June 29, 2012

It's Friday! (Jun2912)

Ola all,

Well judogirl’s gone – left me with two kids, a mortgage and a sick dog…

I got this pain in my shoulder and knew I had to see the doctor. He asked me what I did, so I told him:
"Well, I almost through myself off a cliff, waded across the edge of a lake, almost stepped on a snake in the heavy bush, marched up and down hills and valleys, stood in a patch of poison ivy, crawled out of mud, sand, and creeks, and jumped away from an aggressive crocodile."
Inspired by my story, the doctor said.... "You must be an awesome outdoors man?"
"No," I replied, "I'm just a terrible golfer."

However, my health and happiness shouldn’t stand in the way of you receiving your giggles. Judogirl will probably be back Sunday… noonish. If the flight’s not delayed – we’re picking her up from the airport then.
This week it’s about how you get to Heaven from Scotland, drinking in Scotland, and being lucky.... very, very lucky.

Oh, pick of the week is actually a pic of the week…… babydoll – best ever!! Thanks as always!

Scottish Sunday School
I was testing children in my Glasgow Sunday School class to see if they understood the concept of getting into heaven.
I asked them, "If I sold my house and my car, had a big jumble sale and gave all my money to the church, would that get me into heaven?"
"NO!" the children answered.
"If I cleaned the church every day, mowed the garden and kept everything tidy, would that get me into heaven?"
“NO!” the children answered again.
"Well, then, if I was kind to animals and gave sweeties to all the children, and loved my husband, would that get me into heaven?"
Again, they all answered 'No!'
I continued, "Then how can I get into heaven?"
A six year old boy shouted, "Yu got tae be f*%in' dead"

Happy Hour
Four old retired guys are walking down a street in Edinburgh. They turn a corner and see a sign that says, 'Old Timers Bar - all drinks 10 pence'.
They look at each other, and then go in, thinking this is too good to be true.
The old barman says in a voice that carries across the room, 'Come on in and let me pour you a drink! What'll it be, Gentlemen?'
There seemed to be a fully-stocked bar, so each of the men ordered a pint of bitter. In short order, the bartender serves up four pints of bitter and says, 'That'll be 10 pence each, please.'
The four men stare at the bartender for a moment. Then look at each other. They can't believe their good luck. They pay the 40 pence, finish their pints, and order another round.
Again, four excellent pints are produced with the bartender again saying, 'That's 40 pence, please.' They pay the 40 pence, but their curiosity is more than they can stand. They have each had two pints and so far they have spent less than a pound.
Finally one of the men says, 'How can you afford to serve pints as good as these for 10 pence each?'
'Well, I'm a retired tailor from Nottingham,' the bartender said, 'and I always wanted to own a bar. Last year I hit the Lottery for £125million and decided to open this place. Every drink costs 10 pence ......wine, spirits, beer, it's all the same.'
'Wow! That's quite a story', says one of the men.
The four of them guzzled at their pints and couldn't help but notice seven other people at the end of the bar who didn't have drinks in front of them, and hadn't ordered anything the whole time they were there.
One man gestures at the seven at the end of the bar without drinks and asks the barman, 'What's the story with those blokes?"
The barman says, 'Oh, those guys, they're all retired coalminers from Manchester. They're waiting for Happy Hour when drinks are half price.”

Luck of the Irish:
Murphy, a furniture dealer from Dublin, decided to expand the line of furniture in his store, so he decided to go to Paris to see what he could find.
After arriving in Paris, he visited with some manufacturers and selected a line that he thought would sell well back home. To celebrate the new acquisition, he decided to visit a small bistro and have a glass of wine.
As he sat enjoying his wine, he noticed that the small place was quite crowded, and that the other chair at his table was the only vacant seat in the house.
Before long, a very beautiful young Parisian girl came to his table, asked him something in French (which Murphy could not understand), so he motioned to the vacant chair and invited her to sit down.
He tried to speak to her in English, but she did not speak his language. After a couple of minutes of trying to communicate with her, he took a napkin and drew a picture of a wine glass and showed it to her. She nodded, so he ordered a glass of wine for her.
After sitting together at the table for a while, he took another napkin, and drew a picture of a plate with food on it, and she nodded. They left the bistro and found a quiet cafe that featured a small group playing romantic music.
They ordered dinner, after which he took another napkin and drew a picture of a couple dancing. She nodded, and they got up to dance. They danced until the cafe closed and the band packed up.
Back at their table, the young lady took a napkin and drew a picture of a four-poster bed...

To this day, Murphy has no idea how she figured out he was in the furniture business.

