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Cape Town: The Northern Suburbs vs The Southern Suburbs
We’ve spoken about Cape Town’s diversity before; a diversity that is no better characterised than in the divide between the city’s Northern and Southern Suburbs. The hearts of both areas are separated by less than 20 kilometres of highway, but hearing people talk you’d swear they were worlds apart. As someone who’s lived on both sides of the world famous Boerewors Curtain, I think it’s about time I set some misperceptions straight.
If I told you I was doing this out of kindness or empathy for my fellow man, I’d be lying. I’m only doing this because it’s an opportunity to offend pretty much everyone in Cape Town on some level, and chances like that just don’t come around often enough.
I’m going to structure this in two parts. First I’m going to step into the shoes of a regular Northern Suburbs oke and address his concerns. Once I’ve done this, I’m going to adopt the mindset of a Southern Suburbs charna and do the same.
Cape Town’s Southern Suburbs through the eyes of a Northern Suburbs oke
Misperception #1: Everyone in the South is a larney #$@%.
Truth: The latest Southern Suburbs census – conducted by yours truly – indicates that only 60% of the populous can be classified as such.
Unfortunately for Northern Suburbs boytjies, the remaining 40% looks like this:
Misperception #2: Residents of the South don’t like braaing.
Truth: Everyone in the South loves braaing.
Even the larniest Southern Suburbians love a good braai; they just have their hired help do it for them (usually some poor oke from the North who’s lost his way).
In fact, there are so many braais going on that vegetarians have no choice but to get involved, and soya sausages and schnitzels are an increasingly common sight on a Saturday afternoon. Although that’s probably something we should keep on the down low… Up North, the grill is viewed as a sacred, vegetable-free zone; men have been killed for less.
Misperception #3: Tiger Tiger is THE place to go in the Southern Suburbs.
Truth: Tiger Tiger is a shithole and there are way better places to party.
Unless you’re looking to pull some vapid 18-year-old on a tight budget, in which case Tiger must be one of the prime spots, not just in Cape Town, but in the entire Southern Hemisphere.
If you’re after decent music and your ambitions stretch beyond klapping some chick stukkend in the back of your car, you’re better off looking elsewhere.
Misperception #4: Driving a bakkie and wearing a Stetson and khaki shorts will get you chased out of town.
Truth: You could walk down Kloof Street dressed like Eugene Terreblanche and no one would bat an eyelid.
Ok, maybe you’d get a comment or two, but that’d be the end of it. No pitchforks, no flaming torches, no tar and feathers.
Even if you were in full AWB attire, there would be far more peculiar individuals around than you. Remember, 28 percent of the Southern Suburbs population consists of hippies, hipsters and new age mentalists – there’s only so much hate to go around.
Misperception #5: There’s nowhere to Sakkie Sakkie.
Truth: Of course there are places to Sakkie in the Southern Suburbs. I don’t know where these places are, and I’m too lazy to do any research, but c’mon, there must be at least one club where you can kick it like a boer.
If not, just break it out wherever you happen to find yourself. Southern Suburbs chicks dig the Sakkie, man. They may not admit it, but it excites and intrigues them like nothing else.
You know how a peacock performs an exotic mating dance to attract a mate? Sakkie is the human equivalent, and it never fails.
Misperception #6: Drinking brandy and Coke is frowned upon.
Truth: Yeah, you may have a point here… It could be worse though; you could be drinking Stella. You could also be rocking a fauxhawk with a white wife beater and lumo sweatbands, like half the guys at Deco on a Saturday night…
That’s one of the great things about the Southern Suburbs; no matter how douchey you appear, there’s always likely to be an even more egregious wanker somewhere nearby just waiting to make you look good.
Cape Town’s Northern Suburbs through the eyes of a Southern Suburbs charna
Misperception #1: Everyone lives on a farm.
