UNDERCULTURE

Good
I ended up at Gondwana Cafe this Sunday night (in fact, I’m sporting a mean hangover as I write this). I don’t get to do it often enough. The jazz and music are fantastic. The vibe and ambiance is warm and relaxed. The cocktails are tasty and the crew behind the bar friendly and efficient. I can’t sing praises for the place enough. So, if you haven’t been to Gondwana Cafe on a Sunday, do yourself a favour and Go!

I also spent Thursday night at Tapas where I got to listen to a handful of metal bands. I was dark. It was fast-paced. It was filled with punks, rockers and tattooed women. All in all, it was a good event. I even got to spend some time drinking with Alec, something that I wish could do more often.

Of the two bands that I saw, I was very impressed with Karmalitia (I’m not sure about the spelling). They rocked my face. The follow-up band was too busy sorting through make-up and giving T-Shirts to really make a good attempt at making music. They are best forgotten.

I also spent my Friday night at Barney’s on the beach front listening to a damned good covers band. I’d tell you their name but I wasn’t paying attention: I was having my face attacked by a bad joke (long story). Not that I really minded because I did get to hang out again with the wonderful, charming, sexy-beautiful [Name Deleted for National Security reasons].

And in the usual PWOT and Juvenile Comedy news, that impressively funny and talented man, Camerhil of Colours Run, wrote a delightfully funny article last week. Read it here.

Bad
It has come to my attention that many of you are supporting the South African rugby team for the upcoming Rugby World Cup. I applauded your (ultimately misguided) patriotism. It is, after all, quite clear that the French are going to win. But I was shocked to notice that Sports Illustrated didn’t even rank them as contenders. It must be a typo.

Ugly
I ended up reading the Weekend Post on Saturday. I really should know better. But we’ll leave the Eastern Cape’s journalistic excellence for another day (deciding where to begin is daunting enough!). One of the articles they ran was about people stock-piling food and weapons in preparation for Uruhu, or “the night of the long knives” (cue scary music).

For those of you who don’t know, Uhuru is a meme spread by those too dumb to know better and too racist to question it. It tells of a fast approaching night during which blacks in South Africa will rise up, as one, and kill every one of the whites.

More fascinating than the Everest of stupidity that actually believing this represents, is the fact that this isn’t the first time that this story makes its appearance. Like all good urban legends, it surfaces every couple of years. I remember first hearing about it in 1994 (remember when everyone was stock-piling can goods and candles? Hehe. Good times), and again in 2000 (the end of the world, remember? That was cute) and, more recently, it was meant to happen on January 26, 2006 (click here or here to witness the argument being demolished first-hand). Now, of course, it’s been given a face-lift and is due to happen when Nelson Mandela dies. Sigh.

All of this proving, once again that the true retards of the world aren’t the ones riding in the short buses.

Actually, fuck it! I will say something about the fucking Weekend Post: I tried to link to this weekend’s issue and articles only to discover that they are still running last week’s (18 August) issue on their stupid-ass website. With a fukcing newspaper this efficient and up-to-date, who needs CNN?

The Celibacy Report
So, there’re these two gay penguins who find true love. They go by the name of Gus and Waldo. They’re the most depressing things I’ve ever seen. Not because they’re gay, or penguins, of course but because, well… because it’s hard to be positive and optimistic about being single when even gay penguins can find love. Are you with me?

(If you have any problems with this week’s Celibacy Report, blame Fiona.)

Good
There are a few good things to report, none of which has anything to do with Port Elizabeth, and only some of which have to do with my site.

Firstly, our resident writer, Steve (who penned these pages), has started keeping record our Monday night Call of Cthulhu role-playing games. It makes for very entertaining reading and you can find the first installment here.

Secondly, that most talented lass from PWOT, Mortal Wombat, has put out this lovely gem of an article, although I must warn you that it’s only funny if you spend too much time on the ‘Net. It follows Linux Fan’s 13 First-Date No-Nos.

