Posts Tagged ‘satan


The Tiger’s Top 5 Music Cardinal Sins

Let me kick this one off by admitting that yes, I’m a music snob. I’ve been one since I was about 11 or 12 years old and the older I get the worse it becomes. I am fully aware and comfortable with that fact, it’s never going to change because I’m never going to try and change it and here’s why.

I judge people openly when it comes to music because it’s such a powerful force in my life that it’s like a fucking religion to me. Forget heaven or hell or Jesus or Krishna or Brahman or Satan or God or Santa and the Tooth Fairy. They may or may not exist and I couldn’t really care one way or the other because in music I’ve found a higher power that accepts me for who I am whether I’m wretched and seeped in sin or rolling holy and righteous without a goddamn care in the world.



To say it puzzles me when I meet people that are completely indifferent to music would be a gigantic understatement. I’ll never say it openly because I learned back when I was a kid that no one likes having someone else’s opinion rammed up their butt, but when I meet people that say or do one of the following things my estimation of them immediately plummets to the same level I reserve for people who’s biological parents are blood relatives.


THING NO.1 – We’ve just met, I ask you what music you’re into and you shrug and reply, “Oh, I dunno, anything really…”

It baffles me how many people say this, especially girls. There are a number of reasons people say this about music, namely:

  • They don’t want to say something you might think sounds stupid so they’re going to sit on the fence on this one and hope for the best. Get off the fence. Admit to your love of Norwegian Folk Metal, fly that flag brother! I’d rather hear ANYTHING than the sentence in bold underlining above.
  • They’re drawing a total blank. This happens, just breathe and try to calm down a little, I’m not going to bite your head off if you say you’re into someone I think is shit. You can listen to whatever the hell you want… except Nickleback.
  • They honestly don’t give a rat’s ass what’s playing. They will listen to commercial radio stations like 5FM every day of their lives from the minute they wake up until the minute they arrive back home after work and not even notice when the same song gets repeated 6 times in as many hours. I mean fuck’s sake! I don’t even listen to the songs I like six times a day because by day two I’d be bored to tears of it. These people cannot be saved. Their favourite movie of all time is Mr Bones. Just… give up.


THING NO.2 – People who describe music that is even slightly down-tempo or sad as “slit-your-wrists music”

I can’t tell you how much this infuriates me. People who expect music to have the same effect as Prozac are, nine times out of ten, terminally boring human beings.

A perfect example of this actually happened to me recently when I was copying some music over to a friend’s laptop who is totally clueless about music (some gems while I was copying the stuff over were “Foo Fighters? What do they sing?” and “Oh Green Day, I like them! Can you give me the first album, the one with American Idiot on it…”).

Her friend, the music expert, was sitting with us, advising her what to copy and what not to copy when we came across Ben Harper.

“Ben Harper?” she said, “Who’s he?”

“He’s a bit like Jack Johnson,” I replied, “they actually tour together quite a lot.”

“Yeah, but it’s real ‘slit-your-wrists music’”, the expert chirped in.

“It is, but unfortunately all my ‘High School Musical’ stuff is on my other drive, sorry,” I replied in my head.



Walk away son, walk away.

THING NO.3 – People who pull you aside to play you a song that sounds like utter crap and then ask you what you think about it

Bonus points if they give you their greasy earplugs to put in your ear and double bonus points if they know what you’re into and are deliberately playing you something they know you’ll hate in some misguided effort to try and reprogram your musical taste.

For these people, music is an argument that they must win at all costs. If you do not like the music they do, they will make you like it or they will die trying.

Despite what you might think, while I am a music snob, I am not one of these people. You listen to whatever the hell you want to listen to, I’m totally fine with that. Just don’t make me listen to it, respect the fact that our tastes are different and let’s both just carry on with our lives shall we?

THING NO.4 – People who only buy “Best Of” or compilation albums

Why the fucking fuck would you ever want to buy a compilation album, ever? So you can hear the same old songs that artist has had playing on the radio for the last God-knows-how-many years all over again?

