Poll: Which is this month's weirdest search term?

Man. There are some fruitycakes out there, non? I'm always interested in the search terms that lead people to my blog. Vote below and choose thee weirdest, and I swear to all that is covered in chocolate I'll write a fantastical blog post about it. Yeah, Beyotches, it's on!!!!

more at twiigs.com...

Intenational Talk Like A Pirate Day- ARRRRRRRRR!

Today be international Talk Like a Gentleman o' fortune Tide, an' as a practisin' swashbuckler*, I feel 'tis me obligation t' raise awareness o' this fine tradition. This tide aims t' honour them great swashbucklers through history- such as Blackbeard, William Kidd an' Johnny Depp. Men who swashed, buckled, an' stomped around on peg legs, drinkin' rum** an' buryin' booty, instead o', fer some reason, spendin' 't. Also: they be really good at trap design, 't seems. An' had plenty o' time t' do so, on accoun' o' those things be complicated … like th' flyin' spike ones. How did they get them things t' reset? I'm only askin' on accoun' o' thar be always dead bodies o' swabbies who got caught by th' flyin' spikes/ darts/ spears/ capuchin monkeys, but th' traps be always still primed… hmmm. Arr swashbucklers also hire good long-term caretakers. They’re planners, arrrr.

Belay that, hearties.

Anyway, 't must ben fun t' be a swashbuckler, all that fightin' an' drinkin' rum t' prevent scurvy*** an' robbin' an' eyeliner. Men look good, sometimes wi' eyeliner. This be also why Goths be popular. An' Brandon Flowers. But Brandon Flowers be nay swashbuckler. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! He’s, frankly, a bit unconvincin' an' weedy. A real Gentleman o' fortune be dirty an' unkempt an' hairy an' possibly keeps a spare eye patch fer formal occasions. He climbs th' mizzenmast an' uses his knife t' slash his way aft down th' sail. He sweeps ladies off the'r feet, an' right onto th' plank.

If I be a swashbuckler, I would be both fearsome an' proud. Also, ribald. I would swear a great deal. An' be obsessed wi' dubloon. I would be havin' a large beard. An' th' wenches would tremble as I strode into th' alehouse, an' plunk me rum down right quick!

An' always, always, thar would be th' Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

*some would insist that I’m more o' a wench, but them scurvy dogs will feel th' taste o' me cutlass.
**ugh, tho, rum gives me heartburn. Well, I like spiced dubloon, wi' Appletiser.

*** a sound nutritional theory, t' be sure.

I know the Feeling...

It hasn't happened to me, and I hope it doesn't. I think I've been lucky in that my little blog isn't wildly famous*, or particularly offensive (well, as far as I can tell). But I've noticed that as soon as a blog starts getting a little more well-known, the haters start popping up.

Some of them are the more rational kind, who object to a specific post, find a statement offensive, or perhaps just dislike the writing style. Whatever the case may be, they present their arguments in somewhat more measured terms, probably because they want to strike a balance between getting their (annoyed) point/ opinion across, and seeming like some sort of harping fishwife loony.

Which brings us to the harping-fishwife-loony quotient of the blog-commenting population. With their misspelled, spewed invective and ranting diatribes, there's more than a whiff of the Springer** about them. See, they'll take personal offense at everything the blogger says, and spam the comments section with vitriol, of the "your so fat + ugly + stupid, why r u people even reading this sh^&, U R A LOZER PIG FRIED SPINACH EVIL, I h8 this blog u r a waste of air in the internet, ppl if we stop rdng nw s/he will hav 2 quit!"***variety.

They will then copy-past this comment a few dozen times. Every day. Ad infinitum. Over the protests of the people who are actually enjoying reading that blog. It's some sort of modern conundrum that people will force themselves to read blogs they hate, seemingly for the pleasure of getting their hate on. Because as far as I know, it's all still voluntary... right?

*yet...my plans for world domination have been laid and include ice-cream..but more of that later, minions.
** as in Jerry, not as in the dogs. Dogs are cool. Although I expected Springers to be more... bouncy, frankly.
*** sic.

...for want of a comedy the kingdom was lost.

