Yes, I have an awkward view of the world, to the world it's my vice, to me it's my virtue.

Today at work, something bizarre happened. Something crude, vulgar and just really fucked up.
My side of the workshop has a massive window that is completely one sided, everybody walking outside on Pretoria centrals street can't see inside, only their reflections. Home Affairs is just up the road and free shelters are two blocks down. So naturally the area is swarming with South Africa's hopefuls.

I was sitting at my bench eating my lunch and rocking out on my Ipod, blasting some wicked beats by Tchaikovsky and Debussy. I felt a tap on my shoulder, it was one of the guys that works in the same room as I do. A fat guy that always reeks of Klippies.
“Hey, check that chick outside there,”
It was a hunched figure in a gray tracksuit covered with small holes and different coloured stains. It had long hair, the same colour as a shagged diesel cars exhaust fumes with a full-on bald spot across the whole top section of it's dome. It's face looked like it had been hanging out a speeding trucks window for 20000km, stretched and covered in blotches, similar to a dirty cars windshield. It's skin had a beautiful brandy tan. I tried to look for the sandstorm that was making the persons journey so hard, but then I realized the poor soul was bordering on being crippled, which explained it's bent figure.
“She's hot,” I remarked. Something told me she was a woman.
“How do you know it's got a flange?” asked my friend politely.
For those who don't know what a flange is, its a mechanical part that takes strain in a motor and apparently resembles a vagina.
“Look, there just above her waistline, two tits,”
“Oh ya, I can check,” He managed to make out the two crests.
She took a seat on the other side of the road, opposite our shop. My friend quickly grew bored and left for his afternoon shit. I was interested and carried on watching her. I paused my Ipod. She took out a bottle. I couldn't quite make out its contents, but I guessed from her bad fashion sense that it was probably spirits, from the Screwman Hardware shop up the road.
Everybody that walks past our shop looks at their reflection in the one way glass. I like to smack the glass and give the vain souls a fright. She was opposite us and never looked at herself once. She took a big slurp, sat still and fell back immediately. She started to roll on the ground, and glided her hands slowly up her torso, making it very obvious that she wasn't quite in our dimension. I seized the opportunity by flicking “my tracks” to a random Kenny G 'sax' solo (I don't have a sick obsession with the 80's, I'm not a homosexual and I don't watch soft porn, sometimes...). I thought the song that started playing was suitable for what was playing out on the street.
I'll called her “Olivia”, because I found that name quite suitable at the time.

Olivia began to stroke the silky tracksuit more rigorously and more passionately now. Rolling in the dust like it was a romantic setting in a nobleman's barn on a bed of hay. A group of black ladies walked past her and laughed and then carried on with their conversation. Olivia was oblivious of them and carried on the sensual stroking, moving closer to her waistline. Slowly, she unzipped the tracksuit jacket and parted it, exposing a white t-shirt (with vomit stain).

By now, I was in tears laughing at was happening.

Olivia resembled a snake, wriggling in the dust. Her hand dived into her pants, and began it's journey into the the black hole. She arched her back and fingered herself harder now.

I really couldn't believe what I was seeing. Kenny was making sweet love to his 'sax' by now, which was doing wonders for the scene.

And then she stopped. Probably after an explosion of pleasure. Her hand still stuck in her pants. She just lay there. Kenny also died down by now. I had to change the track quickly. Moby “Inside”, perfect, heres a link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IHBkVYSOE5U to the song if you want to hear it, trust me, it will modify my story.
I started getting scared, Olivia wasn't moving at all, she looked dead still. I ran outside to get a closer look, still no movement. Olivia was dead. It was probably the best sex she ever had.
The tramp who fingered herself


I moved closer, across the street. I stood about ten meters from her. I looked on, too afraid to move closer. Suddenly, she bolted upwards as though a greater force granted her a second chance on planet Earth. She looked round, the same shagged expression on her face that she had before the wild sex. I paused my Ipod. She casually stood up and walked away at the same stressed pace.

Olivia, je t'aime....

