I mean, what kind of struggling genius is that? This is some man who has taken this shitty job, sitting behind a damned computer for hours a day simply writing and writing the most heinous little two-line emails to feed into his spam-bot, simply because he needs to pay his rent and his epic novel about time-travelling robot dinosaurs has been rejected by seven publishing houses in the last month alone. This is a man who, knowing that the only kind of growth he could possibly expect in his chosen field would be being promoted to fortune cookie fortune writer, is silently screaming inside while smiling at his co-workers over the cubicle walls and saying things like "You're more than welcome," and "Working hard or hardly working, eh John? Hahaha." This is his little rebellion after hitting the thousandth email marker of "LOVE HER LONG TMIE PENISPENISPENIS"; he's mad as hell, and he's not going to take it anymore. Instead, he's going to subversively plant little nuggets of gold in amongst the heaping piles of pure manure, and has even taken the time to send it to me personally. In my head, I've named him Frederick.
Fuck yes, Frederick. Name drop like a boss, yo. Obama endorses this shit? MIND BLOWN. And what about that line at the end- is it not pure poetry the likes of which wrist-cutting notebook doodlers in high schools the world over ache for in their very souls? It's so simple, understated, truthful.
He's crying out for help, people. We need to support Frederick by acknowledging in our hearts and in our minds the kind of unrecognised talent that is shining through here, and maybe periodically sending a couple of notes to some of the major publishers asking when we're going to start seeing some better fare in the time travelling robot dinosaur genre. It's the least we can do.
On that admittedly disturbing note, I should inform you of a little hobby of mine. Allow me to give you some backstory in order for this to make a little bit more sense and for me to sound marginally less insane than I ultimately would.
Here in South Africa, land of the truly strange and unwell, we have these things called sangomas. These are African witch doctors and are traditionally heavily relied upon by certain portions of the community for all ills. TB? Sangoma. Spouse getting a little strange on the side? Sangoma will curse that arsehole's penis right the fuck off. AIDS? Sangoma says eat some garlic, you'll be fine, and also vote ANC. You may be hoping I'm just exaggerating the extent of this, but sadly, I am not. Sangomas have now even started moving into the 21st century with tentative first steps, modernising by handing out flyers designed on MS Word at every second traffic light. These buggers LOVE them a two-toned gradient, my people. And I'm fucked if they can't solve your every possible problem- but mainly they seem to specialise in increasing your penis to comical proportions.
Every time I get one of these flyers, I save it and add it to my vast collection, and scan it to find its individual little bit of pricelessness. I have nigh on 30 of them already, and each one is different and unique like a snowflake if a snowflake could make your manhood stand erect for 20+ hours at an excess of 15 inches. Do not ask me why corporate sangomas in the middle of Rapes 'R Us Towns all across South Africa are so partial to the imperial system- it has remained one of the many beautiful mysteries about these practices since they sprang up practically overnight a few years ago.
All of this is made so much sweeter by the fact that it seems not a single one of the people writing these flyers has ever seen the backhand of a spellchecker- or, in fact, a 6th grade diploma. Each pamphlet has been lovingly printed by some printing company who make no meal of the concept of "proof-reading," and it seems that the person commissioning each individual little piece of art believes universally that your degree of success is measured directly by the amount of fonts you managed to use.
For your pleasure and to illustrate my point as best I can, I have compiled a little "best of" pamphlet of my own. Now I need for you to understand this fully- each and every single line included on the next two pages you are about to see comes verbatim from a flyer in my personal collection. I have spent an entire afternoon going through ALL OF THEM, sniffing out the highlights in each, and have put together a little presentation that- once again- IS ENTIRELY WITHOUT EMBELLISHMENT, HYPERBOLE, EXAGGERATION or BULLSHIT. I have tried to cover all of the basics, but even so there really just is such a plethora of stand-out material as well as industry standards to mine that it really is inevitable that I will have missed something awesome. I did managed to use about five different fonts, a colour gradient, stolen clipart and random capital letters, so at the end of the day I feel as though I have served fairly well. I haven't even included some of the saltier stuff, but I would still recommend you look away now if you know yourself to have delicate sensibilities at all.
Well, I only wasted about an hour of my life doing that. Totally worth it.
Derren Brown- hypnotist, mentalist and voodoo king extraordinaire- has started airing a new TV series called The Experiments. In the first episode, he attempts to explore the possibility of hypnotism as a means to program someone to assassinate a target unknowingly, as Sirhan Sirhan claims he was made to do by the CIA when he shot Bobby Kennedy in the kitchens, as Richard E Grant would say. It's a fascinating experiment with great weight and philosophical importance, but here's the thing: all the way through the program, Derren hinted most tantalisingly that the person he was programming was to be set loose on a mystery celebrity target by the end of the whole thing. This is what we are shown of the celebrity target:
Immediately and without hesitation, I recognised this to be my mascot and highest deity, Stephen Fry. As I told Brenda (and then Carla and my dad, for I am not one to put down a perfectly good joke if it has miles on it yet to be milked), if you can recognise him off of a few cubic centimetres of hair, you know him too well, Loraine. The feeling I got when my manic sense of recognition was confirmed to be correct must be what regular people experience after really good sex or chocolate, but probably mostly chocolate.
The shirt that was ruined last week by some hairy-arsed son-of-an-msg-addative bird has been rescued and "upcycled", as I've heard said in the most douchey way possible. Yes, I hear you, it's a butterfly. Where you ask is the rainbow and the unicorn and the magical puppies pooping sunshine?
They're on the back.
And then lastly, before I go rest my weary carpal tunnel, this. Idn't it pretty? Thunderstorms and spectacular lightning and such happening all over business here, so I decided to take in the free show with a bit of added panache. This will continue to be excellent and beautiful and awesome right up until the point where I get creamed in the face for playing with my cellphone during an electric storm.
I'll try to get pics of that too.