Reading Glasses

Headaches and squinting at my computer monitor.
Eye doctor tells me I need glasses when working on my computer.

Eye check up - R450.00
Glasses - R2700.00
Total = R3150.00
Time = 10 days

Forgot my glasses at home.
Changed zoom level on my laptop making monitor 125% size
Total  = nil
Time = immediate

Viagra Revenge 2 ...

So this truly happened three weeks ago.
Cringe!!!

The semi nameless person on viagra that I am sometimes related to, had taken his little blue pill late that night.
Their young innocent teenager was alseep in his room.
And so, just as the pack insert explains, twenty minutes later they were going at it.
Hammer and tongs. Full bore.

They were in their room, on their bed.
Nothing kinky.
It was late at night. And it was dark. Very dark. Moonless.

The event was entering the final stages. They were heading for the great finale.
Eyes were closed, their minds both completely focussed on their inspiring performance.

Suddenly, terrifyingly, heart stoppingly - there was a massive banging explosion, inches from his head.
He doesn't know what is happening. All he knows is that he has almost died of fright and there is something terrifying happening next to his ear in the black night.

Then he makes it out in the pitch black darkness of their room.

Their son is standing right next to them in the dark (blood drains and you die a thousand deaths)
He has opened their door, walked accross to their bed in the dark, and he is banging his fist really hard against the wooden headboard of their bed trying to get their attention.

"Do you mind not doing that when I can hear it! You are disgusting! I am trying to sleep!"

And with that he turns around and storms back to his room.

Viagra man said he just froze. It was like being a kid and getting busted on a little date with Mrs. palm and her five daughters, by your sister and her friends.
Except, this was worse.
Uuurgghhhh.

The next morning was a bit awkward and invloved an explanatory chat, which ended up with their son saying,

"You know what was worse? You had the audacity to carry on afterwards!"

Having kids is great.
You gotta love em.

In fact, when they grow up into teenagers they might turn us all into middle aged wankers.

I myself, well luckily for me my parents only slept together three times to produce my sisters and I.
So I don't have any freaky pictures carved into my imagination.
That is right - mum? dad?

Viagra Revenge - why you shouldn't have a six pack when you are in your late 40's

So this is a true secret story.

My brother-in-law, has just celebrated his birthday (in the high 40’s.)

Young looking, fit, kite surfing, six pack taunting bastard that he is.

So he is having dinner with an older friend who starts expounding on the wonders of Viagra.

“There are two types of Viagra, a strong tablet for old bullets, and a gentle 250mg tablet that you can take one every three days or so”.

His friend, like a drug dealer offering you your first hit for free, tells him he’ll give him a single capsule to try.

Interest piqued, he negotiates hard and walks away with three.

I get a reasonably awkward-feeling report back over the telephone the next day.

Regardless of how long they have been married. His wife is my sister after all.

The mild tablet is definitely the way to go.

You don’t fall asleep after getting through your only rations.

This is not a one course meal.

He gives me a glowing, glowing report.

Nice to know.

The kicker was that he was so impressed with it he went and bought a pack of like 530 boxes from the pharmacy. It might have been a carton of 30 packs.

The other thing was, he was kind of sheepish and awkward about buying it, being as young looking as he is.

So he slinks to the back of the pharmacy to the prescriptions counter, waits until nobody is around, and then quietly and secretively asks to buy a box.

He is good a slinking.

He is slightly alarmed when he sees the box though.

It is of olympic proportions and as heavily branded as a Christmas tree.

Shitsake, but no problem, he plans to cradle it in his arms and then slip through to the counter and pay before anybody notices him.

I should probably mention that he lives in the very small coastal town of Betty’s Bay, just  outside of Cape Town.

Population about 679 or thereabouts.

You want to keep your secrets secret.

And here is the thing.

This was one of those moments when God is re-affirmed (and as having a sense of humour too.)

In South Africa, when you buy prescription meds, they have small cages, the size of a shopping basket. They put all your prescription meds in the cage, and you then take this to the teller to pay. The cage is either locked or closed with a cable tie.

So before his eyes, the guy at the prescription counter, lifts his box of Viagra high into the air for all to see, and then lowers it into a completely visible cage and proceeds to take about ninteen and a half minutes to lock the lid.

There is only one way to carry those cages. Proudly in front of you like you are showing off a prize canary in a canary cage.

Beautiful. Just priceless.

Thirteen and a half minutes later the entire Betty’s Bay knows he was on Viagra.

“Don’t be a doos and write this on your blog okay”

Of course not. Of course I won’t.

What do you think I am. A prick?

Some of my best friends are Gingers’…

I felt a ginger mist descend on me. I experienced ginger rage.

Now before you make any assumptions I would like to clarify that I am not a closet ginger. Nor am I a gingerphobe. Why, some of my best friends are gingers.

Okay, so what are the odds of this.

Last week-end I very annoyingly had to go into the ABSA bank next to Blue Route Mall on a Saturday morning with two irritable young children. It was pretty crowded and there were too few tellers and the whole bank was pretty grumpy. But, we all worked together and made a real effort to be as quick as we could so that the next person could get their business done.

All of us that is, except the Ginger at Teller 4.

Oh no. Not him. He had the whole day to spend there leaning up against the counter doing everything in slow motion, chatting away to the teller like she gave a shitsakes.

Six or seven people were served and he was still at his post trying hard to get the most out of his visit.

We all had a secret understanding. We all hated him. Not just for taking long, but for asking stupid questions and trying to stretch his visit out.

But mostly for not noticing what page we were all on and not giving a shit.

I secretly vaporised him twice while I was waiting and it still didn’t make me feel any better.

And when I left, he was still there.

Knob.

