Monday, 03 December 2007
Wednesday, 21 November 2007
Rebooting an Airbus -SAA style
I had the misfortune of flying from Durban to Johannesburg last Friday evening on SAA's flight 582, which was delayed from 7:40 pm to take off just before midnight.
Not including the fact that SAA could not be bothered to keep it's stranded passengers informed as to why the plane was delayed:{ "operational reasons" brings falling engines to mind}, when we finally boarded the plane at 11:15pm we sat on the tarmac, not moving. The cabin attendant informed me that they were struggling to clean the toilets sump out...clearly somebody had taken a serious crap on the down flight!
The pilot announced that the aeroplane was very technologically advanced..everything is controlled by computer. These wonderful computers pulled a Windows stunt and were hanging. The pilot said "WE ARE GOING TO REBOOT THE PLANE!" If I was not strapped in, I would have fallen out of my seat laughing! My God! They rebooted the plane:-everything was shut down...no engines, no aircon, no lights...nothing!!
One quick reboot, and we take off ten minutes later!
Who ever heard of a plane being re-booted???
Not including the fact that SAA could not be bothered to keep it's stranded passengers informed as to why the plane was delayed:{ "operational reasons" brings falling engines to mind}, when we finally boarded the plane at 11:15pm we sat on the tarmac, not moving. The cabin attendant informed me that they were struggling to clean the toilets sump out...clearly somebody had taken a serious crap on the down flight!
The pilot announced that the aeroplane was very technologically advanced..everything is controlled by computer. These wonderful computers pulled a Windows stunt and were hanging. The pilot said "WE ARE GOING TO REBOOT THE PLANE!" If I was not strapped in, I would have fallen out of my seat laughing! My God! They rebooted the plane:-everything was shut down...no engines, no aircon, no lights...nothing!!
One quick reboot, and we take off ten minutes later!
Who ever heard of a plane being re-booted???
Friday, 26 October 2007
Witchdoctor
Only in South Africa:
I was listening to John Robbie on the morning show on Radio 702 this morning when I heard a call from the chairman of the Traditional Healers Professional Assocation.
What the hell?
An association for Witchdoctors?
What's next?
National Association for Thieves, Conmen and Drunks?
Oh, yes...I forgot..we have one of those...it's called Parliament.
I was listening to John Robbie on the morning show on Radio 702 this morning when I heard a call from the chairman of the Traditional Healers Professional Assocation.
What the hell?
An association for Witchdoctors?
What's next?
National Association for Thieves, Conmen and Drunks?
Oh, yes...I forgot..we have one of those...it's called Parliament.
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
Friday, 12 October 2007
Bad start to a Friday morning......
On the way to the office this morning, I rear-ended a car.
Somehow I knew it was going to be a bad day.
The driver got out of the other car, and he was a dwarf, poor bastard.
He looked at his dented car and then looked up at me and said "I am not happy"
I said, "Well, which one are you then?"
That's how the fight started...
Somehow I knew it was going to be a bad day.
The driver got out of the other car, and he was a dwarf, poor bastard.
He looked at his dented car and then looked up at me and said "I am not happy"
I said, "Well, which one are you then?"
That's how the fight started...
Monday, 08 October 2007
Idiot of the day
This is too much!!
"I am a medical student currently doing a rotation in toxicology at the poison control center. Today, this woman called in very upset because she caught her little daughter eating ants. I quickly reassured her that the ants are not harmful and there would be no need to bring her daughter into the hospital. She calmed down and at the end of the conversation happened to mention that she gave her daughter some ant poison to eat in order to kill the ants.
I told her that she better bring her daughter into the emergency room right away."
Some parents should get a licence to have kids.
"I am a medical student currently doing a rotation in toxicology at the poison control center. Today, this woman called in very upset because she caught her little daughter eating ants. I quickly reassured her that the ants are not harmful and there would be no need to bring her daughter into the hospital. She calmed down and at the end of the conversation happened to mention that she gave her daughter some ant poison to eat in order to kill the ants.
I told her that she better bring her daughter into the emergency room right away."
Some parents should get a licence to have kids.
Do not feed after Midnight
My eleven year old son was given a white mouse/rat last week by his uncle. Cage, food the works. Luckily for me ( or rather my marriage), he lives with my ex-wife so I had no explaining to do to my wife.
He visited me last weekend. When I went to fetch him at his mother's on Friday afternoon he spent a good five minutes giving detailed instructions to his granny as to the care of the rodent.
I dropped him off at five on Sunday afternoon. I chatted with his granny, drinking a cup of coffee. He asked her whether she had taken care of the rat. She said, "damn..He had better go feed the rat and give it water and food..she had forgotton all about it. He gave her a disbelieving stare and charged down the corridor to his room to save his pet. I heard him mumble something then he carried the cage into the lounge.
"Ouma, " he asked, "why is my white rat black?" He was totally confused. There was a black rat/mouse in the cage.
I looked at his granny and laughed. I asked her :"did you feed him after midnight?"
My son looked at me like I was mad. "Daddy, its a mouse, not a Mogwai!!"
I roared with laughter when the white mouse poked it's head out of the cottonwool nest. His granny had bought black mouse to keep the white one company.
God help them if these mice breed!!
He visited me last weekend. When I went to fetch him at his mother's on Friday afternoon he spent a good five minutes giving detailed instructions to his granny as to the care of the rodent.
I dropped him off at five on Sunday afternoon. I chatted with his granny, drinking a cup of coffee. He asked her whether she had taken care of the rat. She said, "damn..He had better go feed the rat and give it water and food..she had forgotton all about it. He gave her a disbelieving stare and charged down the corridor to his room to save his pet. I heard him mumble something then he carried the cage into the lounge.
"Ouma, " he asked, "why is my white rat black?" He was totally confused. There was a black rat/mouse in the cage.
I looked at his granny and laughed. I asked her :"did you feed him after midnight?"
My son looked at me like I was mad. "Daddy, its a mouse, not a Mogwai!!"
I roared with laughter when the white mouse poked it's head out of the cottonwool nest. His granny had bought black mouse to keep the white one company.
God help them if these mice breed!!
Friday, 05 October 2007
Politically correct coffee?
I was in the SABC canteen in Auckland Park this morning, dying for a cup of coffee before a meeting I had driven in for, when I heard something that showed me how far political correctness had taken hold in the SABC.
Four white guys were ordering filter coffee. Three with milk and one black. The guy who wanted black coffee was insistent that the counter assisstant poured him a black coffee.
"Hey, please I want a black coffee!"