The motherfucking Bourne Ultimatum of in-your-fucking-face fucking wow awesomeness. That’s all I have to say about that.

I wish I had some news about Port Elizabeth but I just spent most of the weekend at Castro’s, in the company of the girls of The Zebra, or sequestered in braais and watching the French kick English Rugby arse (obviously). Not that I really minded because I did get to spend some time with a smart, gorgeous, charming, funny acoustic guitar-wielding babe.

She hasn’t succumbed to my will yet, but it’s just a matter of time. Does anyone know hypnosis?

Actually, never mind, forget about hypnosis. I want something that actually works. So, let me rephrase that: if you were me, in PE (hey! that rhymes), how would you go about making the ultimate best impression?

Bad
We were without ADSL connection for three days last week, thanks to TELKOM (surprise, surprise). I was planning to be really angry with them and bitch them out but, you know what? A very helpful young lady at their Walmer Park branch came to my rescue. And thanks to her, I will spare their souls… this once.

And then I encountered this frightening story (just for all of you who think that the Universe isn’t ruled by malignant God just out to fuck with us): A woman was run over by her own parked car, while she was peeing by her bumper. She lost a leg in the process.

Moral of the story? Pee in your car.

Ugly
Andre’s mom’s house got burgled last week. The criminal shits took a bunch of irreplacable jewelry but not much else. They did, hover, tied her up and manhandled her roughly, the fucking bastards, but, luckily, they did little else. She’s ok now, although a little shaken, if you want to know.

The Celibacy Report
So, Fiona and I went to the Singles Evening on Friday. It was hosted at the Little Walmer Golf Club.

We arrived fashionably late, but only because we pretended to get confused between the Walmer Golf Clubs and took a scenic drive down Victoria road. Once we got there, it was all pretty well laid out and… well… that’s about it, actually.

Fiona and I were easily the best looking people there (of course) and, apart from one or two genuinely single individuals, it was just a collection of married and hitched individuals looking for a bit-of-alright on the side. Add to that a massive attrition rate in the attendance and you were left with… well… with Rumours on a Monday night, really. It’s a pity ’cause I really thought that the concept could have worked.

I’m glad that I went. But I’m also glad that I went without any expectations. In any case, I had just gone there straight from drinks at The Brewmaster and I was still kind of daydreaming. For other single people out there, I rate this experience at a 1 out of 10 on the meter.

Good
We spent the weekend at Bushman’s River Mouth, outside of Kenton, for Renaud’s birthday. It was beautiful. It was also drunken and debauched. I am still tired (and possibly still pissed) even after spending my Sunday evening slowly becoming one with my couch.

I should have all the photos and my stupid captions up by tomorrow or so. I just wanted to say thank you to Michael for the house and the weekend, and to Steve for being such a good sport and driving me around. We also got to spend some time in Port Alfred, specifically a local pub called The Snorting Grunter. Yes, I do realize that it’s in deep banjo country but the alcohol is cheap and women are pretty, so it beats Tobey Joe’s.

In fact, the only problem with Port Alfred is that it is far too damned close to East London, whose presence hung like a heavy blanket of a cloud on the horizon.

Oh, and did I mention that I have a new car? I got a new car. Would you like to see my new car? It looks like a new car. It is a shiny new car. newcarnewcarnewcar…

Bad

Oh, no! The world is coming to an end! We don’t have any more petrol! Fill up now before it’s too late! Oh, my God, save us from the petrol shortage! Fill up before it is too late! The strike will kill us all! Fill up! No more petrol! Petroleum God save us! Fill up!

Oh, wait, I didn’t bother and I managed just fine. In fact, except for a few idiots crowding the petrol stations last weekend, everyone managed just fine. So let me take this opportunity to extend a slow clap to all the fear-mongering cry-wolf mailers who filled up my inbox over the last weeks.

Ugly
Do not go canoing with beer in the hot sun. The speed boats rock the canoe and you spill your beer and the sun makes them warm.