My friend was standing at the door. I picked up my phone and dialled him, he answered,
“Ya,”
“She charges R35 for a blowjob and R60 for a shag.”
“Fok jou.”
Subtle.

The loser from the future

There's a guy who works with me, I won't write his name down, because I don't want to offend him. I will call him 'Stanley', because Stanley is a suitable name. I wouldn't really say he's a foreskin or anything, but he's definitely as boring as one. Stanley is 32. When I met him for the first time I thought he was 23, but the creases on the back of his neck, his aged skin and receding hairline made 32 sound slightly more appropriate. Stanley has never had a girlfriend. He never masturbates. How do I know this? Let me explain, I was born with a sick third eye that allows me to spot reckless 'wankers'.

For instance, last year, the foreman couldn't understand why delivery times of our work to other businesses steeply rose within a week. Of course, my 'wank eye' allowed me to sense 'Riaan', our white trash driver, pulling 'draad' in the ladies toilet. His routine became obvious to me after a few days of watching him, park his bakkie in the yard, then watch his cellphone for a suspicious 10 minutes. Most free online porn clips are round about ten minutes and Riaans attention span is around there to. All it took was a stern knock on the door and a raise in my voice to a loud conservative Hoerskool headmaster voice, “Is iemand daar binne!?”
“Ya, ek's amper klaar!”
And after the wank perpetrator was put in place I made sure he got the idea by sending a message to his phone saying: “"geen draadtrek by die werk nie"”, profits shifted by 1.2% after that.

My wank senses don't tingle for Stanley, who has the same bored face of a dog who just laid his spunk on the hottest piece of pooch on the block. But why!? It took some detecting on my part to figure this one out. Stanley is English and drove an orange Beetle in pretty good condition.
“Hey Stanley, I was driving up and down Church last night, you know, looking for a friend, but they were all kak ugly, you don't know where I could maybe go to find a proper friend?”
“Why you asking me?”
“I asked Riaan, but he referred me to some place in Proclomation Hill and not that I have anything against that place, it's just that, I don't know, the people there give me the creeps, I thought cos you stay close to me you might know.”
“Ya, theres this place in Faerie Glen, actually, quite a few, Asian or White?”
Fucking sick, I thought to myself.
“I don't know, ahh, asian?”
And so he explained to me where it was and who to speak to when I got to the gate. That sorted, my wank senses were right again.

Stanley fascinated me. I watched him as he occasionally worked and mostly day dreamed. I began to speak to him more frequently.
“What school did you got to?”
“Why this work?”
“Why whores, why no girlfriend”
Apparently when he left school he went into repairing an engine management instrument that went extinct after the on board computer arrived. He was left without work for 2 years and jumped at the oppurtunity of working where I work. Unfortunately after working on Struben street for five years, Stanley couldn't grasp simple concepts of our line of work and was appointed to doing menial work. Like stripping and cleaning mechanical spares which caused profits to raise by 0.32 %. Not much, and he realized it too, but work is work for him, and sitting at home with no qualification and light at the end of the tunnel, this was an oppurtunity.
“Annuit coeptis” Stanley, I thought to myself while watching him drift into another one of his dreams.
I whipped out my Ipod and played the following track, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ylb9qAhlZlM.

It was at that moment, that something amazing happened. I was sitting at my famous window, listening to that track, eating my lunch, when out of the distance an ancient dilapidated orange beetle appeared. The beetle parked outside my window. In it was a splitting image of Stanley, except with more tired skin and gray hair. I checked to see if Stanley was still asleep behind me. He was! How could this be? The man sat there, watching through the one way glass. His eyes were directed at Stanley. What scared me about this was that the glass looked like a mirror from where the beetle was standing. Nothing inside could be seen from the outside. But his eyes knew exactly where Stanley was standing.

The older Stanley was frail, and looked like a 'sukkelaar'. The inside of the beetle had cooking pans and and pillows. The roof was stacked with all kinds of shit which was held in place by a horribly welded cage. He probably lived in it. The orange paint was barely visible and was close to being completely faded. It was sad to look at. I flicked my ipod to “Lollipop” by Lil' Wayne, and after 3 seconds of it decided this wasn't working. I tried, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FAT6rvpiw9o, Schindlers list. ...........Old Stanley even looked like a holocaust victim.

