Friday Ramble 25/11/2005

So none of the guys lost to the Impoverished Teacher to Be in the 94.7. I have to be honest I had set aside a whole paragraph in preparation for this week’s ramble in anticipation of that occurrence. But alas, even though I am the world’s most brilliant man, I still cannot predict the future. Well done to all those crazy bastards and bastardesses who took part in the epic cycle. I had a nice nap while intermittently watching comedy on the Series channel - thanks for asking.

My little sister arrived back from her travels abroad this week - after a couple of unexpected hours wait in customs because someone had lost the key to the baggage hold. Anyway, she says that after a year of au pairing she is just so used to cleaning of after people that she can’t help it. Why do you tell me these things?! One slovenly bum of a brother coming right up.

The impending weekend might well be one of the largest we have seen this year. At least up there with the infamous Found-in-the-gutter-outside-Tiger-on-Friday/Rhodes-reunion-where-I-not-only-lost-the-plot-but-the-entire-book-Saturday weekend. We’ll see. Big news is that Miss Scarlet has allowed Knappy to retain the use of his testicles for Saturday because she won’t be in attendance. Just how gay Knappy is at his own birthday party remains to be seen.

The great news is that Smythers and the girlfriend both end their 3 month stint of not drinking this weekend. Front and centre son – you are about to atone for your sins in this life and the next.

Ok. The Furniture Guy led me to the site: www.founders-hall.com . It’s actually ridiculously funny – more so when you have been at Rhodes but anyway. Apart from the fact that the site’s proprietors are gay and still haven’t moved on from their glorious res days, the site has some classic moments. Maybe I’m just jealous: Adamson House didn’t have a pub so we were forced to pack the entire res into a room and mainline Autumn Harvest Crackling on Fridays until we seeped fluids from whence fluids should not seep.


This photograph will haunt my nightmares forever. Check out my guy Paulie at the bottom left.



The sewerage system was a tributary to our bathrooms and the res itself was actually a disused fallout shelter where the Coelacanth’s took refuge when the asteroid struck. Anyway, definitely worth a look for all Rhodents who have as yet not made their way there. There is a poem from there that I had to publish on this site for fear that some might miss it. Laingers wherever you are, you are a ripper son. Plus you can claim the nickname ‘Tweaker’. I can’t claim that. I am sad.

Hugh Bladen – what a true ripper that man is. He had the game of his life this last Saturday. At one point he said, with a serious amount of sarcasm in his voice, “…and Stuart Dickinson…will now have his say…”
At another point a player was down injured. There was blood pissing from his face and he looked like he would rather have someone remove his spleen with a teaspoon than go through the agony he was currently experiencing. Hughie: “And he’s down…and hurt!”
Kobus Wisse held his own though – when someone got handed off like a little bitch he piped up: “Jammer meneer, die bus is vol.”
There doesn’t seem to be a website dedicated to his classic moments though – I think Google is missing a trick.

Ok. Go to www.gnomz.com you can create your own comics. I became a member and everything, so expect them to be a new regular feature. Ok, since my html knowledge is limited and some of the important bits of the site are in French, posting it on the site became a nightmare. You can view it here though. Can you guess who it is? Only found out after I had made this that they have a Jabba the Hut character you can use.

If you have a moment to spare and feel like being amused go to www.westegg.com/simpsons . Nothing groundbreaking, just a whole lot of Simpsons quotes, but as a huge fan I thought I might, ahem, slip it in.

I’ve been cruising around these blog things checking out what your average person is into and I’ve got to tell you, my theory, that your average person is close to being functionally retarded, has yet to be disproved. A disturbingly high percentage of them were photos of fat chicks and their newly born kids. I mean maybe your mom and dad want to see photos of your kids. Your friends? One - just to make sure you weren’t lying when you said you had to leave the pub to go see the birth of your child . No one wants to see that published though; honestly. Sometimes people are too wrapped up in delusions of their own self-importance to realize no one cares. More humour please, less self-indulgence. And the first person to point out the irony in that statement gets 1x samurai assault.

The new Korn video for ‘Transistors’ just serves to remind me why I spent much of my youth listening to these rock gods. Let’s face it, they reached a plateau after ‘Follow the Leader’ but every now and again they produce something that proves that they are still far classier than half the generic clones that try to in the genre. It features Xzibit, Lil Jon, Snoop Dogg and David Banner as the members of Korn in what is a pseudo-documentary about the making of a music video. I did a little bit of looking around on the web and found that there were some people who didn’t dig the video. The said it was just a badly done copy of ‘This is Spinal Tap’. Mayhaps they are just paying homage to one of their favourite movies? They also complained that the jokes were all in-jokes and that the video wasn’t going to garner any new fans. As some who followed the band as a wee tike and who does understand most of the in-jokes, I say to these people, “maybe, just maybe, as multi-million album selling artists, they feel that they have enough fans and made it for the fans that they already have. Now go watch your J-Lo videos because I’m sure they are simple enough for you to understand. Fools!” How can you miss the humour in the ending: “Munky went on to found a new religious movement ‘Chronicology’”.

