It’s a song about Rape

Well you can’t joke about rape in this day and age
Even now the audience is getting quite outraged
Though I haven’t made a joke as yet
I just said the word and you can bet
I’ve offended someone just by doing that…
It’s just one of those topics to avoid
Well at least if you want to still remain employed

No you can’t joke about rape even online
Just don’t say the word at all and you’ll be fine
Not even to your facebook friends
They’ll tell the world that you offended
Them and you’ll soon be suspended
And you will have to leave a big disgrace
Just stick to jokes about farting, dicks and race

Seems no one wants to say the word at all
So much for freedom of speech for one and all
You can joke about cancer, AIDS and war
About cripples, gays and so much more
There’s a world of offensive topics to explore
But a rape joke sends folks into a fever
And it seems you can’t paint Zuma’s genitalia either

There’s something quite wrong with the world today
Where we think by not speaking things will go away
The rape problem’s bad but no need to fret your
Pretty little face it will get better
If we just get these jokers’ resignation letters
Then we can get back to the most import cause by far
Saving rhinos by putting red horns on all our cars

I hope you guys understand the irony
About this song that questions our society
Though I say the word “rape” this is not a rape joke
So please don’t turn me into your next scape goat
I just felt this was the only way to say
That rape is wrong – but censorship’s NOT OKAY!

Disciplining your Children

Why you child rack a disciprine?

I’m getting to the stage where I’m thinking about possibly maybe having the inclination towards perhaps entertaining an idea of considering having kids, but the one thing that freaks me out about having children (besides the no sleep and changing nappies, of course) is the discipline issue.

I’m worried because disciplining children doesn’t seem to be as easy as it used to be. It used to be that if your kid even so much as looked at you funny and he was on his way to the small town of Assbeaton, population 1. It really was a golden age of corporal punishment and we thought it would never end. We thought as kids ourselves that although we might not be able to in act revenge against our parents and teachers that at least we would get even on the backsides of the next generation. I know what you’re thinking “dream parent”, right?

But now there’s no corporal punishment in schools and it’s frowned upon in most homes. I don’t see what’s so bad about it. It very quickly taught me to be scared of those bigger than me and that I could physically dominate anyone weaker than me that didn’t listen to me. The system works!

I used to get hidings all the way till I was about 13 when I made the mistake of laughing while my mother tried to give me a hiding. “Ooh nooo the pain! Oooooh nooooooo the agony!” That’s when we stopped getting hidings and the psychological punishment began removing privileges like a week of no Television or a week without being allowed outside or a week without food or water.

Now you have to negotiate with your kids and try to make them understand why they are being punished and I honestly cannot believe some of the disciplinary methods I hear about these days.

Like freaking hippy / free spirits that say “We don’t like using the word NO so we don’t”. So when little Jimmy is drawing on the walls we know he’s just trying to express himself and we shouldn’t stop him from doing that.”

What about when you need to discipline him?

“We like to let him decide on his own punishment that way he will choose a punishment that fits the crime”

For example?

“Well a few weeks ago we found him ripping up the plants in our marijua…I mean herb garden and so we asked him to punish himself” He had such bad munchies that he decided his punishment was to eat as much chocolate as he could.

Really? And that’s “punishment”?

“He was so sick the entire night. He was puking all over the house and I’m sure as he saw his mom and I on our hands and knees cleaning up all his chocolatey vomit he felt really bad. Which is why last week when he was ripping up the marijua… um Basil leaves again he didn’t eat as much chocolate as last time.”

I also don’t understand people that use the “naughty stool/time out/send you to your room” method

“Whenever little Billy misbehaves we just send him to his room because that sort of simulates what it’s like in the real world when criminals are sent to prison.”

Rrrrrrrright. Because in prison every cell has a Playstation 3, stacks of toys and a Spiderman bed spread.

Sorry but little Billy’s room is nothing like prison. First of all there’s no toilet in the corner of his room, there aren’t bars on the windows and in prison they don’t call you out of your cell after 30mins for pizza to chat about what you did.

