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Posts tagged ‘satire’

The Alternative South African Elections 2014 – who to vote for.

With the weekend of manifestoes behind us, the EFF, ANCYL and DA have told us what we already knew – “We here!” Calm down, girlfriends, we know.

But what other choices do we have? Come May the 7th, there are a number of other parties of which you may not be aware.

So I’ve compiled the list of these parties which you may not have heard about – the new kids on the starting blocks, ready to fight and lead.

Alcohol Now Council

This new party is also known as the continent’s newest and oldest (looking), libation movement. Because when the dust settles and Commanders Zille and Zuma have trampled on the grass of the people, what will be left? Cockroaches and alcohol.  I bet COPE wished they had thought of this one. You’re welcome, Mzansi.

 

HOOH

With its roots firmly entrenched in hair politics, HOOH stands for Hands off our Hairlines.

Pronounced however you want, but preferably to rhyme with “Yhu” or “Hawu”, because this is a resistance movement for resistant hair.  This is an important growing movement which has grown out of the lack of growth on our heads. How much longer will black women walk around with hair fighting for space to compete with their political views? How often will men have to dodge the razor at the barber trying to even things out? Haven’t we had enough of that in the past? Why must our heads be political spaces?  Not to be confused with…

HOW party

Not to be confused with the Hawus, although the vernacular pronunciation of this party is more in tune with “Hawu” than How. Less a platform for change, and not so much a resistant movement as a deeply embedded systematic hierarchy of historical confusion. Get it? HOW? As we throw our hands up in the air and toyi toyi like we just don’t care. Because we don’t care. This party consists of endless talks and speeches, finger-pointing, alliances, re-alliances, promises, laughs, laughter, laughable promises and a lot more to come, it seems.

Daggah/ Green (with envy) party

This movement aims to provide daggers to stab in the backs of others. It’s become a growing trend and has grown exponentially in recent years, Comrades. Especially since the publication of a little known text called Julius…

Caesar.

The Movement Movement – or the shit party

This is the unofficial name for all parties in politics in the history of politics.

Beret Party

This moniker is a particularly delightful South Africanism. The way some of us pronounce “filet” as fill-IT, or “buffet” as boo-FET.

Speaking of the French, gone are the days of head-covering gear with communist implications. Calm down, girlfriend. Beret is pronounced as “berate”, because with freedom of speech we can beret whoever we want.

The Blue(s) Party

Not only is the colour of this party a dashing shade of royal, but their crooning attracts lots of black people who love the sound of their promising melody. That is until the white figure comes along and takes all the shine. Wait, what did you think I was talking about? This is about Elvis and the genre known as the blues.

The Reds

No, calm down with your communist implications. And no, this is not about white nationalism. Although Red is an Afrikaans word which means “save” and this party does wear red. If only this saviour wore white and converted wine to water instead of drinking it without the messianic promises. No? Just me? Oh well…

And there you have it, the alternative parties who will be expecting your vote this coming election. Choose wisely.

<p>Author <a href=”https://plus.google.com/102128103971030481396” target=”blank” rel=”author”>Jerome Cornelius</a></p>

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The Cynic’s Guide to Love

For Marco. I know you’ve wanted me to dedicate something to you for the longest time (admit it!). When I grow up, I want to be a real romantic like you.

Floor Jawers, have I told you recently how much I love you all? Like desperate obese love. Like pull my hair out crazy love. Like more than like love, like literally seriously I DO. Ok, let me calm my farm with balm before I get left at the altar, again.

Like I’ve said before on this here blog, love is a funny and strange thing. Mostly funny, and especially strange. People looking for people to complete them, when the only things that can do that are food and sex.  As I put down this burger and penis to free up my left hand, I have to admit, I joke, I joke.

But when did this pattern become so expected? I have been dealing with one too many broken hearts recently and I don’t like it! It seems that we have an idea of the way that things should go, and goddammit we stick to it, despite history, your friends and your conscience tut-tutting at you.

So here is a transcript of love as I’ve seen it:

Step 1: Poke/Retweet/Turn and stare as they walk by.

Step 2: Friend/follow/buy a drink

Step 3: Move in.

Ok fine, now I’m being really just cynical.

Real Step 3: Get to know one another. Only reveal the best information possible. BELIEVE it. Enjoy it (no cynicism with this one. Really enjoy it!) Meet friends and family, go out, eat out, reveal secrets… whoa there, young man, now don’t get ahead of yourself!

Now here it gets tricky.

Step 4: Doubt. Wonder what this is, where it is going, who they are! You doubt them and your own self (what?! Since when? Why?) you ask “why?” a lot.

Step 5: the first fight. The first lie. The first opposite of step 3. You question your existence and drink a lot.

Step 6: Rehab.

Step 7: Make-up sex. This is a particular type of sex in which we use tubes of lipstick and I blush a lot, only to realise that someone applied blush to my cheeks as I was sleeping and that I’m really not as bashful as I seem, nor was I bashed. I am, however, smashed.

Step 8: More rehab.

Step 9: waking up and realising that it was all just a dream.

