications from above. And I don’t mean cheap prices at Nando’s so Benni can eat as much as he likes while he watches the game from the safety of the stands. I mean Boobquake revisited, but worse this time. Check out the advert if you don’t believe me, you wretched infidels:

As if it’s not bad enough that the World Cup is increasing patriotism to gigantic vuvuzela-blowing proportions and Benni’s gut/ass to similar sizes, we now have to shock-proof our homes from the coming wrath of God because of this Nando’s rubbish. Like Benni, I just wanted to eat my fried chicken in peace while I watch the best soccer players in the world dive all over the field because someone accidentally bumped their shins. Instead, I have to watch bouncing boobs everywhere I go. It’s going to be very distracting and I’m quite annoyed with Nando’s and especially this Chris motherfucker for ruining the World Cup for me.

Not really. I have house insurance. Let the fun and games begin — and like the advert says, “only ibest for ama-visitors”.

Note to Nando’s: Kudos for always pushing the envelope, even chancing earthquakes and stuff, with your ad campaigns. But your chicken’s too expensive. I’d rather eat dried fruit.

Sign Fetish

6 May

I have a sign fetish. Not sure what you’d call it if you had to consult a shrink. I can’t help myself. I see bizarre signs everywhere. It’s like I’m drawn to them. I laugh at them and then whip out my … what?! Come on, Dr Whosanutnow, stop looking at me like that … you think I whip THAT out in public? You shrinks see Freudian sex stuff under every bush and fetish. Fuck. I mean, sure, women are always asking me to whip it out in public, but I don’t want to scare the children. I do offer private viewings. Not for children. You. Sick. Bastard! How the fuck did I get onto this when I was talking about my sign fetish? You’re a goddam useless shrink. What do I pay you for? So I whip out my camera – my CELLPHONE CAMERA – and record my porn-fascination with signs. Now help me before I get arrested.

I have no idea. The session may go down like that. I’m sure my shrink would need to see a fellow shrink as a result. Anyway, here’s a sign outside the best theme-toilets I’ve ever had the pleasure to relieve myself in:

Apparently, everyone gets caught in the cubicle reserved for perverts – aptly named Temptation. When the pervert person using this toilet lifts the female doll-thing’s dress, an alarm buzzes and everyone in the restaurant knows that yet another diner has the control of Tiger Woodpecker in a room full of tattooed porn stars who dig unprotected sex with rich golf players. I didn’t fall for it. I have a sign fetish, I’m not a sick voyeur (you know who y’all are).

Except, this sign fucked up the whole experience of theme-toilet heaven for me. Just look at it. You can take a dump / sit down pee (*cough* Father O’Mally *cough*) in the toilet while tweeting about your experience to the entire twitsphere, but you can’t dunk / baptise someone in the toilet? That’s fucked up. And where the hell is someone supposed to puke if they consume bad sushi? As sure as there’s a God in heaven laughing derisively each time I whip out my cellphone to photograph another sign, if I see an ornamental fish swimming in a toilet bowl, I’ll whip out (concentrate) my fishing rod without a thought for toilet fishing regulations. But toilet skiing is for idiots, I’ll give them that much.

I’m going back. With fishing tackle. And if a smallish waiter tries to stop me, I’ll dunk him headfirst in the toilet. After I pray to the porcelain god.

PS The food was good. Namaste. I recommend one of the big-ass burgers. No comment about sushi.

PPS Seriously, kick-ass toilets and the sign put me into a trance.

The Day Boobs Shook The Earth

24 Apr

An Iranian cleric reckons that women who show too much boob in public are causing the earth to shake violently and collapse buildings and fucking kill people. Really. Women who allow men to see more of their love pillows than the Lord supposedly wants us to see, because we’ll hurt our eyes and touch our studios too much, are responsible for earthquakes. I knew it.

So now this woman has decided to call bullshit on the cleric’s ridiculous idea. I mean, everyone knows it’s the sheer weight of human stupidity on the planet that causes earthquakes. Not goddam tit flashing, no matter how mammoth they may be. Twenty-thousand Pamela Andersons can walk about bare tits to the sky all day and the Richter scale is unlikely to tremble.

Jennifer McCreight, may God bless her and her boobs forever, has called all women everywhere to wear something suitably immodest on Monday, 26 April 2010. “I will wear the most cleavage-showing shirt I own,” says Jennifer McTits. This is going to be such an awesome day I can hardly type properly.

It’s Boobquake. An admirable attempt to move the earth by the power of boobs. Or just show religious dingbats everywhere that boobs do not bring about violent earth tremors. An eye-full may lead to fervent touching of studios. But if God gave people studios, why can’t they touch them? Just not other studios, unless invited.

Go for it, you wonderful lady bastard. Namaste. The Dalai Moron is one hundred million per cent behind you. I’ll be searching the interwebs all day Monday to find visual evidence of your scandalous behaviour. But I’ll be doing so from under my bed, just in case the idiot from Iran is right.

Update from under the bed: My house has not collapsed. Yet. But I’m led to believe that a whole lot of boobs / people showing some boob are annoying the fuck out of the universe / that dude in Iran / everyone who thinks too much cleavage cleaves the earth. And I’m very happy to see the internet rockstar has added her lady mounds to the scientific data being collected by Ms McCreight.