I’ve started watching 7de Laan. Let me qualify that statement: it’s better than Isidingo, which is just unwatchable and might well start reincarnating people soon, the way it’s heading. M-net is no longer doing Open Time (although I'm assured Egoli is still doddering around like some sort of very conservative zombie), etv have some sort of ur-Backstage codswallop and sabc1 has B&B aka The Bold, a show which often makes me wonder if I’m high, because not one minute of that show has any semblance of reality.*

Now, firstly, what happened to this timeslot? It used to be prime time: comedy shows, the occasional good drama, a talk show here and there, and a little sport. Soaps came earlier, for the housewives**, I think was the general idea. They started around four and never extended past five thirty.

Obviously, things have changed. Apparently the masses like nothing better than to come home after a long day at work, and settle down to… a soap opera.

In any case, as soapies do, 7de Laan is shaking things up- Dezi is being a faithless wife (but she has such great hair though, really shiny) and the new-but-actually-returning guy is starting a Grand Romance with the cute boutique girl. He even showed her his pigeons. But something is brewing- he has the flu. Which means he’s going to die, or something. In the meantime, to ramp up the emotional content, we have to suffer through their hugely romantic dates.

Which are awful. It’s kind of icky to watch a real date in progress: PDA’s people, get a room! But being forced to watch the gooey cooing and canoodling of “lovebirds”*** merely to press home the point of how pure and vast their love is, so that the tragedy that’s sure to hit them is even more…well, tragic….it makes me want to drink many, many Alcohol.

In any case: I need to not have to watch 7de Laan any more A change needs to be made. I’d even settle for a game show. Although if it involves Fiona Coyne, I’m outta here.

*although Brooke’s “Pirate Booty” shirt was pretty funny.
**because once you decide to be a stay at home mom there’s nothing you like better than watching the impetuous behaviour of beautiful frivolous, wealthy loonies. It’s, like, a law!
*** the forced, unnatural romance of Mills&Boon novels. Which I have never read. Just heard about. Obviously.

Facebook and the long-lost Mystery Pal.

People are all about dissing on the facebook at the moment. It's become very fashionable to refer to it as the devil, and refuse to sign up on some sort of tenuous technophobia-luddite moral grounds*. Up to you dude, but I disagree. My name is Betenoir and I'm a facebook addict.

Can I have my cup of coffee and my cookie now***?

Ina any case, Facebook is kind of awesome. It keeps me busy during coffee breaks, allows me to keep in contact with acquaintances without having to write tedious emails ("yes, I'm still at The Job, still single, no news, blah blah waffle parp"), keep an eye on how my buddies are relating to each other, and best of all make contact with people that I thought I'd lost forever. It really gives rise to the whole six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon concept, doesn't it? Also the poking makes me feel special. Nothing like rocking up at work to find you've got 23 simultaneous pokes lined up and waiting. It's like an orgy, but without fluids, mess, or Caligula****.

The only problem is that sometimes people find you, just when you thought you'd got rid of them forever. But those people you can block. Or accept. And then block. You know, so they feel the rejection.

With that in mind, it's easy to see that Facebook is a pretty sweet mechanism of the Rad Times.

*some of them get really snotty about it. It's a website dude, not anal fisting**: you're not actually making a stand against the decline of humankind.
** I'm hoping to bump up my "accidental search term confusion" traffic. expect to see more random violence and inexplicable sexual content.
*** I'm assuming everybody's seen the same AA/ Rehab movies I have.
**** without Caligula it's just group sex. See, how I'm doing this? I expect way more traffic tomorrow.

Excuse me, Might I Drool Here Briefly?

I would just like to say that Orlando Bloom is as cute as a button. Or even, say, a flopsy-forward-eared bunny. I just want to pinch his little cheeks and make unintelligible "boogowoogobobumumu" noises. I can't help it: he was once my favourite elf. Did you see all that arrow-slinging? Top-notch. I want a little Orlando to keep in my handbag: I'd feed him nuts and popcorn and buy designer teensy outfits for him. But also I'd like a full-sized version too. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Woof!

My hormones are all raging today. Goodness.

