Posts Tagged ‘humor’

I knew it was going to be bad even before I opened it. You might think that someone in my position may have hesitated, perhaps had second thoughts, or considered the implications of their actions. But alas, no. Rather I acted like a man possessed. I laughed in the face of danger and happily skipped past the line drawn in the sand. My devil may care attitude however would be short lived.

Suffice it to say after perusing Freshly Pressed I now know more about book spines than I ever wished to. Not that it was something I often wished about mind you. That being said it was still somewhat of a revelatory experience. Food for thought, if you will. Out there somewhere in this vast oval shaped expanse we call earth, was a person, and judging by the comments section persons, who were naturally inquisitive about book spines. It begs the question, were they born this way or was it an affliction they suffered later on in life?

At this juncture, I should disclose that I too have glanced at book spines from time to time. Generally in the presence of lady company. Women like bookshelves apparently. Perhaps it’s a disguise and the only reason they buy bookshelves is so they have somewhere else to stack their collection of Cosmo magazines. I’ve often stared at these overflowing bookshelves in wonderment. Where do they find the time? How many books on relationships can one person possibly own? And why wouldn’t you Supersize a meal, it just doesn’t make any sense!  

Despite my protestations to the contrary I am a voracious reader. Maybe even too much so. Is it a result of some kind of undiagnosed ADD? Whatever the reason, I don’t tend to linger long once I’ve finished a book. No time for the moral of the story to percolate in my mind. I’ve already started plotting how I can possibly get my hands on the latest Taylor Swift autobiography- ‘Taylor Swift: The Early Years’. A short excerpt:

“My uncle Randall sure loved to play the banjo. Even now I remember sitting at his feet as he strummed away, thinking to myself, ‘Why hasn’t anyone ever told him how terrible he is?’ It was then that I vowed that I would only ever play the ukulele. Unfortunately they don’t have much need for ukuleles in Pennsylvania and so I had to make do with a guitar. But guitars and ukuleles are pretty much the same thing when you think about it. If you play from the heart it doesn’t really matter what instrument you have in your hands. Unless that instrument is a banjo because those things are ghastly! Wait I may have mentioned that already. My bad.”

Now that I have mulled it over perhaps it takes a certain wisdom to appreciate book spines. A wisdom that says there’s joy to be found in the finer details. A wisdom that says take the time to value the little things because it’s the little things that count. Or it could just be that some people are OCD.

Thankfully I’m not OCD so frankly I couldn’t care less if I’ve mentioned Taylor Swift’s name exactly 3 times in this post or not.

You just counted, didn’t you? Busted!


As I have been scarce in these parts of late, think of me as a salamander if you will, I thought a re-introduction might be in order. I suppose if I was so inclined I could just edit the About Section and be done with it. But after reading my original About Section, I realised it was a work of art and should remain just as God intended, and by God of course I mean me.

That being the case, this is a good opportunity for us to get reacquainted. Basically I’m going to wax lyrical, and you’re going to listen. Admittedly, you could go ‘to hell with this’, and click the little x at the top right hand corner of your screen. But if you do this somewhere in the world a fairy will die and you don’t want that on your conscience do you?

Right, now that we’ve got the unpleasantries out of the way, let me paint you a picture of my personality.

Firstly contrary to what the rumour mill might suggest, I am not the real Slim Shady. While I concede I am not rotund in nature, I prefer to think of myself as athletic rather than slim. I don’t mean to suggest that I have a habit of running 100 meters, unless of course I urgently need the toilet in which case all bets are off.

Secondly I do not own a single Taylor Swift album. Shameful I know but in my defence I have ears. The more astute among you might be suspicious given that this is the 3rd time I have mentioned her in as many posts. BUT she did a hair flip at the Grammys, so how bad can she be?


(Picture courtesy USA Today)

Thirdly I have an accent. Apparently. An English one if you must know. Now if you’re picturing a multitude of characters from Snatch or Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels, you’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s more Sherlock-esque, for those of you lucky enough to have witnessed the BBC series. However at this point it is imperative that I make it quite clear that my hair is far superior to Bernard Cumberbatch. A fine actor he might be but one might be forgiven for thinking that a beaver was nesting at the top of his head.

Lastly I am an accomplished cook. Many people find the settings on the side of a toaster to be confusing. I don’t. I like my toast black, that’s all.

So the power tripped, as it is prone to do in the technological super hub that is South Africa. Fear not though, it returned shortly thereafter, no doubt expedited by the fact that I was having malevolent  thoughts about how I would mete out justice should it not do so.

Currently I am staring at my radio alarm clock, as it flashes at me, imploring me to adjust it to the correct time. For some reason I suspect it’s not much of a non-conformist. Time waits for no man. Well it does now. Plus I am lazy and there are so many buttons on this faux chrome gismo I fear that if I fiddle with it I’ll somehow inadvertently reset all the clocks in the Southern Hemisphere. Which actually I’m okay with as long as it means that I get to sleep in for an extra 20 minutes.

