Sunday, November 21, 2010

Love Fail

This topic has been a long time coming, seeing as the bare-arsed 6 year olds in the sprinklers are now all 'growed-up' and the drunken debauchery in which we all indulge from time to time more often than not ends in meeting new and interesting (possible) future significant others. And so, we touch on love. The purpose of this document is not to rant and rave about all the bullshit. (Or is it?) It's not here to convince you that falling in love is a terrible mistake, but to inform you with rational reasoning of the pitfalls of love, and of all the ups and downs that come with the fun that love brings. The author of this document assumes that you are intelligent enough to draw your own conclusions.

Let's start from the barenaked truth of birth, shall we? When you are born, you are bombarded with elements of love. Your parents tell you that when you grow up you're going to create a family of your own (If they don't tell you outright, they inform you subconsciously because it is expected. We learn by imitation). Family, schools, and mentors teach you about monogamous relationships based on love. Little girls are brought up to play house, take care of baby dolls, and cook with play-doh. Society carefully brings children up to 'play the game'.
The media surrounds you with love stories, love triangles and Melrose Place. The media bombards you with sex, ultimately putting the pursuit of it into your young mind.

As the 'game' of love embellishes, we confuse the search of Sex (driven by the nature element: Human Desire) with the search for a mate and happiness.

Happiness -> Love -> Sex
The need for happiness rationalizes love. Then the need for love rationalizes sex. Maybe you don't have a high case of success in love. Maybe you've been in many meaningless relationships with multiple people? Leading to nowhere? Maybe you haven't found what you are looking for? Maybe you aren't looking in the right place. Love is not there, happiness is not there...
Where the fuck am I going?

Happiness (being content is the hardest to attain) is being able to recognize who you are and what you are here for. Being able to live with your self is the solution.
People are afraid to be alone. When we see happy couples, we assume that we will be happy in relationships too, so we go out there to try to find a girlfriend or boyfriend. If you're single, and the majority of your friends are dating someone, you feel alienated and left out. Soon, you feel like you NEED someone to occupy your time. Need for Companionship and Following the Herd are not very good reasons to start relationships.

According to Wikipedia: Love is the emotion of strong affection and personal attachment. In philosophical context, love is a virtue representing all of human kindness, compassion, and affection.

Wikipedia is correct and incorrect. In fact, with an irresistible cocktail of chemicals, our brain entices us to fall in love. It is not purely the heart wanting what it wants, people. Lust - the first stage of love - is in fact a lovely mixture of the sex hormones: testosterone and oestrogen making magic in your mind. Attraction - the second phase of love - is a concoction of adrenaline, dopamine and serotonin, allowing you to become 'love-struck' and think of nothing else. AND, in fact, Attachment, the final stage of love is - yes, you wont believe it - oxytocin and vasopressin doing work to make you feel like you cannot live with out your "attachee". These are the hormones involved in making couples last long enough to have children. How long the marriage lasts must then be left up to you and your will to keep the relationship alive.

With the smorgasbord of emotions that accompany that “L” word, it’s pretty easy to find “Lurve” in all the wrong places! I want to elaborate on some of my pet peeves in this game of love.

NEVER re-date your ex:

After 6 months of riding the singles-only bus after a particularly nasty break up, you start to wonder if it’s possible that all is well and the problems have magically disappeared. You see her out. She's happy. You miss her. It's been 6 months since you nailed her best friend that one drunken night (this is one of those what-the-fuck-were-you-thinking? moments - We must remember that people, by nature, are unfaithful creatures; we are not monogamous. All of this stems from our past instincts to survive. So don't beat yourself up.) Well, I'm gonna do you one hell of a favour, buddy, and forbid you from going back down that path. It’s your EX. Move on. The shit hasn’t disappeared at all. After two weeks of “lovey dovey’’ bullshit you’ll be tearing at eachother's throats. Once a piece of paper has been crumpled it is impossible to straighten perfectly again. You also probably haven’t realised that she is banging some other dude already… DON'T ever re-date your ex. It's like shooting yourself in the foot, drinking sour milk, fucking your buddy's fat girlfiend. You'll end up catastrophically screwed. And not in a good way.

So, I impore you - take the plunge. Declare hunting season open and go find some eligible dears. You may just be surprised at what you come across. [Stay clear of Jagermeister as warned in a previous post. You might wake up next to a bear]

If you keep asking me that, it's gonna stop the lovin' hun:

You already know what I’m talking about. Every 5 minutes he/she is asking "do you still love me babe?". After every irrelevant (and pointless) (and silly) argument. I don’t mean to sound cynical here (This whole piece is cynical, who am I kidding?) but honestly, a year down the line and you’re still wondering if I love you [thank you for the three thousand texts you just sent me] ????

Grow the fuck up, please. In primary school, where girlfriend swaps were more common than sharing lunch, sure - ask away - but surely we have left that nonsense behind us?

Who's that guy that waved at you from 10 meters away? Hey? Do you like him? WHO the FUCK is he?

