Hello. It’s Friday and I’m hungover. I don’t normally drink during the week but last night I did and today I hate everything. This has made it rather difficult to write about stuff… but here’s my attempt.
People who laugh at cripples
You little cunts. I hope your child is born with a black hole where it’s face is supposed to be and feet for hands. I hope that during it’s conception, you somehow contract a mental disease that causes you to hear the opposite of things people say, so when your little black-hole-faced, feet-for-hands kid manages to say “I love you”, you hear “I hate you” and it hurts your very soul because you don’t understand why.
Oppikoppi
Here’s another thing I love with all my heart.
The dirt, the booze, the people, the scorching sun, the freezing evenings, and of course, the music. This year I will be attending my sixth Oppikoppi. I treat Oppi like my New Years. In the 3 days of celebration and debauchery I make all the plans and promises to keep me on the straight and narrow for the 12-month period that stands between me and another Oppi. There is something so special about this festival. I think my friend Barry puts it very well. He says the allure lies in the fact that you could literally die at any moment.
I almost became testament to this at my first Oppi. I fell backwards down the actual koppi, cut my head open and got a pretty rough concussion, that I slept on… which apparently, is quite dangerous. The festival chewed me up and spat me out as nothing more than a mouth-breathing morsel. I’ve been to Rocking the Daisies and I had a good time, but it just doesn’t compare. Also… I didn’t manage to spot a single fucking daisy. If Capetonians are calling those thorny little Satan plants daisies, then Helen Zille has bigger problems than she thought.
Oppi has that element of ultimate controlled chaos. Hordes of revelers moving around a sparse wasteland in complete harmony with each other and their surroundings.
You try stay clean and tidy, but within an hour or two of arriving you devolve into your most primal state – crouching over a cooler box filled with boerie, clawing at meat with hideously tainted fingers, a headache that could kill, torn pants, and a nervous smile that says “I never want to leave this place”. I’ve mailed Bear Grylls to personally invite him to what I think will be his greatest challenge to date. Yes, he’s eaten an endangered turtle’s face… but I have personally witnessed a fat Dutchman funnel a mixture of piping hot Potjie juice, half a bottle of tequila, and the cup of Rooibos tea I had just purchased.
Fucking top that.
People who drive like cunts
So you bought a nice car. You kitted it out with all the optional extras. You found some good driving tunes, and some nice driving glasses that make you look like a bee. You notice that none of this has helped and your inch-long dick remains exactly that. You rack your walnut of a brain for a solution and somehow you land on “driving like a cunt”. Good lord these people give me shivers of hatred down to my nuts. If you want to ruin yourself on the roads, go ahead. But chances are you’re going to ruin some other poor bastard in the process. And the tax money we all pay is going to pay for what’s left of your body to be scraped off the tarmac and ladled into a bowl… kinda like a lobster bisque.
Have a rad weekend. I’m gonna get into the fetal position and pray to my golden lucky cat that sits on my shelf. xx