Remember the world’s ugliest dog? Looked like a pair of testicles broiled with a chicken? It died: http://somethingstickythiswaycomes.blogspot.com/2005/11/imperial-decree-3.html . Half mast; flags that is. Is it just me or is my brain really leeking out during the night?

Scottish Proverb: Twelve Highlanders and a bagpipe make a rebellion. I love my heritage. I just need 11 others and a bagpipe. Knaps, you’re all red and pasty; you’ll pass for a Scotsman or two.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christine_Chubbuck . That is some crazy stuff right there. She was a television-show host in the 70s who pulled a Kurt Cobain live on air.

After a brief scare it appears that my holiday is going to happen after all. From Monday I am going to be on the beautiful beaches of Amanzamtoti, sunning my gonads and going out with the young lasses on matric rage and enjoying the associated pleasures. Who am I kidding? – I’m going to fry myself on the first day and spend the next week oscillating between heat and alcohol induced delirium. The closest I am going to get to female contact is the lady who has to pry my body - caked in whatever fluids my body saw fit to expel during the night - from the sheets and make the bed. Anyway, the point is I won’t be here next week to produce the Ramble. So, you are in for a treat – Smythers has agreed to be a guest author of next week’s ramble. He promises he hates Knappy as much as I do.

Enjoy the weekend and next week of your lives people of the flux, I shall think of you whilst watching the sun go down over the sea from the penthouse.

Remember: “I’m notashrimp, I am a King Prawn”
Love and kisses
Jamo

Friday Ramble 18/11/2005

It was RJ Knappy’s birthday yesterday and in his honour I promise only to say nice things about him.

I have a planet sized hangover just for you my guy.

Language is a weird thing. When you break it down, it is something that was basically constructed so that people could communicate where the best mushrooms grew, and I guess it had it’s origins in grunts. To a large degree men still communicate in grunts anyway. A girl with a bum as round and firm as a bowling ball walks past and one man will grunt, the other will look up and grunt and everyone knows what is going on. Not least of whom, the girl. So why is so much emphasis placed on grammar? Does it matter whether you split your infinitives? Does it matter that Knappy[1] says ‘lend’ when he means ‘borrow’? I understand what he is saying, don’t I? I have to be honest that although I realize that in reality grammar is relatively meaningless, I am a purist. It probably has something to do with my mother being an English teacher (and conferring upon me the spectacularly annoying habit of correcting other people’s English[2]).

Smythers sent me an MSN message telling me of his imminent trip to the water closet. I responded by asking him if he would like to go in tandem.
His response:

would be honoured to perform a simultaneous assault on the
JHB sewerage system with you

Toilet humour is so crass, but Smythers makes it sound so eloquent. How to make friends and influence people, hey?

Take the test: http://www.bathroomsurvey.com/

I have been told by girls on a number of occasions “you’re such a guy” as kind of a half-insult, but to guys it’s a really big compliment[3]. “Grrr, now hand me that keg of beer - it’s not going to drink itself. Grrr.” It makes me want to grow a beard. No matter how many guys shave their chests and wear pink shirts, “you’re such a metrosexual” is never going to inspire quite the same quiet pride. Laddish Bar-hounds one, Gender-confused Faggots[4] nil. Sorry, I’m obviously just jealous because I can’t afford to buy enough razor blades to shave my chest in its entirety. I did shave the Superman symbol into my chest hair once, does that count?

I was privileged this last weekend to see some old video clips of Rhodes that I haven’t seen before. I just about had an aneurism I laughed so hard. My personal favourite was Mrs. Bredin shouting out of a car window at some random guy in front of the drama department “Hey! You fucking queer”. Man, I’m such a guy. Anyway, I have to be honest I had my suspicions about your being queer when I first met you Bredie, but then I discovered you are just from Natal.

