Hi. Last week I wrote about the Woolies thang. It went really well and got a gazillion views. Thanks for all the kind words in response to the article. If you’re expecting something as socially relevant and perceptive as last week, please turn back now because you’re heading down a sad and angry road. That road is the Nicholas Christowitz Boulevard of Shit Luck.
The wave of good vibes that I was riding so happily was swept from beneath me on Saturday morning. I was staying at my girlfriend’s house in Kilarney and a massive crack-bang-crash woke me at about 5am. In my groggy state I assumed it was lightning. Fuck me was I wrong. I went back to sleep and 20 minutes later some guy is ringing our intercom like his life depends on it. When Leigh (my Girlfrang) answered, the man on the other end yelled “someone crash your car, Madam!!”
We scrambled into some clothes and ran outside (yeah, picture me sleeping butt naked, titties in the air). It was still dark. There were our two cars… fucked. Some irresponsible asshole, drunk out of his skull, managed to smash his fancy Audi 4×4 into our parked cars. We found out Leigh’s was a write-off on wednesday, and I was told mine is a write-off yesterday.
Let me just say, I love my material possessions. I’m drugged by the air of consumerism just as much as the rest of you but I know deep down that this shit means nothing. I’m always aware of how pointless it all is. Which is why I’m ok with buying nice things that might serve very little purpose, because I don’t take it for granted. They make me happy because I have been socially shaped and brought up to think certain things are beautiful or worthwhile. Fine. I know it’s all a joke in the bigger picture, but in saying that, the inconvenience that this shithead has caused me is worth fucking millions. I don’t have a car now. I’m going to have to buy a new one. The paperwork, the monthly costs, the hassle, all caused by some fuck who couldn’t be responsible.
I know accidents happen, and I’m extremely glad no one got hurt in all of this, but let me put this into perspective so you don’t think i’m a whiny bitch. I have NEVER had a car accident in the 6 years I have been driving. I don’t drink and drive. I’m always aware and responsible. For fucksakes I was dreaming about touching myself when all of this happened.
My roommate, Kat, tore his achilles tendon a while ago and he’s still in a cast. This is a huge inconvenience for him and I’ve seen how upset he has been about it all… but, he was snowboarding. This shit happens. To equate my inconvenience to his I’d say this: Imagine some drunk drove his car through the wall, into your bedroom, somehow snapping your tendon (and your girlfriend’s) then fucked off again. That’s it. You’ve done fuckall wrong, but your life has been inconvenienced by some shitsmear.
I’m almost 24 (25th October, BUY ME THINGS!!) and Mr Molebatsi, the guy who smashed my car, is 37. Thirty-FUCKING-Seven and he can’t even call a cab! Thirty-frikken-Seven and he can’t even get Goodfellas! He can buy a lekker Audi but he can’t behave. He was moaning at the scene about how his wife is going to divorce him after all this. Never mind our cars, dude, Mrs Molebatsi is going to put you in the dog box for a week. Fuck dude, I’m 24. I don’t drink and drive. I’ve got my life together. I’ve bought an apartment. I work for myself. I pay my bills. I try not to fuck anyone’s day up. And you just came along and Mr Molebatsi’d my life.
I hope you wake up one morning as a gay dude’s dick. A gay dude who likes swingers parties and doesn’t believe in condoms.
Ok, I’ve had my vent. I’m sorry about all of the above, but Leigh and I have been mad positive in light of all this. I’ve just been smiling and saying “oh well, shit happens”. This was my release. I’m smiling again. I love this blog.
In other news, on Tuesday Nas sent me a mail regarding a comment on a previous Christowitz Report. I did a quick Facebook stalk on the commenter (as one does) and was greeted by a profile picture of a dude with a giant gold chain and cross around his neck, standing with his arms crossed on the beach in what I can only describe as the swimming trunks equivalent of emphysema.
Yes, his pants looked like disease.
So the lowdown is: A guy whose girlfriend’s name is “Patsy” (yes, I puked a little in my mouth too) went off in defence of trance music and Ugg boots. His anger might be rooted in the fact that he’d spent the previous weekend chowing pills to loud uns-uns out in the veld somewhere, accompanied by his beloved Patsy who was wearing Ugg boots on all four of her legs. The genius tears me a new one with a rant worthy of this column but finishes it off with a “Not hatin, just sayin” line. It ruined the whole thing for me. I was chuckling to myself and wondering if we should ask him to guest rant and then he just drops that fucking bomb. That’s like making a beautiful roast turkey, stuffing it with gold, then pooping on it right as you serve it to your guests who have been salivating over what they thought was coming.
Dear Commenter,
I dearly hope that you still read my reports, I’m all for taking some hate after giving out so much. But do it properly. Put as much effort into hating as you do into choosing swimming trunks.
And yes… I still say swimming trunks. Fuck it.
Have an amazing weekend, everyone, and I hope no one Molebatsies your Saturday.
xx