"No," said another guy, "don't be a racist, ask for coffee without milk."
"No,"quipped somebody else in the queue,"ask for coffee of colour"
Mass hysteria at this! Now that's what I call taking political correctness to a new height!!
Four white guys were ordering filter coffee. Three with milk and one black. The guy who wanted black coffee was insistent that the counter assisstant poured him a black coffee.
"Hey, please I want a black coffee!"
"No," said another guy, "don't be a racist, ask for coffee without milk."
"No,"quipped somebody else in the queue,"ask for coffee of colour"
Mass hysteria at this! Now that's what I call taking political correctness to a new height!!
Thursday, 04 October 2007
It's a dog's life
My mother has two Spaniels. One is a Cocker Spaniel and the other some other damn version. (as far as I am concerned, they are two brown, bad-tempered furballs).
The male has the irritating habit of greeting arrivals at the front gate with an earsplitting yowl, that does not stop until you get into the house. The bitch yaps continuously around your ankles, and finishes off with a ceremonial squatting pee next to your foot. Once she has watered you, mister will stroll over, sniff the wet patch and mark the spot.
I laughed like a drain last night.
Madam yapped, squatted and did her ceremonial pee.
Unfortunately for her, she took too long to finish her pee.
Gentleman Jim had a look at her, lifted his leg
and peed all over her back!
The male has the irritating habit of greeting arrivals at the front gate with an earsplitting yowl, that does not stop until you get into the house. The bitch yaps continuously around your ankles, and finishes off with a ceremonial squatting pee next to your foot. Once she has watered you, mister will stroll over, sniff the wet patch and mark the spot.
I laughed like a drain last night.
Madam yapped, squatted and did her ceremonial pee.
Unfortunately for her, she took too long to finish her pee.
Gentleman Jim had a look at her, lifted his leg
and peed all over her back!
Damned if I do,damned if I don't
My wife is hard on cars. I repeat, my wife is hard on cars. In the past five years I have bought her five cars, so we are looking at an average of a car a year. Statistics, however don’t tell the full story….some cars lasted more than a year, others a few months.
When we started going out, I had a little blue Ford Fiesta. She nagged me into giving her the Fiesta as it was a ”ladies” car…I was relegated to driving a beat-up 1985 1.8 Opel Kadett, which she refused to drive as she kept having breakdowns and getting stuck in dangerous areas. Funny thing is, in the two years I drove the Kadett, I did not get stuck once!
Did I dare make a comment? What do you think?
Getting back to Madame and her driving habits. I was told the one afternoon that some or the other idiot has broken the left hand rearview mirror off with a shopping trolley at the Mayville Mall. I was intelligent enought to say ” what an arsehole” etc, etc…but kept my thoughts to myself. You had to have a very tall shopping trolley and be moving at at least 45km’s per hour to smash the mirror right off. I got the mirror fixed.
My stepson told me a few weeks later that ”Ma reversed down (her brothers)driveway , not looking how close she was to the gate, promptly removing the mirror.
I decided to buy her a new White Fiesta a year later. I paid cash, saying ”Sweetie- here’s your car- all you need to do is pay the insurance.” She did’nt bother to do that. Nine months later, she decided to have a blackout and smash the car headon into some poor student’s wheels. No insurance…I kept my mouth shut. and paid for his repairs.
I then bought her a really cheap yellow Fiat Uno. Which she drove for a week before the engine fell off its mountings. Exit Uno.
Six months ago I got her a navy blue Corsa Light. Two weeks of driving…she brakes for a white car she says slammed its brakes on in front of her..all the other witnesses deny seeing any other car…she spins on the Ben Schoeman, hits a stationery Police Bakkie and some Indian Lady promptly rides up the Corsa’s arse. I said nothing…commiserated with my wife about these idiots in white cars on the freeway, and get another car.
Last week she was driving from a friends house late in the evening and swerved for a drunk black pedestrian
that ran across the road. She hits the pavement, tyre bursts, rim bends, cv damaged, shock stuffed.
I say nothing. I am just glad my wife is not seriously injured.
She wants me to buy a new Picanto. I want to emigrate!
When we started going out, I had a little blue Ford Fiesta. She nagged me into giving her the Fiesta as it was a ”ladies” car…I was relegated to driving a beat-up 1985 1.8 Opel Kadett, which she refused to drive as she kept having breakdowns and getting stuck in dangerous areas. Funny thing is, in the two years I drove the Kadett, I did not get stuck once!
Did I dare make a comment? What do you think?
Getting back to Madame and her driving habits. I was told the one afternoon that some or the other idiot has broken the left hand rearview mirror off with a shopping trolley at the Mayville Mall. I was intelligent enought to say ” what an arsehole” etc, etc…but kept my thoughts to myself. You had to have a very tall shopping trolley and be moving at at least 45km’s per hour to smash the mirror right off. I got the mirror fixed.
My stepson told me a few weeks later that ”Ma reversed down (her brothers)driveway , not looking how close she was to the gate, promptly removing the mirror.
I decided to buy her a new White Fiesta a year later. I paid cash, saying ”Sweetie- here’s your car- all you need to do is pay the insurance.” She did’nt bother to do that. Nine months later, she decided to have a blackout and smash the car headon into some poor student’s wheels. No insurance…I kept my mouth shut. and paid for his repairs.
I then bought her a really cheap yellow Fiat Uno. Which she drove for a week before the engine fell off its mountings. Exit Uno.
Six months ago I got her a navy blue Corsa Light. Two weeks of driving…she brakes for a white car she says slammed its brakes on in front of her..all the other witnesses deny seeing any other car…she spins on the Ben Schoeman, hits a stationery Police Bakkie and some Indian Lady promptly rides up the Corsa’s arse. I said nothing…commiserated with my wife about these idiots in white cars on the freeway, and get another car.
Last week she was driving from a friends house late in the evening and swerved for a drunk black pedestrian
that ran across the road. She hits the pavement, tyre bursts, rim bends, cv damaged, shock stuffed.
I say nothing. I am just glad my wife is not seriously injured.
She wants me to buy a new Picanto. I want to emigrate!
Monday, 09 July 2007
The Hound from Heaven
I may be giving away my age, but I can remember a programme on TV about dog training presented by an scary old bat called Barbara Woodhouse. She was one mean mama...not only the dogs in the house sat up when she commanded "walkies"...I had to restrain myself from looking for a leash and wagging my tail at the back door.
Anyway, one thing she never could do was train a pooch to pick up his own shit. My damn Boerbull dumps landmines in the most inconvenient places. He loves exploding precisely where my right foot is placed when I get out of the car. He must have some kind of internal radar! I step in dogshit every second day! Goddamn mutt!