Portnoy's Complaint, Humpty Dumpty and Anchovy Toast*

I've missed my calling. I'm convinced of this. I've been giving it a great deal of thought, and I think, nay, I know that I was meant for greater things.

I was meant to be... a freakin' ROCK STAR!!!!

Think about it: I am not only a music snob, and have a passable alto singing voice, and can just about carry a tune**, but I have the requisite quirky dress sense, the capacity to drink large amounts of beer without spewing (or losing the ability to dance on a bar with a bartender dressed as a swan), am bolshy, demanding and swear like a trouper. Not to mention that I can trash a hotel room in under fifteen minutes. Just ask the good folk at the Tokyo Keio Plaza.

So...yeah, okay, It might be a bit late in life to start thinking about this but I hear 30 is the new 20, so that means I'm turning 20 real soon! Also, I kind of don't have a band, which could prove problematic, although not necessarily so: really I'm all about the Interview Magazine articles, tabloid exposés and blag. Mmm. I'm not sure where I stand on groupies*** though. I'll have to see how that goes.

* what we talked about during the staff breakfast this morning.
** good thing musical ability isn't a requirement of the job, eh?
*** I mean, they;re generally assumed to be pretty skanky, right? and desperate. Or are male groupies different? What if they're all, like, teenagers? I'm not convinced about this part, really.

Crowd Control Issues

There is some evidence of change. As I ride past Greenpoint Stadium in the morning, there is a little bit less of it every day. Soon, they will start construction on the grand, new, fancy-schmancy stadium, and thus the hoopla that will be the runup to 2010* will begin in earnest. Because if you think it's started yet, you're not South African. We can do hoopla like nobody's business. We have a Master's in Hoopla (that would be an M.Phil, in case you're wondering).

I hope not to be here, and not merely because of the hoopla (which is actually somewhat entertaining in an "you're not seriously proposing we consider the impact of prostitution on the biltong industry are you?" kind of way). I will not be here because there will be crowds.

It's the one thing nobody seems to have considered yet. Yes, they've thought about increased traffic and tourism and the need for public transport but not the reality of a gajillion rowdy footie fans ambling boredly around the place when they're not in the stadia.

I never really experienced real crowds till I got to Japan. Tokyo is just a city of crowds, but they are mostly organised, systematic crowds, with places to go and be and systems to get around. Sapporo during the Yuki Matsuri** was a completely different matter. Now, Sap-town was one of my favourite cities, and was generally pretty laid-back. but during the Matsuri, thousands of people from all over Japan, and the world, squished into its shopping malls, streets and subway stations. It was chaos, and hugely frustrating.

See, I don't cope well with masses of undirected humanity. I start to panic, my fight-or-flight mode takes over, but I can't flee because there are so many of them! and they're all in my way! and I can feel them breathing germs on me and move goddamnit or I will punch you in the throat and why are there so MANY of you!!!!

I can't breathe. I think I need to lie down.

* the 2010 Soccer World Cup, for those of you who are very isolated, dead, or American.
** Snow festival, I'm sure I've blogged about it..

Some Leave, with a little Break.

Aaaaaah. Religious holidays. A chance to bond with the family over dinner and field somewhat inappropriate questions about my love life from unexpected sources. A time to pause and reflect on my spirituality, and what it means to me.

a time for Matzos, Marmite, and ensuing constipation.

Pesach is fun because there's so much of it. Two days off at the beginning and one right at the end. Also, there's Easter right in the middle of it, so you get that as a public holiday. What's even more awesome is that both holidays are totally centred around food. Perhaps they aren't meant to be , but they are. Soup with Kneidlach, matzos with the aforementioned Marmite or Peck's Anchovette*, and herring. I don't actually like herring, and no, Mom, it's not like sushi.

Easter has the traditional Easter bunnies, creme eggs, marshmallow eggs**, and if you live in a country with it's priorities right***, marshmallow Peeps shaped like chicks. Also, many things covered with foil that must be ripped off an scattered around one's bedroom, to be discovered under your pillow weeks later, even though the linen has been changed twice.

So, to recap: yummy sweets, yummy savouries, and 7 days off with a Thursday of work in the middle. Not bad. Not bad at all.

