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Archive for the ‘Crap’ Category

RWC World Cup FinalThe title and the picture has nothing to do with the content of the post, but I just could not help myself. So there! Bite me, Kev and Mr R Rabbit!
I was notified by the IT department this morning to clean up my e-mail account as I’ve exceeded my storage limit. Gah! (Wonder if this has anything to do with my resignation?)
I had a quick look at my inbox and found that I had 283 unread messages, mostly mail-forwards and funnies sent to me by colleagues and friends. I deleted them all and freed up a whopping 18% of the space allocated to my account.
Spurred on by my moderate success, I did the same on my cell phone. I cleared my entire inbox! It is not that I don’t care to receive the coy and flirtatious sms’s people send to me. Quite the contrary. I enjoy a good laugh. I like witty, flirtatious banter. If only they did not take up so much space and time.
Moving on. Text messages and emails have become pivotal in modern flirting and communication. The attractive thing about text messaging is that they are secretive. No one knows (or so we hope) but you and the person that you are flirting with. Embarrassment in front of others is almost nil. For many people, the electronic medium has opened up a whole new world of low risk flirting. Anyone can text. Even my mother is pretty nifty with a cell phone.
In most cases the art of flirting is trial and error. There is no class or seminar that can prepare an individual for flirting. Courtship behaviour is not a subject that can be taught.
Text messaging and emails have taken flirting to another level(?). Coy verbal phrases can now be exchanged while we are at a distance. If a message goes unanswered, it is repeated or the individual will ask,” Did you get my message?”
These days, if someone I’ve met or a girl I find interesting sends me a text or email that doesn’t grab my attention, I feel pretty apathetic about them.
For example, any text that starts, “God, I’m so pissed off at the moment,” or “You would not believe what just happened,” immediately makes me think, that perhaps I should pretend I left my phone at home rather than get into this.
The one thing that vexes me is e-mail that has been sent to my work addy or text messages that contain excessive insipid digital banter – such as 😉 lol !!!!!!!!, cu l8r, etc. I don’t mind the odd lol or smiley, but when used excessively, they make me feel like I’m nursing someone, rather than communicating with them. Do I make sense to you?
The bar of digital conversation has been raised considerably over the past few years. If you don’t start trying that little bit harder, pretty soon the only thing keeping you warm at night will be a string of emoticons.

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Why is it that women have such odd criteria when it comes to deciding whether a man is a good match for them or not? It is not only that they are odd (irrelevant?), I can for the life of me not figure out what they are getting at.
Take my friend Jeannette for instance. Against my better judgment, and strict policy of not getting involved in my friends’ personal lives, I’ve been trying to set her up on a date with a guy I know. The Lord knows she needs help in that department. She’s always complaining about her difficult it is to find a good man, how limited her options are and how the good ones are either taken or gay.
Playing cupid is not exactly something I am good at, but I figured the girl needed help. And it just so happened that I know someone who is available. (Am I a good mate or what?!)
Sooo…. we are having a drink, and I’m laying down a major sales pitch by telling her what good qualities he has, what he looks like, what he does, etc. It is at this point that she interrupts me and asks if he can dance. What this had to do with the guy’s eligibility/sexual prowess/all-round decency was beyond me, but as she put it:

“Ooh, [K], I just love me a man who can dance”

My WTF needle went off the chart and my brain came to temporary standstill.
It is a fact of life, isn’t it? Women love men who can dance. That’s been true since the beginning of time. Those brave fellas who are willing to go out on the dance floor will win the affection of female onlookers. And you don’t have to be any good. Too good says you are as gay as a pink lizard. You can go out to the centre of the floor and do your best impression of a gyrating cow having an epileptic fit and some girl will be telling her girlfriends, “I think he’s kinda cute. Just look at the way he stomps about and drools all over himself.” That’s dancing for you.
I fail to see the connection between dancing and eligibility. Michael Jackson can dance. George Michael can dance. But surely no woman in her right mind would want to date one of them. Would she?
Perhaps women just like to see how willing men are to humiliate themselves in order to get laid. Show me a man who dances well, and I will show you a man who will be manipulated for the rest of his life.
So what is it with women and guys who can dance? Really. I need to know.
(In case you are wondering … I can “dance”. But only after the 4th shot of Tequila. I am so much sexier on the dance floor when it looks like I’m floating on a cloud.)