And my pic of the week:

June 22, 2012

It's Friday! (Jun2212)

Ola all,

Quite peculiar that I start with rugby again, but hey, with so many rugby Internationals all over the place and the Northern hemisphere taking a proper klap left, right and England, it’s only appropriate to relay bits of helpful and uplifting news to their supporters at home. Like the following snippet from the “Daily Telegraph pole”:
Leading up to the third and final test this coming Saturday, suffering from a few rugby lessons at the hands of the Springboks, the England rugby squad took time out on Tuesday to visit an orphanage in Soweto:
"It was heartbreaking to see their sad little faces, facing the future with no hope,' said Sipho, aged six.

And of course I mentioned the absolute week of all-things-horrible last week… yeah, well I ran away and applied for another job – much less pressure. I am now the friendly voice on the other end of the Lifeline Crises Centre! After some rigorous training over the first few days I eventually had to “take a call”:
The distressed caller said he was lying on the railway track and a train was rapidly approaching.
I asked him his name (according to the book – full marks).
He said his name was Julius, but his friends called him “JuJu”.
I told him to remain calm and stay on the line....

So I’m looking for a job again…

But don’t worry about me, you enjoy the local wildlife, a few British line adverts and something about a cowboy, and have a good weekend!

A blonde in the bushveld:
A blonde was on vacation and driving through Nelspruit. She desperately wanted to take home a pair of genuine crocodile shoes but was very reluctant to pay the high prices the local vendors were asking.
After becoming very frustrated with the 'no haggle on prices' attitude of one of the shopkeepers, the blonde shouted, “Well then, maybe I'll just go out and catch my own crocodile, so I can get a pair of shoes for free!”
The shopkeeper said with a sly, knowing smile, 'Little lady, just go and give it a try'!
The blonde headed out toward the river, determined to catch a crocodile! Later in the day, as the shopkeeper is driving home, he pulls over to the side of the bank where he spots the same young woman standing waist deep in the murky water, shotgun in hand.
Just then, he spots a huge 3-metre croc swimming rapidly toward her. With lightning speed, she takes aim, kills the creature and hauls it onto the slimy banks of the river. Lying nearby were seven more of the dead creatures, all lying on their backs. The shopkeeper stood on the bank, watching in silent amazement. The blonde struggled and flipped the croc onto its back.
Rolling her eyes heavenward and screaming in great frustration, she shouts out...

Short adverts:
8 years old, Hateful little bastard. Bites!

1/2 Cocker Spaniel, 1/2 neighbour's sneaky dog.

Also 1 gay bull for sale.

Worn once by mistake. Call Stephanie.

Complete set of Encyclopedia Britannica, 45 volumes.
Excellent condition. $200 or best offer. No longer needed – got married – wife knows everything.

And at school:
TEACHER: Glenn, how do you spell 'crocodile?'
TEACHER: No, that's wrong
GLENN: Maybe to you, but you asked me how I spell it.

TEACHER: George Washington not only chopped down his father's cherry tree, but also admitted it. Now Louis, do you know why his father didn't punish him?
LOUIS: Because George still had the axe in his hand.....?

TEACHER: Now Simon, do you say prayers before eating?
SIMON: No sir, I don't have to. My Mom’s a good cook.

TEACHER: Clyde, your composition on 'My Dog' is exactly the same as your brother's. Did you copy his?
CLYDE: No, sir. It's the same dog.

TEACHER: Glen, why do you always get so dirty?
GLEN: Well, I'm a lot closer to the ground than you are.

Pick of the week:
A cowboy appeared before St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.
‘Have you ever done anything of particular merit?' St. Peter asked.
'Well, I can think of one thing,' the cowboy offered.
'On a trip to the Black Hills out in South Dakota, I came upon a gang of bikers who were threatening a young woman. I directed them to leave her alone, but they wouldn't listen. So, I approached the largest and most tattooed biker and smacked him in the face, kicked his bike over, ripped out his nose ring, and threw it on the ground. I yelled, 'Now, back off or I'll kick the sh!t out of all of you!'
St. Peter was impressed, 'When did this happen?'
'Couple of minutes ago'

Ag, and just a little bonus for those of you who don’t quite know who JuJu is:
Julius Malema stated yesterday: “I want the people of South Africa to treat me the same way they treated Nelson Mandela”
Evita Bezuidenhout immediately responded: “What a great idea. Let’s start with 27 years in jail."

June 15, 2012

It's Friday! (Jun1512)

Yes it is! And may I say, I think there’s too much rugby on nowadays – it’s starting to rub off on our women and that spoils the fun for me. Last night after watching another match I got a bit carried away: jumped into bed, looked at judogirl in her wondrous frillies and said: "Crouch. Touch. Paaaaause…. Engage!"
She said: “No advantage. Hands off, roll away, stay on your feet!"

At least at work I had an interesting question posed: this guy wanted to know how many times he could use his Life Insurance policy…
“Use it?”
“Yeah, to come back from the dead an’all, you know?”
My answer was obvious: “Well, it all depends on how you structure your policy and what your view is on cows…”

Enough about me – today it’s about Italians, the Irish (of course) and a few short classics – some have been around for a while, but it’s always good to have these when you’re sharing a beer with your mates…before the rugby. Thanks to the lawman and the medicine-man for all their contributions this week – you guys must’ve been on holiday.


