A Mini Rant

The beach. Where you will never find Shaun.

It’s Summer time at the moment in Cape Town, and apparently the beaches around here are packed. I say apparently, because I have no idea, I haven’t seen it for myself, nor do I intend to either.

Without wanting to sound too strong on the matter, I completely and utterly hate beaches. With a passion. Think of the one thing or person you hate, multiply that by your age, and you will get an understanding of how much I dislike the beach.

I just don’t see the point of spending hours lazing about on the shores of Camps Bay or Clifton, getting hundreds of sandy granules in your ears, nose and other crevices on your body, all the while artificially ageing yourself in the quest for the perfect tan.

I would rather get a colonoscopy then spend an entire day on the beach.

The whole concept of tanning also mystifies me. As far as I’m aware, it’s meant to make you more attractive to the opposite sex, whilst also promoting the fact that you are supposedly living a healthier lifestyle. I’ve never known biltong to look sexy however, and that’s exactly what the sun will eventually do to you, turning you into a dried piece of salted meat.

The sun ages us. Badly. A recent study at a local university showed that a three hour stint under the African sun, was the equivalent of smoking up to thirty cigarettes at a time, this being regardless of wearing sun screen.

Swimming at the beach is a pretty terrible idea as well. With the amount of germs and faecal (that’s right, faecal) matter you ingest during a swim in the sea, you may as well dunk your head into a public loo. A public loo which was just used by a fat man who had dodgy Indian curry the night before.

Besides that, there is of course also the threat of getting eaten by the vast number of Great White Sharks and other sea predators who frequent our shores. I’ve always been very skeptical about these marine experts who claim that sharks don’t enjoy eating humans.

Let’s face it, at the end of the day, everyone likes a bit of variety in their diet. No matter how much you may love seals and small fish, it’s always great to try something new, and I believe sharks are no different.

I can just imagine the husband shark coming home to his shark family after a long day of cruising with his mates in the Atlantic. “Christ, baby seal again???,” he will lament to his long suffering shark wife, “ I’m going to Fish Hoek beach to get some take away instead.”

Not that you can blame sharks for eating us though. For some bizarre reason, we insist on swimming on their turf, despite regularly having one of our numbers gobbled up by them. It’s a bit like a prime steak casually walking around my kitchen and frying pan, and then wondering why I have grabbed him by the rump and grilled him to succulent perfection.

No thanks, I will rather be sticking to pools and bathtubs of cold water this Summer. I may have milky grey thighs, but they are young-looking milky grey thighs. More importantly however, they are still attached to my young-looking milky grey bum, and by me staying off the beach, that’s exactly how they will stay.

Oakes signing off.

Dark Days Lie Ahead

So apparently, I will be undergoing a colonoscopy procedure sometime this year. I know this because The Girlfriend decreed that it would be so, and history has shown that it is far easier on my shins, ribs, and the softer regions of my body, to follow her orders to the letter.

Typically, having to undergo any form of punishment is usually down to an act of stupidity or gross negligence on my part, such as leaving the stove on, or drinking 17 shots of tequila at the local bar.

In this instance though, I can safely lay the full blame on my mother.

There I was, sitting outside at a family braai, contently chewing on a piece of burnt pork. Now, chewing on a piece of pork, even an admittedly burnt one, usually fills me with an immense sense of happiness, taking me to a imaginary place where I can sit in my cave and gorge on huge swathes of cured pig.

My mom – who I love by the way – decided to wrench me out of my cave, and chose to share the fascinating fact that our family and colon cancer were really good mates, and had a bit of a history together, dating all the way back to the 16th century, when my ancestors were running around in loin clothes and leaving poop under trees. Blood-stained poop as it turned out, as their colons were awry.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with colons, it’s basically the bit in the large intestine, which turns your processed waste into a semi solid substance, a substance which typically causes the birds outside your toilet window to pass up their gift of flying and instead hurl themselves four stories into the ground below.

Well at least in my household anyway.