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Hangman’s nooseMy arch-nemesis, Salem, walked into my office this afternoon with that smug “I know something you don’t” look on his face.

HE: Hey, [K], the boss is looking for you. Methinks he has something important to discuss with you.
[“And wouldn’t you like to know?” I almost said]
ME (annoyed): Dude, seriously, what’s up with the “methinks”?
HE: Nothing. It is just the way I talk sometimes.
ME: The way you talk? Let me tell you something… no-one talks that way.
HE (surprised): They don’t?
ME:
People do not regularly use the word “methinks” when theyspeaks English today. It is fucking pretentious. Last time mechecked, we weren’t living in Elizabethan England. If youthinks it sounds intellectual, then methinks you should go back to school and learn how to conjugate your verbs.
HE (mock sarcasm): Ooh… Cranky, aren’t we?
ME: Yes, we are, Your Royal Highness. We also have an uncontrolled desire to tell thee to stick thine finger up thine arse.

Sigh… I give up! Rope… where is my fucking rope?!

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Office comedy

Office flirtShe (coffee mug in hand): There’s something different about you today…
Me (confused): There is?
She: I know… you cut your hair!
Me: No, I did not.
She: Are you sure?
Me: WTF?? Seriously… I think I would know.
Silence
Me (serious): You like me don’t you?
She: No, I don’t.
Me: Are you sure?
She: Seriously… I think I would know.
Me (giggles and chants): You like me, you like me…
She (horrified): You are full of shit, [K]!

Sometimes it is all too easy!

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cell phones humpingI was just about to sit down and have dinner last night, when my cell phone started ringing. The LCD said it was from a private number. My first instinct was not to answer at all, but then I thought it might be important, so I answered anyway.
“Good evening, sir” said the voice on the other side. I hate it when people call me “sir”, because I instinctively look around to see if my father is standing next to me.
“I am calling from MTN”, he continued. MTN? Dammit, I thought, please don’t tell me that that my cell phone account is overdue or that the debit order has not gone through, coz that will really piss me off and spoil a perfectly good evening.
“As a valued client of ours you have been selected (more likely my name was drawn out of a hat) to receive an MTN credit card…”, and he launched into a speech of how their card is underwritten by a well-known South African bank (who I do not bank with) and how much credit I will receive upon accepting the offer… blah, blah, bloody blah.
My brain stopped functioning rationally after he uttered the words “credit card”, because the idea of receiving one from my cell phone service provider just seemed like something out of a Neil Gaiman novel.
Not wanting to be rude, I politely explained that I already have two credit cards in my possession and that I really do not need to acquire more debt. (How polite am I, huh? Mom would be so proud!)
This did not slow him down one bit. I guess when your salary is dependant on the commission you make, very little would. He went on about how there are no annual fees and that the card would be delivered to my home within 48 hours. All he needed to do was to check that that my personal details matched up with what they had on their system.
These people, if I can call them that, never cease to amaze me. They only choose to hear what they want to hear and any negative sentiments on your part are conveniently glossed over. What the fuck is wrong with cell phone companies anyway? Aren’t they satisfied with screwing us out of our hard-earned money with their overpriced call rates and 24 month contracts?
Desperate times, desperate measures. So I said… “If you can stop being a tool and take your head out of your arse for one precious second, you may have heard me say that I am not interested in tasking up your offer.
Please hang up the phone and move on to your next victim!
I am about to have an incredible three-way with two girls called Amber and Tiffany and unless you want to listen in and wank yourself while we’re going at it, I suggest you hang up… right now! If not… please enjoy!”
He hung up.
(chitty 1:cell phone service provider 0… and the crowd goes wild!)

