As Life Throws Shaun Another Curve Ball

Moobs - What we are currently dealing with.

I was staring at my reflection the other day, after someone rather eloquently commented that the shirt I as wearing made me look like “a huge tit”. Seeing as resembling a large female breast was not really the look I was going for, I decided to give my appearance a closer inspection, and thus made the following observations.

1. I did in fact look like a bit of a tit. (although to be fair, the popped collar and garish sunglasses I was wearing inside the shopping mall was meant to be taken ironically)
2. I had seemingly developed man boobs.

Now the first point was not too distressing, as I regularly get called both a tit as well as several other vulgar terms (mostly relating to male and female body parts) by various friends, colleagues and family.

No, the really devestating thing was the moobs, which had crept up on me in a dark, insidious manner. I even misspelt devastating in the previous sentence, that’s how devastated I was. The once fairly proud, muscular pecs that I could crack wallnuts with – especially ones that had already been slightly cracked to start with – were now reduced to saggy, drabby little bits of flesh, that kind of droop and hang loosely. A bit like how a 75 year old man’s balls must look after more than a half century of shagging.

Saggy Man Boobs - What Shaun would look like if he took his top off, put on blue underpants, and got kicked in the mouth by a professional wrestler.

The Girlfriend claims she has been telling me about this for months now, but this must have clearly been blocked by the internal filter I have, the one which prevents me from hearing her when she asks me to take the trash out, pick up the wet towels, or when she tells me to stop trying to have sex with her when she is sleeping.

Besides the shock and horror, I am also left with a feeling of incredible annoyance – not really at myself and my laziness (granted, it’s been several months now that I’ve been swapping dumbbells for doughnuts) – but more at life in general. The man boobs are most apparent when I am wearing shirts, but for various reasons that I will vent about another time, this is my preferred clothing attire, after having a major fallout with t-shirt manufacturers.

And then, just like that, life decides to not just give me lemons, but to take a wedge and squirt some in my eyes as I look up at it in surprise.

F**k it.

Time to do some bench presses I guess.

Oakes signing off.

And An Upset Tummy

So the other day I had a dodgy aubergine and so, whilst walking around the Woolworths in Canal Walk, realised that I badly needed to drop off some kids at the nearest restroom. Now, I absolutely hate using public toilets, any toilet in fact, except my own. Even when I’m at The Office, I will rather make a quick 10 minute trip home to enjoy the comfort of my own throne, together with a day old Cape Times, then use the work facilities.

Canal Walk is twenty minutes away from home though, and The Girlfriend was not keen on leaving just yet, so I knew I would have to bite the bullet and put my delicate buttocks on a porcelain surface touched by dozens of bums already that day.

I quickly trotted to the nearest toilets at that little section where they sell all those African trinkets and overpriced cotton t-shirts. Careful not to make eye contact with anyone at the nearby stores outside, I nipped into one the toilets and eyed out my surroundings.

I tend to be pretty loud at the best of times, and I was already started to turtle-neck a little bit. I knew that this would NOT be one of those silent poos, where it feels as if you have just squeezed some toothpaste out of a tube.

No, this would be a loud concertina, but I was banking on the fact that at this time of the day (it was 8:15pm) the toilets would be empty.

Thankfully, it seemed deserted, and I quickly dashed to the furtherest cubicle. I did a quick dab on the seat with some paper, laid another layer of paper down as a buffer between the seat and my ass, and sat down, ready for engagement. I was just about to pull the trigger when, of course, I heard the unmistakeable sound of someone pulling his pants down and sitting in the cubicle next to me. Now, there were four cubicles – and by rights he should have moved to the first one – but, in his haste, I don’t think he was aware of my presence. I heard him beginning an introductory fart, one which suggested that there was more to follow. Fearing an awkward situation potentially ensueing, I coughed politely, loud enough for him to know I was there, and causing him to immediately halt his fart in mid-air.

We both sat in silence for what felt like several minutes, seeing who would blink first.

…

No one made a sound.