I want the number of the guy who taught this hound in the picture to clean up after himself. He will be paid millions, I swear!
Wednesday, 04 July 2007
Monday, 02 July 2007
Marriage quotes
Marriage is not a word. It is a sentence--a life sentence.
Marriage is very much like a violin; after the sweet music is over, the strings are attached.
Marriage is love. Love is blind. Therefore, marriage is an institution for the blind.
Marriage is an institution in which a man loses his Bachelor's Degree and the woman gets her Masters.
Marriage is a thing which puts a ring on a woman's finger and two under the man's eyes.
Marriage certificate is just another word for a work permit.
Marriage is not just a having a wife, but also worries inherited forever.
Marriage requires a man to prepare 4 types of "rings":
* The Engagement Ring
* The Wedding Ring
* The Suffe-Ring
* The Endu-Ring
Married life is full of excitement and frustration:
* In the first year of marriage, the man speaks and the woman listens.
* In the second year, the woman speaks and the man listens.
* In the third year, they both speak and the neighbors listen.
It is true that love is blind but marriage is definitely an eye-opener.
Getting married is very much like going to the restaurant with friends. You order what you want, and when you see what the other fellow has, you wish you had ordered that.
It's true that all men are born free and equal, but some of them get married!
There was this man who muttered a few words in the church and found himself married. A year later he muttered something in his sleep and found himself divorced.
A happy marriage is a matter of giving and taking; the husband gives and the wife takes.
Son: How much does it cost to get married, Dad?
Father: I don't know son, I'm still paying for it.
Son: Is it true? Dad, I heard that in ancient China, a man doesn't know his wife until he marries.
Father: That happens everywhere, son, everywhere!
There was a man who said, "I never knew what happiness was until I got married...and then it was too late!"
Love is one long sweet dream, and marriage is the alarm clock.
They say when a man holds a woman's hand before marriage, it is love; after marriage, it is self-defense.
When a newly married man looks happy, we know why. But when a ten-year married man looks happy, we wonder why.
There was this lover who said that he would go through hell for her. They got married, and now he is going through hell.
A Code of Honor: Never approach a friend's girlfriend or wife with mischief as your goal. There are just too many women in the world to justify that sort of dishonorable behavior. Unless she's really attractive. -- Bruce Friedman
A coward is a hero with a wife, kids, and a mortgage. -- Marvin Kitman
A gentleman is one who never swears at his wife while ladies are present.
A husband is living proof that a wife can take a joke.
Marriage is very much like a violin; after the sweet music is over, the strings are attached.
Marriage is love. Love is blind. Therefore, marriage is an institution for the blind.
Marriage is an institution in which a man loses his Bachelor's Degree and the woman gets her Masters.
Marriage is a thing which puts a ring on a woman's finger and two under the man's eyes.
Marriage certificate is just another word for a work permit.
Marriage is not just a having a wife, but also worries inherited forever.
Marriage requires a man to prepare 4 types of "rings":
* The Engagement Ring
* The Wedding Ring
* The Suffe-Ring
* The Endu-Ring
Married life is full of excitement and frustration:
* In the first year of marriage, the man speaks and the woman listens.
* In the second year, the woman speaks and the man listens.
* In the third year, they both speak and the neighbors listen.
It is true that love is blind but marriage is definitely an eye-opener.
Getting married is very much like going to the restaurant with friends. You order what you want, and when you see what the other fellow has, you wish you had ordered that.
It's true that all men are born free and equal, but some of them get married!
There was this man who muttered a few words in the church and found himself married. A year later he muttered something in his sleep and found himself divorced.
A happy marriage is a matter of giving and taking; the husband gives and the wife takes.
Son: How much does it cost to get married, Dad?
Father: I don't know son, I'm still paying for it.
Son: Is it true? Dad, I heard that in ancient China, a man doesn't know his wife until he marries.
Father: That happens everywhere, son, everywhere!
There was a man who said, "I never knew what happiness was until I got married...and then it was too late!"
Love is one long sweet dream, and marriage is the alarm clock.
They say when a man holds a woman's hand before marriage, it is love; after marriage, it is self-defense.
When a newly married man looks happy, we know why. But when a ten-year married man looks happy, we wonder why.
There was this lover who said that he would go through hell for her. They got married, and now he is going through hell.
A Code of Honor: Never approach a friend's girlfriend or wife with mischief as your goal. There are just too many women in the world to justify that sort of dishonorable behavior. Unless she's really attractive. -- Bruce Friedman
A coward is a hero with a wife, kids, and a mortgage. -- Marvin Kitman
A gentleman is one who never swears at his wife while ladies are present.
A husband is living proof that a wife can take a joke.
Prevention is better than...
A woman got bad news from her doctor. She had cancer.
"Well," she said to her daughter, "I have cancer. Let's have a martini."
After a few martinis, the two were feeling a little less sombre. They were joined by some of the woman's old friends. She told her friends: "I have been diagnosed with Aids."
After the friends left, the daughter whispered: "Momma, I thought you said you had cancer. You just told your friends you had Aids."
"Yes," she said, "but I don't want any of those bitches sleeping with your father after I'm gone."
"Well," she said to her daughter, "I have cancer. Let's have a martini."
After a few martinis, the two were feeling a little less sombre. They were joined by some of the woman's old friends. She told her friends: "I have been diagnosed with Aids."
After the friends left, the daughter whispered: "Momma, I thought you said you had cancer. You just told your friends you had Aids."
"Yes," she said, "but I don't want any of those bitches sleeping with your father after I'm gone."
Male vs Female
A Spanish teacher was explaining to her class that, in Spanish, nouns are masculine or feminine. "House, for instance, is feminine: la casa'."
A student asked: "What gender is computer'?" The teacher split the class into males and females and asked them to decide.
The men decided that "computer" should definitely be feminine ("la computadora"), because no-one but their creator understands their internal logic; the language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else; the smallest mistakes are stored in long-term memory; and, as soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your pay cheque on accessories for it.
The women concluded that computers should be masculine ("el computador"), because to do anything with them you have to turn them on; they have a lot of data but can't think; they are supposed to help you solve problems but they are the problem; and as soon as you commit to one, you realise that if you had waited you could have had a better one.
A student asked: "What gender is computer'?" The teacher split the class into males and females and asked them to decide.
The men decided that "computer" should definitely be feminine ("la computadora"), because no-one but their creator understands their internal logic; the language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else; the smallest mistakes are stored in long-term memory; and, as soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your pay cheque on accessories for it.
