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Archive for February, 2007

Ain’t no mountain…

boulderingAfter weeks of teasing me about my limited athletic ability, I allowed a mate to bully me into doing some indoor rock-climbing. Now I don’t usually partake in anything that involves being suspended in mid-air, but he promised me there’d be hot girls there. Yeah… he is quite the motivational speaker.
After completing a series of intricate warm-up exercises, during which I basically twisted myself into a pretzel, I headed to the rock wall with him.
Now I’ve watched people climb before, and it seemed really easy to do. You’ve got resin hand/foot holds strategically positioned on a vertical wall, which you use to position your hands and feet, while pulling yourself up.
I’ve scaled a few fences in my life, so how tough could it be, right? I was mostly drunk or trying to get away from an angry dog, but that was just added motivation.
After five solid minutes of pulling at the straps and tightening me into the hired gear, I followed him to the beginner’s wall where there were lots of pegs and holds to climb up.
I was doing pretty well at first. Then we reached the top of an intimidating 3 metre wall. You never know what vertigo can do to your stomach muscles until you find yourself clinging to a vertical wall for dear life. Standing on the roof a building is nothing compared to this.
“Just let go and gently push yourself away from the wall”
he encouraged me. “You’re attached to the automatic belay system; it will stop you from falling”. “Nice to know that,” I told him, “but right now my only goal is NOT to splatter myself all over the crash pad at the bottom.” Naturally, my hands slipped and I found myself free-falling. Much to my surprise, I gently glided down to the floor. Although, with the flailing arms and legs, it looked suspiciously like I was trying to fly away. All that was missing was my friggin bat cape.
After about an hour of climbing and panting, I was dog-tired. My legs jittered, my arms and back hurt, and I had enough of putting my crotch on display.
My first outing on the rock climbing wall went pretty well. I made it to the top of the beginners wall (Ha ha!) a couple of times by myself – which was more than I had expected. At the end of it, I was covered in sweat…. cold sweat.
Despite my misgivings, I had a good time. Perhaps I need to update my repertoire and it could be that I am ready to embark on new experiences that do not involve alcohol and late nights?
On the other hand, you really should know me better than that.
Now this post would not be complete without me making adding a thought of my own. So here goes…
Rock climbing, I discovered, can be a very sexy activity, albeit it from a somewhat perverted perspective. It’s an activity where you can learn all about the physical dexterity of your fellow cimbers in a matter of minutes. Call it a crash course, if you like. The harness alone will tell you whether a relationship is physically worth going the extra mile for. It’s an ideal setting for a first date… he he.
Every so often a woman will get what I can only describe as a severe case of camel toe. I couldn’t believe how much that harness can flaunt a woman’s womanly parts. Factor in the tight fitting clothes with the bobbing boobies and you may as well be at an exhibitionists’ convention. In all my years, I have not experienced anything like it.
As for the guys, well their bulgy bits are on display at all times. Judging by the way in which some women were ogling the guys and giggling and taking amongst themselves, it is NOT the motion of the ocean that counts. Size or the illusion of size matters a great deal.
My mate commented that no-one really pays attention. Yeah right! He must be immune. I was not and so it seems were the men and women standing at the bottom craning their necks to get a better view. Perhaps they were just looking at the wall?

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Toothache

ToothacheI am not a violent person, but there are times when I would seriously consider bitch-slapping anybody who walks around with a silly Bluetooth headset attached to their ear. To make matters worse, these headsets don’t always work very well, which is why people who wear them generally have to yell to be heard.

“What’s that, Marty!? Say again!? Oh, yeah, I am da fucking bomb!”

