Tag Archives: What? oh yes – *snore

If this post were any more hip, it would be wearing a skirt.

Hello.

It’s been so long since I’ve last posted, my blog is practically underground. Why, Mainstream (that’s you, by the way), because I’ve been too busy bathing in golden afternoon light, drinking at that coffee shop with a particular air of pretentiousness and filtering my amateur (albeit ridiculously artistic) pictures of arb objects to worry about such carnal frivolities.

Blogging = Self loving = Carnal Frivolity.

In fact, I do not partake in any carnal frivolities. My dress sense does not hint at the slightest bit of sensuality, just try finding my boobs under this vintage waterfall t shirt, I dare you.

Expensive brands? NO WAY HOMIE. I fashion my own wares. I call this one “Whimsical”:

 Notice how I avoid eye contact? I’m portraying “ethereal” which is just a lank fancy term for “too good for you”. Please, don’t ask me why I’m wearing pointless knee pads, if you have to ask, it means that you have no hope of being as awesome as I am.

See this? This is what awesome looks like.

Sometimes I dabble in music. By dabbling, I mean collecting names of pointless bands that sound a lot like another famous band but are too busy rolling in grass and drinking conflict free green tea to bother with pointless things like making money.

Money? Who needs money? Who needs a career? I am an adventurer of life. I write my poetry on coffee stained napkins and throw them to the wind!

I’d recite a poem here but I threw all my napkins away and frankly, I don’t think you’d get it.

Have you lived, Mainstream? I mean, really lived? Have you ever looked at the clouds with the soundtrack of Simon & Garfunkel playing in the background? They made some good shit, those Simon and Garfunkel fellows. So unlike this poppy, flashy trash that you hear on the radio. I don’t even own a radio, I just make mixed tapes. Don’t ask me for a copy, I’ll cut you with the splinters from my wooden iPad case. But listen, cut down on the voilence please, this is not an xBox game. The only game I play is the game of life, and I’m so winning. Not that I care about winning…

Gravity doesn’t even phase me. Just look at this lovely photo. Does it look like I’m concerned about that pendant hitting my face? HELL NO! All I care about is the feel of the wind through my recently washed (organic avocado shampoo only please) hair.

You know who really had it going on? Those people from the 70’s. They’re like, totally my idols, or something… If I allowed myself to have idols.

I don’t even watch that crappy Idols show on MNet, that’s how anti-idol I am. Your life just sickens me, Mainstream. I can’t even stand to blog at you right now.

Hey… your dad is from the 70’s…

Is he single?

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I love call centre agents… *swoon*

A long long time ago, I had the fortunate luck of working in a call centre. Fresh out of  university, this was the only job I could find with my limited work experience, so I was not complaining… Yet.

It was difficult. The hours were long, my conversational armoury was devoid of chit-chat and to top it off, I have the voice of a little girl (I know this for a fact because one of the customers asked me what grade I was in and whether my parents knew I was using the phone). I was very put out afterward, I decided not to speak to anyone for a week, except at work because I got paid to do so. The speaking I did at work outweighed the speaking I did out of work so this was a very moot exercise.

That said, I’m generally empathetic towards Call Centre agents but I loathe receiving calls from them. I feel like I’m on the Call Centre Agents Association most wanted list.

I'm Dustin. I'm here to make a mockery of your existence.

Typical conversation between me and a CCA:
CCA: “Hi, this is X from YZandBullshit Incorporated”
Me: *Shame, a call centre agent. I know how difficult their lives are. I shall be nice to this fine fellow (Because I think in an old British  accent, evidently)*
“Hi, this is ChocMilk from Planet Earth”
CCA: “…”
CCA: “I’ve called to tell you about an amazing opportunity that your friend Bla thought you might be interested in”
Me: *Bla, she’s a really good friend of mine, she wouldn’t give my number out to just ANYONE*
“Go on…”
CCA: “ Great, well, we at YZandBullshit Inc are offering some amazing discount vouchers that you could use when you go out for dinner with, say, your boyfriend”
Me: *It’s very presumptuous to think I even have one, what if I had a girlfriend and interjected to correct him? Wait… I totally should interject! WOOO! CURVEBALL!*
“I don…”
CCA: “Awesome! Now, you may be wondering….”
Me: -zones out-
2 minutes later

CCA: “… and all that for just R95 a month! How does that sound?”
Me: *Shit! I just made him recite that whole speech. I know that doing so takes a great deal of effort and builds a false sense of WIN! I should have cut the call when I had the chance! I SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM THAT I AM A LESBIAN! Fuck. FUCK!*
“Great but I don’t think I have my banking details on me…”
CCA: “Not a problem, I’ll call you at another time”

