Just a quickie (a ha ha- well, I could pretend that the double entendre there was unintentional, but we'd all know it was a filthy lie, wouldn't we?) before I eat my weekly canned spinach with Red Bull chaser and write what decent folks would recognise as a real blog post.
So just to keep the ol' finger joints from rusting over, here're a few bits of wonderful, scary, and/or just plain bizarre for you personal edification, Pielingerers.
(Speaking of lingering in a Pie-like fashion, what doth everyone think of the Make-Over? I was about 6-7 hours past sleep time and potentially high on sleeping pills that had failed to put me to sleep when I decided to put it together, so- as is the norm around here- the answer here could vary wildly in degrees of malefactorous to meh.)
Item Aforementioned No. 1
What does one say to that exactly? Does one comment upon Golden God of the Pizza Boomerang's stylin' gold-rimmed aviator style corrective lenses? Do I quip about the potential for abs of steel with boots of gold and mullet of... well, of mullet?
I don't care so much that the merest whiff of the miracle boomerang pizza caused the Creepiest Man In The World to decided that live was worth living after all, no- the thing that puzzles and frightens me is his now wholeheartedly cheery (but still menacingly creepy) thumbs-up to the passing Pizzarang as though in silent promise to never think such dark thoughts again; not to waste the sacrifices Pizzarang made to ensure his safety.
*thumbsup* Don't worry Pizza Boomerang, your presence in my life and your smell particles in my nostrils lasted but a moment, but your lesson springs eternal in the hearts of the hopeless, the downtrodden and the terminally type-cast. With just the memory of your sweet flavour, I now know I can carry on.
Then- of course, for what other way could this possibly go?- Peesa Boomeerang wings its way to find an innocent girl, a-reading her book on a park bench as normal innocent girls do, when The Rapingest Man In The World jollies up to her in a rather telling trench coat.
He waggles his tongue and wiggles his willy in a way that drops panties so hard all across this good world of ours that I'm surprised Golden Mulletted Man doesn't burst into spontaneous sexy flames at this point- but surprisingly, Girl On Bench doesn't seem to find this wiggling and waggling of loose appendages quite as sexually voracious as it was designed to be. Not to fear! Peesa Boomeerang comes swiftly to the rescue- by amputating a motherfucker's dick.
Oh dear God and/or grilled sandwich in the guise of such, as is fitting. That is some disproportionate retribution right there. Look, I'm not saying we're not all better off without this particular person's genes floating around in the pool, but fuck me that is one vengeful calzone.
Once the tasty treat with the taste for terror has nodded and "my job here is done"ed, it next passes by the Single Saddest Man To Ever Wear A Jumper, in the process of balefully grilling up his Sad meal of a... yeah, a whole squid on a barbecue. Sure, at this stage, seems about right. He is so depressed about the prospects of his dinner that he looks about ready to join Creepy on that Soviet Building-looking ledge and Romeo & Juliet the whole thing, when the merciful Peesa Boomeerang comes whizzing past! This time, it deigns nought but the quickest, zippiest of fly-bys, merely allowing Sad to jump up and scorch his fingertips lovingly on its rim (a... no, no- shan't.) before disappeared into the heather yonders from whence it came. Sad is so disquietingly thankful for this brush with greatness that he sucks vigorously- with vigour, I tell you- on self-same fingertips, forcing my horribly stunted mind to regress to the mental image of not seconds before when that little savoury treat decapitated Rapey's Goose Barnacles.
Is it bad that this is my prevailing worry- not the plausibility of the situation, not the whole squid on the bloody braai, nor even the man's rather unsettling facial hair, but the fact that he is sucking the marrow from fingers that have essentially just shared a six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon with a flasher's bleeding dick? I'm going to go ahead and answer yes and save everyone the trouble.
To make a long story short, Peesa Boomeerang finds its way back to Mt. Awesome on the planet of What The Everloving Fuck, where Golden Mullet proceeds to tear into it like the crazed animal he so clearly is. This, as I'm sure we'll all agree, is the logical and absolutely sane conclusion to the narrative we've just been presented, and is in no way detrimental to our health and safety for having seen it. And as far as good advertising goes I'm sure there's not a soul in the house right now who isn't crazing pepperoni goodness after having witnessed a lopped-off flasher-cock squirting gallons of tomato sauce all over Girl On Bench. Yum.
Then, I must share with you the following. The other day my dad happened across Ferris Beuller on one of the channels that like showing older movies, and watched it for the first time. I caught the last bit with him, but caught the Ferris Fever all over again, and remembered that I sincerely love me not only some Cameron Frye, but Matthew Broderick as well, in a very serious manner. It was in this haze that I stumbled on this ad he did for Honda a while back, which is just excellent.
Ferris lives indeed.
This week I did something that has been rather horribly, irrationally overdue: I made an appointment to write my learner's exam for my driver's license. Yes, you who are doing quick math in your head, I am in my early twenties and I do not have so much as my learner's. It is disgraceful in the utmost, I will admit freely, but up until now I have seen myself as a sort of a Sheldon. You know, strictly a passenger. We went all the way to Akasia, because rumour has it, as much as this kind of thing has rumour, that Akasia is slightly less insane than Centurion, which is where I live.
