Friday Ramble 24/02/2006
Good day gentle folk.
Welcome to the Mariah is a classless whore episode.
ONE SWEET DAY
By William Brody
4 am
There she lay at my feet. Mutilated. Her fake nails still imbedded in her palms where she had dug them in from the pain.
2 am
She stood on the corner as usual, leaning against the traffic light, trying to turn one last trick before calling it a night. Her face changed colour with the traffic light; the green, red and amber each bringing out different hues in the multitude of colours on her painted face. It appeared somewhat kaleidoscopic. She was traditionally attired: An inconceivably tight pink latex tank top struggled to contain two massive lumps of fat on her chest that threatened to spill forth at any moment and attack the night air. A stick-on pink butterfly rose and fell with the left hand one. Her skirt was equally struggling to resist the fleeing urges of her fleshy behind. Her pudgy, stiletto-healed feet rose up to it via a pair of chunky legs. It was possible that she was attractive but impossible to tell in that garb.
A man in a car pulled up. She got in.
She directed him to a parking lot two blocks away and then to her room nearby. He followed her through a pair of heavy wooden doors and into a naked lobby. Many years ago it had probably been quite a spectacle, so grand was it’s size. But years of neglect and increasingly meager tenants had served to rub away it’s sheen; now it’s size served only to accentuate it’s bleakness. An elevator doorway stood next to a stairway, but a glance told that it would be optimistic to expect it to work. Instead he followed her up four flights of cracked faux marble stairway to the second floor.
She opened three locks and then motioned him into her room. If one were being generous they would say it was minimalist, if not, they would call it a shack. The room was square; barely more than three paces each way. There was a very heavy, wrought iron bed against one wall that looked like it must have been installed at the time of the building’s birth. Opposite was a heavy wooden table of probably the same vintage that served as a dresser. The dresser was littered with the articles used by a woman who tries to make herself look beautiful by painting herself like a clown. Mascara, pins, pink nail-polish, hairspray, cheap perfume, needles and packs of condoms littered every inch of it’s surface. Underneath lay a modest heap of clothes.
Someone screamed in a room nearby.
She walked over to a vanity mirror atop the dresser and examined herself half-heartedly in it. She smiled at herself exhaustedly.
The man’s hand fell about her throat.
Before she knew what was happening he had wrecked the vanity mirror with her face. He grabbed her by the hair and broke her nose on the edge of the dresser. He held her face up to the shattered vanity mirror briefly and then used it to break a few more objects on the dresser.
She was dazed and bleary. The man threw her to the floor. Her skull hammered against the cement. She battled with her senses; her body numb and her head pounding. Blood coursed around her temples and poured, thick and so dark it was almost black, from lacerations to her face and a gash on the back of her head. He undid his belt. It had an improbably heavy silver buckle. He pulled the belt gradually through each of the belt loops. Dropping the buckle to the floor but still gripping the other end of the belt, he stood staring for a moment. He whipped the buckle twice around his head and then struck her viciously in the mouth. The belt made a snapping sound as some of it hit the ground, but the sound of the buckle itself was muffled by her fleshy face. She choked and coughed on one of her own teeth. For good measure he whipped her twice more around the torso. She whimpered quietly and struggled to find consciousness.
With practiced ease the man tied her hands to the feet of the huge wrought-iron bed and then her feet to the legs of the heavy, wooden dresser. She lay looking like an ‘X’ in the middle of the room, her cheap latex clothes top the only items in the room blood-free.
The man picked up a shard of the broken glass and slowly carved a line into the base of her right foot; beginning at the tip of her big toe and gradually moving towards a point on her heal. Then he carved similar lines from the tips of the remaining four toes; ending each at the same point on her heal; watching as he did so the red lines following the shard appearing briefly, before the foot dissolved into a bloody, indefinite mess. He considered doing the same with her other foot but quite enjoyed the anti-symmetry of it.
The man took the shard and pressed it to her naked belly. He gradually pushed harder and harder until the skin could take no more and punctured. He left the shard protruding - her every sob expelling more dark blood.
The man stood up and surveyed her thoughtfully.