Here’s a crazy question: What if you actually stepped WAY out on a limb and bought the album that one or two of those songs appeared on? And here’s another wild thought: What if you found that your favourite track wasn’t actually one of the ones that gets played on the radio all the time?

Why, that song would become “your” song in a way that the one that everyone knows and loves never could. It would have a special meaning to you and who knows? Maybe one day you’ll meet someone else who also fucking loves that song and you’ll instantly share a connection that is actually meaningful.

You know what my favourite Beatles song is? I’ll give you a clue, it’s not “Hey Jude”, it’s not “Yellow Submarine” and it’s sure as shit not “Yesterday”.

It’s “Rocky Raccoon” because it’s a story about a guy who’s lady runs off with a total jerk so he goes to kill the guy and ends up getting shot by the dude instead. Then this drunk doctor fixes him up and he just kinda carries on with his life.



Poetry I tells ya! Winking smile

THING NO.5 – Playlist Trolls

They lurk in corners at parties and wait until no one’s looking so they can hijack the playlist and make it their bitch.

They won’t relinquish power, take requests or play anything that has any merit whatsoever.

Expect Vanilla Ice. Expect Abba. Expect “Bohemian Rhapsody” at full volume. Expect Mr fucking Jones. Expect Rod Stewart. And just when you think things couldn’t possibly get any worse, expect “Barbie Girl” or fucking Whigfield being blasted at you until your skull implodes.

What’s worse is they’ll play the same kak song three times, occasionally back-to-back just so you can get an intimate insight into what their hellishly mediocre lives must be like.

If you’re a person who is guilty of any of the sins listed above, there is good news. I’m offering free lobotomies all week to help you overcome these terrible afflictions, just hit me on and Uncle Slick will make everything better or your money back! Winking smile



A Joke For Mondays

When Mondays roll around, I think of this crusty old joke our science teacher told us back in prep school.

This guy dies and goes to hell and when he gets there, Satan’s waiting for the dude, dressed in a slick suit with a big, shit eating grin on his face.



He says to the guy, “The way it works down here is you got three choices how you want to spend the rest of eternity.”

“Um, ok,” says the guy nervously.

“So choose carefully,” Satan says and winks at the guy.

Satan opens the first door they come to and the guy looks inside and sees all manner of fucked up shit. Demons running amok, torturing people with knives and spears and swords and iron maidens, flaying people alive, impaling them, people screaming, blood and guts everywhere, pretty intense stuff.



Door number two is also full of demons torturing people, only this time around they’re burning the people alive, literally roasting their flesh, tossing them into pools of molten lava, stabbing them with white-hot pokers, the smell of burning flesh everywhere and of course, twice as much screaming as the room before.



“Ready for door number three?” Satan says, grinning.

The man gulps and nods his head.

Satan opens door number three and inside it are literally millions and millions of people standing chest-deep in shit, drinking tea.

“What? Is that it?” says the man. “Damn! I’ll take door number three thanks Satan!”

“Here’s your tea,” says Satan. “Enjoy”.

So off the guy goes, tea in hand, wading through the shit to find a spot where he can drink it when all of a sudden this loud, demonic voice comes over the loudspeaker and says.

“Right you wretched fuckers! Tea break’s over, back on your heads!”


Da dum. Tssshhh.

That’s what Monday to Friday is. Doing handstands in shit waiting for the sweet release of the weekend where you can finally come up for some air and a cup of nice, warm tea before going back down again.

Best part of it is we’re all in this together. So drink up and let’s dive back in shall we?

On three.

One. Two. Three.




Nokia Loves The Tiger

Why is it that of all the bajillion brands out there, Nokia is the only one that has the balls to approach a crazy basterd like me, jump into bed and bang me like a salvation army drum?

Actually wait. I think that last sentence might have just answered itself…



Still though, it really says a lot about a brand when they aren’t afraid to associate themselves with someone who doesn’t follow the 2OceansVibe formula to becoming a successful blogger, ie. towtheline towtheline towtheline ADVERTISE towtheline towtheline ADVERTISE towtheline ADVERTISE ADVERTISE!