It appeared too obvious to me that Old Stanley came from the Future to warn his younger self to take the road more traveled and work hard, raise a family and make something of himself. A tear rolled down my cheek as it all became apparent. I ran outside as quickly as I could.

Old Stanley was slowly getting out of the car. He was surprised to see me, he recognized me. Of course he wouldn't make that obivious, which I understood.
“Sorry Oom, but you can't park here, there's parking round the corner, here let me help you". I helped him with a forceful hand to get back into his camper beetle. I then pointed to where he should park, just round the corner next to the taxi rank. I then walked to our security guard Abraham, an obedient young man with big dreams and told him,
“Make sure that ol' man doesn't get in here, he's fucken mad, he wants money for nothing!”

Profits stayed where they were and we never lost that 0.32% that Stanley made for the company.

"Veni, vidi, vici" Stanley............

KFC and Beards

I know I'm not the only person in South Africa that notices this. Every time I walk into a KFC, at least one of the women behind the counter has a beard. It's like a tiny collection a small hairs that group just under the chin. It's not the old diff oil that they cook their chicken in that puts me off, it's the beards.
Awful

Does this turn you on?


Are you an Anorak?

I was standing in CNA last week, laughing at Muscle Max magazines, which is a ritual of mine. I was immediately distracted by a panting noise close by. It actually sounded like a snore crossed with a lazy Sunday morning fart. Only an extremely obese fuck bound to a bed for eternity could sound that bad. My face contorted in disgust as I looked to my left. It was a train spotter, in Menlyn CNA!!! Taking cover behind a finance newspaper stand, I began to spot the train spotter.

The man must have been around thirty-five or so. Blue checkered shirt that could easily be used as high school cartesian paper, old shagged tracksuit pants and strapped rocky sandals. To put the cherry on top, he had real flip up glasses. I stared on in shock. Judging by his face, he must have been in the most excruciating pain. His lips were contorted, tongue hanging lazily on the edge of his lower lip. Upper lip forming an arch exposing his bright yellow teeth. The weight of the coke bottle lenses caused it to occasionally slip to the tip of his nose, but was reset by his thick sausage fore finger. He was reading a model train magazine. On the front cover was a picture an old fart sitting on a model steam train. Every now and then his panting would become more rigorous as he turned a page, he would then look round the shop to make sure nobody was looking, like it was a sin to read model train magazines. His 4 cm pupils magnified by his lenses focused on me. He immediately put the magazine back and left the shop in a hurry. Who was he? I wanted go over and ask, “Hey you, are you a train spotter?” Though I figured he might have had a stroke and collapsed if I did.

Train spotters are almost extinct in South Africa. They don’t fit the image of a hard core British one that wears an Anorak and writes down the times of trains that pass by in his Moleskine pocket book. Though the South African version does share some of the Asperges traits. But how do you know whether or not someone close to you is a modern day Anorak? Should you put in a mental home?

It most definitely is a sickness and yes, you should either punish the person or use him for menial labour. There’s quite a few examples in ‘101 uses for a John Major’ by Patrick Wright.

Before you send your Anorak to a home, you need to understand what an Anorak is. Heres the Wikipedia explanation:
In British Slang an anorak (pronounced /ˈænəræk/) is a person, typically a man, who is an enthusiast interested in information regarded as boring or unfathomable by the rest of the population. The most popular idea of an Anorak is a train spotter, someone who stands next to a railway and writes down the time and the trains number in a small book as it passes by. Though an anorak can have an obsession with other things such as bottle caps, sirens, little girls and for the hard core, fridge door seals.

