Don't F___ With Me

Just yesterday I was looking for a Garmin since I had to navigate some dodgy dorpie called Moletsi somewhere in _________ (ask Garmin). I went to Google Earth and all I could tell was that there is a dam approximately ten or fifteen kilometres from it. And I knew that there is a community radio station that I had to be at to meet some very important and influencial people.

However I ended up not going because like any other business when you engage with it you have to tell them upfront how much are they likely to make. But when someone wants me to fly to some dodgy town in these days of service delivery protests without telling me how much will my sojourn reward me they are committing business suicide. Imagine me in this dodgy town looking all suspicious and the dudes there thinking that I am a spook sent to detect a Third Force.

Bang-bang, I just died like that. For what? Greed? No ways, I'm fine. So I couldn't tell my good friends that I was not going to rent a Garmin and navigate the bundu but I just chose to; let the call pass by. Some things are better off left unattended to. I mean how can someone tell me that they want to engage me for four days without telling me how much is my worth. Also I have serious beef with this trickle down service provision.

I mean that if Pan South Africa Language Board wants the constitution translated to my Sepulana language don't just bid for the job, pay the bribe and then ask yourself after signing the appointment letter how are you going to execute it. Don't think that the fact that I'm on your dial means I will say yes. I might be broke but I'm not cheap. I will tell you where to get off until you are ready to give me all that they are paying you. Because simply; you chewed more than you can swallow, so deal with it.

So. my heart is sad that I am disappointing some potential clients for the second time in one year. The same fucking people who always think of me as a secondary service provider. Forget Garmin and Google Earth, I'm home chilling, busy with my 1000 piece picture puzzle and collecting wines.

The cost of being Black - R12,00

How hypocritical was the activities of the last week for South Afrika. We have recently been grappling with issues of race with some saying racism will be dead when the Democratic Alliance finally condemns all whites who put dogs in front seats while the darkie farmworker catches flu in the base.
We can't assume that white means DA and darkie means ANC since I'm darkie but not ANC. Some saying racism will be gone once they have white aunties cleaning their floors. It’s interesting times for South Afrika because finally people are talking about these things that Nelson Mandela was comfortable with them being swept under the carpet.
The native son Thabo Mbeki sparked this discourse with his stories of two nations, one rich, one poor, one white and one black.
Okay, I didn’t intend to be political but to raise an issue that left me cold – literally. It was the appointment of Gill Marcus as the new Reserve Bank governor from November 9, 2009.
I was left wondering this weekend where were those equally competent darkies that Black Management Forum and the Three Musketeers (ANC, SACP, COSATU) always rhetorise about when a white person is appointed to a position of power in the private sector when President Jacob Zuma appointed a white woman to head the Reserve Bank?
Marcus is as white as they come and no cosmetic interpretation of race will change her. The ANC is not a laboratory that changes whites to darkies as people walk into the organization with their race and stay there with it. Do you mean to convince me that the self-confessed ANC Boer thief Carl Niehaus became a darkie the moment he joined End Conscription Campaign (ECC). Otherwise given that ANC membership costs R12, this should be the cheapest membership to any race in the world.

Outgoing governor Tito Mboweni had three darkie deputies who according to Zuma do not cut it as potential governors. I don’t want to say because they were appointed by Mbeki, no I might be wrong. However if it was Anglo-Gold or Alexander Forbes that made such a dodgy appointment you would have had the musketeers blowing hot and cold, threatening rolling mass action, but because it’s homegrown felony – it’s honour amongst thieves as always.

Hawkish Tito ruffled feathers when he allegedly said that it was not easy working with darkie executives because they have a tendency to job-hop in search of bigger pay and can’t be relied upon to build sustainable organizations. He said that they were all about more money (probably bigger cars and bellies) and not building careers and organizations.

Coming to Marcus, the truth is that a white person is a white person and her political affiliation does not change the fact that her appointment is the saddest day for Affirmative Action and transformation. We need independent voices in this country and dissenting ones for that matter. My argument is not that people should be appointed because they are darkies but that there needs to be consistence on the part of the ANC on what constitutes an executive appointment, which ones are reserved for darkie execs and which ones go to converted whites like Marcus.

PS. I’m stacking the Tito Mboweni banknotes to boycott the Gill Marcus ones for at least a year – hahaha, joking.

for an extended version of this post go to http://www.kasiekulture.blogspot.com/

67-Minutes My Foot

The funniest questions I fielded today (Monday) have been about what did I do with my installment of 67-minutes on Saturday. I could easily have said I spent it working a prostitute which I later tipped with double what she charged me.

But I know ladies of the night wouldn’t have adored me working that thing for 67-full minutes since no matter how hard I plunged, I would still end up without giving her an orgasm.
However it did cross my mind to spend my 67-minutes giving a whore its first transactional orgasm.