Truth: When driving around the Northern Suburbs, you’ll notice there are a fair few neighbourhoods. These neighbourhoods are filled with houses. Contrary to what you might have been told, these houses aren’t just for show; these houses are where the majority of people live.
These people eat sleep and have sex in these houses. Unless they’re starring in a porno commissioned by the Vryheidsfront, at no point do any of them come close to sleeping in a barn.
Misperception #2: Everyone works on a farm.
Truth: Of course everyone works on a farm. Accountants, attorneys, actuaries, doctors, everyone. Even small children are put to work pulling ox carts and shit. Human rights? You can keep that nonsense in the Southern Suburbs.
Misperception #3: Everyone goes to Edward Street on a Friday night.
Truth: Most people in the Northern Suburbs over the age of 21 can’t stand Edward Street. Edward Street is the Northern Suburbs equivalent of Stadium on Main – replace knife fights with shootouts and they’re essentially the same thing. There’s even a bowling alley just down the road, although it kicks the shit out of anything Claremont has to offer.
Misperception #4: Everyone is Afrikaans.
Truth: There are at least half a dozen deaf-mutes in the Northern Suburbs. They communicate using sign language, and therefore cannot be classified as Afrikaans. Myth dispelled.
Not that it’d be a problem if everyone was Afrikaans. Afrikaners are cool, even if their taste in music (read: Sokkie Treffers) can leave something to be desired.
Speaking of which, the Bellvillle scene has produced some of this country’s most successful bands: Fokof, Die Heuwels Fantasties, van Coke Kartel, so let’s give credit where it’s due.
Misperception #5: It’s illegal to play anything but rugby.
Truth: Football, cricket and hockey are pretty popular too.
Sure, in the Northern Suburbs these sports are played like they’re rugby, and most of the participants spend their time spear tackling each other and getting sent off (this happens during cricket matches too), but we’re just addressing the above misperception here, and that doesn’t say anything about the rules…
Misperception #6: Everyone is super religious.
Truth: Bollocks. Complete and utter bollocks.
Sure, Meneer en Mevrou van der Merwe may totter off to the NG Kerk every Sunday, but on the whole there are probably more heathens in the Northern Suburbs than anywhere else in Cape Town. How do you think I survived there for so long?
Counterculture, bitches. The Northern Suburbs owns that shit.
Your Favourite Films Reviewed by an Art Cinema Aficionado
Forget everything you know about cinema. Leave your misinformed opinions at the door. My name is Godfried von Wienerstein; I am an art film aficionado and I am better than you.
I don’t go to the movies for enjoyment. Fuck that shit. I go to the movies to be challenged. If a film doesn’t shatter my perceptions, offend my sensibilities and leave me questioning the very purpose of my existence, I demand a refund.
In the hope that I can somehow enlighten you cultural cavemen, I have decided to critique some of last year’s biggest films. Read on and prepare to have your perspectives realigned.
Inception
Inception had so much potential. Then they added the special effects and Hans Zimmer’s orchestral score and turned it into another overblown action film. Watching it reminded me of the time I attended a reading of Moby Dick at SeaWorld as a youngster; the fucking penguins were shitting everywhere and the Orcas were trying to eat the other children. It was exciting when one of the brats fell in the water, but then I realised I couldn’t hear the story over all the squawking and screaming, and began to cry. Christopher Nolan can eat a bag of dicks for making me relive that experience.
Black Swan
Black Swan is twisted, dark and visceral… if you’re comparing it to Big Momma’s House 3. Not that you actually watched it for its “artistic merits”. Unless those merits include Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis getting their fuck on… I have two words for you mass media whores: Mulholland Drive. There’s even a website dedicated to deciphering it. An entire freaken website. And all it’s done is compound everyone’s confusion. That’s a proper mindfuck, kiddies. Without protection. Indie film-style.
True Grit
True Grit is really good. For a remake. How many art film remakes have you seen? None? I thought so. That’s because everyone knows it’s pointless trying to recreate pure cinematic inspiration. You’d have more luck if you told a troupe of monkeys to carve the statue of David from Play-Doh. Using only their tails. While in a barrel. On a rollercoaster. On the fucking Moon.