The man’s hand disappeared into his pocket and reemerged with a silver lighter and a little can of lighter fluid. With the same even tempo-ed surety with which he had performed all his prior acts, he savoured dribbling the lighter fluid all over her skirt. The flame was struck so quickly as to be barely noticed and within seconds her skirt was ablaze; melting and fusing into her fleshy thighs with the most atrocious smell imaginable.
She passed out from the pain. The man sat down and waited. He might have smoked a cigarette while he waited, but he didn’t want to spoil the purity of the moment with anything so vulgar. He stared at the molten pulp of soft tissue and plastic while contemplating the rancid smell of burning flesh that permeated the tiny room.
The man revived her by twisting the shard in her belly and pouring some of her nail-polish remover into the wound. Tears streamed imperceptibly from her eyes and mingled with blood.
“How could you do this to me?” she gurgled and sniveled through bloodied lips. “I am Mimi; I am the biggest selling female artist of all time.”
But I just laughed.
Because Mariah is a whore.
Gump sent this link to me and suggested I work it into the ramble. All I can say is - finally, a man who knows how to treat a lady.
Only kidding, I love the ladies. Jokes aside…
Girls: no matter how vociferously he denies it, your boyfriend/husband/stuffed animal really would like you to behave as close to this guideline as possible.
Guys: lets be honest, for the briefest of moments there, you thought to yourself “hey, this guy is onto something”.
I did quite enjoy the ‘me time’ bit where she can’t pout or whine or do anything to annoy him. Hee hee. And I wonder why the ladies aren’t beating at my door. Probably intimidated by my good looks.
The beauty of the Afrikaans nation is that they are so self-satirising. The producers of the various shows and musical tit-bits may be taking themselves seriously, but it is impossible to do a parody. It is generally so overboard and kitsch that you can’t parody it because you can’t go any bigger. The Afrikaans contributions to the arts are parodies unto themselves. Take Hoe dit is…met Steve. The man won the biggest selling local artist award at last year’s SAMAs, but at the ceremony everybody laughed when it was announced. It’s crazy that such a large percentage of our population are kitsch as a matter of national pride.
They are also so very easy to get the better of. Last night I was having a few beers in the company of one of the Afrikaaner nation. He was very brazenly giving us shit about our poor braaiing etiquette (?!! I know).
Him: You English don’t know anything about braais.
Me: How so?
Him: You bring white meat to a braai.
Me: So?
Him: So, do you know how hard that kak is to braai?
Me: So what you are saying is that we are better at braaiing than you.
Him: …
GLITTER
by William Brody
Flaunting fleshy behind and busty bust,
She hunts her next quarry out à la mode.
They minor in mind and major in lust,
So many, it does not well for us bode.
She tossed him to the ground with a short shunt.
And two fleshy thighs pressed against his ears.
He figured that a pretty cunning stunt,
Though laced it was with blatant blaring smears.
With legs around him wrapped, he caught a snatch
Of sugary song and lyric inane.
It was on his back gazing at the thatch
At last he recognized the human stain.
But she just keeps throwing them to the floor;
Shameless, Because Mariah is a whore.
Sorry for that unforgivable insult to Shakespearean sonnets.
One great week in sports:
Cats won even though everyone’s favourite pole-smoker Stuey Dickinson did his best to fuck it up.
Stormers choked.
Arsenal became the first ever English side to beat Real Madrid in Spain.
Chelsea choked (with a little help from a really dodgy sending off).
Blessed.
Why do I love The Darkness so? Because their latest music video features the lead singer marrying himself, obviously.
If you go down to the woods today you’re…er…that doesn’t really make sense. If you go to The SA Blog Awards there are some very interesting sites to see. There are some really funny, interesting blogs out there, but I have to admit that I found some of it pretty kak. Take the nominations for the “Best Post on a South African Blog” category. Now think about how many thousands of posts must have been made over the past year, and then of the 9 nominations I noticed that two are really and truly out of their league. I was going to insert some humble comment here about how even though I am burning these posts I can’t really talk because none of mine are anywhere to be found - but then I thought, “no fuck it”. This is no time to be humble. I have definitely posted funnier, better written stuff than this tripe. Knappy’s ‘I am a big girl’ email was funnier. Smythers’ ‘story of the poo and the road’ was funnier. Seriously, some of this stuff is really kak.
