Wake Up and Smell the Break-up

Published in blunt magazine volume 12 issue 6

Breaking up is hard to do. In fact sometimes it's damn near impossible. I'm talking of course about those persistent pieces of relationship deadweight that just refuse to go away. Hanging around like a fart in an elevator they continue to stink up the ride for everyone else onboard, and that is why when it comes to delivering the death blow to a soon to be insignificant other one needs to be about as subtle as a Jack Hammer to the face. Amputation of an expired romantic interest, much like that of a gangrenous limb, is the best option for everyone involved.

That means no greetings cards to you or members of your immediate family on birthdays and religious holidays, that means no "accidental" run-ins at the nightclub across town that they only know you frequent because they've studied your nightly movements for the past month and that certainly means no checking in with a friendly sms at the ungodly hours. Friends send smses, that's true, but only stalkers, booty callers and sad, lonely rejects looking to put the "ex" into sex send smses at 3 in the morning.

But try as you might to drive that final rusty nail into this relationship coffin like a moth to a blowtorch they will be back for more. Doped up on dangerous amounts of Rescue Remedy just to keep the volatile emotional breakdowns and sporadic weepings at bay they will boast how much better they're doing and may even dupe you into believing them when they say they're finally ready to be friends. However the idea that that once pathetic sniffling mess trying to beg their way back into their shattered relationship could transform into a pillar of maturity looking to engage in a purely platonic friendship with the very person who served them up a nice fat slice of rejection pie is something best reserved for movies starring Jennifer Aniston.

It's really nice to see you've found a medication that works and have made an attempt to rejoin the land of the emotionally stable but you're old news. Yesterday's headlines. The hideously obsese lady has sung. You are the weakest link. Goodbye.

Splitting Hairs

Published in blunt magazine volume 12 issue 5



What self-respecting heterosexual male spends longer than a few seconds "doing" their hair in the morning? None, that's what kind. To faff with matters of the mane is a pastime best left to the fairer sex and if you beg to differ then I'm here to tell you that you're gay. I hate guys who style their hair almost as much as I hate premature balders who insist on gelling the shit out of their rapidly thinning mop leaving a wispy mess on their head that resembles a mange ridden dog caught in a rainstorm. Sorry to break it to you Fabio but in case you hadn't noticed when you looked in the mirror, the patchy wet look is not sexy. I could make a better hairstyle just by gelling the hairs on my ass.

Buddhists shave their heads in the belief that hair breeds vanity. One only has to look at the hair harvesting habits of a certain SA rock band to know they're right... damn right in fact. If you keep your finger on the pulse of the Cape Town music scene then you'll know who I'm talking about. They're the androgynous clowns in the spray on jeans looking like they raided their mothers' wardrobes during a powercut. Never before has this country seen such crimes against hair since a young grot named PJ Powers hit the scene. These wannabe bad boys care just enough to make it look like they don't really care at all but one can't help but wonder if maybe they have a little sugar in their gas tanks if you know what I mean.

Fags night out

Gel, mousse, straightener, hairspray, relaxant, style wax, polishing milk - the only "product" that touches this hair of mine is tap water. Even as a hairdresser frequenting youth I dreaded the inevitable question, "how do you wear your hair?". A question to which surely the only logical response could be, "on my head". If you're a male "wearing" your hair in any other fashion than that then you probably need to get a life a little more than you need to get a haircut. Hair: it's on your head, now get over it.

Second Hand Love

Published in blunt magazine volume 12 issue 4

If there is but one thing I can say that I've seen destroy more friendships than anything else it is the scandalous behaviour of hooking up with friends exes - the act of snaking your way into the pants of a friend's new lost love faster than you can say "on the rebound". It is a fundamental and unspoken rule of friendship that exes are banished to the dating blacklist where they shall remain until such time as the "no bang" policy has been lifted. A very noble and fair enough cause indeed, at least until you factor a little thing called "real life" into the equation.

We've all seen it happen - one guy, one girl, one "baby you're my world", one messy break up end and she's dating his best friend. People hook up every day and in this incestuously small town cesspit affectionately known as Cape Town the chances of the next in line to put their greasy mitts all over your ex not being a "friend" are about as slim as Noeleen's waistline. It would be nice to believe in knights of the round table type friendships, ones bound by a strict code of impenetrable adamantium-like honour and the sexual appetite of an impotent eunuch but let's face it, if the want for something is strong enough you're gonna take it, loyalty or no loyalty.

