Thursday, January 12, 2012

Alien Invasion Imminent. Prepare For War.

On December 21, 2012, The world will end.
Or so say the Mayans. Fucking constantly they’re at it: on message boards, forums, Anonymous (I’m only assuming here)- I even think I saw one of them berating Jay Leno on CNBC Africa the other day insisting that the “GODDAMN APOCALYPSE WAS NIGH and that also, incidentally, that Roland Emmerich movie was a douchebag.” The whole movie; a douchebag. {Editor’s note: that last line was mine, not the angry Mayan’s. That movie really was a douchebag- with the obvious exception of John Cusack, who ever manages to be the water to douchebaggery’s oil.}
So, what to do with this information? (Besides, I mean, finding and shooting the owner of the rogue DeLorean that’s allowing all these Mayans to pervade Anonymous and shout at Poor Jay Leno?)
We party hard, people, we party hard. Or at the very least, we party theme-edly. What all that ado, pomp and lily gilding amounts to is such:
I am helping my friend Tertius- yes, that Tertius- to plan his 29th. I sometimes- for friends or for profit- stage these adventure game parties. One I did for myself was themed as a Secret Society Initiation Party, one for Tertius-Self-Same a few years back was a Shaun Of The Dead do. It’s massive fun, and it usually involves arduous tasks, slogging from location to location, and Amazing Racing your arse all the way up and down the suburb of your choosing.
I can’t say too much here, but I will say this- this shall be the one to eclipse them all. It will be massive, epic, and when the poor, un-forewarned shell-shocked guests are dredged up from wherever they have sought shelter from the onslaught, it shall be a movie. On DVD, with special features and everything.
Glorious. You might question what the funk this would have to do with aliens, but then I would counter with the assertion that the only reason you would ask such a thing is because you do not understand epicness. Hmm, spellcheck has some issues with that. Epicosity? Epicage? Well suck it, spellcheck, you don’t even seem to recognise “spellcheck”, so I shall bow to no automaton grammar nazi. Long story short: just trust me on the aliens. They’ll make sense in context. This is all going down on the 4th of February, at which time I shall post pics and supplementary media, and perhaps even offer a DVD as a giveaway.

Just allow me to explain for a moment how it came to pass that I am now again in the bosom of friendship alongside Mr. T. I believe I mentioned, after the Devil’s Spawn incident, that he had apologised for the events as reported.  He had had something of an epiphany or somesuch (Stephen Fry circa Saturday Night Fry: “Piffle?”) and I really do not like very many people at all, so when the ones I do like come back to me, I have a hard time keeping my stone cold cool face on. Really, I am not a people person, I am a cat person, so if I like you, you must be goddamn Russel Brand level awesome, and that’s not easy to watch walking away. Well, I’m thinking it’s probably rather nice to watch Russell in particular walk away, but I digress.
So now T and I are, I’m glad to inform, back on the yellow brick road and all that sunshine and etceteraness, but I’m afraid Baartin Botze- the instigator of the little “Get Thee Snofferol Behind Me” incident- has yet to repent. In fact, he has been getting up to even more shenanigans. Your favourite Friend Of Dorothy and mine, ladies and gents, did me and my dad a pre-2012 prank call that was rather delicious.
Me and the padre were having a nice quiet dinner around the breakfast table, as you do, when the house phone rang. My dad answered, looked gruff for a second and in his patented Leon Phone Voice said, “I Think You Have The Wrong Number,” and hung up. I quizzically raised an eyebrow at him, and he said, “it was one of those people, you know, looking for sex. One of those sex people. Said they got my name and number in the Yellow Pages.” Now since my father has never been incorporated in any format whatsoever this was rather odd, but my dad being the single most straight forward person in the world simply goes into grumble mode and brushes it off.
I told him that I believed the call to have been more "prank" than "earnest quest to sell sex to a very tall man named Leon picked at random from the yellow pages", and told him if they called back  to let me talk. They did, and I simply played along to the voice of a young man doing a very bad camp gay Afrikaans accent (“I think he was Chinese!” my dad said), figuring I’m only wasting his airtime and getting half a laugh out of it in the process. This guy was clearly not a seasoned crank caller. His improv skills were nil, and the whole premise- that he was a gay hooker, (Luke, I think? Something biblical.) who had found my dad in the Yellow Pages and wanted to offer him some steamin’ hot man love at a discount- was thin at best. And changed constantly. The moment I first started to smell a rat was when the initial story changed from Yellow pages to “got your number from a friend of yours.” Aaah, I see. Which friend would this be? Morne, apparently. Morne is a friend of mine who recently also decided to throw all his toys out of the cot without explanation and then simply ignored all my attempts at communication, so my first thought, of course, was that it was the very man himself instigating the phone call.
We spoke a little longer, Luke trying to hold on to the now shattered premise that he was a stranger unto us, but failing so badly I just wanted to give him a hug. He let so many little things slip it was embarrassing, but as the call wore on, I had to admit the particular knowledge he had and was having a hard time keeping to himself was not born of Mr. Morne. No indeed, it was all starting to shade rather vigorously in Baartin Botze’s favour for this little adventure. The death knell was when Luke the drag queen phone hooker mentioned this very blog, which Morne never read, but M- I mean, Baartin, definitely had. He started asking things about Baartin, saying that they were old friends also, and “why do you hate {him} so much?” etc.
It was all starting to lose its appeal, so I decided to hang up. Luke threatened to simply keep calling and calling if I did that, so my dad (this having been on speaker phone) announced: “Well, We Know Where Baartin Lives Now, Don’t We? {Keys Jingle} We’ll Just Come Pay You A Visit.” Very quickly phone hooker Luke hangs up, and I’m laughing so hard at my dad’s ownage. (I think it’s the fitting term here.) But he looks at me like I've just grown a second head and says, “Why are you laughing? Get out of your PJ’s and put on some clothes. We’re going.”
Hot damn, you don’t need to tell me twice.
As it turns out, we were fucking lying, and we only knew the street he lives on, but this was the straw that broke my 6’10” father’s back. It was an almighty crack, let me tell you. He had just had enough of all of the bull. shit. that we had put up with from Maart-Baartin in the last few years, and the fact that the little shit just can not leave things alone and go on with his life. So we went Baartin Hunting.