Twelve Italian priests were about to be ordained. The final test was for them to line up in a straight row, totally nude, in a garden while a sexy, beautiful, big breasted, nude model danced before them. Each priest had a small bell attached to his weenie, and they were told that anyone whose bell rang when she danced in front of them would not be ordained because he had not reached a state of spiritual purity.

The beautiful model danced before the first candidate with no reaction. She proceeded down the line with the same response from all the priests until she got to the final priest, Carlos. Poor Carlos. As she danced, his bell began to ring so loudly that it flew off, clattering across the ground and came to rest in nearby foliage.

Embarrassed, Carlos quickly scrambled to where the bell came to rest. He bent over to pick it up... and all the other bells started ringing.

The Irish:
Man lost in a hot air balloon over Ireland . He looks down and sees a farmer and shouts to him, "Where am I?"
The Irish farmer looks up and shouts back "You can't kid me ya b'stard, you're in that &#@% basket!"

Paddy is cleaning his rifle and accidentally shoots his wife. He dials 999.
Paddy says "It's my wife, I've accidentally shot her. I've killed her"
Operator "Please calm down sir. Can you first make sure she’s really dead?"
Paddy: "Done. What next?”

The shorts:
Japanese scientists have now created a digital camera with such a fast speed that it's now possible to take a photograph of a woman with her mouth closed.

Turned on my SatNav and it said 'Bear Left' and there was the zoo. How good is that?

I hate all this terrorist business. I used to love the days when you could look at an unattended bag on the train or bus and think "I'm having that!"

I was in bed with a blind girl last night and she said that I had the biggest "one" she had ever laid her hands on. I said "You're pulling my leg."

My girlfriend thinks I'm a stalker. Well, she's not exactly my girlfriend yet.

The wife has been missing a week now. Police said to prepare for the worst. So, I have been to the charity shop to get all of her clothes back.

They had a quiz at the pub last night – I lost by one point: The question was “Where do women mostly have curly hair?” Apparently the correct answer was Africa! Who knew?

Being a modest man, when I checked into my hotel on a recent trip, I said to the lady at the registration desk, "I hope the porn channel in my room is disabled."
To which she replied, "No, it's regular porn, you sick bastard."

Went for my routine check-up today and everything seemed to be going fine until he stuck his index finger up my bum! Do you think I should change dentists?

My pick of the week:
A buddy of mine just told me he's getting it on with his girlfriend and her twin.
"Can you tell them apart?" I asked.
"Yeah, it’s easy” he replied “her brother's got a moustache."

June 11, 2012

I live in a sleepy village

Some have visions of a bright white light at the end of a long tunnel. Others report of heavenly choirs: angelic voices guiding them to whatever lies beyond. More tell of crackling fires, the smell of brimstone, and a guy called Nick. Near-death experiences come in different shapes and sizes. Mine was of a big brown bottle, foaming ever so lightly at its top, icy droplets collecting on its sides over a big, bold inscription... B E E R

None of that “life-flashed-in-front-of-my-eyes” type thing for me (which would've at least offered a few precious minutes to strap myself to the kitchen sink, making it a bit of a challenge for whosoever had it on his/her agenda to come and pick me up!). No-no, I just get the celestial beer bottle.

If you’re a spiritual person, you’ve probably got a few opinions, theories, arguments, and thoughts on the matter. If you’re not a spiritual person, you’ve probably got a few opinions, theories, arguments, and thoughts on the matter, but different ones..… Whatever your take on the Big Man or the Big Bang, you’ve thought about it and you’re probably in a position to argue, debate, hypothesise, and postulate.

Me? At that point? I didn’t have the time to care – I was trying to hang on to dear life!*

* Yes, TO. If I was hanging on FOR dear life, it would've been a quirky play on words drawing a picture for comical effect. Nothing comical when you're trying to hang on TO dear life, which I was.

Since then, new approach: I get to the nitty-gritty quickly. That's why I started this letter at the end – one never knows - and will now take whatever time I have left to fill in the gaps. Have a nice life (just in case):

I live in a sleepy sea-side village. It’s beautiful, peaceful and quaint. The air is fresh, the scenery spectacular, the people are friendly and everyone knows way too much about everyone else. It’s such a special place that even the whales come down from the South Pole...... the whales come up from the South Pole...... it’s so quaint and wonderful that even the whales come here for their holidays.

It’s the idyllic little sea-side village where time seems to have stayed, where heaven meets earth, where old townsfolk smile sweetly and waive as they stroll along the tree-lined streets and manicured walkways, and where fishermen still harvest the sea… that's the movie version. In reality a lot of the fishermen here are actually perlemoen poachers and the old townsfolk are mostly uber-wealthy retirees whiling away the time by spying on their neighbours and complaining about everything else while flashing their whitened dentures. And yes, as in all those movies, the teenagers here turn to vampires when the sun sets.

