The Olympics made me do it

Men love sport almost as much as we love doing nothing.  (Most males reading this has just given me a mental high five.) Rather just buy me a beer.  I’m cheap and easy. The “others” may be confused about the little contradiction at the start. Let me run another lap around the issue…

Men love WATCHING sport almost as much as we love doing nothing, only for the mere fact that doing nothing becomes a bit tedious after a while. Besides my kids don’t think I’m cool when I lie on the coach for a whole day.  Who am I kidding, it’s not the lying on the coach thing that makes me uncool. It’s my tomato and mustard stained t-shirt that barely covers my protruding, hairy belly, that makes me look uncool.

Now try and shake that image from your mind, why don’t you?

Anyhow cool or not…why risk injury?  I’m not a frigging teenager.  Gymnasts and weightlifters break arms and legs every day.  It’s a goddamn war-zone out there!  Or maybe it was just Karma telling them that men should not wear tights in public.  Even if it’s at the games.

Aaaahhh the Games.  Let’s show some respect shall we, it’s called the OLYMPIC Games for good reason.  Sit up straight and pay attention, or you may end being bolted by Zeus. One cannot simply refer to this wondrous celebration of sport as the games!  It’s nations that came together, allowing their best athletes to compete, albeit very aggressively, for the honour of wearing a huge gold coin around their neck. Annihilating anyone who tries and stand between them and the top spot of the podium. Like this seriously freaky dude…

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I found this using the search term “hate-face”

And he’s now the latest reason why I don’t sleep at night.  Poor Chad didn’t stand a chance…

Something weird happened to everyone I know during the OLYMPIC Games.  Besides the fact that a few swimmers were vandalizing public restrooms, the OLYMPICS caused other mortal men and women to stay glued to their television sets, watching events we normally would consider to be an utter waste of time.

Like judo.  Or fencing.  Or synchronized diving.  Or a flat-chested girl jumping around with a hoola-hoop. And the list doesn’t stop there.  All of us we’re stuck in a catatonic state, cheering for people we’ve never heard of, simply because their country hadn’t won a medal yet.  What’s even worse is that we would discuss the thrilling ping-pong final the next day! It’s pucking ping-pong people!

Most of us didn’t even understand what we were watching.  What makes one gymnast receive a better score than the next one, if both of them managed to stay on the beam for the full set?  Or what makes one synchronized swimming team beat another one, when neither team lost a member drowning?  Or die from sheer embarrassment.

Maybe the OLYMPIC flame casts a spell on humanity for the duration of the event.

Whatever the reason, it’s all done.  All the politics, money, planning, scandals, controversy, records, medals, disappointments, achievements and having to watch Michael Phelps act like a dick, all of it is part of history now.

I’ve snapped out of it. I got off the coach and changed my t-shirt.  I also went back to work as my doctor didn’t want to supply me with another sick note.  Normal programming has returned to my brain.  I’m back wondering why people cheer for humans during an Equestrian dressage competition, when the poor horse is the one who actually deserves the medal. The rider’s only job is to not fall off.

Just saying.

Laugh with me #46

Face plants are always funny but sometimes they’re just frigging hilarious.  Especially if it didn’t happen to you or a loved one.  No wait, that’s wrong.  Face plants are especially funny when it happens to someone you love…

I’m sure the guy/girl/friend/mother/uncle who was taping this little treasure had to be admitted to hospital, suffering a torn spleen caused by hysterical laughter, moments later.  ouch,gif,beach,fail nation,g rated

It’s also the reason why I prefer to just lie on a beach and do nothing.  I have no intention of landing arse in the air with my head in the sand.

I’m a genius and the Internet has proof

I have superior intellect and that means two things, I could have solved world hunger or become a super-villain… If I only knew about it…  Up until a few hours ago I never knew I was a genius.  An ex-girlfriend did tell me once: “You think you know everything, don’t you!” But I assumed she was just being a sarcastic bitch.  I didn’t expect a compliment whilst I was in the process of breaking up with the evil twin of Cruella de Vill.

Whilst surfing the Internet, killing time at work searching for work related information, I discovered my unknown talent.  Talk about wasted years. I’ve spend at least two of them arguing with the teenagers in my life, when I could have just told them how I know everything.  Discussion done.  I didn’t. Damn it brain.  You failed me.

Fortunately I stumbled upon a site which disclosed this extremely well kept secret to me. It lists five characteristics shared by a group of humans who belong to the category of NOT-stupid-at-all.

