Wednesday, 30 May 2007

Shaving and other hairy bits

I was lazy last week. I did not bother to shave for ten days, until the Flea banned me from the bedroom.

Friday night, in the bathroom with one of those horrible expensive new eighty five bucks for a single blade razors, I decided to play. First, I shaved my neck hair off, in a classic beard cut. Nipped out to the kitchen. the Flea just glared at me.
Step two, mutton chop whiskers...clean the chin, trim down to the jawline...back to the kitchen...glare number two. Back to the bathroom.
Shave off the sideburns, and clean up the jawline. A mean Charles Bronson, crossed with a boy from Benoni mustache down past the mouth down to the chin.
Back to the kitchen... "If you think you're getting anything here, forgedaboudit!!'was the Flea's response to my new look.
I went into the lounge. Surely somebody in the house would admire my new,mean look.

My son said: " Dad, you look like a biker!" My ego swelled, "a gay Biker".

I shaved myself clean two minutes later.

Little shit!

Tuesday, 22 May 2007

Winter Blues and Spring Cleaning

I realized one thing this morning. I thank my lucky stars I am not an Eskimo, or a Canadian, American,Swede or any other lost soul living anywhere nearby snow!

I hate cold weather. No, I despise cold weather!

I woke up this morning, in the dark, thanks to another bit of load shedding by Eskom. I had to take a cold shower in the dark. Damn, it was cold. It was so cold I came close to having a sex change! I flat-out refused to shave. Anybody who shaves in cold water is simply not right in the head. After a vigorous bout of screaming and jumping in the shower, I had to find clothes. In the Dark.

The Flea was just a lump under the covers. She did not even twitch, throughout my sex change ordeal. The Bitch! Considering I could not find any matches, the fact that I could not find any candles did not really matter. All I could find was a vanilla incense stick, and that did not help much.

What made my desperate search for clothes worse was that the Flea had decided to do a springclean yesterday. In my cupboard. The socks were gone, my boxers were on another shelf, my shirts...who knows.

By the time I could see what I was wearing, I was halfway to work. It looks like my colourblind granny dressed me. Strange combinations of colours.

Which brings me to my point.

Why do women love spring cleaning? At random times of the year?
The Flea drives me up the wall, with her continual changing of our bedroom. I never know from one week to the next where the bed is going to be, what colour the walls are going to be painted, or where my stuff is.

I can live with the bed being moved, or the new paint job or the new curtain, duvet etc.... but LEAVE my stuff alone. I like knowing where it is!

Monday, 21 May 2007

In two minds-

I had a dilemma on Saturday afternoon. One that I wish I had every year.

Both teams that I support were in the Super 14 rugby final at Kings Park Stadium in Durban. The Bulls vs the Sharks.

No matter which team I shouted for, my team was in front. A win-win situation

After 83 minutes of play my team won and my team lost.

The Flea calls me a 'twee-gat rooinek jakkals'.

I can live with that.

Wednesday, 16 May 2007

C.P.R. - Hamster style

My 12 year old nephew is pissed off with his mother, my oldest sister.

He blames her for the death of his pet hamster last night. It drowned in its water bowl.

I asked my sister why is it her fault? Damn fool thing fell into the bowl and drowned..can't be her fault?

She feels guilty. She told him to take the small water bowl out of the cage as the hamster kept tipping the bowl over and drenching the wood chips in the bowl. She took a large plastic bowl out of the cupboard, and made my nephew fill it up.With Water.To the brim.

Exit hamster.

This morning the former hamster was snatched out of the bowl and shoved in my sister's face.
She put Hammie on his back, and performed Hamster CPR for twenty minutes. The hamster was blown up like a balloon then squished, blown up and squished, to no avail.

Still Dead.

The Hamster murderer as she is now known offered to replace her victim. All she got was a filthy look, and the threat never to be spoken to again.

Kids - don't you just love them?

Tuesday, 15 May 2007

Switching Channels

The Flea and I had a rational discussion last night. Which is unusual. What normally passes for rational in our house would pass for insanity in anybody else's home.

She said I regarded the TV remote as an extension of my penis.
"What?" I sat up in my chair, changing channels with my penis extender.

"You think the remote is connected to your dick"

"Absolute crap! The remote is connected to the finger bone, the finger bone's connected to the wrist-bone, the wrist-bones connected to the ...",I sang back at her.

