A few things:
1) 3RM was telling me last night about the car accident he had back in 2002. It was epic, and I knew the basic turn of events, but he elaborated on his internal injuries and the details surrounding the accident. Woah.
Heavy. Fucking. Duty.
I saw the movie last night, and it could've had a shitty ending.
And you know what? Driving drunk is a fucking stupid idea. We all do it in this town from time to time. And it's a typically human dilemma where getting pissed makes you want to drive like a rock star. And then you die. It's that simple. He scared me right last night. Jesus. Of course, Johannesburg has an amaaazing public transport system, especially at 4:00am on a Saturday morning. But driving pissed out of your skull – chaps, I've learnt from this guy's lesson.
So that was sobering.
2) Had to watch a few episodes of South Park after that. Getting back into South Park again, fuck it's brilliant. Imagine:
Trey Parker: ‘Writers, welcome. Let’s do an episode on…priests and jock straps today. Push the envelope so far it falls off the table. Piss people off. Piss people off so much, that when they hose themselves, they drop an ovary.’
Matt Stone: Remember, young grasshoppers, that toilet humour never gets old. Mr Hanky The Christmas Poo has been viewed 3,456,2,676 times on YouTube. Just this week. And even we thought it was lame.’
Cartman is Gold in the Future Self 'n Me episode, which I've maybe seen 8 000 times.
...Alright, now, Stan. For you I've put together a really nice design. I feel your parents were a bit more cocky about lying to you and your revenge needs to reflect that.
So what I wanna do is put a note on your parents' door, telling them I'm the counselor from the school.
Cartman: The note will inform them that a problem has come up and they need to see me right-away, back at my office.
Cartman: Your parents will drive all the way out to the school and discover that no meeting is actually taking place.
Cartman: ..And while they're gone…we're gonna smear all their walls…with poop.
3) I told Whale that since there was going to be a company Talent Evening in Greece, I thought of maybe, you know, delighting the throngs of people with some of my magic karaoke. You know, spread the news that raw talent doesn't mean you have to have the voice of a nightingale. One just needs:
But Whale doesn't rate it.
'Peas, if you wanted to come right or something, you wouldn't. I'd also disown you, and it probably wouldn't be great for your career.'
Yeah, but – what about the very catchy Sleeping In My Car by the lovable Roxette?
No. Not completely sensible I suppose.
Jesus. My stomach is still on fire from pilates. And it hurts to laugh. All from doing push ups over beach balls and breathing and balancing and stuff. Hell.