About seven years ago, when I was actually first eligible to apply for my learner's, we trucked over to Centurion, and proceeded to stand in the cue for 6 hours before getting to the front, only to be informed that the computer system had in fact been down the whole day. EFFICIENCY. After that there was a brief period of six years of carlessness, so I just never bothered again. Now, however, my bucket of excuses has freshly run dry, and I must now face up to those recurring nightmares I have of dying in screaming runaway car-wrecks.
Comparatively, the process this time around was painless. We spent maybe three quarters of an hour there tops, and that includes filling in forms and taking the photos. Of course, as per the mandate of narrative causality, there was a little office next door with about six different photographers ready as all fuck to service the hell out of us by taking 4 neat and utterly hideous ID type photos of my half-asleep mug. The sign, as you would want, made liberal use of the redundant apostrophe, and we walked up a flight of stairs to find what amounted to essentially two rooms with prison lighting and people floating through with cheap-arse little cardboard digital cameras. In the one room stood a little computer and printer set-up where everyone with a camera could plug in and do their photo's- presumably who ever owned the rights to the printer was making a killing charging the others to use it. Too late I realized I could have just taken my own pics at home and printed them out on photo paper, avoiding both the cost of prints and the rather "Crayons taste like purple" expression I ended up with.
I was helpfully serviced by a man with one of the most cardboard of the cameras about, but curiously as I was standing waiting for him to print out the photos, I saw this man walk past, looking so seriously GQ and Annie Liebovitz that I admit my mind blown just a bit.
Yes. Full blown digital SLR, journo vest with all appropriate attachments and doodabs, John lennon sunglasses, and black beret. Now if that's not taking ID photo's like a boss amidst otherwise smothering mediocrity and making the best of the swagger the good lord gave you, I don't know what is, I truly don't.
Upshot: my appointment to write my test is on the 16th, in which case I intend to chew all the way through my fingertips. Sister Estelle and Brother in Law Barend have been giving me driving lessons, and thus far I have managed to differentiate between the clutch and the handbrake, which is fucking miraculous. I drove up to the red light that leads out of Valhalla with my dad and the other two the other day when we were on our way to bowling, and afterwards I asked him if he was shitting himself. He answered yes, because he had been quite sure that I was about to shoot right the fuck past the robot before I stopped suddenly. But it was OK, because he had his hand about half an inch from the handbrake the whole time, he assured me.
These-
-cannot be argued with.
Have you heard of yarn bombing? A very cool phenomenon whereby crafty buggers graffiti public spaces with gorgeous, colourful knitted things. Often, quite fitted pieces. Now, I bring this up not to sound topically relevant and interesting, but because 'tis topically relevant. I was walking to the shop the other day, when I espied this:
It's literally just a piece of cerise pink fabric safety-pinned onto a tree, in the middle of suburbian Valhalla. The fuck? What is this- poly-cotton blend nuking? Was the tree cold? Did it feel the urge to be FABULOUS? It shall forever remain a mystery, which I rather like, for I can imagine all sorts of vague shenanigannery for it.
Then there's the most recent addition to my little group of friends at home. I have what has at odd times been described as both an endearing and deeply distressing habit of naming my things. By naming, I mean that my laptop is called Dexter (preceded by Mathilda), my external harddrive Inga (preceded by Lancelot), my instant camera is Henry, my little gun pendant is Pablo, and my voodoo doll- as has been mentioned before- is Arturro. This new friend came with a name: Olivetti.
Isn't he beautiful? I came across him at the general dealers', and I could not pass him over, as he's still in perfect working order, with miles left to go on his ribbon, and was going for a song. Now he has his own spot in my ever-denser room, and everytime I walk past him I smile. I've wanted a typewriter for the longest time, despite I guess having next to no practical use for one. But who the fuck care about practical- look how shiny!
Carla immediately requested a letter, written with Friends references front and back! Brenda insisted I waste no time in writing a short story on Olivetti, and while Dirk agreed, he added that it ought to be a self-referential story about a typewriter, as meta as possible, with constant attention brought in-story to the fact that it was being written on a typewriter. So far, only Carla's request has been fulfilled, typewritten and posted most fashionably, with so many Friends references that it might actually hurt to read. Of course, being the kind of jackass that I am, I have also already done a whole page of All work and no play makkes Jack a Dull BOy, which makes me regretfully the worst person in the world.
Before I sign off and find something to eat as is my wont, I would like to send a note into the universe requesting that Wicked be brought to South Africa. I'm reading the book which I'm loving, and of course as a result obsessing over the fact that I have zero access to the musical. Not even an official stage recording DVD, for fuck's sakes!
Also, and truly I will fuck off now because what was going to be a wham-bam turned into a post proper, but is anyone else enjoying Once Upon A Time as much as I am? Fluff to be sure, but what enjoyable fluff. And hooray- Game of Thrones is back! I would marry that theme tune if I could.
OK, really done now. Go about your business.