For some or other reason today, the kids kept us busier than usual – which is unusual because they usually keep us pretty darn busy, but today was different. So MacGregor’s afternoon romp around the neighbourhood was slightly delayed. Well, “slightly” is exaggerating a tad: by the time we eventually went for his walk, he was jittering like a popcorn kernel in a hot pot, his flappy jowls nervously contorted, beads of sweat gathering around his nose, his eyes watering from the effort of holding it all in, squeaky little puppy-farts escaping from under his clenched tail... This dog is so cool: he will NOT go in his own yard (gotta love that dog)!

And because it was later than usual, naturally it was darker than usual, which meant the usual laborious afternoon criss-cross neighbourhood romp had to be condensed into a concise, focused whip-zip-sniff and download affair close to home. That was the plan. My plan.
MacGregor had a different plan though: he knew he was on the clock, sensed an opportunity and grabbed it with all paws. Like lightning, of canine persuasion, he bolted straight for a rocky hillock smack-bang in the middle of town and turned my customary saunter into an involuntary run.

A little reminder: I do not run. I don't even jog. I haven’t jogged in years. Come to think of it, I have avoided any impulse relating to anything resembling jogging or running for decades.

But I’m young, lean, fairly athletic, fit – I can run if I have to... I had to.

I had my 39th birthday a while ago. Upon reaching that hill I felt every day of each of those 39 years biting into my knees, gnawing at my calves, creaking my spine, dragging its weight behind me while molten lava gently wafted into my lungs. What once accommodated a washboard abdominal area gently wobbled.

The dog was already there, bouncing up and down, sniffing and snorting, whiffing and woofing, wagging his tail, and chasing dassies, only pausing to pooh – on top of a rock or small bush, never on the ground (it would be really fascinating to know more about that mutt’s previous life...)

Feeling the way I did, clutching my back, gasping for air, valiantly fighting off rigour mortis, the option of turning around and going home, downhill, for a rest and a beer was the obvious choice. Of course, being me, fate (just like that dog) had other plans. Out of the deepening gloom two vampire vixens appeared as if from nowhere, floating down from the hill. I could almost swear their feet were an inch off the ground... In daytime, they were the lovely teenage daughters of a friendly neighbour down the street of whom we know way too much.

Visions of my cold bruskie vanished like luggage in Hillbrow.

Not wanting to fall prey to their evil ways I sucked in my gut (but probable suffocation put a very abrupt end to that endeavour) and tried to seem nonchalant – cool, if at all possible (although the asthmatic wheeze and obvious tremor made it difficult). I was ready to fight them off, to the death if I had to…., using wit and boyish charm (my arms and legs were obviously of no use – incapacitated by cramp and lactic build-up).

"Hiya waynnesworld!" (pianissimo dolce voce)
"Hiya ladies," (sotto voce) “what ya doin’?” (1990’s cool sounded so flat in 2012… 39… sjeesh, time flies!)
They beamed their broad, dashing smiles (taking heed not to bare their fangs, yet).
“Oh, we're just running up and down the hill a few times” (...because I suppose that’s what vampires do right before they turn to real vampiring stuff).
A few times… no sweat, no heavy breathing – classic vampire! Their super-senses were scanning for weakness (their super-senses were wasted – Helen Keller could tell I was half dead by the time they arrived) and they zoomed in for the kill: “Why don’t you join us?” (mezzo piano)

Personal note: If I were in a swanky cocktail bar… allow me to rephrase: if I wasn’t married and in a swanky cocktail bar… (I’m getting into *&#$ here). If this was 1990, many years ago before judogirl and I even knew of each other’s existence (phew, close one) and I were in a swanky cocktail bar, and two lovely ladies walked up to me with that proposal, I’d know exactly what to do: “barman, where’s my hat?”

However, I wasn’t, this wasn’t, and judogirl was nowhere in sight to save my bacon. These girls didn’t mess around - they went straight for the jugular!!!

Primal instinct kicked in: my mind became razor sharp, my muscles tensed, my heart pumped rapidly (although quietly so as not to raise their awareness), adrenalin was coursing through my veins like... something that courses – a plan was taking shape…
“Allrighty then, but I’ve actually just come for the view," I said calmly "and I’ll have to go slow for the dog’s sake – he’s slightly arthritic” (nice save waynnesworld!)

I sucked in (I stealthily wheezed in) my slightly wobbly gut, tensed my athletic curves into classic Ace Ventura / Wile E Coyote pull-away mode, readying my honed body for an escape, when that stupid dog bolted straight up those steps like no arthritic bolt of lightning has ever bolted before! I’m still in two minds whether being attached to the other end of his leash was a good or bad idea... although it offered an immediate escape, dislocating my good shoulder in the process wasn’t really part of the plan… my plan, that is. My plan was to vanish into the gloom; stealthily blending into the night… like a shadow… the masked avenger… circumventing an unfortunate and unhealthy encounter with those overdeveloped bats.