So then this morning, a week later, and I am again forced into the bank and again there is a long queue, and again we all have the shits, and lo and behold, there is a single, slow, sloth-like customer holding up the works. Again.

And guess what. It was at Teller 4 again. Again.

And here’s the thing. It was a ginger again. Not a semi questionable ginger. A full blooded, freckled ginger. Legs crossed leaning up against the counter. Yakkity yak take his time. No time issues, sloth sloth.

Again.

This was different ginger completely.

It was made worse by the fact that this guy had on those old hang-ten surfer slops that we used to wear in the mid-eighties with slightly grubby feet and plenty of ginger leg hairs.

I felt a ginger mist descend on me. I experienced ginger rage.

I mean what are the odds of that?

Frickin low, that’s what the odds should be. Or are they actually? Are there a lot more gingers about than we actually realise.

Now before you make any assumptions I would like to clarify that I am not a closet ginger. Nor am I a gingerphobe.  Why, some of my best friends are gingers.

I personally know a ginger who is quite a good bloke. He’s just like us.

We all know one good one.

But when I grow a few days growth and my wife squeals and says I have ginger on my chin she is wrong man. Dead Wrong.

Auburn! I have a mix of blond and auburn beard hairs. Nothing more.

And I have nothing against gingers, but…

But it is so treatable. I mean there are so many options available to them. They can shave, they can colour they can pluck and they can wax. They can do so much. And yet they don’t.

Instead they hang around at Teller 4 and sloth.

 

A List of Nine Words your Wife Might Use (sent in by my brother in law)

Fine:

This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to shut up.

Five Minutes:

If she is getting dressed, this means a half an hour. Five minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes to watch the game before helping around the house.

Nothing:

This is the calm before the storm. This means something, and you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with nothing usually end in fine.

Go Ahead:

This is a dare, not giving permission. Don't Do It!

Loud Sigh:

This is actually a word, but is a non-verbal statement often misunderstood by men. A loud sigh means she thinks you are an ass and wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about nothing.

That's Okay:

This is one of the most dangerous statements a woman can make to a man. That's okay means she wants to think long and hard before deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.

Thanks:

A woman is thanking you, do not question, or faint. Just say you're welcome. (I want to add in a clause here - This is true, unless she says 'Thanks a lot' - that is PURE sarcasm and she is not thanking you at all. DO NOT say 'you're welcome'. That will bring on a 'whatever').

Whatever:

Is a woman's way of saying "Go to hell."

Don't worry about it, I got it:

Another dangerous statement, meaning this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is now doing it herself. This will later result in a man asking 'What's wrong?'

Attention: Mr. Bill Bryson, Writing Bloke.

Attention: Mr. Bill Bryson
Living on the Big Island

Dear Sir.
I was heading down to our new loo recently with my well worn copy of A Short History of Everything under my arm. Let me hasten to assure you that the book was for reading and no other purpose. (Also please do not feel insulted, I reserve some of my best reading on the loo)

I am into my fourth read of the book.
I managed to understand at least 80% of what you were explaining in my first read. And then promptly forgot about three quarters of it within a two day period. I find that the 20% of the facts that I can recall from your book don’t quite get me though a decent discussion at a dinner party. (By the way, I am amazed by how few people, while eating their soup, actually know what percentage weight of their pillows are made up by dead skin and mites)

 

I have thus promised myself that I would read your book at least twice this year. Slowly, and with furrowed brow. This should get me up to about a 50% recall of the fat presented, and that sir, should see me through a good dinner discussion, or at least until dessert is served.

Anyway, back to my visit to the loo and my dilemma.
The problem that I experienced had to do with my wife.

On my second visit, to what was planned to be am oasis of quiet time in the chaos of a three children household, I noticed that my book was missing once the show had got underway as it were.

Needless to say this upset my routine awfully and something that I was really looking forward to, turned out to be a very ordinary experience indeed.
Afterwards, having made a more thorough search, I found the book, pushed down between a wash basket and the wall.
I suspect this was no accident as there is a member of my family who frowns at and looks down upon my particular reading habits.

I carefully monitored my wife’s next visit.
She hypocritically also carried a book in with her. Careful detective work on my part proved that the book was a Xhosa Speaking course that we are both meant to be studying.
Yes, in short,  homework.
Now homework is obviously important in anybodies life. But I would as soon take homework to the loo as I would take it to some other pleasant and peaceful event, like a trip to the cinema. It makes no sense.

(I am prepared to admit that there may be an argument for me to learn Xhosa, although I will not being using a structured study approach, but rather plan to free my unconscious mind, to allow me to suddenly begin to understand a foreign indigenous language.
Instantly, and out of the blue.
Anyway. This is my plan. And it is my business.

And my choice of reading matter is also my own business.

However, in the interests of meeting my wife half way, to the crux. Please could you and your publishers consider including an abridged English-Xhosa dictionary at the back of your next print run of A Short History of Everything.
I cannot imagine I am the only one in this predicament.
Who knows, it might even boost sales.

In the meantime, I have removed pages 83 to 127 from our Oxford English-Xhosa dictionary (Flower/intyatyambo to Monday/uMvulo) and pasted them in the back of your book.
This is obviously not ideal, as general aesthetic and practical issues aside, I also lost quite a few words when I trimmed the dictionary pages to be the same size as your paperback.

Even though I am sure my wife will be happy to see that I am making a move in the right direction I feel the only real answer will be getting a move on with the new print run.
Lets shake a leg.

Yours in appreciative reading.

Hamba Gashle

A swimming pool drowning

I have always had a stronger than sneaking suspicion that I was secretly lucky to be born to my own parents and not some of those that I had read about, or saw on television or those that belonged to some of my friends.
There were a lot of things other families had, that even at a young age I was aware that we never had, but nothing that made our lives uncomfortable or difficult to bear.