I've been witness to some pretty controversial break-up triangles in my time and while it goes without saying that the friendships involved were destroyed beyond any semblance of reconciliation one can't help but wonder just what a sorry, crippled state these acquaintance-ships were in to begin with.

Moral ramfications aside, one thing's for certain, making a habit of such underhanded dealings is guaranteed to make you more unpopular than a knife juggling HIV+ haemophiliac. No one likes a relationship hyena, forever lurking in the shadows just waiting for an oppurtunity to feast on the still warm carcass of yet another failed relationship, because a friend in need might be a friend indeed but a friend in your ex... well I guess that's not really a friend at all.

The not-so-Jolly Green Giant

Published in blunt magazine volume 12 issue 3



They say that love conquers all but in reality it is actually the steroid-popping, alcoholic, bastard brother of love more commonly known as jealousy that truly does the job. Like love suffering a serious Tik addiction this emotional yin to the yang of it's better half knows no boundaries. Cupid might be packing arrows but jealousy answers back with an almighty kick to the face with a steel toed boot. For you see, envious rage rushes in where that fat baby angel archer fears to tread. There is no cheapshot too low or act too pathetically sad for a man who sees green, but what can you really expect from an emotion marinaded in insecurity? The emotional incarnation of an iron-pumping steroid freak pussy who willfully endures the dangers of a facial hernia in the desperate attempt to distract from his freakishly tiny pecker.

However in a time when divorce is just about as rampant as the crime in this country, the sacred vows of marriage holding less weight than the Olshon twins combined and the average marriage being about as successful as Paris Hilton's music career, if there is one relationship glue that holds couples together it is this very same green eyed beast of jealousy. 'Cos let's face it, once that last butterfly has flown the intestinal coop and the warm fuzzies have turned to a tepid indifference there really is precious little left besides nauseating familiarity and the deep, dark walls of the rut you're in. To believe in everlasting love is about as childish as believing in Father Christmas or that crossdressing winged pervert gay dentist, the Tooth Fairy.

Jealousy makes you nasty.

Christ, I for one would be hardpressed to think of a gesture quite so flattering or god damn sexy as having 2 crazy hair-pulling bitches fight over the love and affection of yours truly! They don't even have to be hot! It's when the jealousy stops that one needs to become concerned with the state of their spousal affairs... or rather with the affair that their spouse is probably having! I for one can only dream of the day I catch my lady friend poring frantically over my inbox or phonebook in the hope of discovering that one forgotten breadcrumb of infidelity, because believe me when I tell you that nothing says "I love you" quite like your significant other stalking your every move.

Sexpo 2008

Published in blunt magazine volume 12 issue 2



When I received an invitation to represent blunt at the Sexpo 2008 I really had no idea of just quite what to expect but I certainly had a couple of fantasies of my own. In my mind a sexpo should be like a sex-themed adult amusement park, one in the vein of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. A place so riddled with all things sex that it penetrates your every orifice, enough to give your eyes an erection, your brain an orgasm and make your nose ejaculate. but sadly much to my dismay and much to the dismay of the hordes of dirty old men who had somehow all taken "wrong turns" on the way to that all-important "business lunch" their wives were under the impression they were attending, Amsterdam red light district this was not! First off let me start by saying that in the 3 days that I was there I saw a grand total of 3 sets of jugs, 3 muffs and 1 penis, and that penis didn't even have the decency to be erect. Frankly I'm appalled. What is this country coming to when a so called "sexpo" barely boasts enough poon to shake a dick at?

For those of you who didn't get a chance to poke your head inside, esentially the whole affair was designed as a platform for various sex pushers from around the country to peddle their wares, some of which were cleverly disguised in the form of educational workshops on such essential topics as the ins and outs of sex toys and the joys of anal sex - fun for the whole family! The bigwigs of the porn industry all represented including Hustler, Adult World and Los Lyf to name but a few. The latter of whom called for a last minute cancellation of their scheduled striptease act when upon catching a glimpse of the intended female entertainment realised that they were in fact "grot ugly". Quite clearly sobriety is a motherfucking bitch.

Ooh that's gotta hurt!

One of the Hilights came in the form of the oh so tight, oh so snackable Sexpo M.C., Miss Nude Australia, Arianna Starr who ironically enough was actually clothed more often than not. At just over 5ft this tightly compact little cock puppet really is the kind of thing wet dreams are made of, it's just a pity about that Australian accent. However, with a character larger than life and bossoms to match she did a great job of attempting to work the crowd into a sexually deprived frenzy. A job verging on the impossible as most were far more interested in commiting their sexperience to digital history on the various voyeur-sized devices that littered the crowd rather than participating in any kind of team spirited enthusiasm.

