The Little Goldfish and The Dragon & other adventures

Figure 1. My view of the dragon-bitch lady with a carrot up her ass who lives in our complex

Friday night – OUT.OF.PROPORTION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BAM!

As designated driver (DD) I remained sober all night. And yes, I did actually remain sober. I only had two drinks… and no, they were not two shots of stroh rum. They were two brutal fruities. Strawberry actually. Berrylicious baby! But yes, this was a joburg DD where one remains upright and can actually pass a breathalyzer and not a Rhodes DD where u get equally as pissed as (if not more so than) yr passengers and are only DD due to three reasons:

1. U have the car keys
2. U are the only one capable of managing to get the keys into the ignition (number of attempts is not taken into consideration)
3. U are the only one who is not sucking face with a Friar’s discount special.

Back to Friday night. DD sobriety experienced Billy’s. Elegantly wasted – not me though. But the others were. And boy, did they rape and pillage the stocks of men. Although, with them being so pretty, it was like bombing fish in a barrel with dynamite! The men were flocking round them like sharks to a chum barrel. Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun!!!

So we end Friday night by returning home at 3am and inviting a minimal number (Five) friends around for post-drinks. Yes, there was very mild and soft music. Yes, there were ppl drunkenly bablling on the verandah. But NO, we were not hosting a massive drug infested rave party with blasting music. So, only 10 minutes after getting home – yes, just ten minutes – I hear “GUYS!” and turn to see standing in the dark, some old hag in a billowing burgundy dressing gown with hideaous bed hair, saggy eyes (and boobs) AND fluffy slippers. [See Figure 1 Above]. Being sober, I walk up to her and then get told: You (referring predominantly to me) are fucking immature, fucking pathetic, fucking disgraceful, behaving like fucking children and have pissed her off because she has to fucking work on Saturday (not my problem her job sucks balls and she works on weekends) and has to fucking deal with such immaturity. (There were many many more fuckings thrown into her defamatory remarks venomously thrown at me and my friends). Oooo, silly dragon bitch crossed a line! It’s full scale WAR in the complex now. And boy, did she pick the wrong goldfish to piss-the-hell-off. All I did was profusely and politely apologise – numerous times – and promise her to usher everyone inside and quiet them down (which I did). There was no need for her to be so rude, crass, defamatory and outrightly bitchy. Just because she is fat and ugly and her husband is having an affair and her dildo is clearly out of batteries gives her no right to behave in such a manner. And to threaten to call the popo on our asses too. The cheek of it all! She’s lucky I have refrained from pissing on her doorstep – for now. But house parties are in FULL swing! And I mean open invite house parties. If she wants noise to complain about then that’s what she’s gonna get… I’ve taken on bigger institutions than her and her bad hair. Lock-n-load bitch. Coz next time, I’m gonna be dronk-a-lonk and will tell u exactly where to shove yr fat ass! Bitch! Noise my ass. Let’s not mention the neighbour’s house parties that go on till 3am on weeknights with pumping dirty house music and the brattish children that run screaming like wild savages up and down the complex’s roads on their rattling and scraping plastic motorcycles at godforsaken 7am on a Saturday and Sunday. She’s never complained about that… yoh. I’ll just woosa and let it go.

Anyways, Saturday was followed by a BRILLIANT champers lunch and WILD house party with LOUD music and 30 ppl! BAM! And did I ever inebriate myself on tequila. Till I was blurredly stumbling round the house and in billy’s. Elegantly wasted!!! Hehe. Following innumerable tequilas at billy’s I realized I needed to call on Captain Tactical. Stumbling into some deserted car park I conveniently found a drain and a tap. (how convenient!!!!!) And just as 4 years at Rhodes had taught me, I summoned captain tactical and went alco-limic (alcoholism + bulimic). After a wonderfully sobering chunda, I washed my hands, threw in a handful of gum straightened my shirt and scrambled back into billy’s for more shooters!!! Back in the game! BAM!