Toy Story 3
Oh great, an animated film. In case you hadn’t realised, animated films are generally enjoyed by children. Children also enjoy picking their noses and fiddling with themselves in public. Evidently, they are bastions of taste and etiquette, and we should follow their example whenever possible. On that note, excuse me while I put on my Ninja Turtle outfit and go piss my pants.
Kick-Ass
I’ve heard Kick-Ass described as an “orgy of supercharged, absurdist ultra-violence”. An orgy? Ichi the Killer is an orgy. By comparison, Kick-Ass is two awkward first-timers on their wedding night. If you think a couple of teenagers dismembering a handful of goons is pushing the envelope, I’d love to see your reaction to a man smashing his testicles with a block of wood. Antichrist, bitches. Lars von Trier is my homeboy.
The World’s Friendliest Waiter
I went to a restaurant recently where I was served by a very jovial fellow. He beamed at me as I walked in and chatted away enthusiastically while showing me to my table.
He was an affable dude, and his service-with-a-smile approach made for a refreshing change from the disgruntled students, disinterested assholes and supercilious fucks I’m accustomed to.
He brought me a menu and waxed lyrical about the wines on offer. All I wanted was a beer, but I went ahead and requested some stupidly expensive Sauvignon Blanc just because he was so nice and he said I would enjoy it.
He told me his life story as he uncorked the bottle. It was a wonderful, heart-warming tale of success in the face of adversity and triumphing over the odds. Honestly, butter wouldn’t melt in this guy’s asshole.
Only a couple of minutes later he was back to see if everything was alright. I assured him that it was, and that I would be ready to order in ten minutes. His watch must have been faulty because he was back in less than five, grinning like he’d just time travelled to 2005 and received a blowjob from a prime Jessica Alba.
I hadn’t actually decided what I wanted to eat, so I hurriedly picked something out at his recommendation. I regretted this almost immediately. Shellfish. Overpriced fucking shellfish. Partnered with a bottle of wine I didn’t want either. I was beginning to resent my genial attendant.
Of course, it wasn’t long before he was back. “Is everything good, sir?” he enquired, looming over me like a smiling assassin. “No, it fucking isn’t,” I thought. “You’ve tricked me into ordering a sea cockroach platter and a bottle of fermented grapes. You extortionate wanker.”
“Yes, thank you, everything’s great,” I replied, forcing a smile. He returned to ask me the same question at least a couple of times more before finally bringing my food. The food I didn’t want. At this point I had come to the conclusion that disgruntled students, disinterested assholes and supercilious fucks aren’t deserving of all the hate they receive. I secretly wished that some terrible fate would befall my toothy tormenter, leading to his substitution by some melancholy teenage twat.
If only I was so lucky. I smashed my dinner into my mouth as fast as I could and washed it down with what was admittedly a fine bottle of social lubricant. In fact, it was such a good bottle that against my better judgement I then ordered dessert, prolonging my agony.
It was then that self-loathing set in. I was the architect of my own destruction. As much as I wanted to lay the blame at the foot of my overly friendly acquaintance, he was just doing his job. And he was doing it bloody well too.
Fortunately, this train of rational thought was transient. When he returned to my table he was once again the target of my ire. I sensed he was going to cajole me into ordering something else so hurriedly asked for the bill – conscious that I could fall prey to this waitering warlock’s dark powers at any moment.
Even then I found he had a hold over me. I tipped him not 10, not 15, but 20 percent. And I felt good doing it. Yes, he was so attentive and amiable that it bordered on sickening. Yes, he had exposed a monumental flaw in my character and “made” me spend shitloads of money on stuff I didn’t want. None of this mattered though, because I realised I’d just seen a master at work.
