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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.


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).

The New Lady Bastards

7 Aug

I’m still reeling in shock.

Jackie Selebi, who once used to be the top cop in South Africa, has turned out to be a fucking crook. He received more than R200 000 from drug trafficker Glenn Agliotti, who in turn is on trial for the murder of another crook, Brett Kebble. It is the South African hybrid version of Days of Our Lives and Law & Order.

But that’s not the reason I’m shocked.

In other news Mr Nelson Mandela apparently had a daughter who died aged 63 before she ever met him in person. She was allegedly conceived when he got his rocks off a long time ago, as people are prone to do with the full support of evolutionary biology and Hugh Hefner. This was long before the obligatory love-glove days. And led to an eventful surprise for the Madiba family.

Condoms promote safe sex

The obligatory love-glove prevents eventful surprises when getting your rocks off

But this is not the reason I’m shell-shocked either. Come on, what the great old man did for fun in 1945 is none of my business, even if I did read the entire Mail & Guardian article and agreed that the woman had an uncanny resemblance to him.

I got a job.

Fuck, sorry, I hope you were sitting down when you read that. I know, right … who the hell would hire me? Especially as I’m known to rock up to interviews without my pants on.

Just not this time. I put my best foot forward. And I got hired. To write stuff . Just not stuff like you’re reading now. This blog is for charity (llama rescue and rehab, if you must know). I want to give something back to the world and sincerely believe you are a better person for reading it. This blog is about warm fuzzy feelings and happy endings (not those endings, you sick motherfuckers … happy endings like Panjo the tiger being reunited with his beast-loving owner, Goosey Gander Fernandes … happy endings like me finding my pants in time for my first day at work this week … happy endings like my pet llama winning the Sexy Ugly Teeth pageant third time in a row).

So I’m no longer the unemployed drunk dude. Now I’m the employed hungover dude.

But here’s the thing: I’m handling the early morning traffic. And I’m handling trying to stay awake at my desk and look like I’m working. But I fear for my life in that office. I’m surrounded by a new breed of lady bastards. I’m not sure if some of these chicks want to hold me down and give me a jolly rogering. Or if they want to smash a potplant over my head because I forgot a dirty coffee cup on my desk. And then give me a jolly rogering. The tension alone is keeping me on my toe nails and throwing jittery glances over my shoulder in case one of them has snuck up on me with a staple gun.

So if this is my last post, I’ve either run away with my llama over the weekend or have been Murdered By Staple Gun next week and my body dissolved in whatever chemical psychos use to eliminate the evidence. It’s been real.

Namaste, morons.

PS When I heard the pop of a wine bottle cork at 4pm on the dot on Friday, I was even more conflicted. Drinking at work. These are my kind of lady bastard people. But only time will tell if the booze will fuel their psychosis or lead to my own eventful surprise some day.

Touch a Boob Week

5 Jul

Apparently it’s Touch a Boob week. Just as I thought I’d written everything I dare write about boobs without giving the possibly accurate impression that all I can think about is boobs (and their unbelievable power to rock the planet off its tilting foundation), along comes someone with a bright idea suggesting I go around touching women on their love pillows. Prurient idea. But I love it.

Before you run off to the nearest person in your office and heave your breasts into their unsuspecting hands or run off to the nearest person and grab their unsuspecting breasts with your sweaty hands, fun and prurient (I learned a new word) as that may be, let me explain the real reason we’re talking about breasts all week long. More than usual, I mean.

Breast cancer awareness.

But that’s still a very good reason to cheerfully ask your colleague whom you only touch in your dirty dreams if you could please help her examine her breasts. Breast cancer fucking kills people. You could be saving a life. And who knows, get laid in the process. But probably only in your dreams. However, if you find yourself alone in an elevator with the curvaceous girl from accounts, do not merrily grab her boobs from behind and then claim you were trying to save her life. Not even I would try such a fucking stupid thing. Unless she was Pamela Anderson. I don’t think she’d mind at all.

Please, ladies, remember to examine those beautiful bouncy things. And if you like the person who asks you very nicely if they can be of boob assistance, for the sake of medical progress, oblige. And dudes, I agree it’s a weird twig on the evolutionary tree, but you can also get breast cancer. Sure, asking a woman to please check your man boobs for any sign of unusual lumps and bumps may not get you where you’d hoped, but it’s worth a try. Women can be very empathetic. And ask Lance, your nuts need a good feel, too.

Disclaimer: read up on sexual harassment legislation before trying anything that may land you in the unemployment queue or court.