That’s what blogs do. That’s the South African (and in many cases international) way of blogging. You build a brand by writing deliberately controversial tabloid-style posts about scandalous topics (that aren’t really that scandalous), you post funny YouTube videos of people getting kicked in the nuts, you put boobs on the site, you pretend to be this smarmy asshole until you are one, and brands fall over themselves to associate themselves with you.



But not Nokia. They never incentivised me, they never made me feel like I was selling my soul to Satan, none of that bullshit. They just read the site, liked my style and started showering me with free shit.

On Friday I’m checking out U2 thanks to Nokia. J-Rab and I are heading through to what people who caught them in Joburg are saying is one of the best concerts SA has seen in a long time and it’s all thanks to Nokia.

You guys rock. Nearly a year and a half of blogging and you’re the only brand that has proven yourselves to be different from the rest because you have the stones to associate yourselves with a guy who is stupid enough, or crazy enough, to blog honestly about what he thinks and feels.

So yeah, this post serves no purpose other than to punt Nokia, but I’ll gladly do that because while I don’t believe in selling out, I do believe in paying respect where it’s due.



Rocking The Daisies – A Photo Journey


“Yes, hi…?”

“Hi, we’ve just arrived so um, where can I pick up my ticket?”

“Come meet us at the Nokia tent, we’ve managed to get you media accreditation, so you just need to head over to the tent and we’ll meet you there.”

“Ok, cool. But, um, how do I get in?”


“I mean, do they have my name at the gate or something?”

“No, your ticket was –“

“In the mail Olga sent me? Yeah, I printed it out but left it on my desk, total fuck-up.”

“Ohh… kaaayy…”

“Can we make some kind of plan?”

And BAM, there we were, 20 minutes later with Sarah slipping me a media band and me walking through the glass-Nazi security check-point and straight into Rocking The Daisies at around 12 midday on the sunniest Saturday you ever did see.



Thank you Nokia, seriously. You guys are the shit – bailing me out when I forgot to take my ticket with, fuck yeah. You guys made my festival possible.

As for the festival itself, fahk, where do I start? I was seriously impressed.

From the outset, I could see we were dealing with a different kind of festival, one where they take care of the details. It was everything from guys with wheelbarrows helping you lug your shit around, to the heavy emphasis on environmental friendliness and recycling and even something as simple as the exclusive loos (we never used any, but I’m sure they were a huge relief to people who didn’t want to face the possibility of opening a porta-loo door and finding… AN ANACONDA!).

We set up our tent in an area that soon became overrun with shirtless charnas, about 6 or 7  in total, who had the most hilarious collection of crusty old tents J-Rab and I had ever seen. They were actually pretty funny fuckers, but J-Rab and I didn’t really hang around much after we’d set up camp, it was like a sauna in our tent, the kind of day where the horizon shimmers and all you want to do is find a giant body of water and float in it with a bottle of cold beer.

We hopped from one island of shade to the next, people-watching and sipping on the waterbottle full of ice-cold vodka and lime we snuck into the main arena.



We caught a few New Holland tracks which I remember thinking sounded pretty cool, but we didn’t stay for long enough for me to give them a decent write-up. We were more focussed on beer at this stage, that and tracking down the Captain Morgan people who were filling up our now-empty “water-bottle” with free premixed Captain and coke.

I remember swimming in the dam.



I remember J-Rab and me heading back to our campsite, dragging our mattress out the tent and under the shade-cloth the charnas had set up, staring at a blue, blue sky. Giant love affair…



We drank a lot of beer just lying there and ended up napping in the sun before heading back to the mainstage later that evening to catch Boo! who played a killer set.

Chris Chameleon’s vocals were clear as a bell, and, dressed like the Wicked Witch of the West, he rocked out onstage with a mike headset while banging out the basslines to songs like “Lucky” and “Champion” and getting the crowd jumping and rocking out.

Ampie was his usual, clownish self, thanking everyone like a kid in a highschool who’s buddies have all showed up to the garage gig he’s hooked up because his parents are away.

Him and Chameleon still have the same, infectious chemistry they always did, but Ampie did seem to be struggling to hold some notes on the trumpet and looked a little flustered sometimes. They’re not the 20-something punks they were when they first started, but they did an impressive job of rocking out like they were.