Take the swimming pool incident. I mean you couldn’t script incidents like this. Not even if you tried. Incidents like this make you wish that our lives did have a replay button.

I was 11 years old and in standard three when my parents bought our seventh house.

Including two rentals, this was the ninth house I had lived in, in my eleven sun filled years. This was quite a few houses by anybodies standards.

This new home was a small, neat Victorian house in Mowbray. Complete with bay windows, Victorian fireplaces and two tiny outside rooms off the back garden that had previously served as domestic quarters.

No sooner had we moved in than we started the big renovation.

Part of this particular renovation was the inclusion of a  swimming pool.

My parents thought that they had a brilliant innovation and had worked out that for a fraction of the cost and the time you could get a pool that looked and felt just like a cement and concrete pool if by sinking a porta-pool below the ground.

With one exception, the membrane of the pool, although sturdy, was still only made of plastic sheeting. You were inevitably going to get occasional nicks and cuts which would result in leaks. My parents had considered this in advance and had worked out that you could simply repair any cuts with a special glue and  plastic that perfectly matched that pool membrane.

They were quite right and the cuts were never an issue. We had a couple of surface cuts that were repaired with ease before we discovered a cut on the bottom of the pool.

Other than the general shitty condition of the house when they bought it another of the reasons my parents had managed to get a good deal on the house was that the back garden was overlooked by a block of flats. It was rather invasive having a block of flats overlooking your garden but we discovered that for ninety percent of the time nobody was ever on their balconies, and for the ten percent of the time when they were it was hardly like they were leaning over looking down at us. We ignored them and they ignored us and we all discovered that the block of flats slowly evaporated into invisibility like a giant David Copperfield illusion.

The leak on the bottom of the swimming pool brought my parents, their pool repair system, and the block of flats behind our house together one sunny, summer Sunday morning in a way that we could never have guessed.

My father was in his bathing costume with a diving mask on his face and the repair kit lying on the side of the pool. I was tinkering around and generally getting in the way and offering unwanted advice. After a thorough search, which involved my father snorkelling around on the bottom of the pool, the leak was found and marked with a pebble. He cut and prepared the plastic patch and covered the one side with glue and left it to dry for the prerequisite five minutes. And that is when things started to go wrong.

My father was not weighted and as easy as it was to dive down to the leak, he couldn’t spend any time down there and was unable to exert the required pressure on the patch for the correct duration of time. He tried again and again, but each time he pushed down, his body simply rose up through the water. It clearly wasn’t working and he was clearly getting peeved. The voices and conversation was getting noisy and interesting.

Enter my mother with a broom. Between the two of them they decided that the best idea and most logical solution would be for her to pin him down with our kitchen broom pressed into the small of his back, allowing him the minute or so at the bottom to do what was needed.

I thought it was a superb idea.

And that is what the tenants in the block of flats saw when they looked over their balconies to investigate the source of the excited noise the on that sunny, summer morning.

A woman attempting to murder her husband by straining to pin his struggling body to the bottom of the pool with a sturdy kitchen broom in front the eyes of her young son. As his bubbles grew less and less frequent and his struggles weaker and less violent, more and more of them appeared at their balconies staring down in horror.

When my father eventually surfaced, glowing at having successfully completed the task, his eyes were drawn up to the block of flats beside us. My mother and I followed his gaze upwards. My permanent recollection is of several staring faces looking down at us over their balconies in wide eyed and wide mouthed silence.

At that stage my father would have raised a glass of dry white wine in their direction with a cheerful smile and headed inside to get lunch started.

Must see movie - 'True Grit' Trailer HD

This looks like a Shitsake type of movie and worth seeing.
The dude is the dude.

All that glitters is not gold...

On the morning of my vasectomy I decided to have a good scrub.

As I have said, it seemed like a considerate professional courtesy, and if I was a dentist, gynaecologist, or hairdresser, it was a courtesy I would certainly want extended to me.

Being a considerate householder and environmentally sensitive soul, and seeing that we were in the midst of water restrictions, it made sense to jump into the kids’ bath water after they had their morning bath.

After all, it wasn’t like I was planning a long soak, just a quick squatting scrub and rinse. A last minute mouth rinse as it were.

After I had finished and dressed, I was in the kitchen at the counter making a cup of coffee, when my wife, who had also used the bathwater before me, shouted from the bedroom where she was changing.

These were her exact words. Verbatim.

“You better check your pubes, I have got a whole lot of the kids glitter in mine” (sic)

A simple sentence for some.

Not for me. Within hours I was going to have my pubic hair very closely scrutinized and some of it shaved off by complete strangers.

Then, that self same area was going to be the focus area of a surgeon at a time when he needed his full wits and concentration about him.

This tit bit seemed a tad important.

Let me explain, one of the kid’s had got a birthday present from my mother who had given them a big jar of kiddies bubble bath. And inside, suspended in the bubble bath, were thousands of cut out foil shapes. Hearts, stars, crescent moons all in multicoloured, shiny, glittering foil. They were a kids delight and made the bath water glitter like the night sky as they sparkled suspended in the bath water.

It was these that my wife was talking about.

I whipped down my pants and went through my pubic hair better than any grooming chimp.

Eleven pieces (11). One more than ten.

Can you imagine the nurses shaving me for my vasectomy and finding eleven glittering foil cut outs of stars, hearts and crescent moons? In pink, gold and silver?

Can you imagine the doctor, about to make his first incision?

“My, this one has made a real effort!”

I felt giddy and a little dry mouthed at the nervous thought of what might have gone wrong.

If my wife hadn’t called out her warning to me, I would have lay back on the operating table, opened my legs and had the nursing staff find my pubic hair knotted with glittering pink foil stars.