The women concluded that computers should be masculine ("el computador"), because to do anything with them you have to turn them on; they have a lot of data but can't think; they are supposed to help you solve problems but they are the problem; and as soon as you commit to one, you realise that if you had waited you could have had a better one.
My wife is sometime's a man!
My wife,(who I love dearly- yes, she does read this blog now and again)is a normal, feisty redhead with definite opinions on the differences between men and women. I tend to agree with her about most of them except one.
When she gets sick, (especially with flu)she behaves like a man.Or rather, the classical feminine exaggeration of male patients behaviour.
She develops exaggerated symptoms...
a sniffle is pneumonia;
a cough is double pneumonia;
she suddenly speaks in a squeaky "sorry, but I am dying voice";
she refuses to take any medication: 'it came by itself, it can leave by itself';
she behaves like the Dying Swan in Swan Lake...lies on the couch, with remote in hand, barking orders for "tea, or coffee or something to nibble on".
She drives me nuts.
I drink my Med-lemon, go to work and infect everybody else. I wipe my nose and carry on with the job.
Women!!
When she gets sick, (especially with flu)she behaves like a man.Or rather, the classical feminine exaggeration of male patients behaviour.
She develops exaggerated symptoms...
a sniffle is pneumonia;
a cough is double pneumonia;
she suddenly speaks in a squeaky "sorry, but I am dying voice";
she refuses to take any medication: 'it came by itself, it can leave by itself';
she behaves like the Dying Swan in Swan Lake...lies on the couch, with remote in hand, barking orders for "tea, or coffee or something to nibble on".
She drives me nuts.
I drink my Med-lemon, go to work and infect everybody else. I wipe my nose and carry on with the job.
Women!!
Wednesday, 27 June 2007
Snow, snow , snow
It is amazing how the people in Johannesburg freak out when it snows here. Such a song and dance, mass photography by cellphones and idiots calling the radio stations boasting about a 1cm thick layer of snow. WTF?
Maybe it is that we dont get snow here. The last snow I can remember was in 1981.
My sister sent me an SMS at 12:40 last night to tell me to wake up and go look at the snow. Why the hell is she awake at 12:40 on a week night?
I went outside and saw snow falling for the first time in my life. It was amazing! When we stood up this morning, all the plots here in Midrand looked like picture postcards from Canada in the winter. I have never seen snow in my garden, covering trees, shrubs and the dog house. It was spectacular, and bloody cold.
the kids charged outside, making (mini)snowmen and pelting all and sundry with snow.
Roll on global warming. We could do with snow every year!
Maybe it is that we dont get snow here. The last snow I can remember was in 1981.
My sister sent me an SMS at 12:40 last night to tell me to wake up and go look at the snow. Why the hell is she awake at 12:40 on a week night?
I went outside and saw snow falling for the first time in my life. It was amazing! When we stood up this morning, all the plots here in Midrand looked like picture postcards from Canada in the winter. I have never seen snow in my garden, covering trees, shrubs and the dog house. It was spectacular, and bloody cold.
the kids charged outside, making (mini)snowmen and pelting all and sundry with snow.
Roll on global warming. We could do with snow every year!
Tuesday, 26 June 2007
Friday, 22 June 2007
To kill or to kotch?
My sister has a filthy habit.
One that I discovered by accident.
She loves cheese and onion flavoured chips. She will open a packet of Willards or Simba chips and scoff the lot at one go.
That is not the habit...practically everybody loves chips, in one flavour or the other.
My sister loves licking the salt and flavouring off each chip. Then she puts the licked chip back into the packet.
I went for a visit last night. Saw an open packet of Cheese and Onion chips on the table.
I was not happy with the oddly tasteless chips. Were they stale? Maybe they one I ate was a dud. Let me try a few more... no all tasteless.
I then became aware that everybody else in the lounge was looking at me with big grins on their faces.
They all knew what she did with the chips. Nobody told me!
Bastards.
One that I discovered by accident.
She loves cheese and onion flavoured chips. She will open a packet of Willards or Simba chips and scoff the lot at one go.
That is not the habit...practically everybody loves chips, in one flavour or the other.
My sister loves licking the salt and flavouring off each chip. Then she puts the licked chip back into the packet.
I went for a visit last night. Saw an open packet of Cheese and Onion chips on the table.
I was not happy with the oddly tasteless chips. Were they stale? Maybe they one I ate was a dud. Let me try a few more... no all tasteless.
I then became aware that everybody else in the lounge was looking at me with big grins on their faces.
They all knew what she did with the chips. Nobody told me!
Bastards.
Tuesday, 19 June 2007
Things that go bump in the night
My cousin is limping badly this morning. And no, she is not one of those nuts that ran the Comrades Marathon last weekend.
She has a cat. This animal is certifiable! It is the most lovable, purring furball when hungry, or looking for attention. then she weaves herself between your legs or jumps on your lap, and rubs her head against you.
That's all great, and kitty-kitty meow....until
The fucking thing goes nuts!
My cousin walked into the kitchen to make a midnight snack and got attacked!
The cat clawed her way up her legs, and bit her on the arse! My cousin screamed like a scalded cat(no pun intended),and swung around the kitchen with the cat hanging on like a limpet! After a minutes yeowling in the kitchen woke the household up, madam cat let go, strolled over to her bowl and meowed for milk!
Do you think she got it?
She has a cat. This animal is certifiable! It is the most lovable, purring furball when hungry, or looking for attention. then she weaves herself between your legs or jumps on your lap, and rubs her head against you.
That's all great, and kitty-kitty meow....until
The fucking thing goes nuts!
My cousin walked into the kitchen to make a midnight snack and got attacked!
The cat clawed her way up her legs, and bit her on the arse! My cousin screamed like a scalded cat(no pun intended),and swung around the kitchen with the cat hanging on like a limpet! After a minutes yeowling in the kitchen woke the household up, madam cat let go, strolled over to her bowl and meowed for milk!
Do you think she got it?
Thursday, 14 June 2007
Wednesday, 13 June 2007
Shall we dance?
I ran into an old school buddy the other day. We did a whole lot of “ do you remember- ; whatever happened to so-and-so,” before we ended up reminiscing about school dances.
I was in a boys’ only boarding school. Girls were those strange but very interesting creatures only seen on special occasions, like major sports days or at that terrifying spectacle called the Hostel Dance.
The typical Hostel Dance had a row of pimply faced boys sitting at the row of chairs and tables on one side of the school hall with an equally pimply row of girls of various shapes sitting in the opposite row of chairs on the other side of the hall.