If you want him to really feel what it’s like to be in prison, the least you could do would to get him a roommate called “Bubba” or “Stabby”.

Teach him to join a gang, carve a shank out of a toothbrush and smuggle cigarettes in his ass.

Maybe if that TV series “Prison Break” is anything to guy by you should tattoo the blueprints of the prison on his back.

But if you really want your child to know what it’s like in a South African prison and how to survive teach him to fake being sick

Why there are no weatherman on other planets

Is that a warm front or are you just happy to see me?

This may come as a surprise to you, but I watch a lot of space movies, not because I’m a nerd or anything (I mean I AM a nerd, but that’s not the main reason). I watch them purely on a research basis (okay, that’s pretty nerdy). You see there are thousands of movies and television series about space and aliens and at least one of them must be correct in their depictions of aliens and other planets – a sort of “thousand monkeys” theory, if you will. So by knowing all the different rules at play I can increase my chance of survival.

So when we do eventually make contact with another sentient life form I’ll be able to tell which rules to follow. Are we talking the killer xenomorphs from “Aliens” or the cuddly Ewok aliens from “Star Wars” or heaven forbid the super disappointing aliens from “Contact” (worst aliens EVER) because knowing which rules to follow can mean the difference between survival and burning to death in acidic Ewok blood.

Regardless of which alien movie I’ve watched the one thing I’ve noticed to be true is that the weather and terrain on whatever strange planet you arrive on is uniform throughout the planet. You go to Hoth from Star Wars and the entire planet is frozen tundra. You go to Tatooine and its wall to wall perma-desert.  LV 426 from Aliens is an endless stormy wasteland.

Why is this? If aliens came to Earth and landed in the Himalayas they’d think the entire planet is a highly mountainous and snowy region, if they landed in the Amazon they’d think that it’s all just Jungle and monsoons and if they land in Mexico they’d think it’s all just sand and tequila.

This is why you never ever see weathermen in space movies because their jobs are completely redundant.

“Since you’re here on the Rain Forest planet expect lots of rain and jungle with brief periods of slightly less rain and jungle followed by extensive rainy jungle-ness and now sports.”

or

“Welcome ice planet Hoth news and now the weather… It’s going to be cold and now the sports”

or

“Welcome to planet Mexico weather… expect sand and tequila. Ole!”

 

Beware the Pizza Man

I didn’t order any pizza, but you look legit. What smells like chloroform?

So on the weekend I decided to order pizza and chill at home because, well I like pizza and it was freezing outside. Why I am justifying my decisions to you? Where were you? You seem to know an awful lot about this Pizza story for an “innocent” bystander.

*deep breath

Okay, let’s start again. I decided to order pizza from the local pizza delivery place and after the 40 minute waiting period I received a phone call from the pizza place saying the delivery boy was outside the gate because the security guard wouldn’t let him up to my place.

Now first of all what is the point of ordering a pizza delivery to avoid going out in the cold, if you still have to go out in the cold. This was particularly strange to me since I had ordered pizza the week before and the delivery boy dropped it off at my place without any issues. What? I like pizza. I went for a run the next day. Stop judging me. I was too hungry to argue with the woman on the phone so I just ran outside to the security gate to pay for my pizza, but before I walked back I asked the security guard why the pizza boy wasn’t allowed past security.

He told me the superintendent of the complex had issued a new order saying that pizza deliveries had to be collected at the front gate. When I asked why this was he said because the superintendent felt that there was a risk of these pizza boys attacking or raping one of the other tenants.

Yeah…..

Sure thing…

The 45kg, 16 year old, scooter driving pizza boy is going to attack and rape us.

These kids pretty much get fired for being more than a minute late where the hell are they supposed to fit in the time for some attacking and raping?

How are they even supposed to get into anyone’s apartment?

*knock knock*

“Who is it?”

“Pizza delivery”

“We didn’t order any pizza”

“Well can I still come in and attack you… please hurry I have to be at my next delivery in 5 minutes”

Where did the superintendent get the idea that pizza boys are violent sexual deviants unless he watches A LOT of porn?

