I had steak last night with Purple Poodle and an old friend from our year at Wits Business School. I hadn’t seen the dude in a very long time, and was feeling a little apprehensive about the meeting. It’s been five years since we all bonded over group projects as we committed to being learner business tycoons and titans of industry.
Oh hold on, I need to make a few photocopies for my boss, be right back.
Sorry, where was I? Oh ja, business tycoons, titans of industry, etc. etc. The three of us had a marvellous evening. We spoke a lot about how the word ‘cunt’ is just such a delightfully expressive term, and really should be liberally applied to bosses and all sorts of unpleasant individuals and situations.
You’re at the counter at Woolworths. You’ve just bought R500 worth of groceries, including three dozen tampons. You realise, as the queue surges behind you, that you’ve left your wallet at home. “Oh, what a silly cunt I am,” you trill at the the cashier, while she looks at you blankly and inclines her head.
You’re all gathered in your company’s boardroom, whereupon the boss announces that there’ll be no bonuses at the end of the year owing to ‘the recession’. You stand up and say, “I’m afraid that is super cuntish behaviour, sir, and you’re going to have to be shot as a result.”
You’re at great aunty Gertie’s 80th birthday party, where you have the bad fortune to be accosted by your cousin’s husband, the boob-starer. “Hello,” the boob-starer announces to your bust. “Move along to the buffet table, cunt-face,” you reply sweetly.
Yes, the opportunities for cunt-calling are manifold. Don’t let them slip away, I beg you.
I’ve just submitted leave forms for the nine remaining days I have left of leave this year. Thus, the next few months should be pretty tolerable owing to the fact that I will be away from the office for parts of a week – and a full week in November – until we begin it all again in January 2010.
I suppose it’s unsurprising that instead of saying a cheerful hello to my colleagues on a spring Monday morning, I would prefer to whip out a pair of nunchakus and smack most of them in the head with intricate skill and athletic prowess.
Perhaps that is less unsurprising than I’d imagine. Perhaps other people who’ve not taken enough leave by this point in the year DON’T imagine inflicting bodily harm on their colleagues. Perhaps it’s just me…and my colleagues.
Anyway, the weekend was nice. The good news is I managed to read 30 pages of my book, after about six weeks of not reading. The bad news is those 30 pages were some of the most depressing words I’ve ever read. Depressing in a good way, however; in a way that makes me want to continue reading to find out what happens to this man and if he effectively destroys all of his relationships in the next +/-250 pages of the novel that remain. Will let you know how it all turns out in April next year.
Right, it’s evident I have fuck-all to say. In fact, I’ve had fuck-all to say for a while now as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Let me get back to doing fuck-all, then. Adios.
Last night, a group of my dear friends and I gathered at S‘s new flat for dinner. After a while, the conversation turned to the recently dead, and obviously Patrick Swayze was top of the list. It also came up that Keith Floyd had died, prompting someone to enquire who he was.
“Floyd…you know, the drunk guy who always had a glass of wine in his hand as he cooked on TV? The person who started TV cooking programmes?” someone explained.
I doubt old Floyd would have disagreed with that description, really.
After our expressions of lust for Patrick Swayze (whose performance in Dirty Dancing in 1987 caused my grandmother’s friend to exclaim that he made her wish her ovaries still worked), we moved onto other dead famous people. We were all very sad that Baby’s father in the movie, Jerry Orbach, died a few years ago. He was great in Law & Order – always had the best quips and I loved how sardonic he was.
In other news, I need the help of you clever people who might watch South African television from time to time. There is an advert promoting responsible sexual practices on TV, with the payoff line something like “Imagine a world where partners don’t sleep around” or something like that. Anyway, for the life of me I cannot understand what is trying to be conveyed in the second-last scene of the advert – the one before the two friends get themselves tested. A boy and a girl (Girl A) hold hands and kiss in the hallway. She walks into a room where another friend Girl B is sitting at a computer (Girl A and Girl B are the ones who are tested in the final scene). Girl C is also in the room with a guy. The guy gets up and gives Girl A what looks like either a business card or a condom. Girl A looks confused. She refuses this and exchanges high fives with her mate, Girl C.
I *AM* confused. Can anyone tell me what is actually happening in this scene?
Today is the day that some of my problems might be solved, I believe. The presidential hotline, an initiative aimed at responding to ‘public enquiries and complaints’ has been launched. The toll-free hotline – 17737 – is apparently staffed by 43 ‘liaison’ individuals in the presidency. I believe, however, that President Jacob Zuma is definitely one of those 43 lucky people.
A government statement said the aim of the hotline was to “introduce a culture of putting the citizen first in all government departments as well as municipalities”.
I’ve compiled a script for when I get through to the president so that I don’t mess up and end up just talking about District 9 with the prez instead of the serious problems I have with aspects of the country.
