I like a da schicken

I have a friend… (and I can so see you all reading this and going yes and your fucking point would be what exactly or good for you or alert the media etc but there is always a point to my rambles or so I would like to think) Anyway back to my friend – she has this amazing gift. A gift that any girl from the 50’s would have killed cows, goats and sheep for. A gift that I’m afraid that is too terrifying for any modern Jozi gal to try and come to terms with. A gift that has been known to sober up Crombie and I in an instant – kinda like Flash Gordon really… This gift is actually that strange and completely foreign that I once had a dream about it – actually correction, make that a fucking nightmare!

This gift involves her beau as well. Yes well fine, have your kinky thoughts but try and focus here people! Fortunately it doesn’t involve any kinky scheit (and that is fortunate for me as god what a fucking terrible mental image) but in fact the gift centers around her beau. We’ll call him Blazer. My friend who I’ll call Pecan never had this gift until Blazer came along. Or maybe it was one of those untapped resources she had up her oven gloves and was just waiting to release *shrug of shoulders* Now don’t get me wrong, Blazer is a complete sweetheart but this gift, this thing he has instilled in Pecan is just so… so… so... domestic it makes me want to vomit, puke, chunder, shpue – you get the picture.

Pecan’s gift is (childrens block your ears and close your eyes) COOKING A FUCKING GOD DAMN ROAST CHICKEN and I am talking every night here people! But the worst part is that she actually ENJOYS doing it! What happened to my drunk Pecan that would fall over everywhere with me, that would pub crawl and go on a grab-some-ass-a-thon, that did a he-tox with me, that was all for the independent women of tomorrow??? Who ever said relationships bring out the best in people was clearly on a come down after a heavy night of snarf cause I mean blow muther fucking me you must be mental!

Pecan’s gift has made me allergic to the entire kitchen and god fucking forbid I come near an oven glove – I just break out in hives man! Crombie and I have decided that we are going to get Pecan a T-shirt. This T-shirt could actually get Pecan some sponsorship by Nando’s me thinks… The T-shirt you may ask is quite simple: He like a schicken, I cook a da schicken and We eat a da schicken!

As for me, I pass a on da fucking schicken!

Yeah baby, YEAH!

I think Austin Powers or at least the creators of Austin Powers had the right idea when they introduced the concept of “mojo” to the world. Much like the craze / phase that Destiny Child created with “Bootilicous”, Austin Powers has done the same. Thank fuck though that the outfits and hair haven’t caught on, can you only imagine how normal unstylish people would turn that into a major fashion faux paus – although reckon we might get some interesting pooches being used as the latest hair accessories which would always make for a good gas.

But I digress… Mojo, oh how I love thee mojo! My mojo officially went missing for a few months – kinda like a prolonged game of hide and seek. It hid, I didn’t have a fucking clue where! Was rather god damn depressing – I mean here I was all tarted up and ready to paint the town with my girls and *BAM* no mojo!!! Now the desperation of this can only be equated to:
1. discovering that your bag has been stolen
2. losing your car keys
3. needing a good shag session and discovering that there is just no suitable meat / potential out that night – highly frustrating I assure you!

As you can imagine this sent me into a sheer state of panic as well! At that stage I think The Parentals where considering taking me for a psyche evaluation, even my brothers were freaked… I mean having a sister ask people if they have seen her mojo kinda conjures up pictures of the crazy old bag lady that use to frighten the living shit out of you as a kid!

In the midst of my missing-mojo depression, I started pondering: is it at all possible to party out your mojo? I mean can you really become such a raging alcoholic tart that your mojo calls a Time Out for a bit of R & R? If so, I really wish the bastard had given me some notice – mmmm, actually I think that’s a fabulous idea, kinda like a tenant giving a landlord notice that the rent will be 2 weeks late… I do, however, completely forbid mine to give me a letter of final notice or even worse a letter of resignation *gasp*

Luckily for me and well my friends and family too, my dearest and most treasured mojo has returned! For this I must thank Cape Town and the men down there – boys you could definitely teach our guys up here a few new tricks for sure! Until my next mojo-recovering trip down to the Cape, all I can say is Yeah baby, YEAH!

Stupid Twins - I think so!

SCREAM! @#$%!
Smash key-board, hit head against a fucking brick wall! Hee hee hhuuuuuuuu – breathe, compose, wipe away blood… Have you ever noticed how the people you work with are sometimes more than likely and far too often a bunch of fucking morons?! Well these birds are like a rotten cherry on the top of your bee-ute-a-ful ice cream sundae… Never in my entire life have I had the torture of having to work with people that are so inherently fucking stooped - documents are riddled with spellos – and I mean fucking spelling mistakes that MY BROTHERS MADE IN GOD DAMN STD. 1 *breathe in breath out* I mean for crying our loud in a god damn fucking bucket. Jeeee-sus!

Granted, not all of them are actually a bunch of idiotic buffoons – T & F actually have a god damn clue (thank fuck) and if you can get over B’s attitude and tendency to let the ENTIRE office know (don’t think they heard you in Hong Kong sweetie?!) when she is in a pissy mood then the three of them actually are quite pleasant to work with… As for the other two – well all I can say is they are pure proof that we descend from apes, I mean I had no idea that people were actually born this fucking retarded! I shall don them Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.

My favourite part about having to work with the Tweedle Twins is the attitude – this gets dished out on a regular basis when their pure ignoramus genius outshines even the brightest of Spring days. The attitude, always amusing to H (my very kick-ass colleague who is ready and waiting on the frontline to kill the stupid twins), usually results in some half-attempt at a pathetic “wise” (I put this in inverted commas as there is just nothing wise about these two) cracks such as: “Do we have to re-invent the wheel everytime?” Yes moron, that’s because your such an idiot YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT CENTURY WE LIVE IN! *ARG* My personal favourite, however, is sending out a document that contains half a sentence – yes folks, half a god damn fucking sentence. Who knew finishing an entire one would take ssssssssoooooooooo much effort?! So I…

Am considering leaving them each a post-it note kindly reminding them that UNISA, does offer English courses! Mmmm…

Whose the Fairest Maiden?

I recently returned home from a holiday, well actually I should call it a trip as in all honesty that is exactly what it was - a trip down hooker road central... All complete in red dresses and gold shoes mind you! Kinda felt like I had landed in Hillbrow except it was filled with them, one of whom I actually called a friend (am still contemplating if she deserves this title or not). I shall don these girls: The Red Dress Trio or RBT as I am feeling slightly lazy today. According to RBT, and I quote, "every chick wishes they could be us!" so besides the mild amusement on my face and the instant play-back of "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me", I was dumb-founded. Now I am definitely not a prude - hence the beautiful blogname but I mean get a grip, reality check aisle 5 phuleez!

I know you might be thinking that here is a perfect case of the green-eyed monster rearing its fugly head - but I assure it isn't. This blog is born purely outta amusement at how fucking idiotic and cock-sure the RBT's really are. I mean self-confidence is fantastic and something our parents try to instill in us from the day the bloody cord is cut but I mean for fuck's sake! They might as well carry mirrors in their matching gold bags! I can just picture them: huddled out in the street, ready to start the night of prowling and schmoozing, of flirting and drunkenness (something I am all for!) whilst all looking into their mirrors and chanting: WE ARE THE HOTTEST CHICKS HERE! Bu ha ha!

So yes RBT, I guess every girl really does wish they were you! Just remember that sometimes mirrors do lie...