I still wonder if they would have said anything.

I know my wife wishes she hadn’t.

Snip, snip

His hands felt cool and soft.

We had only just met and yet here I was.

On my back, my nuts in another mans hands.

It actually wasn’t too uncomfortable until he asked me how my father was.

“So, how is your dad?”

Dude, you have my nuts in your hand, your are squeezing them. I want to keep this clinical. Detached. Unknown.

I do not want to be having a discussion with you about my father while my courting tackle lies vulnerable in your hands.

It just feels wrong.

“Ja, cool thanks………”

After the physical we had a quick chat about what having the snip would mean and when he seemed certain that I was sure about going ahead he booked me in.

“Come back next week”

All my mates used words like “painless” and “quick local” and “in and out”

Walk in the park. Breeze.

The next week, after a good bath, douche and generally thorough scrotum scrub (it’s a professional courtesy, like brushing your teeth before a dentists visit, or washing your hair before getting a haircut), I headed off to Constantiaberg Medi-Clinic.

It was a bit of a production line. You check in, Do a bit of paperwork. Get shown to a changing cubicle and get given a locker for your clothes, and then you change into one of those shitty, psychologically scarring hospital gowns.

No jocks. Hanging loose.

Made worse in that you keep your shoes on.

So you end up looking like a complete doos.

You know it. The nurses know it.

That was all okay, no big deal, but then you go through to the waiting room.

There are half a dozen of you waiting in a line.

All dressed like dooses. All looking sheepish.

Except.

Except some a-holes bring their wives and mothers along.

What the shitsake is with that?

Now I have to wait, semi naked, my nuts barely hidden by a very high hospital gown, and opposite me, someones wife is reading a magazine because he needed his hand held.

It was like waiting for your drivers licence eye test.

As someone leaves, you all shift up a seat.

The okes at the back and in the middle are a laugh a minute.

The jokes are flying thick and fast.

“I’m just going to hold the Doc’s nuts in my hand while he does the op, and say: you don’t hurt me, I won’t hurt you”

Good one man. Chuckle chuckle. Chortle chortle.

But as the okes made it to the front of the queue they got more and more quiet.

And the okes right in the front have got that look you get just before you bungee jump.

The look that says. “I’m sure its safe. Lots of okes have done this before.”

No worries.

Right?

And then its your turn.

A wheelchair. Shitsake, no.

“Sorry sir. Hospital regulations.”

You arrive rather cowed in the operating room where two cheerful nurses are there to greet you.

“Ah, howzit.”

You sense your charm will have no effect here.

On the bed, on your back, staring at the ceiling.

Your gown is lifted, the disposable razors are out. The two of them are chatting about mundane daily things while they lather and shave your nuts.

You feel a bit left out. You pretend you don’t care and stare up at the ceiling.

All this will pass.

And then while this is happening, the door opens and in walks nurse number three.

Hello! We are actually busy here. A knock would be nice!

She smiles a greeting at me and then starts having a loud conversation with the other two nurses. My two nurses. While they are shaving my nuts.

No kidding.

For shitsake. This isn’t a frigging porno shoot.

And the door!

For shitsake the door!

Ag no man! She left the door open to the passage.

I can actually see an orderly walk past.

I lie there, sensitive and vulnerable, having my nuts shaved by a pair of nurses, while another nurse is having a visit and a chat, all down at the business end.

As she leaves the doc arrives.

Professionalism personified.

There were two painful bits.

The first was eye watering and felt like he was pushing the needle to give me a local anaesthetic deep into each nut.

It felt like what I imagine someone closing your nut in a vice would feel like.

Sore. Aching.

My knees jerked up into the air.

He calmly put his hand on my knee  and pushed them down again.

The second was when he started the actual op. It was a bit soon for my liking and stung.

“Lets slow down” I suggested.

He did. A bit. Down tools, chat for two minutes, then back into the fray.

Then it was plain sailing, Easy peasy.

Finished the op. Got changed. Stayed for the prerequisite cup of tea and a sarmie. And then off straight back to work.

Hero.

A couple of days of dull pain was all that was left afterwards.

And walking up the stairs like John Wayne for a week.

And the scars of the indignity.

So go for it okes.

It is a piece of piss. A walk in the park. You could do it in your sleep.

Good dog! Good boy! Come here daddy’s boy!

Saturday morning, a summer day.
My wife is out and I am at home with all three kids.
It is pleasant.
Quiet.
Too quiet.

Daddy! The future horse doctor screamed.
The future wildlife film maker is covered in poo!

Whatthehellcouldshemeanandwhatthehellisgoingon

I dash to the source of the scream.
And Shitsake, so he was.
Looking guilty, doe eyed, and covered in crap.
It was everywhere.
How can a three year old little guy have so much shit all over him? I mean, it was down his legs, on his feet.
He was naked except for a soiled T-shirt.
It was retching time.
I gagged a couple of dry bile burps.

Then I acted swiftly and decisively, and with the minimum of contact (by prodding and waving with my fingers) I managed to herd him into the bathroom without actually touching him, and I got a shower going and him in it.
There were some shitty footprints en route to deal with later, and there had been a bit of finger contact getting the T-shirt over his head (triple gag), but he was in a stream of warm water and had an older sister to watch him, problem one was solved.

Then my attention moved to where his deposit would be.
This was not going to be easy or pleasant.
I moved gingerly downstairs, tip-toeing from room to room as though expecting to confront a burglar.
My middle daughter shadowing me, a disgusted grimace on her face. Boys!
My eldest daughter had left her post at the shower and upsettingly looked rather gleeful.
I sensed that delicious feeling kids get when there is kak on the go, and they are in the clear. For a no-TV house, this was major entertainment.