US declines to rule out torture

(courtesy that lesson in great objective reporting - News24.com).14/11/2005 09:18 - (SA)
Washington - In an important clarification of President George W Bush's
earlier statement, a top White House official on Sunday refused to unequivocally
rule out the use of torture, arguing the US administration was duty-bound to
protect Americans from terrorist attacks.
The comment, by US national
security adviser Stephen Hadley, came amid heated national debate about whether
the CIA and other US intelligence agencies should be authorised to use what is
being referred to as "enhanced interrogation techniques" to extract from terror
suspects information that may help prevent future assaults.
The US Senate
voted 90-9 early last month to attach an amendment authored by Republican
Senator John McCain to a defence spending bill that would prohibit "cruel,
inhuman or degrading" treatment of detainees in US custody. But the White House
has threatened to veto the measure and has lobbied senators to have the language
removed or modified to allow an exemption for the Central Intelligence Agency.
During a trip to Panama earlier this month, Bush said that Americans "do not
torture."
However, appearing on CNN's Late Edition programme, Hadley
elaborated on the policy, making clear the White House could envisage
circumstances, in which the broad pledge not to torture might not apply.
By the book
"The president has said that we are going
to do whatever we do in accordance with the law," the national security adviser
said. "But... you see the dilemma. What happens if on September 7th of 2001, we
had gotten one of the hijackers and based on information associated with that
arrest, believed that within four days, there's going to be a devastating attack
on the United States?"
He insisted that it was "a difficult dilemma to know
what to do in that circumstance to both discharge our responsibility to protect
the American people from terrorist attack and follow the president's guidance of
staying within the confines of law."
The CIA is reported to be operating a
network of covert prisons in eight countries around the world, including
Afghanistan, Thailand and several former Soviet bloc nations in Eastern Europe,
where terror suspects are questioned.
Republican Senator Kit Bond, a member
of the Senate Intelligence Committee, told Newsweek magazine that "enhanced
interrogation techniques" had worked with at least one captured high-level
Al-Qaeda operative, Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, to thwart an unspecified plot.
But officials have been mum about interrogation techniques used on other
detainees, drawing sharp criticism from members of the Senate.
A compromise
with senators was in the works, Hadley assured, saying the White House was
holding consultations with them about the McCain amendment.
President Bush
told reporters, “I was devastated to learn that Jack Bauer was a fictitious
character, cause then we could make all the rules we want and Jack, being the
hardcore son-of-a-bitch that he is, would just do what it took to get the job
done anyway. It was almost as bad as my fortieth birthday when my daddy let it
slip that the tooth fairy wasn’t real. I must admit that when I sent troops into
Iraq I thought he was on our side and it would all be over in the morning. Man I
want to be like Jack. He is even a recovering heroin addict like me. Except that
he his mind hasn’t disintegrated into a moldy puddle of piss.”

GOD BLESS AMERICA

Turns out I’m a bit of a cock. Mrs. Bredin and I had bet this weekend about the country of origin of The Hives. And we bet a Knapton. I won a Knapton. I won a Knapton. As my birthday gift to you my boy, I’m giving you your freedom back. Actually, it only occurred to me now, but we specifically bet ‘a Knapton’; because it’s his birthday and I’m being nice, insert your own joke about his sister [here].

I fear people are not taking me seriously enough when I appeal to them to send embarrassing photos. Don’t make me use Photoshop any more. You’ve seen what it did to Knappy.

A big shout out to Harties who built me up the whole of last week about what a ripper of a jam we were going to have on Saturday, and then phoned to say he had given himself sunstroke on the golf course. Way to break a young man’s heart my boy. There I was in a R30 prom dress and nowhere to go.

I heard lyric in Green Day’s song ‘American Idiot’ I hadn’t caught before: "everybody do the propaganda" First there was the Twist, followed by the Locomotion, then the Macarena and now - the Propaganda. I dig it.

Ya, so at http://www.staregame.com you can play the staring game with a computer. I’m at a bit of a loss for comment.

The prophet Al Bahed va Maheer once wrote, “the path to joy is strewn with the rotting leaves of banana trees”. It revolutionized my approach to life. Now, when I walk, I am careful to watch where I am going; I haven’t stood on a rotting banana leaf for about 5 years, three months and a day, now.

Do you hate DJs? I hate DJs. Well, to be honest, I have nothing against them besides the fact that I frequently end up standing on my own ears when I dance. Anyway, I discovered rock bands hate DJs too. I love the Jet lyric “I know that you think you’re a star / a pill-popping juke box is all that you are” in their song called (if memory serves) ‘Roll Over DJ’. My favourite though is The Smith’s ‘Hang the DJ’. It’s subtle, but if you have that kind of mind, you can spot the allusion.

Ok. This might well have been the best week in history: The Red Giant turned 23. Dude! You can get into le Tigre now! Man, I so want to be your friend; but best of all – the new Franz Ferdinand finally made it to our merry shores and The Darkness just released a new album. Go on, I know you want to, just touch yourself.

Moving right along…

On Wednesday evening the Swiss and the Aussies both qualified for the Football World Cup Finals. The Aussies celebrated in style by throwing pints of beer down their faces[5], while the Swiss celebrated by one of their players fly kicking the opposition technical manager and then a brawl ensuing in the tunnel. You see what happens when you create a pristine neutral little country famous for chocolate, skiing and banking? Your people get bored and look for ways to entertain themselves. Anyway, to be honest I’m not sure of the context because controversy sells, so Sky only showed the clip of the guy doing the kicking and none of what happened beforehand.
No matter how much we hate them on the sports field, we have to admit that we are kin to the Aussies. We won the World Cup! Let’s get HAMMERED! I got a promotion! Drinks on YOU! Someone died! Let’s get LAMBASTED! My mother thinks she may have the clap! Let’s drink until we bleed from our EARS!
I have to admit that I do love it when the Aussies are getting thumped[6] but the fact that people are pitying them at the moment is too special to put into words. I heard people saying about last week’s rugby, “I was supporting Australia because, ag shame!” Shame?! Man, I love it; the one thing worse than your side getting thrashed is getting other countries’ pity for it. Except soon Aussie will discover the latest crop of prodigal fetuses, pour money into their development and win the World Cup, as usual.