On this day I found myself in the presence of a seraph with a serving tray, the world’s friendliest waiter, and that was more than worth the price of admission.
Let’s Celebrate Cape Town’s Subcultures
Cape Town is an amazing city, filled with beautiful scenery. It’s a place of azure skies, teal oceans and lush, green avenues. Oh, and there’s the mountain too.
As picturesque as Cape Town’s vistas are though, it wouldn’t be half the place it is without its vibrant, cosmopolitan population.
Cape Town is home to people of all races, creeds and cultures, from all walks of life. In celebration of this diversity, today I’m going to take a look at some of its more unique inhabitants. If you fall within any of these subcultures, I hope you’ve got your sense of humour ready.
Afri-Hipsters
I’m sure you’re all familiar with hipsters. Hipsters “reject mainstream culture” and embrace their own bullshit contrived personas. They listen to, read and watch anything that they think will make them seem more enlightened than the rest of humanity.
They wear a mishmash of different styles, but a mainstay of any hipster’s wardrobe is a pair of skinny jeans so tight they have to sow themselves into it. If you’re a hipster, you think this looks cool. If you’re anyone else, it just looks like you’re restricting blood flow to your nuts.
Cape Town is fortunate enough to have its own subspecies of hipsters. The Afri-hipster shares many traits with your common garden variety hipster, including the belief that a bar or club is only cool if it is filled to the brim with other hipsters. This means that Afri-hipsters are usually found in their droves, and as such can fortunately be spotted (and avoided) from a mile away.
What does separate Afri-hipsters from the general hipster population is their insistence that anything Afrikaans is, by default, amazing. This misplaced belief means that even the most horribly average Afrikaans band is guaranteed a significant following of diehard Afri-hipsters.
It also means that many talented Afrikaans acts are in danger of stagnating and eventually becoming shit because there’s no pressure on them to innovate or deliver anything new. When this does happen, I’m going to point you back here and say, “Told ya so, bitches.” In the meantime, please vent in the comments box below. I eagerly await your sanctimonious feedback.
Southern Suburbs Meatheads
Southern Suburbs Meatheads are a magnificent bundle of contradictions. On the surface, they’re all testosterone and bravado, but they’re reduced to blubbering wrecks whenever the Stormers lose.
They’ll label their friends “gay” for showing a shred of sensitivity, but one of their favourite pastimes is whipping each other’s arses in the shower after gym.
They’ll refuse to ask for directions because they think it’s not manly, but then proudly show off their new GPS at the first opportunity they get.
In addition to such wanton hypocrisy, meatheads aren’t above brown-nosing and will sniff around as much as they need to in order to get ahead in life. As a result, these sycophants often have dingle berries lodged up their nostrils. While I won’t deny this is quite disgusting, at least it makes it easy to call them out.
Northern Suburbs Zefytes
Die Antwoord’s Zef image is a lot closer to reality than we’d all like to admit. The truth is that Cape Town’s Northern Suburbs are practically brimming over with Zefytes (acolytes of Zef, geddit?), and this was the case long before “Enter the Ninja” took over the interwebs.
To most people, Zef equates to scum, and that’s a pretty fitting description of Die Antwoord. Which is unfortunate, because while Die Antwoord’s trashy facade has made them famous, with the initial shock value gone it simply restricts their creative scope; singing about anything more wholesome than “Jou ma se poes in ‘n fishpaste jar” would result in an identity crisis.
Of course, their legion of Zef disciples is unlikely to agree with this. As far as they’re concerned, all guys should be covered in prison tattoos, all women should rock peroxide blonde mullets, and all cars should have fuck-off loud exhausts and spoilers that wouldn’t look out of place on a biplane.
They also condone boning anything and everything that moves. Inbred babies are like accessories, and teen pregnancy is a high point in any Zef chick’s life.
In fact, why stop at one? The only thing more Zef than having one kid you can’t support is having a whole family of kids you can’t support. That way, there will always be someone around to fetch you an ice cold beer from the fridge.