Jealousy, being one of the cardinal 7 deadly sins, has got to be right up there on that list of things that just don’t fucking work in a relationship. If you're by nature a jealous person, become a monk, remain celibate. You may not be "getting any", but you wont be a miserable son of a bitch every time she gets a text or someone says hello at the pub. The jealous and the needy almost always tend to end up together. She’ll be the catalyst in some argument, because her ex looked her way once, he’ll pop his top…then we get the classic line…

Do you still love me?

The Cock-tease:

The cause of most rumbles in the jungle would be that flirtatious little treasure of yours, who will go out of her way to simply screw up your night by talking to each male that crosses her path as if she is an extra in an American Gangster's Raunchy Rap Video and then get pissed off with you for asking what the hell was up with the blatant flirting? [Not to be confused with aforementioned jealous boyfriend.] I’m talking about the sucker who forks out weekend after weekend because he genuinely “cares”(perhaps he is only sticking around for the bedroom gymnastics), and gets kicked in the teeth time and time again. Time to grow a backbone sonny, and find a doll that wants to be with you.

I’m stuck to you like glue, babe:

Next time you’re out, be it at your local shopping mall, the beach or the pub, take a look around and try to locate that one “happy” couple, who are permanently glued to each other. When she goes to the bathroom, he goes with, when he goes to get drinks, her eyes are permanently stuck to him. If it’s a trust thing - get over it, and if it’s a jealousy thing - get the fuck out of the relationship. There is nothing wrong with a little PDA, but for fuck's sake - the entire evening? Get a hold of yourself. Ta.

I'm not looking to replace, I'm looking to replicate:

Unfortunately, ladies and gents, there will come a time when you’ll find yourself in a relationship when, no matter what you're doing, be it cooking, sexing, hanging out, he/she will be comparing you to the asshole who left her/him for someone else. In this situation, don't even try hoping that maybe she/he will get over it and grow to love you for you. The only solution is to RUN, and fast. Why put yourself through the constant pressure of trying to please the unpleaseable?

I’m guessing, after reading this, you might think I sound like one of those heartbroken suckers who is bitter and twisted. It’s the complete opposite. I’ve just bumped my head enough to notice the stupid things that keep you away from a good thing. Psycologists say that you can't help who you are attracted to, but from what we've learnt today kids, there are hormones and potential personality differences that we need to consider when Cupid's arrow hits. We need to realise that we must date the people that bring out the best in us, that make us feel GOOD, and not insecure, jealous, and worried.

When things start going sour, get out before you hit rock bottom and then have to build yourself up again from square one.

Just call it a day, and move on, there's no fixing the unfixable. And yes, most relationship problems are Mother Nature's way of telling us that the expiry date to this particular relationship has been reached.

To end things off Woody Allen was quoted saying: "To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love. But then one suffers from not loving. Therefore to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer. To suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy then is to suffer. But suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be unhappy one must love, or to love to suffer, or suffer from too much happiness..."

Friday, November 19, 2010

This isn't an office. It's HELL with fluorescent lighting:

This month, we've gone over the absurdity of childhood, the watering hole debacles, the effects of alcohol and the general attitudes of cliques in our general surroundings.
Now, I request we discuss that which we all dread, that which drives us to consume fermented veg, that which should be spoken about as is Potter's Nemesis:

A form of torture developed by stupid people who have nothing better to do in their lives.
They take no interest in anything else other than "Getting the project in on time."
(v) To partake in this torture.

Unfortunately, we all have to do it, if we want to eat and pay rent, etc so I want to make your day more bearable.

It's never easy, and we all lose it every once in a while, so firstly, I give you tips on how to maintain your composure until tonight, when we will lose our minds in shooters and half-naked ladies.

I speak from experience, when I say, it is VERY hard to assert myself, when frustrated, in the best manner.

We all know it is so easy to mouth off when pissed off, so here are a few alternative phrases to use in order to KEEP YOUR JOB...

Thank you, pottymouth:

1.Try Saying: I think you could do with more training
Instead Of: You don't have a fucking clue, do you?

2.Try Saying: She's an aggressive go-getter.
Instead Of: She's a fucking power-crazy bitch

3.Try Saying: Perhaps I can work late
Instead Of: And when the fuck do you expect me to do this?

4.Try Saying: I'm certain that isn't feasible
Instead Of: Fuck off arsehole

5.Try Saying: Really?
Instead Of: Well fuck me backwards with a telegraph pole

6.Try Saying: Perhaps you should check with...
Instead Of: Tell someone who gives a fuck.

7.Try Saying: I wasn't involved in the project.
Instead Of: Not my fucking problem.

8.Try Saying: That's interesting.
Instead Of: What the fuck?

9.Try Saying: I'm not sure this can be implemented within the given timescale.
Instead Of: No fucking chance mate.

10.Try Saying: It will be tight, but I'll try to schedule it in
Instead Of: Why the fuck didn't you tell me that yesterday?

11.Try Saying: Excuse me, sir?
Instead Of: Oi, fuck face.

12.Try Saying: Of course, I was only going to be at home anyway
Instead Of: Yeah, who needs fucking holidays anyway.

Also, this doesn't work: "Okay, okay! I take it back. Unfuck you!!!"