And he did – multiply. Even though I avoided calls from private numbers for days afterwards, he managed to break through my barrier and make me feel even more guilty by saying that he realises how very busy I am…
As a result, I have to give him 5 recommendations – of close friends that may be interested too.
Not only do I have to suffer through the pain of speaking to him again, I have to bring my friends down with me and they will hate me for it and I will be alone and I’ll have to get a dozen cats and my house will smell of tuna and the kids in the neighbourhood will refer to me as ‘that crazy cat lady’ and when the kids in the neighbourhood tell tales of my infamous lack of sanity, they will say that I was brought down by a call centre agent.

That’s the very last time I let a call centre agent assume that I am heterosexual.

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I don’t love you, dear reader.

I would like to say that I don’t blog because I’m too busy. I could even settle for ‘I have no drama to blog about’, but; with 2 break-up/make-ups, pending parental divorce, the wallowing pit of depression that is unemployment, a quarter life crisis AND absolute elation in finding my way out – my life is anything but drama-less. The fact is, my mind is a plethora of highs and lows just waiting to splatter itself on a screen and wiggle their way into the innocent mind of my reader.

Readers: THAT is the problem. I used to enjoy writing when nobody read my blog, offering sexual favours to my bf if he promised to. Social media erupted and when I decided to leak my blog on twitter, I was taking a leap of faith. A faith that people would see my work for what it was, ramblings from a nonsensical girl on their screen. We shared good times, uplifting ones even. Now that I have regular visitors, I find myself re-thinking the amount of crap I want to share. Unfortunately, this is entirely my fault. I started writing in a clever/sarcastic tone and assumed the reader would pick up on my breadcrumb trail. I have raised the monkey bar for myself and I’m afraid I can’t reach it.

My blog writing process:

I think I have blog writing performance anxiety.

If I was a dude, I’d totally suck at it.

Heh.
Nevermind.

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Like sands through the hourglass…

average-housewife-afternoon-soap-operaI like sordid. In fact, I revel in it. This is mostly due to the fact that I’ve watched cheap soap operas whilst in my impressionable teenage years. I adored Taylor, Brooke, Sammy, Carrie and the other soap opera babes. All of them… It was only during my cynical early adulthood that I realised what they were – ‘Ambitious women that achieve their goals through questionable means’, otherwise referred to as whores, skanks, slappers, tarts, ho’s and sluts. I know, it’s easy to give them all a label and you think that any of those words apply. Wrong! There are intrinsic differences, subtle and equally dirty, but differences nonetheless.

THE ULTIMATE SKANK BLOG.

whoreWhores
Bio: In many cultures, they are referred to as the fore mothers of the modern variants we see frequenting our daily lives, labelled as such by those that prefer to use Old English to define them. Often portrayed as the most vulgar of them all, these women conduct daily life making a living through means of prostitution or stealing husbands. Once their acts are vindicated, they become martyrs, often seeking solace in exotic places such as Babylon or upon silk sheets in hotels along the French riviera.
Habitat: The whore is a nomad by nature, moving to places that allude to offering them wealth, though inclined to settle once their materialistic needs are fulfilled.
Mating habits: The whore uses sex as a trade, through a voluntary process, weighing her outputs against the value of her actions.

Skank
Bio: One of lower class, predominantly found in trailer parks or on the arm of Dennis Rodman. Often viewed as dirty, displaying a lack of personal hygiene and complete disregard for the condition of her skin. May be considered to be less beautiful than her peers. Also, a type of dance that white people do.
Habitat: A native of trailer parks, abandoned high-rise buildings and the back of Ford Cortinas.
Sexual habits: Elusive, often conducted in dark corners. Their sexual partners tend to deny any involvement, often evading questions through a semblance of logic. Ex: “I’d never sleep with her, she’s fugly”.

slut

Slapper
Bio: A party animal. A frequenter of bars, parties, clubs and pubs. That hot girl that’s a friend of a friend of Joe’s cousin who denied you the pleasure of her company and you’ve secretly been lusting after her since then. In it for the good times. Mostly considered as easy when under the influence of alcohol. Uses the power of suggestion to get what she wants without actually keeping to her promises.
Habitat: Trendy nightspots such as Manhattan and The Baron. Photographic evidence usually documented on Thunda.com, later tagged on Facebook.
Sexual habits: It seems as if she’ll do anyone except you.