Smythers and all those competing in the 94.7, good luck. No matter what anyone tells you, lycra pant is the new jean pant. I was watching Super Cycling the other day and they were talking about testicular cancer because of all the tea-bagging action cyclists get. Ya, watch out for that.

The Wheatsheaf was my local when I was younger. It turns out that the Hippie in Fairy Shoes thought that it was called the Wee Chief. And I’ve got to tell you, when I found out, I was a little disappointed that it wasn’t. What a great name for a pub. I’ve decided to call the pub I build at my first house the Wee Chief. And you are all invited to the bar wetting. I might just get naked for people to remember my name.

So we were sitting at the Baron yesterday celebrating Knappy’s ‘big’ day and a big red fire engine cruises past. Knappy jumped up all excited like and said “that’s the second one I’ve seen today!” - hold your laughter. During the course of more beers, two more, big red fire engines rolled past. Four big red fire engines! In one day! The cosmos obviously conspired to say a big fat HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BOY KNAPS! Seriously, could I make this stuff up any better? You really can take the big kid out of the little town but you can’t take the little town out of the big kid hey.

Speaking of which – I saw the craziest thing I think I’ve ever seen this morning. A Mercedes SLK with EC plates. Has the world gone mad?!

Here I publish a little piece by Mrs Bredin entitled “The Apology”. I think it says everything. Names have been altered to protect the innocent.

The King Prawn and I would like to formally apologise to
Miss Scarlet for stealing her car aerial last night. We realise that she did in
fact want to carry on drinking with us and that it was in fact the red bear who
wanted to go home. We would like to point out that this was actually an attempt
to entice it into a rage so that it would chase after us. We firmly believed
that if we could get it away from the car we could convince it to carry on
drinking. Unfortunately our genius attempt did not work and hence Miss Scarlet
is without an aerial. We are truly sorry, your aerial will be returned in due
time.

IT PUTS THE LOTION ON ITS SKIN OR IT GETS THE
HOSE

And…I think we are done.

Geniet jou naweek julle.


[1] Ok, so I lied.
[2] No Knaps my son, you cannot ‘lend’ my Lamisil AT from me, but you may borrow it. In fact, keep it.
[3] Right up there with “it’s too big to fit in here”. God I hate that movie (sorry, I try not to blaspheme, but ‘God’ has a much better ring to it than ‘wow’ or ‘cheese and rice’.
[4] And I don’t mean faggot as in “best gay in this place”, either; I mean faggot as in insignificant little piece of wood, good only for starting a fire.
[5] I literally saw some Aussie fan do this on the news. The interviewer asks how he feels, the Aussie screams something incoherent at the camera, pulls his shirt over his head and throws back a draught from about two feet from his face – it was awesome. Such a guy.
[6] I went through so many words to get to that one: thumped, pumped, smashed, thrashed, hammered, punished, destroyed - and they were all ambiguous. I’m talking about the Aussies getting beaten, but ‘beaten’ doesn’t have the same great connotations.

The Planet Sized Man by William Brody

I

There is a room; not a very significant room. Just an ordinary room – could do with a bit of maintenance now that I think about it; the plaster on the ceiling is spawning mould and starting to flake so the floor looks like it could do with some dandruff shampoo. In fact, the original plasterer did a terrible job in the first place; it looks like he plastered it with a scrotum. I would have made him pay me, for work that bad. Sorry, I digress. In this room that was constructed by a blind, scrotum-wielding artisan - is a bed.

On the bed was a prone form. Closer inspection found it to be the form of a very large man. If being fat and ugly was a sport, he was definitely a scratch handicap. Closer inspection than this would be tricky, because people don’t tend to examine bodies that are rotting - especially when they were not yet dead. Such was the task, and such was the case, however. The closer I moved towards the bed, the closer the stench of human decay came to tearing the contents of my stomach out through my throat. I put my nose into the crook of my arm and did my best to blink away the tears that were forming in my eyes. God, this was terrible! What kind of atrocity had to befall a man to render him this way?


II

The grass tickled Rupert’s ear as he lay there in the shade. He didn’t even notice it – so advanced was state of his relaxation. A few times in his life, if he is lucky, a man feels completely and unequivocally in charge of his own destiny. He finds that at the instant an obstacle is set before him he sees every possible solution and the best one underlined in red. Not only does he have the examination paper of life ahead of time, but it is the examiners copy with the answers included. Rupert was so much the master of his domain that he pitied those people. The wind and grass persisted in conspiring to tickle his ear but continued to go unnoticed.


III

Rupert was just finishing off his beer in a virtually empty pub when a brunette walked in. She came in behind him, so he didn’t notice her at first. When she came up to the bar and stood next to him, he certainly did; she smelled incredible. It was one of those perfumes that just arouse a man instantly, no matter what the person wearing it looked like. This particular wearer, however, would have done quite a good job of arousing Rupert without any pheromones’ assistance. She was the perfect mix of homeliness and sultriness. Rupert immediately pictured her in an apron. Only an apron. - And holding a utensil of some description. She was saying something to the barman about a broken car and knowing nothing about them (giggle; giggle; bat eye-lids; play with hair). Rupert dispatched the remnants of his beer and used this moment to become an expert on all things mechanical.