We must remember that in order to get to the top, we must sleep with management. Kidding. But seriously, how are we going to get up there?

Enough with the composure. How boring of me. We need to entertain ourselves in this concrete hell, don't we?

If you're feeling bored and daring at work today, here are a few things that could most probably make your day (they made mine)...

Causing shit with colleagues:

1.To signal the end of a conversation, clamp your hands over your ears and grimace.
2.Leave your fly open for an hour. If anyone points it out, say, "Sorry, I really prefer it this way".
3.Don't use any punctuation or capital letters.
4.Use your highlighter pen on the computer screen
5.Drink directly from the water cooler nozzle.
6.Every time you get an email, shout ''email''.
7.Put decaf in the coffee maker for 3 weeks. Then switch to espresso.
8.Call the I.T. helpdesk and tell them that you can't seem to access any pornography web sites.
9.For an hour, call everyone you speak to as "Dave".
10.At the end of every sentence, say 'Mon' in a really bad Jamaican accent. E.g. "The report's on your desk, Mon." Do this for an hour.
11.As often as possible, skip rather than walk.
12.Ask people what sex they are. Laugh hysterically after they answer.
13.Walk into a very busy person's office and while they watch you with growing irritation, turn the light switch on and off 10 times.

I want to know how many of you get away with these. But, PLEASE, don't shoot the instigator, if you get fired.

Edhar Bergen quoted: "Hard work never killed anybody, but why take a chance?" and I agree with him.

Back to work...

Cubicle Coma: When you wake up and feel engergized but as soon as you enter the work place, a wave of exhaustion runs over you and you have trouble staying awake for the rest of your work day. Amazingly, once you leave the hellish work atmosphere, you suddenly feel energized and ready to run a marathon. Thank you

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Hose Pipes and Tree Houses

It's difficult to remember the days when milk was my favourite beverage, what with the seive-like quality (prolonged use of alcohol - in moderation :-) of course) of my brain. I do, however remember that the small things gave me joy and it didn't take much to get me to chuckling my young ass off. I know that those days involved the good, clean fun of youth. The best days of my life, without the aid of alcohol.

Growing up with siblings being the better option as a young kid guarenteed that the fun was plentiful. (Until lights out) There were no 40 hour work weeks and your parents paid your rent, clothed and fed you without any request for monetary assistance. Lucky us. Why did we make wishes before bed to wake up years older?

Yes, I do confess, the freedom, independance and beer make being out of Mom's hair more bearable, but OH, what I wouldn't give to be 10 years old again, if only for a week.

Do you remember how good ants tasted? In fact, most creepy crawlies were edible. If you weren't into eating the actual ants, inciting wars between 2 or more colonies was the equivalent of today's kids' PlayStation 3 fun. Today's kids are soft.

It's funny how things change.

Speaking of the difference between indoor and outdoor fun, I must mention the SLIPPERY SLIDE. We all know it's still fun now, but when last did you dig up that old plastic sheeting from the bottom of that rusty trunk in your garage/storage space, grab the dishwashing liquid and hose pipe and head into the glorious daylight? We should explore the childish absurdity of the yesteryears more often. Grass burns and sunshine for the win. (Minus the sunburn, please?)

In the days of relationships, where your parents' constant worrying phonecalls about how you party too much and why you broke up with so-and-so, riddled with questions such as 'Why don't you have a new girlfriend yet?' are about as amusing as the post-breakup depression itself, I relish the days when three 6 year old girls were totally cool with being your girlfriends all at the same time and it wasn't unusual for all 4 of you to run around half naked through sprinklers and such. Wouldn't it be great if life was still that easy?

I'm sure you agree with me when I say the days are missed when mom or spiderman was your best friend, and reading the Famous 5 books meant you were WAY smart, when the heights from the Monkey Bars to the padded grass below filled you with fear, and dad's strong pushes on the tyre-swing made you feel like you were on top of the world. Today, if I wanted that same adrenaline rush, I would have to climb skycrapers or ask really hot supermodels on dates.

I had almost forgotten the days of eating worms and mudpies and thinking the worms would live in my stomache forever, and had almost misplaced the memories of my first bicycle, the first time my training wheels were removed, and that momentous act of looking back to see no-one was holding my seat anymore, and I was finally riding unaided. I think that awareness may have been more euphoric than the feeling of freedom I experienced the day I got my first motorcar.

Those were the days: when fun was simple, and climbing trees, den building and gobstoppers were all we needed to put smiles on our faces. (How reminiscent am I?) Think back to your first tree house. That first taste of freedom. We must not have known that once we actually had our own houses, mom and dad wouldn't be stopping by every half hour with picnic baskets attached to pully devices.

If only we could rewind, back to when chocolate sprinkles were the best thing since lego.

Life was the epitome of simplicity.

That's not to say that there aren't fun things to do as an adult, of course. :-P

Let's just keep it simple, shall we guys? Let's not dwell on what we don't have - but what we have, have experienced, and how it's all shaped us in to the well-rounded individuals we are today.

Enough said...

