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.


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).

Crime Fighter Extraordinaire

21 Aug

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.

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

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.

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.