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.”

Movies to Remember 2008 By

I’ve written a lot about movies this year, both for Africans and for other sites. I’ve attended film festival after interminable film festival, attended preview upon preview, and that’s apart from renting movies, watching TV series on DVD, and paying to see films on the big screen.

So you’d think I’d have an easy time deciding which films to recommend and which to deride, but the honest truth is that I can’t even remember most of them. Sure, there were some great films on circuit this year (or were there?), but frankly, who gives a shit? When Hollywood churns out innumerable multi-million dollar movies every month, with nary a break or a modicum of sense between them, it devalues the whole enterprise. Only more so if so much of the output is total dreck, like Love Guru or Meet Dave or The Mummy 3.

Instead, each new product begins to flow into itself and into the others, like the colours in a children’s water painting, and soon it all turns to muck. Which, frankly, is the point at which a soulless husk of stupidity like Beverly Hills Chihuahua can make it to the number one spot on the box office – not only Stateside, but also on our shores. My fellow Africans, I ask you: what the fucking fuck?

So rather than combing through the year’s release schedules, trying to find one worthwhile movie, I’ve simply thought long and hard (okay, 15 minutes) about the movie experiences that stick out in my memory.

Best of ‘08 : Putting the “Festive” back into “Festive Season”

A new fan of metal.

I’ve never been much of a metal fan, but I’ve been introduced to a wide selection over this last year, courtesy of the X-Fest and the HorrorFest, where I scored some nifty freebies by attending every goddamn screening possible. Thanks to said freebies, and lots of time spent hanging out with Pinvictor, I’ve discovered that I actually like metal – as long as it’s melodic. By the same token, I find that while I listen to both classical music and metal, I simply can’t abide it when they’re combined. Call it misplaced purism, but it bugs the shit out of me. Female vocals are okay, Midnattsol, but I draw the line at a full-on orchestra and operatic vocals (we’re looking at you, Nightwish and Hollenthon).

So counting down from 10, here is my list of the best new albums from 2008. I recommend you enqueue all of these albums and press Shuffle, for a DIY festive season mix that kicks the shit out of your average pop idol, waits for them to recover and then kicks the shit out of them again.

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.

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.

Shitty Movies Make Jesus Cry

So to be absolutely clear on this: your favourite movie – the one you treasure as though it were an orphaned puppy you rescued from drowning one morning the night after your spouse left you and you went down to the bridge to end it all; that special piece of creative genius you so firmly believe will some day be acclaimed as the greatest masterpiece ever to subsist on a meagre cult following before rising from the depths of obscurity to attain worldwide acclaim – well, it’s fucking terrible. No-one likes it. And even your friends, on whom you regularly foist copies of this rancid chunk of petrified horseshit in the vain hope that they will one day share in the wonder of your cultist obsession – whether they admit it or not, they will never, ever watch that film. So yes, I know: you gave them each a copy of it, wrapped in a special little box, painted that special colour of puce which you found so meaningful in the film, and handed them a handwritten thesis on the wonders of the juxtaposition of magenta and vomit in the final scene. But rest assured, that lovingly-prepared gift set edition is gathering dust along with all the rest of the trash in garbage bin number 9, unopened. Because desperation is a major turn-off, and your little parcel reeked of it.

But never fear: you are not alone. Many, many people absolutely love shitty movies.