Nobody moved for the first 45 minutes, except for the chaperones, usually a very bored housemaster and mistress, forced into preventing premature conceptions from occurring.
There would be nudging and shoving on the boys side, with animated discussion of boobs and butts and who was known to “go all the way”. There was much giggling on the other side of the haal, but as a male, I never knew what was the hot topic of conversation.
Eventually there would be some brave sod, daring to cross the hall to ask for a dance. There was a total hush and 80 pairs of eyes would check if the budding John Travolta was going to be rejected. It was a 50/50 bet as to a possible rejection.
If the girl was brave enough to accept the offer and she stood up to dance, there would suddenly be a mad rush to get a partner, with the pretty girls getting ganged up on , and their lesser attractive rivals gaining instant wallflower status, until one or the other nerd would ask them to dance.
After the first rush was over, a curious phenomenon would take place. The biggest, fattest, pimply and just plain ugliest girls would be the hot favourites being asked to dance. The pretty girls just could not understand why they suddenly were ignored.
Ladies, I have to apologise, ‘boys would be boys”
We were indulging in a favourite (and secret) competition called “Hunt the Grunt”
The guy who managed to get the ugliest / fattest chick (as determined by acclamation) to dance would win the competition.
It was nasty, it was cruel, the guys were laughing at the poor girl who suddenly found herself the Belle of the Ball, but damn she enjoyed all the attention, and all the pretty girls were gnashing their teeth on the sidelines..
Boys can be shits, if they want to be.
I was in a boys’ only boarding school. Girls were those strange but very interesting creatures only seen on special occasions, like major sports days or at that terrifying spectacle called the Hostel Dance.
The typical Hostel Dance had a row of pimply faced boys sitting at the row of chairs and tables on one side of the school hall with an equally pimply row of girls of various shapes sitting in the opposite row of chairs on the other side of the hall.
Nobody moved for the first 45 minutes, except for the chaperones, usually a very bored housemaster and mistress, forced into preventing premature conceptions from occurring.
There would be nudging and shoving on the boys side, with animated discussion of boobs and butts and who was known to “go all the way”. There was much giggling on the other side of the haal, but as a male, I never knew what was the hot topic of conversation.
Eventually there would be some brave sod, daring to cross the hall to ask for a dance. There was a total hush and 80 pairs of eyes would check if the budding John Travolta was going to be rejected. It was a 50/50 bet as to a possible rejection.
If the girl was brave enough to accept the offer and she stood up to dance, there would suddenly be a mad rush to get a partner, with the pretty girls getting ganged up on , and their lesser attractive rivals gaining instant wallflower status, until one or the other nerd would ask them to dance.
After the first rush was over, a curious phenomenon would take place. The biggest, fattest, pimply and just plain ugliest girls would be the hot favourites being asked to dance. The pretty girls just could not understand why they suddenly were ignored.
Ladies, I have to apologise, ‘boys would be boys”
We were indulging in a favourite (and secret) competition called “Hunt the Grunt”
The guy who managed to get the ugliest / fattest chick (as determined by acclamation) to dance would win the competition.
It was nasty, it was cruel, the guys were laughing at the poor girl who suddenly found herself the Belle of the Ball, but damn she enjoyed all the attention, and all the pretty girls were gnashing their teeth on the sidelines..
Boys can be shits, if they want to be.
Peeing by the numbers
Speaking as a common or garden male member of the genus Homo Sapiens, there is one thing that I find absolutely incomprehensible and downright irritating:
Why can women only go pee in teams? How many seats are there in the average ladies loo that you all go pee at the same time?
I have heard of the phenomenon in female boarding schools and in nunneries where due to living in such close quarters, women's menstrual cycles synchronise and they all have simultaneous PMS .
Does the same thing apply to women’s bladders? Do you all suddenly have the urge to pee at the same time?
This is something that puzzles every man that has gone on a date with a women for the first time, and in a group. The women may be total strangers, having met that night, but as true as God, instant urinary synchronization will take place, and off you go – all of you – at the same fucking time! Why? Why? Why? Why?
It does not make sense to a man. You pee alone and shut the fuck up. Any comments or discussions in the toilet might wind up with you either getting a fat lip or being known as a South African George Michael. You don’t wanna go there! You don’t look left, you don’t look right. All admiring comments are kept to yourself. If you have the urge to talk you wait til you are on your way out!
Can somebody explain?
Why can women only go pee in teams? How many seats are there in the average ladies loo that you all go pee at the same time?
I have heard of the phenomenon in female boarding schools and in nunneries where due to living in such close quarters, women's menstrual cycles synchronise and they all have simultaneous PMS .
Does the same thing apply to women’s bladders? Do you all suddenly have the urge to pee at the same time?
This is something that puzzles every man that has gone on a date with a women for the first time, and in a group. The women may be total strangers, having met that night, but as true as God, instant urinary synchronization will take place, and off you go – all of you – at the same fucking time! Why? Why? Why? Why?
It does not make sense to a man. You pee alone and shut the fuck up. Any comments or discussions in the toilet might wind up with you either getting a fat lip or being known as a South African George Michael. You don’t wanna go there! You don’t look left, you don’t look right. All admiring comments are kept to yourself. If you have the urge to talk you wait til you are on your way out!
Can somebody explain?
Tuesday, 12 June 2007
Finding God in Jail
So Paris found God in Jail?
What was He doing there? I know she was there becos she drove without a licence?
What was He doing there? I know she was there becos she drove without a licence?
The Thinking Man's Crumpet
I switched channels last night, and caught part of some unnamed movie that must be over 25 years old. William Hurt had hair, Morgan Freeman’s hair was a big black afro, with no grey, James Woods looked like a spotty teenager and Sigourney Weaver was young and hot!
I have always had a thing for Sigourney Weaver. From her big hair days in ‘Ghostbusters’, to her kick-ass alien slaughtering days in the ‘Alien Movies’ to some odd move called ‘Half-moon Street’ where I first saw her first nude scene, she has always been the one actress I would have given a left nut for half a chance with. She just defines class to me. It just seems odd to see her looking so young.
The Flea has accepted my passion for Ms Weaver, knowing that I would drop her like a hat if Sigourney crooked her little finger at me.
What the hell, the Flea would dump me for Brad Pitt if he decided to leave Angelina, so we both figure we will allow each other our little fantasy.