“I know a little about cars,” he volunteered. The barman just shook his head and mumbled something.
“Oh I wouldn’t want to…”
“Don’t worry about it. I was just about to leave.” Too easy, he thought to himself.
They left the barman shaking his head and muttering.

It is a well documented fact that walking through the doors of a pub on entry instantly improves someone’s beauty, but upon exiting, that added beauty is mysteriously annulled. Much to Rupert’s astonishment, this girl seemed to have found a way to negate the effects of the Universal Principle of Desperate Men in Pubs. Somehow her flawless skin had not transformed into a finger-width layer of base; her Barbie Doll figure appeared not to have been a trick of the light[1] after all. She was truly exquisite.
Rupert knew that he would never forgive himself if he did not at least try with this magnificent creature, so he got her to open the bonnet and had a look inside. He spent about 15 minutes rooting around, pretending he knew what he was doing and muttering to himself things like, “hmmm…fan-belt…aligned…not that…camshaft…receiving power…damn…thought it might be that” [2] and “oooh shit…hope that nut wasn’t important”[3]. He emerged covered in grime, no closer to the problem and announced that he thought he knew what it was, but unfortunately couldn’t do much without his blowtorch and jackhammer. Then, he suggested that she might like to join him for a bite to eat while they waited for a tow-truck to arrive.

“Oh you poor baby,” she laughed, “but you’re all covered in dirt.”

Rupert looked despondently at it shirt; he felt like a puppy that had just been kicked.

“My house is right around the corner, why don’t you come get cleaned up first?!”

If he hadn’t been leaning on the car, Rupert would definitely have fallen over.
He tried to say, suavely with a twinkle in his eye: “Oh right, good idea. I was just about to suggest that I oil-wrestle you to see who pays” [4] but the words bottlenecked in his mouth, sending a little bit of spittle slowly down his chin onto his shirt and he seemed to develop a nervous spasm around his eye[5]; thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice.


IV

Rupert was happy. He had recently been promoted to partner. Several days later, his company had been listed and he had become a very wealthy man. Very. He wasn’t entirely sure how it had all happened; one moment he had been a recent university graduate, the next he was probably the most phenomenally successful person his age he knew. He tried to trace it back in his mind.

At some point he had just become acutely aware of his own potential. No, it went beyond that; he had grown an awareness of exactly what he was capable, and then surpassed it entirely. It had felt that for months he had just mentally broken down every barrier that had ever presented itself to him. It had started subtly. First, he had just felt a little more confident. That confidence had produced from situations a result that he might otherwise not have obtained. Who was to say? Maybe it wasn’t the confidence at all; maybe it was just a coincidence. The positive happenings in his life, however, had definitely made him a far more confident man. He had begun to exude confidence; and confidence begat confidence. The more confident he had become, the more his universe submitted itself to his dominance over it.

He asked himself: Where did that original confidence come from? It must have been there all along, he mused; a dormant trait just waiting to emerge.

He thought back to how he had been before the rise and rise. He felt like the person he was just wasn’t him; like he was a body-snatcher that had come and sucked some poor sap out of mediocrity and into the sublime. True, he had had a small, tight group of friends and been happy enough. – But then he hadn’t known what it was like to be like this, had he? - And it wasn’t like he had lost his friends was it? They just respected him more now; it was a fantastic feeling.

Rupert lay down on the grass in the shade.


V

He often reflected on that moment in the sun. He had been at his absolute peak. No one could ever take that away from him. It was difficult where to say that it had begun. One moment he had been there, lying on the grass, on top of his world; the next, somewhere else. He didn’t even know if he was part of his own world still, let alone where he was on its food chain. What the hell had happened? He tried to trace it back. It had been subtle at first. At some point that confidence that had become such a staple of his success, just deserted him. He had begun to doubt himself; making some stupid mistakes in business at first; then some bad investments had eroded his confidence a bit more. He recalled questioning some of his decisions; the confident Rupert had simply explained to the person why his decision was the correct one and it was accepted; he had become shorter and shorter; every time someone questioned him, he had begun to see it as them challenging him; not believing in his ability. The confidence had slowly dissipated; the same snowballing effect that had built it up - tore it down. It had taken its toll on his friendships; as much as his friends tried to help him out of his slump, he just became a complete misery to be around. Without being aware of it, he had finally quite simply driven them all away. He had blamed them at the time; where were they in his hour of need? Then, as if it had never been, everything was gone.

As he lay on the bed, he wondered at how happy he had been, and where he was now. He used to look almost condescendingly at his mediocre life, but now he recalled it with fondness. Sure, he had been nothing exceptional, but was that so bad? He had had friends; who had surrounded him with the feeling of belonging – something that had eluded him when he was the master of it all. He would have sobbed but his soul had dried of tears long ago.