The second hilight and clearly a crowd favourite was a penis. A penis attached to none other than self-proclaimed "world's greatest penile artist" Pricasso. Certainly a clever dick in the very highest sense of the term Mr Pricasso has cornered the rather niche market of painting portraits with his pecker. Those quick to laugh him off as an attention seeking senile old git should know that he quite possibly possesses more artistic talent in his cock alone than most people have in their entire body. This somewhat novel ability affords Mr P the luxury of being able to spend his twilight years touring the world, doodling with his dick and making a whackload doing it. Surely a far sweeter option over even the finest of retirement villages or granny flats known to man. Let this hard working cocksmith be an inspiration to us all.

Pricasso hard at work.

All in all the Sexpo 2008 experience was a great if slightly tamer than expected one. While I would hardly consider myself a connoisseur of the porn world, I do have a penis and I know what it likes. And what this little event really needs is a lot more rude and far less prude!

Kiss me or Diss me

You've bitten the proverbial bullet, you've used the cheezy pickup line, you've done the groundwork and now it's time to cash-in that nookie cheque and seal that deal. You may think the hardest part is over but in actual fact it's only just begun. So you conned a member of the opposite sex into giving you the time of day and managed to hold their attention long enough to convince them you're not a serial rapist, big deal. Welcome to what most people like to call "conversation". I mean let's face it, unless you've got the personality of a toaster or breath to rival the stench of the City Bowl sewer line you should be able to pull that off with relative ease. The real tricky part comes in the chat-up to score conversion.

A favourable technique is the one commonly known as the Power Score. The idea behind this is getting the drop with the element of suprise and will either get you lucky or get you slapped. This is likely to succeed on cheek factor alone. For want of a better and less un-PC term what this really amounts to is scoring rape and executed in the correct manner the victim shouldn't even see it coming. Please note it is not advisable to attempt this when they are engaging in such activies as post tequila shot reelage or sharing a heartfelt story of their terminally ill cancer-ridden grandmother.

The power score has been known to elicit some explosive reactions.

Another approach is to actually ask for permission. This could be seen as the polite alternative to the Power Score and can only go one of two ways: access denied and you look like a knob or access granted and you still look like a knob. There is no way you can pull this off and not come off looking like a spineless half-man. This is not an airport runway, you are not an airline pilot, you don't need to ask for permission to land.

The key to succesfully landing a first move is variety and discretion because different situations call for different measures, but at the end of the day if all else fails you should never be too proud to beg!

Man-ovaries

Published in blunt magazine volume 12 issue 1



Can somebody please for the love of all things emo tell me what is up with the increasing trend of male displays of pussiness these days? You'd be hardpressed to find an alternative rock video that doesn't feature grown men wearing eyeliner and crooning songs of unrequited love so embarrassingly pathetic they'd make a Mills & Boon reader blush. How on earth did it come to this? Forget your convaluted conspiracy theories about female hormones in our drinking water. No, there is but one thing to blame and that my friend are romcoms. That's right, they are invading our homes and emasculating the male population one by one, replacing their testicles with a nice set of man-ovaries and rendering them snivelling and pathetic.

Man tears: So gay they make man on man anal look hetero

Why just the other day my gag reflex control was pushed to new limits when I watched Zach Braff commit an act of suicide-enducing embarrassment in an attempt to win back the heart of his recently estranged ex. Only in Hollywood can they make a lying, cheating scumbag stalking his ex-girlfriend by starving himself on her front porch for days on end in the pouring rain until she agrees to take him back seem "romantic". Picture if you will, that scenario in real life... that is not romance, I'm sorry but it's not. That is just sad. And if you add a bottle of Jack to the equation well then it's sad AND scary, but don't worry ladies, it's nothing that your friendly neighbourhood ADT and a restraining order can't fix.

"Little pig, little pig let me in."

But just what exactly is the demographic for this kind of oestrogen-soaked schlock? Who actually buys into this crap? Fat girls who eat their feelings? Desperate spotty-faced virgins who mistaken their lack of a sex life for hopeless romanticism and a deep sensitivity? I won't go so far as to suggest a feminist plot to reduce the male population to docile puppy dogs but one really has to worry when the strongest role models a guy can find on film today are all women. Forget restricting sex, language and violence, it's time we start censoring the real mind warper - emo!