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

A drink a day keeps the shrink away

Good day fellow drinkers… As you may remember, the last installment we discussed was the not so new “clique-y” world of the watering holes. In this post I will venture into the effects of the certain “cold ones” we all enjoy.

Non-Drinker: a weak person who yields to the temptation of denying himself a pleasure.

Reality: an illusion due to lack of alcohol

WARNING: The consumption of alcohol may create the delusion that you're tougher, smarter, faster and better looking than most people.

Beauty lies in the hands of the beer holder:
Starting with one of the most commonly quaffed beverages, the fifth element after water, fire, earth and wind: (yup, you guessed it) Beer, aka God’s Nectar. This heavenly liquid, best served ice cold on the warmest of days [great in all weather, I confess] is also known as amber brew, ale or barley pop, to name a few synonyms. I could go on for hours, but I shall refrain from assaulting your senses and quite possibly making you drool on your desk. Now, I’ve seen beer connoisseurs, beer pounders and beer sippers. Inevitably, toward the end of the night, you’ll hear one or many mighty belches followed by drunken chuckles. There’s no disputing the fact that beer makes people happy. It is, in fact, quoted by Benjamin Franklin that “Beer is proof that God loves us…”

He who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy:
Are you feeling lucky punk? Have a ‘Branne-en-Coke’ and you’ll feel like you’re on top of the world. [For a while.] Usually, when hitting this fermented fruit juice, your evening will end in either getting knocked the fuck out by a bigger Dutchman than yourself, OR you might hit the ground due to an inability to walk. The thing with a brandy [double] and coke is that it sneaks up on you and ‘donners you stupid’. One minute, you’re sitting with your mates, enjoying the farmyard conversation, the next thing you’re talking moon language and/or wanting to knock out that little moffie at the bar for checking you out.
Yeah, this stuff is potent if abused (hell, who am I kidding), having different effects on girls and boys. Guys tend to believe that they resemble either the Hulk or Arnold Schwarzenegger, except bigger and less Austrian-American. Girls may range from bitchy to the-best-step-up-2-dancers, when under the influence of this spirit, but the general effect of any liquor on the ladies seems to lead to the I-love-everyone and Everyone-is-my-new-best-friend curse. Cute, but irritating? Especially, seeing as I don’t LIKE you.
FYI: A popular drink in Cambodia is Tarantula Brandy. You guessed it - the concoction includes brandy and freshly dead tarantulas. Even worse is the Baby Mouse Liquor found in rural Korea. No need to elaborate. I’ll only tell you that it is fermented for one year.

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade, and add Vodka:
When it comes to distilled potato/grain juice, I’m not the world’s biggest fan, but in our diverse drinking realm: each to their own… Shit, the Russians swear by it, it can’t be all bad, can it? Well, I’ve seen a fair few people after a couple of vodka limes thinking they can speak fluent Russian. The Bloody Mary, the Screwdriver, the Sex on the beach, the White Russian, the Vodka tonic, the Vodkatini, (which ever mix makes the ethanol flavour less potent) seems to turn the most timid of girls into dancers that would put Fiddy Cent’s hoochie mamas to shame. Could this be the miracle drink we’ve all been searching for? Shall we call it Russian courage? Vodka actually has lower levels of impurities that contribute to the after-effects of heavy consumption, and so it is considered among the 'safer' spirits, though not in terms of its powers of intoxication, which, depending on strength, may be considerable.
The morning after a Vodka-induced-semi-coma, I know from experience, leaves you feeling as though you’ve gargled with pure paint stripper. But do the hangovers ever teach us?
Jono Coleman made me laugh: “If you're looking for a great way to destroy brain cells and have a great time all at once then do what I did this week - a one-day intensive course at Vodka University.”

Ride on the Cane Train:
To cane = to consume with vigour
“Chooooooo Chooo”
I’m pretty sure we’ve all heard this dreaded sound closely followed by a haze of (did that really happen) memories, possible injuries and one hell of a good time. Cane and Crème Soda is the Englishman’s Brandy and Coke and is usually abused during happy hours at clubs where Young 'Uns are plentiful in numbers. Most of the clubs in Stellies offer this drink at a phenomenally low price of R12 for a double – now that shit is CRAZY. Don’t take more than R50 when jolling in Stellenbosch. R80 if you smoke cigarettes. Cane also likes to devour people’s memories (is this a common trend with alcohol? ;-)), and is best consumed in moderation. (Kidding)

Cane makes other people seem more interesting and transforms unattractive girls into supermodels. I’ve heard of a foolproof plan to avoid making disastrous mistakes such as waking up next to Agnes. At the beginning of the night, have a look around the pub and find the least good looking chick around. Memorise what she’s wearing and who she’s with, and try to stay close to her for as long as possible without looking pervy and/or strange. When she starts looking vaguely attractive, it’s time to call it a night, pick up your shit, and leave.”

What confusion and mischief your sly, rebellious drops do generate:
Next up on the list would be that dirty little Mexican: Tequila. Aka The Good Shit. Generally coming out to play after a few draughts, it makes people roll their Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrs, and become more animated. This, ladies and gents, is one refreshing beverage I do not go near! Call me a pussy; I really don’t give a shit. defines it as: “I don’t remember doing that…” and I’ve personally witnessed the memory depleting effect of “To-kill-ya” and the weird and wonderful faces pulled.