Ended up at risqy in a mildly inebriated manner and bounced thru the crowds like an ADD goldfish. Hotties were slut-rubbed, introduced to, judged, and then left wanting as I got distracted by music or the allure of more tequila (I know. MORE tequila. Like WTF!?! Someone slap me!). Then, I met someone. Hmmm. I know, another risqué man… but this one is from middle-of-nowhere in limpopo somewhere. HOTT – well, not drop dead gorge but tres manly and buff and very attractive. A bit shy at first. But warmed up and is super clever (arcturial science at Potch Uni!). Super witty and super fascinating. I’m smitten. All we did was talk. And occasionally score. But my god, is he clever and funny and fascinating and does he just smell absolutely dEEEvine! Thank-you lacoste!! He even came for tea before he returned to middle-of-nowhere town on Sunday afternoon. We talked and talked and time flew by! WOW! I just sit and actually listen to him and laugh (normally I don’t listen to the irrelevant ramblings of goldfish and just give them attention so they think I’m listening or like them). Very sad he’s gone now. L But, in true slore style - NEXT. Time for date with the accountant goldfish this week. But honestly, I know I don’t really really like this one in the I want to date u way, and I’d easily choose the new goldfish over this one, but I think I’m trying to convince myself and see if I like this goldfish. We’ll see… Dammit. I really like this new goldfish. I keep thinking of him. Ah – smiles. J

Dear Universe/santa/easter bunny: Seriously. wtf. Why must the goldfish be living in a pond so far-far-away?? May I place an order for him to be delivered to me… thanks hey. Luff Little Goldfish. Kisses dahl! MWA!

PS: Santa, I CAN explain! No really, I can. It was the stroh rum and/or jack that made me do it…

Other than all the above debauchery I’m into another week. Feeling hungover - Hell yes! Sometimes I love my life!

On a more serious note. 2010 is looming. I may or may not be employed. I don’t like enviro sci – but do i? I dunno. “To jobs that pay the rent!” - ??????????????????? Study more? Get Boyfriend? Finally fix myself? Gosh. So many thingies. So much to ignore whilst partying.

BAM!

Thinspiration and its resultant adventures

Figure 1. "Hey Fred" - "Ya George" - "Does my ass look big in this?"

There ain’t NO thinspiration like being at din-dins with yr best friend and him saying - as u sheepishly mention u’ve only been to gym twice in the last 8 weeks – that u are a fat, unhealthy slob. BAM. Suddenly that super-stacked carpacio sandwich and chips doesn’t look so tasty... Maybe u should gnaw on the paper napkin instead…. It has fewer calories. If comments like that don’t get your ass to gym, then nothing will fatty! You’re a lost cause… OM NOM NOM NOM!

Splattered in between this conversation about gyming were his accusations of my raging manorexia (yet I’m still unhealthy and slobbish – and he implied fat even though he didn’t actually say it… if I over-analyse what he said and breakdown each word and emphasis to interpret the sentence I get “FAT”…), in-depth discussions with the girls at the table about how to give excellent head and the particularly good use of the larger taste buds at the back-of-the-tongue to increase stimulation and orgasmic enjoyment, and further discussions on what one thinks about during sex [apparently I’m not the only one who thinks about grocery shopping, re-arranging my room/bedside table, focusing on not puking on him, trying to count how many stroh rum have landed me in this coyote-ugly-bad-life-decision situation] and then (of course) how hott the waiter is and how to get his number… You know, just general banter over half-portions of salad and water-lite with lemon and a straw.