Township Bling Boys
If you’ve been to Mzoli’s you’re bound to have seen some of these fellas. If you haven’t, imagine what a gangster rapper would look like if he fell in a cauldron of glitter. In fact, sometimes there’s so much shit gleaming in the sunlight that it’s hard to tell where the bling ends and the man begins.
Township Bling Boys have a soft spot for anything flashy or slick, but the three things they love most are gold, leather and diamonds. No coincidence then that any self-respecting Bling Boy’s vehicle of choice is a gold BMW M3 with black leather upholstery and diamond encrusted rims.
It’s unlikely that many of them will ever own one of these, but that doesn’t stop them from dreaming. In the meantime they can keep themselves busy getting their teeth done like Nelly. Say “Cheese!”
Fucking Hippies
Finally, let’s discuss hippies.
Unlike the aforementioned subspecies, there’s nothing special about Cape Town hippies. In fact, I have long since learnt that most hippies are the same. They’re all walking anachronisms, preaching peace, love, and happiness, as if all the terror, bloodshed and war that’s happened since the 60s is simply a figment of our imaginations.
Their hearts are in the right place, but their heads are all too often up in drug-fuelled clouds. The result is that they talk a lot, but do very little.
There are exceptions to the rule, and to those people I doff my cap. As for the rest of you flower power fuckers; may your bellbottoms shrink and your tie-dyed shirts fade.
The 7 Worst Pets Ever
Velociraptors
One would think it goes without saying that keeping a giant carnivorous reptile as a pet would be ill advised. Sadly, the Florida Everglade’s burgeoning Burmese python population flies in the face of this idealistic notion.
Of course, if ever any of these idiots were to get their hands on a Velociraptor, it would likely disembowel them long before they could release it. Silver linings…
Bonobos
I love creatures great and small – really, I do – but one thing I’m not big on is primates. Primates that spend all day fucking each other indiscriminately are no exception.
I would rather keep a thieving dope fiend* as a pet. He’d probably have superior personal hygiene, and would only fling his shit at me if I said something he disagreed with.
Fucking monkeys (heh).
*I was going to include a picture of Amy Winehouse, but decided against it. Who says my blog is in poor taste?
Lemmings
I was extremely relieved to discover that Lemmings are in no way suicidal, and Lemming deaths are merely a by-product of the dangers of mass migration.
Unfortunately, as it turns out, the behaviour exhibited by the Lemmings in Psygnosis’ classic video games is even further removed from reality. They cannot wield a pickaxe, detonate TNT or float using an umbrella. Which kind of makes owning a Lemming a bit pointless, really.
Mogwai
If you’ve watched Gremlins, you know the drill. Mogwai may seem furry and cute at first glance, but they’re actually vindictive little fuckers. Get them wet or feed them after midnight and they go from being spiteful to downright murderous.
Perfectly suited to sabotaging your enemies then, but not the type of pet you should give your kid. Unless you want to see them eviscerated by an Ewok on crack.
Sea-Monkeys
In an episode of South Park, titled “Simpsons Already Did It”, Cartman purchases some “Sea People” (a parody of Sea-Monkeys). In no time at all, these Sea People begin to worship Cartman and erect a monument in his honour. They then have a holy war, develop nuclear weapons, and destroy themselves.
In reality, “Sea Monkeys” can’t do shit. Show me some brine shrimp that can declare Jihad and I’ll show you a virginal crack whore.
Nibblonians
The Nibblonians are a species of pintsized extraterrestrials with powers far beyond that of any man. And that’s the problem right there – pets are supposed to be dependent on their owners; under no circumstances should they be able to destroy them. Although try telling that to the populace of Florida…
Nibblonians are the antithesis of Sea-Monkeys, and as far as I’m concerned, there’s not much point in owning an alien midget if tossing it around will result in getting your head blown up.
French Poodles
Finally, I’d like to touch on a matter that’s especially close to my heart. I abhor French Poodles.