Tequila, Scorpion Honey, Harsh Dew of the Doglands, Essence of Aztec, Crema de Cacti, has been defined by the more ‘hardcore’ of my mates as the future of drinking. [So aptly put last night, guys.]
I’ve witnessed anti-tequila friends turn into a tequila queens and kings. It seems the more you give this ‘liquid geometry of passion’, as Tom Robbins defined it, a chance (or several chances), the more likely the possibility of you enjoying it. Also, you may have killed all your taste buds and actually get pleasure from it in your inebriated state.

Everybody has to believe in something. I believe I’ll have another drink

Put some hair on your ass:
It’s all fun and games until the Jager comes out and you end up sexing up fat chicks.*
Now, Jägermeister is not as sneaky as his Mexican counterpart, granted they both arrive looking dangerous. When served this liqueur, one is fully aware that once it’s down the hatch, warmth will spread like wildfire. defines Jägermeister as: “excellent liquor that tastes like cough syrup and will put some hair on your ass, drink at your own risk”. Jager will give you far too much confidence, allowing you to take great pride in the fact that you found the public restroom and made it back to your original location in one piece. Cockiness is another side-effect; Jägermeister can be called the "liquid asshole" for its ability to turn ordinary people into giant pricks.

This intoxicant is also known for its truth revealing powers and can and should be used at social, corporate or government intelligence gatherings.
Caution: The morning after consuming many of these shooters, one will feel slow, sluggish and just plain awful, regretting most of what was revealed. Also, clothes very possibly may be missing.

"Actually it only takes me one drink to get drunk. The trouble is I can't remember if it's the thirteenth or fourteenth."
-George Burns

Thank you all, have a good (inebriated) night...

Friday, November 12, 2010

Down at the Watering Hole

Definition of ‘clique’ according to an exclusive circle of people with a common purpose

After extensive partying over the past couple of months, I have come to notice the more “Clique-y” side of the local watering holes myself and my mates frequent. I’m not talking gazelles, lions & hippos people, I’m talking the blatantly obvious stereotypical cliques that we thought we’d left behind in high school. I seem to have only observed them recently, and now I see the large part they play in our common goal to attempt to achieve advanced states of mental incompetence, by repeatedly consuming fermented vegetable drinks.

This blog I dedicate to finding out where you, me and Bob the washed-up-high-school-scrumhalf fit in. So sit back and take a load off, we’ll be entering the unknown... (Cue scary movie music)

Seeing as I went there, (inserting the imaginary thriller type music) let’s begin with something scary. First up on our list are the Emos... Let’s discuss. Along with the skinny jeans, ‘guyliner’, band shirts, gender-confusing fringes and general state of unhappiness, emos tend to keep to themselves in shady corners, conversing amongst themselves, shooting furtive glances at the “happy” faces all around. To you, dear emos, I say that it may be that your sole purpose in your life is simply to serve as a warning to others... dum dum daaaaaaaaa..
Ok, ok - I suppose the emos need to drink too.

Toward the opposite side of this clichéd consortium of human beings, we find the Hippies / Flower Children. You know the red eyed, barefoot, incense burning “groovers” with tie-dyed dresses, screwed up hair - who serve as a ‘breath of fresh air’? Well, they cannot be trusted [or so I’ve been told]. If a hippy comes floating over, please people, make sure your drink is kept under constant surveillance. Also, as I’m sure you know, your ciggies will tend to find a way of disappearing into the great abyss, along with lighters. “Oh, I suppose it was meant to be with the gods of the universe that your stuff is going missing... Maybe you did something nasty in your past life when you were an earthworm...” Good theory Sunchild – is that your real name?! – but I have a few other ideas. Of course, being children of the corn and all, they tend to be friendly creatures, do like to mingle with the crowds and can often be seen having a dance (aided by the likely intoxication of various mood enhancers).

Next up and probably the biggest douches at the watering hole are, and will always be the ‘manne’, the ‘boytjies’, the, yes you guessed it...Jocks

These guys’ elevators don’t quite hit the top floor, so if I were you, I’d keep your intellectual jokes to yourselves. They’re the guys with the bulging biceps, the popped collars, and the perfectly styled hair who quite enjoy ‘moering’ anyone who looks at them vaguely strangely. Cross a jock and be prepared for a beat down. They usually sit nearest the entrance. As to why, I’m guessing - in order to strike fear into passing emos. They seem to emit that ‘this is my territory’ dog-like vibe, make the most noise, break the most glasses, and “score” the most chicks. Chris Isherwood said: “Life is not so bad if you have plenty of luck, a good physique and not too much imagination”. Hell, I’m not with him on that one, but apparently these boys are... By the end of the night you will you will be sure to have experienced two jock-like performances. Number 1: You’ll hear the greeting “what’s up boytjie, did you check the game hey” and, Number 2: One of these hardcore MEN will be ordered by the Jock ringleader to do “50 push up’s boytjie you said the word’’. Life is a zoo in a jungle, people; we drink to deal with it...

