Stop. Sign.

I was sitting having a light lunch on this rather heavy day, when I overheard a table (comprising of three foreigners) talking about South Africa.

The eldest gentleman said:
"In South Africa a STOP sign is merely a suggestion."

How tragically true.

Gay or Straight?

Does Joost bat for the other team?
You decide!

Cock Size

Joost says “that few people know of my tattoo,
near a very private place”.

And that the man appearing in the video
had a “much larger penis” than his own.

Poor Joost.

Who does / does not want to be President?

oink-oink!

You can put lipstick on a pig.
It's still a pig.

You can wrap an old fish in a piece of paper called change.
It's still gonna stink.

We've had enough of the same old thing.

Barack Obama, 2008

Déjà vu

Howard Centre Pinelands,
originally uploaded by DanieVDM.

Last Sunday.
Spur.
Strange story.

This Sunday.
Same Spur.
Same fucking story.

We were told - again - that the owner of the Pinelands Spur is too stingy to repair the TV in the Smoking Section.
Strange.

Same old. Same old.

I'm Ga-Ga about the Lady

Lady GaGa.

I (should not) adore her music.

It invigorates me.
It's camp.

It makes me go Ga-Ga.

As I sit here with my Poker Face.

Pianississimo

My silence
is a direct consequence
of the looming
Feb 5 deadline
for Tax Returns to be filed electronically
with South African Revenue Services.

Spurned

I love waiters.
Not waitrons.
That WORD is bad.






It sounds like automaton.
Way too clinical.
And way too PC.

Yesterday we went to the Spur in Pinelands.
To watch tennis. Whatever.
I was informed by one of the waiters at the Cincinnati Spur, Pinelands, that the owner is way too tight-arsed to repair the TV.

Let me explain:
In the smoking section, which is where we sat (since we are all smokers) there are two ANTI-THEFT brackets - both of which are meant to have television sets mounted on them - for the patrons to watch.

One of the anti-theft brackets is empty. I must assume that the TV was stolen.
The other houses a non-functional TV. As it has done for some months.
There ARE other TV sets - that work - but they are all in the NON-SMOKING section.

When we suggested that the TV be repaired, the waiter informed us that: "the owner (of the Spur) would NEVER spend money on that! He wants to keep it all."

We requested Vodka Shots (chilled - how else do you serve them?) or Tequila Shots (chilled - how else do you serve them?) - and were informed that although the staff had, on numerous occasions, requested that these products be kept refrigerated - their request was denied.

We assumed that this is so as to save money.
For the owner.

Warm Tequila : Not Nice.
But we drank them anyway.

Sunday Eve

Sunday evenings are depressing?
I totally disagree.
Any eve (or Adam, for that manner) could be depressing - it's up to you.

Welcome to the FIRST week of February. 2009.

Cycling.

Mountain Climbing.

Ball Boys

Shhh! Don't tell my mama. 

We're sitting in the SPUR - watching the Australian Open Men's Final. Nadal vs Federer.

There are 3 of us. 

One supports Nadal. 

One Supports Federer

And I support BOTH. 

I win (or as the waiter says: LOSE) either way.

Eat Shit!

Why do we, collectively, eat shit from Fast Food Franchises?
I am not about to debate the nutritional value of Fast Food Outlets, and their somewhat similar menus. Nor shall I question the eco-compliance of their vendors.

We, the client, pay them money, and they (the fast food outlet) supply us with the item, as shown in Hi-Def Glossy Print on their menus - or as we have come to expect.

Good.
Eat yourself to death.

But no!
Go to STEERS in Blouberg (on the beach road) and get treated.
Like shit. To shit.
Get your order fucked up - by unhappy, incompetent, unpleasant, rude, unhelpful, unaccommodating, unworthy staff.
And get NO sauces.
Not even one single fucking disgusting sauce!
GUARANTEED!

Fuck off.
I want my money back.
I want to vomit in front of your patrons.
And then wipe my arse with the refund voucher.
In front of your patrons.

Black Arse Blue

Derive no pleasure from the failure of others.
And, yet, that is PRECISELY what I did.

Last night.

I wept.
With joy.

When Lopez thought her handbag had been snatched.
And jumped.

Off her bar stool.

And ran. And slipped. Down the steps. And fell. Her arse off.

KA-POW!
(Afrikaans: DOEF-DOEF)

I. Nearly. Pissed. Myself!

A person should not laugh at the failure of others.
But fuck that.

ps: Her handbag had not been snatched.
Her dementia wa caused by her excessive consumption of alcohol.