All of a sudden the superintendent seems way creepier than before. Thanks for ruining pizza for me too, jerk.

Life’s unfair… get over it (or why everyone else is wrong except me)

Shut up, you smart ass raptor. If you’re so smart why are you extinct? #evolutionburn

Sound advice, I suppose. Until something unfair actually happens to you. This was the advice I was given when I witnessed the worse kind of discrimination in the world… the type that is against me.

I had seen an advertisement for a local comedy competition and being that I was a local comedian, thought I should enter. The competition was held in a dodgy little meeting room in a paint-by-numbers hotel.

The competition seemed fairly well run with the rules being read out, the contestants and judges introduced and the criteria for assessment explained in full. The criteria included content, crowd interaction, originality, body language and use of the floor (as in the space provided – not actual use of the floor in which case levitation would be an immediate disqualification)

The contestants then drew numbers (luckily I had been attending art classes so my drawing skills were pretty good), but regrettably I drew “number 1” which meant I was up first. Once my name was called I stepped up to the stage and performed my 7 minute routine which, at least by my own admission, was stellar.

My confidence was further buoyed by the fact that the next 3 contestants were terrible. Unfunny; nervous; reading off sheets of paper; it was terrible, like watching surgery on a train wreck. So I felt that I had the contest in the bag although there was a bit of apprehension when I saw a bit of “procedural irregularities” occurring during the contest which I will mention after the result which I’m sure you’ve already guessed.

So the winners are announced and for some strange reason they said I was in second. I asked the person next to me if I had heard correctly and then started looking around for hidden cameras because this had to be one of those candid camera reality shows. Alas, nothing.

Now I’ve lost many comedy competitions in my life. I’ll chalk it down to being so ahead of my time that my comedy isn’t understood by most (when in all likelihood I’m just not that funny), but to lose when there was such damningly ridiculous bias made me want to spit.

Allow me to elaborate on those procedural irregularities. The individual who won not only was terrible, her “original” material was to quote the several types of personalities on facebook. I say “quote” as to give her the benefit of the doubt that she was going to give credit to the original authors of the material, but she probably just did that silently afterwards. That’s not even the problem because to get into what is original these days is so subjective that we’d be here for another 10000 pages and still have no resolution.

What was objectively unfair was the fact that one of the judges was her husband.

What made matters worse was… HE WAS BLIND!

Now I’m all for comedy being for everyone and that the disabled should be included, but at what point does it become patently ridiculous to be judged on criteria such as “use of the floor” and “body language” by a blind man?

It gets better… because he couldn’t see what scores he was writing, he would simply tell his wife (the contestant that won) what score to write down.

“Give Gareth a 72%” (she writes 52%)

“Give yourself a 75% (she writes 105%)

The cherry on top was that she read her entire routine… NOT THAT HER HUSBAND THE JUDGE WOULD’VE KNOWN!!!!

AAAAAAARGH!!!!!

Life’s not fair… get over it… well I’m tired of “getting over it”

Of Cheese, Wine and Sobriety tests

flogging a dead sarah jessica parker

Having given up drinking for little over two years, one thing that has certainly increased is my “friend stock”. This is a kind of valuation of your net worth to your friendship circle. Like the guy who always invites hot girls to the party or the guy who manages to get free tickets to parties and events. My “friend stock” has been at an all time high not only because of my role as witty raconteur and provider of facts miscellaneous, but now probably most tangibly as the designated driver.

No more so was my VIP status in the group endorsed than at the national Cheese and Wine festival held in Stellenbosch in the Western Cape were guests are met with as much free wine samples as they can stand (provided they can muster up the patience to pretend they are actually interested in the wine and not just on its intoxicating effect). There is also as much free cheese as you can carry provided you are able to lift it with a tooth pick.

Regardless after the festivities of cheese and fermented grape the grand exodus out of Stellenbosch occurs as it approaches 5pm and as would any savvy policeman would do there were plenty of roadblocks eager to punish those who had feasted all too heartily.