But no, the dog just ran! And I was catapulted after him suffering whiplash and groin-strain in the process, immediately stumbling over the first step as my useless legs hadn’t completely recovered from their initial romp-stomping pilgrimage from the front gate. At first I thought he’d noticed my impending doom and did his utmost to save his master, but with limbs floundering in an uncoordinated circus of chaos, I spotted from the corner of my watery eye the cause of the dog's impromptu dart - a dassie hurtling up the stairs to freedom. I too therefore had to, involuntarily and totally against my will, hurtle at breakneck speed taking those stairs two at a time – classic mistake.

What followed remains vague, but I’m sure it wasn’t pretty. The slight asthmatic wheeze had turned to a horrid rasping, gasping battle for air – my nose, mouth, ears and every other orifice in my body open in a hopeless effort to suck in more of the sweet stuff to get me up those stairs. If only I could fall and break a leg or something – anything to spare me the agony of having to reach the top. As quickly as that dog sped off, he came to an abrupt halt, his head whipping left and right, scanning frantically for that dassie – which was gone. My momentum was greater than my ability and I too abruptly ended my charge. Slightly more undignified though – in a crumpled heap of dust and stones, grass in my mouth and the dog neatly propped on my head in such a manner that I wore his tail as a moustache. He has a very short tail…

And just when I thought it was all over, physiology caught up with me. Now I don’t know too much about physiology, but I know the universe is balanced and if you borrow something you don’t have (like energy, oxygen, or dignity) you’re going to have to pay it back – somehow. And apparently physiology’s way is with cramp, pain, rigour mortis, and foam at the mouth – very dignified. However, that was not enough. Physiology felt that I had borrowed beyond my means and I was going to have to claim insolvency, so my asthma spiked and my blood pressure fell to my ankles. Night veiled its cold clammy hands over my eyes… and I’m pretty sure this is where the celestial beer bottle slowly appeared out of nothingness.

I was at peace, floating in oblivion... or in bolivia... don't know, don't care, pain away, beer bottle circling my head, droplets running down the bottle's sides.... mmmmm. Droplets falling on my face - soft and warm at first - then more and more. Warm.... And more. Warm...? The droplets became a wash, the wash a torrent and the torrent became a swoosh. From somewhere, sounds were returning. It went something like shclugga-schlops-shlughetepah-schlopsi-ntha and synchronised, strangely enough, with the raging torrent of warm droplets now enveloping my face - covering it, drenching it. Warmly...

The mist lifted and the beer bottle transformed into a twirl of creamy, warm, buttery toffee which rushed at my face, hitting me with a raspy lick not normally associated with creamy, buttery, warm toffee and immediately vanished into a vision only reserved for veterinary dentists (up to this point) and me. I am happy to report though that MacGregor's molars, gums and tonsils are in mint condition... (although nothing resembling mint or anything of that phenotype had recently visited there...)

I was back! My head was covered in dog slobber, but I was back!! The dog was beaming - long droplets of goo still dripping off his mouth.

I thanked my lucky stars - this night could yet be saved... was it not for the dislocated shoulder, the lava lungs, the cramp, the blood pressure and the fact that two vampires had to carry me back home.

I'll get over it. I'll have a beer. It was in my vision... gotta mean something.

At least I learned something from this event (can't say I didn't always suspect the fact though): running bad, running bad, running really baaad...!

June 08, 2012

It's Friday! (Jun0812)

Ola all,

My exams are over – for now. Which means I have to start doing some work again. Should be a nice change… Last time I had to study so much was for my pilot’s license. We were living in Canada at the time and I remember walking past a parked car in Toronto: it had a bumper sticker on it that read “I miss South Africa”. So I smashed the window, took the radio and left a note that read, “I hope this helps”.
Eish, when you’re away from everything and everyone you know, you gotta do what you can to help, eh?
Have a lekker weekend!

Mick, from Dublin, appeared on 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire' and towards the end of the program had already won 500,000 pounds.
"You've done very well so far," said Chris Tarrant, the show's presenter, "but for a million pounds you've only got one life-line left: phone a friend. Everything is riding on this question… will you go for it?"
"Sure," said Mick. "I'll have a go!"
"Which of the following birds does NOT build its own nest?
a) Sparrow
b) Thrush,
c) Magpie,
d) Cuckoo"

"I haven't got a clue." said Mick, ''so I'll use last lifeline and phone my friend Paddy back home in Dublin."
Mick called up his mate, and told him the circumstances and repeated the question to him.
"Fookin hell, Mick!" cried Paddy. "Dat's simple... it's a cuckoo."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm fookin sure."
Mick hung up the phone and told Chris, "I'll go wit cuckoo as my answer."
"Is that your final answer?" asked Chris.
"Dat it is, Sir."
There was a long - long pause, and then the presenter screamed, "Cuckoo is the correct answer! Mick, you've won 1 million pounds!"
The next night, Mick invited Paddy to their local pub to buy him a drink.
"Tell me Paddy, how in heaven's name did you know it was da cuckoo that doesn't build its own nest?"
"Because he lives in a fookin’ clock, din he!"