It was clear that both he and I were kindred spirits, not daring to unleash hell in front of company. (Even when I am at home, I give a coutesy flush just as I press away, to help drown out the loud voilin-like sound I make.)

I had heard people in similar situations refer to this as a “Mexican stand off”, I’m still now sure why it’s called that but it seemed pretty apt. I wasn’t sure how long I could hold out for though, and my eyes began tearing from the mental strain of the physical restraint.

Just then, I heard someone else peeing in one of the urinals, and I silently began praying. I prayed that he was one of the 23% of South African men who washed their hands after peeing. As fate would have it, he was, and as I heard him switch on the taps, I mentally prepared myself for the next move. He put his hands under the automatic dryer, the shrill hairdryer-like sounds filled the public toilet, and I was away. Like clockwork I could hear the guy in the other cubicle fire away as well. We had about eight seconds of cover fire to drown out our sounds, and we had to make the most of it.

The urinator finished drying off his hands, and I was done. I quickly finished up, flushed away, lathered up my hands with soap and rinsed off. Mercifully, I also used the automatic dryer, giving my adversary another opportunity to launch a noon gun, which he no doubt gratefully took.

I walked out the restroom, and would likely never hear him again.

Oakes signing off.

A Fictional Short Story By Shaun Oakes

Far Alert - Sometimes it's just not appropriate.

“My car is in the shop, do you mind just dropping me at the mall?,” the hot neighbour asks Trevor.

“Of course not,” Trevor replies reassuringly. “It’s on my way, and it’s no issue whatsoever.”

He feels his heart beating faster as the two of them leave and walk down the stairs to his car. He isn’t sure if it’s just because she needs him for a lift, but she has been laughing at all his jokes up tll now, even the lame ones he blatantly stole off the internet. She has also been brushing her hair back with her hand as she is listening to him tell his jokes, and months of reading Cosmo has told Trevor that this is a sign that a woman would like to stroke his genitals.

He mentally thinks back to the shower he took that morning, and whether he used enough soap to lather his loins. No one wants to stroke a funky smelling loin, no matter how likeable he may be.

Trevor quickly finds himself staring at his hot neighbour as she daintily walks down the stairs, gently swaying her hips from side to side. If he stares hard enough, he can just about make out the outline of a lacy thong under her curve-hugging, velvet pants, and he finds himself reciting the first verse of Phil Collins’ “Just Another Day in Paradise” in a valiant effort to subside the slight bulge that is forming in his pants.

He begins thinking about how he might ask her out during the journey. Perhaps he should drive past the Bombay Bicycle Club, and mention their fantastic ribs, using that as an opening.

Trevor is now fantasing about the fabulous dates he will have with her, the passionate relationship that will then develop, and the eventual marriage and kids that will follow.

He is going through a list of Irish names for their first born son when he gets into the car and takes a first whiff of the spicy, stagnant fart that he released approximately 12 hours earlier.

The fart that had originated from the spicy Indian curry leftovers he had for breakfast earlier that day. The fart that had made him chuckle with childlike glee as he pressed it out in roughly six seconds. A duration which, although not sounding like much, is still a decent amount of air time for a mid-afternoon fart in the seating position.

It’s a fart that truly is bitter sweet, as although it gave Trevor great satisfaction hours earlier, it has now come back to haunt him in the worse possible way.

They are now both sitting in stony, awkward silence, as he pulls away. The jokes and conversation have dried up and died, just as quickly as Trevor’s dreams of having a happy life with his hot neighbour. She coughs timidly and gently opens the passenger window, letting some much needed fresh air into what is truly a repugnant smelling motor vehicle.

There will of course be no stroking of genitals tonight.

And THAT, dear readers, is why you should NEVER fart in your car.

That smell just takes FOREVER to go away.

Oakes signing off.

As Shaun’s Ears Bleed

Oh, you are blowing on your vuvuzela, are you? Come closer, I want to show you something.