The question surged to the front of his mind, as it had done innumerable times before; what was it that that had initiated such an enormous decline? Lying there in his barely human state: fat, bloated and rotting from the inside, he turned his head on the pillow; just a fraction; all he could manage. Had the power of proper emotion long ago not been removed from his soul, he would have started. There she was. As he looked upon her through rheumy eyes, it all fell into place.


VI

As he lay there dying, I knew he knew. I saw it in his face as he pieced it together; the two defining moments in his life. The moment where I granted him his confidence, and the moment I took it back; the moment I took him back to my apartment and the moment I came up to him on the grass and ended it. How could I do such a thing? Why would I do such a thing? Because I am a woman and I can. It wasn’t something I did specifically to destroy the man. There were points in our relationship where I really loved him. But with that success he came to believe that he had done it all on his own. At the moment I realized he believed that he didn’t need me any more; that I was just another acquisition in the achievement that was Rupert, I resolved to show reveal to him the truth. It was an act for all of womankind. No matter how successful the man; no matter how chauvinist the world; no matter the circumstances, a woman can crush a man in a way that is – and will forever be – completely beyond the scope of men.

[1] This is one of those cases where the English language is a bit misleading. The trick of the light in the case of a pub is that it is dark.
[2] Just loudly enough for her to hear.
[3] Just softly enough for her not to hear.
[4] It’s the trait of men trying to speak to beautiful women everywhere to say these sorts of things; in what they believe is good humour and with a twinkle in their eye.
[5] What men trying to speak to beautiful women everywhere don’t know is that they look better doing this than trying to bridge the gap between what the sexes define as ‘in good humour’.

Friday Ramble 11/11/2005

A certain Scal person, who shall remain nameless, faceless and dateless, sent me an email telling me that people need to learn how to use email properly and not hit ‘reply all’ to the ramble. You are annoyed, isn’t? ‘Reply all’ has done its job.

Violent Femmes were all I hoped they could be and more. Right up there with the Hogs and Finkelsteins concert where we moshed until Knappy fell over and there was no more space on the dance floor and the concert was ruined. This band takes all its equipment on the bus. You cannot fuck with this band. Am I right? Course I am.
When I was about 15 I did a science project with Commie Bastard and though I can’t even remember what the project was about but I do remember playing Need for Speed II all night long and listening to Violent Femmes and K’s Choice. And I have now seen both of them live in the last month; coincidence or cosmic sign? Cue Twilight Zone theme.

I have an interesting random thought: Smokers are allowed something like a 5 minute smoke break every hour or two hours or something like that, right; and I know non-smokers think that a bit unfair. Anyway, work in an office with a smoker and after every smoke-break he comes back and I want to be physically ill. So I’m thinking, non-smokers should get a 5 minute break after the smokers do. Clever, hmmm?

I was having a beer with some people yesterday and someone said they knew someone who was au pairing for their own family and getting paid R12 000 to do it. That is truly wicked. I want to take it one step further though: I wonder if my old man would pay me to au pair myself? It would be awesome: I could make myself snacks, bathe myself, play with myself, take myself down to the pub, drive myself home when I got too drunk – you know, usual au pairing stuff.

Dr. McNinja is cool: www.drmcninja.com. Samurais still kick ninjas’ asses though. But they would both make sushi out of that Smallville pansy and Toby McGuire. Do ninjas even eat sushi? No matter…
After reading this something occurred to me: Harties – you are a ninja[1] and an accountant[2],[3] right? Surely there is some copyright being infringed here? You could make millions my man, millions; just a thought. Harties, do ninjas eat sushi? Seems ninjas are the new Hoff. It must make it difficult to be a silent deadly assassin when you are in vogue. How do you manage, Harties? A sneak preview of Dr. McNinja here

By the way, originally got this link from Splattermail. Get a lot of my stuff from there because (a) He amuses me. (b) He frequently posts porn. (c) He is from Killarney.
People who make me laugh are worthy. Screw Patterson[4], all the world really needs is The King Prawn’s Amusement Factor[5]. You! You amuse me, have a raise[6]. You! You look like Lyle Lovett; you are relegated to being an extra on Reba – forever[7]. If you are on this mailing list, congratulations you are worthy. Except you Knaps, but we need someone to laugh at.

Ladies, please could someone explain to me: TV drama movies. I’m not talking about proper drama movies that have some sort of dramatic storyline to them; I’m talking about the ones that carry the blurb ‘a woman comes back to her home town after her mothers death and battles to resolve her relationship with her estranged father before he dies of cancer of the sphincter’; you know the ones whose sole purpose[8] it is to move with as much pace as Paris Hilton coming to terms with long division and then make the girls cry when someone dies at the end, while the guys have been sitting on the toilet with a playboy for the past hour waiting for the damn thing to end.

Has anyone ever drunk so much Powerade Jagged Ice that their urine was blue? Me neither. That would be cool though.