I confess I really had to motivate myself to brush my teeth today. I’m not looking for an award; I just want to make clear that it took some effort. This minty breath is courtesy of some elbow grease and some guilt inspired coercion. The internal monologue went something like this –

Me: I wonder if I should just hold this in and that way I can use the toilet paper at work instead.

Me (Again. Obviously.):  I don’t know hey. These sounds are getting pretty ominous.

Me (Again. Really are we actually going to have to do this each time?): I tell you what, I’ll rock, paper, scissors you for it.

Me (Again. Good you’re catching on.): Um, that makes no sense.

Me: Damn your logic. In other news I don’t feel like brushing my teeth.

Me: But what if a promiscuous blonde decides to randomly kiss you?

Me: Why I would be scandalised. I don’t advocate kissing before marriage. Wanton groping sure. But I draw the line at saliva swapping.

Me: You’re not fooling me other random voice in my head. Let’s just say your recent track record is as chequered as a chess board.

Me: I take it this is the last time you’ll ever mention chess in my presence? I don’t have anything against chess per se but it has been scientifically proven to promote premature ejaculation in men.

Me: You just made that up.

Me: Be that as it may, as of today I am Superman and toothpaste is my kryptonite.

Me: Do you think your parents would be proud to discover that they raised a fluoride abhorring specimen?

Me: Well I wouldn’t say proud necessarily, but expectant certainly.

Me: I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this BUT if you don’t brush your teeth as stipulated in your human user manual circa 1980, I may have no option but to put a medley on in your head of Taylor Swift’s most infamous hits.

Me: You’re bluffing!

Me: Am I?

Needless to say I love this minty fresh feeling in my mouth.


It’s a fact of life that when you’re sitting at a bus shelter time will grind to a halt. This was especially true in my case since I wasn’t even waiting for a bus. Three creaking, exhaust spluttering, contraptions had come and gone, but I lingered on. I tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible, legs crossed, head buried in a book, and a surreptitious glance every now and then for good measure. To the casual observer I may very well have been invisible, or so I liked to imagine, but in reality I probably looked as out of place as a feminist at a hot dog eating contest.

The urge to pee was becoming rather unbearable. Just thinking about it seemed to make my belly swell. To distract myself, I decided to pretend I was a camel, holding on to my valuable fluid reserves for a rainy day. Wait! That doesn’t make sense. Why do I need to pee so badly? I love my coffee, don’t get me wrong, but why I decided a fourth cup was in order this morning only heaven knows. Now I was jittery, and anxious to loosen my belt and imitate a sprinkler. But I daren’t move. Murphy’s Law is a bitch! I had to be at bus shelter 16 as detrimental as that might be to my bladder.

People watching, despite what the movies might say to the contrary, isn’t actually that entertaining. People are hideously dull. I am generalising here and with good reason. Try as I might I couldn’t really come up with a reasonable explanation for why the lady sitting to the right of me was wearing a plaid trench coat. I decided to settle with the following scenario: she was a cheese farmer, and years of being exposed to blue cheese had stunted her sense of fashion. Sorry it’s all I could come up with on short notice. Not that I am one to judge. I was wearing corduroy pants. But I’m poor, so you know, beggars can’t be choosers.

An idle mind is a dangerous place. There I was trying to mind my own business, or at least trying to, when I caught myself whistling a Taylor Swift tune. Something about being twenty two. Damn it I don’t even know the words and it’s stuck in my head. Personally I blame commercial radio stations. An upstanding citizen like me could never be accused of being a Taylor Swift monger. I’m just joking of course there’s nothing upstanding about me, unless of course I’m imagining Taylor Swift in suggestive poses. I concede that was in poor taste.

I had been waiting for 3 hours and 22 minutes. I was counting. Obviously! When, the ice-cream van finally rolled in. I wouldn’t say I’m an addict. I just have needs of the chocolaty kind. You may be surprised to hear this, or perhaps not, but apparently loitering around ice-cream vans while there are children around doesn’t look good especially when you have stubble like me. So I’ve had to resort to this. Making deals with the devil (a term of endearment for the driver of said ice-cream van). I concede he and I are on a first name kind of basis. He provides me my fix and I don’t do him grievous bodily harm. Oh, and I give him money too.

Luxuriating. Yes, it’s a word. A magical place (perhaps akin to a crack addict’s high, who knows, drugs are bad people) where vanilla and biscuit bits course through my veins, creating a sugary super highway to my digestive system. Right now I love the world. By which I mean I can probably handle people in small doses now. I have the urge to high-five someone. Correction. I have the urge to high-five someone pretty because I’m shallow and hygiene is important. I wish I knew what my purpose in life was. But based on the fact that I’m not lactose intolerant perhaps I’ll become a rep for a dairy company. Although I’d probably eat all the profits. And that would be bad.