Killer Design

On the drive home I saw the best piece of communication I’ve seen in ages. Hand-painted on a whitewashed real estate agent board:

SLOW DOWN
PET KILLER!

Underneath the headline on the one side is a little R.I.P. and a little tombstone with sad little flowers around it. The reverse has the same headline but it bears an angry skull. The typography is so fucking tragic it can break your heart. (If you’ve got one to break.)

I cruised the street at a pet friendly pace but everyone Formula 1s along there 24/7. It’s a good back route. It’s sad situation.

Everyone has a price: Part 1

I learned a piercing life lesson one day while chilling on South Beach in Miami. I was gawking at a red Diablo creeping down the road when some guy sees me staring at the car. He walks over to me to tell me that the man driving the Diablo had pulled up just a minute ago and in a breath there was a horde of the hottest girls he’s ever seen crowded around him. He picked one; they got back into the car and drove off. I looked back up the road and spotted a horde of the hottest girls I’ve ever seen, still standing around watching a Lamborghini disappear.

Then I had a little cry.

Zuma has been acquitted, and I guess that’s a call that we’ll all just have to live with. Fair is fair. I had my doubts from the start whether he was actually guilty (of rape) or not. Being vice president must be like having three Diablo’s gaffer taped to each other and covered with dancing ponies. It seems suspicious to me that he had to resort to force to get a piece of ass.

Either way, he’s still guilty of being an ass.

I’ve heard some claims on the radio and in the press that his infamous “AIDS shower” statement has put the AIDS campaign back 5 years, and I doubt that the ANC’s spin-doctors have slept in weeks. But I’ve also noticed something interesting. Recently the AIDS awareness campaign seems to have fizzled out, and the billboards have become such a ubiquitous feature in our environment that they’re practically invisible. But now that everybody’s scrambling to do damage control after Zuma opened his mouth, there’s a sudden resurgence of awareness campaigning. Every ad break on the radio and prime time TV carries at least one AIDS message. We’ve suddenly realized how little impact the AIDS campaign has had, so with any luck there’ll be a lot more Government funding put into the effort. Their PR machine will demand it. I think Zuma’s little faux pas may turn out to be one of the best things ever to happen to the AIDS campaign.


Everyone has a price: Part 2

"A paranoid is simply someone in possession of all the facts." - Spider Jerusalem.

What if it’s a conspiracy? What if Thabo Mbeki made a deal with Jacob Zuma? What if they had an encounter that went something like this?

Our movie starts in the president’s office. It is tastefully decorated in memorabilia from the Struggle and the moody lighting is warm and inviting.

Thabo Mbeki: braJ! Thanks for coming!

Jacob Zuma: You’re the president Big T.

Thabo Mbeki: Ha ha, I sure as hell am. Want a Havana?

Jacob Zuma: Don’t mind if I do. And some of that 40 year old you have stashed in the globe.

Thabo Mbeki leans over and pushes South Africa in on the large, ornate globe. There is a precise mechanical whir then click and the world cracks in half, slowly opening to reveal a number of bottles and some finely cut crystal tumblers.

Jacob Zuma: Four fingers please.

Thabo Mbeki: Of course. Now J, the reason I asked you to come up was, well...the thing is, I’m deep into my second term and I would have to change the constitution to run for a third but you know how that always makes people feel uncomfortable.

Jacob Zuma: Ah yes, because of AIDS. AfrIcan Dictator Stigma. I know.

Thabo Mbeki: Exactly. And the only person even nearly suitable to succeed me is you.

Jacob Zuma: Thank you.

Thabo Mbeki: Well, we couldn’t very well let a woman take over could we?

Together: Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha!

Jacob Zuma: I feel that you are soon approaching your point, yes?

Thabo Mbeki: The thing is J, I love this country and I want what’s best for it and my people. And as you and I both know, what’s best for South Africa is Thabo Mbeki. I’m not being proud here, just practical. J, I love you like a brother, but you look like a perfect AIDS candidate.