We searched the house, we searched the garage, the searched the deck, the driveway.
Everywhere. Every room.
No poop. Anywhere.
But you could smell it badly. It was hiding somewhere for sure.
I was completely flummoxed.

I headed back to the shower where the fruit of my loins was luxuriating unperturbed in his steaming shower. He was having a ball.
I noticed that he had started drawing little soap motives on the glass of the shower door.
He didn’t seem to be experiencing a world of stress.

Listen little buddy, where did you poop little man.
I can’t find your poop anywhere.

Then he looked me square in the eye. Straight on.
No blinking or grimacing and he said what no loving father should ever hear.
Slowly, clearly and perfectly enunciated.

“I poo’d in your car daddy…”

I bolted down the stairs and towards the driveway.
The future vet had beaten me to the car though.
As I ran the final meters I saw her reach the car, look inside, and then turn around with her hand over her mouth doubling up.
Shitsake.

It was bad. It was terrible. It was confined to the driver’s seat.
My seat. The one I put my arse in each time I drive.
Godinheavenwhatwashethinking
That was a seriously satisfying bowl movement.
He must have lost a couple of kilograms right there and then had a little dance on it, painted a bit with it, and then finally squished it a bit more before wandering into the house.

My wife was completely unsympathetic on the phone.
I was on my own.

And then a gift from up above.
I glanced down at my ankles and who should be there but my old matey Sedgwick.
A reasonably disgusting Jack Russell with a penchant for poop.
I had endured his disgusting habits for the past ten years. He owed me.

And that my friends was that.

I popped him in, closed the door and headed upstairs to get the guilty party out of the shower.

Once he was done and dried and dressed I headed hopefully downstairs and out to the car.

A smiling, grinning, grunting little doggy face was at the window.

His entire body wagging with his tail in glee.

He had vacuumed up the entire load and then licked everything spotless.

Good dog! Good boy! Come here daddy’s boy! Good doggy! Brave Dog!

The most feared moment of your teenage life - the unwanted boner....

You are 16. Sitting in class.

Your name gets called out to come up and do your Afrikaans mondeling. All good. You are up next.

Feeling confident.

Feeling, feeling, oh-oh. Suddenly. Shitsake. Where did that come from.

A boner from hell.

Think sad thoughts, think sad thoughts, think sad thoughts.

It’s not working.

C'mon, piss off boner. Begone.

The clock is ticking, the other oke is winding down.

You are about to enter shitsake street.

Almost worse. The TF (the travelling fat)

This just needs a car trip to get going.

Even a very short car trip.

With your mother.

To school.

Where you have to get out and walk away as if nothing is up.

When it most very definitely is up.

Or the train. Click-clack, click-clack.

Its your stop. All the Rustenberg and Westerford girls are watching you.

You can’t not get off. You also sure as shitsake can’t stand up though.

You clutch your satchel to your stomach.

Sure, nobody noticed.

Or the girlfriend fat.

Holding hands will do it.

It will happen on your first date.

“Come on, the movie’s over, lets go.”

“Let’s not.”

“Let’s wait a bit, I like to watch the credits.”

To the end. The very end.

You are sitting on a rock on the beach with her next to you.

You are in a very thin swimming costume.

“Lets play beach bats” she says.

“Lets not!” screams your brain, “Oh please lets not.”

Why are you doubled over she asks.

You have developed a very profound interest in your toes.

Remember school speedo’s. Needing to get out the pool. Wondering how.

Shitsake. Enough already.

Anything with the risk of being bust by a family member was bad.

Life used to be like a sitcom. Mom, Dad and us kids on the couch watching Magnum PI.

TC is talking to Magnum.

In the background boobs are bouncing and flouncing. Oh oh.

Please take this through to the kitchen my boy.

Jislike. Not now. Not in my PJ’s. Not looking like a tent.

Your only option is to pretend to sulk and complain that your sister can take it.

All you are really doing is playing for time.

Your toes are curling up in your stokkies.

Imagine if your sister saw.

Standard nine and you have just finished a wet and muddy hockey practice. It is getting quite late but the school rules are that you have to go home in blazer and tie. You are covered in mud and sweat so you shoot though for a quick shower before the long walk to the train station.

Your mate Steven is in the shower, his back is facing you.

Howzit man.

He jumps, his body shocked.

Skaam. Very, very skaam.

You can check he was just showering. Poor oke.

He is dying and blushing and looks like he wishes it was all a dream.

You don’t know where to look.

You pretend you haven’t seen any thing and you duck.

Fast.

The most unthinkable. The credibility killer. The school gym shower fat.

Never had one. Still get a dry mouth thinking about it.

Aparently never ever wrestle.

Ever.

Shout out for men in red overalls

Driving to work and suddenly I can see (in my head) a guy in a red overall,jumping out of helicopters.
Remember when: "Skattejag" was on with Scot Scott.

"Stop die hoorlosie, ek het die skat, ek het die skat!"

Legendary.

Mid Life Nostalgia

If you grew up in Cape Town and are now middle aged or thereabouts, you'll love this.
If you can't speak Afrikaans you are screwed though.

I miss a lot list....

I miss taking a leak and not having to worry that you have a 50:50 chance of getting a teaspoon of left over pee dribble down you leg as you exit the toilet.

I miss sleeping through the night without any kids to wake you up coughing, crying, peeing or sleep walking. (and I'm only looking for eight hours)

I miss sleeping in late in silence.

I miss taking only 10 minutes to get ready in the morning. Without kids lunches, uniforms, bickering and stalling.

I miss playing 36 holes on a Sunday if I felt the urge.

I miss playing golf. Period.

