Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Disruption in the Fight Against Corruption

Corruption is everywhere. In your toasted sandwiches. In your toilet. Everywhere. Everyone thinks only politicians and rich businessmen are corrupt. Everyone is so wrong. Wrong like kissing your sister wrong. I had an experience which can only be described as eye-opening. Mainly because I was still fast asleep when I had the experience.

My car (who shall remain anonymous) was clamped over the weekend in a parking lot (of a building which shall remain anonymous) by a **** (who shall remain anonymous). The night before, I got pretty drunk, hence my car needing to be parked overnight – note the responsibility in abundance over here. Also note how I used the word hence over there. I am a writer, can you tell?

So I thought I could just pay the exorbitant R30 for parking and be on my merry babalas way - but no. Oh no. When I walked to my car, a vicious-looking yellow metal biatch was hugging my wheel like a long-lost brother. Clamped like an ear that's about to be pierced and infected. So I went to the security desk and said with confused and innocent look on my face, “My wheel’s been clamped.” The guy (who shall remain anonymous and shall hereafter be referred to as X) knew exactly what I was talking about and immediately tried to strike a deal with me. He was thinking about this overnight and didn’t even try to hide it. He was cunning you see. He told me I can pay him a fifth of the price it would cost me to get my wheel unclamped and he’ll get it done. And me, in my troubled state (having paid like R150 for a taxi home the night before) accepted of course.

That man, X, is the lowest of lowlifes for trying to do that. It’s exploitation of a helpless individual who would’ve done anything to pay less than the downright ridiculous fee they charge for being responsible. What a cock he is, a vicious little cock.

Having said that, I kissed X for saving me money and told him what a wonderful guy he is. I even shook X’s hand and for almost a split second, I cherished the beauty of the human heart. Shortly before I turned around and cursed the countless examples of South African corruption for making people do this.

I appeal to anyone who may read this: DON’T ACCEPT ANY BRIBES. Unless of course they benefit you, which they will. You too, can be like me. Be responsible. Don’t drink and drive. Rather park your car somewhere and accept a bribe. I love South Africa. And you. Please write to me. I miss you.

Just Another Crime Statistic

People talk. People keep saying how bad the crime is in South Africa. People are right. I am, for the first time in my short life, a crime statistic.

Some downright dirty motherfucker broke into my old, but much-loved Toyota Conquest. Shed a tear for me at this moment. I don’t like that at all. I’ve written a poem about it:

I am sad.
Very very sad.
That guy is bad.
He made me mad.
My speakers were rad.
I am sad.

I’d like to put a question to anyone who may read this sad note. What kind of haemorrhoid-eating asswipe would go through the trouble of breaking a window in broad daylight and take only my speakers? The imbecile left an mp3 frontloader, a smooth black scarf, an Orlando Pirates™ Vuvuzela™ and a set of jumper cables behind. Honestly. I am in awe of the stupidity.

In spite of this sad happening, I remain upbeat and happy. I console myself with the fact that this person, like me, is a music lover. I trust that my JVC 6X9s will bring a bit of joy to what I’m sure is a miserable soul. I remain happy. They are just speakers.

Having stated how happy I remain, should I find said dirty motherfucker, I will break his most useful bones very slowly with a chisel and set a sex-starved donkey on his ass – for just a preview of what he might get in the dirty cells of South Africa’s prisons. But I remain happy. Please say a prayer for dirty motherfucker.


Eat the Cake

A while ago, a friend of mine brought a very interesting point to my attention. It’s only now that my mind is unoccupied enough to write some mindless dribble on the topic.

There’s an old English saying which go-eth a little something like this-eth: You can’t have your cake and eat it. Normally, I would let these things pass and forgive the pompous twit who thought this up. But this one really gets my g-string in a knot. He was probably high on opium at the time anyway and everyone knows what kak you be shpeaking when you is high on the druks.