*both of which are, I think, things that only South Africans, Brits and a few other colonials actually enjoy. And I'm not sure about the fishpaste. Does anyone else in the world actually eat it?
** the ones with caramel in the middle are the best, no question.
*** So not South Africa then.

unnecessary coverage

You know, there are some cool cover songs out there in the world. Mostly, they're the ones that explore the song from a new slant... ferinstance, Cat Power's take on Wonderwall, Hounds of Love by The Futureheads, Easy done by Faith No More and so on.

And there are some truly woeful covers that have become classics by dint of their tackiness, their surrealism, or their blatant bad taste. The best "bad" cover version I have ever heard is William Shatner mercilessly interpreting Mr Tambourine Man by channeling some nutjob stalker. The man is quite obviously insane, in the best possible way. It's actually better than the original, because it's funnier, and somehow more endearing*.

However there are a lot of mediocre covers of mediocre or bad songs. Or good songs that were fine as they are. And they border on offensive. Ronan Keating covering the Goo Goo Dolls' Iris was playing this morning as I got to work. How malign a piece of work is that? Like a photocopy of a photocopy, he managed to suck what little soul and emotion lurked in that song in the first place. As bland as white rice. Unsalted!

A special (read: dark and oozy) place in my heart is reserved for the likes of I love Rock 'n Roll as molested by Britney (you love rock 'n roll? then why are you hurting it so much?), American Pie trashed by Madonna (no no no no). Atomic Kitten doing The Tide is High made me want to drown myself, Mandy by Westlife made me want to drown Westlife, and Uptown Girl by... yes, Westlife, just about made me ready to commit my life to destroying Billy Joel, since he was ultimately responsible.

Let's not talk about Light My Fire as ruined by Will Young. Because Will is adorable** and I want him to be my GBF, and we couldn't ever do that after my harsh, harsh words relating to that atrocity.

* I've just discovered Boston Legal. It is Fantastic.
**although I've seen disturbing evidence recently of premature baldness. That makes me sad. say it ain't so!!!

Our Gmail conversations tend to disintegrate like this

Gmail. this morning. As usual:

E-Poops: so Ladies’ Dan and I spend an awesome evening last Thursday playing drinking HOUSE! with one of the new episodes. (too bad it was the most boring episode ever... except for when house says "rape baby") so Ladies’ Dan, I finally got the other episode to download properly, and watched it with molly on Saturday evening, and I wish you had been there to play "take a drink for every foot of tapeworm house pulls out of the patient" -- it was like 25).

Also, remember when that doctor pulled 25 feet of anal beads out of Bertrude’s mom?

Dr. Esteban: Oh I totally saw that episode!
E-Poops: I liked how they added the following lines to calm people's fears about giant 800 feet tapeworms living inside of them:
Nurse: could I have a tapeworm inside of me?
House: no, you would feel it. The only reason this girl didn't know
she had a tapeworm, is because she can't feel pain.

Also, random fact. The "can't feel pain" disease only has about 35 cases reported in the US, but there are over 300 cases in Japan.
Me: I thought that was the "can't feel empathy" disease?
Dr. Esteban: No, it's Can't Understand Why Everyone Isn't Exactly Like Me disease.
Me: ah, I see where I was confused. I think that goes hand in hand with "claim everything as our invention" disease.
E-Poops: I thought it was the "can't understand why everyone isn't exactly like me, and I am also unable to walk properly and choose attractive clothing" disease
Dr. Esteban: You mean Spontaneous Fashion Barf-o-plosion?
E-Poops: that would be the scientific word.... yes
E-Poops: (oh... sorry... the scientific word for word is term)
Me: what about "my panty hamster gets so hot in winter that I have to flash it even if it's snowing" disease?
Dr. Esteban: Did you just refer to a clunge as a "panty hamster?"
E-Poops: Betenoir is a little confused, because her cooter IS in fact a living breathing, hamster.
Me: it eats seeds.
Dr. Esteban: it eats seed?
Silent disapproval robot: ...
Me: ...and nuts.
Me: don't judge me.
La Chica: I ate some nuts today. Pecans & Cashews. Are you gonna judge me?
Dr. Esteban: Only if you ingested them through your "panty hamster."
E-Poops: Chica’s is a gerbil.

** Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved in this... incident...

Atrocious Displays of Vulgarity

5 things that are neither funny nor clever:

1. cellphone screensavers: oh, you're the number one bitch? you like a hot stud on your phone? or maybe a stripper? because, god knows a two-centimetre stripper makes even the strongest knees weak.... see also -->
2. "funny" ringtones: ah, your phone farts. or moos. or makes orgasmic groaning noises. how original. I wish to fellate you immediately.
3. "baby on board" stickers. because I was going to prang your car, but now I can't, damnit!
4. dolphin tattoos and belly rings: you are a wild and untamed hellcat. you're a tigress between the sheets. You prowl the streets, a crazy rock chick, blasting your Offspring into the night. Another Klippies and coke, please!
5. T-shirts with "witty" statements, or designer names: Gucci doesn't make t-shirts. and If they did they'd cost 500 dollars and be artfully ripped. You are not a princess. I'm not scared of this bitch biting. One tequila two tequila three tequila bore. My little Princess is your little whore. I get it, you're a hardcore bitch/ pimp and you like to drink a lot.
   

I admit it. I'm a) elitist and b) a snob. I don't see a problem with this.

Britney, please save yourself.

Saradia and I gmail chatted this morning. The thing I love about sararara is that she shares my insatiable and not-all-that-secret love for all things celebrity. dissecting celebrity news for me is like...brain masturbation. wait, suddenly I've somehow linked Sara to masturbation, and that's hella weird. new paragraph.

anyway, I love me some gossip. and I really get involved in it. The whole Britney Spears thing is just sad though... It's akin to one of those accidents that you see by the side of the road, and ghoulishly find yourself straining for a glimpse of severed head or detached foot*. anyway, we decided on a plan of action, so that Britters can regain her pop princess crown**

1. STAY IN REHAB!!!! (this one is kind of important)
2. stop with the wigs. embrace the baldness, until it grows out a bit. then adopt a pixie cut, in lightest ash blonde.
3. go on a health retreat...disappear from public view for six months or so, and emerge slim, toned, and glowing.
4. adopt an icy, glittery Grace Kelly/ southern belle image. elocution and deportment lessons should have been a part of the health retreat. perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier? anyway, shock the world by radiating calm, charm and grace.
5. move to France. (no cheese though! let's maintain the slim tonedness, shall we?)
6. work with Goldfrapp-types and craft an album (You May Call Me Mistress Spears) of perfect slivers of icy, glittery fabulous pop. Duet with Kylie. remix by Scissor Sisters.
   
7. REMAIN SINGLE! this is probably safest, until Trousersnake realises his destiny, and comes running back to the new, fantasticacious Brit.
   

...et voila! the balance of things will be restored. And also, I will not have to look at any more flabby shaved coochie, or nasty white-trash outfits, or nasty weaves. and that, my friends, is that.

* or perhaps that is just me.
** there are some Britney songs on my Ipod. you have a problem with that? I'll play you some probot and then you can SUCKIT! STOP JUDGING ME!!!!

LBG*

*Life Before Google.

once upon a time, children, there was no such thing as Google. I know, it's crazy to think of, but people actually had to find things out by doing research, looking in books, going to the library and so forth. And really, that was just for your everyday kind of research. How did people go about looking up a song and artist using three words of lyrics? where did people find out the history of obscure musical genres, or look for pictures of zombies holding kittens? Google is the ultimate in immediate gratification: no longer do you have to wonder about that niggling little question that's been bothering you for the last hour, just type a couple of relevant keywords in and bob's your uncle. Please pretend I didn't just use that phrase.

In any case... I seriously cannot remember what I did before Google. I'm pretty sure I was just uninformed. I guess I read the newspaper and magazines... But no I get to be a well-informed renaissance woman. Or, a dilettante.

Google is also useful for researching your friends. There's no better way to pass a slow day than to Type in their names and peek around the sock drawers of their lives. A word of warning though: don't Google yourself because you'll just become sick with envy at the jet setting, successful lives of the people who share your name.