I miss cruising straight to La Med on a Friday afternoon after work with a beer in the car and the excitement of an unknown evening ahead.

I miss eating Dagwood's sitting in the gutter at Greasy's in Mowbray with the prostitutes, street people and cops at 3am on a Saturday morning.

I miss bunking lectures for the beach.

I miss streaking from Rhodes Memorial to Kenilworth Centre and knowing I could run that far without having a heart attack.

I miss heading off on three week holidays to Namibia in my little Opel 1300 with no plan, no car seats and no kiddies snacks.

I miss traffic cops who actually had to stop you to give you a fine.

I miss never having a job, but always having money.

I miss Tuesday nights at Barristers, Fridays at Forries, Saturday parties and Sunday nights at Quay Four.

Only another 12 years till the youngest clears out.

Heckling Suicide

Don't be a doos and heckle a stand up comic

Social networks drive social reform and liberties

Governments around the world are crapping themselves as social network sites and especially Facebook, YouTube and Twitter are changing the world in ways that their founders and users never foresaw.

Shit, even I am starting to like Mark Zuckerberg.

The change taking place in Tunisia and Egypt would never have taken place without Facebook and twitter.
Social network sites are feeding and driving social reform and revolution in a way never imagined.

The world has become a smaller place.
A student in Cairo can see, taste and smell the freedom a student, say, in Cape Town might enjoy, and want it. And demand it as his right.
And once you have given somebody a taste of freedom, you cannot take it back. It is like Pandora's box. It is out, and it's not going back. Ever.
It is seared in your memory.
Spawning
Once this realization dawns, it spawns. Friends tell friends. Soon every student in Cairo tastes some, wants some.
Now, instead of isolated reformists, reform becomes mainstream. Shit. It's accessible to everybody.
Screw the leftists. Revolutionary and social reform is centrist. It becomes a norm.
Organizing
Need to get a lot of people organized really quickly. Shit.
Facebook and twitter are the new graffiti of the people. But instead of left wing slogans spray painted overnight, we now have digital, instant and spawning graffiti.
Suddenly a lot of people can get organized very quickly.
Remember that old TV shampoo advert "she told two friends, and they told two friends..." and soon the TV screen was full.
Same deal. But at the speed of light.
Monitoring and Moderation
Want to be tried for war crimes? Do something in range of a cell phone.
Suddenly dictators and their lackeys are being filmed and posted. Not so easy to squash a demonstration quietly anymore. You are filmed a hundred times on a hundred phones,and before the tear gas has settled you are on YouTube. For all the world to see. And judge.
Exciting stuff.

But somewhere, someone is sitting and asking "how can we make revenue out of this"
And more scary, someone else is asking themselves "how can we plant and control this effect for our own good"

Both of you piss off.

It doesn't belong to you.
It belongs to us.

Making an important deposit

The smug doctor had said to wait three months and then come through for a deposit BEFORE thinking we were home and dry.
We did the first part, (mostly), and then started to get a little reckless and careless after the three month mark without going through for an actual check.
I mean he said to wait three months, and three months had passed.

And then my wife got very bad morning sickness symptoms.
Very bad.
We had a complete sense of humour failure.
Fingers were pointed. Blame was allocated.
We were gobsmacked and rushed off to get pregnancy tests.
It all felt like Déjà vu. Bad Déjà vu.
Creative excuses were prepared for family and friends.

An agonising 24 hours later we breathed a massive sign of relief. It had just been very bad flu-like symptoms.
But that was that. Test or celibacy.
(I think she was in favour of the celibacy thing,although I might just have been being sensitive)

My wife's sensitive parting words as I headed through to the hospital for the test were along the lines of, "Don't come home to produce a sample and then drive all the way back through again, its a waste of petrol, just do it there. For Pete's sake, don't be a wuss about it, it's no big deal."

Okay. My love.

When a reached the counter I was supposed to sign in at, I realised that a number of other people were there with all sorts of other tests that they needed to run.
I was expected to share a counter with other people.
Shitsake. It was like buying condoms when you were young and innocent. You needed an empty isle.
It felt like there were at least 376 other people waiting at the counter filling in forms in complete silence, a lot of them young school girls and old grannies and a couple of nuns if I remember correctly. Then a sever looking nurse with a booming voice called out over all their heads asking me what I wanted.
Shitsake.
I am sure I remember them all stopping what they were doing and silently turning to face me.
As softly as I could I stammered out "I am here to give a sperm sample"
"What!" she boomed.(cow)
"I need to give a sperm sample to check that my vasectomy has worked"
(bitch)

She gave me a small plastic vial with a screw top and very loud instructions, over the heads of the waiting masses.
I left quickly.

Okay, now the easy part. We've done this a million times eh, no biggie.
Mmmm, where to go?

I ended up in a toilet cubicle in the downstairs loo.
I tried. I really, really tried.
But it smelled like a hospital. Shitsake, it was a hospital.
The cubicle had those awful doors that don't come all the way to the floor.
And worst of all was the foot traffic.
Who knew a hospital loo had that many people wandering in and out.
Every time I got anything approximating a rhythm going, crash, in walked the next prick.
I tried till it got uncomfortably sore.
It just wasn't going to happen.

I stared at my new friend, the empty plastic cup.
Hello little empty matey.
We needed more us time.
So I zipped up and went searching for somewhere more romantic and secluded.
I found an upstairs loo on the corner of the third floor. This had to be quieter.
In I went and we started on the second act.

