The Freaks are everywhere: Gumtree

Where the freaks hang out...

My previous posts about the kind of freaks I witness in nightclubs made me realise there are some really whacked out individuals that make cameo appearances in my day to day existence. One such appearance of “freak occurrence” if you will was when I was recently trying to sell some games on Gumtree.

For those of you who are unaware of the website Gumtree, it’s a community site where individuals can advertise goods or services for sale and where similarly minded individuals looking for deals contact sellers if they are interested. All a very good value adding service… in theory, but for some reason I seem to attract the most ridiculous potential buyers.

To quote the aforementioned recent example I was trying to sell some Xbox 360 and Playstation 3 games of which I had grown tired and put an advertisement up on Gumtree stating that these games were for sale at various set prices which were non-negotiable and then a short statement as to the games’ authenticity, pristine condition and that they all still include the original manuals and packaging.

The ad had not been up for 20 minutes before someone who will remain nameless…let’s just call him “illiterate retard #1” asks “what kind of condition are the games in? If “X game” is in good condition I’ll give you 50 bucks for it”. Please note the ad said that this particular game was being offered at R250. I wasn’t sure whether to this was a gag response designed to test my patience or whether “illiterate retard #1” actually couldn’t read in which case I have to commend him on his ability to use a keyboard!

I would’ve responded to “illiterate retard #1” but I distracted by our next amazing response from the one who will be referred to as “has never heard of sarcasm”. You see this guy wasn’t sure which game I was selling because there are several versions of Killzone 3? (FYI there are not… it’s the 3^rd one… but not being a brain dead idiot you could’ve worked that out even if you had never heard of video games in your entire life).  So this guy wanted me to mail him a picture of the game to check it’s the right Killzone 3 and that it still has its manual etc. Since I didn’t have the game on me I said “I don’t have a photo, but I could always google a pic and mail it to you and you wouldn’t know” (in an attempt to explain how futile his request was). To which he responded “Yes please do that”. Now at this point I wasn’t sure if he didn’t realise that I was being sarcastic or if he had transitioned to the realm of Supersasm – a mythical state of being where true masters of sarcasm, even the user themselves isn’t aware they are being sarcastic – it’s like Nirvana for sullen teenagers.

But the best response came from an individual from where else but Amanzimtoti. For those who are unaware of the whereabouts of Amanzimtoti count yourself lucky. All you need to know is that it’s a fair drive South of where I stay and is basically considered “the South” as per most American stereotypes (you know, a “picking up chicks at family reunions” type of place). Well this guy managed to get past the obvious hurdle of my advertisement being written in English to respond that he was willing to by one of my games on sale for R50 at the advertised price! Surely not? Had someone actually read my ad? I thought it too good to be true and that’s because it was, for once I had confirmed that the game was still for sale and R50 was the going rate he said “cool you can drop it off in Toti on Monday”.

I responded that I was not prepared to drive to Toti for R50 (a trip which would cost about R50 in petrol, not to mention the waste of time and disease risk). To which he responded “Okay R70, but that’s my final offer”.

Suffice is to say I haven’t yet sold all my games and maybe I have missed out on a few potential sales, but at least I still have my principles and until they are eventually sold I have some very expensive beer coasters…

Do Pick Up Lines Even Work?

Works everytime....

 

Do pick up lines even work? Even I think they’re corny, I can’t imagine what a girl thinks when some drunken fool spits a pick up line in her face.

 “Hey is your dad a baker? Cos you have nice buns!” hehehe

What exactly is hoping for? Seriously? Does he think that she’s just going to go “Oh my god! You are the greatest male specimen I have ever encountered!” “Not only do you have the debonair charm and wit of James Bond, but the way you got into that fight with the bouncer after puking on the dance floor is most invigorating. Please oh please make sweet love to me on this bar stool! And then allow me the honour of being the mother of your unborn child!”

 And if these pick up lines do actually work do any of those relationships ever last?

I can’t imagine if you had to ask your Mom and Dad how they met they would say “Well son, I had just been in a fight with a bouncer for throwing up everywhere, when I saw your mom in the shortest mini skirt I have ever seen…And the rest is history” “In fact I’m pretty sure that’s where you were conceived, you little bastard!”

 One of the things that scares me the most about dance clubs is when it gets towards the end of the night and the club starts emptying and you can smell the desperation in the air, it smells like sweat and rohypnol.

