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.”

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.

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?

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.

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?

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?

COME AGAIN?

NEE, JISSIS, SO KAN DIT NIE AANHOU NIE.

by God

Here God nee. Kyk, mense, laat Ek nou dúidelik wees: Ek het fokkol hiermee te doen gehad. As Ek nie nou die dag by Koos Kombuis se blog ingeloer het nie, was Ek nog stééds in die donker oor die aartappelboer en al die kak wat hy in My naam kwyt raak. Maar dankie, Koos! Ek sal jou nog behoorlik moet bedank dat jy My so laat skater het. Terwyl ek onthou: Die mense van die Simply Heavenly Accommodation Committee het gevra dat Ek jou laat weet “your suite has been upgraded” – wat de hel dít ook al beteken.

REAL-WORLD MANAGEMENT STRATEGIES (As Opposed to the Crap You Tell Your Staff)

A book extract courtesy of Vitriol McMalice

This month’s extract comes from

Chapter 1: Dealing with staff requests.

Perils await the unwary manager around every corner...

One of the first things you will need to do as manager is to come up with a carefully designed procedure for dealing with staff requests. This is a complicated but necessary task, as inopportune and embarrassing staff requests can come in numerous forms and may arrive at your doorstep via many different forums. Thanks to the increased accessibility offered by e-mail, cell phones, PDAs, fax machines, and other state-of-the-art technologies, a new and challenging staff request lurks around every corner, seeking whomsoever an unwary manager it may devour. No longer safe in your office, thanks to ever-intrusive technology, your seclusion is under constant threat from selfish and inconsiderate subordinates clamoring for your attention, despite your indubitable superiority over them and the mundane matters with which they concern themselves.

Jon Qwelane Wants You to Take Him Seriously.

If you’ve read Jon Qwelane’s column in the Noonday Sun, or whatever it’s called, you’ll know that he wants you to call him names. (He says so in his title: “Call me names, but gay is NOT okay”.) So please, call him anything you like. Write him letters; phone him at home; start Facebook petitions called “Jon Qwelane is an ignorant cunt who should be stoned to death with hunks of dried-up cowshit”. I’m sure he won’t mind. (Actually, I’m not sure if that’s exactly what he meant. After all, I’m gay, so I’m only half-human anyway. Maybe I misunderstood. Oh well. Time to take a breather, so I may as well break out the frilly pink thong, high heels, and make-up, and go shopping for gay porn.)

Spazzwank, clitwort, fucktard: Any name will do.

Once you’ve read the article, you may also know a little about Jon’s beliefs. For instance, you would know that “wrong is wrong!”, and that he will under no circumstances “write letters to the [Human Rights Commission] explaining [his] thoughts”. When you read this, you may think something derogatory, like “You’ve never had any ‘thoughts’, you miserable twat”. Or perhaps you thought, “What a queer little man.” But if you did, you would be wrong. Because this column is satire. Didn’t pick that up? That’s because you haven’t read it with all due care and attention. Confused? Don’t worry. Despite my homosexuality and the obvious disadvantages that this entails, I shall endeavour to clarify this, after which I shall obligingly go away and change my sexual orientation to something more in line with my colleague’s unsullied moral standards.