So the Monday morning dawns. And I mean dawns. I even beat the birds to this one. 4.30am. alarm. Alarm off. Snooze. Snooze off. Snooze again. Snooze off fucking again. Snooze again. Oh for the love of god, I’m going to gym already!! So up I get, drag my fat ass to gym and climb on that treadmill. Ten minutes of running at an uphill angle at 12.5km/h does wonders to waking u up. Especially if u picture yourself running after a tasty cupcake on legs…. OM NOM NOM. Run fatty ruuuuuunnnn!!!! (I find picturing a shotgun and chasing after an ex also works wonders… so does running next to a fit and buoyant spamoni on the treadmill next door – now that increases the hair flick, sensual drinking of water as it cascades down yr chest while u bob along the treadmill and occasional overly erotic sigh with effort. Damn them for being straight and oblivious to my attempts!)

Following this, I descend down the stairs into the pit of beefcakedom (occasional spamoni). Daintly I climb onto my machines and with brit-brit pumpin full volume out my ipod with songs like ‘I love rock-n-roll’, ‘Womanizer’, ‘If u seek amy’ and of course ‘Piece of me’ I lift rather minor (compared to the beefcakes) amounts of iron. To me they’re pretty substantial. They of course are kitted out in some of the most hideous outfits known to mankind. Mostly in wife beater vests that are two sizes too small and only accentuate their steroid enhanced chests and nipples just bursting to escape into the gym auditorium! And then there are the real winners. The real ones who stepped out of their trailer where their mother is their sister’s aunties’ brother’s cousin twice removed. Donned in Ed Hardy from top to toe and undoubtedly wearing a cap. Usually on sideways or backwards – coz we’re born in the 90s. the 90s!

I must say, it is rather fascinating watching these large specimens of alpha male sweat and grunt and exude manliness all over the place. I constantly get flustered, giggle stupidly, blush, flash unwitting smiles at some and once or twice get busted staring and drooling… When the hott ones gym, my heavens above. My ovaries practically crawl out of my body and rape them. Right there and then – on the pectoral machine. Good god. Calm yourself. I once dropped some weights coz one smiled at me as he walked past. Went bright red. Giggled like a twelve year old. And dropped my weights. Hott – rite there! Not. Epic fail. Pity he was straight. His smile was more along the lines of why-are-u-staring-at-me-in-that-creepy-i-want-to-rape u manner!? God he was hott.

Ooo, and let’s not mention the homo-eroticness of the constant touching. Orgasmic grunting. Man-hugging. and general touchy-feely but in-a-manly-way that happens at gym. Sometimes I go purely for amusement purposes… still haven’t found my husband there L

Anyways, back to gyming my fat, cellulitey ass. Am I ever on a mission to get thin again. Well, toned rather than thin… apparently my BMI is in the anno range. So no more thin-ness. Just toned msucledness… and hopefully I get hit on at gym…

PS: Think of where all that food over xmas is going… to your KA-TONK ka-tonk so u’ll get some ja-honk ja-honk in yr ta-ronk ta-ronk! Back that thing up!

BAM!

PPS: if this makes any sense I’ll be rather surprised… I’m sitting alone in the office with the aircon on full and bored stiff… ENJOY! J

Have some more Tequila. Oh no, I couldn't have anymore. Oh, go on... Oh, ok. If u insist....

Figure 1. Often the story of my life from Thursday through to Monday mornings

Yoh, Friday's hangover was special. A tequila induced, semi-comatose, brain-dead, laboured-breathing, waves of nausea inducing hangover. All at 8 hours of work. bloody norah!

Thursday I fell, yet again for the deceptive "just one drink" deception. crap. again. I never learn! FAIL! Off I trundle out for a glass of wine at 8pm. half a bottle later (on no dinner because eating is for the weak) i decide that of course driving 40 mins across joburg to some hippie-villed, garage-grunge, predominantly lesbian populated club is a spiffingly-jolly idea ol' chap.