French Poodles aren’t even dogs. They are, in fact, pretentious Frenchmen trapped in ridiculous poodle bodies. However, unlike pretentious Frenchmen, they do not wear berets, smoke Gauloises, and eat baguettes at every meal.
What’s even more alarming is that French Poodles do not back down from a fight. I’m speaking from firsthand experience here, as I happened to be chased by one just last week. In addition to nipping me on the rump, the pantalooned wanker succeeded in emasculating me. I hope I never have the misfortune of meeting the girls who saw me desperately fleeing my bouffanted assailant…
Let’s Call A Turd A Turd
You know what’s wrong with society today? We’re too freaken nice. It’s all, “Thank you, that was lovely.” and “It was great to meet you.”
No it fucking wasn’t.
What happened to sincerity? When did we start candy coating everything? What if I don’t want to tell someone I enjoyed their company, and I hope to see them again soon, because in reality I would rather invite a fiddler crab to swing from my left nut? There’s the chance to nip things in the bud right there, but instead we choose to create all sorts of problems with some bullshit facade.
It only gets worse when food’s involved. Picture this scenario: your friend serves you a plate of something that tastes like Preston Lacy’s jockstrap. You eat it because you don’t want to offend them, and then thank them for such a “delicious meal”. Encouraged by your praise, they continue to experiment in the kitchen, until eventually they conjure up a culinary aberration so disgusting, so unbelievably foul, that it comes to life and decides to feast on its own creator. This tragedy could have been avoided if you’d just told them their cooking sucked, but now they’re gone, and a violent bout of dysentery is all you have to remember them by.
I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer that one of my friends didn’t suffer an untimely death at the hands of a gelatinous food monster, so I’ve decided to call people out for sucking, starting now.
Yeah, that’s right.
Your face sucks.
Get the fuck off my blog.
How to Man Up & Be Badass
Note: I’m no Bear Grylls, but I did one day decide to man up and get the fuck out of my comfort zone, and below is some of what I’ve learnt. It’d be cool if you took something from these points. If not, at the very least I hope they make you laugh.
How to Man Up #1: Take up a martial art
Being able to do Muay Thai, Jiu-Jitsu or even Rex Kwon Do is pretty cool, but you’re missing the point if you “train UFC” to show off to your dumb friends. In fact that will likely just get your ass kicked, and Mr. Miyagi won’t be there to save you.
Starting a martial art will help condition your body, but more importantly it will help condition your mind. It’s like pumping iron in the gym, just cooler and without all the homoerotic undertones.
How to Man Up #2: Go out by yourself
Going somewhere by yourself doesn’t mean you’re sad, it means you’re independent. Even if you just start with a trip to the coffee shop or a movie, you’ll be surprised at how liberating it is not to rely on the company of others.
I’m not saying you should become a misanthrope and forego the company of your friends, but venturing out alone once in a while can be both a liberating and enlightening experience. Try it.
How to Man Up #3: Do something that terrifies you
Note: if there’s a strong chance that something could kill you, I’d advise against it.
Manning up is all about conquering your fears. Chances are you’re familiar with this passage from Frank Herbert’s Dune:
“I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.”
There’s a lot of truth to the above. Even if you just start with baby steps, taking a deep breath and doing something you usually wouldn’t is incredibly empowering. If people laugh at you, so what? Fuck ‘em – this is about you, and no one else.
How to Man Up #4: Try your hand at cooking
I didn’t used to be able to cook anything. Then I reached the point where I couldn’t face another night of microwave meals or improvised slop and decided to do something about that.
I’m hardly the Naked Chef (the cold floor in my kitchen makes that impractical), but I’m no longer stuck eating the same swill every evening and that fills me with pride.
If your culinary repertoire hits a cul-de-sac at anything more complex than a grilled cheese sandwich, I implore you to grab a cooking book and some ingredients and rectify that shit.
