Quality

I have mentioned Twitter to you before, right?

Check out Darth Vader’s Twitter page, it’s well worth a look.

Click On The Image For Larger Version.

I enjoyed that, didn’t you?

Hey?

What did you say just now?

You don’t know who Darth Vader is?

Come here, I want to show you something.

Seriously, it’s in my pocket, come closer. Closer, you will like it.

[Pow - uppercut in the mouth]

When you have put some ice on that, go have a look at some of the other ones they have here.

Oakes signing off.

Quality Comic Series

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m usually very discerning when it comes to most things in life, and this holds especially true for comics.

Not for me the mundane semi humour of Peanuts, Garfield and that especially horrid one with the dog. Fred Basset? Yes, I believe it’s Fred Basset. I’ve been to funerals with better jokes than what those comic strips come up with.

No, I enjoy my comics the way I enjoy my women – short, with just a hint of dirtiness to them. (ha ha, that was a joke, The Girlfriend)

John and John would fall under that category. This seems to be some sort of Dutch strips, and looks to be worth a read or two. Here with a couple of gems:

The Peeing In The Shower Conundrum - Something We Can All Relate To.

Having A Tug Whilst Doing Something Else. We've All Tried That At Least Once.

Hey? You enjoyed that didn’t you? Your head was telling you, “Wow, this is a little juvenile, I shouldn’t like this.” but your heart was telling you, “I want to hold this close to me, and gently brush my lips against it.” Right? Yeah, me too.

You can see more by mozying down over here.

Oakes signing off.

Some Other Guy Shows Off His Fur.

Some Other Guy, Pissing Off Peta Since 1983.

Not sure when this this picture was taken or why, but here is a classic shot of Some Other Guy, looking dapper in his genuine Kodak bear fur coat, which is worth a small fortune as it was the last bear of it’s kind in the Southern Hemisphere.

Not sure about the fan behind him though – it looks a little crazy, might well be a stalker.

Boom. Boom.

Oakes signing off.

Bootlegs Just Won’t Cut It.

This Is What We Are Talking About

Now for those of you who know me, you will of course be well aware of my muscular thighs, my finely chiseled calves, and the rather charming pair of ankles I happen to have. You will of course then, also be aware of my enormous feet, which both resemble medium sized motorboats, and is pretty much the sole reason why I nearly made the South African Olympic swimming team in 1996.

To offset my large feet, I used to rely on optical illusion, forcing my tootsies into ill-fitting crocodile leather shoes, as they were supposed to be slimming and bring my shoe size down from the behemoth 15 to a more respectable 8.

Wearing too-small shoes left me walking around in an awkward Geisha-like manner however, and left me with low self esteem, as it firstly prevented me from running around briskly, and secondly lead to the dogs and cats in the neighbourhood regularly roughing me up, as my unique walking style seemed to leave them mentally unhinged and wanting to taste my blood, something I obviously wasn’t too keen on.

Thus, I decided to ditch the croc leathers and settle for flared jeans, as it suitably covered my feet and left me looking like a normal slightly effeminate man.

Unfortunately, the cynical bitch that is fashion has decided that flared jeans are no longer mainstream, and I can no longer find them in stores. This troubles me, as the thought of wearing skinny jeans leaves me feeling cold and apprehensive. I could also never do that to my testicles, as they have grown up used to the freedom and comfort of loose-fitting jeans attire, and it just wouldn’t be fair on them to now go for the more constrictive route.

The Levi’s 782 jeans were mentioned as viable flared options, but are there any other jeans I can check out in the city? Bootlegs are not the same, they actually need to be flared nicely at the bottom, like the bell bottom pants long-haired hippies would merrily prance around in back in the 70′s, just minutes before they were then beaten over the heads by over-zealous cops working for the Man.

So, any cool stores or labels you know selling flared jeans in Cape Town, give me a shout.

Preferably in a 36 waist… Yes, I said 36.

What?

Don’t judge me, I have wide hips.

Oakes signing off.

Just Like This.

Edward Cullen - About To Have Blade's Foot Inserted Up His Ass.

This made me laugh out loud initially, then cry a little bit thereafter , as I realised that I knew who Edward Cullen was, and therefore “got” the joke.

Let’s be clear, no one should have found this funny, because no one should have watched this movie.

Unless you happen to be a 12 year old girl.

Oakes signing off.

Go On, Punish Yourself.

It’s Wednesday evening, and my humble abode is currently filled with the underlying aroma of spicy tikka chicken, beef stroganoff and Amstel beer. The beer smell is probably due to me having consumed copious amounts of it today, somehow managing to spill it down my shirt as well as my shorts.

The chicken and beef odours however, are due to the fact that I am one of the 7.5% of urban South Africans who make the effort to recycle.

