Talking to the Dead (Beat)

Remember that guy on TV, used to have a show on SABC3 where he pretends to commune with one of the guest’s dead relatives/friends/pets? Ever wonder what happened to him? (Except, you know, going into the interminable rerun loop that local TV loves so much.)

No doubt you’ve been lying awake nights, wishing, praying, and sobbing for an answer. Well, wonder no more. Due to the kind of snafu perpetuated daily by the postal service, we accidentally received a transcript of the last (unaired) show.

It starts with the host already annoyed. According to a note attached to the transcript, ratings were down, he’d just been served with divorce papers, he’d lost money on a large investment, his bank loan had been denied, and his sponsors were about to repossess his teeth.

Read it and weep, lovers of quality television. If only the cowards in TV Land had had the guts to show this life-changing episode.

Making me cross all over

LONG CREDIT SEQUENCE: over soft focus shots of the host looking pensive, the ANNOUNCER describes the life of a kid who talks to imaginary people, is picked on by others, and then grows up to annoy the whole planet.

Title Card: SPONSORED BY THE ZUCCHINI BROS., CHICAGO

FADE IN:

From left, THE GHOST WHISPERER walks onto center stage to the sound of SCATTERED APPLAUSE. Impatient, he stands in front of TONIGHT’S AUDIENCE and waits for the FOUR SYCOPHANTS HIRED BY THE STUDIO to stop applauding like idiots. After a beat, he waves them to silence.

THE GHOST WHISPERER:
(visibly annoyed)
Right. I’m getting a name. Gene – Geoff -
Geoffrey – George – Georgina – Genevieve -
Geppetto – Germaine?

(Sensing he’s losing the audience, he changes tack)
Gerry – Gerald – Geraldine – JAMES?
Jane – Janice – Jamal – Jason – Jasper – Jade?
Joan – Joni – Jameson – Jared – Jacob – Jaden -
Jarvis – Janet – Joshua – Joss – Josephine – Jo-Ann?
Joanna? Jocelyn? Jacosta? Jordan? Joy? Joyce?
Julia? Juliet? Julie? Juno? Justine? Jean-Paul? Jesus!
Jeremy? Jimbo? Ginseng? Joachim? Joel? Jules? Julius?

(desperate now)
Justus? Jethro! Jillian!? Jennifer!?! Jim? Joe?
Jehoshaphat? Joseph? JOHN?

No one has put their hands up yet.

THE GHOST WHISPERER:
(apoplectic)
Oh, give me a break! ONE of you inbred bastards
must know SOMEBODY named John!

(Beat.)

FEMALE AUDIENCE MEMBER:
Well, my husband is called John…

The Ghost Whisperer turns to her, gawping.

FEMALE AUDIENCE MEMBER:
… But he’s not dead, he’s sitting right here.

She points to a BURLEY REDNECK, sitting on her left.

JOHN:
(grumpily)
I didn’t even want to come here in the first place.
I hate this [CENSORED] show.

THE GHOST WHISPERER:
Fine.

The host takes out a gun and SHOOTS JOHN, then turns back to the female audience member.

THE GHOST WHISPERER:
John says hi.

John, dying in his chair, gasps for breath.

FEMALE AUDIENCE MEMBER:
But he’s not dead yet!

The Ghost Whisperer raises the gun again and shoots John TWO MORE TIMES.

THE GHOST WHISPERER:
John says thanks a lot, you stupid bitch.
Now shut the hell up.

FEMALE AUDIENCE MEMBER:
(sobbing with joy)
That’s my Johnny!

In the back row, an INBRED REDNECK kid wearing a checked shirt, baseball cap and overalls raises his hand shyly.

KID IN CHECKERED SHIRT:
Um. My cousin Jay died just last week…

The Ghost Whisperer looks at the Redneck contemptuously, then unloads the rest of the bullets in his head.

ANNOUNCER:
Join us next week for more…

The host turns the gun towards the camera, somewhere off to the left, empties the rest of his gun, and the screen goes blank.

Title card: “The End.”

A Letter of Resignation

To my boss

Regarding our amiable conversation this morning. I believe you mentioned that I arrived late. Oh, was I late this morning? Thank you for letting me know! Gosh, you’re useful. A talking human clock. So that’s why you get the big money. You can tell what the time is and when I arrive? How very informative. Thanks – thank you for telling me that I was late, as opposed to being on time, or early, or in outer space. Wow. The summit of human accomplishment, you are. Your logic circuits alone must weigh a ton. (Pity the wiring’s a bit rusty, but I suppose disuse will do that.)