A little boy goes to his dad and asks, 'What is Politics?'
Dad says, 'Well son, let me try to explain it this way:
I am the head of the family, so call me The Prime Minister. Your mother is the administrator of the money, so we call her the Government. We are here to take care of your needs, so we will call you the People. The nanny, we will consider her the Working Class. And your baby brother, we will call him the Future. Now think about that and see if it makes sense.'
So the little boy goes off to bed thinking about what Dad has said. Later that night, he hears his baby brother crying, so he gets up to check on him. He finds that the baby has severely soiled his nappy. So the little boy goes to his parent's room and finds his mother asleep. Not wanting to wake her, he goes to the nanny's room. Finding the door locked, he peeks in the keyhole and sees his father in bed with the nanny… He gives up and goes back to bed.
The next morning, the little boy say's to his father, 'Dad, I think I understand the concept of politics now.’
The father says, 'Good, son, tell me in your own words what you think politics is all about.'
The little boy replies, 'The Prime Minister is screwing the Working Class while the Government is sound asleep. The People are being ignored and the Future is in deep shit.

And my pick of the week (thanks staminos):
A man returns home a day early from a business trip. It's after midnight. While en route home, he asks the cabby if he would be a witness.
The man suspects his wife is having an affair, and he wants to catch her in the act. For R100, the cabby agrees. Quietly arriving home, the husband and cabby tip toe into the bedroom. The husband switches on the lights, yanks the blanket back and there is his wife in bed with another man!
The husband puts a gun to the naked man's head.
The wife shouts, 'Don't do it! I lied when I told you I inherited money
HE paid for the Porsche I gave you.
HE paid for our new cabin cruiser.
HE paid for your season rugby tickets.
HE paid for our house at the lake.
HE paid for your African tour and 4x4.
HE paid for our country club membership, and HE even pays the monthly dues!'
Shaking his head from side-to-side, the husband lowers the gun. He looks over at the cabby and says, 'What would you do?
The cabby replies, 'I'd cover him with that blanket before he catches a cold.'

June 02, 2012

Cream cheese & calculus

At this stage of my life there are only a few things that make sense to me. Not a lot, but some. Beer. That makes sense. I like beer.

Never seeming to have a spare moment to focus on anything, or having ten letters in various stages of completion over the last 18 months but nothing to show for it... that doesn't make sense.

Whisky. That makes sense. I like whisky.

Two kids of varying ages in variable stages of drooling, fooling, fumbling, tumbling, grumbling, crying, schooling and racketeering......

Wine. I don’t like it. Can’t drink it. According to judogirl, wine makes sense.

A picnic... what the fluff's that all about???

Not to be all chauvinistic (never sure whether that's an actual word or a degree of constipation) but a picnic is something to be grouped with root canal treatment, Beverly Hills 90210, being eaten by a shark, and typhoid.

I think I’d prefer being eaten by a shark (and I DO apologise to anyone ever being eaten by a shark, but there is a strong possibility that I might choose that been given the choice). It’s not that I’m not romantic. I think it’s got more to do with the fact that I am more practical (to the 'n'th degree) than romantic............ OK, I’m not romantic.

I have a home. With a kitchen. And kitchen counters.

In this kitchen I have a fridge. I know it’s a fridge because it’s got a big white door and there are fridge magnets stuck on it - a dead giveaway. Inside the big white door it’s fricken' freezing and there are two bottles of beer in there. I like beer. Have I mentioned that before? Dunno, but there they are.

There's lettuce in there too. And cheese. Even some humus - jalapeno humus. Baby plumb tomatoes, because judogirl likes little red ball thingy tomatoes. Milk. Not 2%, which I like, but full cream, because the nanny likes that. There are eggs. They’re small, but apparently the whites don’t "run" like the jumbos. The Humpty Dumpty Jumbos. Which I like. There’s bottled water - with bubbles. It tastes like strawberries. Very nice.

It’s all there - in the fridge. In the kitchen. The kitchen with the counters. In my house. With chairs. And plates. Cups and mugs. And glasses. Cutlery. A wide screen TV. At least two tables and three toilets...

I think you can see where I’m going with this.

Look, I’m as ready for a picnic as the next guy. It’s fun. It’s quirky. It’s romantic. But where's the sense in lugging it outside?

I put this to you because judogirl recently convinced me that I wanted to go on a picnic...