Upon arrival it is decided upon by the girls that we will drink tequila. *mayday mayday. eject self from potentially irreversibly bad life decision inducing situation now* but NO, I agreed to inebriate myself further. The last Tequila incident at Rhodes involved me standing on the back of my pink bakkie waving palm fronds and screaming "Look at me, I'm Jesus (pronounced Hey-zuss like the espangol version) followed by mass puking in a dustbin with my upper half of my torso inside the dustbin and ending with the police taking pictures of me as I lay sprawled on some filthy, vomit-smeared pavement outside my favourite club/pub/place of name-throwing. Since then, just the mere scent of Tequila has made me weak at the knees and lurch forward as my stomach mock charges. Well, some say the best way to treat something is shock therapy. BAM. That's what I did. 4 tequilas in quick succession followed by 2 potency and numerous malibu and cokes.

Good-bye filter - hallo CRAZY! Crazy dancing, uncalled for whoring onto every straight man I stumbled into, slut-rubbing down many a sweaty back, raunching a lesbian or two... or three..., persistently encouraging multiple face pierced, tattooed, manly, mohawk-sporting lesbians to try score my straight friend and insisting she was just playing hard to get when she politely refused their advances all followed my tequila shooting. Dancing the horny-awkward-ostrich on an empty dancefloor, lying on an empty dancefloor giggling, giving free lap-dances to strangers are only a few of teh blurred memories I can recall. The night ended with me leaning out the car window on the drive home (with my straight friend leaning out the window in front) screaming "TITTIES" "5 DORRAR HOOKER" "TEN RAND FOR THE NIGHT" "RIPE GUAVAS" as we drove past numerous groups of offended and startled tragic boho-chic designer-garage grunge womyn.

Once home at 4.30am, I fell asleep most quickly. woke up before my alarm at 6.30am. Wow, I feel good [clearly still drunk]. woop woop. Made toast and marmite - ate one nibble. waves of nausea big time! Drove to work with the music blasting out of my car - everything is so bright! - smiling at random spamoni in the traffic - get to work, no voice, eyes still bloodshot. it was a mild struggle to fight of the ever-persistent waves of nausea but nothing on what it was like when i sobered up! By 11am, I had degraded into a cold, sticky, heavy sweat that i'm sure had the alcohol content of a bottle of stroh rum. My mouth felt like the entire north-west corner of the Sahara. I couldn't drink nor eat due to the waves of nausea. I had dark circles under my eyes. My voice had returned with a croaky hoarseness. AND my head felt like 37.5 small children were jumping on my brain.

5pm couldn't have come quick enough. I made it. struggled across that finish line and dragged my beaten body home while I'm sure my liver prepared his resignation letter.

I won't say "I'm never drinking again" or "I'll never go out on a work night again" because that would be lying. Of course I'll do it again [and soon no doubt]. And i'll do it often too... But I figure, might as well make the night-before the morning-after worth every second of that hangover. And damn right Thursday night was worth it!!! WOOP WOOP!

To irresponsibly, socially-unacceptable drunken week nights out! CHEERS! 1.2.3.4...slam it whore!!!

BAM!

Morning Delight anyone

Figure 1. I'd totally look hotter in my orange fish-nets. Plus, I'd use a pink umbrella! Loving the booties though!

Pre-Script Disclaimer: for those uber sensitive types please note – The views issued in this blog-post do not necessarily represent those of Little Goldfish and are in no-way to be taken literally. Please do not view such text as an encouragement of such behaviour as Little Goldfish frowns upon the likes of such people and will not bail your skank-ho ass out of jail should u actually do such unmentionable acts. All interpretation of this text is at your own risk and to be done so with your common sense and a somewhat dirrty, mildly-insane, light-hearted sense of humour. Little Goldfish can in no way (yup, none at all. Nil. Nadda. Zip. Zilch. Zero) be held even remotely responsible for anything.