Jacob Zuma: I look like an African Dictator?

Thabo Mbeki: Oh yes Comrade.

Jacob Zuma: We are full of compliments this evening!

Thabo Mbeki: J, the investors will not stand for a change of face, I can feel it, and I know you can feel it too. I can’t afford to give up the presidency and I don’t think you want to give up what you’ve got going either. Just think of the winning streak we’re on. If I stay president, we can both stay on it.

Jacob Zuma: I think I see where you’re going with this old friend. Same old deals, same old investors, no new fish to lean on, no time consuming restructuring…you’ve got my attention. What are you proposing?

Thabo Mbeki: You’re going to have to take a fall.

Jacob Zuma: No way.

Thabo Mbeki: It’s the only way. The business sector has to see your coming into power as a serious threat to the economy. We have to paint you as dangerously incompetent.

Jacob Zuma: But how to I stay on the fast track if I’m forced into exile? If you’re talking serious fall, and I think you are, the people won’t stand for me staying on as your second in command.

Thabo Mbeki: I guarantee you’ll still be VP, no matter what goes down.

Jacob Zuma: How can you be so sure? Public pressure is very hard to ignore.

Thabo Mbeki: Like the public pressure to go in and sort Bob out? Zimbabwe is a perfect example of human nature. Everyone’s got a strong opinion on what’s happening to our neighbors, but South Africa drinks a warm cup of Milo after Carte Blanche and goes straight to bed. Nobody really gives a damn what happens to Zimbabwe or who the vice president is when the TV is off. They’re abstract topics to discuss at the bar if you’re trying to get laid and need to sound sensitive and intelligent.

Jacob Zuma: Damn, politics are sexy! Okay Comrade, I’m in.

Thabo Mbeki: Let the good times roll!

Jacob Zuma: Amandla!

Our camera tracks back out of the opulent office and through the sleeping houses of parliament. We pass a sleeping security guard and a couple of soldiers playing cards outside before panning up to see an ominous silhouetted flag against a very large, eerie moon.

Brain Donor Part 2

The bizarre thesaurus incident is by no means the first weird coincidence that I’ve noticed. Everyday and everywhere the more I look, the more I see. I don’t believe it’s just random. I’m not saying there’s some giant conspiracy at work or such bunk; I just think that patterns are an obvious part of interconnectivity and if one looks hard enough you should be able to see them all.

We are at the threshold of an evolutionary leap. The signs in the external world are everywhere. Nanotech, biotech, genetics, stem cell research…I don’t know anyone who knows anything about any of that shit, but it’s all very important sounding. The Internet is insane and all the while the dark specter of war keeps the world’s rocket scientists working at a feverish pace to push the technological revolution as fast as they can. Bombs are smarter, kids are smarter, computers are smarter- I heard that the cherry tomatoes at Woolies are already smarter than Jacob Zuma. Seriously.

We can rebuild you. Better, stronger, faster.

Everyone knows the connection between a healthy body and a healthy mind. So when the one moves to the next stage, the other is sure to follow. I can feel the change coming. The spiritual paradigm is about to shift. We’re all going to advance to the next level; no one will be left behind.

Some of us be ready and some of us will panic. I’ve learned that panicking is the fastest way to having an uncool time, so I’m planning on being prepared. I’m thinking a lot now. I’m looking at the details, trying to spot the patterns. I’m going to be ready when the time comes. I’m going to be ready to take the next step. In fact, I think I'll stay here on the couch and see if I can’t spot any of those patterns on the TV.

Brain Donor Part 1

You know when you forget how to spell the most basic of words? This morning I forgot how to spell “donor”. The irony is that I was trying to call someone a “brain donor”. Talk about a clumsy insult.

My dictionary’s gone AWOL, so I grabbed the thesaurus and opened it to the exact page on which the word donor lies. I blinked for a while. Don. Donate. Donation. Done. Donnish. Donor. Doom. Then blinked a bit more as I checked with my brain to see if I was, in fact, looking for that specific word. The answer was in the affirmative.