The Celibacy Report
I hereby resolve to never put up with passive-aggressive bullshit and shocking avoidance tactics from emotionally stunted individuals.

In other news, Fi and I are going to the Singles Evening this Friday, so we’ll have something to report on Monday. I’m looking forward to it, the woman in charge specifically asked me to bring more guys because (in her words): “there are so many women and so few men.”

Yeah, right, like I’d shoot myself in the foot by decreasing the odds. Nice try, suckers!

Behold! The Cedmobile is dead. Long live the Cockmobile!

That’s right, you jealous-type people, I got myself a new car: a slick engine of silvery sexual destruction, modestly dubbed The Cockmobile. None may gaze upon it and resist its panty-dropping alure. Behold and give praise!

Now, does anyone want to help me with these car repayments?

Good
As you probably well know, I spend far too much time on a site called Pointless Waste of Time. One of the contributing writers goes by the name of John Cheese and he specializes in creating alternate lyrics for popular songs. It’s funny and it’s rude but, oh my God, I think that he managed to outdo himself this time. Click here for the funniest and most stupidly offensive things you’ll ever see (Warning: Harsh Language). It’s like Jackass for the soul.

It’s easy to forget how beautiful the Eastern Cape is. Luckily for me, I got to take a very therapeutic drive to Kirkwood in very pleasant company.

I recently went out drinking at Dagwood’s on Cape Road, near Five Ways. As a pub, it hasn’t really changed (it used to be the Brazen head). The decor offers the same, dull pub atmosphere but the food was fucking awesome and the women were pretty. I give it a few thumbs up and will definitely be returning.

Bad
I think my car is about to blow up. It’s in the shop, making a strange ticking sound. I may be in the market for a pair of Rollerblades if it dies before August. Anyone know of any good places to buy a second-hand car in Port Elizabeth? Are car dealers as bad as everyone says they are?

So, I had another fantastic, delicious (even if I do say so myself) dinner party at my house last night. All my guests arrived on time and most of the night proceeded without incident. One subject kept coming up, though: why couldn’t grown adults buy fucking wine on a Sunday evening? We ended up having to share our cooking wine because most (not all), had the same idea: “I’ll just pop over at the Spar on my way to Cedric’s house and get some wine.” But, nooooo, you’re not allowed to buy wine after 17:00 on a Sunday. Why the fuck not?

It’s not the first time I’m bringing this up either. It’s a fucking antiquated law upheld by busybody moralists. Fuck ‘em. How can we get this stupid-ass law removed? Any ideas?

Ugly
Fucking PowerPoint. Fucking PowerPoint has just made my top ten worst blights in this modern world. Fucking PowerPoint must die. Why? Because people think that fucking PowerPoint has magical powers, that’s why!

You see, most of the world’s truly atrocious public speakers and wannabe presentation-makers wouldn’t think of standing up in front of an audience for more than, say, half-an-hour. Once people are gnawing off their tongues in boredom and stabbing pencils in their ears to ease the pain of listening, the speakers generally get the idea and stop talking. Not so with fucking PowerPoint: atrocious speakers the world over think that, because they have a hundreds of vomitous and confused slides, adorned with inane arrows, shapes and boxes, their presentation (which would have normally caused Mother Theresa to crotch-punch the speaker) has been magically and mysteriously transformed into something fun, wondrous to behold and captivating. And, with this new magical power at their side, the speakers now feel perfectly justified in stretching their stupid-ass fucking presentations for hours more.

It’s like fucking Clip art: No, adding stupid cute little images will not suddenly unfuck your spaghetti logic and magically fix your spelling. Sigh.

The Celibacy Report
I got an email from an ex-girlfriend this morning which would be quite nice, I suppose, if it wasn’t for the bizarre content. She writes, after more than seven years apart, to tell me that she finds the fact that I’m single funny, and that I deserved it because I wasn’t happy with her.

I think it’s time for me to change my address and contact numbers. I hear the sharp, stabbing violin music in the air.