 At this time of the evening the body is just craving 24hour Steers or MacDonald’s, but you can actually hear some of the guys saying stuff like “Dammit its 3am! It’s burger time, I have to come right with something before the club closes!” at which point he is faced with a very troubling dilemma that has plagued mankind for centuries… do you go home alone, or drop your standards significantly!

chicks dig pandas

 And you can see these guys circling the dance floor like sharks looking for ANYTHING to eat, these sharks would be happy with the ass end of a leather boot let alone anything living. But this doesn’t scare me half as much as the “minga” chicks still there on the dance floor during this feeding frenzy. They’re dancing there thinking… “One of these guys might drop his standards significantly tonight and I might get lucky.” Some of the uglier ones are even hanging around the dance floor shaving their back then they whip out a Big Mac… here boys, here boys.

 I had a friend who had no problem with this, he used to say that every guy needs a “practice girl” and so even these girls served a purpose. Of course we called him the sexual janitor because of this, but he didn’t seem to mind. Heck his favourite pick up line was “you want grab some pizza and then have sex, or we can get something else if you don’t like pizza”

when in doubt...be honest

Nightclubs and how (not) to “pick up chicks”

 

So does this mean you WILL sleep with me?

The one thing that going to night clubs does help me appreciate is that if my girlfriend broke up with me I’d be completely f***ed… well not literally that’s kind of why I’m with her in the first place, but it dawned on me when I was in the club, that I have no idea how to go on dates anymore let alone pick up chicks, and my memories of doing so in the past aren’t all that great to begin with.

 First of all most of the clubs are filled with only 2 types of people, jocks and skanks. Oh and me. 3 types of people. You know jocks? With their popped collars, peroxided hair, shirt tucked just behind the belt buckle that says “GUESS” (I don’t know…small penis?) Oh and their white loafers, walking around with their arms out like they’re carrying invisible watermelons asking me if “I know who they are and how much they bench press”

 And skanks with their short skirts, and low cut tops making their breast stare at me. STOP staring at me breasts!!!

 There’s me in the corner drinking copious amounts of liquid personality trying to actually get up the courage to talk to any of these breasts…I mean women. Let me tell you there is a fine line between Don Juan Casanova, the ladies man and Pukey McGee, the village idiot.

 You try come up with some witty pick up line, something to show how confident, dashing, and intelligent you are with just the slightest hint of humour. Something like “Can I buy you a drink?”; “Are those real?” or “Daaaaaaammmmmn!”

 Besides that, how the hell are you supposed to say your perfectly rehearsed pick up line, when the “music” (I use the term loosely) is so damn loud. You end up shouting some sort of awkward mess into her ear.

 Me: SO UM DO YOU COME HERE OFTEN?

Girl: NO THANKS I ALREADY ATE

Me: UM OK…. SO HEY! SO WHO’S YOUR FAVOURITE ARTIST?

Girl: YEAH!!! WHAT?

Me: NEVERMIND!

Girl: WHAT? NO THANKS I HAVE A DRINK!

 This is normally the time I try to slink away or start speaking in a made up foreign language. I equate it to some sort of defence mechanism like a porcupine or a skunk. Like if a song bird attracts a mate he doesn’t like he would suddenly change songs or sing out of key.

The Freaks Come Out at Night: The DJ

Look how awesome I look when I press play on my iTunes

What would a nightclub experience be without the DJ? I mean besides “better”. Talk about the most overrated job in the nightclub; this has to go to the DJ. The DJ gets so much credit for basically clicking play on his iTunes playlist, mincing around like a drunken hobo and then occasionally telling people what to do.

“Everybody get down!”

“Put your hands in the Air!”

“Everybody Scream!”

Gees, what a control freak! He could at least say Simon says first. Then he’ll play whatever the “flavour of the month” song is about 4 times every hour and yet you’ll still hear a million women scream “Oh Em GEE! It’s my song!”

Let me get something straight here, a Club DJ is not a live act. I understand there are electronic musicians who make dance music and some call themselves DJ’s, but the guy who clicks play on his iTunes then occasionally listens into his oversized earphones and pretends to finely adjust certain buttons and dials is not a musician. He is as much a musician as the guy who presses play on the DVD player is a movie director or the guy who forwards email jokes is a comedian.