Vuvuzelas are loud and crap. I don’t care if it’s a “uniquely South African thing”, just because it’s local doesn’t mean we all have to like it. The singer Danny K is local and no one really likes him, I think he is loud and crap as well.

Not as loud and crap as the vuvuzela though.

Couldn’t we have rather come up with something less annoying? Like a dance or some sort of sporting chant? Christ, even our lame unofficial rugby anthem we sing when the Springboks are winning – Ole, ole ole ole, ole, ole – sounds good right about now. I agree with anyone who says the vuvuzela kills the atmosphere at the stadium. It hunts the atmosphere down and strangles it.

I went to watch the Holland vs Cameroon game the other night, after getting my clammy hands on some World Cup tickets.

I managed to put up with the ridiculously overpriced food and beverages (two chicken pies and two beers for R100). I even managed to ignore the annoying old man who sat next to me, who kept trying to make random conversation whilst I nibbled on my overpriced pie (“Their goalkeeper is really tall, hey? It’s getting quite cold now, hey? That was a bad miss, hey?”) and who complained bitterly about the woman in our row who went to the bathroom twice during the second half.

Sure, I managed to deal with all that, but not the vuvuzela. I think I enjoyed the novelty of the vuvuzela for about 5 minutes when I initially entered the stadium.

Then it just began irritating me.

You can’t hear the crowd cheering, or shouting, or angrily swearing at players – you know, the type of interaction that really creates atmosphere at a live game.

No, all you hear is this incessant buzzing sound.

It’s like sticking your head inside a large music speaker and turning the bass up. To make things worse, a fat balding man wearing an undersized Argentina jersey and an untreated case of hellitosis (he was seated behind me, and was a heavy breather) whipped out a horn attached to an airbag, meaning he didn’t even have to blow on it, he just squeezed the bag over and over and over again. And again. And again. And again. And over and over again.

And again.

I’m pretty confident that the vuvuzela will go down as the worst thing to come out of post-apartheid South Africa since Barry Hilton and that shitty Egoli movie they just made. Oh, and anything made by Leon Schuster after his candid camera stuff in the 1980′s. Those were still okay, but his actual movies he has made after that have all been shitty and annoying.

Just like the vuvuzela.

Oakes signing off.

I Occasionally Give To Charity As Well

Being Charitable - An attribute of Shaun.

I feel really strange as I write this today, the way a composer might feel after creating a new song, or the way a young man might feel after having his winky touched for the very first time. I think it’s called a feeling of accomplishment, and it kind of just happened out of the blue.

There I was in Gardens Centre, on my way to Pick n Pay to buy my weekly supply of El Grande Extra Large condoms (Plus sized condoms for Plus sized men) when my spider senses suddenly kicked in. This usually occurs in dark alleys when Big Issue Vendors are approaching, but it seldom occurs inside shopping malls, as Big Issue vendors are famously allergic to shopping malls for some strange reason, you will always find them in the streets, rather than outside a shop, which never made sense to me.

Anyway, I am digressing.

It was of course a charity volunteer which caused my heightened sense of danger to alert me. Usually, I would respond to an approach by one of these vile beasts with an anti-clockwise forward roll, followed by a swift chop to the throat (charity volunteers have notoriously weak necks). I was however, wearing a new jeans which still felt a little starchy, and I wasn’t that confident in my forward rolling technique with starchy pants. Not after that unfortunate incident with the Edgars cashier and the well-known lingerie model, but we will leave that story for another day.

So anyway, I was accosted by a dreaded charity volunteer, who gave me her shpeel about some poor community needing food. I nodded and smiled and told her that I “would see”, the way your boss would do in a brushing off manner, when you ask for that promotion or upgraded company car.

Funny thing was, after I bought my stash of baby-maker-blockers, I felt a weird urge to buy some canned foods for the charity. Not the type of canned food I would eat of course, but something a poor person would simply love and gobble up.

When I gave it to her two things happened; firstly she gave me a warm smile and said I was a good person whilst gently brushing her boob against my arm, and secondly I kind of felt all warm inside, as if I had just had two shots of Jaegermeister straight after one another. It was a good feeling, and it makes me wonder whether I should continue doing good deeds like this.