Incidents like these make the mobile revolution seem repulsive.
I find it most disturbing when I see people wearing them and talking loudly to themselves (that is what it looks like) while walking up and down the aisles at the supermarket. What the hell could they be discussing… the 2-cent increase in the price of baked beans? Is a headset really that important to look and feel important?
It gets even stranger when you see them continue their conversation straight through the checkout process.
Pity the poor checkout girl! It must be confusing to have someone stand in front of you when they appear to be talking to themselves. She may even think the customer is talking directly to her. Next thing she starts responding to their questions and then they turn around and say something like, “hold on, Cindy while I get out of here – some idiot here thinks I am talking to her”. How rude is that? (I’ve seen this happen in a bank – the poor teller did not know what hit her!)
Technology can be useful and I do see that there can be a time and place where a headset could be an advantage. In the car, for instance, when cycling or when you are at home or at the office. It’s when people wear them in public for no apparent reason, that I get a little bit agitated.
I have a headset that I wear when I’m driving in my car. Let me clear this up right away by saying that my reasons for doing so are purely practical. Talking on a cell phone and holding it in your hand while driving your car is dangerous,  irresponsible and stupid. I also play my CD’s quite loudly in my car and would not hear the phone ring should someone try to get hold of me.
There is nothing hypocritical about it. Trust me. When I get out of my car and into public spaces, I take it off and walk around with my cell phone in my pocket… like a normal person.
About a week ago, the earpiece packed up. It was no big deal and constituted only a minor inconvenience. I don’t use it that often and my life was not going to come to a halt because of it.
I do however find that I have to put my phone on vibrate and keep it on my lap in order to feel the vibration when I drive. You can’t bloody well expect me to turn the music down, can you? Often it slides between my legs and nestles right next to my crotch. That is the exciting part! Let me tell you… receiving a phone call while driving has taken on new (and exciting?) meaning, as has the phrase “trunk call”.
The not-so-exciting part was when I picked up the phone a few days ago and accidentally mentioned to my surprised gf that I would not have known she was calling if it had not been for my balls vibrating.
She did not think I was funny. I’m thinking of changing my ringtone to Ring my Bell.

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Time in minutes slips away

Running lateI went to see the doctor today. Nothing serious, just my yearly check-up to make sure that everything is ok and still hanging the way it should be.
The appointment was for 10am and I arrived 5 minutes late. Not to worry, I thought. Doctors’ schedules hardly ever run on time and seeing as I had an appointment, he should be able to see me right away.
Ha! Think again, jackass. I had to wait 40 minutes(!) to see him. What the fuck was up with that?
Ever noticed how you derive absolutely no pleasure out of paging through a magazine in a doctor’s office?
When I pointed out to the nurse that I had an appointment and that I needed to get back to work, she looked at me as if I had crawled in from the gutter and merely said, “You were late. Doctor is busy and has many people to see… so please sit down and wait until I call your name” (No shit!)
“But I had an appointment… for 10”, I protested
“And you are late”, and she promptly ignored me. I felt like I was back in school.
Where did all the other people come from? If I had an appointment for ten, then why were they here? This was my time dammit… I reserved it! Did they just show up in the hopes that someone would be late?
I thought of piling on the charm, but something told me she would be impervious to that. Nurses have no sense of humour. If they did, they would not be so eager to plunge a needle in your arse.
I wonder if they intentionally penalise you for being late? Perhaps they highlight your name in yellow and automatically bump you to the bottom of the list if you show up late, just to teach you a lesson?

We run a tight ship, young man and tardiness will not be tolerated. Now get back in line!

All this meant I had to call to the office to let them know that I was running late and would not be able to make my meeting on time. [harumph] The big guy was not happy. He sounded like I had just sucker-punched him in the gut. I could go back to work and make an appointment to see the doctor tomorrow, but there is no guarantee I would fare any better.
I often wonder what would happen if I had shown up for the appointment 5 minutes ahead of time. Would the doctor see me at the appointed time and if he didn’t, could I accuse them of a delay and bill them? Somehow I think not. Would the nurse come over, pat me on the head, tell me I am a good boy and give me a lollipop? “There’s a good boy. Now drop your trousers so that I can give you your complimentary blow job”. I do have 5 minutes to spare after all, and deserve a treat for showing up early… don’t I?
Whoever said punctuality yields its own rewards has obviously never been to a doctor’s surgery. Come to think of it, I don’t know of anyone who’s ever said that. What the fuck is an own reward anyway?

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Damned if you do, and…

walk the plankHave you ever found yourself engaged in a conversation and wish you hadn’t? Of course you have! We all have. If you haven’t… then lucky you!
There is the classic situation when the wife or girl friend will eventually ask a man, “Does this make me look fat?” All things being equal, there is no safe answer to this question. You want to pretend that you didn’t hear her, but that only provides temporary relief as she will ask the question again. A curt, “No dear, it does not make you look fat at all”, seems like the safe thing to say. That is until you she counters you with, “Oh? Does that mean all my other clothes make me look fat?” At this point you just know that she is about to make you walk the plank. The waters are dark and deep and infested with man–eating sharks. It is only a matter of time before you become a tasty snack.
On the way home from work last night, I stopped off at a BP Express shop to buy a few things. While I was looking for household cleaners, a woman her 40’s casually initiated a conversation with me. I don’t usually talk to strangers, but she said the product I picked out was very good and vouched for its effectiveness by swearing that it would clean up even the toughest dirt.
I thanked her for the advice, thinking that would be the end of it, but she kept on chatting to me. She suddenly asked me what I do for a living. Could this be considered an invasion of privacy? I did not think it was any of her business, but proceeded to tell her what I do… all in the spirit of being nice and gentlemanly and that crap we’ve been burdened with since childhood.
I was about half-way through telling her what I do, when she interrupted me and told me how she was “in a pickle” (her exact words) and needed to get to her daughter who lived on the other side of town.
It suddenly dawned on me that she was about to hit me up for money. I could see where the conversation was going and had to stop her before she got to the embarrassing point of asking me. The ice was thin and the cracks were spreading in all directions. She was about to paint me into a corner.
How the hell did we get from a household cleaner to her daughter who lived on the other side of town, I thought to myself.
Before she could continue, I politely told thanked her again for the advice on the household cleaner and made my way to the pay-point. I just left her standing there.
How weirdly uncomfortable was that? I had managed to worm my way out of it, and yet a small voice in the back of my head keeps telling me that I should have given her a few coins. Dammit!