At one stage I thought I might be getting somewhere when the door opened and somebody came in and took a noisy leak in the cubicle next to mine and stopped the entire performance.
It was worse than a cell phone ringing loudly in a quiet cinema.
I tried one last time (bloody hell, my arm was aching by then)
I was making some progress when I had a kak thought. A very kak thought.
Security camera's. What if they had security camera's and there were at that moment,security guards, men and women, all crowded around a monitor laughing their arses off.
I looked around wildly.
There were no visible camera's, but I had seen The Bourne Identity, just because I couldn't see them, didn't mean that they weren't there.
It was too much.
It was time to bring down the curtain.

Later that day I got home with and empty cup and a serious timing issue for the next day.
You try and produce a sample, getting three kids ready for school, all in a shitty mood, without being bust.
With a wife who is harried and rushed and looks at you like a pervert.
"Do you really have to do that now?"
And then, as per instructions, keep it warmly wrapped in your pocket during the school run.
It was an experience I wouldn't like to go through again.

And I can only wish it on my closest friends.

Up the elephant's bum

Do elephants vomit through their mouths, or through their trunks…?



As it would at a 40th birthday, once the tequila’s had come out, the conversation moved to Tunisia.
“What is in Tunisia?” asked the doctor.
“Carthage!” said Nikki, “I’ve been there, it’s where Hannibal launched his attack over the Alps.”
“Are you sure” asked the stud.
“Oh yes”, said Nikki, “he came up through Spain”
(Nikki is a man by the way, odd name for a man, but then he’s a pom, so there you go.)

“Bullshit!” We all replied, how did he get his army across the sea.
“Boats you idiots”
“What about the elephants?”
“Bigger boats”

“So, what if they got seasick?”

Mmmmmmm
Five minutes quite thought, quiet sipping of drinks.

“Hey, how do elephants vomit?” we obviously wondered next, “through their mouths or through their trunks?”

Mmm. Not sure. Good question.
Ten minute debate. No consensus reached.

Let’s have another tequila, eh.

“Hey”, said the handsome charming one, “Talking of elephants, I once saw a YouTube clip of a man with his head up an elephants arse.”

“Bullshit agent.”
“No really.”
“No, Bullshit.”
“No really okes, I did, I bet you I did”

I bet you a good book that I would enjoy reading.

So here you are you middle aged bastards.

Pay up, buggers.

What are those dad? - Thats easy buddy, those are daddy's nuts

“What those are for dad?”

Dad's who bath with their kids are asking for trouble.
My own advice to any dad with young kids is as follows:
Never bath together. Ever. No matter how young they are.
Instil a Victorian sense of decorum to anything bathroom related.
Being naked in a bath with three year olds leads to all sorts of awkward questions:
What are those dad?
Easy one buddy, they are Dad’s (reasonably good looking) nuts.
This quickly goes down hill as the dreaded pre-curser gets asked: “What are they for?”
Soon you are at a dead end -“How do the dads get the seeds into the moms?”

This is when you submerge to rinse off the shampoo.

Seven years olds also can get their facts awkwardly mixed up, a few years ago, our now ten year old proudly understood that at birth the woman’s body had all the eggs she would use in her lifetime stored up and ready for release.
This was three decades sooner than her father understood this.
She also, via her mother and school, had a broad understanding that there was an act called sex.
However, she was under the impression that the mother got “topped up” once by the father, and in the same way eggs were regularly released, so too were the all important seeds.
One top up and you were good to go.

(A point that mothers the world over probably wish was true, no doubt.)

She was aghast to realise one day, after learning this was not the case and counting her siblings, that her parents had had sex at least three times.
With a disgusted face, she cringed out, “Gross dad, do you mean you and mom have had sex more than once? That’s disgusting!”
She was pretty upset about this. Her mother is probably starting to see it that way too.
(What the hell did she think they had done to earn an hour of TV with treats on Sunday mornings?)

Anyway, no more of this I should think.
Living in a rural area for a year has cleared all this up.

Our kids have now seen penises in all shapes and sizes.
Penises no longer raise the slightest interest.
Bulls, donkeys, mules and horses seem to live in a constant state of readiness.

My kids have seen goats, dogs, and even sheep having sex.
Cats on heat prowl around all night.
Chickens might be quick and forgo foreplay, but even they appear on the penis radar.

“Dad, the rooster is mating with Pamela Anderson (this is our chicken Pamela Anderson, and not THE Pamela Anderson), and her bum is all open and everything”
Gorgeous.
Followed by my then five year old daughter asking, “Shame, isn’t that sore?”
I am not kidding you when I tell you that when we were playing “the cloud game” a while ago, when one of my wife’s offspring said, “Look at that cloud, it looks like two goats mating”

More positive teaching comes in the form of the chickens and their eggs.
One of our chickens had 11 chicks hatch while the other hen, Mr Snuffles (hey, the kids chose the names), had been sitting on another 12 eggs for the past two weeks, and these also started hatching. This was very exciting and the kids made a lot of trips to the coop to check on progress, and at one stage we brought an egg inside for them to watch it hatch on the bed.

All very educational.
All good.

Also, with so many cute calves, sheep, goats and foals around, they are getting a very rounded and positive education.

One low point of note.
We had a very old decrepit dog called Sedgwick. Who smelled of faeces.
That is not the low point in itself.

The fact that we twice caught him trying to mate with our very startled six month old kitten, Cheetah was far more concerning.
It really happened.
I think this could safely be described as the low point in any dog’s life.
“Dad! Dad! Sedgwick is mating with cheetah”

And by golly gosh, so he was.
We even had time to get a photo to prove it.
This is sex education you can’t get in any school.
And I think I can safely assume that I will never have to broach the Birds & the Bees again.

Afrikaaners do have a sense of humour - Die Antwoord - Zef Side.

Never mind the NATS, today, Afrikaans people do have a (wicked) sense of humour.
These okes are classic South African. Cape Town. Bellville.
Six months ago they would have freaked all you Kirstenbosch concert go-ers out.
But now you too can love their irony, their sound, and most of all that 3.2 million Americans don't find them ironic.
Its like doubly rich and funny and cool.
Play loudly in your open plan office.