Being the designated driver and recalling my last drink to be approximately 2 years prior (a few slices of tiramisu at Christmas not withstanding) I felt I would get through any roadblocks without too much hassle.

I was of course correct, but I did notice an inordinate amount of people (I did stop counting after 3 to be honest though) were waiting to have blood tests/breathalysers etc. This was holding up several lanes of traffic and causing numerous delays.

The point, I guess, which unfortunately has taken over 300 words to get to, is that surely there are quicker ways of assessing someone’s sobriety. I’m not even talking about the obvious signs, like slurred speech, smelling of alcohol or vomiting on the dashboard as they are pulled over. I’m talking about quick tests policemen and women can conduct to save a lot of time and prevent delays to other drivers who may be hurrying to the next pub to avoid losing their “buzz”.

For one could the police officer not simply hold out any sort of rope or pole and simply say to the driver “I bet you can’t jump over this”. The ability to jump over the rope/pole is not even that important the fact that a drunken person would attempt to jump without any further coercion would prove their intoxication.

Similarly the officer could hold out a picture of Sarah Jessica Parker and ask “do you think she’s hot?” No sober man alive would answer in the affirmative. Quick drunk test completed.

Another quick drunk test would be to ask them to sing the lyrics to the Macarena (including dance moves) – a feat that is entirely impossible while sober.

Can you think of any other ways to speed up sobriety tests?

My First Tour of NAM

War... it changes people... (into helmets?)

“Bloody, brutal and life changing” they said.  “Changed the face of a generation”.  This is what I was told through film and documentaries about Nam and the 70’s. So was I excited to be going there myself? Was I nervous that I would come back a changed man, that I would be leaving my soul and innocence behind? Perhaps, except I wasn’t going to Vietnam, I was off to NAM-ibia! (An altogether different kind of war).

I arrived on Wednesday morning after catching the 6h30 flight from Johannesburg and was immediately astonished at how boring Namibia was. I’m not sure what exactly gave it away that I wasn’t headed to the Mecca of entertainment. It may have been how everyone would burst out laughing when they asked are you going for “business or pleasure”. It may have been when I was told that I had to go visit some famous sand dunes but it definitely dawned on me when we arrived to see a giant billboard at the Windhoek airport saying “YOU IN NAMIBIA” (welcome to the birthplace of grammar).

Luckily I had decided at that point to simply make up my own “wonderful facts about Namibia” (that may or may not be based on reality) because if I was stuck here I was going to at least make it interesting. The strange thing is that members of my travel party actually believed many of these facts including the following:

Did you know that Namibia has over 7000 varieties of sand?

The streets of Namibia are paved with Dragon Scales.

Namibia brought us some of the biggest fashion breakthroughs such as Camouflaged Evening Wear and the full length Paedo-coat

Believe it or not none of those are true although it would be great if they actually were. Namibia basically reminds me of the Free State in South Africa (which is not necessarily a good thing) except about 20 years ago.

Namibia invented Magic

Did you know the most poisonous variety of Chicken, the “pollo del la muerte” (chicken of death) is indigenous to Namibia

I had my first traditional meal of Mahangu (porridge) and some other things I can’t even hope to pronounce which tasted of salt and regret (and more salt). It was hot, dry and if it weren’t for the fact that I had my imaginary fact book I would probably have lost my mind.

Namibia invented the saying “just desserts” except it was originally “just deserts” which is the dictionary definition of Namibia.

Sadly my visit only lasted a day (sad in that I had plenty more facts to make up), but we were on to greener pastures (not that that’s saying much)

As I sit here at the Namibian “International” Airport getting ready to board through gate “Only” I have to say that Nam certainly did have an effect on me.

Not in the horrific way a generation of young Americans experienced it in the 70’s, but because from this day forward I have never been so proud to be a South African. So next time someone says something bad about South Africa you punch that old lady in the face and you say go to Namibia then! – Land of Sand and Dragons!

I’m not a racist, but

 

A graph with only one colour? must be racist

 

This blog is dedicated to comedian and friend, Neil Green and a certain “lady” who cornered me after a show on Saturday, who needs to realise that this is not the 1950’s anymore. (Even though she will never read this as computers and the internet are “tools of the devil”).