Heaven forbid these “DJ’s” actually try and do some real mixing… what usually happens is either a garbled mess of 2 songs where the beats don’t sync and you end up dancing like a one legged man wearing roller skates during an earthquake (an actual description I’ve heard of my dancing). Even better is when there is that “death” between two badly mixed songs and everyone on the dance floor kind of just stands around staring at each other like they were all crammed into the largest most awkward elevator of all time (except at least there there’d be elevator music).

Regardless of what’s playing I’ll be trotting side to side doing the boyfriend dance in a circle around girls’ handbags while some strange loner guy who is clearly way too “in touch” with the music dances in a world of his own on stage or on top of one of the speakers hoping that it will attract some equally strange mate.

Sometimes DJ’s will be a little less authoritarian and ask people for requests. Although not once has one of my requests been acknowledged, probably because the requests are to “stop playing immediately”, “stop butchering my ears” or the ever popular “eat #### and die”.

Thank you Mr DJ for everything you do. From the way you peroxide your hair to the way you wear your sunglasses inside. From the way you pretend to be doing something important from behind your laptop to the way you always find the most inspiring things to shout over the microphone.

I salute you for without you the nightclub would be a very different place: A place I could possibly stand going to.

The Freaks Come Out at Night – Promo Girls

I'm pretty sure if I buy whatever alcohol they're selling one of them is contractually obligated to sleep with me

Next under the microsope: Promo girls

What genius thought up this vampiric marketing scheme? You can actually imagine the boardroom discussion. When are men most likely to buy things they don’t need? When they are drunk or when they think it will impress a pretty girl. So let’s combined the two by having scantily clad skanks sell alcohol to these men! Genius! Give that man a raise, in exchange for his SOUL!

Furthermore, at what point do they choose the promotional items to give away? Let’s see, we’ll need 4000 T-shirts (all size XXXXL), 4000 poorly stitched caps and a cubic f**kton of lanyards. I have so many lanyards I actually have to buy more keys. If you don’t know what a lanyard is, it’s those ropey/ribbony pieces of crap that douche bags carry their keys or wallet on and let hang out of their pockets ala “Dope on a Rope”. At some point in the past few years someone discovered that lanyards cost about 20 cents to make and they can retail for up to 50 bucks and so became the promotional item of choice for everything from beer, to cigarettes, to lanyards themselves and if you buy just 50 shots of tequila you get this classy lanyard free so all your friends know what a raging alcoholic you are.

But what is a promo girl without her “oh so classy” outfit. The fact that the outfits these girls have to wear stand out as being particularly skanky amongst the sea of skank that comprises most night clubs is really a tribute to the designers, who have removed any need to possess an imagination. I can’t decide whether these outfits are meant to be so skimpy or if these promo girls are buying their outfits on the instalment plan. I don’t drink and I have to say having a girl come up to me with her vagina hanging out is unlikely to get me to start, unless it’s supposed to make me feel sorry for her being unable to afford a complete dress and thus offer to buy her one.

One thing I will say there appears to be a direct correlation between the exclusivity of the brand and the quality of the women they employ. So while Moët and Johnny Walker appear to take some care in who they have representing their brands as all appear to be lingerie models or from the covers of fashion magazines; there are other brands that, either due to budget constraints or because they know they’re not fooling anyone (since their product is known to cause memory loss, internal bleeding and memory loss and is brewed in a bath tub) will take less rigour in choosing their brand ambassadors.

 

DO NOT MOVE! Their vision is based on movement

 

Thesy choose the kind of “girls” who look like they derive most of their income from testing experimental medicine and posing for “Before” pictures for plastic surgery and extreme weight loss programs. The kind of classy girl that it wouldn’t surprise you to find out that they’re pregnant while doing their promo work, not that that would stop them letting you buy them shots of tequila.

What scares me most when noticing how trampy and “less-attractive” these girls are, is that promo girls from all brands appear to travel in packs of at least two and in my experience, as limited as it is, there is always one who is definitely the ugly friend (here’s a tip she’s generally the one carrying the box of caps, t-shirts and lanyards) Now this is fine when we’re talking about the supermodel promo girls because then the “ugly duckling” could actually just be seen as someone attainable or in the league of “normal looking” people, but when it comes to the girls selling 2 buck Sambuca Shots the ugly girl is likely to be feral.