Funnily enough, when I sat down to type this, I thought it would be cool to write down all the words on that page, so I went back to the bookshelf and pulled out the thesaurus. I scrutinized the block of closed white pages and then the spine to see if I could spot any imperfections or irregularities. I spotted none, so I took a deep breath and opened it up.

Don. Donate. Donation. Done. Donnish. Donor. Doom.

Freaky.

It’s not that I’m a bad person…

I have terrific parking at work under the building adjacent to my office. My company’s got some kind of deal with them ‘cause they’re understaffed and we’re over. The only annoying thing is the ancient, slow, electric gate. Its hit-and-miss tag sensor can be irritating but the real niggle is the beam thingy.

The instant you cross the invisible line, the gate comes down- fast. It shudders to a halt if you again interrupt the beam, but the moment you’ve passed through it lurches down even faster. This predictable freak of engineering has bred a rather quaint etiquette among all who share the basement, and life underground is pretty darn good.

And then came that fateful day.

I was on my way out, I had tagged the gate open and as it rolled up I jumped into my car and fired her up. On the other side of the gate, a white delivery truck had arrived and was waiting there. I often saw the truck and driver- they were locals. I pulled out of my parking and just before I got to the gate- before the gate was even fully up- delivery guy punched it through and brought the gate on down. I was so angry my brain almost burst through my temples and splattered all over my window. In my minds eye I raced after him, ran the fucker off the road and ripped his windpipe out with my teeth.

This morning, as I was about to enter the parking after having tagged and waited for the gate, I spotted delivery guy approaching from the depth of the garage at escape velocity. It was as if the heavens had opened for me. I waited ‘till the last possible instant and then popped on through. Delivery bastard tried desperately to make it but ended up screeching to a halt right beside where I was idling. When he turned to glare daggers at me, I was waiting with the most smug expression my face is able to hold.

In fact, I’m still grinning.

It’s not that I’m a bad person. I’m just an agent of Karma.

May the 4th be with you.

Launch Date and Time

It’s my birthday tomorrow. And at two minutes and three seconds after 1:00, the time and date will be 01:02:03 04/05/06. Then, with any luck, we’ll have takeoff.

Cannibalism

I refuse radio. The DJs are boring and insipid, the ads are annoying and stupid and this newfangled shit the kids nowadays call “pop music” makes me want to hurl. And I got no satellite TV. Which means my celerity gossip filter is pretty good, only the really freaky, sneaky and bizarre stories get through. You know, usually stuff involving gerbils, abortions, Michael Jackson, Madonna and Tom Cruise. Tom Cruise, who apparently wants to eat his teenage bride’s afterbirth.

Now I’m no expert on Tom, nor do I know much about Scientology other than that they worship a turd shaped space rock called Fabio, but the Media claims that he and Katie Holmes have been arguing. Apparently the church dictates that births are to be au natural whereas she has ideas involving a hospital and a doctor and other so-called “modern” conveniences. But that’s not all. Now I hear that he wants to eat the placenta. Katie’s afterbirth.

On the one hand, in the nature, most animals eat the afterbirth. Except, in the nature, it’s the mother who does the eating. She eats the placenta to keep her strength up during the feedings, as well as to get rid of the smell of blood, which could draw predators to her and her offspring.

On the other hand, what kind of perverted, sick, ritualistic shit is that anyway? What the fucking freak fuck? I don’t give a devil-worshiping rats-ass what the fuck he does when he’s at home, but he mustn’t go making that sick, twisted shit part of my world. His new movie, Mission Impossible 3 (yawn) opens here this weekend and the poster (featuring his famous face) is on every street pole in the city. And every time I see one I think of him eating Katie Holmes’s placenta and it just about makes me vomit on my crotch.

I wonder if he’ll cook it?