At the risk of sounding callous I found the My Boy post sentimentalist shite. Playing around with the traditional way of writing a story does not make it well written. Having a blogroll of several hundred so that people will feel sorry for you and compelled to read your site is very sad too. Sorry, maybe this whole unemployment thing has left my self-worth at a low and is inducing me to tear to pieces sentimentalists and whores. Oh well, as they say in the classics - fuck it.
As for Gay Guy in a Straight Strip Club. Writing about being a gay guy in a strip club doesn’t make it funny or interesting. No, you have to be able to write well to do that. In the words of the immortal System of a Down “My cock is much bigger than yours…my shit stinks much better than yours.” Ha. I have no problem with gays but I fuckin’ hate queers.
Gays = men whose sexual preference is for other men.
Queers = camp, prancing, squealing, tutu-wearing, noncy, over the top fuckers who I would piss on unless they were burning (think about it).
The cunt also has the audacity to describe himself as ‘arcane’, ‘intelligent’ and ‘witty’. Well done assil, you can use a dictionary, I guess that makes you all three. Fuckin’ queers man.
I know what you are thinking: how many fucks in this post? 6 so far, only 6 more motherfuckin’ fucks to go. Apologies to Goldfinger.
Ok, I have an admission to make. Since writing that first bit about the ‘My Boy’ story I have read it a few more times and perhaps I was a bit hasty. It is still sentimentalist shite and not really my thing – but I guess it is well written. I still don’t think it deserves to be nominated as one of the best posts of the year, but if you are into that sort of thing, it’s not bad. But still, fuckin’ queers man.
As I sat here writing I noticed a little spider dangling from the ceiling, but not really being bothered by them, I just ignored the little guy. Then just now I felt a tickle on my neck and without thinking put my hand up to scratch it. The little focker bit me. Keerist, it is not natural for something so small to produce so much pain. I caught him in a glass to check him out and I swear he has the hugest set of pincer thingies I’ve ever seen. This little dude was built to eat horses and shit. Well, not shit, you don’t have to kill that with abnormally large pincers. Shit you just stalk very slowly, trying to blend into the background and then when you are close enough – BAM! Then GRRRRR. And then it’s dead. That little bastard has left me with a killer headache. Think I might nap.
A certain unnamed friend admitted something very amusing this week – he likes to date girls with small hands so he can feel large. Hahahaha. You have to be smoordronk to tell the author of the ramble that. He is on the Players list. Hahahaha.
The Knappy thing is allegedly back from parts unknown as of last night. Apparently the lions and tigers don’t have an appetite for big red furry things over there. Still waiting to hear from him though. I don’t suppose we will see him for the first weekend because the girlfriend will have her claws in him. [Ed note: Ok, I thought long and hard about adding this bit - but in the interests of controversiality I thought fuck it. Ed out.] She obviously has an appetite for big red furry things. You know what sucks about having hair on your back? No visible scarring to use as bragging rights.
I finally got my act together and uploaded some files. One is the best blonde joke ever caught on audio in December while staying in the same room as Knaps and the Girlfriend. There is also some audio of Knappy ‘doing the wooly fandango’ but it only lasts 14 seconds so I didn’t post that. The second is some priceless video I caught of Don Rob at Amanzamtoti.
Random thought (accredited to Brian Fox): a prostitute (apparently) costs anything from R500 upwards. So what’s the point? Take 1 x random girl. Ply her with R250 x booze. Take her 1 x home. Easy game. Just a thought.
Welcome to the Mariah is a classless whore episode.
ONE SWEET DAY
By William Brody
4 am
There she lay at my feet. Mutilated. Her fake nails still imbedded in her palms where she had dug them in from the pain.