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St Valentines DayIt’s a strange thing, but one rarely sees commentary on Valentines Day from anything but the most cynical perspective. I been to many blogs over the past few days and the only thing I have read so far is how crappy Valentines Day is.
Somehow the day of the year intended for single people to express love and affection for a secret love/crush has become the most scorned day of the year. Something has gone terribly wrong. Why do you suppose that is?
I myself am not a big fan of Valentines Day. No self-respecting man would be. The whole theme that goes along with Valentines Day is definitely cringe-worthy… pink/red/white decorations, hearts and flowers, fat little cheruby babies, love songs, bows and arrows, sappy greeting cards, chocolates, champagne and gifts. There is not a single thing about this day that is masculine or that hints that a guy would enjoy it. Guys only take Valentines Day seriously, because girls do. And girls take it far too seriously. How many guys do you know who like pink frilly bows? Once again men have been duped into playing along.
“We’re going to dinner at ‘The Overpriced Restaurant’ and then taking a long walk on the beach” An empty wallet, sand and a dead prawn in your shoe? Not the kind of things guys live for, don’t you agree?
The other thing I have noticed about Valentines Day is that people in relationships do not write about Valentines Day or how crappy it is. And when they do, they’ll say things like, “I hate how this holiday has become so shallow and commercial”, but they’ll play along anyway, because at some point on February 14th they’ll be naked, doing the bouncy-bouncy, and getting their freak on. It is hard to complain when the pay-off makes it all worthwhile. (Hooray for penis-power!)
This leads me to conclude that the one thing people hate most about Valentines Day is being alone. Nobody (and there are no exceptions in my book), wants to be alone on Valentines Day! This statement itself implies that there are other days of the year when people would prefer to be alone, which of course is not true.
The difference is… February 14th  is the one day of the year when you’re constantly made aware of how lonely you really are. “You are unloved and alone and do not have anyone special in your life”. Talk about a fucking downer! No one lets you forget it, least of all the media! It is the one day when single people are made to feel like utter losers.
It is when people buy into these feelings of bitterness and misery, and woolly-headed thinking that they feel lonely in the first place, so one could argue that it is self–inflicted to some degree.
Still, it is no less painful. February 14th has attached itself to the fascinating statistics of all time. More people get married (or propose marriage) AND commit suicide on this day than any other of the year. Einah! (Afrikaans for “ouch”) That is just sad.
So, in celebration of all my single friends: Happy Singles Awareness Day! I’d invite you over for drinks and chocolates, but that would make you the dead prawn in my shoe.

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No coin for Charon

Charon crossing the river StyxWell, it seems that my determination not to be confrontational and piss people off has flown right out the proverbial window.
Things at work have been hectic lately, ever since rumours started going around that some organisational changes are in the pipeline and that people may be moved around. There has been speculation about who might be moved and where. I’ve even heard talk that some people could be asked to leave. So far there has been no official confirmation of the rumours.
Don’t you just hate the office grape-vine? I purposefully avoid hallway corner conversations and have done my best to navigate around the sea of complaints and speculation in the break room. I’ve politely excused myself from the bathroom chitchat, have held my tongue and refrained from taking sides. Quite frankly, I can think of better things to occupy my day.
However, two days ago I sat in a room of people just prior to a meeting and the dreadful topic reared its head again. Try as I might I could not stay out of it especially when I was asked outright what my thoughts on the matter are.
I hate being put on the spot, so I said,

“I don’t know what the big fuss is about. Whatever we say and do and discuss in our little groups around the company, things will happen exactly as they are intended to. Believe it or not, change can be a good thing even when it does not work out well for individuals per se. There are a lot of people around here who’s been on the gravy train for far too long and perhaps the time has come for the train to pull into the station for an overhaul.”