In addition to swelling your ego, being able to cook will also allow you to barter food for sex, and that’s always useful.
How to Man Up #5: Buy a suit
If you look good, you feel good, and there’s nothing quite like a suit to make a man feel pimp*.
In fact, why stop there? Partner your snazzy new attire with a cane, or even better a monocle, and watch the ladies flock to you like seagulls to a stinky trawler.
*Unless it’s a gimp suit, in which case you likely won’t be pimping anything other than yourself.
How to Man Up #6: Grow a beard
Girls can’t grow hair on their faces (there are exceptions), men can. Therefore, cultivating hair on your face is one of the mostly manly things you can possibly do.
It doesn’t matter if it grows out scruffy and patchy, as a man you owe it to yourself to rock a full beard at least once in your life.
Hell, if I can do it, so can you. The hair on my face looked like it belonged on an ape’s scrotum, but I wore it with pride (before shaving it off and swearing I’d never do it again) and I’m a better man for it.
How to Man Up #7: Run up a mountain
Want to feel like a beast? Find the nearest mountain (or a really steep hill) and try run up that bitch. You’ll probably fail miserably the first few times, but keep at it.
The important thing is to learn to break through the pain barrier; when you’re about to give up, force yourself to take just one more step. Keep doing this until you literally cannot move another inch, and you’ll be amazed at just how much further you can go.
I find it helps to imagine some sort of reward at the summit. The thought of food and water is usually enough for me, although I guess envisioning a horde of naked maidens would do the trick too. Just be sure to keep your little friend in check; when you’re pushing your body to its limits, the last thing you needs is for Mr. Erection to put you off your game.
How to Man Up #8: Stop giving a fuck
Finally, stop caring so much about what others think. Most people actually don’t give a damn, and neither should you. If you want to do something, hold your head high. If fools are gonna hate, let them. They aren’t worth it. If it makes you happy, that’s all that matters.
The Office Theft Vendetta
You'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands...
Theft is easy to laugh about until it sneaks up on you and bites you in the nuts. “The Rye” has long been one of my favourite episodes of Seinfeld, but no longer will I derive amusement from Jerry’s loaf-snatching antics.
You see, I was recently a victim of crime, and it has left me traumatised. In fact, worse than that, it has shattered my perception of society and made me question my trust in my fellow man.
It happened on a Tuesday a few weeks back. The day started well enough – I even managed to time my exit from my flat so I’d share the lift with that Latin goddess who lives down the hall – but the moment I set foot in the office I knew something was amiss.
Upon reaching my desk, my suspicions were confirmed – my beautiful black chair, “Monty”, had gone walkabout. I searched high and low, only to realise that the culprit was right under my nose. There they were, seated all of five feet from my desk, wearing a grin so twisted it would have nauseated the Cheshire Cat. They had watched gleefully as I ran around in a panicked frenzy, thinking that I may never again get to rest my arse on Monty’s face.
I confronted them, but no apology was forthcoming. “Oops, I guess I must have borrowed it” was their disingenuous response. “Yeah, we’ll see how you feel when I just ‘borrow’ your mom,” I thought.
I skulked back to my corner and began to plot their downfall. I can’t disclose the intrinsic details of my plan lest they stumble across my phenomenally popular blog, but let’s just say that it will culminate in them addressing me as “dad”.
I wish I could dismiss such blatant thievery as an aberration, but unfortunately it appears to be rife in the workplace. What makes matters worse is that most of these offenses wouldn’t even qualify as a misdemeanour.
Really, who steals a mouse pad, coffee mug or stapler? Even kleptomaniacs and magpies are more discerning than that. If you’re going to be a dirty thieving twat, at least show some ambition. You’re not one of Fagin’s rent boys so there’s no need to behave like one.