If your loved one has three or more of the following, you should start worrying:

- Flip Up Glasses. If the glasses come with a third set of magnifying lenses, then you should distract him with a magazine about Pocket Watches, lead him into the garage, strap him inside the car allow the exhaust fumes to send him to a more exciting place.
- Moon Bag.
- Blue checkered collar shirt. If it is tucked in, then this counts as two points.
- Tracksuit pants from the 80's with a faint brown strip running up the lower crack area.
- A pocket watch. Any real anorak will be able to tell you how old it is, its worth, its weight, how many jewels it has inside and how many split seconds it will lose between now and the next time some old fart takes his antique Spitfire for a flight.
- A vintage Carrera Tag watch. If it has sieman stains on it, then there is no help.
- Messy hair
- Receding hairline
- Pedophile stare
- A recumbent bicycle, if it folds too, then shoot the bastard.
- A steering wheel with a turning knob attached to it.
- Member of a local Air Base volunteer club such as “Friends of SAAF”
- VIP card for a war museum
- Leica Camera

Where does he 'hang out'?

Places where an anorak wouldn't go:

- Friday night Hatfield, clubbing at Dropzone
- A Bulls match at Loftus
- A yoga session at Virgin Active
- Spar, they normally get mom to do the shopping.
- Sunday night illegal street racing on Church street
- News Cafe

Places you could find Anoraks:

- Zwartkops Airbase (Friends of SAAF)
- The Johannesburg War Museum
- Suitcase shops that sell small wallets and moonbags
- Cape Union Mart, especially the ones with an extensive pocket knife range.
- A rooftop on an abandoned building in town
- Toy Shops
- Car shows
- Flying a microlite, watching a train from above.
- Finally, the streets. There's a local Anorak that walks to work on Lynnwood road everyday from 5:49am to 6:12am. Don't make eye contact!

Next, don’t confuse a ‘Nerd’ with an ‘Anorak’. Nerds are usually losers by choice, mainly because of poor self confidence. They actually take time to part their hair and tuck their shirts in because they do actually care how they look. Anoraks tuck their shirts in to stop their pants from falling off and wear glasses because they need to, for looking at stuff.

- Nerds usually socialize within a community at Warhammer games or LARP (Live Action Role Playing), anoraks are always alone with their narrow hobby.
- Nerds have shit taste in music, techno, death metal, etc. Anoraks prefer the sound of a jet engine, train whistles and fog horns.
- Nerds can make eye contact, Anoraks can't
- Nerds like women but can’t get them. Anoraks don’t like women, but shag whores anyway.
- Nerds are on Facebook, anoraks are part of MOTH even if they didn’t fight in any of the World Wars.
- Real nerds like whacking off to anime and Japanese porn, anoraks prefer whacking off to fighter jet books and train posters in the back of Exclusive Books.
- Nerds eventually grow up, anoraks never grow up and prefer to stay in their mothers house.

I don't know if being an Anorak is the result of a traumatic childhood or being born without a personality. I do know that they are out there, not making the world a better place, but making it a more confusing one.

Highway to the Danger Zone Opera

The Royal Opera House at Danville Convent Garden has commissioned Italian composer Marcelo Manrico to compose an opera of the Top Gun theme song “Highway to the danger zone.” Joining in to help out with the project will be Bert Darren, famous Afrikaans singer. According to the Royal House Director Johannes Marthinus Wessels Van Kont, the opera should hit the stage at the end of October 2009.

“I loved the movie, 'Highway to the Danger Zone' touches me in a way words cannot possibly describe,” Marcelo told The Daily Sin, South Africa's newspaper for the semi-retarded. Dominique Smith of the Danville Catholic school choir is said to open the Theme song in xxx-minor. Marcelo said, “I love little choir boys, their voices at least, I could not think of a better person to open my Opera with those soft red lips and.... sorry.” Marcelo came to South Africa after suspicion of pedophilia in his home town of Umbria. However, despite his nervous appearance and taste for gray shoes, he is confident that the stories back in Umbria were all a farce.

Van Kont has categorized the production as post-autonomous syncretism with a hint of 80's style action. Van Kont took in Marcelos concept for Danger Zone last year when he was desperate to bring the struggling theater to its feet after most of its usual audience turned to the local rugby game instead of the theaters productions. “Blending hard core fucking f-14 dog fights with passionate 'love making' opera should be the catalyst to cook up a Danville potjie of entertainment!”