_________________________________________________________

Solicitation. So sitting at the corner of Witkoppen and Main on the way to work today and there are these ppl handing out flyers and selling everything under sun from handmade rosaries to newspapers to caps and umbrellas as well as not-yet-released-on-big-screen DVDs… And I thought, to myself, looking all hott-shit and what-not in my pink bakkie, that everything but sex is sold on this street corner. This just so happens to be the street corner where Risqy is too… haha. So sex is sold there on a fri and sat night in a not so conventional transaction in more like a “you’re hott, I’m drunk, buy me a shooter and let’s get it on in the bathroom.” Not saying I have (or haven’t) got it on in those cubicles of everything godforsaken and unholy… well not publicly admitting to such slorish behaviour! ;)

Anyways, I figured it’s the recession – or tail end of it anyway – so maybe to improve income, I should offer sex on the street corners in the morning. Goldfish’s morning delight (pty) Ltd. I mean seriously, who’s not up for a bit of morning-delight on the way to work. Traffic is boring, at least it improves the journey to work. And once I’m an established lady-of-the-dawn I can instigate ROAR (right of admission reserved) and screen potential clientele based on money, cars and spamoni-ness! If I plan my day correctly, I could even get a flexi-time job and work that after my morning service. I mean really, exactly HOW illegal is it? And why is it so illegal anyway? If we create a standards bureau and govern such a business with laws of integrity and better-practice policies (including recycling, loyalty cards, and corporate social investment) then really, it’s quite feasible and not a dilution or disembowelment of societal morals. Morals-schmorals anyways. Society is guided by ego and not by morals. Those of moral righteousness not only piss the hell out of everyone but also institute such strict rules that by the very essence of such enforcement and megalomania they erode the very (so-called) “moral-fabric” of society itself. (oooo, totally had fun using all those big words rite there! That’s hott-rite-now!)

Besides it’s not like we don’t in some way solicit sex on nights out anyways. Buying drinks for ppl (or ppl buying us drinks) with only one intention of getting knocked up in the bathroom/car/pool/pillar (aka Eileen)/sofa/car-park/kitchen/bed/etc, etc, my list goes on. Gosh I’m such a slore! Hehe!

On an aside, I’m aware of a fishy-friend who bought themselves a kiss - R30-ish so the other participating party could buy airtime to call his girlfriend and say he’d be home late. Loving the straightness of it all… I guess one can only say: Blame it on the a-a-a-a-alcohol; it’s the goose that got everyone feeling loose.

Oh well, those are my thoughts on morning street corner solicitation. Use it, don’t use it, buy into my franchise – it’s a global business opportunity you know! not. BAM!

Ooo, on the goldfish front:

• goldfish I like has been in constant contact – YAY – but going away from tomorrow to Monday – Ahhh L
• Sunday-goldfish is SMSing lots too… we’ll see. next.
• Moon-of-Fire Goldfish is FBing me all the time and getting quite forward (you know what they say – when the cat’s away, the mice will play)

If u can’t choose one, have ‘em all!!!

BAM!

Why I should be my own little reality show!

Figure 1. Definitely NOT Little Goldfish when confronted with nature - but still uber hilAArious! [substitute "stick" with "alcohol" and that's ME!]

What a weekend. BAM!

It all starts on Friday night. Not really that keen to go out. Watched New Moon. OMf-ingG. Jacob’s Abs!!!! I jizzed in my pants… twice! (ok, maybe a few more times during the movie – hehe). Still playing for Team Edward – I’ll have the sparkleyness, money and Volvos over the body anyday. Some things money $$$$$ can buy. And I’m one of them! :P

So after the sparkliness – me and two of my favouritest girls in the world went out to Billy the Bums. Ah, billy the bums. Trashy. Drunken. Out-of-proportion. Loves it! At such a place of “elegantly wasted” behaviour – and NOTE: I use the word elegantly very loosely... – we met some spumoni. One of the ladies lunged ravaged the tall hott one. The remaining one was a plumber (but not. He was actually an engaged lawyer pretending to be a plumber. WTF) and damn, he could have used his dutchiness to clean my pipes anyday! Following this, we dragged them off to Risque. Risqy, a place of such classlessness and debauchery that one enters the realms of illegal and illicit behaviour as never seen before upon entering such a flamboyantly homosexual establishment. Yes, the straight men came to Risqy. Wigga Please! Haha.