What is it about old white people that think that young white guys and girls are also hardcore racists and can’t wait to drop racial slurs whenever they get the chance? Like the minute the door closes they do the surreptitious look to the left then to the right as if crossing the road into racist land.

So here we are in racist land where I am cornered into a conversation about how everything has just been downhill since whatever particular event in world history “ruined their lives for all eternity”, like the black guy who passed them in traffic or the Asian lady who got a higher mark in their high school science project.

Why is it they just assume that young white people can’t wait to share similar stories about how the country is doomed and how next chance we get we should all just emmigrate to Australia (as if there are no other race groups in Australia besides white people).

Please canvas me a little first. You know, maybe ask me a few questions to profile me a bit, see if I maybe hold some minor resentment towards other races and ethnicities before you go around dropping N-bombs and K-bombs all over the place. Ask me if I drive a tractor or wear military camouflage or khaki in public. Ask me if I’ve ever dated my sister or know anyone with the nickname Grand Dragon. At the very least use the caveat that you use in public before revealing your racism– you know the one that starts “I’m not racist, but”.

Sometime I’ve even experienced what I like to call “potluck racism” – where someone is just so hell bent on marginalising a race group it doesn’t even matter which one. He/she will just keep dropping racial slurs until the group even just kind of agrees. They’ll walk into a group discussion and just get right to it with something like “you can’t trust an Irishman”.

“Okay?” – is usually the response – partly because we’re surprise that that is his opening line given the fact that in no way, shape or form did the conversation about the latest Lady Gaga video have anything to do with the Irish, but also because usually we’re wondering who the heck this guy is in the first place.

Of course after explaining (poorly) why you can’t trust an Irishman, pot luck racist will at least have the savvy to realise that no one else shares his disdain for the denizens of the Emerald Isle and move on. Unfortunately, this is where that savvy insight ends and he will then just throw a dart at his figurative map to racist land and burst out with something like, “but it’s the Mexicans that are the worst” (he says after his 10^th shot of tequila)

This will generally continue for the rest of the night until we either all leave or someone makes the mistake of agreeing with him/her usually out of absolute pity. At this point pot luck racist will then hone in on the agreeable party and corner him for the rest of the evening. Seeing the opportunity to cut their losses, the rest of the group will leave the poor soul who showed a bit of pity to a potuck racist and leave them to fend for themselves – scared – nervous – nodding (out of fear and boredom) – alone – in racist land.

 

The Men’s room – part 2

Hey presto... sex change

When we last spoke I was describing the wonderful world of the men’s room – truly the factory of dreams. Follow me if you will as we indentify a few more of the mythical beasts that call this place “home”.

 Perhaps one of the most awkward “personalities” (term used in the broadest of senses) is the “starer” or the “comparer”. It is usually as one is about midstream that you would notice the looming shadow of the starer cast over the urinal in front of you. Their vision is based on movement it would appear, for to simply glance out the corner of your eye doesn’t interrupt their gaze. It is only as you move your head to see if they are in fact lurching over you that they snap back into what one would consider the normative stance for urinal usage.

 Although not always the case, I find that the “starer/comparer” is often also the “shaker”. The shaker is the guy who is either so incredibly diligent at ensuring the last drop of urine is dispelled from him or gets some sort of strange stimulation from flicking it about like the wand of an epileptic wizard at a trance party. (There is supposedly some rule about not shaking it more than twice, but that sounds like the same sort of nonsense as the people who described the Hokey pokey as being “what it’s all about”)

 The tuneless whistler/hummer/singer is another denizen of the men’s room whom I only wish was more rarely spotted than is fact. If you thought that the awkwardness of the men’s room was confined to the urinal area you would be quite mistaken for some of the strangest moments are found elsewhere including but not limited to the cubicle stalls and the wash basin mirror and these minstrels provide its soundtrack.