Step 10: regret the whole thing and get someone new.

Bonus tip: add a third party and do it all in reverse, for the sake of excitement, comedy and material for your blogger ex-boyfriend.

Now this, as you may have noticed, is a very cynical list.   If you did not notice that, then it is just a list. As I’ve said before, the dichotomy of relationships is that you shouldn’t need someone, yet you need someone to comprise a partnership. Tricky.

 While I may not be an expert, I am really good at spotting bullshit. And going through the ten steps above (they were based on reality) and then leaving someone high and wet (on a hill with a crack pipe dangling from my lips. Allow it, now let it go) is not cool. It’s actually quite cold. By that I mean I now have hypothermia.

For those of you who have noticed, this post was filled with sarcasm and is a wee bit bitter. I am happy about this, however, because it takes a few reminders to realise that in life we need bottoms… Allow me to rephrase, we need lows, to balance the highs. Crying outside the club from joy needs to be levelled out with waking up in tears. The drunk moment needs its sober and the high needs its lows.

So the next time you feel sad, mad, bad or a tad Brad Pitt when he starred in Meet Joe Black (what was he thinking), try to remember that there should be more words that end in –ad, and that life is rad. It’s not always good, but if you wait it out, it becomes awesome.

Happy living, dear readers and faithful followers.

 <p>Author <a href=”https://plus.google.com/102128103971030481396” target=”blank” rel=”author”>Jerome Cornelius</a></p>

6th Zuma Wife says goodbye, sort of: South Africa, I wish you luck.

Turns out I’ve been labelled somewhat of a political slut.

My term as the 6th Zuma wife seems to be coming to an end.  Apparently my kraal at the arse end of Nkandla has not been included in the renovation budget.  And until the security budget gets cleared, I am taking what I can to sell. And now that Mampollie Rampacious is announcing her big news today, how do I stand a chance?

When I was released from the basement by Jacob, I got a glimpse of the news. It turns out that South Africa is not doing too well at the moment. I didn’t know that the Oscars got this much media attention in South Africa.

Don’t get me wrong, I clung. I clung to my man’s ankles like a middle aged woman clings to youth. I clung like local sport heroes cling to their dignity. I clung like a conservative to his ideals. I clung like cling wrap to Jacob Zuma’s face during role plays…

So I fear that my time as the umpteenth partner to the sperm donor of our nation, the commander in penis, the handjob that holds us all together, and apart, must now bid him a farewell.

Don’t worry about me though. I will be a-okay. I did not survive being the mistress to Mandela and attempted murder charges from Winnie Madikizela for nothing. I did not survive a night of passion with Julius Malema only to find out that he was fired the day before for nothing. Nope, nah ah, I won’t have any of it. I am no longer about that life. These are lessons learned and I shall grow from them.

So on I go to new and more exciting opportunities. And for those of you who have not yet acclimatised to the jawonthefloor lingo, “new and exciting” is code for powerful black man.

As a sassy black woman who is neither black nor female, I feel that it is my duty to continue this tradition. So, Cyril Ramaphosa, I’m coming for you. Then you can come for me. Then we’ll just plain come.

This is exactly what I need to take my mind off everything.

First of all, his initials are CR. This means nothing, really, but I needed an introductory point, and I’m a little short here. Speaking of short, he is not. I got so tired of sitting on Jacob’s face and not being able to see his feet. Ok, now I’m just being bitter. One does not break the bonds of the union like JZ and I had without at least a little animosity.

I love you JJ.

But back to my silly Cyril! Here is a man who was the chief negotiator for the ANC during the tense pre-democracy years. Now if there are a few things I know in this life, they are tense, pre and democracy. Well, maybe not democracy.

This is exactly what South Africa needs at a crucial time like this. While I fill a bag with silver from the main house at Nkandla without being detected, Cyril has spent millions, on himself. Now that is the selflessness that I need at this time. All Jacob ever bought me was a George Foreman grill. Classy, but cheap.

The fact that Cyril has written constitutional law textbooks does not bode well for our imminent divorce, but I’ll cross that bridge when I use it to flee from the security guards.

So here is to hoping for a better tomorrow. But for now I need stronger knee guards. This Ramaphosa guy looks like he needs a lot more coercion than my Zuma. Your wife will miss you, Jacob L

 

<p>Author <a href=”https://plus.google.com/102128103971030481396” target=”blank” rel=”author”>Jerome Cornelius</a></p>

“I Got Your Back” (why we have relationships) but not really

The area between the neck and the buttocks is the only reason why people get involved in relationships. Think about it…. No, really think about it. Anyone who has had the itch in that part that you.. just.. cant.. reach knows what I’m talking about.

I’ve previously mentioned the dichotomy of needing another person to have a relationship, because even if you are independent, you can’t date yourself. I’ve tried this, and it’s not easy. I succeeded and revolutionised it, but my partner was insufferable. A real stubborn lug I, I mean, he was. And the sex was a snooze fest. Someone should really break it to me, I mean, him.

Besides that, everyone knows that being in a relationship is all about the fighting. And how does one do that without turning your back? The coldest part of the shoulder is that bit where you have to turn a full 360 and *boom* we’re back to the back!