In fact, I’m sure there are plenty of street urchins who would turn their noses up at the sort of crap that goes missing from office desks. I honestly think you could present these people with a choice between a rusty paperclip and a wallet full of cash, with the option of stealing either without repercussion, and they’d opt for a couple of grams of worthless metal. On the bright side, I’m sure it would go well with all the other utterly pointless shit they’ve stolen over the years.
I don’t know what else to say. For once, I’m lost for words. Well, almost. What I will tell you larcenous fucks is this: if I catch you so much as glancing at my ebony throne, I will have no choice but to beat you at your own game. Bit by bit, I will plunder everything you have to your name. From the pens on your desk, to your video game collection, to the scraps of change in your piggybank; when I say everything, I mean everything. I will even steal your toothbrush, deodorant and underpants.
Seriously, don’t push me fools.
Sportswomen: Deadlier Than The Male
It’d be unreasonable to expect all athletes to be as hot as the likes of Maria Sharapova and Malia Jones, but there are sports that don’t seem to have a piece of eye-candy between them. In fact, in addition to not being all that visually appealing, some sportswomen are just plain dangerous and scary. Not sure what I mean? Allow me to educate you.
Female Rugby Players
Most sportswomen are less intimidating than their male counterparts, but not female rugby players. Female rugby players are among the most terrifying individuals on earth.
Rugby players are fucking huge. Women are fucking crazy. Women who play rugby are both. These chicks will go out and smash the opposition, celebrate by smashing a bottle of Klippies into their face, and then smash some dude for looking at them funny. After which they’ll go home, watch an episode of Grey’s Anatomy and bawl their eyes out.
That sort of mental instability, married to that sort of muscle mass, is enough to make my penis retract into my body like that of a cat. In fact, that’s exactly what it did last time I encountered one of these fair maidens, and it hasn’t resurfaced since; not even when I showed it pictures of Tracy McGregor’s boobs.
Female Discus Throwers
When was it ever a good idea to arm a monstrously strong chick with a freaken metal disc? What if you forget to let her through the door first, or inadvertently stare at her chest, and she decides to decapitate you with that thing? Oddjob ain’t got nothing on a beast from the Eastern Bloc.
Female Sprinters
I was watching TV the other day and I was surprised to see Usain Bolt with long hair. Then I realised it was actually Marion Jones.
Now I’m not one to blaspheme, but Christ on a trike that woman has some broad shoulders. And the speed… Oh God, such speed.
When a buff chick with roid rage wants to put a hellacious beating on you, you’d better hope you can outrun her. If that chick is Marion Jones, evasion isn’t even an option.
If she was still competing, Volkswagen would do well to make her the face of the Bugatti Veyron – a brute of a woman for a brute of a car.
Female Basketball Players
I like women to be shorter than me. It makes me feel superior to them. I do not like female basketball players.
Seriously, no female of any species should be this tall:
Right now a giraffe is looking at the picture above and going, “WTF!?” When old ladies’ cats get stuck in trees, they don’t call the fire department; they phone their local ball-playing BFG.
Seriously, that shit is just disturbing. Just imagine how small and insignificant her boobs must seem in comparison to the rest of her body. It’s like someone stuck footballs to a fucking skyscraper. On the plus side, I doubt there’s much gravity at such altitude, so she should age pretty well.
Female Figure Skaters
Finally, let’s finish on a positive note, shall we?
I hate going ice skating; it’s cold, the rink is usually packed with Guido douchebags trying to look cool, and most of the girls still watch Hannah Montana. Yeah, that’s right, dickheads; you’re showing off to jailbait. Well done. Why don’t you just save the authorities the time and skate backwards into a cell?
Anyway, as adverse as I am to a trip to the rink, figure skating is great to watch. Especially when a leggy Russian* blonde in a criminally short skirt struts her stuff. I love figure skaters, I really do. In fact, I plan to amass a harem of mail order brides and build myself an ice rink just so I can watch them every day of the year.
Until then, bring on the Winter Olympics.
*I know Tanith Belben isn’t Eastern European, but c’mon…
Intellectual Debate