So next time you see Shrek and the Box Donkey limping your way do not make eye contact or you may turn into stone or even worse buy a lanyard.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the nightclub journey so far; next up… the DJ.

 

The Freaks come out at Night: The Bartender

Yeah that's great, but can you just serve me a drink rather?

Oh the nightclub bartender; what wonderful hole do these creatures crawl out from? Yes, I get that you think you are the centre of attention since without you no one will be able to get the one substance that makes being in this psychedelic hellhole tolerable, but that doesn’t mean I have to tolerate you.

My interactions with bartenders although limited are more frequent than I would like as at least standing at the bar waiting for service is a damn side better than being on the dance floor (to be addressed in a future rant, sorry I mean “well researched blog article”). Either it’s because I’d use any excuse to get off the dance floor or because I’m usually the “boyfriend” and getting the drinks is part of the job description given my ancestral predilection towards hunting and gathering. Regardless I find myself having to negotiate the frenetic transaction of ordering drinks.

In my time I have developed a few techniques for getting service which I have perfected to the point that occasionally on the rare instance have actually been known to work, sometimes. One such technique which is unashamedly stolen from watching too many rap videos is the “make it rain bitches”-technique, which involves waving your money around  in the air, in a fashion that would indicate that you “just don’t care”. Please note that it doesn’t really work when the biggest note you have is a crumpled up R10 ($1 for my international readers – if you exist)

Another technique is to try make eye contact with the bartenders; unrelenting and unblinking eye contact as if to draw them in like some sort of tractor beam. The drawback of this method is it can result in your just looking like some sort of creepy weirdo who actually believes he has some sort of telekinetic tractor beam vision as you stare down lady bartenders while they prance around the bar. What can make matters worse is when one of the more effeminate male bartenders catches you staring and thinks you’re trying to hit on him.

The one technique that works without fail… have huge breasts, which is a problem for me as I’m sure you can imagine. However, I have learnt to use this observation to my advantage. I normally just ask one of the more well-enchested ladies to buy my drinks for me, which has some rather awkward repercussions. First of all I’m normally ordering chick drinks for my girlfriend and her mates, and it is pretty damn hard to act smooth and debonair when you’re ordering a cosmo, three strawberry daiquiris and a screaming orgasm, worse still is one is invariably seen by your girlfriend talking to other women – big breasted women – who you then proceed to give money to.

So Mr or Miss Bartender… you may try to avoid me, you may get my order wrong, overcharge me for my order or spill most of my drink on the floor in an inane attempt at “flaring”. You may serve the attractive girl next to me who just arrived at the bar even though I’ve been there for 20 minutes and you can even “forget” to bring me my change, but I have to tell you it gives me great satisfaction paying for my drinks from money you so kindly left me in your tip jar.

Next up… let’s see… how about promo girls!

The Freaks Come out at Night: The Bouncer

Doesn't look too bouncy to me

What a terribly misleading name: “Bouncer”. It brings images of a rotund and jolly individual known for his boisterous laughter as much as his philanthropy. Instead in my experience most bouncers are steroid fuelled shaved head rage-aholics who can’t go five minutes without a glass of rage-ahol and would sooner stab you in the face with bottle than smile.

There they are; the first person you have to interact with on your magical evening if you don’t count all the freaks in the line. Squeezed into a suit and looking like a shaved gorilla they slowly assess everyone’s suitability for the fine establishment – meaning guys, you better all be wearing a collared shirt and leather shoes or you won’t be classy enough for the place which smells of sweat, vomit and broken dreams and looks like it was decorated by a gay robot (one which was programmed by a 70’s mafia boss with a penchant for animal print).

It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing expensive sneakers or an exclusive designer T-shirt, if you’re not dressed in the douche bag uniform you’re not getting in (this point has be well noted in my “secret ways to not have to go the nightclub” guide to be published soon). I even saw someone try argue with the bouncer saying he’s Vegan and doesn’t believe in killing animals for leather to which the bouncer elegantly retorted: “I don’t care what your f**king name is Kegan, you can’t come in if your shoes aren’t leather” and then something along the lines of “Are you looking at me or are you chewing bricks, cos either way you’re losing teeth?”