"It is," she argued.

This made me think. Who is the one in the room with his hand on the remote. Who hops from one channel to the next, controlling what the family watches?


So, is this a male ego thing? Controlling and dominating the family, with the remote standing in as a physical extension of my reproductive organs?

No. It is a self defense mechanism: If I did not have the damn remote, I would be watching 'Desperate Housewives', 'Sewende Laan' and God knows what else when I could be hopping from one channel to another watching the news, or sport, or GOd help me, the Fashion channel.

The Flea said she is buying a Dual view decoder at the end of the month. I can then play with myself as much as I like, while she watches what she wants to.

I wonder if I should feel insulted or pleased.

Friday, 11 May 2007

The Curry from Hell

I am feeling very sorry for myself this morning. The Flea is totally unsympathetic.
"Its totally self-inflicted," she remarked this morning while I was looking for sympathy.

I cooked last night.

As a rule, I am a good cook, even if I say so myself. Normally the whole family loves my curries. Last night was a little different. Not even my son, who has a cast-iron mouth would take more than one bite. I was quite pissed-off at this display of ingratitude.I slaved over a hot stove, etc

I was also quite pissed, while I made supper.

Which explains the lack of enthusiasm from the family. I will admit that using a large, no, enormous spoon to measure out the curry powder, was maybe going a little overboard. (Well, I could not find a teaspoon anywhere).

The curry was warm enough to bend a fork. I thought, after taking the first bite of the lamb curry, that flames were coming out of my ears. I looked in the mirror. No Flames... just lots of tears.

The Flea called Mr Delivery and had pizzas delivered.

I was damned if the curry was going to go to waste. I offered Joe, the cocker spaniel a bite. He just looked at me. 'Fuck you', I thought!

I WILL eat the curry myself. All of it.

I needed frozen toilet paper this morning. Or ice.

The Flea ignored my screams from the toilet.

Wednesday, 09 May 2007

Clan of the Cave Man

There was an old song by Jonah Louis, ‘you always find me in the kitchen at parties’. I always wind up, tongs in hand, next to the fire when having a braai. The Flea says I am just being full of shit. She says all men think they are the original caveman. Uggh! Oook! Drag those knuckles on the ground! As a caveman, we are blessed with instincts...we can cook meat. On a fire. With a stick.

The Flea can be a sarcastic bitch when she wants to be. Don’t you, sweetie?

Anyhow, being full of shit,as well as being a typical South African male, I know that everybody else fucks up the meat on the braai. I, on the other hand, am Grog, caveman chef! T-bones, chicken, ribs, boerewors, chops, if its braaied by me, you will eat it and enjoy it! I like eating steak cooked so rare that if taken to a good vet, it should take a day or two in the ICU for the cow to recover.

Too many people eat overcooked meat. My sister in law insists on eating extra well done meat. What a waste!. I keep threatening to take a boerewors shaped stick of charcoal, shove it in a roll with All Gold tomato sauce, and see if she can taste the difference.

So what if they strike?

The Civil Servants are threatening to go on strike. Civil servants are a contradiction in terms: the greater mass of these assholes are neither civil or servants .In my experience their attitude sucks...
The journalists have space to fill in the newspapers, so are sucking panicky stories out of their thumbs about policemen nurses, teachers and other assorted civil servants striking. If these idle incompetents are on strike or at work, no visible difference can be seen in overall productivity. If the no work no pay rule is enforced, we may even save the state some money.

Nobody will be at work to steal stationery, or drugs or take bribes.

Cooking vs Takeaways

My baby sister is a busy woman but a lazy cook. She is a project manager who has to check her schedule for a space to allocate ‘mommy time’ to her kids.

Her motto in life :’cooking is for those who can’t afford takeaways’.

I can sort of understand that comment, if the takeaways are edible, and nutritious. I once pushed her wheelie bin outside for the trash collectors, and saw the contents. Six empty pizza boxes, several KFC packets, and loads of Steers takeaway cartons.

Pizza, fried chicken, cheeseburgers and chips. Sound nutritious to you? I love a King Steer burger as much as the next guy, but will be the first to admit they are low on the value chain as far a healthy diet is concerned. Don’t even talk about the crispy taste of Kentucky Fried Chicken,! Just ignore the oil and salt. Pizza, thin crust, double cheese, extra everything. Have a double dose of cholesterol and fat!