Local is often Lekker

So this year we should listen to more Sefrikan music.
It's offen fokken lekker, and it offen comes from fokken Cape Town.

Time to Brush up on Local Music - Jack Parow - Cooler as Ekke

My armpit looked like the vagina of a very old porn star with a bad shaving rash

It started out as a swollen gland under my armpit.
"Nice one" I thought, just what I feel like.
Then it didn't go away. For five days.
It just got bigger and redder and a shit load more painful.

Oh skaam! A boil.
Who gets boils at 42? I had like one, ever, when I was 13.
What is this. Latent puberty.
You have to be kidding me.

Then on day six, the discomfort turned to pain.
Like can't sleep at night pain.
Like 3 myprodol pain.
And the boil got bigger and redder and madder.
I was crying. I was wrecked.
No head.
My kids were looking at me writhing on the floor with no respect at all.
"Boils" - "we have them for breakfast"
Their eyes all screamed soft-cock at me.

Then I pulled the ultimate of all kak moves.
Shaving your pit. Gals do it. Nobs do it. Fetish freaks do it. Now I had done it too.
It didn't look very sexy.
In the mirror, my shaved armpit looked like the vagina of a very old, very flabby, very used porn star. With a bad shaving rash. And in the middle, a big, angry, swollen tit sticking out.

In my moment of greateast pain I cut 40cm off the end of the garden hose, stuck one end on my new third nipple, and sucked on the other end. Hard.
Honest no shit.
You try doing that with only one hand, in pain, with your other arm above your head, seeing everything in reverse in a mirror.
All I got were three perfectly round. Very painful and deep blue love bites. And lots of bruising.

At last Mount Fuji got a snow cap.
Squeezing started in earnest three times per day.
Buckets came out. First puke yellow, and then dirty grey and finally brown. Faeces brown. Yuk.
And each drop was sore.
But the hole is tiny. Too tiny. I need more action.

Day eight and I rush through to the Doc at 19h45 pleading for it to be cut open.
Grit your teeth says the little shit and then without any further ado he stabs the sharp end of a closed pair of surgical scissors into the hole, and then opens them and rips them out. Geeze. My toes curled and I screamed a little 5 year old school child like scream.
Double strength ant-biotics and be a man.

Two days later I am back at the doctor.
The pain shooting through my veins is blood poisoning.
I have a temperature, aching joints, sore muscles and a fever.

I look at my kids with new respect.
My wife has had to squeeze my suppurating porn star vagina nipple armpit each night.
In one foul stroke I have managed put her off hetero, gay and porn star sex.

Its not a lot to be proud of, but it is something.

New Years Resolution # 7 - I will learn to surf by the end of December 2011

Toilet Etiquette

Some questions only have one right answer.
So when you reappear from the loo after a quick pre-movie leak and you are about to dip your hand into a box of shared popcorn, and you are asked - “Did you wash your hands?
The only correct answer to give is: “Come on! Of course!”

But let me tell you.
Off the record.

There is no bloody chance I washed my hands in there.
Yes it is a beautiful cinema, and yes, the bathrooms are immaculate, but none the less, it is a PUBLIC toilet.
That means a lot of people use it.
People I don’t know. People I don’t want to know.
Some of them odd looking.
And that means Warlock is most certainly the cleanest thing in there.

I have a common sense golden rule of public toilet use.
Only touch yourself.
Realise this - your dick/penis/cock (Warlock) is the most germ free area in there.

Only open the door with your elbow or your foot. Don’t touch the door handle or the germ laden metal door panel around it.
You don’t take the door off its hinges, just a gentle nudge with your foot will do.

Once inside use the urinals whenever you can, just walk in, unzip and get things done.
Be careful about peeing on the blue tablets or the ice cubes and trying to get them to melt in one spot, you might get some splash back, and nothing will take your mind off the opening credits more than the thought that somebody else’s putrid piss is slowly burning a hole on your skin.
If they are not automatic, then when you flush use your elbow, or don’t flush at all.
Make sure you don’t touch anything with bare skin.

Now, if you have to use a stall take extra precautions.
Again, nudge the door open with your foot (you wear slip slops at your peril, hippy creep)
I can’t say this enough.
Do not touch anything in there.
Lift the lid and the seat with the toe of your shoe until they are resting in the upright position.
Have your leak, write your name, and get it over with.
Now, afterwards, if it is a press button flush or a lever, use your foot, or if in a long sleeve shirt, your elbow again, is also allowed.

Here’s where most of us eff up. Don’t wash your hands on the way out. A million urine and faeces covered hands have been on that tap before you. It is wet, and moist and warm. You are guaranteed to pass a shitsakes infection to Warlock from which he might not recover.

Leaving is more difficult than arriving. The door opens against you.
But don’t slack off now.
And for shitsake don’t use the door handle. Think of all those shitty, wet infected hands on the door handle before you. It’s frigging gross. Don’t do it.
Wait for someone to come in, or wait for someone to leave, and then catch the bottom of the door with your foot.
If you get stuck and you don’t want to miss the previews waiting for someone to come in, then go for the top of the door. Carefully.
I find you can generally get enough traction with your fingertips to swing it open.

Exit calmly. As you approach your partner wipe your hands on the back and side of your pants as though the drier didn’t work properly. If required, hold them up and blow on them and add a “tsk, tsk – bloody hand driers never work properly”

Enjoy the popcorn secure in the knowledge that you have done your bit to combat the spread of germs and vile venereal disease, and give thanks that you aren’t a woman who had to sit, or even worse, that you didn’t need to do a number two.