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I attended an Awards function with the gf last night. The event was sponsored by the company she works for. Black tie. The perfect gentleman. It hurts just thinking about it.
I was not looking forward to going, but the matter of my attendance was not negotiable. That much was made clear from the start.
I haven’t worn my tux in a long time and was surprised that it still fit me. The last thing I wanted to do was to go to a tailor for alterations. There is something about having your body parts touched and measured that does not seem right… especially when it is done all over. Some things are a lot more tolerable when there’s a certificate on the wall… preferably from a medical school.
I do clean up nicely, if I dare say so myself. (bleh) Ok, perhaps I am just vain… anything (anyone) looks good in a tux… just watch The March of the Penguins. Those little guys look so friggin cute! (insert the smiley face)
Half of the evening was spent sitting at the table as award after award was doled out. It is not quite the Emmys or the Oscars, but one would never say that judging by some of the acceptance speeches that were made. Whatever happened to a humility! Apparently she’s been fucked over by arrogance and self-importance.
It is hard to remain upbeat and positive when you are confined to a chair for more than 90 minutes. On the other hand it could just be the ADHD or the lack of red wine. (Oh, look! The ice-cream in my bowl is shaped like the The Virgin Mary!)
There is nothing worse than being at a party when the number of people you know can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Between the head-nods and the introductions, I always feel like I am taking part in a parade. Being introduced or referred as [S] s bf kind of has the effect of reducing one to the rank of kept boy… only the perks are not as exciting.
The key to surviving a dull party is to have arbitrary knowledge on as many topics as possible. “Fake it and work it”, that’s my motto. This is quite easy to do as most conversations are about as profound and enjoyable as sticking your finger up your nose.
And if you run out of things to say and your neck tires from all the nodding, you can always excuse yourself by pointing to your empty glass and walking over to the bar for a refill.
Of course I had to be on my best behaviour. Some things just aren’t funny when it could mean the end of your gf’s professional career.
A word to the wiser… if you ever have the misfortune of being introduced to a financial consultant named Simon, pull the fire-alarm and make for the exit… immediately. He will suck you into a vortex of ass-numbing me-me talk that will make you want to shove a scud missile up his arse.
In the end the evening was a huge success or so I was told. I don’t actually know what makes for a successful Awards Evening as it mostly depends on what you wanted to achieve in going there. Of course, if you had won an award… that goes without saying. To the losers… well, I guess there is honour in being nominated. Yeah right, I’d rather be pissing blood! Face it… it sucks to lose.
As for me, well my aspirations on this occasion were rather low. I made the girlfriend happy, got home just before midnight… sober and in one piece.

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pedestrian signWalking comes as easy as breathing… well… perhaps not as easy, because it talks a while before you are ready to take those first steps. But you get my point… walking is not a difficult exercise. I’ve been doing it for a while now, and I do not have any trouble with it at all.
When we drive our cars on the highways or along suburban streets, there are certain rules of the road which have to be obeyed. Why not observe the same with walking?
Yesterday, I was walking in the mall minding my own business. I made sure that I do not step on people’s toes and nor did I make any sudden hand-movements, so as not spook my fellow mall rats. I kept a safe distance all around, going with the natural flow and pace of the pedestrian traffic, when suddenly I walked into some woman’s bony ass! All I can say is that it gave new meaning to the term… bootylicious.
This woman had decided that it was ok for her stop dead in her tracks and cease all forward movement, because of something she saw in a shop window. There was no indication that she was slowing down and no walking towards the shop window where she could drool over the object of her desire at leisure. Nope, she decided she could do that right from where she was standing. From the middle of the friggin passage-way! Perhaps she possessed super-human eyesight? (You aren’t the only one, Mr Superman!)
Since I was unable to read her thoughts (which normally I am very good at) and because I assumed that the aim of walking was that we would all move forward in a somewhat orderly manner, I kept going. By the time I realised she had stopped, it was too late. I walked right into her. In fact, the only way I could avoid her was if I could pull off a tsukahara with a double twist.
The collision knocked the wind right out of me and was followed by a sharp pain. Ouch!
I tried to apologise (why?), but she would have none of it. A surly, “Can’t you look where you are going”, was all I got out of her. Thank you very much! I wanted to ask her if she could be wary of where she “parks” her bony ass, but I feared it may turn into a bitch fest. So I flashed her my most brilliant (albeit painful) smile and kept on walking.
And yes, M’am, that was my groin you felt when I walked into you. I fear I may never father any off-spring, but that is none of your concern. I hope that whatever you saw in that window brings you hours of immense carnal pleasure!

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