CRIME: Legalize it and it will go away.

Mary Wanna, ek het jou lief.

Lots of people in this country complain about crime. But let’s face it: we actually like some of the crime. There is some crime, for example, that you only get around here. And yeah, I think that we ought to, you know, be proud of what we’ve achieved: we’ve given the world whole new kinds of crime – we’re famous for it. And that’s an amazing accomplishment, if you think about it. And I think about it a lot, especially when I’m enjoying some of the finest crime in the world.

Welcome to 2000-and-Why-Do-We-Give-A-Fuck.

2009 American Inauguration Special.

Welcome back fuckers, and say hello to the 21st of January 2009, the first day that the world woke up to an African-American running the White House. In my previous post, I mentioned Barack Obama’s election victory in the U.S. as, well, one of the positive changes we could look forward to in 2009. This was just over three weeks ago, when 2009 still seemed like such a promising year, full of potential and sweetness yet to be savoured.

But having been back at work for just over two weeks, I realize that my optimism may have been a tad premature.

Can you believe this shit? Part II.

People come up with some pretty outlandish explanations to justify their actions and beliefs. Regardless of how illogical, distasteful, or ridiculous it may be, some jackass will try to sell you their particular brand of horseshit even as the SWAT vans pull up to the curb and helicopters begin to circle overhead.

Take religious people. Believers from various belief systems and denominations will happily insist that they possess incontrovertible, scientific proof of God’s existence. Of course, if you press them for more evidence than “aren’t flowers pretty” and “what are the odds” etc., you should be prepared for all kinds of outrageous rationalisations. Fortunately for you, we here at africans.co.za are logic fascists, and we’ve put together this handy “Fuck You Religious Whackos” guide, which we are giving you access to entirely free of charge.

“It came out of the sky!”

Believers – or as we like to call them around here, “fucktards” – may try to fob off the fundamental questions of existence with this old stand-by: “You can’t see the wind, but you can see its effect, right? Ja, well, God’s like that.” As if that explains anything. What does that even mean? God is hot air which rises, thereby creating a vacuum and pulling in cold air behind it? Why does that mean I’m not allowed to eat pork, or wear clothes of mixed fibres, or covet my neighbour’s ass? I mean, have you seen my neighbour’s ass? I’d tap that! And then I’d fuck it, but that’s just me.

News That Features Monkeys: Fun facts about mooning

Not many people know this, but the act of mooning originated as a show of respect among bonobo monkeys. At some point in their evolution, younger males started approaching the troop leader, turning their backs to them, and laying their arms on the ground as a sign of submission. Gradually it became custom for the troop leader to acknowledge the gesture by mounting the lesser males and initiating mock intercourse.

Needless to say, this peculiar custom can lead to difficulties wherever humans come into contact with this species. Last year alone, six Canadian tourists tragically lost their virginity to overeager troop leaders (frustrated for years by the lack of females in their enclosures) while mooning caged monkeys in south-east Asia.

So how did the act of mooning turn into the full-cheeked insult it has become today?

After-Life? Over My Dead Body.

Heaven gets a lot of good publicity that I don’t think is justified. Greeting-card companies, religious organizations, and the rest of the entertainment industry have been exploiting all things heaven-related for so long that the idea fills the populace with warm happy feelings, rather than scaring the bejeezus out of them. Somehow, while we weren’t being vigilant, the world devolved to this appalling state, where images of fat angelic cherubs wielding harps can warm the cockles of the most hardened TV or movie executive’s heart, instead of filling them with bile and revulsion. What gives? How has it come to this?

HorrorFest: Premature Post-Mortem

Having attended most of the HorrorFest so far, on AtraBilious and DocBenway’s recommendation, I’ve come to certain conclusions. Firstly, all horror movies are made on a budget scraped together by selling the director’s furniture in a garage sale, stealing it back from the suckers who paid good money for some asshole’s shit on the side of the road, and then reselling the furniture to a bona fide pawn shop. That’s if the films are any good at all. The higher the budget, the more seriously everybody takes themselves – which makes sense, because there’s so much more to lose. But this also means that everybody immediately forgets that ultimately all horror movies are based on a premise that is incredibly and deeply silly. (For an example of which, see Dark Reel with Lance Henriksen and Edward “Lay Off the Fucking Cocaine” Furlong.)

Ah, Poetry.

From the pit of despair
To the brink of destruction—
Progress, still.

Arbitrary pictures