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Dear Mr Ludacris rapper dude Sir Please be so kind as to take a look at this clip of Mac Lethal, a white rapper from Kansas City, to see just how it’s done. This “nerdy white guy”, according to most of the sites posting this clip at the moment, completely kills it, while at the same time making pancakes. How thoughtful – a show with a snack thrown in, for good measure. Folks, watch and learn: Pretty good, huh? Stu out, bitches!  Mephobia: noun - the fear of becoming so awesome that the human race can’t handle it and everybody dies.  Geronimo! So let’s see if I understand this correctly: you want me jump OUT of a perfectly good aeroplane? Seriously? You’re having me on, right? Apparently so. And apparently what I can expect goes a little something like this: I need to get dressed up in something resembling the wardrobe from an MC Hammer music video circa 1988 – you know, bright and shiny colours, made from some God-awful material that is undoubtedly more flammable than petrol. Correct so far? Hammer time!  Looking good! Before we even consider the next stages of this foolhardy enterprise, let me ask why exactly I can’t have something like those Michelin Man padded suits. Or a suit made entirely out of airbags. You know, SOMETHING to at least cushion the impact from 1 million miles an hour to something that feels relatively more leisurely, like a comparatively dawdling 100 000 miles an hour. Moving on. Next step: Apparently I am then to climb aboard a tiny little aeroplane (you know those little ones that seem to drop from the sky like hailstones every few hours according to the news? Yeah, those ones). Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for planes. I’d even go so far as to state that I enjoy flying (salmonella-ridden airline food coupled with monstrous queues for a tiny glorified portaloo notwithstanding).  Fly fly fly your FAIL plane And do you know what else I am fan of when it comes to flying? Best-of-the-best pilots. Guys who’ve spent ten years in the Air Force dodging surface-to-air missiles like a bat on methamphetamines, followed by a minimum of two decades flying cargo planes across the globe. Coz that’s how we weed the not-so-competent out, right? And when your couriered jumper from Aunt Myrtle goes splat, that’s a lot better than you yourself ending up like a pizza base in some non-descript field in the Free State, not so? But nooooooo, we get Frik “The Bullet” van der Frikson, recently graduated from ‘Bob’s Reliable School of Flying and Herbalife Supplier to the Stars’ last week. Total flying hours? Four. Plus a few days spent on Microsoft Flight Simulator 98 making “Zoom” and “Whoosh” noises out of the corner of his mouth as he ploughs a yet another pixelated 747 into yet another pixelated barn.  Nap time Zzzzzzz... But anyway, Captein Frik somehow manages to get this Volksie Beetle with wings airborne, scattering a flock of mildly-annoyed pigeons who were quietly minding their own business on the runway (read: strip of field with slightly shorter grass than its surrounds), just chilling out, shooting the shit, chomping on seeds. Now the inevitable wait for said aircraft (propellered coffin) to reach a height of around OMFG-that’s-high feet – more than enough time to ponder just what in the HELL I’m doing here. I could be at home, having a bit of a lie-in, sipping on some steaming coffee, catching up on the rugby scores, schtupping the missus, whatever. But no, here I am in a flying box, doing 1 million miles an hour, at 1 million feet, about to plummet back to the Earth at another 1 million miles an hour. Just when I finally come to terms with the inevitable, I’ll immediately change my mind on the spot when some sadistic bastard gestures towards the obviously-missing door and the microscopic world below. This would be about the point where one’s insides (belly, intestines – the whole damn lot), having been casually minding their own business all along, just digesting away quietly like they’re meant to, pop their head up and go, “huh? Say what? Ohhhhhh HEEELLLLLLLLLL no! Just try it buddy! See how that works out for you.” I’ll feel free to now scream like a banshee and beg for my life while the guy I’m now somehow strapped to, a guy who CHOSE to flip gravity the bird each and every day of his inevitably short life, a.k.a. my skydiving instructor / tandem jumper, tries to man-handle me towards, and out of, the plane’s door opening. This is usually accomplished with an annoyingly enthusiastic shout along the lines of “Geronimo!” and obligatory fist bump. (Who ‘fist bumps’ anyway? Doos.) But don’t worry – I’ll be far too terrified to get “annoyed”.  