what would sookie hear

iggy medeiros

So. thinking some terrible thoughts the other day, it occurred to me that if there were a sookie (sookeh is mah human) around, i'd be fucked. (Yes. I have started watching True Blood. And weirdly, apart from Lafayette, I'm just not that into it.)

and then i thought, just as well no one can hear what we think but if they could would be more careful about what we let moosh about in the grey?

the christians did that whole what would jesus do (WWJD) wristband thing in the 1990s, but i figure, as the rest of us only have TV, social networking and advertising to tell us whether we're being good or bad, a new icon of conscience should be born, and as true blood and vampires are now all the rage, we could have What Would Sookie Hear WWSH (TM) wristbands to help us micro-micromanage our bad thoughts.

my conscience. at least it's pretty. and famous.

it's sort of like 1984 but for the post-MTV generation - more sparkly and less intimidating and kind of sexy, but still very, very creepy.

Food and sex

There's only one thing that should be eaten during sex and it's not food, says Dorothy Black
There are three things that should never be considered fair game when one is drunk. The first is your body, the second is every number on your mobile phone and the third is column space. Messing with any of these three things will give you a belly ache. Read more...


So, this is what came from that vom fest of a friday that i blogged about a few weeks ago.

I know know know the whole sex/food thing can be cool in some weird way, but seriously, EVERY time i think of it i just think skat and feeder fetish. and then i'm just too grossed out for words.

yuck.

and then you get reader shit like this:

i love to eat nandos sauce during Cunnilingus ,it spice thing up

preshen govender 11/4/2009 9:26:31 AM

pour some chilli on me. not.

thanks preshen. my vagina thanks you for that image. you're always such a gas.

postsecret pics of the week

postsecret

it's all so tragic sometimes. i don't like sad endings. but sometimes i think i feel like that's all i ever think is going to happen. or something like that.

but i don't really though.

just sometimes i think the thought sits deep in my brain, hiding like a nasty little troll just waiting to scramble out at the best of times and make a poop of everything.

i blame it on one particular thing adults love telling children to warn them about the harsh 'reality' that life is a living hell of fear and regret.

All good things come to an end.

fuckit. i so hate that phrase. all 'bad' things 'come to an end' also. so why pick on the good things? if you ever say this shit to children you should stab yourself in the neck with a blunt object. if you ever say this shit to yourself you should OD on some arb OTC drugs.

photobucket

happy monday morning plums.

sunn O))) - Báthory Erzsébet

um. ok. it's like gothic meets minimal.




Erzsébet Báthory, by the by, was a serial killer.

Maybe this is like The Ring. But instead of watching an old video and being hunted by a freaky ghost with a bad haircut, the spirit of Erzsébet will weave its way into your brain through this weird little non-ditty and kill you with boredom or a splitting headache or both.

or maybe it's just a bunch of weird little poopl running around in capes being dark. and evil. dark and evil.

thanks chris mac. now i remember why we're friends.

no sex (column) tonight dear

my gran died on sunday. on my birthday. she was 99 years old and rocked hard to the end. between marriages and mothers, divorce and death, she was one of the strongest prevailing feminine influences in my life.

she was hardcore in the way that only people who've lived through two world wars can be. she didn't take shit and didn't mollycoddle. not until recently at least.

some of my characteristics that i am most happy with are from her. she taught me how to be strong when i didn't want to be. she taught me how to grow things and do needlework. she taught me how to laugh at silly things. she showed me the value of one's hands. she made the best curried fish and apple tart and christmas pies in the world.

i love her and appreciated her existence in this world in a way that is very difficult for me to express.

i am deeply deeply saddened that she is no longer here. that her smell of face powder and hairspray will fade. that our very small family is now even smaller.

postsecret

postponing the w24 column til next week. will blog about other insignificant trivialities until then.

we are the world

this sort of shit is why i think the world should come to a quick and abrupt end.

The Anti-Homosexuality Bill 2009 has been passed in uganda and states that anyone who commits the offence of homosexuality will be liable to life imprisonment. Read more about it here.

totally makes sense. because if what you do with your willy is a concern of the great almighty god, it's definitely a matter of government importance.


SA GLAAD is trying to create awareness about it. Check them out here.

bandwagons

i find it disturbing how journos/writers/columnists in the mainstream online media in SA have very little fresh to say. it's as if every week or so a new bandwagon rolls on through and everyone just jumps the fuck on, grabbing at the megaphone to see who can shout louder and more eloquently about the same shit.

it's not a debate.

here, everyone is too politically correct to be otherwise or to say something contrary. so they all just agree in different words. it's enough to make me appreciate fred khumalo.

maybe it's because everyone knows that the SA audience is just so fucking lame it still gets a rise out of reading and commenting on the same bs over and over again.

this week's theme includes the rietz trials, and an amusing if not totally yawnsome wank job over which city is better - cape town or durban. of the latter, the best post came from david j smith. a piece of writing you'll only really get if you've actually been to durban and have spoken to a local.

i'll keep you posted about what else the online media clique tries to outdo eachother on in the next few weeks.

It's my friday and i'll barf if i want to

so. went to a little media shindig at oyo on friday.

turns out they have a claim on a shipment of crayfish that could feed africa for about a decade. so to celebrate they called over the media peeps and stuffed us with salmon and foam canapes and oysters and crayfish and champagne.

it seemed the ideal opportunity for me to sate my curiousity with regards to crayfish. you see, i've been vegetarian for 12 years now and bar a flirtation with calamari and mussels over a year ago and a taster of yellowtail and tuna this year i've not had anything with a face or anus pass my lips the entire time.