Wow the lines these guys use. There are some absolute literary pearls out there and I do suggest you try hear as many as possible hopefully not directed at you as it can often be the last thing one hears. Personally one of my favourites must be “The call me the VET, cos I’m looking after some sick puppies” (at which point they will kiss their biceps referring to them as puppies).

Where do they get these beef busses from? Are they genetically bred for the single purpose of making the night club experience less enjoyable (as if that were possible)? After getting past the “clipboard bouncer” who looks like he could snap my spine with the 5 mm of plywood clipboard and then the ever so surly cashier/stamp troll, I then have to get patted down by another frisky shaven gorilla before showing them my stamp.

Why am I showing you my stamp? You are standing less than a metre from the stampy cashier troll lady. You saw me pay! You saw me get stamped! What did you think somehow an alternate reality version of me switched places with me between payment, stamping and the 1 and half seconds it takes me to get to you? Oh! That is the reason? Okay then, suppose you can never be too careful.

At least at that stage you are in the club. Yay! (Sarcasm font required) and the adventure can begin and that is the last you will see of the bouncer unless he decides to kick your ass for breathing funny because he sure as hell doesn’t get involved in stopping any fights that may break out (usually because they’re the ones that started it in the first place).

One freak down many to go… next up: The Bartender.

The Freaks Come out at Night…

I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t go “clubbing” often, in fact I’m quite proud of the fact. Don’t get me wrong: the thought of standing in an overcrowded fire hazard with a bunch of sweaty drunken strangers as we “shake what our respective mothers’ gave us” while paying exorbitant drinks prices, is incredibly appealing to me, I just have better ways to waste my life (and my money).

Once in a while I am caught up in the frenzy of festivities such as birthdays and other celebrations, which for some reason, need to culminate in going to the club. The propensity towards ending up in the club is directly related to the number of single people in one’s group of friends;  the number of women with unhealthy self denial as to their age and stamina as if clubbing the night away would delay the ides of March marking the assassination of their fading youth;  or if there is a newly single member seeking to regain his confidence (because nothing builds confidence quite like dancing like a retard and rubbing up against some floozy with more body glitter than self respect).

What a theatre of dreams!

Regardless, on occasion I will find myself at the club doing the “boyfriend dance” (swaying side to side to the beat, pretending to have a good time) as we form a circle around the ladies’ handbags as the DJ plays crappy dance hit after crappy dance hit, occasionally breaking the monotony with random outburst of wit such as “Shake it, ladies” or “What happens in *club name here* stays in *club name here*” – yeah, except syphilis, idiot. Ever so often he will play a fairly decent song for about 10 seconds, before butchering it by revealing it to be a Dance remix of said classic.

Then we head to the bar to order shooters with names that sound more like experimental surgical procedures or what a coroner might right down in his report under the heading “cause of death”. As we shovel money across the bar, the only thing that is preventing me from going completely broke is the fact that service at the bar is so slow one only gets about one drink every hour.

As I take a look around the club, it doesn’t take long to identify several key “personalities” present; people I would hazard to say without whom the club experience would be vastly different, perhaps even enjoyable…

Over the next few posts I’d like to present my impressions of these amazing characters. Here in the magical world of the night club; a land of mystery, intrigue and cover charges.

First up… the bouncer

Great story… could’ve used a werewolf

 

I’m sure we all know someone who is renowned for their pointless stories. The kind of stories that always end it responses of “was that it?” or “and then?” That’s not to say the stories don’t grab your interest at some stage, it’s just that the endings suck (if there is even an ending).

The strangest thing is they don’t even seem to know that their stories suck. Usually when I’m telling a story and I realise the ending is lame or that the best part has already passed and I haven’t received the reaction I wanted, I’ll just fabricate something like a car crash or at the very least a werewolf or something. But these anti-story tellers don’t seem to realise this and will continue through the peaks and troughs of the story on what should be a rollercoaster of emotions and intrigue, except that with this rollercoaster as it gets to the top of the highest peak and you take the gasp before the big plunge… the ride stops and everyone is asked to get off and fill out questionnaires.

In these situations I’m normally stuck in some sort of emotional parallel dimension somewhere between surprise, astonishment, disgust and pure rage. While the tone and emphasis may vary the phrase “what the f*ck?” normally describes this amalgamation of emotion.