Instead I spent Saturday working, covering stories of people who were spending their 67-minutes doing something. I spent it with politicians and their friends (not Priests though), a bad combination. Yeah indeed they were ploughing derelict fields, donating food, blankets and toiletries, deweeding arid vegetable gardens, cleaning hospices and doing all the other stuff that they should do without Nelson Mandela’s birthday being the point of departure.

I mean these folks who get elected into political office by the masses should make time to do this kind of thing without playing for the camera. I can say I spent my day with hypocrites.

I tell you it was like an E-entertainment reality show for them and you know how it goes, with reality shows everyone from Kim Kardashian, Snoop Dogg, Kimora Simmons, Khanyi Mbau and all others are fucking playing to their own script. When the camera is rolling don’t lie to me that you are not acting.

So, my humble 67-minutes were not that beneficial to humanity. Covering stories is what I do for a living, giving stuff bought with government money is working for politicians, ploughing is working for everyone in a communal setting and they were there where they came from before the Benzes and Beemers.

Me, I give 67-minutes at least thrice every week. And I don’t call the media to record me doing it and don’t need the old man to turn 91 to do it. So, I aspire to leave that mark not on people’s t-shirts but on their hearts. Which is why I’m sort of cynical about this 67-minutes gimmick because those hordes of people who were performing at New York would not make time for the child with a face deformation who resides across the streets.

For all I know even the SABC will not cover the story of a girl who fell into a manhole. So, who’s giving what to whom and why? Think about it before you ask me that question.

You Can (un)Kiss The Bride

The other day, actually two days ago at the gym when almost everybody was nearing exhaustion one of my friends started a conversation about getting married. Now, you know you'll hear a bunch of shit if unmarried people try to interrogate an institution they only read about in O Magazine, hear about in the Thobela FM dramas and watch on Desperate Housewives.

Now this other dude said that if someone is brave enough to invite the whole community to his wedding he should be brave enough to invite them to the divorce and stage it the same way he did hid union. I protested that when getting married you invite people to come and share in your happiness and that melancholy is not something you want to share with others.

He said that the same way the pastor is invited to make a man and a woman whole he should be invited to declare them unwhole. So, you see the women at the gym bought into this conversation and asked how do you make things unwhole when making them whole was easy. 'Simply put how do you unscramble an omelette?'

The dude who pitched the proposal said the two should go back to church infront of the congregation and remove the rings from each other, put them back in the vase and hand them to the church to auction and raise some cash for renovations. Then they must stick their tongues int each other's mouth and the pastor say, 'you can unkiss the bride', at which they shall pull back and part ways. Sort of like turning back the hands of time (ala R.Kelly's song)

Now someone asked why should the engagement ring be given to the church as well given that engagements don't happen in church, to which some dude asked if darkies still did engagements.
'Yeah, they do, that's why you find three rings on the bride's fingers', responded a chick. To this some guy said, 'these days we don't put rings as a form of engagement, we impregnate you and you know you are taken. We engage you with a baby'. Hahahahaha! That was funny. It was funny then and yesterday at the gym the guys were still cracking jokes about it.

Haha!

Happy Birthday Se Gat!

I haven't been funny in a long time due to reasons that those closest to me know. And I feel that I have been denying you, my loyal 'Mshini visitor some nice comical tidings. So, I'm going to start with two stories I heard recently which are not about Michael Jackson even though he's the biggest comedy that ever lived.

One of my buddies says his closest road-dog (the one you smoke with) was turning 27 (that age that some people choose to die at) and his girlfriend, who has lived in Zilleville (Cape Town) and got exposed to some metrosexual (sexually confused) bullsh*t decided to surprise him with a present. The dude was chilling with friends eSkhaleni blowing his Vuvuzela (drinking a 750 ml quad) when the poor woman came and said, 'hi baby', the guy, taken aback said, 'heita'. Then the GF said smiling, 'Happy Birthday Daddy', the dude acted his thoroughbred upbringing since his boys were watching, 'ah, I never thought about it'.
For sure the dude didn't remember his own birthday because he wasn't shit and didn't have a reason to live since he was born as collateral damage and not for a purpose, so for him forward and backward were the same.

The nice bald chick said, 'Happy Birthday anyway. I have a surprise for you'. Her hands have been hidden behind her back all this time. 'Surprise?, what is it?'.
"Make a wild guess", the dude was smiling now when the woman requested him to close his eyes.
When he opened them she was holding a bunch of flowers that cost her R45, the one they call a boquet and a R23 Happy Birthday card, the one with annoying melody.

The dude received the gifts and threw them to the ground, angry and shaking, "what do you think I am, a goat that eats flowers? You know I'm a drinker and you could have just bought me a half-jack or nip'. The chick was scared now, 'sorry!' while the card was playing 'Happy Birthday'
'You are stupid woman"

Moral of the story; Don't perceive that every guy who puts on a pink shirt, g-string and pierces his lip is metrosexual and start to treat them to sunflowers. Some of us think that metrosexual is a pit stop to homosexual (destination) from heterosexual (pole position) and any insinuation that I should be in touch with my feminine side is like saying I should bend infront of Somizi (hardy mf'wethu)

More crude jokes next time.