So my sister wonders why she has to buy bigger clothes on a regular basis. I told her it is the Vanish she throws in the washing machine… it must shrink her clothes. She should sue. I am still waiting for the penny to drop that despite the incredible shrinking clothes, she has to buy larger and larger outfits.

My baby sister: smart, hardworking, but dumb! You can’t but help love her, even though I sometimes hope she was adopted. Or maybe I was..

Tuesday, 08 May 2007

Another happy customer!

I bought a basic HP laptop at “Incredible Ripoff” in December. It looked great, was on special, had no damn compulsory Internet contract linked to it.I took it home, set it up, my son grabbed it and loaded a shitload of games(without my knowledge). I was happy.

Three weeks later, in the post Christmas sales, the damn laptop was on sale for a thousand rand less than I paid for it. Instant frothing at the mouth. I calmed down, eventually, after much beer and mumbles at discount importers ripping off clients.

The other day,another ad, my laptop, another thousand bucks less. Did I want to kick somebody's arse? You are damn right... starting with my own down to the goddamn salesmen in Eastgate! Two grand in 4 months for a low spec laptop!

I will be in the market for a new laptop in about 3 months. Guess which shop is not going to see me?

Monday, 07 May 2007

Marriage across the Boerewors Curtain

Growing up as a white English speaking kid in the ‘old South Africa” there was one group of people you did not associate with:

‘Dutchmen; Rockspiders; planks; hairybacks; crunchies’. The list of insults goes on and on. We were not left unscathed...'rooinek, soutpiel' are some of the names we were called.Nobody got away with be called something!

You played with your English buddies and had fistfights with the Dutchmen. You whistled at their sisters, but made sure you took a civilized chick to the Matric Dance.
You just did not date one of them. For fuck sakes, they didn’t even know how to dance! All they could do was go ‘sailing’, ‘langarm’ they call it! WTF? Who can dance like that? Stick your right arm out in the air and go whizzing clockwise round and round the room. Why could they not just be civilised and hop up and down in one spot in the middle of the dance floor, like normal people?

Time goes by…you grow up. You go to a party in Pretoria. And then…….

That dance style was their secret weapon. All the English speaking guys could see was these damn Dutchmen with their hands on the arses of some of the hottest chicks. Even more frustrating is watching the ‘’crunchies’ dance real closeup, in a style called ‘binneboud’. This is close to having sex standing up, but with your clothes on and in front of her mother/ father/ brother...

So you throw your years of prejudice away and go out with one of these chicks. Interesting. They feel soft in all the right places,( and make you hard in all the right places as well.)This could be fun! And so it goes. Before you know where you are, you have done the unmentionable. You married across that awful barrier.

The Boerewors Curtain! Your kids are gonna be little half-breeds! Shame on you.

But, as all men through the ages have discovered, a wife is a wife, no matter what language she speaks. You are a husband, a second class citizen in your own home. They all nag, they all bitch and they (nearly)all have a mother who thinks you are not worthy of their’ little angel.

Sitting in the Waiting room, waiting

I have one of those wives. One who believes that a medical aid must be used up by April, before the winter colds have arrived to make life a misery for the entire household. (I call my better half the Flea , she is small, a redhead, and she always bites me shit). As she is Afrikaans, this translates to “Vlooi. The Flea is not one of those mothers that will doctor the kids with Granny’s magic remedies. Oh no, at the first sign of the sniffles, I am drafted into making appointments with the GP. I sometimes feel the Flea thinks we have shares in the Medical Centre, or the Pharmacy. Well, I wish that I had, I would be a bloody millionaire...

I digress,
Where do doctor’s and dentists and for that matter psychiatrists(yes I have seen one- I am married,dammit), get their magazines from? Reader's Digest from November 1987, or the National Geographic from 1978. They have all been read to shreds, with missing pages, which really pisses me off. Just when you are getting into the mysteries of the Andes, the last page is gone!
When the medical centre is part of a large group, a;ll you get in the in-house magazine with neverending interviews with a CEO, promising 'affordable healthcare, with a conscience', or something similar. Where is the CAR magazine, or Playboy or hell, the Huisgenoot? A new one?