I was just not in the mood to score anyone on Friday night. I know! Since when am I not prepared to whore myself across the dancefloor looser than a lubricated nut-and-bolt!?!? Not on Slore form! Anyways, I was attracting more attention than a bucket of chum in Camps Bay. There were a few mingers then a hottie or three. One of the hotties was super queen. His name and surname meant – Moon of Fire. Afrikaans ppl I tell u. No clue on societal suicide. Plus, if u name yr kid moon of fire how can u not expect them to come out as a raging homosexual…!?! Anyways, he was into me. And me mildly into him. He had a tattoo. On his abdomen (not very toned abdomen though – but he was thin and THIN IS ALWAYS IN!). It was a panther – a large, violent, muscled, black panther crawling up his abdomen…. The kind of tattoo one expects on a steroid-junkie, shrunken penis, vein-popping beefcake one views in the gym whilst bench pressing the weight of a small house. NOT on some uber thin, moisturized, manliner-wearing princess. Anyways, I had the attention span of a goldfish on crack so was not giving him much time really. Besides, there is only room for one Royal in my life and hell yeah I’m the mother fucking princess. Now pass my pink bedazzled tiara back bitch! BAM!

Saturday swung round in all it’s headachey, dehydrated glory and after a day of shopping at sandton – I bought shoes! They’re hott rite now! – we went off to a pAArty in Benoni. The pAArty was cool – everyone there were spaminis (ie: Spamonis of the matric age). The dude who’s 18^th it was is so cool. He’s off to Rhodes. A future rhodent. My heart glows in Pride. Unfortunately, at the pAArty were some real low class, wrong-side of 1994, caravan-owning, banjo-playing winners. Eugh, ppl like that irritate me with their idiocy and crassness.

On return (at 11pm) I decided to join some of my fellow goldfish out at risqy. Just for one drink… yes, I again convinced myself I could have “just one drink and a dance” when out. I didn’t want to be too tired before going into nature the next day. The night ended up a fail so epic it was a win! Haha. I scored a goldfish I have known since feb. He’s cute and I like him. (ya, Sunday goldfish is still smsing me – but he bores me and is in the South… we’ll keep him round as back-up in case new goldfish fails…) This new goldfish is portuguese – yay, an english name even! It’s about bloody time. He’s an accountant too – KA-CHING!!!! Trophy husband position here I come. I’m so good at housekeeping and shopping I’d make a perfect trophy husband. Plus, I’m pretty!!!! J He’s been SMSing all weekend. YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, I return home at 3.30am. drunk – surprise there! 2.5hrs later my bloody alarm goes off. Fuck. Time to pack bag and leave for the bush. Nature – aaaaaaahhhhhh….. I stumbled around and threw clothes into my bag (for one night’s stay I ended up with two bags. Only after 5 packing attempts I ended up with one big kit bag. I had more luggage than the entire bus of 10 ppl in the end… One can never have enough t-shirts or shoes. I dunno what I’ll decide to wear the next day. And what if something gets wet or dirty, always take at least two spare items!) So I arrive at some ungodly hour like 8am at the office. Still drunk. Carrying a packet of crisps and a vitamin water. Haven’t eaten. Waves of nausea. Hangover sweat in full force. Everyone’s so cheery and excited. Someone put me down… for the love of god! After 5 hours driving we arrived in a little slice of hell. Mpumalanga – so humid and filled with bugs and dirt and dust. There was no fan that night so I got NO sleep.