Good morning Mr Jacob Zuma, how are you? I am well, thanks. Well, as well as one can be on a Monday morning after having broken a tooth on Saturday night. You see, I cracked it in July last year and attempted to file it with my own nail file in an attempt to avoid visiting the dentist. I am not a fan of the dentist, and not undeservedly so, I feel. I have had LITERALLY (not literally like “she was so late that she literally flew to her appointment”…the real meaning of literally) dozens of injections during a host of fillings and root canals, and thus equate trips to the dentist with pain and loss of income…sort of like paying my flat’s levy each month while being punched in the face. So on Saturday night, after a lovely evening spent picnicking under the stars while listening to local singers do their thing with a symphony orchestra, half of the broken tooth finally fell off as I brushed my teeth.
Have you ever broken a tooth Mr Zee? Perhaps while dancing around to that melodic, if terrifying, ditty you sing? It is irritating. My tongue can’t stop playing with the hole that’s been created. I wonder if this is what my late grandfather felt like when all his teeth, bar one, fell out? I’m told he could eat steak with that one tooth and his gums.
Sorry, I digressed. I shan’t waste your time any longer. The purpose of my call was to ask why you consistently order the roads agency people to build square speed humps. You’ve had them create so many car-unfriendly cubes of tar on the road that I find I’m purposely driving into potholes in order to avoid them. Much as I enjoy driving my vehicle as I would a 4×4, the square humps of raised road are killing me, and really placing strain on my bras. I promise I would slow down for a gently curved speed hump. If you would attend to those horrors on North road in Morningside, that would be awesome.
Look, I don’t want to overburden you on your first day so I’ll just say one more thing. I miss Jessie Duarte since you moved her from her position as official spokesperson. Reading official ANC/government reaction is no fun any more. Who’s going to accuse Jonathan Jansen of being racist anymore?
OK, thanks for listening. Please get back to me about the speed hump thing.
Last night I made butter.
This, however, was not my plan at the outset. Initially, I was attempting to whip cream for a dessert I was assembling. I decided to use my new handheld blender which had previously been used only to make smoothies. Apparently one can’t overwhip a smoothie. Blended banana, guava, orange juice and yoghurt does not turn into, say, cough mixture or eye makeup remover if one overwhips it. The same cannot be said of fresh cream.
I should have known better. After all, just 23 years ago, at the impressionable age of eight years old, I learnt that churning cream till one’s wrist detaches itself from one’s forearm and falls into the bowl, makes butter (crunchy, fingery butter). I learnt this during a maths class. Perhaps the teacher was tired of teaching long division, and decided to give us skilzzz. Maybe it wasn’t a maths class.
Anyway, once I had seen what my blender could achieve last night, I considered going ‘natural’ in the ways of cooking/assembling food. I thought about turning my loft area into a compost heap where I could chuck the ends of my cucumbers and chocolate wrappers.
The rewards of such earth-friendly behaviour are obvious: I would no longer have to get off the couch and make the journey to the dustbin to dispose of my rubbish…all my compost heap would require of me would be good aim as I chucked away leavings. Also, the smell would really piss off my neighbours, which would be really fun for me.
I thought about converting my patio into an organic herb garden where I would grow the most delicious tasting rocket in Sandton. My cat’s faeces would be the perfect fertiliser for this garden of love. I would start wearing smocks and saying things like “taste the fine traces of pepper and pecan-like crunchiness.”
A couple of things made me change me mind about my potential organic life.
The first was realising, after spooning the salted butter into a plastic bag (because I have no small plastic containers) and shoving it in the freezer, that the probability was 97.63% that I would dispose of the said plastic bag of butter in a year’s time after forgetting about its existence after a couple of days, and being shocked upon finding what looks like a bag of jizz hidden under my frozen mince.
The second was realising that I don’t own a smock.
I noticed this morning that a South African story has made it to Reuters ‘most read’ list. I suppose it is newsworthy that a carrier pigeon can transmit data quicker than Telkom can, but mostly it’s just depressing for Internet-using South Africans. This got me thinking about what other local stories have made international headlines of late. These are what I came up with:
- The Caster Semenya sex furore and the latest indignity this athlete has suffered – her YOU Magazine spread.
- Workers killed in a mining explosion
- The success of the fabulous movie District 9
- Brandon Huntley’s quest to remain in Canada because he allegedly fears for his life in South Africa.
In essence, South Africa’s made headlines because a bird is quicker than our Internet; we have a world champion female sprinter who may not be a ‘real girl’; we’re blowing people up in mines; we’re making interesting and world-class films about aliens and xenophobia; and we have a white carnival worker who caused a ruckus in Canada ‘cos the blex in Sarth Effica are apparently out to get him.
If one were to judge from those headlines, why would anyone NOT believe that lions roam the streets of Jo’burg?