I have always had a thing for Sigourney Weaver. From her big hair days in ‘Ghostbusters’, to her kick-ass alien slaughtering days in the ‘Alien Movies’ to some odd move called ‘Half-moon Street’ where I first saw her first nude scene, she has always been the one actress I would have given a left nut for half a chance with. She just defines class to me. It just seems odd to see her looking so young.
The Flea has accepted my passion for Ms Weaver, knowing that I would drop her like a hat if Sigourney crooked her little finger at me.
What the hell, the Flea would dump me for Brad Pitt if he decided to leave Angelina, so we both figure we will allow each other our little fantasy.
Patricia Delicia and the Lawyer
I was bored enough to watch a current affairs program on Sunday night, starring Udi Ya-Nkamela, as an outstanding version of an incompetent chairman, of a debate between some unfortunate lawyer representing Mixit and the onetime socialist darling Aunty Patricia de Lille of the Independent Democrats. The poor sod of a lawyer was on a hiding to nothing coming up against this auntie vannie Cape Flats. She ignored or dismissed all his arguments, thinking that volume will drown out reason.
I will never forget the ultimate comment by Ms de Lille:
“ I believe strongly in freedom of speech!” She then looks at the lawyer and says “Shut up!”
In a debate, nogal! Sies!
I will never forget the ultimate comment by Ms de Lille:
“ I believe strongly in freedom of speech!” She then looks at the lawyer and says “Shut up!”
In a debate, nogal! Sies!
I Despise the Gym
I despise the gym.
I especially despise a twelve month contract binding me to self-abuse.
I despise the gym
I despise twenty year old wankers with a six pack and overdeveloped pecs, posing in front of mirrors.
I despise the gym.
I despise getting up at sparrows fart to avoid the crowds.
I despise the gym.
I despise love handles
I despise the gym
I despise sweat burning my eyes
I despise the gym
I despise getting old.
Did I mention I despise the gym?
I especially despise a twelve month contract binding me to self-abuse.
I despise the gym
I despise twenty year old wankers with a six pack and overdeveloped pecs, posing in front of mirrors.
I despise the gym.
I despise getting up at sparrows fart to avoid the crowds.
I despise the gym.
I despise love handles
I despise the gym
I despise sweat burning my eyes
I despise the gym
I despise getting old.
Did I mention I despise the gym?
Monday, 11 June 2007
My money is (not) my money
I read an article the other day that statistically, the most common argument in all marriages or relationships is about money. More specifically about who is in control of the money.
The Flea and I have just become a statistic.
Money is not normally something we argue about. The Flea regards the old saying of "my money is my money and your money is my money" as being part of our marriage vows. Not that I can remember anything like that being said, by me at least. Due to circumstances, I happen to earn about four times what the Flea earns. Technically speaking she does not have to work. But, being the independent woman she is, she insists on working. I have no problem with that. Her money is her money, to spend as she sees fit.
The argument amuses me. She called me and asked me to lend her a hundred bucks. I said "Ok, but since when do I lend you money? Or since when do you pay any loans back? In the five years we have been married, you have 'borrowed' thousands, without any repayment.You always say my money is my money, your mon-"
Was that the wrong thing to say! My ear is still ringing - The Flea let me know in no uncertain terms what she thought of that statement.
I guess I am sleeping with the mutt in the dogbox tonight!
The Flea and I have just become a statistic.
Money is not normally something we argue about. The Flea regards the old saying of "my money is my money and your money is my money" as being part of our marriage vows. Not that I can remember anything like that being said, by me at least. Due to circumstances, I happen to earn about four times what the Flea earns. Technically speaking she does not have to work. But, being the independent woman she is, she insists on working. I have no problem with that. Her money is her money, to spend as she sees fit.
The argument amuses me. She called me and asked me to lend her a hundred bucks. I said "Ok, but since when do I lend you money? Or since when do you pay any loans back? In the five years we have been married, you have 'borrowed' thousands, without any repayment.You always say my money is my money, your mon-"
Was that the wrong thing to say! My ear is still ringing - The Flea let me know in no uncertain terms what she thought of that statement.
I guess I am sleeping with the mutt in the dogbox tonight!
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!
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!
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.
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?
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?
Moi!
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.
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?
Moi!
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.
"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.
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.
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..
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?
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.
‘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?
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!
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!
Fishing...no 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!
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!
Fishing...no 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!
Monday, 30 April 2007
Questions you don't answer.
As any married man can confirm, there are a few pearls of wisdom that we can give to our unmarried male friends.
Rule no 1: Do not ever answer the following question-
"honey, do these jeans make me look fat?"
If you say yes, you are SCREWED. Move straight to the doghouse, do not pass go, do not collect R200. If you say no, and her arse looks like two pigs fighting in a hessian sack, you are SCREWED. Move straight to the doghouse, etc,etc. (you know she knows she has a fat arse...what are you trying to prove?)You must avoid at all costs telling her that it's not the jeans making her look fat, it is her fat making her look fat!
Rule no 2: This question usually winds up with you getting married or in splitsville.(take your pick)
"Honey, where is this relationship going?"
Going? You did not know relationships went anywhere except to bed? Answer this at your peril.
Take a deep breath, step back from the TV and your beer and focus very clearly here. Your entire bachelorhood stands at risk here, so a careful, well considered "I dunno, " is not going to do the trick.
Let her speak first and take your cue from her. If she talks about the next level and you haven't hit the sack yet, rejoice, young man, rejoice. Your luck is in.
If you have been sleeping with your partner, and she starts asking this question, one of two things needs to happen.
a) run like hell, if you value your bachelorhood; or
b)surrender gracefully, you are heading for a church very soon.
Rule no 1: Do not ever answer the following question-
"honey, do these jeans make me look fat?"
If you say yes, you are SCREWED. Move straight to the doghouse, do not pass go, do not collect R200. If you say no, and her arse looks like two pigs fighting in a hessian sack, you are SCREWED. Move straight to the doghouse, etc,etc. (you know she knows she has a fat arse...what are you trying to prove?)You must avoid at all costs telling her that it's not the jeans making her look fat, it is her fat making her look fat!
Rule no 2: This question usually winds up with you getting married or in splitsville.(take your pick)
"Honey, where is this relationship going?"
Going? You did not know relationships went anywhere except to bed? Answer this at your peril.
Take a deep breath, step back from the TV and your beer and focus very clearly here. Your entire bachelorhood stands at risk here, so a careful, well considered "I dunno, " is not going to do the trick.
Let her speak first and take your cue from her. If she talks about the next level and you haven't hit the sack yet, rejoice, young man, rejoice. Your luck is in.