I drive a linear, boring route to work at 5.20am every morning. Though, the road is highlighted by the different locals that make the trip interesting.
Here is a brief description of one of the locals:
I don't know his name, but I do know that he sells the 'Pretoria News' in Sunnyside on Kotze road. I make sure as I approach his intersection that I catch the red light to watch him. Usually I end up five cars from the front. I call him Fabio.
Fabio takes his weight off the corner lightpost to make the next round. Five newspapers in hand. He slowly raises his head with like a narcisus opening for spring. The white stripe that seperates the two lanes is Fabios catwalk.
His favourite outfit is a lightly striped collared shirt that is buttoned to just above his belly. Distressed jeans, perfectly cut to just nip the tar. White pointed shoes that allows Fabio to glide down the catwalk in style. He always looks forward with a blank expression andhis eyebrows are always raised.
I can't figure out why Fabio dresses so well to sell newspapers. Possibly pride or maybe he is slightly delusional. I just find it ammusing to watch his trends from Monday to Friday.

This is similar to Fabios summer collection. He enjoys a fit by Italian designer Gaetano Navarra on Tuesdays and settles for a basic pin strip Polo on Fridays.

If anybody can notice this guy and get a picture, I will cook a dinner for you, promise.

This is a splitting image of the man driving the car.

Something strange happened to me today.

I was heading home from work during peak traffic hour on Pretoria's most congested road. To vent my frustration I decided to watch the people around me. A young chubby girl next to me was singing along to a death metal song. She looked as though she was really getting into it, which was really unattractive. So I scanned the rest of my view, setting my sight on a million people crossing the intersection up ahead. The crowd was colorful, however most of them were extremely ugly.

Traffic began to move as the robot flashed green, though a few hundred no brainer pedestrians used the moment to conveniently move their bodies slowly in front of the traffic, causing most of the congestion. Suddenly out from the side of the group of cars, a rogue Uno shot past us almost killing four obese stragglers that were too slow to beat the red light. The Uno was yellow and I could just spot the big furry dice hanging from its rear view mirror. It was then that I began to chase. I needed to know who this being was, I needed to know why he was in such a rush and why his mirror had dice hanging from them.

He was moving fast, on the the narrow right lane, shaving the asses of parked taxis, he was skilled at town driving. At first I struggled to keep up, mainly because I had no motive for following. He was erratic, switching lanes for no reason, though I couldn't complain because I was keeping up fine going in a straight line in one lane. Almost instantly he cut into Bosman street, cutting close to the corner. I managed to beat the red light as we both sped into the shadows of many buildings that stretched across Bosman. We hit traffic again.

Hans Zimmers 'The battle' from 'the Gladiator' was playing on my radio. As the song hit a hard note I made eye contact with the man in the rear view mirror of the yellow Uno. Time slowed as he frowned. Unibrow, skew hairline, brown eyes, rounded face, gold stud in left ear, approx. 27 years old, number plate NOB237GP.

He knew I was onto him because he looked into the mirror more, with quicker intervals and a paranoid frown. His indicators went on and he shoved the small car into the next lane and then again into the far left. This didnt stop me from following. The cars behind me hooting as I obnoxiously pushed my way through. The yellow uno, turned sharp into Church street headed for Hatfield. He was flooring it now, my French wheels struggling to keep up with the Italian zit.

The music was perfect, as we both approached 100km/h and wove our way through taxis, geriatrics and diplomats. Though he was gaining distance. Up ahead he shot through an intersection as its robot turned red. Victory for him as I was forced to meet my end. The track changed to the depressing 'sorrow.' It didn't cheer me up as I passionately beat my french steering wheel. The bastard was a speck in the distance.

It only occured to me later that my chase could have caused the nervous wreck to meet his end welded to the front of a Putco bus in the middle of an intersection. At least justice would have been served..... for what I still don't know.

Who was he? Probably a pedophile, or a panelbeater. One day our paths will cross again, and I will be ready.....