What I had said obviously did not go down well, because people merely looked at me.
The news of what I had said must have travelled around the company as I was confronted by one of the other managers this morning. (Incidentally he’s been mentioned as one of those who could be asked to leave)
He: I heard about your little speech the other day. Compassion is obviously not one of your strong points. See you in hell one day.
(I was immediately on the defensive.)
Me: I wouldn’t count on it, if I were you. But seeing as you have a free complimentary ticket for the ferry across the river Styx, you can tell Lucifer I said, “Hi”.
I guess I’ve just been elevated to public enemy number one. Feels good, in a self-sabotaging kind of way.

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Film ReelThe gf and I watched a bunch of DVD’s on the weekend. I insisted that we hire Reservoir Dogs, Quentin Tarantino’s cult classic.
What can I say? It was a slow weekend and the heat was unbearable.
She wasn’t happy with my choice, citing such things as brutality, vulgar language, violent crime, etc.
None of the above could make me change my mind. Hell, these are the essential ingredients to a typical guy-flick. It just so happens that Reservoir Dogs is one of my favourite films. (My shrink would have a field day with that tidbit of information)
Without a doubt one of the more memorable exchanges of dialogue takes place in the opening scene of the film. Well, there is also the now infamous ear-cutting scene.
For one thing it bears no connection to plot, yet it introduces the characters and sets the tone for the rest of the film perfectly. The dialogue is both witty and tough and loaded with testosterone. At times it even borders on the ridiculous.
There is no deep hidden truth to what the characters are saying. Put a bunch of regular guys together in a room and you will get varying themes on the topic and the character stereotypes portrayed.
Tarantino directs and writes the film in such a way that it became impossible to ignore him even if the film was only a cult hit.

Mr. Brown: Let me tell you what Like a Virgin’s about. It’s all about a girl who digs a guy with a big dick. The entire song– it’s a metaphor for big dicks. Reservoir Dogs Poster
Mr. Blue: No, it ain’t. It’s about a girl who’s very vulnerable. She’s been fucked over a few times and then she meets a guy who’s very sensitive.
Mr. Brown: Whoa! whoa…time out Greenbay. Tell that fucking bullshit to the tourists.
Joe: Toby? Who the fuck is Toby?
Mr. Brown: Like a Virgin’s not about some sensitive girl who meets a nice fella. That’s what True Blue’s about. Granted, no argument about that.
Mr. Orange: Which one’s True Blue?
Nice Guy Eddie: You ain’t heard True Blue? It was a big ass hit for Madonna. I don’t even follow that Tops of the Pops shit, and even I’ve heard of True Blue.
Mr. Orange: Yeah, so – I ain’t saying I ain’t heard of it. You know; all I asked is how’s it go. Excuse me for not being the world’s biggest Madonna fan.
Mr. Blonde: Personally, I can do without her.
Mr. Blue: I used to like her early stuff– Borderline. When she got all into that Papa Don’t Preach phase, I tuned out.
Mr. Brown: You guys are like making me lose my train of thought here. I was saying something. What was it?
Joe: Oh, Toby’s that little Chinese girl. What was her last name?
Mr. White: What’s that?
Joe: It’s an old address book I found in a coat I haven’t worn in a coon’s age. What was that name?
Mr. Brown: What the fuck was I talking about?
Mr. Pink: You said True Blue was about a sensitive girl who meets a nice guy, but Like a Virgin was a metaphor for big dicks.
Mr. Brown: Ok. Let me tell you what Like a Virgin’s about. It’s all about this cooz who’s a regular fuck machine. I’m talking morning, day, night, afternoon– dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick.
Mr. Blue: How many dicks is that?
Mr. White: A lot.
Mr. Brown: Then one day she meets this John Holmes motherfucker, and it’s like, whoa, baby. This cat is like Charles Bronson in the great escape. He’s digging tunnels. She’s getting this serious dick action and feeling something she ain’t felt since forever– pain. Pain.
Joe: Chu? Toby Chu?
Mr. Brown: It hurts. It hurts her. It shouldn’t hurt her. Her pussy should be bubbleyum by now, but when this cat fucks her, it hurts. It hurts just like it did the first time. You see, the pain is reminding a fuck machine what it was like to be a virgin. Hence: Like a Virgin.
Joe: Wong.

For whatever reasons, it makes you want to pull up an easy chair, sit back, light up a cigarette (and I don’t smoke) and laugh.
Do you you have any film favourites?

(note to self: write shorter posts)

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