If you have been sleeping with your partner, and she starts asking this question, one of two things needs to happen.
a) run like hell, if you value your bachelorhood; or
b)surrender gracefully, you are heading for a church very soon.
Fear of Needles
I have to have blood drawn this morning for an insurance policy. I did not sleep last night:- visions of vampires in nurses uniforms haunted me. Half-erotic, half paranoia!
I am scared of needles. No, not scared, petrified of needles. I can't watch the vampire sticking me full of holes. If I make the mistake of looking at the syringe I go a light shade of green , start sweating and want to pass out. And this is while the syringe is still in the packet.
Why do they always want so much blood? Really- I am damn sure that there is an underground market in little tubes of blood, marketed as an appetizer in Vampire night clubs!
Sip this! Blood bomb!
I hate needles!
I am scared of needles. No, not scared, petrified of needles. I can't watch the vampire sticking me full of holes. If I make the mistake of looking at the syringe I go a light shade of green , start sweating and want to pass out. And this is while the syringe is still in the packet.
Why do they always want so much blood? Really- I am damn sure that there is an underground market in little tubes of blood, marketed as an appetizer in Vampire night clubs!
Sip this! Blood bomb!
I hate needles!
Tuesday, 24 April 2007
Back seat driver Road Rage
My mother picks fights with minibus-taxi drivers. That would not be an issue for me, if not for the fact that she starts shit when I am behind the wheel.
Think about it.
The Passenger is suffering from road rage. She shouts, swears, and gives the finger to any minibus taxi stupid enough to push in front of us, or drive past on the verge, or on the wrong side of the solid line!
This from a little old lady who collects toys and clothes for orphans and poor township kids. From somebody who spoils her damn dogs so badly that everybody who knows her wants to come back as one of her mutts in their next life.
Put her in my passenger seat. Bye-bye Granny. Hello Dr Jekyll, or is it Mr Hyde?
I am going to get seriously beaten up one of these days.
Think about it.
The Passenger is suffering from road rage. She shouts, swears, and gives the finger to any minibus taxi stupid enough to push in front of us, or drive past on the verge, or on the wrong side of the solid line!
This from a little old lady who collects toys and clothes for orphans and poor township kids. From somebody who spoils her damn dogs so badly that everybody who knows her wants to come back as one of her mutts in their next life.
Put her in my passenger seat. Bye-bye Granny. Hello Dr Jekyll, or is it Mr Hyde?
I am going to get seriously beaten up one of these days.
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
Queues
I hate standing in a queue. I hate Banks. I hate month end. Ergo, I hate standing in queue in the bank on a month end. It must be a peculiarly South African phenomenon that an obsequious Bank Clerk in her starchy uniform will wander up and down the queue, squeaking obnoxiously at every frustrated client clutching a deposit slip in his or her hand:
“Cheque deposits? Cheque Deposits?
“Why else would I be standing in a queue? In a Bank? To buy a loaf of bread and a pint of milk?
One thing guaranteed to make me paw and stamp like a Cape buffalo ready to charge is a queue jumper. Do Not Jump The Queue. I am not one of those meek souls that will watch you with gritted teeth help yourself to a spot in front of me, Nor will I stand there burning with rage, making loud remarks about queue jumpers.
O, no! I am one of those crazy people who will walk up to you and say very loudly:
“who the fuck do you think you are? Get in the back of the goddamn queue and wait your turn. I will grab you and move you!
No matter how big and tough or small and feminine you are!
You will be moved!
Don’t jump the queue!
Ever!
“Cheque deposits? Cheque Deposits?
“Why else would I be standing in a queue? In a Bank? To buy a loaf of bread and a pint of milk?
One thing guaranteed to make me paw and stamp like a Cape buffalo ready to charge is a queue jumper. Do Not Jump The Queue. I am not one of those meek souls that will watch you with gritted teeth help yourself to a spot in front of me, Nor will I stand there burning with rage, making loud remarks about queue jumpers.
O, no! I am one of those crazy people who will walk up to you and say very loudly:
“who the fuck do you think you are? Get in the back of the goddamn queue and wait your turn. I will grab you and move you!
No matter how big and tough or small and feminine you are!
You will be moved!
Don’t jump the queue!
Ever!
Monday, 02 April 2007
Parking in autopilot
Don’t you just hate the fucker in the Beemer who steals your parking space? You know that space in the company parking lot. The one that does not have your name or a reserved sign on it, but which every other regular parker knows is YOURS!
You sweep in off the road, swear at the automatic boom that is not working again, swing around the corner to your spot, and THERE IS SOMEBODY PARKED IN IT! Instant frothing at the mouth! You always park there! That is your space! Doesn’t he know he cannot park there?
Parking next to the thief is just not the same. The feeling of loss and intrusion overwhelms you! Should you open the door a little harder and wider than you really need to? It is very tempting to leave one of life’s little dings in the illegal parker’s door. You get out muttering to yourself.
Your whole day is stuffed!
You sweep in off the road, swear at the automatic boom that is not working again, swing around the corner to your spot, and THERE IS SOMEBODY PARKED IN IT! Instant frothing at the mouth! You always park there! That is your space! Doesn’t he know he cannot park there?
Parking next to the thief is just not the same. The feeling of loss and intrusion overwhelms you! Should you open the door a little harder and wider than you really need to? It is very tempting to leave one of life’s little dings in the illegal parker’s door. You get out muttering to yourself.
Your whole day is stuffed!
Too Tasty?
I have decided I must have the best blood in the world. Well, if not the best, then the best tasting blood. I can prove this assertion very easily.
Requirements for this experiment:
400 volunteers.
One auditorium
20 rolls of duct tape
One Tupperware box
One female anopheles mosquito
Me
Take 400 people, put them in the auditorium. Put me slap bang in the middle of this group of people. Seal the doors and windows with duct tape, so that nothing can get in or out. We need to prove the validity of this experiment; therefore, no external variables must be allowed to get into the room. Place the box in the stage and open it, allowing the mosquito to get out.
Wait 1 minute.
Whom will the fucking mosquito bite?
ME!
Conclusion: I have the best tasting blood in the world.
Now only if I could find the bug spray!
Requirements for this experiment:
400 volunteers.
One auditorium
20 rolls of duct tape
One Tupperware box
One female anopheles mosquito
Me
Take 400 people, put them in the auditorium. Put me slap bang in the middle of this group of people. Seal the doors and windows with duct tape, so that nothing can get in or out. We need to prove the validity of this experiment; therefore, no external variables must be allowed to get into the room. Place the box in the stage and open it, allowing the mosquito to get out.
Wait 1 minute.