As for the Nudies, it was an interesting set.

They played all the Nude Girls’ classics like “Blue Eyes”, “Giant Love Affair”, “What Would You Say?” and the ever-popular grunge / alternative rock anthem “Bubblegum On My Boots” and for the most part, they almost sounded like the ground-breaking, energetic and charismatic SA rock band they were back in the late nineties.

Theo rocked out like a metal stalwart. He looks meaner than I remember him, meatier, like a man who’s seen and done a lot because, well, he is.

Arno looks like an only slightly aged carbon copy of his younger self. He looks like he’s taken pretty good care of himself, must be the Top Billing-type lifestyle he’s been living for the last 8-odd years.

As for his vocals, they were hit and miss. The man’s got a great scream, he always has, and when he unleashes it the earth itself shakes and it’s still as spine-shivering now as it ever was.

But it sounded like he missed more than a couple of queues and at times was missing notes completely, but I think people forget, especially South African audiences, is when you pay to see a band play live, you pay to watch their mistakes as much as you pay to hear the moments when everything comes together, the band explodes with energy and the crowd absorbs that explosion, amplifies it and feeds it straight back.



MASSIVE FAIL for bringing Jeannie D onstage while the band sung “Jeanie” though, that was a gag-inducing moment if I ever saw one.

The dfnniest part was right at the end when they invited ‘Sailor Jim” to join them onstage.

“Sailor Jim” wore a sailing hat and some kind of brown coat (if I remember correctly…?) and was a podgey, happy-looking kind of chap.

“Who’s that?” I remember J-Rab asking.

“Why, I have no idea… but judging by the hat, I’d say this is Sailor Jim.”

It was only ten minutes later, when he took his hat off, that I realised it was Ard from Just Jinja.

If I could have done anything different, it would have been to stay for Taxi Violence after the Nudies, but in truth my skull felt like it was going to split open at that stage, and we had no painkillers.

We passed out listening to the drunken revelry of the campers around us and their hilarious stories about running into barbed wire fences and finding strangers passed out in their tents.

There’s a lesson here kids, if you’re rocking a music festival, take a LOCK.

The next day this apocalyptic wind was blowing the walls of our tent in and out like a sails. We poked our heads out to see hordes of people packing up their tents while the sky got blacker and blacker and the wind blew all their trash around.



We stayed to check out Checked Zebra who were really good. Imagine Chili Peppers meets Boo! meets a punk / ska band (maybe like Sublime) and you get Checked Zebra.



We would have rocked out to their whole set, but the wind was blowing so hard it felt like we were in a cyclone, so we eventually headed back to camp, packed up and headed home.



The best part of any festival is the first shower you have back at home and the afternoon nap that inevitably follows.

You drift off to sleep, thankful for the little things in life like clean linen and a comfortable bed, and don’t surface until you’ve nailed at least a solid 2 hours, warm and safe while the clouds gather and rain down on the roof above you and the wind whips tree branches and kicks up clouds of swirling dust devils outside.

Rocking The Daisies was an amazing festival. A special mention goes to the guys handling the AV for the main stage gigs on the Saturday night. The camera work and visuals were professionally executed and looked pretty fucking amazing.



Next year I’ll definitely try get their on the Friday though, it all went by too damn fast.

You gotta do the whole hog if you want to truly experience a festival, next time I’m taking the leave and doing shit right, going with a huge group of friends, packing a LOT of tequila and possibly even hanging out with the bands.

Sky’s the limit I tell ya 😉



Conversation With Beelzebub

A few weeks back I got up on my high horse and pranced around the place (one of my favourite pastimes) because the Chairlady of our Body Corporate is Satan.



You can read all about it in this post right here, but basically Beelzebub and her Minions Of Darkness were pissing on my battery because they issued this snotty letter telling us we weren’t allowed to use the pool in the complex without filling in this whole roster thing because someone kept pulling the creepy out the pool and leaving it in the sun to shrivel up and die.

I was really keen to take drastic action and fill the pool with cement and made a list of actions of all this crazy stuff and asked you, my friends, what you thought I should do.