My mom regularly complains that I am “a bit of a shit” when it comes to helping others, and will regularly whip out her rosary (a set of holy beads used by Catholics) and pray for the salvation of my soul.

Hey maybe it’s actually working, and I will become a regular contributor to charity. Of course, the fact that the volunteer in question was an absolute Milf, probably helped.

But I would like to think that wasn’t the only reason for my charitable nature, and that I am indeed, a good person. Maybe.

Oakes signing off.

Except Me?

Changing a tyre: Wrong, but the effort is at least there.

So the other day God decided to have a good old laugh at my expense, and gave me a flat tyre. The reason this would be a funny scenario for him is due to the fact that I am of course incapable of changing a flat, and am normally left floundering hopelessly until someone feels sorry for me and helps me out.

I remember my dad trying to show me how to change a tyre many years back, but X-Men was about to start and I desperately needed to find out whether Professor X survived the waterfall jump he and Magneto attempted in an effort to get away from the talking Pterodactyl, who was rather determined in his attempts to kill them. (as talking Pterodactyls are known to do)

Sure, it sounds silly when I talk about it now, but back then, I had sleepless nights wondering about their fates, and whether Cyclops and Wolverine would be able to find them in time.

So to cut a long story short, I never did work out how to change a car tyre, and as mentioned, have been relying on the good will of others over the years. Even though it’s 2010 however, I am rather disappointed to note that there still seems to be some sort of stigma around men not being able to carry out this admittedly simple task.

This was quite evident when I called my insurance company to get someone to assist me. “I’m sorry, did you say you need someone to change your tyre?” the woman on the other end asked rather incredulously.

“Erm… yes, please,” I responded timidly.

“But… you do actually have a spare in your boot, you just need someone to change it… is that right?” she continued, methodically working me over with relentless jabs to my ego.

“That’s right, I am incapable of changing a tyre, and I need the assistance of another man to help me,” I replied, this time with a small lump starting to form in my throat, the way it usually does when I watch the final scenes in Armageddon, when Bruce Willis gives Ben Affleck permission to have sex with Liv Tyler.

Cue what sounded suspiciously like muffled laughter in the background (wait, was I on speakerphone?!?) and several text messages later, and I was soon joined by a burley, hairy, lumberjack of a man, a tow truck driver who looked as if he chopped down trees and fought crocodiles in his spare time.

After an awkward few minutes of introductions and explanations – I explained my dad’s poorly attended lesson, as well as the X-Men episode that I really couldn’t miss – he duly went and changed my tyre, whilst I sheepishly stood in the background, pretending to send text messages and tweets on Twitter.

Not realizing it was such an issue until now, I suddenly felt very self conscious, and silently berated myself, as my motorcycle-riding neighbor from across the street pulled out of his garage in his customized bakkie and looked on in puzzlement.

“I hurt my back during a Muay Thai fight, the doctor insisted I shouldn’t change tyres,” I mustered weakly, but I could see he wasn’t really buying it.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity – or seven minutes, depending on who you asked – the whole debacle came to an end, and I was soon back on the road, listening to the smooth sounds of Phil Collins whilst silently drying my tears.

So in the interests of anyone else who may not know how to change a tyre, please have a look at the video below and learn from it, as I have.

Great stuff. So now we learnt something today.

Oakes signing off.

Becomes An Even Bigger Badass

Muay Thai: What Shaun is doing right now.

So, many of you have probably been cursing me as I once again carried out my favourite little party drink. No, not that one. I only do that when I have one too many Hansa Marzen Golds, and start feeling slutty. No, I’m of course referring to my regular disappearing act, which I do every couple of months or so.

So what have I been up to recently?

Well, having grown weary of being regularly abused by Big Issue vendors, heroin junkies, and women with small feet, I decided to take the plunge and start Muay Thai classes.

You know what Muay Thai is, right?