We knew the street, and since frequents to the same Spar we do, we knew his car. That was all my dad needed. He wanted a word with the little man, and he was willing to drive the whole suburb flat to get it. We drove up and down that street, but that car was nowhere. Now, it wasn’t his voice on the phone, he had someone calling for him, so I guess he could have been anywhere. I, however, choose to believe that he ran and hid, just hoping Goliath would calm the fuck down and go home eventually, his sphincter tightening ever more each time he saw us drive past from his darkened living room window. It gives me great joy and pleasure, and I’m not hurting anyone, OK?
And just as a little PS, he appears to have started a blog. It’s a blog where he apparently posts little sermons, the first of which (yes of course I read it, I was dearly hoping to be told off in it) advises you cover fucking everything in olive oil and tacks on a little bit at the end where he decries not only different cultures’ mythologies to be wrong, wrong, wrong, but also dreamcatchers, a couple of actual random hieroglyphs in addition to the listed Egyptian gods, and porn. Now I don’t know about you, but I am deeply devoted to my love of pornography and the carpal tunnel that comes with it. I would nigh give up my right to dubious up skirt shots of Alyssa Milano on horribly spammy triple x websites for love nor money! 
He has named it after himself; it’s essentially Baartin Botze Ministry and it’s hosted at blogspot. I shan’t link to it, as that would be unfair on a few different levels, but I’ve provided more than enough information for the truly curious to find it.
  Just please, if you do read it, picture him thusly in your mind when you do:

Side note of great import:
As I sit here writing this, I am munching away on some popcorn I made and/or burnt on the stove. Stove-Popcorn. Nomnomnom. Tesla, baby cat the younger, snow beast and all-round fuzzball, is sitting on the floor next to me, staring up at me with those big Frank Sinatra eyes like she’s begging me to hand her something out of this bowl that will magically turn out to be raw steak. I hand her a piece of popcorn, just to see how she’ll take to it, and lo and behold!


Freak!Cat. The flash did something to her eyes in that picture, she looks fucking demented. Bat outta hell for some Stove-Popcorn.


And then, as you’ll be dying to know, I must promptly inform you as to how I’ve been filling up the time left by the absence of Merlin in my life. All the pretty that Colin Morgan and Bradley James took with them until such time as the BBC decides to grace us with season 5 needs to be supplemented, and whilst I haven chosen substitute pretty that rivals both fiercely and might even almost outweigh the duo, I’ve chosen it in a container that goes away after merely three episodes. Two of those episodes are already in the past. But look, cheekbones!

 Sigh. Benedict Cumberbatch, plus some Martin Freeman for good measure, but mainly Benedict Cumberbatch. His Sherlock > Robert Downey Jr.'s Sherlock, and that is saying something. 
I'll leave you with some wise words from the man himself, when challenged that he looks taller in his photographs:
"I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend."

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