(i think at least. i did a few years in asia, and god knows what you're eating there. but hey, ignorance and bliss and all that.)

anyway.

i was having a fine old time. the food was flowing, the wine was plenty, the waiters were almost as drunk as we were. I met the lovely catherine shone, editor of food24, (horses don't like her, but that's a story for another day) and some peeps from top billing magazine (no judgies.) and then a lovely lady from elle decoration who reminds me so much of Anna Levine i want to hug her.

but you see, readers, my dear plums, there is something not ok with eating that much shellfish in one sitting. this something not ok looks like this:

1 vegetarian

+

4 oysters (prepared in a variety of interesting ways)

+

1.5 crayfish (seriously. i blame it on sunstroke and booze.)

+

lots of booze (see the foreshadowing here? see it? huh? huh?)

=

friday night

ja. hm. i heart gaviscon.

Love is: Fast soothing relief

one good thing did arise from the vom fest that was my evening, and that was the idea for my next column...

oh. wait. that doesn't sound right does it?

nevermind. it'll be fun. promise.

(hey sparks: don't get your hopes up - it's not about vomit and sex - that's for another time.)

postsecret pic of the week

love this. just love it. mostly because i don't like people that sit around waiting for shit to happen and hoping that on one beautiful day they will suddenly be happy. just like that.

it's my friday and i'll post what i want to

which isn't much. because i'm lazy. (actually it's because i have nothing interesting to say and while many of you might argue that i never have anything interesting to say anyway i'll just have to rebutt by saying but then you always come back for more.... oh. wait. look. i just had an entire imaginary convo with nobody.)

bril.

I, windbag whore - reader comments to laugh by

I am agast with shame at this article! Dorothy Black, you are a nobody....someone who has nothing better to do but write about trash and by the looks of it, live like trash. I have never read such tripe as this. You need help as this rules your life clearly....don't you want something deeper than being ruled by your genetals? I am ashamed to be called a South African because of people such as you. I will pray for you. Realise Dorothy (as if that's your real name!) that you have a responsibility to the public and you are guiding a lor (and by the looks of the commenst on this article in agreement...a lot) of misguided bafoons that also are ruled by their genetals. I am flabergasted that woman think this way....well YOU woman that are her that is. I know of true woman that have brains between their ears and have not misplaced them elsewhere. Shame on you South Africans for letting a windbag such as this Dorothy person to continue her drival. There are more pressing things in South Africa to dela with than this nonsense.

LOL. classic.

i love being prayed for. hey, it's a shitty job, but someone's got to do it. i'm happy that 'Appalled from Overseas' gets to do that job for me. Keep up the good work.

What if...

Soooooooo.... went for the yearly aids test. always a little eye-opener.

nurse: so how many partners have you been with since october last year?
me: *blink*
nurse: for the year? how many new partners have you been with?
me: umm... well... let me see... (shuffling around in bag) i wrote them all down the other day so that i could remember their names... ummm
nurse: *blink*

anyway.

so all came up daisies. this is good. no matter how positive a spin everyone would like to put on being HIV positive i'd much rather i didn't get it. you know. like genital warts. or herpes. which, if my gynae is to be believed cape town is riddled with.

good times.

if you would like to go for your HIV/Aids test (they do couples testing as well) i totally recommend the New Start centres. the counsellors are amazing, the nurses efficient, helpful and reassuring and the whole schpeel lasts 45 minutes for which you pay 25 ZAR rond (about $3) and you can go back for as many times as you like for four months without paying another brass farthing. or cent even.

go. be brave.

The Good Penis

Does penis size matter? Sex columnist Dorothy Black thinks so...
When a significant new boy comes on to the scene, it's imperative that you ask yourself a few pertinent questions.

Is he lovely? Is he kind? Does he have a penis you could live with for the rest of your life?

The last is important, see, because I don't pick out crockery for a future with a small penis. I have found that a diminutive member is riddled with issues and the harbinger of dismal sex. In addition, it’s simply dangerous. Read more...

apocalypse now

sometimes i wish the world would just hurry up and end already. it would do away with all this bother of living and watching us fuck things up. it's so tedious.

a brown friday

turd

this is pretty much how my friday ends. like a hard, uncomfortable piece of shit. not because the day is inherently shit mind. but because i'm forced to deal with people that, in the social sphere of human dynamics, operate like little pieces of shit - making a big stink because they can't do anything else but lie around and get under everyone's feet.

fortunately. this does remind me of something that brings a big old smile to be face:

doggy poo.

yes. it is a turd. a dog turd, to be specific. covered in snow and looking disturbingly cute.

only the koreans.

doggy poo (the movie) is a 30-minute rush of cinematic daring; a heady mix of cute and weird; a wild cocktail of mind-numbing boredom and jaw-dropping aghastness (if that is not a word a should be).

here's the write up:

After being "created" by a dog, Doggy (Peter Farrow) meets various living and inanimate things. No one wants to be his friend, and Doggy Poo becomes sad because he believes he is worthless and has no purpose. Eventually, a plant grows out of the ground and tells Doggy Poo that she needs him to grow into a flower. Doggy Poo discovers his life purpose and he becomes absorbed by the flower. After being absorbed by the flower, Doggy Poo lives "a happy life".

let's just read that over again: doggy poo discovers his life's purpose.

hm. maybe i should get some of the people i'm dealing with to watch this. do you think they'll get the message?

I AM THE FLOWER AND YOU ARE THE POO.

i'm sorry. does that sound egotistical? does it sound mean and belittling? good. it's meant to.

anyway, here's a preview in case you wanted to enthrall yourself with the existential crisis of a shit.




only in korea.