A subsection of the jock clique, is, what I’d like to call the “Jockettes”. These are the untouchables. Whichever watering hole you attend on a regular basis – you should know - in a heartbeat – who the jockettes are. They dress in the infamous belt/skirt, heels – inappropriately, in places such as gardens and unstable ground regions, they sport layers of war paint, and allow all or one of their ‘breasteses’ to pop out conveniently. They are the dolly birds who circle the jocks. If a morbid emo, trippy hippy, or ragged skater dare approach a jockette, one can assume a battle royal that would leave Alexander the Great speechless and a tad harmless looking, is to follow. Don’t even bother boys; Itchy, Twitchy and Bitchy have probably had more pricks than a second hand dartboard.

Arch nemeses to the jocks are the Skaters. Yes, they wear torn jeans, trucker caps, vests and broken shoes and are also VERY hardcore. They fall, they have scars, they don’t take shit from their parents and are, by all means not a good clique to look for shit with unless you want a skateboard to the skull. These “misfits” of society are generally good fun to be around, provided you keep your cocky comments to yourself, and your Dutch bravado in check. Unlike the Jocks, they won’t go out of their way to look for a fight. If it happens - you’ve looked for shit with the wrong animals, and you should probably run. You can also recognise this group by supercilious slogans on whichever part of their clothing they choose. Example: The Rules Don’t Apply To Me.

Time to introduce The Young ‘Uns. Seeing as most of us started out here, I’ll go gentle on this group. These are the latest victims to cheap alcohol and the ‘coolness’ of smoking cigarettes. They rock up at the watering hole in a pack of 300, walk up to the bar, order 3 alcoholic beverages and are miraculously pissed out of their skulls. (Note to self: Order Magic Young ‘Un beer next time at bar) They are also responsible for the most blown chunks, tears and fights out of all other cliques put together… It gets tiring, and annoying as fuck, but they’re getting used to mixing emotion and alcohol, so let’s give them a break. Are we there, yet?

Following, we have the bizarre, the weird, the whathefuck-is-your-deal cliques, namely the Floaters, Clingers and the Sketchy Old Guys. Shall I digress?

The Floaters: These are those people who go from table to table, group to group, the entire night. Whether it’s because of a lack of friends or a surplus of friends, these guys are busier than worker bees on the first day of spring. They arrive, place themselves into whichever conversation is occurring at that time, ask for drinks, leave everyone confused, and then haul ass?! Strange creatures indeed.

The Clingers: In my opinion, these animals are the equivalent of parasites in nature; they are the worst of the worst. They arrive alone, look for a suitable table to infiltrate, affix themselves to you for the entire evening, often fronting to be part of your clique or even your best friend. However, when their turn to buy the round arrives they mumble something inaudible, and head in the general direction of the toilet. This is the perfect time to pick up your shit, move to another less noticeable location, change pubs and/or run. The weirdo will be back when he/she thinks you are too drunk to remember how much you DON’T KNOW said clinger.

The Sketchy Old Guys: Not much elaboration needed. Here’s the situation. This dude rocks up looking all sketchy like, finds a prime targeting position as close to the bar as possible and sets about luring – most commonly – one of the Young ‘Uns into his twisted grasp, by offering and buying the unknowing victim shooters and drinks. This gets the Y.U so visually impaired that she will most likely overlook the muffin top belly and/or receding hairline. These guys need to be noted, and stayed away from. They are frowned upon by most cliques. And they pretty much suck.

Most important to any watering hole would be the: We're just here to throw our names away and mock each other mercilessly clique.

These are the people who you wish would form part of your clique. We, and I include myself here, are the fun loving people who find solace in the ice cold golden nectar of the gods that makes the week seem all the more worth it. The in-depth drunken conversation, the uncontrollable-beer-in-nose-laughter, the merciless taunting and teasing of each other, we are pretty damn awesome. We have no distinguishing features and are the enigmas of the drinkery. 99.95% of the time we will out-drink you, out-party you and out-smart you, all in one swirl of a draught glass...

See you tonight, yeah?

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Trip up the Coast?

Hombres. I want to go on a road trip. A real one. Where everything involved is as seriously fun as possible. I want to do all the road trippy things like over-spend on Redbulls, listen to ACDC, sing along to some of the overplayed top 40 tunes, which I’ve cleverly disguised by rearranging and reordering on a ‘mix’ CD, popping in a few Dub Step tracks just to confuse, so that I don’t look so fucking gay.

Mmm, I have so many fantasies about this trip. Not all of which are sexual. Actually, none are sexual. I’ll have to think about that. Here we go. I’m going to molest your minds with thoughts of fanfuckingtastically-superawesome-tripness. And when I say molest, I am not fucking around. You’re going to be LUSTING after this, when I’m done with you sexy. Big time.

The Crew:
At least four other really interesting darlings need to accompany me on this fun-filled drive to whichever destination we so choose. I need three in the back, so that the essence of road tripping is achieved. Four would be even more awesome. Less petrol to contribute. And the squishy sardine aspect makes the ride more genuine. Wouldn’t you say? Or maybe I’m enjoying them suffer in my rear-view mirror. How Schadenfreuden of me. I’m also watching the keg in the back, positioned just perfectly so that aforementioned mates are decidedly more uncomfortable than me.