I have an addition to make to the statement ‘All women are whores; except our mothers.’
‘All men are pigs; except your father. No wait, he is a pig too.’ Ladies, even Knappy is a pig. He may be a pig cased in a layer of shmarmy, furry goodness, but he is still a pig[9]. This one I will have to run past you slowly: even I am a pig. Lovable as I am when I wake up naked on your couch, caked in vomit, having fed your dog Cognac right before I tried to dry-hump it the night before [10]– I am still a pig. I tell you ladies because you are all my friends and at some point in your life you may as well know the truth. Use it wisely and try not to spread it around – there are still plenty who know no better. Mrs. Bredin, thank you for being the inspiration for this little ramble.

I’m not a Jamiraquai fan in the least – to me he is just Boy George on speed, but the new video is fantastic. Do yourself a favour and check it out. I want a retro t-shirt with the image one of the Muslim looking ones.

I’m sure everyone has received a Fw: Fwd containing something with the stamp ebaumsworld.com. I didn’t realize but apparently ‘ebaum’ is in league with The Man. If you have a pathological distrust of The Man like I do go here: http://ebaumsworldsucks.com/ - it’s a very funny flash video. I got that link from Something Awful. I love the internet: always letting me know that no matter what I think, and how many push-ups I do, I will never be the most cynical person in this world. Nor the most articulate.

Speaking of Fw: Fwds: I know people send them with the best intentions but even the one that takes the piss out of all the nonsense ones that people (still) send is getting old. I have received exactly the same text under the guises of being written by both Billy Connolly and Mike Myers. They must have written it together, I guess. The Rules of Manhood never gets old though and neither does the one where Britain revokes the USA’s independence: The cold tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as "beer," and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as "Lager." American brands will be referred to as"Near-Frozen Gnat's Urine," so that all can be sold without risk of further confusion.

That kills me. Anyone who drinks Miller’s is doing it for image and doesn’t actually like beer. It’s like people who drink Johnny Walker and lime. Here’s what to do: take 1 x empty bottle of Miller’s; with subtlety take it to the bathroom; piss in it; drink it – it will taste better, cost less and your reputation for drinking expensive drinks will be in tact. Sorry Kettle and Will, it’s the only way.

For those of you who haven’t heard the good news: http://www.4q.cc/chuck/ . A sample random Chuck Norris fact: Every time Chuck Norris does a roundhouse kick, an angel gets its wings

Do you think Knappy is machine-washable? Or will he shrink? Actually, maybe that’s something for you to look at there, my guy.
Curiosity got the better of me; I photoshopped a photo of Knappy to see what he would look like if he were tumble-dried and lost 30kgs:



I’m not a big one for laughing at my own jokes, but seriously, I think I just wet my jockeys a little here.

I have it on very good authority that if I am mean to Knappy, his girlfriend is going to perform a beat down on me. Of her ability to do this, I have no doubt[11]; but before my nose is bloodied: Mrs Knappy, think about it – do you really want to turn darling little Knaps into the guy whose girlfriend fought his battles? Quite a conundrum, hmmm?

Thank you to all who send fan-mail, it is much appreciated. Eish, who am I kidding? Not even the pope sends me fan-mail. Benny XVI, you’re still my guy though. Remember that time we nailed those prossies and then beat that homeless guy to death? Those were good times man – don’t be such a stranger.

And I think we’re done.

Clairidge, this ramble and the Tuesday morning numb teeth are for you my girl.

[1] I know, I just gave away your secret, but I have certain information that might be useful to certain people searching for a certain prostitute in Zanzibar, hidden in a safe place, to be opened on my death.
[2] As well as, amongst other things: expert on perfume fragrance; qualified photographer; strip-o-gram; cage fighter; pirate; fireman; Chuck Norris; hero of Desert Storm; POW in Vietnam; Snoop Doggy Dogg; person of politically correct persuasion; passionate lover of ABBA music; disciple of Don Juan; Lord of the Dance; Sir Edward Denham.
[3] Thanks must go to Hippie Writer in Fairy Shoes for having actually read a Jane Austen novel from which I could steal the character Sir Edward Denham.
[4] For those who didn’t study it, Patterson is a system for grading employees’ work. My academic interest was limited, so I might be entirely wrong, so just humour me.
[5] Actually, one of my essays was, and to my knowledge still is, quoted in the IS II slides. Irony, anyone? Ha! Take that, Samurai-style, academia.
[6] Ok, it occurred to me as I was writing this that Mr. Burns probably already invented this: “you amuse me, have some money”, or something like that.
[7] Or worse, an actual cast member.
[8] Footnotes are cool.
[9] A pig in pre-dyed sheep’s clothing, if you will.
[10] Question: where lies the line between lovable rogue and giant pecker-head? I will never understand how Karel can get away with being classed as the former, while I am left to tread the depths of the later; unless it has something to do with the fact that you can’t be a giant pecker-head with a lovable rogue… That does sound cool though, maybe a name change from The Ultimate Warrior is in order – sorry I sort of borrowed that from the only redeeming feature of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days – the ‘Krull, Warrior King’ bit. Man that cracked me up.
[11] Blondes are my kryptonite. Actually, so are brunettes. And redheads in nurses outfits.

