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!
Wednesday, 27 June 2007
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!
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