Take a moment and think about the total pointlessness of this saying. You can’t have your cake and eat it. Of course you can you twat. I have just one tiny question. What am I supposed to do with it then? Smother it all over my face? Serenade it with my guitar? Caress it gently while it lies in my arms? Read it poetry while it melts under the heat of my romance? paleese.

Technically, the saying means to want more than you can handle or more than you deserve. For example, if you want a threesome with twin sisters from the Philippines but you’re a gay. Or if you want to be a rocket scientist but you’re a dumbass. Maybe you want to save the world but you don’t have a cape and you can’t fly. Honestly, does the saying have any similarities with the meaning? I’ve watched Bollywood movies that I understand better.

So you get my point. You’ll also be happy to know that the person who coined this phrase probably got what he deserved and died.

To all of you, never say this in conversation with English-speaking people, you’ll look like a tit. To my mom, what I said up there about drugs is only what I’ve heard in movies. To that old guy who said the saying, thank you for playing, please try again, and eat the cake.

Attack of the 7ft Morals

Oh, the pain (Stefan bows his head). Oh, the anguish (Stefan lifts head again but still maintains the worrisome look on his face).

I watched an episode of kick-ass law TV series Boston Legal last night and Alan Shore (played by the surprisingly limp-wristed James Spader) played a huge part in clearing the name of a man who helped his brother cover up a murder. He used the “I did it for love” defence. Cock - the man obstructed justice. And before the more impatient people wonder what this has to do with me, calm down my little woodland friends and listen listen up.

This episode awakened the 0.5% of morals in me. Advertising is just as immoral as the legal industry, it’s selling things to people who can’t necessarily afford it.

“Hey poor township-dweller, buy this R3000 cellphone contract and get a DVD player for free. What I won’t tell you is that you can’t afford the little round plastic thingies that go inside the DVD player or the airtime stuff to let you use the cellphone, but still, my goal is to make you part with your money and make us all richer.”

I should tell them that they might as well just burn their money in a fuck-off big bonfire and sing Kum-ba-ya while they toast marshmallows – which they probably can’t afford either. In essence, I’m Hooded Robin in training, a corrupt Robin Hood – I’m stealing from the poor and giving to the rich (Stefan looks up to the sky, pretending that there’s a heaven). In my humble, fairly educated opinion, it’s up there with being a politician or prison warden. Actually, it’s just slightly worse than keeping a little Cambodian kid in the basement to make jeans at 5c an hour – actually, there’s nothing wrong with that, I take that back.

So I've decided to quit my recently-started career in advertising to become a gardener (please feel free to contact me to persuade me not to do it). That way, I can plant seeds and watch them grow literally and figuratively. But the seeds will probably just grow into a big-ass oak tree, which will crush the life out of an innocent family in suburbia one day in a hurricane. So I’ve decided to just stay where I am and shut up.

I knew I shouldn’t have read that Chicken Soup book.

Wingers United

Cristiano Ronaldo won the Barclays FA Premier League this year. The warm souls of the Premier League have decided to give the rest of the Manchester United team medals for wearing the kit and running on the field. They've also been allowed to put their hands on his trophy and stroke it – a motion they're used to behind the closed doors of the changing room. But honestly – they've done sweet fuckall but give him the ball.

Power to the guy though – he's like David Beckham (previously a United 'winger'), just without the once-smoking-hot wife. Ronaldo's a drama queen with the emphasis on queen. But the one thing he will never be able to do, is sit on the bench with the grace of Becks. The way he wears the kit, they way he pretends he understand the rules, and most of all, the way he lies, "I'm not here for the money." Of course you are you swamp-turtle. Who wants to play football in America?

So the proof is finally here, Manchester United breeds half-wits and wankers. As opposed to Liverpool who have given birth to the Beatles, the feisty Anne Robinson (both of which/who are not footballers) and of course Steven Gerrard – a real football player. Not one with a pansy free-kick stance and a perm.

The only time metro-sexual should ever be in a sentence with football is here: Football players are not meant to be metro-sexual. It's a scientific fact. Really – it's in the bible.