“Kidnap the creepy!” you all shouted, pitchforks raised, “that’ll teach her! The power of Christ COMPELS you! The power of Christ COMPELS you!”

In the end I elected to do nothing though. Passive resistance is still resistance right? Yeah, I showed her.

Then on Wednesday we arrive home and the minute I drive into our complex, I notice that something is wrong, but I just can’t quite put my finger on it…

“Something is wrong…” I muttered to J-Rab as we drove in, “but… I just can’t quite-”

“Are you blind?”


“Half the trees in the complex have been cut down!”

“Holy fucking hell! I think you just may be onto something there…”

“Wonderful. It looks like we live in Brixton now.”



What’s worse is the Syringa tree in our garden courtyard has been butchered by the chainsaw-wielding maniacs who pass as ‘landscape architects’ these days. All they left was the centre trunk, which means the neighbours across the courtyard now have a clear view directly into our bedroom and because of this there are now 3 videos of us on Redtube that I sure as hell didn’t put there!

Ok, maybe the one… but definitely NOT the other two!

And so, last night I came home after gym, showered, put on my best wife beater, crossed the River Styx and walked right into the jaws of hell.

It’s exactly like they describe it in this long and convoluted novel I read once called The Bibel (or something similar). It hones of sulphur, there are creepy demon-things everywhere with red leathery skin jabbing these wretched-looking motherfuckers with spears and pitchforks and flames! Fuck me running, there’s flames EVERYWHERE!

And there, sitting on a throne of skulls, was Beelzebub…



“Hullo,” I said.

“Hi. How are you?” she replied.

“I’m well and yourself?” I shot back, confident and ready to attack.

“I’ve been better actually. I’m not happy with the job the garden service did.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’m here to give you a piece of my m- wait, what?”

“This garden service we hired, they cut back far too much in a lot of areas around the complex, but what can you do? We got three different quotes from garden services, the cheapest one coming in at R10,000 and for that amount of money, we told them to make sure that we aren’t going to have to call them back in six months time to do it all again, because we just can’t afford it. I’ve already had to raise the levy to cover the costs of hiring them, not to mention the costs of the creepy, which has been destroyed thanks to the kids in this complex, who go to the pool area unsupervised by their parents and run riot all over the place! I just don’t know. I’m leaving here soon so it won’t be my problem anymore, I’m tired of dealing with all the issues this place has. I’m tired of being the dragon.”

“Just back the fuck up there for a second, what is this bullshit?” (I didn’t actually say this, but let’s just go with it for the sake of making me badass. Remember, I WAS wearing a wife beater and I HAD just come from gym) “You’re not allowed to be human! You’re the evil lady who shits us out when we pack the flat like a sardine tin with all my buddies and proceed to drink our body weight with music blaring until the sun rises! Which reminds me, we’re having another party on Saturday, so yeah, um, can we use the pool area?”


“I’ve got the R250 you need for a deposit…”

“Oh, that’s more of a formality than anything else, just please leave the pool area like you found it.”

“No! You WILL take my R250!”

“Well, if you insist.”


“Thank you.”


“I won’t be here because I’m flying to London on Saturday night, but you can collect the deposit from iplqpo3is1n74m3 (don’t remember the dude’s name) at no. 19 on Sunday.”

Flying… to London… Saturday night… These words echoed like a death row pardon in my head.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking B1?

I sure as FUCK am B2!

Let’s get fucking wizasted!




I stayed for another 15 minutes talking to ol’ Beelz and came away with a different point of view. In this life, you gotta give people their 15 minutes, I’m usually pretty good at this, but my encounter with Beelz last night reminded me that I do still slip up from time to time.

The woman lives by herself in that flat, she lost her husband a few years back. She told me he was a fit guy, kept himself in shape, exercised at least twice a week, played golf regularly, played squash every week, but he was diagnosed with cancer and 6 weeks later, he died.

So I’m writing this post to take back the shitty things I said about her and set the record straight. She’s not some demon, she’s not the devil incarnate, she’s just a lonely old woman who’s fed up with always having to be the bad guy.