2 am
She stood on the corner as usual, leaning against the traffic light, trying to turn one last trick before calling it a night. Her face changed colour with the traffic light; the green, red and amber each bringing out different hues in the multitude of colours on her painted face. It appeared somewhat kaleidoscopic. She was traditionally attired: An inconceivably tight pink latex tank top struggled to contain two massive lumps of fat on her chest that threatened to spill forth at any moment and attack the night air. A stick-on pink butterfly rose and fell with the left hand one. Her skirt was equally struggling to resist the fleeing urges of her fleshy behind. Her pudgy, stiletto-healed feet rose up to it via a pair of chunky legs. It was possible that she was attractive but impossible to tell in that garb.
A man in a car pulled up. She got in.
She directed him to a parking lot two blocks away and then to her room nearby. He followed her through a pair of heavy wooden doors and into a naked lobby. Many years ago it had probably been quite a spectacle, so grand was it’s size. But years of neglect and increasingly meager tenants had served to rub away it’s sheen; now it’s size served only to accentuate it’s bleakness. An elevator doorway stood next to a stairway, but a glance told that it would be optimistic to expect it to work. Instead he followed her up four flights of cracked faux marble stairway to the second floor.
She opened three locks and then motioned him into her room. If one were being generous they would say it was minimalist, if not, they would call it a shack. The room was square; barely more than three paces each way. There was a very heavy, wrought iron bed against one wall that looked like it must have been installed at the time of the building’s birth. Opposite was a heavy wooden table of probably the same vintage that served as a dresser. The dresser was littered with the articles used by a woman who tries to make herself look beautiful by painting herself like a clown. Mascara, pins, pink nail-polish, hairspray, cheap perfume, needles and packs of condoms littered every inch of it’s surface. Underneath lay a modest heap of clothes.
Someone screamed in a room nearby.
She walked over to a vanity mirror atop the dresser and examined herself half-heartedly in it. She smiled at herself exhaustedly.
The man’s hand fell about her throat.
Before she knew what was happening he had wrecked the vanity mirror with her face. He grabbed her by the hair and broke her nose on the edge of the dresser. He held her face up to the shattered vanity mirror briefly and then used it to break a few more objects on the dresser.
She was dazed and bleary. The man threw her to the floor. Her skull hammered against the cement. She battled with her senses; her body numb and her head pounding. Blood coursed around her temples and poured, thick and so dark it was almost black, from lacerations to her face and a gash on the back of her head. He undid his belt. It had an improbably heavy silver buckle. He pulled the belt gradually through each of the belt loops. Dropping the buckle to the floor but still gripping the other end of the belt, he stood staring for a moment. He whipped the buckle twice around his head and then struck her viciously in the mouth. The belt made a snapping sound as some of it hit the ground, but the sound of the buckle itself was muffled by her fleshy face. She choked and coughed on one of her own teeth. For good measure he whipped her twice more around the torso. She whimpered quietly and struggled to find consciousness.
With practiced ease the man tied her hands to the feet of the huge wrought-iron bed and then her feet to the legs of the heavy, wooden dresser. She lay looking like an ‘X’ in the middle of the room, her cheap latex clothes top the only items in the room blood-free.
The man picked up a shard of the broken glass and slowly carved a line into the base of her right foot; beginning at the tip of her big toe and gradually moving towards a point on her heal. Then he carved similar lines from the tips of the remaining four toes; ending each at the same point on her heal; watching as he did so the red lines following the shard appearing briefly, before the foot dissolved into a bloody, indefinite mess. He considered doing the same with her other foot but quite enjoyed the anti-symmetry of it.
The man took the shard and pressed it to her naked belly. He gradually pushed harder and harder until the skin could take no more and punctured. He left the shard protruding - her every sob expelling more dark blood.
The man stood up and surveyed her thoughtfully.
The man’s hand disappeared into his pocket and reemerged with a silver lighter and a little can of lighter fluid. With the same even tempo-ed surety with which he had performed all his prior acts, he savoured dribbling the lighter fluid all over her skirt. The flame was struck so quickly as to be barely noticed and within seconds her skirt was ablaze; melting and fusing into her fleshy thighs with the most atrocious smell imaginable.