Friday Ramble 04/11/2005

Hello paisans.

I would like to congratulate Hobbo for receiving the Good Citizen of the Year Award:

Me: Hey Hobbo, how was your Friday night?
Hobbo: Eish, it was big hey. Got so wrecked I couldn’t drive.
Me: How did you get home?
Hobbo: I…drove.

Glad to know you are out there keeping the roads safe for all of us, my guy.

Smythers told me an interesting story; he went to his girlfriend (The Impoverished Teacher to Be)’s house for dinner with the folks and all that good stuff. He was on top form: he arrived at the door with a huge bunch of flowers for her mother and a lovely ‘96 Cabernet-Sauvignon for her father. The evening was going a huge success; her mother cooked a magnificent meal and everyone was laughing and sharing in the wine. Smythers was on great form - charming is too weak a word for what he was; and Oscar Wilde himself would have been jealous of his wit. The fire began to burn low, and so her father went to throw on another log and while he was up he grabbed another bottle of wine. When he returned, he pulled up a seat next to young Smythers. - And described to him in great detail how he once castrated a ram. Subtle Mr. The Impoverished Teacher to Be’s dad, subtle.
I don’t blame him when you see the results of their bedroom antics…


How romantic. There is even a candle.

This last weekend, The Palms digs had a Halloween dinner. Shmoe’s girlfriend Mrs Shmoe is a pre-school teacher. So what were her kids doing the whole week? - making Halloween decorations for the dinner, of course. This week they will be making soccer kit for my team and next week I think they are doing the entire digs’ tax returns. For R30 Mrs. Shmoe will also rent them to you do sweep your chimneys, and she is open to negotiations for any job where small hands and bodies can be exploited as manual labour (except that Knaps, before you even ask).

The night itself was big. Big Korn Bites beeg. Another night spent destroying my tux. Will I ever learn? Will Black Eyed Peas ever be anything but a faux hot chick, a talented producer and two monkey-faced, skeletal tag-alongs?

I found this awesome music site www.pitchforkmedia.com . Their album reviews are crazy. Pseudo-intellectualism is cool. I looked up some of my favourite albums and seriously, all I recognized was the song titles. My absolute bestest best was this: "The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows" is trite enough for radio play, which is frustrating as it opens promisingly. Unfortunately, though, LIES overcome the band and the song mutates into an aberrant hybrid of Jimmy Eat World and The Used. This burn is thankfully extinguished in favor of a Smiths-y ballad, "The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot". "Jaws Theme Swimming" is cool and controlled enough to be crafty, but "Me vs. Maradona vs. Elvis" is flat-out indulgent.

In the immortal word of Smythers, “mreh?” By the way LIES is identified earlier in the review as standing for Long Island Emo with Screams. Mreh? Knaps is over-indulgent, not exactly sure how a song can be. Maybe my puny little mind is too small to understand what this glorious academic is trying to invest in my meager understanding. I mean, come on, “trite”; now you are just making up words. Read a couple, they are funny.

The old man and I are going to a whisky tasting festival tonight. I’ve seen this movie before. It doesn’t have a happy ending.

Knappy[1] is so fat…
…the only thing that's attracted to it is gravity.…its graduation photo was an aerial.
…it auditioned for a part in Raiders of the Lost Ark got the part of the big Rolling Ball.
…small objects orbit it.
…when I tell it to haul ass, it’s gotta make two trips.
…its favourite food is seconds.…its belt size is ‘Equator’.

This is a list of words that Robert L. Ripley[2] compiled and reckoned that only 1 in 100 000 people can pronounce them all correctly. I would have included the list of correct pronunciations but it was a mission and, to be honest, I don’t even really understand how it works.
1. Data
2. Gratis
3. Culinary
4. Cocaine
5. Gondola
6. Version
7. Impious
8. Chic
9. Caribbean
10.Viking

The attachment included is an email I’ve got a couple of times so I’m sure most of you will have it; just included it because it’s still really bloody hilarious.
I think a rule 29 should be included though: Thou shalt have an irrational fear of tampons. We know they are a necessary piece of female attire, but they, along with the words ‘heavy flow’ are not to be spoken or discussed under any circumstances. Ever. No exceptions[3].
Amazing how men can generally deal with any amount of blood, so long as it is sports-injury related and there are other guys around[4], but the sight of that siff red dot that bounced across the TV screen in that ad still makes me queasy.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Umthondo (he’s the translucent one):

He wasn’t always this ugly. You can read his story at http://philosophersoftheflux.blogspot.com/
[1] It actually whined about not cracking an honourable mention in the last couple of rambles, so this one is for you, son.
[2] The Ripley’s Believe It or Not chap.
[3] I suppose the statement of the rule would be an exception, so I guess this is a bit self-defeating, isn’t it?
[4] With the notable exception of Commie Bastard who once fainted because of a severe paper-cut. Sorry, Commie Bastard, but I hadn’t thought about that in years, and it was really funny.