Food for thought right there. C’mere. Hold my hand. Let’s sing Kum Ba Ya…

Tune in tomorrow for a rushed and largely incoherent post because tomorrow it’s FUCKING PARTAY TIME MUTHUFUKKAHS! In case you don’t already know, we’re blowing this grey and rainy city and heading down to Cape Town to start a new life, me and J-Rab, living on a wine farm and raising Cheetah Cubs, but more about that later 🙂

In the meantime you look after your sexy selves and have a killer weekend.

Your buddy ol’ pal



The Body Corporate Where I Live Are A Bunch Of Fascist Pigs

Fascism, my friends, did not come to an end with the defeat of the Axis Powers at the end of World War II, no. Like a cockroach after nuclear Armageddon, it has come crawling out of the gutters of history and  is alive and well and fucking thriving in the complex where I live.

I don’t remember when it all started because there’s a better than average chance that I was drunk at the time, but not long after moving into our complex in Craighall Park, we became aware of a menacing presence residing in the flat behind us in the form of the Chairlady of our Body Corporate, whose name shall remain anonymous (because fuck man, she scares me).

We’ll just call her Beelzebub, that means Satan.



In the two and a half years we’ve lived in our flat we’ve had various altercations with Beelzebub because like many people aged between 20 and 30, we like to party. We like to have friends over, we like listening to music, we like the occasional drinky-poo, is that a crime?

Apparently yes.

The best way I can explain everything that’s happened over the last two years in our flat would be by copy/pasting, this awesome summary of offences that Beelzebub sent our landlords near the end of last year:


Hi (name withheld),

I’m writing to you to request that you address the issue of noise disturbances with your current tenants.       I can’t recall exactly when you moved away from Braemore but at that time you let your unit to three, young men.      Shortly after they took occupation, I called on them & provided them with Braemore’s Conduct Rules which they acknowledged by signing my copy & I left another copy with them.      For the first few months, they were well behaved & didn’t create any disturbances.     However, their behaviour soon changed.    You will recall that I spoke to you about 18 months ago to complain about a party that they held in the flat, which was accompanied by music played at full volume & which continued throughout the night & into the early morning.    On that occasion, I went to unit 32 at around 4.30 in the morning to speak to the occupants about the noise disturbance.       The crowd in the flat were inebriated & I raised my complaint with two of your tenants, whom I recognised from when I delivered the Conduct Rules to them.    Unfortunately, and possibly due to their state of inebriation, they were argumentative & unapologetic.   One of them (The Glaze!) almost shoved his finger in my face.     They continued to disturb the peace on numerous occasions thereafter with noisy parties & often there would be upwards of 20 people in the unit.    Unfortunately, I didn’t keep a record of the dates & times but going, forward, I intend to keep a record of every incident.

Two of your three tenants have vacated unit 32 in this year, one of them is (The Glaze!).       Again, I haven’t kept a record of when they moved out, but we’ve had relative peace & quiet for the last few months, until this week on Wednesday & again last evening.  

Wednesday, 14 October

At around 10.30pm I went to speak to your tenants about a noise disturbance.   The front & kitchen doors were wide open & the sounds of their yelling & music could be heard from my flat, which is in the block behind them.  I was not confrontational at all, I simply asked them to keep the noise levels down & suggested that they close their kitchen door, which they did.   I mentioned to them that it was a week night & some of the residents have to get up early in the morning to get their places of business & it’s not acceptable that they should have their sleep disturbed by the inconsiderate behaviour of other occupants.

Friday, 16 October

Just before 11pm last evening, I was again forced to go & speak to your tenants about a noise disturbance.    There were three guys in the lounge & one of them was playing the guitar & singing (shouting?) at the top of his voice (Guitar Jon!).     I think what fuels these noise disturbances, is their intake of alcohol – from the perspective of my personal observation, it seemed that they weren’t exactly sober.    To their credit, I must say that they apologised & were quiet after that.