Whom will the fucking mosquito bite?
ME!
Conclusion: I have the best tasting blood in the world.
Now only if I could find the bug spray!
There is a rat in my kitchen
Living on a plot has an upside and a downside. I love the fact that I am half an hour’s drive away from the big city, away from the freeway noise, yet being close enough to nip down the road to the Pick & Pay for groceries. I love giving my dogs the freedom to roam a large piece of ground…to be able to bark their fool heads off at all and sundry without having a neighbour calling the Metro Police about disturbing the peace.
However, the one thing that drives me wild is having rats in my roof. Great big fat hairy buggers with long tails and an up yours attitude to their human host.
I have tried everything from traps to poison to lying in ambush with a pellet gun. Nothing works.
Rat traps?. I bait the trap, (after much swearing and pinching of fingers. Whoever designs these things must be a twisted engineer), put a tasty piece of cheese on it. Where to put it? Top of the cupboards, behind the stove, in the ceiling, next to the geyser. Ha! These buggers could teach a burglar how to steal. Not one trap worked. Every morning I would check the traps. Cleaned out: no cheese, no dead rat! What I was doing was opening my fridge, taking out the Gouda in bite sized chunks and feeding these damn rodents! Rodent heaven! In the mean time, my books are being shredded for rat bedding, rat droppings everywhere!
Ok, poison. Not a good idea…these blue squares contain warfarin. Major warnings on box – do not use where pets or domestic animals can be find the stuff. MMM. How to do this? Can only be used in the roof…at least the buggers can die in the dark and stop their three in the morning jogging in my ceiling. Into the crawlspace I go, spreading blue blocks of poison as far as I can throw.
I might as well have thrown blue toilet blocks up there. I must have the toughest rats in Midrand living in my roof. I looked in about three days later when the scratching in the ceiling had not stopped…where were the blocks. Nowhere? Eaten? Gone!! No dead rats to be seen!
Desperation! I borrow my neighbour’s BB gun. Buy a box with 100 pellets in it. How hard can this be? Aim, fire, and kill the fucking rat! I did my two years national service, shot hundreds of rounds away with an R4, 7.65mm semi automatic rifle. OK, let me have a few practice shots at a tin can. Line of ten old coke cans on the wall. First three shots missed. Are my glasses dirty? Quick scrub! Shoot! Miss! Shit!Miss! Maybe if I stand a bit closer? Miss! Closer? Miss? I either am going blind or suddenly developed Parkinson’s disease? I don’t think any right thinking rat will hang around until I can press the muzzle of the BB against his skull. Shooting is out.
What about a cat? Not a good idea. I am allergic to cats. So is my Rotweiler. We exhibit different symptoms for the same allergy. I sneeze. She eats them. After chasing and killing the cat. Slowly. Exit the feline solution.
I have given up. It is the new South Africa after all,…we all need to live in harmony. I have given up collecting books, and the rats have given up eating them.
However, the one thing that drives me wild is having rats in my roof. Great big fat hairy buggers with long tails and an up yours attitude to their human host.
I have tried everything from traps to poison to lying in ambush with a pellet gun. Nothing works.
Rat traps?. I bait the trap, (after much swearing and pinching of fingers. Whoever designs these things must be a twisted engineer), put a tasty piece of cheese on it. Where to put it? Top of the cupboards, behind the stove, in the ceiling, next to the geyser. Ha! These buggers could teach a burglar how to steal. Not one trap worked. Every morning I would check the traps. Cleaned out: no cheese, no dead rat! What I was doing was opening my fridge, taking out the Gouda in bite sized chunks and feeding these damn rodents! Rodent heaven! In the mean time, my books are being shredded for rat bedding, rat droppings everywhere!
Ok, poison. Not a good idea…these blue squares contain warfarin. Major warnings on box – do not use where pets or domestic animals can be find the stuff. MMM. How to do this? Can only be used in the roof…at least the buggers can die in the dark and stop their three in the morning jogging in my ceiling. Into the crawlspace I go, spreading blue blocks of poison as far as I can throw.
I might as well have thrown blue toilet blocks up there. I must have the toughest rats in Midrand living in my roof. I looked in about three days later when the scratching in the ceiling had not stopped…where were the blocks. Nowhere? Eaten? Gone!! No dead rats to be seen!
Desperation! I borrow my neighbour’s BB gun. Buy a box with 100 pellets in it. How hard can this be? Aim, fire, and kill the fucking rat! I did my two years national service, shot hundreds of rounds away with an R4, 7.65mm semi automatic rifle. OK, let me have a few practice shots at a tin can. Line of ten old coke cans on the wall. First three shots missed. Are my glasses dirty? Quick scrub! Shoot! Miss! Shit!Miss! Maybe if I stand a bit closer? Miss! Closer? Miss? I either am going blind or suddenly developed Parkinson’s disease? I don’t think any right thinking rat will hang around until I can press the muzzle of the BB against his skull. Shooting is out.
What about a cat? Not a good idea. I am allergic to cats. So is my Rotweiler. We exhibit different symptoms for the same allergy. I sneeze. She eats them. After chasing and killing the cat. Slowly. Exit the feline solution.
I have given up. It is the new South Africa after all,…we all need to live in harmony. I have given up collecting books, and the rats have given up eating them.
Friday, 30 March 2007
Friday afternoon meetings -part two
Ha! I weaseled out of the meeting and I had a damn good excuse as well.
My other passenger in our life club has an emergency, and has to be at home early. Voila! I can get out of this hour long ( and with some of the speakers scheduled, an hour can feel like a month) meeting. Woohoo!!
My other passenger in our life club has an emergency, and has to be at home early. Voila! I can get out of this hour long ( and with some of the speakers scheduled, an hour can feel like a month) meeting. Woohoo!!
Friday afternoon meetings
If there is one thing that is guaranteed to make me seriously consider "going postal", is being sent an invitation at 12:00 to an hour long meeting from 3 pm to 4 pm on a Friday afternoon. Said invitation is not to be disregarded. The word should be "by command of". I will admit to the temptation of declining the invitation and hitting the road at my normal 2:45 knocking off time.
This would be tantamount to professional suicide. The project is behind on it's timelines and there are issues that need to be addressed.
But, shit, 3 o'clock on a Friday afternoon, month end? Get a life! I have no choice but to attend. Damn! Damn!
This would be tantamount to professional suicide. The project is behind on it's timelines and there are issues that need to be addressed.
But, shit, 3 o'clock on a Friday afternoon, month end? Get a life! I have no choice but to attend. Damn! Damn!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)