The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:
The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Fresher than ever.
A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 2,300 times in 2010. That’s about 6 full 747s.
In 2010, there were 34 new posts, not bad for the first year! There were 44 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 22mb. That’s about 4 pictures per month.
The busiest day of the year was July 28th with 59 views. The most popular post that day was Panjo the Tiger Goes Walkies.
Where did they come from?
The top referring sites in 2010 were thebloggess.com, healthfitnesstherapy.com, slashingtongue.com, digg.com, and alhome-finance-guide.com.
Some visitors came searching, mostly for donkey, panjo the tiger, baby llama, touch a boob week, and baby lama.
Attractions in 2010
These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.
Panjo the Tiger Goes Walkies July 2010
Dung Facials, Donkey Dongs and DIY Eye Surgery August 2010
Touch a Boob Week July 2010
The Day Boobs Shook The Earth April 2010
The Versatile Vuvuzela July 2010
Unless you’re an even bigger moron than the chunky dude I saw the other day wearing purple crocs and a purple golfer (I know, morons can be stylish and all, but did you not read the word crocs?) … then you’ll know that South Africa is about to be invaded by fifty trillion soccer football fans. If you’re an American, football is not that game you okes play where you wrap pillows around your body and wear tights and stupid-looking helmets to protect your brains from blunt force trauma (yes, we watch ER and Gray’s Anatomy Terminator here when we’re not chasing lions out of our backyard … we know your head can get hurt.) Football is the game you guys call soccer. Which is gay. Not homosexual. Just gay.
So like I was saying, it’s the FIFA World Cup in a few days. And to make sure y’all never forget that you’re in Africa, where people often find elephants snacking Oreos in their kitchen, we have handed out free vuvuzelas to every single South African, Congolese, Zimbabwean and Russian stripper who lives here. To blow in your ear holes. Even when our team is not playing. Just for the fucking fun of it. To see if we can make you deaf. Or maybe inflict blunt force trauma to your brain via your ear holes (see, I went there again; we also watch that CSI mofo who has a gift for corny oneliners and rocks a pair of shades in the Everglades).
I gave my free vuvuzela away to the neighbour’s kid. So he can blow two at the same time. I already have my own one. You may remember it as the Jedi Master’s weapon of choice when he got retrenched a few month’s ago. It’s even better than a vuvuzela. Because it’s a fucking light sabre that can slice a Sith in two. And split his ear drums at the same time.
Now the dude below is not the same dude I saw rocking a pair of purple crocs. But I think he may be a mascot for the American football soccer team. If you see the crazy fucker at a stadium, please tell him that megaphone he’s carrying is not a vuvuzela. And that it’s football without the pillows and stuff. But do avoid the classic cymbal double-smack to the side of the head, especially if you’re not wearing one of those soccer football helmets.
Viva the vuvuzela!
Actually, I take it all back. Blow one of those fucking things in my ears and I’ll stick my light sabre where the sun don’t shine, mate. I said … ah, fuck it. Everyone’s deaf already.
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.
Sit in seemingly endless queues as I have done for the past few days and you will agree with equal vehemence: bureaucracy is demonic. Find the greatest morons on the planet, employ them as civil servants and you have created a more effective hell than anything Satan has prepared for the infidels. And the morons.
Yesterday I figured it was about time to make my claim on all the UIF I’ve had deducted off my salary for a hundred million years. After waiting forever, I eventually got to the information desk and received two additional forms to fill in. My bank had to fill in the one on my behalf so they don’t pay the wrong moron; the other was a ridiculous attempt on government’s part to find me a new job. That’s not going to happen if they take six weeks just to approve my claim.
By the time I’d filled in the forms and got back to Ground Zero, the UIF place looked like a UFO had just landed there and offloaded ten million dejected jobless people all wearing T-shirts with my face on it, the words ‘haha you moron get to the back of the queue’ boldly inked on my forehead.
So I went home. And then woke up very early this morning, only to find that at least eighty million people had woken up even earlier and were already waiting for the door to open. Fuck. It. Hours later I finally made it to the front. All the while contemplating how screwed up life is for many, many people in this country. Life is a perpetual struggle for the poor, long after the Struggle has ended, and will remain so for their kids long after Malema forgets the words to “Kill the boer”. I have far less to rant about. But rant I shall.
No sooner had I got home when I learned that Home Affairs was my next appointment. My daughter needs a passport as she is going abroad with her aunt’s family for a mid-year holiday.
Dear god, I thought the queues at the UIF place were out of this world. And the door. I had the good fortune of having this dude behind me the entire god-forsaken time who would not know a toothbrush from a Jedi light sabre. Seriously, each time he opened his mouth to talk or yawn or just breathe forcefully I thought Lucifer himself was taking a septic dump on my head. It was not his fault that his right eye had been pecked by ducks or nibbled by rats. I’ll give him that. Or that he was cursed with the same problem as me — fucking endless queues and bureaucratic ineptitude. But the breath from hell?! That was just not cool dude. Not cool.
Update on swearing in French: The dude who finally dealt with our passport needs was fascinated by my name. After learning of its French origin, he had to point out that French is a really kiff language. Why? Because you can swear at people and it’ll sound just lovely to their ignorant ears. You could literally call someone a fucking moron and unless they’re French-speaking, they’ll just think you’re saying they smell like daffodils. Or garlic. Either way, stealth offensiveness at its finest. This clever dude should not be helping irritated people with their passport applications. He should be the mayor of that city in Argentina — Morón.