She passed out from the pain. The man sat down and waited. He might have smoked a cigarette while he waited, but he didn’t want to spoil the purity of the moment with anything so vulgar. He stared at the molten pulp of soft tissue and plastic while contemplating the rancid smell of burning flesh that permeated the tiny room.
The man revived her by twisting the shard in her belly and pouring some of her nail-polish remover into the wound. Tears streamed imperceptibly from her eyes and mingled with blood.
“How could you do this to me?” she gurgled and sniveled through bloodied lips. “I am Mimi; I am the biggest selling female artist of all time.”
But I just laughed.
Because Mariah is a whore.
Gump sent this link to me and suggested I work it into the ramble. All I can say is - finally, a man who knows how to treat a lady.
Only kidding, I love the ladies. Jokes aside…
Girls: no matter how vociferously he denies it, your boyfriend/husband/stuffed animal really would like you to behave as close to this guideline as possible.
Guys: lets be honest, for the briefest of moments there, you thought to yourself “hey, this guy is onto something”.
I did quite enjoy the ‘me time’ bit where she can’t pout or whine or do anything to annoy him. Hee hee. And I wonder why the ladies aren’t beating at my door. Probably intimidated by my good looks.
The beauty of the Afrikaans nation is that they are so self-satirising. The producers of the various shows and musical tit-bits may be taking themselves seriously, but it is impossible to do a parody. It is generally so overboard and kitsch that you can’t parody it because you can’t go any bigger. The Afrikaans contributions to the arts are parodies unto themselves. Take Hoe dit is…met Steve. The man won the biggest selling local artist award at last year’s SAMAs, but at the ceremony everybody laughed when it was announced. It’s crazy that such a large percentage of our population are kitsch as a matter of national pride.
They are also so very easy to get the better of. Last night I was having a few beers in the company of one of the Afrikaaner nation. He was very brazenly giving us shit about our poor braaiing etiquette (?!! I know).
Him: You English don’t know anything about braais.
Me: How so?
Him: You bring white meat to a braai.
Me: So?
Him: So, do you know how hard that kak is to braai?
Me: So what you are saying is that we are better at braaiing than you.
Him: …
GLITTER
by William Brody
Flaunting fleshy behind and busty bust,
She hunts her next quarry out à la mode.
They minor in mind and major in lust,
So many, it does not well for us bode.
She tossed him to the ground with a short shunt.
And two fleshy thighs pressed against his ears.
He figured that a pretty cunning stunt,
Though laced it was with blatant blaring smears.
With legs around him wrapped, he caught a snatch
Of sugary song and lyric inane.
It was on his back gazing at the thatch
At last he recognized the human stain.
But she just keeps throwing them to the floor;
Shameless, Because Mariah is a whore.
Sorry for that unforgivable insult to Shakespearean sonnets.
One great week in sports:
Cats won even though everyone’s favourite pole-smoker Stuey Dickinson did his best to fuck it up.
Stormers choked.
Arsenal became the first ever English side to beat Real Madrid in Spain.
Chelsea choked (with a little help from a really dodgy sending off).
Blessed.
Why do I love The Darkness so? Because their latest music video features the lead singer marrying himself, obviously.
If you go down to the woods today you’re…er…that doesn’t really make sense. If you go to The SA Blog Awards there are some very interesting sites to see. There are some really funny, interesting blogs out there, but I have to admit that I found some of it pretty kak. Take the nominations for the “Best Post on a South African Blog” category. Now think about how many thousands of posts must have been made over the past year, and then of the 9 nominations I noticed that two are really and truly out of their league. I was going to insert some humble comment here about how even though I am burning these posts I can’t really talk because none of mine are anywhere to be found - but then I thought, “no fuck it”. This is no time to be humble. I have definitely posted funnier, better written stuff than this tripe. Knappy’s ‘I am a big girl’ email was funnier. Smythers’ ‘story of the poo and the road’ was funnier. Seriously, some of this stuff is really kak.
At the risk of sounding callous I found the My Boy post sentimentalist shite. Playing around with the traditional way of writing a story does not make it well written. Having a blogroll of several hundred so that people will feel sorry for you and compelled to read your site is very sad too. Sorry, maybe this whole unemployment thing has left my self-worth at a low and is inducing me to tear to pieces sentimentalists and whores. Oh well, as they say in the classics - fuck it.