Now the day of real hands-on with nature. At 8h30 we arrive to do white water rafting. I applied suncream 3 times before this. Fat lot of good it did. My knees are lumo pink and my feet are a pinky-purple colour. Damn british skin! Well, off we go on the white water and me and my partner kicked ass. He fell out once though. Hehe. So I paddled off alone for a couple of rapids! I’m cheeky like that. Incompetence is not tolerated on my boat. Fail. We also swam in the river – it was THAT hot that I actually got in the water. I ended up with water up my nose and god only knows how many infections and water-borne parasites I have now contracted. Epic. Well, I rafted hard then quad-biked like a testosterone-fuelled-farmer and even played water rugby (full contact) with the unicellular beefcakes that I work with. Damn right I showed the boys I could play like a big-dog!!!!!! I feel they have new respect for me now. But that was faaaaaaar too much manliness and nature for me. I need a night of face masks, pink champers and The Devil Wears Prada to reset those Oestrogen levels! Haha.

Now back at work. Lame. Let’s get involved. I kinda feel the need to work a bit harder coz I may, just a teeney-tiny ickle bit, be starting to like these guys and this company.

BAM!

PS: The straight guy that I started having ‘relations’ and then kicked him out in the middle of it all coz he bored me just invited me to his birthday on sat… seriously… interesting. Am I going? I thought NO. Coz it’ll be weird and I won’t know anyone, but hey, it’s good to exit the comfort zone and make new friends! Besides, I can always leave early. So I will go and be mature and rock out with the straight/gay guy at his birthday. Haha. I love my scandalous life!!!!!

PPS: Oh, my allergies are raging. Post-nasal drip. Itchy nose. Red eyes. Mosquito bites. I hate nature.

A fishy view on nature

Figure 1: How everyone's favourite little goldfish feels about nature

Khaki-ville and veltskoener wif a belt.

Right. Where do I start with the Khaki Retards? I have no clue. Let’s just say – GOSH! – could any ppl be more incompetent in their lives. NO. no-one could. Not even a prawn. And my project manager thinks he’s Miranda Priestly (although she wouldn’t be caught cremated in anything khaki…) Constantly he says stuff like: “Where’s that fax?” (yes, that fax, of course I know which one to which thou doest refer!)

So, this place I work – brown. Khaki. Olive green. – those are the colours that spring to mind. Vivid huh?! Someone gouge my eyes out wif (yes – I just said wif) a teaspoon for the love of all things fashionable! Speaking of which – fashion sense to these lads appears to go something like this:

Boet 1: fuck boet, cape union mart is having a sale on two-tone khaki and lesbian hiking boots.

Boet 2: no fucking way!

Boet 1: way bru!

Boet 2: fucking A bru!

Boet 1: look what I got *proudly flashes short-sleeved two tone khaki with sky blue pockets and sleeves*

Boet 2: Kiff!

Boet 3: Kiff! And check this rock I found on site. It has FOSSILS in it!!

All: *GASP* and gather round desk in hushed excitement (some probably jizzed in their pants they got so excited)

Me: *silently with my Britney playing on my ipod* oh for the love of god kill me now!

Besides this Khaki and beige attire. The whole and I mean entire office is some sort of 90s brown colour. Yes, there are splashes of green – but that doesn’t make it ok. Or any more bearable in fact! PS: Beige and Khaki are NOT valid colours. Full stop. Period. Next!

Let’s now discuss organization. Pffft. What’s that?? This place looks like someone threw a bunch of un-stapled reports over every surface imaginable and BAM them dudes were like “yay, we have done filing!”. Also, the server – shambles. Complete and utter chaos. There are at minimum 3 different places that a certain document could be located at any one time and no-one is quite sure where the most recent version was stashed. And deadlines… don’t get me started. These are apparently mild guidelines on when someone else feels you could maybe perhaps possibly attempt to complete a project and are really more there to look pretty on your spreadsheet than actually form a functioning purpose.