All jokes aside, learn more about the disease that hits one in 29 South African women. Support the health of women’s boobs!

Cucumbers, Bananas and Condoms

30 Jun

So I had to travel up to Johannesburg last week for a job try-out thing. Very last minute.  A phone call to suggest I come up the following day. That sudden. I’m awake at 5am and in the air before 7am. Jozi is not a massive metropolis as far as world cities go, but it does dwarf the shit out of Cape Town. Except there is no mountain. And no ocean. Therefore, no sharks or dassies. But there is some serious traffic congestion. And a Gautrain. I caught this speeding bullet one hundred bucks later to get to the airport in time for my return flight. It’s very clean as far as trains go and is fucking fast, as far as train’s travel. Twelve minutes from Sandton to OR Tambo International. No car is going to make it through the Jozi traffic in rush hour in that record time. Minibus taxis make it in 15 minutes.

I liked the people I met. We played foosball. Always frustrating and humbling for whoever is unfortunate enough to be my partner and never fails to provide a moment of schadenfreude for our delighted opponents. I’m much better at taming llamas and slicing invisible boss-foes in half with my plastic Jedi light sabre.

It was a whirlwind two days of trying to figure out if I’d fit in and cope with the work. I think I would, but that’s not the point of this post. One conversation really stands out. (Hang in there, I’m getting to the longwinded point of this post.) We were talking about HIV/Aids, as people do in Africa. The conversation meandered into condom-buying territory, as conversations tend to do everywhere in the world. Except the Vatican. One young woman bemoaned the fact that her friend always asks her to buy her condoms, because she is too embarrassed to buy them herself.

“Fuck that shit, she can buy her own condoms from now on,” said Bemoaner. “Those aunties at Pick n Pay think I’m a major slut buying condoms every second day.”

A quiet, unassuming young woman chips in: “I’ve only bought condoms once at Pick n Pay, and it was just my luck that the check-out person had to stop the show and shout out: ‘Price check on this item!’ holding up the box of latex for all the grocery shopping world to see.”

We all laughed. People buy bananas and cucumbers and milk at the grocery store. The box of condoms is supposed to remain hidden amongst the fresh produce … until the barcode fucking fails and the person behind the till decides this is the moment to embarrass the quiet unassuming chick who is planning a night of possibly not-so-quiet horizontal tango.

“I know just how you feel,” adds Cheerful Friend. “My local grocery store doesn’t keep the condoms in the toothpaste aisle. They’re behind the cigarette counter, where you have to ask for them and then point to the ones you want. ‘Do you want these purple ones? What flavour? How about chocolate chip?’ And then when I’ve narrowed it down to ribbed-for-my-pleasure litchi-flavoured extra-large super-thins, there’s a mandatory price check. Announced over the intercom.”

No glove, no love. It’s a good motto to live and shag by if you don’t fancy something really traumatic happening to your schlong, love cave(s) or general sense of wellbeing. But please, grocery store owners and check-out tannies, don’t make it so bloody embarrassing for people to buy flavoured latex.

Hint to health-wise condom users: Don’t let embarrassment stand in your way of wrapped-up pleasure. Also, I think you can get free condoms at your local library. Maybe not in kiwi flavour. But I doubt the librarian will single you out for public humiliation.

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.

Boobquake Targets Innocent Tits In South Africa

27 Apr

It’s true then. Boobs do have the power to cause earthquakes.

What did that Iranian cleric dude say? Are you all deaf? He said this would happen, you spectacular infidels. And you didn’t listen! He said that boobs can cause such frantic masturbation divine wrath that the very foundations of the earth will rumble and buildings will collapse and kill the fuck out of people.

This is why for the entire time women all over the immodest world have been behaving like almighty boobs for that Boobquake “scientific” experiment, I have been hiding under my bed (read the post below). And what do you know, an earthquake did strike somewhere on the planet on Monday — Taiwan got cleaved! Or just a bit shook up, same difference but with no squashed people. Watch this CNN special report for yourself.

You should have noticed (I know, it was a bit distracting) the crazy lady bastard shaking her voluptuous tits at her webcam (at about 1:16 on the CNN clip) saying “boom! in Iran” and “boom! in South Africa”.

Boom in South Africa?! What the flying fuck? What did we do to y’all that you have to be hating us with your boobs? This is why I’m still not ready to come out from under my bed. My country now has a giant target pinned to its butt inviting the gods to shake the living crap out of it. In the name of science and/or religion, no one can quite decide.

Update: There were 47 earthquakes on boobquake. Not just that 6.5 magnitude mediocre motherfucker in Taiwan.