OMFG!!!!!!! But all my efforts will be in vain – I WILL get summarily ejected from the aircraft and IMMEDIATELY scream a little (a LOT) more while descending (plummeting) towards the Earth at 120 mph (but which will definitely feel a whole lot more like 1 gazillion mph). You know, LIKE A DART. Lucky me, as I now get to attempt to not (i) go into cardiac arrest, (ii) cry like a little girl with a grazed knee, and (iii) literally shit myself to death (for what it’s worth, my insides DID warn me a few minutes prior. But did I listen? Noooooooo, I was all “Oh don’t worry belly, I got this. It’s all good”. But it isn’t, is it?). The theory goes like this: I’ll be in freefall for a while, and once the required height above ground is reached, the instructor I’m tandem jumping with will deploy the parachute. The reality, however, is a bit more chilling: I’ll spend those seconds feeling like each and every one is a full minute, nay an HOUR, all the time thinking “surely he must have popped the parachute by now. Nope, still no parachute. And… now? Nope. Hang on, that must mean there’s something wrong OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD I DON’T WANNA DIE!!!!”. And suddenly the chute will in fact open, I will slow down a bit (not nearly enough for my liking thank you very much), and all will be well (relatively speaking of course – I’m still falling towards the ground after all). I am now apparently supposed to enjoy the view – all the pretty mountains and fields and paddocks and such. I say “bollocks to that!” I’m far too busy trying to restart my heart at the moment if it’s all the same to you. After what feels like an eternity, I’ll notice the ground approaching at a speed reminiscent of something involving sonic booms, hyper drives and rockets. I will all too soon (paradox – I’m sooooo over this whole falling thing, but that field I’ve been aimed at looks extra solid and hard today) get to experience landing. “Landing” is probably not actually the best word to use in this case, as it’s not so much the implied kitten landing on a pillow as the more realistic buffalo smashing into a wall. It’s apparently not gentle – no sirree, I will still hit the ground at a really rather respectable rate of knots.  Soft and fluffy and cushioned. Not like this at all. Assuming nothing’s obviously broken and there is no bone protruding at a grotesque angle from one of my (hopefully still attached) limbs, I am now done. Except of course for the bulky man strapped to my back in what now feels like a far too familiar fashion. Might wanna get unclipped – stay strapped like that for too long and it’s time for a lifestyle decision. I’ll now feel free to pick myself up, unclip from my new friend and suddenly pretend I’m cool and tough in front of the ladies. This is a very important stage of the whole affair. It’s time to get my toughest, manliest pose on, as the ladies all know the awful and sobering reality: I’m not looking tough at all. I’m a whimpering girl’s blouse with a brown stain down the back of my rods and everybody knows it.  Try hard. Just not this hard. Sounds lovely, right? Yeah… I’m not buying it. Next! This latest advert for Nando’s has been posted on just about every South African blog in the last couple of days, and for good reason. Whilst Nando’s has always had some of the best adverts out there, this one surely takes the cake. Featuring a Robert Mugabe lookalike, with “Those were the days” playing in the background, it’s just all forms of comedy brilliance. Look out for the likes of Gaddafi, Saddam Hussein and PW Botha. Check it: Classic, you guys! Don’t you just love it when some hacker punk gets access to your email address and spams every single person in your address book with the usual assortment of dodgy misspelled pharmaceuticals, presumably-toxic weight loss products and virtually guaranteed to make it fall off cures for ‘male’ issues? #awkward I’d love to get hold of one of these these pale LAN-gaming clowns. I’m from Pretoria. I spent many years pinting in Hatfield Square, and survived. As an English speaker nogal! It’d be brutal. But oh so sweet. And totally worth it. By the way, I got some great deals on dodgy misspelled pharmaceuticals, presumably-toxic weight loss products and virtually guaranteed to make it fall off cures for ‘male’ issues if anyone’s interested…
I used the word “hippies” in the title of this post, but I was actually supposed to write “stoners”. It’s an honest mistake – the term can generally be used interchangeably, not so? Let’s be honest – if you have a fondness for tie-dye, Grateful Dead T-shirts and sandals, one can safely assume that you’re a pothead with a penchant for ‘munchies’ and saying profound things like “Shew bru”. This weekend cities around the world, as well as in South Africa, will play host to the ‘Global Marijuana March’. SA cities involved are:
There doesn’t appear to be a march by the Knysna Forest hippies – I’m guessing that they either (i) didn’t get the memo, or (ii) did get the memo, but rolled it up and set it alight when their stock of Rizlas ran out. If you’re interested (and can put down your rolling papers for long enough to click a link), then click here to find out more: http://www.belowthelion.co.za/global-marijuana-march-south-africa-2011/. Reaction to this is of course mixed. I’m imagining that stoners the world over are saying “Fully! Sweet! Who’s bringing the munchies?” and “Down with the man!” On opposing council, my brother’s sentiment tends to sum up the opposite outlook: “Personally I think a water cannon and a few police dogs should do the trick, but hey that’s just me…” It’s not just you. Remember the words of the great Eric Cartman? “Hippies, hippies… they want to save the world, but all they do is smoke pot and play frisbee!” Well played son, well played. Hit the nail on the head right there. Speaking of hitting on the head, “here hippie hippie hippie…” Will you be marching this weekend? Here is the latest incarnation of DJ Earworm’s (yup, he actually chooses to call himself that) annual United State of Pop (Don’t stop the Pop) mix. If you’re unfamiliar with the lad, what he does is take all the top pop hits and their accompanying music videos of the previous year, and rustles up a mix/mashup of them. Here’s 2010′s: Check out the previous year’s one – Top 25 Pop 2009 Remix… For the 2009 version I whined that I was so slow to post it that nearly half a million of you beat me to it (by YouTube views). This time 11 million of you lot did so! Strewth! And dear Mr
The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats, and have therefore raised their security level from “Miffed” to “Peeved”. Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to “Irritated” or even “A Bit Cross”. The English have not been “A Bit Cross” since the blitz in 1940, when tea supplies nearly ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from “Tiresome” to “A Bloody Nuisance”. The last time the British issued a “Bloody Nuisance” warning level was in 1588, when threatened by the Spanish Armada. The Scots have raised their threat level from “Pissed Off” to “Let’s get the *******s”. They don’t have any other levels. This is the reason they have been used on the front line of the British army for the last 300 years. The French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from “Run” to “Hide”. The only two higher levels in France are “Collaborate” and “Surrender”. The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France’s white flag factory, effectively paralyzing the country’s military capability. Italy has increased the alert level from “Shout Loudly and Excitedly” to “Elaborate Military Posturing”. Two more levels remain: “Ineffective Combat Operations” and “Change Sides”. The Germans have increased their alert state from “Disdainful Arrogance” to “Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs”. They also have two higher levels: “Invade a Neighbour” and “Lose”. Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual; the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels. The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy. Americans meanwhile, and as usual, are carrying out pre-emptive strikes on all of their allies “just in case”. Canada doesn’t have any alert levels. New Zealand has raised its security levels – from “baaa” to “BAAAA”. Due to continuing defence cutbacks, New Zealand has only one more level of escalation, which is “I hope Australia will come and rescue us”. Australia, meanwhile, has raised its security level from “No worries” to “She’ll be alright, mate”. Three more escalation levels remain: “Crikey!”, “I think we’ll need to cancel the barbie this weekend” and “The barbie is cancelled”. So far no situation has ever warranted use of the final escalation level. — Nicely done lads. By the way, at least wait until the 0:13 mark before closing this window – surely you can deal with 13 seconds of Mr (Ms?) Bieber, painful as it may be. Right? Right? Such a trooper! — To illustrate the things I have to deal with (cry me a river), please find below a copy of an email I sent to my landlord barely five minutes ago (with a fair bit of censorship of course – this is after all a family-friendly site, innit?) politely laying out a concern I may have developed:
And here’s the reply from
I’m detecting a slight lack of sympathy here. I assume that’s a “no” on the half-rent then? |
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