Making money from my tap

What's the story with bottled water? Everywhere I go, people order water, still or sparkling,(or rather tap and sodastream) at horrible prices. Why? All you need ask for in the restaurant is a damn glass of water with lots of ice. We do not live in Mexico, or Delhi, or Harare, where you risk a severe case of the shits by drinking anything that is not in a bottle. That I can understand. But Apple and Mint flavoured water, shoved through a giant sodastream to add a few expensive bubbles. Crazy.

I made the mistake of buying a bottle,500 ml size, at the office this morning. R9,50 for strawberry flavoured water! I nearly had a stroke! I think I must open my own water bottling plant.

Aqua Jozi (compliments of the Rand Water Board). Freshly bottled at source (my kitchen tap).Lotsa minerals and fluoride(thanks again Rand Water). Gently freshened with gas(my trusty Sodastream machine).I just need to think what flavours I can add. I thought of dipping a couple of Chappies(spearmint flavour), soaking the gum in the water for twenty minutes to give a nice bite and voila, Aqua Jozi, softmint at R7,50 a litre.

All I need is a distributor, and I'll be rich!

Friday, 04 May 2007

Fishy story

I am not a fisherman. Never have been, never will be. The only time I could catch a fish is if the damn thing was depressed and suicidal, and could manage to strangle itself in my fishing line.

AS a rule I never put a hook or bait on a line. As I said suicide would be the only way I could catch a carp! What is more, if you shuffle the letters around, you get: c.a.r.p. = c.r.a.p! That is what the damn things look and taste like. I like my fish in bite size chunks, with batter and chips! Already cooked!

I do however; have three brothers-in-law, two of whom are fishing fanatics. (The less said about the third brother in law the better.) I therefore am regularly invited to go murder innocent carp. I do my best to have a convenient something on the go when a fishing weekend is arranged. I am sometimes caught without an excuse, which results in my less than enthusiastic participation in their fishing trips.

Let’s discuss the arrangements for a fishing trip.

Firstly, all the guys need to be advised of the proposed fishing weekend. SMS’s fly around the countryside. Much plotting and lying to wives is done to ensure that those men in the dog box can get a weekend pass out. (It does not say much for the relationships between men and women in this country to discover how many guys live semi-permanently with their hounds.)

Secondly, a venue must be found. This issue is more often than not easily resolved. We will go to the last place we went to! Easy! Unless some bright spark has been fishing in a new “undiscovered dam.” Much discussion about facilities, do they bite, what is the cost and most important, how far do we have to drive. Once thing you must realise: Fishing involves driving long distances to places even God has forgotten he created. Well, maybe the Devil remembers them, as most of them are infested with mosquitoes. Lots and lots of mosquitoes!

So, number three. Who is sleeping where? Everybody has to cater for himself, but not everybody has got a tent. Did I forget to mention the tents? Yes, that kind of fishing trip. In tents. On the ground. With the ants. You would think this to be a minor issue. You do not realize that there are unwritten rules here. The snoring fraternity is quickly identified and banned to a separate tent. Preferably far away from everyone else. Some will sleep in the back of their bakkies (pickup trucks to you ignorant foreigners), not willing to trust the weather. As one of the delinquents that snore, I have gone so far as to buy my own two-man pup tent, allowing myself to snuffle and snort to my hearts content. I can even fart without somebody throwing a pillow at me! Cool!

Number four: the food, and the alcohol. No, let me rephrase that, in order of importance, the booze and then the chow! More of the former and less of the latter!

Each guy must cater for his own booze. My brothers in law had to repack the double cab twice to fit all the cases of beer in. When all the beer was loaded, there was no place for the meat.

Meat! Almost a small cow’s worth. A fishing weekend consists of a non stop braaiing and boozing. The only time you can see a slack time in the braaiing is about 4am in the morning, when the drunks pass out.

When it came to breakfast, I realized why I am always invited to come along. I make breakfast. Nobody else is in any condition to make food, or wash the utensils from last nights barbecue. As the only semi-sober body available, as well being the only man there who dislikes cooking in carbon-encrusted grids and pans, I wind up washing the bloody things. The other lazy son-of-bitches will eat anything cooked on anything with anything. Not for me... I HAVE SEEN TOO MANY CASES OF GYPPO-GUTS! thanks, I stop at the Pick and Pay on the way home on Sunday afternoon, buy a box of hake fillets, take a picture of my 'catch', and boast about the one that got away!