It’s an ancient form of Thai kickboxing, which has suddenly become quite mainstream and popular in South Africa, especially Cape Town. After being a bit of an underground activity for many years, it’s burst onto national television thanks to a reality show, and now every man and his dog seems to be trying it out, wanting to learn how to kick the shit out of someone in an efficient and practical manner.

I was one of those men with their dogs, and have currently just completed my third week of training. So, besides desperately trying not to throw up during the fitness sessions, what have I gotten out of this?

Well, whereas in the past my fighting style was likened to that of an old woman, I have now learnt how to throw a decent punch. This is evident in the fact that when I hit the punching bag, I don’t fracture my fingers anymore. I have also learnt how to skip like a man, and not like a 9 year old girl, and I’ve probably done more press ups in the last three weeks, than I have done in my entire life.

This has also already seen some significant weight loss, what with me literally sweating about 23 litres of water every night. The other day I got out the shower, looked down and happened to catch a glimpse of my winky – in all its immaculate glory – something I had not been able to do for several months previously, due to various medical conditions concerning my stomach.

Let’s be clear though, Muay Thai is no walk in the park. It takes dedication, long hours of training and a killer aggressive spirit to succeed. There are both men and women who attend classes, with quite a few belters who wouldn’t look out of place in a swimsuit photo shoot, if they weren’t trying to break your ribs with a power kick. A lot of the guys seem quite scary looking, and for now I’ve just been keeping to myself, eyes to the ground, the way you would do in a gym change room when winkies are being flashed around.

So yeah, things are looking pretty good thus far. I’m feeling fitter, looking healthier and next time a woman with small feet tries to mug me again, I may just be able to kick her ass this time.

Oakes signing off.

What’s Going On?

Shiny silver car. Not owned by Shaun.

I was trying to remember where I parked my car on Saturday morning (something which happens far too often for my liking) when I noticed a shiny silver car parked in one of the shaded – and thus coveted – parking spaces just outside The HQ.

Usually this would not be an issue, all the tenants fight to get the good parking spaces and not have to park way down the street. None of us are too fond of walking, me especially, for obvious reasons.

What annoyed me however, was the fact that the guy who got out of the shiny silver car was none other than the heroin addict who has been sleeping outside in the street for several months now. I’m pretty sure I have mentioned him in the past. He is the guy who will swear at you like a seasoned gangster when you politely ask him to get out of the way, so you can drive off the property and not ride over him and his girlfriend, who are both snuggled in nicely under a warm blanket having a lie in, whilst you are trekking to work on a cold and wet Monday morning.

I have never been envious or resentful toward them before, as he resembles a weasel, and she looks like a middle-aged man, and they both give off a rather peculiar odour (I believe it to be a combination of urine, onion, and parmesan cheese, but I’ve never been close enough to confirm this)

Now, resembling a large weasel can perhaps be put down to genes (his parents probably look like weasels as well), and I’m probably being a cock for bringing that up, but I’m a firm believer that you should never smell of urine, onion and especially parmesan cheese, so he gets no sympathy from me on that one.

It's fine to look like a weasel, but smelling of parmesan cheese? No.

The fact that he seems to have a newer car than me, leaves me feeling both bitter and confused. Something is clearly not right in the world, when a guy who sleeps on the street and who urinates in both public parks – and I sadly suspect, my car doors – can drive a newer model vehicle than me. Especially when he is mean and calls me horrible names when he sees me.

I’m not sure how he is managing this, but am certainly not going to ask him. I usually pretend he is invisible when he is near, as invisible as those blind Zimbabweans at the traffic lights in the southern suburbs, or the Big Issue vendors in the CBD. Unlike them though, he doesn’t go away after an awkward few seconds of being ignored, and will instead demand money to look after your car, or stand the risk of having him pee on it.

So not only do I have to put up with him owning a shinier newer model than me and taking the best parking spots, I also have to drive around in a car which consistently smells of weasel piss. Not a happy camper right now.

Oakes signing off.