*

So I was trying to put on this dastardly necklace and I spent the better part of 13 minutes strangling myself. This got me a one way trip back to rehab and the kind of misunderstanding which won Angelina Jolie her Oscar.

Women do not need anyone, but opposable thumbs do not help you when you can’t tie that damn necklace. There that ominous part of our bodies comes back to bite us in the… back side. They even invented special mirrors for them.

In fact, that’s how I found out that I have scales growing back there. Seriously. Half of Cape Town who has seen me semi-nude knows that this is not an overestimation. I can’t reach my back! It hasn’t been thoroughly washed in over a decade. And my husband Jacob Zuma is focused on other things whenever we cleanse our black bodies.

I’ve grown eyes in the back of my head, yet I can’t reach my milky white back with my loofah. No wonder a knife keeps falling out whenever I stand up. I need to get those surgically removed.

I made the mistake of going out and meeting someone just to wash my back. I got a little too drunk in the vision-impairing process and ended up taking a little person home. Before we could get to the scrubbing, he did my spray-on tan and now I have a lower back that’s brown. The upper half is still creamy white.

I’m the human cappuccino, with a lot more froth.

But this is a serious point. A relationship is about leading and following. One takes the lead, while the other follows. And sometimes those roles swap. And other times you chain them up until they tell you you look pretty with this new haircut GOD DAMMIT! But singletons never appreciate this. The stranger who passes you on the street will give you the wink ‘n smirk, and sometimes he will turn back for a second glance. Sometimes they will come back and get your number. But they won’t tell you that your ass looks ridiculous in those pants.

And that, my friends and Floor Jawers, is the secret to everlasting happiness. Having someone who will (literally) always have your back.

 

<p>Author <a href=”https://plus.google.com/102128103971030481396” target=”blank” rel=”author”>Jerome Cornelius</a></p>

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Yet another “jawonthefloor” Solution (you’re welcome)

Water and salt and stir. SAY LEAN! You’re welcome. See how smart I am? But because I love you dear followers, I present more solutions for our out-of-shape nation.

I am sick; sick of being labelled as “that sarcastic, satire guy”. This is, in fact what my embarrassed mother and fed-up father call me now, which is a pleasant change from “when are you moving out?”

You see, I am getting a little tired of this country. My immediate sphere, as well the larger emanation makes me so exhausted that this blogger and social commentator/sassy activist will now tell you what to do.

Apparently our credit rating is now in the negative. It is the first time since the late 90’s that we are in this big fat hole. Thanks a lot Lonmin Mines and Marikana peoples.

My friend said that we will find our way back when “we stop stealing from others and when we stop feeling that the rich owes the poor anything. [It will happen] when we take responsibility for our own shortcomings”. Now obviously that’s ridiculous and unrealistic.

So here’s what we now need to do:

We tastefully recreate what happened.  We may need to bus in immigrants to fill the roles so that may be a problem. I mean, where would we find people from other parts of Africa?

This could be our way of making up for not cashing in on Apartheid. A few museums do not do this justice.  Heck, we already do Township Tourism. Why stop there? I just hope no one beats me to the “Rape Rallies” idea.

This could be our version of those American Civil War re-enactments. And let’s face it; if the Americans do it, it has to be right, right?  It might not go off well with government though. I know how much those guys and gals at the top HATE the theatre and dramatics of politics.

*

In case you heathens don’t read your Bibles, Wkikpedia says that this joyous book says that if you don’t use it, cut it off. Or if it doesn’t work, cut it off. Either way, I say we cut off some loose ends.

Let’s start with Limpopo, simply because of the word “popo”, or the anagram “poop” (don’t pretend you weren’t thinking it). Next we have the North-West. Surely we can move Sun City if we ever need to host Miss World/ Universe again.

Then there’s that other hot bed of hot messness that needs to go like a ho, the Eastern Cape. For my international followers, Google these places and cower in horror. We can keep the Northern Cape for that Kimberly place because that way I won’t be the only thing called “The Big Hole” in this country. WE can’t have that, now can we?

Let us not pretend that “natural beauty” can’t be bought. I’m a Capetonian, I see natural beauty on people’s faces all the time and baby photos cannot change that drastically. Ask me, I used to be called The Nose. Now I’m just called The Nosy due to a blog, inquisitive disposition and clever marketing.

So what’s the solution? Sugar plus water to make a yummy caramel. Or, and this is where I go revolutionary on you and even do a parenthesis … [BAM!] We lop it off and sell it to the Chinese! Again, you were all thinking it and I had the guts to say it. OF COURSE we will fix them up, flip it and make it a profit. If there’s one thing we know how to do in this country, it’s how to renovate. It may lead to an awkward body shape for our country, but we can do it, girls. It’s better than my other solution of buying our boring older cousin Namibia and having a hunchback.

Let’s get back in shape and figure this out. What do you say?

 

<p>Author <a href=”https://plus.google.com/102128103971030481396” target=”blank” rel=”author”>Jerome Cornelius</a></p>

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