Allow me a moment - a literary pause, for the sake of any newcomers to my little world: judogirl is not called judogirl for nothing. She's 5'6", lean, mean, and can open pickle jars all by herself (she only lets me do it so I don’t have to lie about it to my friends). There's also a little Thompson gazelle thingy sowed to the front of her judo suit... In short, we don't argue.

Once convinced, my very practical mind quickly did the calculus: I’m gonna have to neatly pack up half my fridge – from where it is, securely installed in its custom made cupboard – into 40 little Tupperware… tuppers (?), and drag it off to a place nestled in a "meadow", somewhere. Far far away. With ants.

And I say calculus, because just like calculus, this doesn’t make any sense.

You see, math goes something like this:
2 slices of bread + 1 chicken breast + 1/4 lettuce + 1 beer = picnic on couch.

Calculus postulates that, assuming a chicken even exists (with one (1) being equal to zero (0) as a function of zero (0) equalling seven (5)*) a breast could theoretically be considered a fraction of the inverse of a non-picnic, assuming fair weather.
(You get that, or did you, like me, get lost at the mention of breasts? To this day it remains an absolute mystery how I EVER passed calculus.)

* yes, seven (5) - that's the beauty of calculus...

I digress.

This is a picnic. So, I’m not making one sandwich that I can eat. Nooo, I have to make a bunch of sandwiches and not eat any of them. Then I have to make a batch of chicken wings... And not eat any of them. Boil some eggs, make a potato salad, meatballs, and some chili chutney... no eating. I have to slice an onion, peal a tomato, grate some cheese, wash some lettuce, bake a bread, bottle a few olives, juice some oranges, and some grapes, an apple or two. Add a quiche (can you imagine I could even spell that?), apple pie, 4 yoghurts and a banana bread. Ostrich sausages, corn on the cob, a portion of Wednesday night's lasagna, a box of crackers, and that bag of Ceres dried prunes...

Ooh, ooh, don’t forget the Stilton..... the Brie with cranberries... and a wedge of Melrose. Are we taking the avocado? Of course we are - it’s a picnic after all. What would a picnic be without a green avo? And a pot of salt, a pepper grinder, some Nando’s spice and an industrial size bag of Aromat. Some tumeric? Chuck it in, it's a picnic!!

A bottle of that bubbly strawberry water, iced tea, a flask of coffee, and a bottle of wine. White. And because it might just rain, please throw in a bottle of red... Rain? Calculus.

Now, you might've gotten carried away just there, but remember that I had to make all these things in my kitchen. The one with the counters. With butter I took from my fridge. I probably walked half a kilometer getting it all ready and packed, when my couch was a mere 5 steps away.

And just as I think we're ready to go, I have to remember the blanket. Maybe a pillow or two. What about that fancy picnic basket we bought... for one day... should we ever feel the need to have a picnic... the one I said was a waste of money... but ended up buying anyway because if I didn’t you were going to cry, because you were pregnant... The one with half a battalion’s crockery and cutlery in it? Yip, the one with the romantic red and white pseudo-Italian peasant motive…

Of course it has to go.

I have gone to the bushveld for a two week break and had enough space left in the car to pack a fish tank. I pack a picnic and I have to leave my shoes, wallet and personality at home just so I can cram the doors shut.

This is going to be such fun...  (unfortunately your screen has no way of communicating the exact weight of my feeling in this regard. Somehow, the raw essence of sarcasm is just not that effective when portrayed by Italics alone).

After the initial half day spent preparing the blasted event (probably more time than I spent on my wedding), by now ravenous with hunger, we drive for an hour, which is fine because I like driving. What makes it tough though is knowing that I’m dragging this entire feast with me… only to bring back more than half of it. So I can put it back in my fridge… the one with the door… and the magnets... where I got it in the first place…
Had I been left in peace, at home, I could’ve consumed my own personal picnic, in its entirety, while watching rugby (or golf - I’m not picky): one sandwich, maybe a chicken wing or two, a couple of mini meatballs, and a beer (sh*t, forgot the beer!). But I’m not. I’m driving, stewing, suffering (smiling for effect) - and this is the easy part of the journey.

Once there – which is somewhere nowhere in particular near a tree next to a road that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere – it’s not an "unpack and enjoy" affair. Oh no, where would the fun be in that? We have to lug the entire calabash through the veld, over a fence, through the raging torrents of the Great Magabuza (a stream, for those of you who didn’t know) - sun beating on my extended forehead, sweat streaming down my face, back straining under the weight of it all... Remember the hotel bellboy in that Woodie Allen movie, legs buckling under the weight of the honeymooners' Louis Vuitton? That's me dragging our picnic through the African savannah, flies zooming around my head, fynbos (heather to you Scots) exacerbating the hay fever that has my chest wheezing and my nose running.

Yeah heck, picnics are fun (sorry, forgot the Italics that time)!