 In fact there is nothing quite as heart wrenchingly terrifying as lifting the lid on the public toilet – to witness the terrors that may dwell within. The infamous floater, chocolate life raft or survivor turd – whatever you call it we all know the fear it instils in our hearts as it stares at us mockingly while you reach to flush again (or for the first time depending on the abhorrent manners or hygiene of the prior stall patron).

 My final objectionable personality that ruins the sanctuary that is the now ironically named “restroom” is the “far too comfortable groomer”. I understand that mirrors in restrooms are designed for one to check that you’re looking presentable. To fix one’s hair; check if there is anything in your teeth; and maybe fix your shirt or tie, but some individuals take the opportunity of self grooming to a whole other level as if they were in their own private bathroom.

 Checking your hair is one thing, but plucking your eyebrows is another. Washing your hands or even your face is one thing, but popping pimples on the restroom mirror is something entirely different. My only hope is that they can’t see me and wouldn’t be so comfortable if they knew I was there or that these individuals are in fact not in possession of a mirror at home and so the public bathroom is actually an event for them and a momentous occasion in their personal grooming calendar.

 There you have it ladies (and men), the inner workings of the men’s room and without having to result to dangerous espionage, pornography or using your imagination.

Bad music + Bad Parents = Bad life choices

"I'll take you to the candy shop..."

Look I love skanks as much as the next guy as I’ve mentioned before every guy needs a practice girl, but there has been a definite increase in the skank population over the past few years and while I’d love to place the blame squarely on the Kardashians and Paris Hilton, some of the blame has to go towards the music industry.

The South African government is trying its damndest to prevent a local porn channel airing, but have they seen what is on MTV and Channel O these days?

I first realised music videos had maybe become a little too sexy when the video “Britney Spears – I’m a slave for you” first released. It’s not really known as being the most provocative or raunchy video, but the one thing I will always remember it for is the architectural masterpiece known to me as the “sex wall”.

In its basic form the “sex wall” is a writhing mass of half naked sweaty bodies panting, lurching and lunging to the beat. It didn’t seem to shock me at first; in fact I was completely oblivious to it. Only after my elderly grandmother walked in, looked at the TV, immediately walked out and was found 10 minutes later seated in the kitchen simply staring catatonically out the window, that I realised that I had been desensitised to the kind of raunchy sex that would warp the sensibilities of someone a few generations older than me.

Perhaps that is why parents these days don’t even seem to realise what effect this “music” is having on their kids. They still proudly call their kids into the living room to sing to guests (an embarrassment I recall all too often from my childhood), but instead of some musical number from Annie or the Sound of Music it’s whatever sexcapading young tart is rocking the charts at the time.

There is something deeply disturbing about having someone’s 6 year old daughter sing you “her favourite song” only to have her grind up on your leg singing “I’m wanting you to push up on my buttons. Saying what you gone do to me, but ain’t seen nothing.” (I’m not even talking about their poor grammar). The parents will often simply say that “she’s too young to know what she’s singing” (at which point I can’t help, but picture them on a future episode of “16 and pregnant”).

Unless these parents are so stupid that they also don’t realise these lyrics are overtly sexual. (The kind of people who think 50 cent was actually singing about a candy shop and really did want you to “lick the lolly pop” or that Christina Aguilera was really singing about a genie in a bottle that you had to “rub the right way”)

As creepy as it is to hear little girls singing along, sometimes it’s even worse hearing old woman singing along. There is no more powerful antiaphrodisiac than hearing an elderly woman sing along to “don’t ya wish your girlfriend was raw like me?” I can only hope that they also don’t realise what the lyrics are…

Some of my recent favourite sing along lyrics for kids and the elderly alike include…

1) 50 cent – Candy Shop “Got the magic stick, I’m the love doctor”

2) Christina Aguilera – Woo hoo “You know you really wanna wanna taste my woohoo, you know you want to get a peak”

3) Akon – Sexy Bitch “I’m trying to find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful Damn you’s a sexy bitch”

4) Kelis – Milkshake “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard”

5) Rihanna – Rude Boy “Come here rude boy, boy can you get it up? Come here rude boy, boy, is you big enough?”