I’m attaching another copy of the Braemore Conduct Rules & specifically draw your attention to Conduct Rules 17 and 18.      Each one of your current tenants must sign the Conduct Rules, acknowledging that they understand the rules & are prepared to abide by them.     I must also point out that the other occupants in that block – from units 31 to 36, all fall into the age group 20 to 30 & none of them cause disturbances.    Therefore, if your tenants raise their youth in defence of their behaviour (as I suspect they will), you may just point this out to them.     If your tenants are unwilling to abide by the Conduct Rules, which are in place to ensure that the rights of other occupants are observed & respected, then perhaps they should consider living somewhere else.      

Kind regards,


What a load!

I know people that are a million times worse tenants than we are. I knew these guys back at varsity that lived in a digs aptly named ‘Mordor’, who threw a ‘bring something to burn’ house party at the end of our third year there and ho-lee fuckballs, you should have seen the resulting chaos.



Because a lot of the kids I was at varsity with had more money than they knew what to do with and were too lazy to sell their furniture at the end of the year, I watched in total disbelief as the following items were tossed into the bonfire they started on their lawn:

2 x wooden bedframes
1 x old queen sized mattress
2 x TVs
1 x CRT computer monitor
2 x vacuum cleaners
2 x single couches
1 x double couch
1 x wooden door (ripped off the hinges from a bedroom inside Mordor)
And my personal favourite:
1 x 2-man fibreglass canoe

The resulting ‘fire’ if it can be called that, was so unbelievably MASSIVE that it actually felt like a small sun had come blazing through the cosmos and crashed in the back lawn of Mordor. You could tell who was at the party the next day because their eyebrows and lashes were singed from the heat, I shit you not.



The fire melted the gutters off the roof, cracked every window down the one side of the house, and burst the piping coming out of the geyser.

Now THAT’S what I call disturbing the peace.

So anyway, I come home from work yesterday, and there’s a letter from the Body Corporate under our door expressing intense dismay because of the fact that some jerkwad keeps taking the creepy out the pool and leaving it disconnected in the sun.

Granted, that’s a pretty dumbass thing to do, but Beelzebub and her committee’s reaction is nothing short of completely retarded.

Did they send a letter to everyone asking them not to take the creepy out of the pool or further action will be taken? No, they didn’t do that. Instead they are now permanently locking the gate to the pool area and making everyone sign a register with the security guard at the front gate every time they want to take a dip in the pool.

Added to that, if you are caught tampering with the creepy in any way, they reserve the right to slap a R500 fine on your ass right there and then, no questions asked.



Those fascist fucks! THEM’S fightin’ words!

I can’t tell you how tempted I am to take drastic action in the face of this abhorrent abuse of our basic human rights to enjoy a dip in the pool on a hot summer’s day. What the fuck?! People have fought and died for the ideals of democracy and freedom, which are founded on the basic premise that we should have have some kind of influence, no matter how big or small, over the decisions that are made by the leaders of our country, our province and our body corporate.

So I need your help. Here is a list of all the actions I’ve thought of taking in the face of this blatant fascism, which one(s) should I do?

1. Fill the pool with cement. That’ll show those fuckers. I’ll sneak in at 3am with 10 bags of PPC and get pourin’, then NOBODY will EVER fuck with the creepy because well, they’ll need a jackhammer to get at it.

2. Kidnap the creepy and hold it for ransom. Another stroke of ironic genius. Also, I’ve always thought it would be rad to make one of those ransom notes out of cut out magazine letters whilst wearing rubber gloves in a dimly lit room. We’ll send the ransom note with a list of our demands and pics of the creepy lying naked and exposed in the midday sun. Evil, yes. Effective, you bet your ass.

3. Write a letter, copy it 40 times and slip under everyone’s door (except Beelzebub’s) giving detailed instructions, with illustrations, explaining how to safely climb OVER the 3ft gate that they’re planning on locking. To add insult to injury, the letter will also encourage everyone to swim naked. Let’s see them try and kick our asses out THEN.

4. Throw another party. You’re all invited.

The gauntlet has been thrown down people. I didn’t start this, THEY did, and unfortunately, they fucked with THE WRONG MEXICAN.



Hasta la victoria siempre!


A Word From The Kind Folks At Nokia

May 2020