Tart
Bio: A type of confectionery. Easily identified by her bubbly personality and/or complete lack of brain activity. A serial flirt by nature, the Tart manages to get a lot of attention through very little use of thinkery. Mainly used as a derogatory term amongst older woman of English heritage.
Habitat: Your mom’s tea party/braai, often engaged in conversation with the husband of that bitch Maude, whilst her friends stare at her in aplomb.
Sexual habits: A Tart will deny that she’s ever slept with your husband. You will believe her because she’ll do it in a very ditsy manner. Even if you could prove it, you would never allow yourself to believe that you got ousted by someone perceived to be less intelligent than you.

Ho’s
Bio: A product of hip hop. Not restricted to gender (see man ho’s and faux ho’s). Not necessarily a derogatory term. Created for means of use in rap songs. Words that rhyme with ho: mo’, fo sho’, blow, dough. A ho is a product, usually starting out as a shawty then yo’ girl then yo’ baby mamma and finally, a ho, when she demands alimony.
Habitat: Different area codes.
Sexual Habits: Usually sleeps with rap stars, older women of elaborate means and yo baby daddy.

Slut
pic4smBio: Usually sleeps with anyone as long as they flatter her ego. A woman with the morals of a man.
Habitat: They’re everywhere. Capable of adapting in the most harsh of environments. The Slut is also mobile through means of paying for lifts with sexual favours.
Sexual Habits: Anywhere. Any time. Any place. What? Did you just tell me that I’m beautiful? *pounces*

I must admit, defining these terms took a while and was very difficult at first, but I had lots of fun attempting to. Thanks to those that pushed me to write it. Slappers, the bunch of you.

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Sent from my smart phone.

I know what you’re thinking, not another social media article. Truthfully, I agree, we’ve reached the stage where no-one cares about articles on how to increase the girth of your social media profile. Also, no-one actually uses the word girth in normal conversation. I bet you’re about the google the definition of the word ‘girth’ right now.

Social Media is better than a phone call.
So you went to Vida-e to meet with @missfuzzykittenIloveNickJonas. You don’t know why you went to Vida-e, it may be that the people on twitter are subliminally sending you messages through their ‘I’m off to Vida-e!’ tweets. @missfuzzykittenIloveNickJonas is going through a very difficult stage in her life, which is quite evident through her exaggerated sighs. You are unperturbed by this and continue your story about the Don Packett youtube CV rip-off. You laugh. Alone. Manically. @missfuzzykittenIloveNickJonas does this weird twisty thing with her mouth, not a good sign. She then asks you if you’ve noticed that her Facebook relationship status has changed. Pennies drop everywhere. How could you have missed that? You practically live online. You sip on your Vida-e coffee slowly, at a loss for words.Social Media has made you a bad friend.

Social Media promotes fake laughter.
You’re at work. Your Outlook notifies you that you have a new mail. A combination of intrigue and disappointment flutters. We get it, Outlook sucks. Oh, the mail is from Mr. Joke Sender, it’s a joke you’ve seen on twitter three weeks ago. Your facial expression remains unchanged. Ten minutes later, Mr. Joke Sender comes into your office, grinning with more gusto than Jim Carrey. ‘So… how funny was that mail… hey?’. You like Mr Joke Sender, he’s a bit corny but he’s actually a good person to have around if the printer gives you problems. You can either A – tell the truth and say that you’ve seen the joke, whilst watching him breakdown emotionally, or B- fake laugh. You fake laugh to save Mr. Joke Sender’s ego. You’re going to hell.

If you attend an event that was not mentioned Social Media, chances are, you stayed at home with your cat, watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s in you pjs.
Oooh. Is someone getting married today? Are you attending the wedding? Tweet about it. Are you at a braai with other social media folk? Tweet about it. Are you at home with your cat, watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s in you pjs? Don’t tweet at all. Put your phone off. Instead, muse about the fact that 5 years ago, you were perfectly happy with the idea of NOT telling the world about every little thing you’re doing.

Social Media promotes emotional outbursts.
OBAMA WON THE NOBEL PRIZE! OMG THEY’RE BOMBING THE MOON! FUCK AMERICA! LET’S BOMB THEM AND SEE HOW THEY FEEL! ALSO, KANYE’S AN IDIOT! I just can’t take this anymore, I can’t believe he didn’t call. OMG YOU GUYS! NICK JONAS IS SO HAWT. I JUST LOVE HIM. I don’t know who to turn to, my life is over. I’m serious this time guys. Get your teeth whitened! Ask me how. Lady, no-one cares. Average person’s reaction to emotional outbursts: ‘Awh, that’s too bad/awesome/hardcore, I hope this phase passes…. OOOH 10 OF THE MOST AMAZING WORDPRESS THEMES ALL IN ONE POST!’ *click* End.