As for Gay Guy in a Straight Strip Club. Writing about being a gay guy in a strip club doesn’t make it funny or interesting. No, you have to be able to write well to do that. In the words of the immortal System of a Down “My cock is much bigger than yours…my shit stinks much better than yours.” Ha. I have no problem with gays but I fuckin’ hate queers.
Gays = men whose sexual preference is for other men.
Queers = camp, prancing, squealing, tutu-wearing, noncy, over the top fuckers who I would piss on unless they were burning (think about it).
The cunt also has the audacity to describe himself as ‘arcane’, ‘intelligent’ and ‘witty’. Well done assil, you can use a dictionary, I guess that makes you all three. Fuckin’ queers man.
I know what you are thinking: how many fucks in this post? 6 so far, only 6 more motherfuckin’ fucks to go. Apologies to Goldfinger.
Ok, I have an admission to make. Since writing that first bit about the ‘My Boy’ story I have read it a few more times and perhaps I was a bit hasty. It is still sentimentalist shite and not really my thing – but I guess it is well written. I still don’t think it deserves to be nominated as one of the best posts of the year, but if you are into that sort of thing, it’s not bad. But still, fuckin’ queers man.
As I sat here writing I noticed a little spider dangling from the ceiling, but not really being bothered by them, I just ignored the little guy. Then just now I felt a tickle on my neck and without thinking put my hand up to scratch it. The little focker bit me. Keerist, it is not natural for something so small to produce so much pain. I caught him in a glass to check him out and I swear he has the hugest set of pincer thingies I’ve ever seen. This little dude was built to eat horses and shit. Well, not shit, you don’t have to kill that with abnormally large pincers. Shit you just stalk very slowly, trying to blend into the background and then when you are close enough – BAM! Then GRRRRR. And then it’s dead. That little bastard has left me with a killer headache. Think I might nap.
A certain unnamed friend admitted something very amusing this week – he likes to date girls with small hands so he can feel large. Hahahaha. You have to be smoordronk to tell the author of the ramble that. He is on the Players list. Hahahaha.
The Knappy thing is allegedly back from parts unknown as of last night. Apparently the lions and tigers don’t have an appetite for big red furry things over there. Still waiting to hear from him though. I don’t suppose we will see him for the first weekend because the girlfriend will have her claws in him. [Ed note: Ok, I thought long and hard about adding this bit - but in the interests of controversiality I thought fuck it. Ed out.] She obviously has an appetite for big red furry things. You know what sucks about having hair on your back? No visible scarring to use as bragging rights.
I finally got my act together and uploaded some files. One is the best blonde joke ever caught on audio in December while staying in the same room as Knaps and the Girlfriend. There is also some audio of Knappy ‘doing the wooly fandango’ but it only lasts 14 seconds so I didn’t post that. The second is some priceless video I caught of Don Rob at Amanzamtoti.
Random thought (accredited to Brian Fox): a prostitute (apparently) costs anything from R500 upwards. So what’s the point? Take 1 x random girl. Ply her with R250 x booze. Take her 1 x home. Easy game. Just a thought.
RAMBLE CLASSIFIEDS
USC 069 CALIFORNIA
CSF, 35 YEAR
OLD, BIG BUSTED AND VERY SLUTTY. ARE YOU A TEENAGE GIRL, MID-LIFE CRISISING MAN
OR PENSIONER 60+, WITH NO TASTE? ARE YOU A RADIO STATION WITH NO DESIRE TO BE
DISTINCT WHO WANTS TO PLAY IT SAFE? DO YOU HAVE AN APPETITE FOR CHEESE? ARE YOU
AN UNFORGIVABLE SENTIMENTALIST? CONTACT ME AND I WILL SATISFY ALL YOUR SEXUAL
NEEDS. COME BIG BOY FUCK ME. BECAUSE MARIAH IS A WHORE.
Thank you dark continent and goodnight.
Love, kisses and good things,
Jamo
posted by notashrimp at 1:48 AM
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18 comments