Some of you have complained that my letters get longwinded, so I'm not going to bore you with the details. I'll bore the rest of you: We eventually get there, which is nowhere in particular and is (apparently) exactly the point…

The neatly packed and stacked Tupperware skyscrapers are unpacked and unstacked. A picnic is assembled, Master chef style, on pristine white batalion style picnic plates, complete with serviettes, silver service cutlery, wine glasses... on a red and white checkered cloth thingy. No beer.

Sandwiches here, chicken wings there, meatballs and potato salad side-by-side (something about the textures or something...), the cheese on this side, the baguette on that side (with the galon of free-range olive oil)... of course there's no eating. The spices (all of them) go in that corner, and the green avo with the cheese... oh don't be silly, we were never gonna eat that, it's too green... (?), and the Swedish salmon over there. You mean there where the ants have just carried away the watermelon? Yip, just there.

Ah, isn’t this romantic waynnesworld? Just like those pictures in the magazines... (so THAT's what this is all about?!! Mental note: ban magazines! Magazines baaad!!!).

Let's have our picnic... Can I get you some wine?

That would've been nice. After everything I’ve done, prepared, slaved over, sweated into, buckled under... gone through... a butter sandwich would’ve been nice. A slice of dry bread would’ve been nice. One or two bites from a shark would’ve been nice... even wine would’ve been nice...  red wine...

Red wine?

No, no, don't get ahead of yourself - I DID remember the red wine... in case of rain... remember? I packed it because judogirl said "pack it!" 

But she never said "pack the umbrella". Nobody EVER said ANYTHING about packing an umbrella...!!

The lightning strikes so close that I cream the cheese and curdle my custard! The strawberry water goes flat!

My arms and legs are going in all directions at once. I'm packing it in - everything! Apart from the watermelon, of course - that's heading for the hills on its thousand little legs! 

I'm out of here - back to my couch! There it's safe and things make sense... 

June 01, 2012

It's Friday! (01Jun12)

Ola all,

Friday yet again. And June. Jeepers, we must be having fun!
Close call for this week’s pick between a lion tamer and two other okes, but I’ll start with a funny personal story:
I walked into a bar last night, which is strange because it wasn't all that dark out there.....
Then I went to a pub. Inside there were two burly girls drinking at the counter. I noticed that they had strange accents so I asked them: "Hi, are you two girls from Scotland?"
One of them screamed at me: "It's Wales you idiot, Wales!"
So I immediately apologised and said: "are you two whales from Scotland?"
(These tourists really get into it, don’t you think? June in Hermanus, after all, IS whale season. Gotta love those Scots!)

A CNN photographer gets a scoop on some raging mountain fires and gets approval to charter a flight. He uses his cell phone to call the local airport to make the hasty arrangements. He’s told a twin-engine plane would be waiting for him at the airport.
Arriving at the airfield, he spots a plane warming up outside a hanger, raring to go.
He jumps in with his bag, slams the door shut, and shouts, 'Let's go!!'
The pilot taxies out, swings the plane into the wind and takes off.
Once in the air, the photographer instructs the pilot, 'Fly over the valley and make low passes so I can take pictures of the fires on the hillsides.'
'Why?' asks the pilot.
'Because I'm the photographer for CNN,' he responds, 'and I need to get some close-up shots.'
The pilot is strangely silent for a moment, but finally stammers, 'So, what you're telling me is . . . you're NOT my flight instructor?'

A circus owner runs an ad for a lion tamer and two people show up. One is a retired golfer in his late sixties and the other is a gorgeous blond in her mid-twenties.
The circus owner tells them, "I'm not going to sugar coat it. This is one ferocious lion. He ate my last tamer, so you two had better be good or you're history. Here's your equipment – a chair, a whip and a gun. Who wants to try out first?"
The girl says, "I'll go first." She walks past the chair, the whip and the gun and steps right into the lion's cage. The lion starts to snarl and pant and begins to charge her. About halfway there, she throws open her coat revealing her beautiful naked body.
The lion stops dead in his tracks, sheepishly crawls up to her and starts licking her feet and ankles. He continues to lick and kiss her entire body for several minutes and then rests his head at her feet.
The circus owner's jaw is on the floor..
He says, "I've never seen a display like that in my life."
He then turns to the retired golfer and asks, "Can you top that?"
The tough old golfer stretches his arms, cracks his knuckles, creaks his neck, and replies, "No problem, just get that lion out of there."

And my pick of the week (thanks Pastor Bob):
Two guys in Woolworths bump into each other’s shopping carts by accident.
First guy: “Oh, I’m so sorry mate. I didn’t see you there. I’m so busy looking for my wife.”
Second guy: “What a coincidence, I seem to have lost mine too.”
First guy: “Maybe we can help each other. What does your wife look like?”
Second guy: “She’s tall, lean, with long blonde hair, long legs with beautiful calves. Biggish, firm breasts, and the cutest tight little bottom. What does your wife look like?”
First guy: “Never mind, let’s just find yours!!”