While you may or may not know someone like this, I actually dated someone like this. Who would’ve known that “terrible story telling skills” would actually get onto my list of deal breakers and here I thought it was just “tits” and “ass”. I guess I’m not as shallow as I thought I was. High 5, me!

This girl, let’s call her “Shakespeare’s Sister” for ironic purposes, would rush to the phone after school to call me and tell me about her “super exciting day” (dire need of the invention of a sarcasm font). The story would tumble and turn much like any emotional rollercoaster or any of the great literary works of our time. The stage was set, the characters identified, the protagonist developed, their quest outlined, the antagonist enters, the struggle begins, victory is imminent, the plot thickens, the tragic setback, the moment of composure and recollection, the slow and triumphant march towards ultimate victory … and … and … and… nothing.

Now you see, back during my high school days I was allowed a few minutes on the phone each day, so to have it ruined with the culmination of the story being…”and then we had MacDonald’s for dinner” really got to me. It was like as if at the moment Golem and Frodo confront each other in the fires of Mount Doom; the pure reckless hatred and malice of the ring at war with the innocent and incorruptible spirit of the young Hobbit and his alter ego the disfigured and poisoned wretch, Golem. While all this hung in the balance; over 1000 pages of literature behind you; Tolkien decides that “they all just hugged and went for a Big Mac and lived happily ever after.”

.

..

…

Really? What the f*ck?

I even remember my brother who was no more than 12 at the time and hardly the master of sarcasm he is today, remarking: “Wow! Great story! She’s a keeper”

What is the point of this blog? I’m glad you asked (or at least read on long enough for me to ask it for you). The point is, and at all times in life is… ah f*ck it I’m going to MacDonald’s.

All we have to fear is fear itself…

Who's scared of public speaking now?

…and freaking sharks!

There have been a large number of shark attacks off the coast of South Africa and almost like a slap in Fate’s spiteful face, my fiancée (sorry ladies) was given a “gift” of a diving session with some reef sharks no cage involved. You just float around with some chum observing sharks in a feeding frenzy which incidentally is pretty high up on my “list of place I don’t want to be”.

I’m scared of sharks and one thing I’m not scared is to admit it. I even dream (well have nightmares) about them. That’s why when people say “I hope all your dreams come true” I never know whether to thank them or slap them, thinking about being mauled by sharks dressed up as clowns (it’s a complicated dream, okay?)

Strangely though I’ve met quite a few people who are not afraid of sharks, let’s call them “idiots” for argument’s sake. They’re not scared at all! But obviously they’re scared of something; everyone is. So I asked one such “idiot” what he was scared of and his response was predictably idiotic: “attractive woman”. He said he was terrified of attractive women because he never knew what to say and became a complete idiot in front of them.

Really?! You’re scared of attractive women? Sure they can be intimidating, but when an attractive woman swims past me at the beach I don’t soil myself! If an attractive woman snuck into my swimming pool when I wasn’t looking I wouldn’t scream like a little girl and if an attractive woman asked me out for dinner I wouldn’t call the coast guard. Really?!? You’re scared of attractive women? And NOT sharks?!

A shark would tear an attractive woman to pieces! She wouldn’t stand a chance!

A shark pretty much dominates all other fears! You’re scared of clowns? A shark would eat clowns for breakfast. It would probably taste a bit funny to him (sorry, had to), but he’d do it! You scared of heights? Heights are probably the safest things in the world till sharks learn to fly or climb up stairs at which point the human race is completely f**ked.

I’ve noticed that a lot of people are scared of less tangible things like public speaking. Really?! More than sharks? A shark would totally dominate at public speaking. If a shark got up to the podium to address an audience I’m telling you it would have their undivided attention.

Some people will say other animals like a lion could beat a shark and sure lions are pretty dangerous, but thanks to movies and popular media they’re not as scary. A lot of movies portray dangerous animals as friendlier than they are, like Simba in the Lion King and this is probably why so many people are killed by Hippos because they’re always portrayed as friendly or at the very least hungry, hungry, but not sharks. Sharks are always portrayed as the menacing killing machines of nightmares (clown make up or not).
And yes a lion would probably win on the land (unfortunately where the Currie Cup was held – for now), but in the ocean a shark would tear a lion to pieces! I suppose the only fair fight would be to have them go at each other in some sort of gel-like suspension.

Where was I? Oh yeah, sharks are scary…. period.