The Booze:
Ok, there’s always the one dude who feels it’s necessary to drive the ENTIRE way. Must be a ‘small man syndrome’ thing. This having been said, not every trip will go as I’m illustrating. This is ultimate fantasy road trip though, so let me get my dream on. Ok – so one dude is driving – and I don’t give two shits why. The other four are getting jiggy with the liquid courage. Box wine and Brutal Fruits for the ladies. Beers for us REAL men. Yeah, I’m hardcore like that. Of course, this means that said smalldick* driver will have to pull over 20 times more than if we weren’t abusing the hooch, the liquid panty remover, the barley sandwiches. Oh how I love my alcohol slang. Once the ‘do it fluid’ in the vehicle runs out, we stop off for a brief pub crawl. OBVIOUSLY, designated driver drinks a fuckload of caffeine before getting behind the wheel again. In fact we stay the night in a 2 bed dodgy motel. It’s better than letting the poor car get a massive PK from a jumping, animate, possessed tree.

The Chow:
Yeah, the stomachs are weak because of the drink and we’re putting a little of our hardcore-ness aside, reverting from “eating is cheating” to “puking is gonna make the girls thing we’re fucking lame so let’s get something in our bellies”. Here is the best fucking food. EVER. I want all of this shit strategically placed either in the car, or on easy-to-find shelves and counter tops in easy-to-locate and far-away-from-where-they-shot-the-hills-have-eyes superettes. Seriously – those road trip movies freak me out sometimes. Never talk to a strange looking kid on a pretty swing/bench.

Check out this guy:

And this monster:

Hell, these things are so bloody good-looking I’d eat them if they tasted like your dog’s sweaty balls:

Yes, it’s a lasagna sandwich – a Lasandwich, bitches. Fuckin A+

Now check out the kid:

What do you think? Where are we going, you ask? Well I’m sure some wise dude once said that it is the journey, not the destination that counts. Yeah. But we’ll have to rock out at some Stripper/Jacuzzi/Spa/Really-Sunny-Beer-Selling place. Just to rest our road tripping bodies. By inebriating them. Who’s coming with me?

* Aforementioned small dick driver is purely fictional. I know all you dudes have massive cocks. Like mine.

Monday, November 8, 2010

On Pins and Needles

Okay people, lend me your ears, there is method to my madness, and I intend on making you privy – I won’t bang on until the cows come home, promise.

Joanne McCubrey called it “delighting in using bodies as billboards”, Vince Hemingson’s view is that contrary to beauty (being skin deep and all, blah blah), a tattoo goes all the way to the bone - I believe the world is divided into two kinds of people: those who have tattoos, and those who are afraid of people with tattoos.

As viewed and opined by yours truly, the word ‘tattoo’, I find, is loaded with associations to gangsters, bikers, tribal warriors, carnival artists, drunken sailors and floozies. Yes, I want to ‘get my ink on’, but judge me and I’ll be any which one of aforementioned stereotypes that could and would cause the most emotional and/or physical grievance to you. I’m totally joking. I wouldn’t do that to you. That being said (the joking bit), if it’s not your thing don’t knock it - I’m sure not everyone enjoys knitting or baking as much as you do – each to their own and so on.

As of now, 4 tattoos decorate my body – I am itching to get some more work done and honestly, yes, said body is a temple, but, how long can you live in the same house before you redecorate?

I’m not sure what your thought procedure is when deciding on designs, processes, symbols and whereabouts. With some, it may be a case of “Oooooh, pretty picture” – in which case, Sweetheart, indeed that butterfly looks great on your breast right now, but when you get to seventy, it’ll stretch into a fucking condor. Perhaps, you should think it over?

This is no pig in a poke, people, assess, and then reassess, and then re-reassess. Let’s not go up a blind alley, and then regret it.

In my case I’ve had my symbolic ink done, the deep meaningful stuff, and now it is time for some decoration, of course still slightly symbolic, yes, but fun too. Nothing compared to my previous pieces. When the designs are chosen with care, tattoos have a power and magic of their own. They decorate the body but they also enhance the soul. Without a doubt, life changing kinds of experiences will find a place on my body in the form of discussed ink. Not the size of a small child, though.

One deterrent that will probably resonate with most people is the pain issue. Get inked and at least one saucer-eyed dimwit will ask you countless questions, including, without a doubt the most annoying of the few: didn’t that hurt? “Uuuuuhm why yes it did, I had 3 – 9 needles hitting my skin at an extreme speed, and it was particularly fun when aforementioned needles graced my ribs with their presence…”

I’m not trying to be a dick here, let’s get that straight. You just irritate me with your thick questions. Did you think I was talking about pine needles?

Ok, so I am not fazed by the pain - I feel it drops me to a deeper level of my psyche where, sure the pain is there, but it’s almost meditative. If pain freaks you out, then you don’t need a tattoo. Not until you grow a ball sack.