  1. You are curious about everything.
    Do you continually read up on a variety of subjects, follow a variety of blogs and find yourself frequently running to the Internet to look up answers to questions that pop into your head? Geniuses are naturally curious.

There is nothing to add, as my response is basically yes, yes and yes.  Just this morning I was reading about Genghis Khan because someone claims he killed so many people it reduced earth’s carbon levels by almost 700 million tons.  And that’s a lot of humans.  

I also wanted to find out why everyone hate Nickelback so much.

2. You talk to yourself.
This is true. If you’re frequently teased for being caught talking to yourself, don’t worry; this can be a sign of genius.  

I always assumed that me talking under my breath in reply to a comment of the Wife was a sign of immaturity.  Who knew?  

I also enjoy singing when I’m alone, as I have the kind of singing voice that makes flowers die.

3. You read constantly.
Many people enjoy reading. Geniuses are nearly obsessed with it.

And reading in the context of this list didn’t exclude comics, graphic novels, Asterix journals, my Twitter feed, humour blogs, road signs and/or the back of air freshener bottles when I sit on the loo. I basically read all the time.

4. You enjoy challenging your own intellect.

I think therefore I am and surround myself with people who challenge me every second of the day.  I call them Dude and Princess.  They’re the reason I’ve cancelled my Google subscription because teenagers know everything already.  But that was in a time before I discovered my own geniusness. Look mom, a new word.  (I think I’m gonna touch myself a little tonight.)

5. You are forgetful.
There is something to the idea of the absent-minded professor. Extremely bright individuals often overload their minds with a lot of complicated things.

So the time I forgot my kid at school was not bad parenting after all.  And me forgetting to buy the ONE item which I went to the store for in the first place, is not old age.  And the fact that I missed our anniversary… It’s all signs of genius, my love. 

See, I told you, I’m probably one of the biggest non-stupid people in the world.  If you still don’t believe me, here’s the proof.

I almost got arrested for watching another man pee

I was in Brazil a couple of weeks ago and it wasn’t for the Olympic Games because doing nothing is not an Olympic event.  Yet.  I would qualify on the first try.  Probably end up with silver.

My colleague and I were attempting to return to the airport after the shortest time any two persons have ever spend in Sao Paulo.  The distance was a mere 25 km.  It took us about 1 hour and 47 minutes to cover half of it.  Then I stopped counting.  And it wasn’t just because of the traffic.

P wasn’t very talkative after the first half hour.  It’s nothing strange because men don’t speak as much as some other lovely creatures on the planet.  We actually appreciate moments of silence and they never become uncomfortable.  But this time he was kind of uncomfortable.  (Let’s call “he” P, shall we?)  I couldn’t really figure out why, until he asked the taxi driver to find a service station so he could relief himself.  It suddenly became very clear.  We’ve all been there.  Having an urgent, unplanned need to pee.  It’s universal.  The shuffling on the seat.  The shortness of breath.  The concentration.  The quiet desperation.  The teary eyes.  It was evident that P didn’t go at the hotel and I never bothered to remind him because well, he’s sixty.  Wisdom is suppose to come with age.

The problem is that it would be easier to find a unicorn in heat or a humble Micheal Phelps than a service station next to a highway in Sao Paulo.  And I’m sure if we did manage to find that unicorn, P would’ve exchanged it for a place to pee.  Both of us were scouring the sides of the highway like gazelle on the Serengeti looking out for a lion.  Nothing.  Another half an hour passed.  Things were about to get interesting.stock-photo-conceptual-illustration-about-a-man-need-a-pee-searching-of-bathroom-60490930

I turned around and saw an expression that can only be defined as pure desperation on his face.  I think he was about to cry.  Or piss his pants.  Or both.  He was starting to touch himself.  It was my turn to become uncomfortable.  Another fifteen minutes and there was still no toilet in sight.

He started coercing the driver to the side of the highway, implying the crossing of an uncountable number of lanes.  Filled with non-moving cars.  Time was ticking away very quickly and the last time I checked, I wasn’t important enough to have a plane wait for me.  We reached an overpass and P almost screamed at the driver to stop. Right there.  On the frigging highway.

Old man P fell out of the taxi and ran/stumbled/crawled to the closest wall he could find to commence the task of urinating.  It’s not as easy as you might think because even the most primal things become complicated as we get older.  Especially if you have the added pressure of someone watching.  And waiting.  In anticipation.

As I turned my focus to the cars in front, I saw the police car hovering a few meters away. I gulped, especially when the policeman decided to stop and get out. He turned out to be the biggest policeman I’ve ever seen.  I didn’t realise they made shirts for hippos.  Maybe I should rather compliment the seamstress who fixed those buttons, as they were able to hold back the Hoover dam of fat.