The colon, due to it working incredibly hard and being greatly under appreciated, is thus prone to fall ill, and can develop issues such as inflamed tissue, ulcers and abnormal growth. I had an ulcer in my mouth once, and it was not a happy time in the Favourite Son household. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only thing worse than having an ulcer in your mouth, would be having an ulcer in your rectum. Colonoscopies are therefore carried out to identify these issues, and usually, are only performed on 50 year old patients who experience sore bums.

In my case however, due to there being what doctors call a “family history”, this unique rite of passage will now be moved forward about 25 years, on the insistence of The Girlfriend who, fearing my possible demise, doesn’t seem that keen on potentially having a new man spiking her drinks and feeling her up in her sleep.

Which is all well and good, except for the fact that it is my anus which will now be fully explored by a virtual stranger. Oh yes, I didn’t mention that, did I? The colonoscopy will involve a urologist inserting a large tube up my bum, upon which he will carefully navigate his way around my rectum, as the tube has a tiny camera the size of my self esteem. To make matters worse, it seems I will be fully aware of the arse exploration, save for what is described as a “light sedative” to “numb any potential pain”. I will be lying on my left side, and in some instances, may even be asked to move around a bit to give the camera inside my bum hole a better view of proceedings.

An alternative means of colonoscopy, but probably equally effective.

Finding out all of this has left me with an instinctive sense of fear, a paralyzing fear of the inevitable, especially once The Girlfriend gave me what is known by her enemies as The Look. Basically, once this facial expression has been utilized, fighting it is a bit like pissing in the wind, or watching an episode of Ugly Betty – ultimately pointless and more than a little silly.

So here we are then, I will now be psyching myself up over the next few months (I have managed to buy 6 months grace before having to bite the bullet) and will likely fill you all in on the details once the deed is done.

Suffice to say though, my mom and her stories will not be invited to any more braais for the time being. If I hear there is also prostate cancer in the family I may just combust.

Oakes signing off.

67 Years Old And Still Pumping

Jacob Zuma - A secret member of the X-Men?

I found yesterday’s news about Jacob Zuma having his 20th kid pretty awe inspiring. Not because I condone his behaviour – I don’t really – I think five wives is a bit of overkill and overly boastful.

It’s a bit like those guys you see at the Virgin Active gym, who will insist on walking up and down the change rooms completely starkers, on the basis that their winkies are the size of a grown man’s arm, thus making you feel deeply insecure about what you felt up to that point was a perfect and adequately sized member of your own.

We get it Jacob, you’re well into your sixties now and you’ve still got the goods, why don’t you just sit the next few plays out now?

No, what I am amazed about though, is how he manages to find the time to get his groove on. If the news reports are to be believed, this isn’t one of his five wives he has knocked up, but rather a 39 year old divorcee he has managed to wine and dine over the last 18 months. On top of all of this, he also has another woman he is engaged to, and plans on marrying shortly. So that’s approximately seven women he has to satisfy on a weekly basis, in addition to being fatherly to his 19 – and now 20 – kids.

I just can’t fathom having up to seven women to regularly please, whilst making sure the bin has been emptied, helping the kids with homework, and doing the odd-jobs around the house, like changing light bulbs, mowing the lawn etc.

On top of this, let’s not forget the small fact of Jacob Zuma being the president of South Africa, which I would imagine must take up a fair amount of his time.

Now, I’m not a president, but my work takes up a pretty decent chunk of my day. So much so that in many instances during the week, I just don’t have the time or energy to even feel up The Girlfriend, never mind wining and dining her.

Having just one version of The Girlfriend can be quite a handful, and the thought of having even two, let alone seven, is enough to make my testicles threaten strike action, and send a Labour lawyer to come and negotiate revised working hours and better pay over weekends.

Either Jacob Zuma is a mutant, with the unique ability to be in multiple places at the same time, or I am clearly taking the wrong vitamins.

Either way, a 67 year old man having consensual sex with a 39 year old woman deserves a round of applause, whether you agree with his actions or not.

Oakes signing off.