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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.


The Dalai Moron


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.

Potholes, Mutton Chops and Boner Pills

15 Sep

I know, it’s been a while. And no, I have not eloped with my llama nor have I been arrested for public indecency. Surprising, I know. I’ve been around. Mostly working my ass off day and night. And also doing a bit of personal mourning. My imaginary llama is still alive and frisky. But the very real-life dog who chewed my library book to shreds because she was possibly a bit bored and I had the foresight to leave the Stephen King novel in easy reach, died tragically last Friday.

I was gutted. Not even my imaginary llama has been able to console me. Fuck. Life has a mean tendency to throw up potholes of senseless torment every once in a while that can level a person and make one feel helplessly human.

Thankfully there have been a few things to distract me from my miserable state of mind. Like that fucking idiot with fantastic mutton chops who thinks it would give God a thrill and Muslims heartburn if he publicly burnt a qur’an or two to show the world how silly Islam is and maybe provoke a few more fundamentalists to fly planes into tall buildings. Yes, Pastor, I’m sure that after strolling around on a lake and then turning it into a big pool of wine, Jesus would come along and pat you on the back for such a commendable Christian act of …. dear sweet mother of god, this world can only produce some first-class dipshits. Including the media who give them the attention their twisted minds crave.

And then I’ve also let my spam folder fill up just for the hell of it. Apparently, I have a very real problem getting my dick up. And some guy called Phil has some legit viagra to resell to me. Resell? You mean some mate of Hugh Hefner bought the boner pills from you and they didn’t work, so now you’re going to flog them off to me for a killer price? Marvellous.

And I really have to know what the fuck “branded help to your erection” means. Are you going to hold me down and press a flaming bit of metal against my apparently impotent member to jump-start the limp pecker? Bloody marvellous. That should do the trick.

So if you’re in the market for a bit of dick enhancement or have the need but not the capacity to ejaculate like a porn star (WTF?) do head off to a reputable website called groanseal or fudoctor because you will not be ripped off and neither will your genitals fall off. Well, that could be a possible side-effect, but that’s the chance we all take for 85% discount vouchers delivered directly to our spam folder.

Namaste, morons. You may not be able to avoid the potholes, but find something to make you laugh and reaffirm the sheer wonder and never-ending stream of human stupidity. It may help you get back on the road again.

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.

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.

Boom and Gloom on Workers’ Day

1 May

First, some voluptuous, big boobed woman threatens South Africa on boobquake with boom and gloom. What the hell was that about? I get why Americans may want to annihilate Australia Iran. Terrorists threatening to bomb their fast food outlets and forcing their immodest women to cover up from toe to eyeball. Not cool. It warrants some serious ass-kicking with all the smart bombs you can drop onto a defined geographical desert region that also happens to have lovely oil fields. But South Africa? Take our gold and diamonds and vuvuzelas, just don’t kill us! Please. You can even have Malema.

And now Workers’ Day is on a Saturday. What the fuck is happening to the world? How the hell are we supposed to reap the benefits of a public holiday on a day we don’t go to work anyway? Fuck. It. This is some kind of cosmic joke, I’m convinced. Even more convinced than I am that the scientific cause of earthquakes is boobs.

Know what’s even more ridiculous than boobs crushing the planet and public holidays on Saturday? Not having a job in the first place and complaining about a public holiday on a Saturday. Every day is Saturday when you’ve been retrenched. But you can’t really sit around all day with your pants on the ground watching sport and swearing at the postman for losing your copies of Hustler. You have to blog about morons. And apply for a million jobs you hope you don’t get because that means you will have to put your pants back on and go to work. But if you don’t go to work you won’t be able to afford pants anyway. See where I’m going with this? All the way to the nuthouse. Better remember to put my pants on when they come to fetch me.

Enjoy Workers’ Day on Saturday, all you conscientious morons. And to all the slackers out there, the joke’s also on you motherfuckers.