Countdown to QUIT!

In recent days to say that I have been lazy is an understatement, actually since I made my decision to retire early I have been on a retirement mode and am already winding down. I am no longer really sending news stories like I used to do say, ten or eleven years ago. I am no longer seeing the need to go online in search of opportunities as I used to. Actually I have gone back to a simple life, the life before the hustle took control of me.

Recently I have been assuring my boys that all I need is R4 million and I would retire a happy man. I will cease all the paperchase and leave others to take it further. I would simply buy that crib by the hill, that ultra-safe car, that nice swimming pool and then invest R2 million. Then I will spend the rest of my life pursuing my true love - which is art. I will spend hours on end perfecting my drawings, poetry, guitar playing and becoming a hortoculturalist. I look at Khaphela in Generations and think, wow! sonofabitch is having a good time.

My plan is to retire early, when I hit forty I want to be out of here. I simply have no ambition to work beyond forty. And when I was enticed with an offer to go into business with some dude recently I felt I was being pulled back, I have been in that situation where the rand is my shephered and I managed to make quite a tidy income and good investments and am now on a countdown to quit.

One of my media buddies told me that he had a rumour that I wanted to start a newspaper and all I could tell him was that such a thought never crossed my mind. I harbour no such ambitions, I have no time to run a newsroom. I told him that I am contemplating retiring soon and not running empires. I have run my race and there's nothing new left for me in this race.

Moral of the post; work hard in your early years to retire early. I have a feeling I'm gonna be bored chilling all alone at Clifton sipping cappuccino. Hola if you feel me!

Ten Things to do with The King's Brain

I have always suspected that it might be done but was keeping my suspisions on the downlow - that Michael Jackson, in the event of his death won't be allowed to go with his brain. I knew for some time that the curious scientists in America have always wanted to know what makes a darkie suffer such low self-esteem as to aspire to be white, and they wouldn't miss an opportunity to inspect Michael's brain.

Okay!, its official, Michael is going to be buried - minus his brain. The coroner's office in Los Angeles claims that it wants to conduct further tests to see if the King wasn't killed by an overdose of pills - stupid sonofabitch should read my posts and know what the Autopsy results are. And now as a ploy to keep the Gloved One's engine at UCLA they claim that they can only detect such evidence once the brain is dry. I wonder if the brain will rot or dry up.

My question is; if they need a brain to determine levels of toxicology why didn't they keep that of Elvis Presley? Why didn't they keep that of Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and all those 27ers who died believing they were going to play on the Orchestra Beyond? Why keep that of The King. Okay!, I am going to speculate why they would do that;

1. to figure out the accuracy of the Evolution of Man mythology

2. to see if he bleached it as well

3. to compare it to that of prisoners doing time at Rickers to see if isolation does ruin your brain

4. to grind it and mix with crack and cocaine to produce a narcotic so potent heroin will finally have its competition

5. to exhibit at the American Museum of Man and charge extra dollars to visit that cubicle

6. to spare the maggots from becoming musicians

7. to start a scam whereby as many loyal fans as possible will buy fake Michael Jackson brain while the 419 gang rakes in the moolah

8. to auction it as some stage to settle his debt, it's part of Asset Forfeiture

9. to show the world a part of the brain that gets raptured before someone is classified moron

10. to allege that Iran stole it so that they can start a war around next year

Well the options are limitless. Maybe you can tell me, apart from grinding it and smoking it, what would you do with a Michael Jackson brain?

Peter Pan Killed A Journalist

When you see a bunch of journalists looking dejected don’t ever be stupid enough to think that maybe one of their own died – maybe a Rupert Murdock or Larry King. I doubt if they’ll ever cry if such happened. They never did when the Bang-Bang Club disintegrated. They don't give a shit about you.

Journalist only fear two things; a deadline and the death of their favourite story. a deadline is like the last train out of a park station – you miss it you are stuck. They can bear missing everything (including coming during coitus) but not a deadline.

So when a journalist has knitted an intriguing story about a ‘dodgy’ minister based on speculation and a shrewd editor rejects the draft and urges him to get bank records of the transaction plus check the Registrar of Member’s Interest and find that the muthafucka actually didn’t commit any crime it is an anti-climax and the story dies.

Apparently a journalists that the credit facility used by the minister in his ‘dodgy’ deal allows him to get a car worth R1.1 million but he went for a measly million. And yeah, it was taxpayer money, and yeah he went with his PA and a driver.

Now, why am I telling you all these? It’s because my friend saw a lot of hacks outside the Jackson family home, some sobbing and sitting their Versace bottoms on pavements and mistakened their fake crocodile tears for emotion and pain at the death of Michael Jackson, Peter Pan, The Gloved One, MoonWalker, Wacko Jacko, Lehlanya etc.

PS. I’m a journo and I can tell you we don’t cry over spilled sources and stories – actually we hardly cry.