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.)

Suicide? Don’t Make Me Laugh.

Now I know what you’re thinking: “YTAH, you heartless fuck, what the hell is the matter with you? You’re not going to make fun of those unfortunate souls who are so despondent that they consider death only as a sweet, sweet release? Are you really that much of a cunt?” To which my answer is: yes, yes I am. And yes, that’s exactly what I’m about to do, because suicide is stupid, and stupid things make me laugh.

A CALL TO ARMS: Welcome to Racism Week.

WARNING: NOT WRITTEN BY PIKES!

Love, Peace, and … Death Threats? Bring it on!

Ooooo, they’ve found us. Yep, some “white supremacy” bullshit artists stumbled across Pinvictor’s satire on racism and then made vague threats of physical violence. Ooooo, scary.

Our detractors in their natural habitat.

Or not. Apparently, the best way to intimidate somebody is to post anonymous comments on internet chatrooms. Which kind of pisses us off, since they didn’t even threaten the right person or post a current address. (Full disclosure: it’s about half a decade out of date.) Come on, guys, give the devil his due; if you can’t bother reading the by-line, maybe you should quit while you’re ahead. What, you’re still not over the fact that your mommies didn’t love you, you dickless fucks? You still think intimidation will compensate for your lamentable lack of a brain?

If You Thought THAT Was Offensive…

Taking a break from pure politics this week (although, as we know, everything is political), I thought I’d tackle one of my favourite hobby-horses, religion, by writing about the latest of God’s self-appointed ministers. You may have read about it in the papers, or on any of the blogs by his fans and detractors, but there’s a new Morality Sheriff in town, and he goes by the name of Buchan. Angus Buchan. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? If not, you can check out this column that Pikes wrote for another site. Words cannot express my excitement when I first saw the photo accompanying the story and I thought: “Great! They’re making a South African Indiana Jones movie!” But then I read the column and realized it was just another reactionary Christian crackpot with a stupid hat and even stupider opinions, wishing to make a name for himself by convincing all and sundry that they’re all going to hell unless they do exactly as he says.

More of the Same, Only Different.

The article by Vitriol McMalice last week set me thinking about work again. It’s been a while since I tackled that subject for africans – about as long as it’s been since I tackled my manager and fed him his own shit that I had yanked out of his asshole – so perhaps it’s time. Or perhaps it’s just started to annoy me again. Work, I mean; not my manager (he’s never stopped annoying me). This is surprising, considering how little work I end up doing. Sure, I get done what I need to in order to get by, but mostly that’s “just enough not to get fired”, as the great man Carlin once put it.

But why?

The question that arises – for me, anyway – is, how did it come to this?

Your Opinion Doesn’t Mean Shit to Me.

Being a writer means a lot of things; being a published writer means even more. It’s one thing to actually write the fucker; it’s quite another getting anybody else to damn well read it. And I should know, because I’ve written 30,000 words for you people already, and what’s the thanks I get? Cartfuls of hate mail? Death threats? Angry letters from your attorneys demanding the removal of offensive material? No. Which pretty much means that nobody is listening, doesn’t it. I mean, all Jeremy Clarkson has to do is malign Norfolk or the new Volvo and he gets thousands upon thousands of letters, and meanwhile, here I am, using the words “cunt” and “spazzwank” and “clitwart” with joyous abandon, and what is the thanks I get? One measly comment decrying my lack of good taste and sensitivity. Almighty Sekhmet, people. This truly is a third-world country; I want first-world hate mail, for fuck’s sake. Ungrateful bastards; I don’t know why I bother.

Actually, that’s a lie. (But then I lie a lot. Mostly in bed, writing this junk – but I’m lying about that, too.) I know exactly why I bother.

Insulting critics

Okay, so apparently engaging in a flame-war is both tacky and uncool, but I just can’t help myself. At least this time I’m restricting myself to a blog, where I can swear to my heart’s content. Ah, freedom of speech – isn’t it a wonderful thing? Well, no apparently not when you give it to morons.

I’ve said this before, but I hate stupid people. They piss me off. When someone has never had an original thought in their entire lives, and yet insists on blathering on and on with their stupid opinions, I have a difficult time not engaging with them. Perhaps, despite all my cynicism, I compulsively believe that people are reasonable beings and capable of rational thought, so that it should be possible to talk someone out of their horrendous ignorance and get them to see the light. Alas, my cynicism generally proves better-founded than this rather persistent, misplaced faith in rationality.

Victim of Road Rage? Take some DRIVING LESSONS.

Comin’ right at you.
I’ve been reading lots of Jeremy Clarkson recently. This may strike you as odd because, if you’re familiar with my tastes and habits, you may know that I try never to read books if I can help it. (What with the written word having gone the way of the dodo and done a Diana and met its final destiny in a fatal, not-so-tragic collision, like all those kids in the Final Destination movies, I just don’t see the point, really.) I can’t remember the last time I read something that didn’t appear in a web browser or on a take-away menu. Also, if you know me, you may know that I couldn’t give a shit about cars and that Jeremy Clarkson writes (mostly) about cars. (Moreover, he earns a living by writing about really expensive cars, which he gets to drive around for free, which means he gets to drive fast, luxury vehicles he never has to pay for even if he totals them, and he gets paid for it, which means – well, it means I fucking hate him on principle, doesn’t it.) So if I care as much about vehicular transport as I do about the mental well-being of popular songstresses or the fate of the fucking whales, why am I writing a piece about driving?

Intimations of Mortality: Death Is a Cunt.

And now for something completely … morbid. Rather than simply resting on my laurels and doing something funny, I thought I’d challenge myself a little and write something depressing instead. And, not being one for understatement or restraint, I thought I’d tackle the most depressing thing I could think of, and what could be more morbid than death? Also, why shouldn’t Yours Truly tackle this weighty subject? I mean, it’s served as the inspiration for high-quality literary output from lots of people – everyone from William Shakespeare to William Shatner, in fact. So I thought it was high time that I offer my own unique and original perspective on this matter, for your measureless (and unearned) edification.

Off the Ledge, er.
Now, this may be a bit of a truism, but let’s face facts: dying sucks. It sucks fucking piles. And recently people have been dying off as if there were some kind of celebrity plague: Heath Ledger. George Carlin. The guy who built the Cookie Monster. All of this suggests that we find ourselves stuck in a moment of cosmic suckitude. It’s not enough that the next Batmovie looks kinda promising, or that stories about Ledger’s research for his role as the Joker – studying the speech patterns of ventriloquist’s dummies, for instance – presage a hard-to-follow performance, and makes you wonder how many more of these films could have benefited from his over-prepared contribution. It’s not even the additional implication that, pregnancy having worn out its fad value, death is now the accessory of choice.

If It Ain’t Fucking Broke, Don’t Fucking Fix It.

If you look at my articles on africans.co.za, next to the title, you’ll see that I chose a picture of the Hulk as my avatar. You’ll also notice that it’s taken from Ang Lee’s Hulk. Not the “re-imagining” being released around the world this week – the original. Now, if you don’t know me, or if you’ve never been drinking with me when the subject comes up, you may be surprised to hear this, but when I made that crack about how any scene in Ang Lee’s Hulk is better than Batman Begins I was being deadly serious. Deadly – as in, argue with me, or deign to disagree, and I will personally see to your eternal demise. When the apocalypse comes and our mortal bodies are resurrected, the Dear Lord Jesus himself won’t be able to scrape together enough of your earthly remains to put you back together again.