A recent study conducted by a local university – the name escapes me now, but it was definitely a local one – found that people who recycle in this country are three times as likely to be masochists than those who do not. Looking at the process involved, it’s very easy to see why.

Unlike other countries, in South Africa your recycled rubbish will not be collected from your home – well, apparently it can be, but with the effort required to find the correct phone number and then actually getting them to come around and collect it – you are probably more likely to be run over by a herd of Knysna elephants, or be magically transformed into a pile of yellow fairy dust by an evil Irish leprechaun.

Instead, you are forced to cart around heavy bags of glass, plastic and paper to numerous recycling depots around the city. We (and by we I mean The Girlfriend) will usually drop off our smelly bags of rubbish at a nearby spot run by a handful of enthusiastic and slightly retarded workers. (Not parliament in case you are wondering, this happens to be a spot in Claremont)

Before it get’s to that stage however, the onus is on you to sort and recycle your rubbish according to various categories, categories I did not even know existed until The Girlfriend put a knife to my throat one day and made me swear to recycle correctly.

For instance, did you know that there are seven different types of plastic? Seven? To put it into context, there are more types of plastics than I have pairs of socks, and I always assumed I had an acceptable amount of sock wear, albeit having to wear the same pair over weekends. But yes, at the bottom of most plastic containers, you will notice a set of numbered codes, usually from 1 to 7. The ones marked 1 and 2 are fine to recycle, the others are not, although what you are actually meant to do with them is a bit of a mystery. (Burying them in The Girlfriend’s vegetable garden did not earn me the plaudits I had expected, but rather a stiff kick in the groin. Twice in fact, as she only connected with the one testicle the first time.)

If you though that glass would be a fairly easy material to identify and recycle, you would sadly be mistaken. You see, like a racial bygone area, it seems that different glass colours are not allowed to mix – meaning that clears, greens and browns should all be segregated and clearly labeled accordingly.

There are even limitations when it comers to paper, which the Recycle Police insist should be dry and free of food, wax or any oils. Other contaminated substances such as dry semen are also frowned upon, instantly ruling out my vast collection of Scope and Loslyf (Loose Body) magazines I keep in my “memory box” under the bed.

What this all comes down to is a lot of effort on the part of the recycler, with zero to minimal satisfaction derived from it. Sure, you can happily believe you’re doing your bit to save the planet, until you see your neighbour looking even happier than you are, as he dumps all his glass, 7 types of plastic, together with his dry and semen-stained paper into a large unrecyclable box outside.

This is usually when you realize the losing battle you’re in, and the thought of toiling away aimlessly, getting your hands dirty rinsing plastics and glass, and having your house smelling like a brewery while the fat guy next door merrily kills the planet anyway causes you to gag momentarily and you have to battle to stay on your feet and not throw up.

And yet, somehow the moment passes and you soon realize that you are standing there with a bit of a semi, and so you toil away regardless, as clearly you are getting some kind of kick out of all of this.

Am I alone here?

Oakes signing off.

PS: See the recycling guide to see what I’m talking about.

They Will Take Your Soul.

Checking my statements last week, it was with great horror and an intense feeling of dread that I realised I would need to pay a visit to my local bank in the city. I had been having an enjoyable week up until that point, but the realisation of my imminent bank trip caused me to bury my head into the communal swimming pool for a few minutes, a decision which I immediately regretted as it had not been cleaned for several months, and left me with countless living organisms crawling inside my ears. Nevertheless, this act of folly merely confirmed the frustration I often feel at the thought of having to conduct business at this particular branch, which could quite easily be the worst in the country, if not the world. I have had the misfortune of visiting these guys on a few occasions now, and overall the experience has been as appealing as losing a limb, or in a best case scenario, having a large car drive over me slowly, and repeatedly.

For many of the employees at this city branch, the word “service” is much like a foreign swear word, something you enjoy throwing around with gay abandon at parties and social events, as it’s great and funny and people seem to enjoy hearing you say it. When pressed to provide an explanation to the turn of phrase however, it soon becomes apparent that you are not entirely sure of it’s actual meaning, and just happened to hear it being used by the foul-mouthed Spaniard who lives three doors down from you.

So it came to pass then that, after downing copious amounts of tranquilizers and chanting several “Hail Mary’s”, I found myself nervously shuffling inside the hallowed halls of the newly renovated bank. They had recently embarked on a major refurbishment, with swanky plasma television screens with satellight channels, expensive looking work stations with technologically advanced ergonomically friendly chairs, and an abundance of climate control features to make even the sweatiest of individuals feel comfortable in their own dermatologically-challenged skin.

Alas, it also became apparent that with the not-inexpensive renovations taking place, the bank was then forced to cut costs in other areas, namely the client service department, where human employees seem to have been replaced by uninspired and genetically modified garden slugs.