Apart from all that, I mean they’re not that bad…. I’ve had cacti with better social skills and communicated more with a rock than with these ppl. Silence. That’s all they do. Sit in silence and do “stuff” – I say stuff because they are always doing “stuff” but nothing appears to get done…. They also are wildly oblivious to my fabulosity despite my rad hairstyle, big sun-glasses, low fat EVERYTHING, ziplocked food stuffs, bright and stripey shirts, sticky notes all over my computer saying BAM – Muffins make u fat – water is fat free – I’m a penguin - …the list goes on… and every colour highlighter and pen imaginable. And now I must go away for ALL of Sunday and ALL of Monday with them to the bush. God I hate nature. Just drink. That’s my plan. Numb the pain. Hold my tongue and do not offend anyone. Try not to behave to bedazzled-like and especially NO MINCING! Oh, and did I mention – get inebriated 24/7. There is white water rafting and 4-wheeler trails to look forward to.

Again, why does my work involve nature. Epic fail. I hate site visits and nature. Ooooo, but today I spent all morning spamming marketing companies with my CV and my academic transcript. I figure if you don’t ask, you don’t get. Who cares if my CV states an honours in BSc in Environmental Science. Doesn’t mean I can’t organize a piss-up and get ppl to like me…. Fingers crossed. There are hints that I might be offered full-time employment here in Khaki central in January. Do I take it? Don’t I? But I wanna go overseas – to London town – late next year. Will I survive without being wildly happy? Hmmm… dilemmas. At least it’s easier to decide: pants or no pants? I always choose pants! Unlike some of my friends…. ;)

News on the Goldfish front: Heard from Sunday-night-goldfish last night. YAY! Can he see me on sat. NO = L he’s busy. Oh well. Maybe the next week… No response from blind-date-goldfish guy who I sent a FB msg too last night. Let’s wait and see if he wants to meet up.

BAM!!!

*****BREAKING NEWS FLASH*****

Just found out that they mostly appear to be religious. It just gets better and better! Now I have to sneakily weasel confirmation of such beliefs out of them… I’ll just mince in where angels fear to tread. I guess that means naked fire dances and tarot cards are not an option at the office. Damn. One does get so excited to chant round a fire in a loin cloth and worship trees….

Definitions of goldfish speak

Goldfish speak is somewhat similar to W-H-A-L-E; just a lot faster and with more glitter!!

Some of the basic terminology that is used to spice up conversations and generally confuse pepoles with which i communicate are:

• A Goldfish: (probably the single most important definition of this here blog) refers to a gay man. This is derived from my popping out of the closet and deciding that we needed code words to talk about gay men so as not to alert the authorities/parental parties to my sudden and somewhat un-surprising change in preferences. I was still surprised though. This code word was chosen as appropriate because gay men have the attention span of ... ooooo, look! shiny-shiny! ahhh! .... catch my drift! (also referred to as douchebags, idiots, losers, hotties, boyfriends etc, etc)
• Spamoni: the safe word. Used when someone is so-hott-rite-now that one must indulge in the use of a safe word to warn all other goldfish and the many women accompanying said goldfish of the impending pinging ovaries that they will receive upon viewing this fine specimen of man-candy.
• Khaki Retards (Pty) Ltd: the specimens - of which none are spamoni - in which I currently must undertake a 9-5 job with.
• Colossal: a word of epic proportions describing something so epic it is colossal and amazing and rays of the light of heaven shine down upon whatever this word refers while a chorus of angels chants awe-inspiring melodies in the background.
• BAM!: also seen as bam; but this format is rare. Another word so colossal it is just BAM! That's it. BAM! Used as, including but not limited to: a point of exclamation, hottness, out-of-proportion-ness, debauchery, directness
• Skippy: a TV kangaroo from the dreaded 90s era that saves everyone and offers invaluable advice that sounds somewhat like "Tsch Tsch Tsch" and can be loosely interpreted as "Back that thing up". Widely applicable to almost any situation one stumbles across. Terribly useful when one has no clue what to do but then says: "what would Skippy say?" - the answer: "Back that thing up!". Invaluable I tell you. Invaluable.

So now the terminology has been laid out and the fun can begin. I advise you to sit back. Buckle up. Take out the popcorn. Open the alcohol. And enjoy the ride!!!! Because damn, it's one hell of a ride! BAM!

:)