My first thought was that he wanted to pee as well. Or maybe consume a small child.  He didn’t do either of those things.  He was not impressed.  I knew this because he started shouting like a deranged Portuguese One Direction fan at their final concert. Public urination is against the law even though the canal running alongside the highway smells like a sewage tank.  Isn’t it ironic?

Whatever he said, released a flood of nervous energy in the taxi.  The driver was waving his hands in the general direction of P whilst screaming back at the policeman.  I’m no expert but I know this: Screaming back at a person of authority is not going to resolve the situation.   My theory proved to be correct as the person of authority turned red in the face and was storming towards our taxi.  I say stormed but in reality is was more like a waddle.  Or a sluggish attempt at movement.  Irrespective of how he moved, the point is he did and I started sweating in places I didn’t even knew I had pores.  The driver told me in broken English to call my colleague.  Urgently.  The problem with me shouting at P to tuck-it-away-and-zip-it-up, certainly didn’t help his ability to do so.  It actually made things worse, stage fright was setting in.

And there we were, four actors stuck in the most bizarre play you’ve ever seen.  The bouncing blob-cop, the terrorized taxi-driver, the pissing passenger and the guy who desperately wanted to catch a plane, as he didn’t want to end up as someone’s bitch in a Brazilian prison.

The situation reached critical mass.  A crescendo of chaos.  And P still couldn’t finish his pee.  I started rubbing my wrists in order to get some circulation going in case the cuffs were going to be too tight. The policeman was still edging closer and I was thrilled to see how slow certain people actually move.  He was so close I could smell his lunch. Or was that the driver’s nervous fart?   The driver stopped talking because he passed out from the sheer effort and anxiety.  I kept on shouting like Wade van Niekerk’s mom as he ran that final straight to gold.   Dogs were howling.  Cars stopped.   People took photos.  Kids cried.  All of it useless because P’s hold-it muscles simply didn’t work anymore.

I was busy texting the Wife, informing her of my delay and instructing her to post bail money, when P finally got into the taxi.  I revived the driver with a hard slap across the head and he sped off immediately.  I think I struck the nerve connecting his brain and left leg.  It was instantaneous and not a moment to soon.  I was looking right into the eyes of a fat, red-faced, Brazilian policeman waving a thick finger in my window.

Nobody said anything until we reached the airport. We dropped P off first, as I reached the eff-it-stage of travelling. When I finally reached my boarding gate and my heartbeat and adrenaline levels returned to normal, I realised that I shook the unwashed hand of a man who shook himself.

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Eeeeeeewwwww.

I was only disgusted for a millisecond and then shrugged it off because there are worse things to happen to a person in Brazil.

How to ruin National Woman’s Day

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I’m proof this theory works

South Africa celebrates Woman’s day on 09 August every year. One might wonder why women requires such a special, annual day?  And if one is stupid enough to ask that question in the presence of said women, one might get a reply such as: “Because men gets a special day, everyday.”

I would argue this statement, if I didn’t ruin Woman’s day. In my defense, it wasn’t done on purpose. I usually don’t indulge in self-sabotage when it comes to the opposite sex.  I consider myself in tune to the needs of those who run the world.  At least most of the time. Continue reading

30 New things I learned in the US

A foot selfie

The list is in chronological order.

1. There are no queens walking the streets of Queens. At least not at seven in the morning.

2. A day in New York can become excrutiatingly long if your shadow is the only companion you have. *insert gesture of sympathy*

3. Some lawns in public parks can be closed by placing a simple little sign which everyone obeys. Amazing.

4. Don’t attempt converting dollars to your local currency when ordering steak. Or beer. You’ll end up only having one and require a second bond on your house to pay the bill. Continue reading

I’m going to Miami

And now you may thank me for having the Will Smith song stuck in your head.

This is not a mere coincidence. I’m actually going.  For real ya’all. I’m boarding a plane to cross the Atlantic, for the umpteenth time, and dropping down landing safely in the poster-city of all things American Summer.  Even though it seems most of the people over there don’t speak English.  Or American for that matter. I’m travelling for (and not in) business, but I do intend to sneak away and stick my weird looking toes in the sand of South beach.  I don’t know anything about Miami other than what I’ve seen in movies or in rap music video’s.  Based on this limited, one-sided portrayal of the city, you may rest assure that there are certain things I will NOT do whilst exposing myself.  To the sights and sounds of Miami. Continue reading