For it can surely only be a garden slug who, upon seeing me approaching his workstation, casually averts any eye contact, packs his things and then strolls off nonchalantly as I energetically try and grab his attention.

Quickly checking whether I had inadvertently put on my invisibility cloak that morning (I hadn’t), I waddled on over to another workstation, where a busy employee was reading Stephen Covey’s “Seven Habits of Highly Effective People“. Luckily for her, I did not end up interrupting too much of her reading time, as it was quickly revealed to me that I was in fact in the wrong section, and needed to speak to a consultant instead.

It’s in the consultant department where this branch really is a cut above the rest.

Two consultants were in attendance, with about eight of us waiting to be served. This usually wouldn’t seem like a long queue, until you realise that it takes at least 25 minutes per customer. This typically consists of five minutes chatting to the customer, followed by 20 minutes spent at one of the back offices, doing what they like to refer to as “admin”. I think it usually involves phone calls or faxing of documents, but it boils down to you sitting there all by yourself for several minutes, wondering if they are coming back or not, and how awkward it would be if they didn’t return at all, and you are left in that chair for the rest of the day. Now I’m usually a patient man – I have often stood in long queues waiting for the inept Ster Kinekor or Nu Metro staff to give me my popcorn – but there is something about waiting at this particular branch that really get’s my blood boiling. It’s not just the lack of urgency that causes annoyance, it’s the overwhelming sense of knowing that when you do eventually make it to the front, it’s more than likely that they will not be able to help you.

This was confirmed once I made it to the consultant who, upon hearing my query, asking me to repeat it, repeating what I had just repeated, and then saying it out loud once again, dialed a number and asked me to repeat my query to another consultant who then promised to follow things up with another consultant and look into the matter for me. This little tactic is known as the Merry-Go-Round, and is primarily designed to suck out the last bit of fight left in you.

So as expected, no one has called me back, and when I did manage to get hold of the earlier consultant I had spoken to, I was told that the person I really needed to speak to was off ill (of course they were) and would get back to me once they returned. Days have passed, and here I am, lying on the floor, drool coming out of my mouth, waiting in desperation for the call.

It seems they have won again then, as the thought of another round of back and forth phone calls and explanations leaves me feeling cold, anxious and ever so slightly constipated.

And like most people, I will gladly take defeat over constipation any day of the week.

Till next time then.

Oakes signing off.

Ouch.

So it’s been more or less 6 weeks since I last wrote anything of substance (some would argue that it’s been 6 months since I last wrote anything noteworthy, but they are simply being mean spirited), and my regular readers have no doubt all been wondering where I have been. So to the four of you, allow me to quickly recount the drama which recently unfolded in my life.

It was a blustery Sunday afternoon, and somehow, I had managed to find myself involved in an informal game of cricket. To those of you who have followed my illustrious high school sporting career, this may seem surprising, as illustrious would never be a term soberly used to describe my high school sporting career. “Tepid” perhaps, or “lukewarm” on good days, but illustrious?

That would be a no.

Nevertheless, there I was, waddling in with great purpose to a set of three wooden stumps, before erratically hurling a hard red leather cricket ball at various stationary men – which is basically a rough description of what cricket actually involves – when a well-timed shot came hurtling back toward me in a menacing fashion. Feeling my life in danger, I was in the process of assuming the foetal position and was about to call my lawyer when the ball struck my right thumb, causing it to contort in a rather peculiar manner, like a 13 year old Romanian gymnast deprived of rib bones and a normal childhood.

“How very peculiar” I said aloud, further emphasising the unconventional nature of it all. “I had no idea my thumb could bend like that.”

It turns out my thumb could not bend like that. I had instead suffered what is commonly known as a “dislocation”, usually occurring when a bone in the body decides to jump out of the sanctity and safety of it’s socket, leaving it dangling precariously without support or guidance of any kind. A bit like moving out of your parents’ home for the first time, except here you are actually dislocating a finger, not moving out.

In any event, what I am trying to tell you, in my signature long-winded manner, is that I was then left wearing one of those ridiculous-looking splints which, although adding significant length to my digit, didn’t offer as much increase in girth as I had initially and secretly hoped for. This also then left me largely incapable of doing the simplest of tasks, from starting a car to cutting a slice of cheese. Even unzipping my pants to urinate proved to be a trying process, largely relying on The Girlfriend’s able and steady hands, or in rare and uncomfortable cases, the charitable nature of other urinal users.

Thankfully however, I seem to have recovered sufficiently enough to start jabbing on the keyboard again, so rest assured, my continuing absences are now a thing of the past.

So strap yourselves in, and get ready for some torrid tales, we have a lot to catch up on, and I will be obliging with daily updates, slowly reeling you in, like that shady drug dealer who hangs outside the bicycle shed at the high school, and gives out free samples of hash to the bored kids to have fun with.

Toodles.