I read that in ancient times it was believed that once your soul had passed into the next realm, you became mute and your tattoos would tell your story - your name, your trials and tribulations, your successes. To me, that sounds pretty cool. (No, not the inability to speak part.) So, instead of just seeing tattooing as picture drawing, or in some people’s opinions, a vulgar desecration of the human container, be flexible with your mind - see the body as a blank canvas waiting for life’s experiences to be documented. Or don’t. It’s your baby.

Extremities such body suit tattoos are a personal no-go. Don’t start getting freaky on me bru, that shit’s pretty intense. (Body-suit guy reading blog, please ignore above statement)

I mean fuckk,have a look at this:

And this:

Anti-good taste, I reckon.

Sometimes thinking twice is a good idea...

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

To Update or not to Update...

First off, have a look at this site.

That should get the ball rolling, just in case my sentiments don’t quite cut the proverbial mustard.

This may come as no surprise to you - my immediate opinion on social networking sites, in this case, the [in]famous, overused, (drum roll please)...Facebook, may not be quite as cast iron as my stomach, nevertheless I implore you - lets tear apart one of the least social activities that has ever come to be. It’s addictive! Shall we cut to the chase, please?
As I check my Facebook a good couple of times a day, I feel I am entitled to a quick feeding frenzy on those of you who have allowed these INSANELY annoying idiosyncratic habits that you so obviously find amusing creep into your everyday [anti]socialising... (steam fuming out of imaginary ears)

Okay, I’m back from the funny farm. Lets hit it.

The Compulsive “Like-er”
The friend/ facebook acquaintance that feels compelled to press that ‘like’ button thingy below each status, picture or comment posted. How opposing of me, that I’m thinking this is due to some inability to actually take the 1min 3.564 seconds to type “Sweet pic bru” or “DAMN I remember that - good times”. Perhaps, being the besetting Facebook-er that said person must so evidently be, going for broke and completing ‘What kind of person are you really?’ questionnaires and quizzes takes the cake over the colossal task of leaving a: “Nice pic”... Doesn’t that just go down like a lead balloon?

The “Must...tell... (breathe)” Facebook-er
Okay, have a look at your home page…Can you see it? That ONE friend that constantly updates? That ONE friend that clogs up your home page as if he/she may die at any second and would like you, Tom, Dick and Harry to be aware of possible last moments lived? I mean, why else, in God’s name does one feel the need to narrate their entire day every 3 seconds? [“Just got to gym”… “Damn feeling awesome at gym”… “Awesome work out”... “In the car”...“Just got home”. Clearly, you have NO ONE to gym with?!] Sifting through said nonsense is about as much fun as a cheese induced coma, SO, unless you have a lifestyle that involves Bear-Grylls-like endeavors, stop cluttering our news feeds. Please and thank you.

The My Day Is a Musical Updater
Post one line of a song a day please? I don’t want to know how similar your life is to Joe Jonass’ latest lyrics, carried out in one hour increments. This is just getting ridiculous: “Woke up this morning, smiled at the rising sun”… on to lunch break “walking on sunshine” heading to 16h00 “Fuck the system”. Yes, the rest of the WORLD listens to music too. And no, we don’t deem it necessary to sync each line of ANY song, for that matter, with our daily happenings. Music is a huge contributing factor to pretty much everything in our lives but it can’t be essential to document the entire day through song lyrics, can it?

The Serial Photographer
You know exactly who you are! Yes, you outdo the strobe lights at a 90’s rave with camera flashes, but really? Seriously? 19 856 photographs? Although impressed at your remarkable party-going, and thankful for your help in relocating lost memories from those particularly hazy nights, I’m pretty sure you sitting on your bestfriend’s boyfriend’s lap while she is in Hong Kong/ America/ up the Berg River in 17 different poses may possibly cause you more harm than my poor eyes. And no, you don’t look any different when photographed from your left as opposed to your right. Yes, I know, I am being a little hard-boiled.
Afterthought: Please will someone also relocate lost cash from aforementioned hazy night?

The Abbreviation Idiot
In my opinion - ‘imo’, of course, this is the worst thing you can do to your poor facebook page - and my head. Did you not do English in school? Yes, I know you access this site from your phone, but do you really want me and your 873 other friends thinking you are a) lazy b) dumb as bat shit or c) all of the above? Okay, “OMG” is almost in the Oxford English Dictionary, so you are forgiven this once. However, this: “It w4s gr8 c-ing u lst nite I roflmao da whle nit!” is unpardonable. My face melts. Why? Are you going to hop off the twig if you type 3-4 extra vowels into your status/comment? Even more unbearable is when the Compulsive Updater and the Abbreviation Idiot make babies - “Omg gr8 showa”... “getn dresd” closely followed by “OMG lib l2m ftw”. Seriously people c’mon!

Seriously, what the fuck is going on? It's like the fucking Special Olympics out there

I suppose all of us are guilty of falling into one of these categories but when people take it to the extreme is when - indeed, it is not in bad taste to seriously consider the “remove friend option”

Are you smiling that thousand-yard smile?

Facebook FTW - Yes, I just HAD to do it.