Social Media endorses contradictions. No they don’t! Yes, yes they do…
You’re facebook chatting, posterous’ing and tweeting at the same time. If you were any more awesome, you’d be Guy Kawasaki. You resent that I said that, you hate that I compared you to Guy Kawasaki. You’re shit hot right now, you’ve manufactured your personal brand, have a water tight alias and a very own domain, but something is missing. You live online but crave a simpler existence, hence your constant need to use the ‘lighter’ version of any social media platform. You like the clutter free look but still crave the meatier version. You want a young Sofia Louren but you’re getting Paris Hilton and as much as Paris tries, she’ll never do that hip sway like Sofia. This saddens you. Please refrain from having an emotional outburst.

Social Media turns you into an elitist.
You’re having a pretty decent conversation with a budding entrepeneur. You wonder why you haven’t heard of this cat before. Light bulbs flash – he’s not on the interwebs. You suggest he get on it ASAP in order to increase his brand awareness. You do not pay attention to local internet user statistics. Turns out, ‘this cat’ has an ad airing on SABC 1, a station you vowed not to watch after their recent financial crisis. This does not concern you, the internet dweller. If it is not on social media it does not exist, right? WRONG.

Social Media makes you a bad person.
You’ve seen it, you’ve laughed at it, people have suffered. http://www.latfh.com http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com http://dontjudgemyhair.com http://www.peopleofwalmart.com Didn’t your mother ever teach you to NOT make fun of other people. Save it for family dinner punk.

As much as you want to, you’ll never give up Social Media. Ever.
You laughed at every point I made yet silently agreed at the same time. Addict. You’ll be off to Vida-e to drown your sorrows in a bottomless cup of coffee. You’re hardcore like that.

I have no words. Rather, I do, I’m trying to condense it in 140 characters or less.

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World Domination – A Manifesto (part 1)

So you want to take over the world do you? You’ve meticulously orchestrated the perfect pitch, duration and type of evil laugh to accompany the sound of thunder. You look good in black/ with your brain in a jar/ wrapped in the fur of 101 dalmatian puppies. Well, that’s nice.
 
I doubt you’ve given this endeavor much thought. Let me elaborate:
 

Taking over the world – Not for Morons.

There are a few things you need to get through before you are even remotely close to commanding the attention of the world’s population. Right up there, amidst dreams of Eva Green feeding you Swiss-chocolate-dipped strawberries with her perfectly manicured fingertips, is the crux of this ‘undertaking’: The motive.
 

Possible motives for wanting to dominate the world

  • You want more money than Richard Branson with the addition of a pimped out cave along the border of Nicaragua, servents addressing you as ‘The Magnificent’ and your very own jetpack – one that doesn’t burn your legs to a crisp when you take off
  • Your mommy didn’t love you enough: She didn’t get you that blue Power Ranger action figure you wanted when you were six. Everyone must die, even that blue Power Ranger guy, he totally deflowered the pink Power Ranger and you’ve been in love with her ever since she… you can’t remember, she’s that hot. Everyone must die, except you, and pink Power Ranger and your mom. If you mom found out you wanted to kill her, you’d NEVER get that blue Power Ranger.
  • You’re a hippie. You’ve watched ‘The day the Earth stood still’. You agree with every assumption made by the aliens regarding selfishness of humans. When everything got nommed by nanobots, your little earth loving heart danced for joy whilst you thought: ‘They deserve it, the bastards’.
  • You believe that you can fix the worlds problems. World hunger? McDonalds franchises everywhere! Poor people? Wealth distribution. Racism? Thing of the past, I’ll just make everyone uniform so they don’t have a reason to discriminate… blond hair, blue eyes… oooh, nice man fur, totally matches your swastika.
  • You live in a basement with your cat Wellington. Everyone hates you, especially your cat – you named him Wellington. What kind of crappy cat name is that? You want love, adoration and power. You want to be Tiger Woods without all the golf playing, or Lance Armstrong… without the cancer.

There are many motivations I’ve left out; revenge, madness and *cough* the good of humanity. If you are under the blindingly obvious misconception that taking over the world for ‘the good of humanity’ is without evil or malicious intent, you are wrong. That’s like St Peter saying “Sure, we’ll look over the fact that you took away people’s freedom. We’ll even look over the fact that you killed all the bad people. There’s just one thing though, since you did commit SOME murder (bad people, we get it) you’re allowed into heaven… but your left leg will burn for the rest of eternity.” before he chops your leg off and tosses it in THE PIT OF ETERNAL DAMNATON. Do you have any idea how hard it will be hitting on the heavenly honeys whilst your left leg is on fire? Do you? I thought so.

Lovely, now that we know what we want. Notice how I switched ‘you’ to the familiar ‘we’? That’s the type of thinking we need to get used to, taking over the world is bigger than ‘you’, you have to be more than ‘you’, its imperitive for the next step in our master plan: Getting Shit Done.

Part 2 to be posted as soon as I… Bad Wellington! Stop ripping the furniture!

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now why’d you go and put stars in their eyes?

So Ash and I watched Twilight… and it was crap. A note to reader, if you intend on watching this movie, please direct your attention to the red x on the top right corner of your screen.

If you have watched it and think its BRILLIANT, please direct your attention to the red x on the top right corner of your screen. Thank you. You’re obviously not cool enough to read my awesomeness.

Let us begin with an analysis of the movie poster:

Firstly: The makers of this poster really loved photoshop because she (Bella) looks nothing like this. Secondly Eric/Edward/That-Sedrick-from-Harry-Potter has these wicked cool eyes that fools the poster viewer into hopes of watching an ass kicking mutant hero adventure. Not so. (and I know that sentence construction was like something 17 year old would write, I was going for that effect because, oh you’re gonna love this one, 17 YEAR OLDS WOULD LOVE THIS CRAP)

Let us introduce Bella. She’s a pretty little thing from Arizona where its always sun-shiny with cacti and what not but then… dum dum dummm! She moves to a dark and forgettable place where it always rains and its cold enough for the frost to permeate through the screen in ways only dark cinematography can. I wasn’t too happy about this already as I’m one of them tropical people that need solar power. I’ve taken the liberty of skipping the boring parts because, seriously, it is forgettable. She joins a new school in a skedonk of a car but through all the adversities (namely, driving a skedonk and being a new kid at a high school in the middle of the term) she manages to make friends with randoms on her first day. Not only does she do this, but she also catches the eye of the brooding male hottie in one flick of her perfectly maintained locks. Realistically speaking, her locks would never be so pristine in rainy weather but you won’t see any frizz on that coif because realism is not very pretty.

The afore mentioned hottie is Eric/Edward/Dead-Harry-Potter-extra. I’ve got to give props to the casting agent on this one, he is absolutely perfect for this role. In true broody manliness, he never changed his facial expression. He reminded me of a young Keanu Reeves. Anyway, he’s a vampire, not just any vampire, a ‘vegetarian’ vampire. Oh the sheer horror! What that means for us normal people is that he doesn’t drink the blood of people, he drinks the blood from animals. I think PETA may disagree with your vegetarianism claims buddy.

The inevitable happens. Bella falls for Eric/Edward/whatever, because she can resist his broody manliness. He in turn cannot resist her, so much so that he watches her sleep. Sweet isn’t it? Until she discovers that he is, in fact, a vampire. When she confronts him about it, he admits to his dietary habits.

Alarm bells should be ringing now Bella.

But no, Bella likes a challenge, or maybe she wants to die or she’s into blood sports, I don’t know. Eric/Edward tells Bella that he’s a vampire AND he really wants to ‘suck her blood’ because he can’t resist her brand of damsel in distress. “You’re like my personal brand of heroin”

AND SHE STILL WANTS HIM. Pfft. Teenagers. Really.

Our manly hero man decides to step into the sunlight to show her what a monster he really is. During this point I was literally on the edge of my seat, awaiting a grotesque transformation of ‘The Incredible Hulk’ proportions… only to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He doesn’t turn into a monster, his skin glitters like a million diamonds.

Oh no! Anything but that!

Very clever mister screenplay writer person. Now all of the female audience will forget about the million holes in the plot because he’s so beautiful. I saw through this only because I’m too self absorbed to focus my attention on anything other than myself for too long. I see their tactic though:

How could Bella resist him now? Even though he’s likely to devour her and probably get her family into cliffhanger like predicaments, we’ll forgive her because he shines like a fucking million diamonds. Its in our chemical makeup. Why dear reader? BECAUSE WOMEN LOVE DIAMONDS. We’re part human-part magpie. Some woman are more magpie than human but that’s not my point.

The rest of the movie isn’t worth mentioning. He saves her life. They end off in a beautifully lit setting and one bad guy remains, smirking into the camera lens. They need a point to start the sequel. I get it.

All in all… it was ghastly. The first thing I thought when I walked out of the cinema: ‘I really need to pee’.

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